Sanity is the ancient lie. It's a lie old as consciousness.

Sanity is our imagined common denominator, that non-existent place we are said to converge.

Insanity is as real as anything else. Consider what goes on in the privacy of your mind.

How often does reality cease to measure up?

How often does the mystic seem to reveal itself, in feeling, in strange coincidence, in prophetic dreams?

Probably you never talk about it.

Probably you think you are alone in your suspicions.

It's intensely subjective, unfortunately. An insanity defies

documentation. Probably you will never find the name or explanation for the thing that visited

you in the night. Probably you've decided that it's only you that's not quite right. Thereby the

lie prevails. This narrative of order is the myth.

As Hunter S. Thompson said, there is not such thing as paranoia. Your worst fears can come true at any moment. All that to say, there is something wrong with the house on Maple Avenue. I wish I could

explain it in a concrete way, but I'm scared the explanation exists beyond our scope of comprehension.

So, we must base our truth on instinct.

That place isn't right.

It's unsettling, like a black and white cartoon.

It's the opposite of what a house ought to be.

It is the opposite of home, the opposite of safe, the opposite of familiar. My family no longer owns the place.

It was decided we could do better for a vacation house than an old mansion in small town Appalachia.

You could not imagine my relief. I was sure I would die in that place someday. Sure it would

catch me eventually, but I wish they didn't sell.

Obviously it wasn't my decision, but still I argued against it. I tried to make it a sentimental

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