Writing a preface for this ledger feels a bit like drafting a treaty for a war that was lost before the first shot was fired. This is the official record of the invisible lines we walk and the furry audits we endure, a collection of reports on what happens when the floor under your feet stops being a simple surface and starts being a contested territory. It is the story of how a house stops being a series of rooms and becomes a complex system of permissions and checkpoints.
We spend a lot of time pretending that we are the ones who define the geography of our homes, but the truth is usually found sitting in the middle of a doorway at three in the morning. This category tracks the slow erosion of human authority and the rise of the vertical empire, documenting every furniture annexation and every diagonal shimmy required to reach the coffee maker. It is a study in how we learn to take up less room so that something smaller and more confident can take up more.
Hard to tell.
Probably both. Probably always.
Ultimately, these records are about the strange, quiet physics of sharing a life with a predator who views your mortgage as a mildly interesting suggestion. We watch the borders move, we adjust our posture to fit the remaining sliver of the couch, and we acknowledge that the landlord has four legs and a very long memory for slights. We watch, we wonder, and we accept.
