A Live House

I have a couple of critical questions for you. Please don't move on until you've answered them to yourself. When was the last time you genuinely thanked someone? I don't do it often enough—it's nice to be appreciated. Well, you might've been able to answer that one, but when's the last time you genuinely thanked the stuff you own or the house you live in? I never would, as I didn't believe they could appreciate the gesture, but I met a man with a story who changed my perspective. As I've already wasted your time with my exhausting questions, I'll keep his story short. The man had lived in this house for the better part of his adult life, never batting an eye (as he assumed he was merely losing his mind), but slowly and more frequently, he heard the house starting to move, talk, and more worryingly: complain. One time, when he came back from watching grass, the house was alive and well: the lights were on, music was playing, and the chimney was blowing large clouds. And that's all he could figure out, as he was no longer allowed inside.