Before then, I didn't know that houses are made of bricks—dirty, dusty, full of holes, where insects we’d rather not see burrow away. Yet from the inside, the lights are dazzling, the living rooms comfortable and generally clean. No one seems to see the threads, which I saw once and can no longer forget. And when I lie down in your beds, I cannot help but remember the imperfection and carelessness with which you sprayed the expanding foam behind the insulating frames. And so it is all around us: the bitter temptation to hide. And despite all this decorum, every morning, rather than living, you try to live—hounded by your backs and your necks, from which you inevitably want to detach yourselves just to escape the pain caused by the improper use of your comforts.