I'll never understand. But that's okay. That's not the part that gets me. That's not the tick—gnawing and sucking on my blood and skin. It's the time. The hours spent picking up all the trash. All the empty bottles dirty plates used napkins. All stuffed in a single trash bag almost Marry Poppins-esque—now tied and tossed into the dumpster. Even sweeping up the floor and wiping down the countertops and mopping the tile. It was nice. It was clean. But you started cleaning ~more~ The windows baseboards counterfaces—you dusted the bookshelf, cleaned the cover and spine of each and every book, both touched and never opened. I watched. I watched you spend hours cleaning. Not a fingerprint left to find. I understood. It looked nice. You liked nice. But then something changed in your face. It's as if you finally felt indifferent—neutral maybe. You grabbed each book, one by one. You placed them in a plastic bag. You tied the plastic bag. You threw it away—tossing it into the dumpster as if it were weightless. It was clean. You liked clean. Next: the metal forks the silver spoons sharp knives glassware plates pans chairs couches tables the oven fridge the counters—every single standing item, until they had seemingly forgotten touch. Everything. One by One— weightlessly. At the end it was bare. Not even a house inspector would find a crumb of dust. With one exception. The bookshelf. It stays in the barren home, surrounded by empty walls. The dusted bookshelf. You didn't clean it. You dusted it. But you never cleaned it to the same extent as the rest. How does one spend hours erasing the past yet leaving one thing—one parasite? One tick. Why?