If you’re on the landing exactly at midnight New Year’s Eve you can get into the secret extra floor there.
There’s somebody, anybody, back east who knows you’re in the Eastern Time Zone.
That shield bug in the bathroom that’s been motionless and on its back for two weeks? It’s not dead yet somehow.
There’s still a Radio Shack in town.
You will never be perfectly confident that the faucets are turning off correctly.
Tucked inside the wall you can never get a picture nail to stick in? That’s the canvases of 19th century moving-panorama showman John Banvard’s famous half-mile long painting of the Mississippi River, once the toast of American and European theatrical performances, and thought to be completely lost.
Oh, the basement, let’s not even.
The button you never use on the dishwasher is for its twelve-minute Licking Cycle.
That’s no home, that’s some 60s black-and-white French science fiction movie in which people grunt about how the essence of mankind is love and faith, courage and tenderness, and then getting shot until they fall into swimming pools at the direction of the all-powerful computer god, which is played by a heat lamp behind a box fan.