You know that phenomenon where a machine keeps running even after the power source is severed? Residual kinetic energy. That’s what it’s like living in a three-bedroom ranch in a cul-de-sac when the interior logic of the house has collapsed. You keep the grass at exactly 2.5 inches because the HOA has a fixation on "aesthetic uniformity," and you wave to Dave from across the street while you’re pulling the trash bins out. It’s a performance. A physiological response to the environment. You act like a human being because that’s the DEFAULT SETTING, but inside, the gears are stripped and spinning on nothing. There is a specific geometry to a queen-sized mattress. You occupy the left side. The right side is a vacuum—a NEGATIVE SPACE that must be preserved at all costs. For 1,095 consecutive days, the linens on that side have remained undisturbed. No wrinkles. No skin cells. No heat. You find yourself analyzing the structural integrity of the duvet, ensuring the embroidery remains aligned with the edge of the frame. It’s not grief; it’s a maintenance protocol. You’re a carpenter. You understand that if the foundation shifts even a fraction of an inch, the whole structure is compromised. You spend your mornings smoothing out microscopic imperfections in a fabric that no one has touched since the Obama administration ended. Then there are the slippers. Shearling-lined, size 7, positioned at a precise 45-degree angle from the nightstand. Every night at 22:00 hours, you retrieve them from the closet and place them there. It’s a REPETITIVE STRESS INJURY of the soul. You do it because the alternative is to admit that the room is empty, and if the room is empty, then the house is just a box of drywall and insulation. Sometimes you stand there and just stare at the floor, waiting for the sensory input to change. It never does. The silence in the suburbs is different than in the city—it’s a HEAVY silence, thick with the smell of lawn fertilizer and dryer sheets. My daughter came over today. She’s got that suburban urgency, always checking her watch, talking about the "property value" and how I should move closer to the city. She went into the bedroom to look for an old photo album. I felt a surge of genuine ADRENALINE, the kind you get when a circular saw kicks back and nearly takes a finger. I followed her, my heart rate probably hitting 110 bpm. She almost sat on the edge of the right side of the bed. I snapped. I told her to "watch the upholstery" in a voice that sounded like grinding gravel. She looked at me like I was a laboratory specimen. She doesn't understand the PHYSICS of it. You can't just disturb the equilibrium. I’ve categorized this behavior as a form of protracted environmental stasis. It’s an interesting case study, really. A man who spent forty years building houses for other people, ensuring every joist was level and every plumb line was true, is now incapable of moving a pair of shoes. It’s pathetic if you look at it through a sentimental lens, but if you look at it as a SYSTEM FAILURE, it makes more sense. The software is trying to execute a command that the hardware can no longer support. You keep laying out the slippers because the code says 'IF night, THEN slippers.' To stop would be to crash the system entirely. The neighbors think I’m doing "fine." That’s the word they use at the mailbox. "You're doing fine, Bill." "Looking good, Bill." It’s a social contract. I keep my hedges trimmed, I don't let the mail pile up, and they don't ask why the lights in the master bedroom stay on until 3 AM. It’s all about the OPTICS. In the suburbs, as long as the exterior is painted and the driveway is clear of oil stains, people assume the interior is functional. But it’s a lie. It’s a total fabrication. You’re a hollowed-out shell, a ghost haunting your own tax bracket, just waiting for the next scheduled garbage pickup. It’s 2:14 AM right now. I’m sitting in the kitchen drinking lukewarm coffee because the sound of the Keurig is too loud in the vacuum of this house. I just went back in there and adjusted the left slipper. It was off by maybe a centimeter. My hands were shaking—a fine motor TREMOR that I can’t seem to suppress. You realize in moments like this that you aren’t "coping." You are stuck in a loop. A feedback loop of your own design. The air in the room feels pressurized, like a storm is about to break, but the sky outside is perfectly clear. Just streetlights and the occasional sound of a distant freight train. Sometimes I want to scream until the windows shatter, just to see if the neighbors would actually come over or if they’d just call the cops about a noise complaint. *Es una locura.* It’s a specific kind of madness to be this precise about a ghost. You spend your whole life measuring twice and cutting once, but nobody tells you what to do when there’s nothing left to build. You just keep laying out the slippers. You just keep smoothing the sheets. You keep the light on because the DARKNESS is a weight you can't calculate. It’s just... it’s 2 AM and the slippers are still there and I am still here and nothing is ever going to move again. There is no plan for this. There is no blueprint. You're just... holding the line until the wood rots.