It does have one too many letters. That's not the madness talking. That's just true.
They call it a kind of madness, the need to correct the uncorrectable. My doctor—a man with the emotional range of a parking meter—called it "subclinical obsessive-compulsive patterning." I call it the Hum. Because it isn't thoughts. It's a frequency. A low, patient thrum that says: that chair is two millimeters out of alignment with the window frame. Fix it. No, not with your hands. With your mind. Fail, and we will hum louder. a kind of madness dthrip
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. It does have one too many letters
And then I'll start again.
For three hours.
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. They call it a kind of madness, the
The real madness—the kind no one writes pamphlets about—is that I am aware of the absurdity. I can stand there, two shakers in my hands, and say aloud: "This is pointless. No one is coming to dinner. The universe does not care if the pepper is west of the salt." And the Hum replies: West is a human construct. But you did just use it. Interesting. Now check the rug.