The window is usually open when I enter the room. Before leaving, I close it. And then, a few hours later, it's open again, and, again, I close it.

It's clear there is someone else in the house - someone who wants the window left open. And, initially at least, it's true that I preferred it closed. But today I care about it all so little that I wouldn't go to the effort of closing it were it not for something else - my growing desire to find it open once again.

Somewhere perhaps someone is growing irritated; the consistency with which the window re-opens itself suggests both that it is regularly inspected, and that it will not permit itself to remain closed. I feel convinced these inspections have become increasingly more frequent since I took up residency here and elected to express myself in this way. Perhaps, on the contrary, there is no irritation there at all; instead, the window closes itself by way of rejoinder, and it is I who should be irritated to find my handiwork undone.

All I know is, I must continue to close the window, and the more often I find it open, the better; I don't know what rule it is - for rule there must be - that prevents us both from occupying this room at the same time, and thus seeing who we are, who communicate mutely in this way. But so long as we act, we create somewhere else the obligation to counteract, and thus, however dimly, people in the world both depend upon us and assume responsibilities toward us. I even sense that, if either of us moved away, or just gave up and let the window be, the world would end; there would be no reason left to live in this world.