Of Madness Dthrip — A Kind

That is the kind of madness I mean: the kind that looks like diligence. The kind that wears a collared shirt and pays its bills on time and never misses a dental appointment. The kind that smiles at the pharmacist and says, "Just the usual," while inside, a tiny, furious god is rearranging the vowels in the word refrigerator to see if it spells anything ominous.

And then I'll start again.

The rug has no wrinkles. I checked. Twice. a kind of madness dthrip

It doesn't. I checked.

And then I'll put it back.

The madness is that I will spend the next hour trying to figure out which one to remove.

And that, my friend, is a kind of sanity no one warns you about. That is the kind of madness I mean:

My neighbor, Mrs. Kellaway, knocked this morning. She wanted sugar. I opened the door holding a measuring tape. She didn't ask why. People don't ask why anymore. They've learned that the answer is either boring or terrifying. I gave her the sugar, then closed the door and measured the distance from the handle to the strike plate. 2.4 centimeters. It was 2.4 centimeters yesterday, too. I measured anyway.