I am deep in my willed habits. From the outside, I suppose I look like an unoccupied house with one unconvincing night-light left on. Any burglar could look through my curtains and conclude I am empty. But he would be mistaken. Under that one light unstirred by movement or shadows there is a man at work, and as long as I am at work I am not a candidate for Menlo Park, or that terminal facility they cynically call a convalescent hospital, or a pine box. My habits and the unchanging season sustain me. Evil is what questions and disrupts.
The narrator reflects on the strength of their established habits, comparing themselves to an uninhabited house with only a dim light suggesting life within. To an outsider, this appearance may indicate emptiness, yet the narrator insists that there is a purposeful effort occurring inside. This dedication to work keeps them alive, contrasting with the bleak alternatives of assisted living or death.
The essence of their existence lies in the consistency of routine and the cyclical nature of life. The narrator suggests that evil lurks in disruption and uncertainty, which can undermine the stability provided by their habits. Thus, their work and routine become a source of resilience and vitality, countering the forces that threaten to disrupt their inner peace.
