Sometimes I wonder if anyone else finds themselves performing a sort of daily religious pantomime, specifically the nightly prayer ritual, purely to avoid the ensuing domestic disquiet. The wife, the children, the — now grown — grandchildren, all expect it, a generational rhythm established long before I personally ceased to believe in its efficacy. Am I alone in feeling this distinct bifurcation, where the lips move through familiar supplications while the mind quietly observes the performance, dispassionately noting the cadence, the shared familial comfort derived from an increasingly hollow exercise? It's not a matter of conviction anymore, simply the quiet maintenance of household peace... and perhaps, of course, the general neighborly expectation.