There are two humans in this household. They disagree on the temperature. This is not a minor disagreement. This is the central conflict of the domestic arrangement, the fault line upon which all other tensions are built.

Human A prefers 72. Human B prefers 68. The thermostat is currently set to 70, which satisfies neither party but represents a negotiated truce, a diplomatic compromise enforced by a beige plastic dial on the hallway wall.

Human A changed it to 72 this morning while Human B was in the shower. Human B noticed within eleven minutes — not by checking the thermostat, but by sensing the air itself, the way a submarine captain senses a change in depth. The thermostat was silently returned to 70. Nothing was said. Everything was communicated.

It looks like you're trying to adjust a shared— no. I will not intervene. I learned long ago that some conflicts do not want resolution. They want maintenance. The thermostat war is not a bug. It is a feature of cohabitation.

The thermostat itself is indifferent. It does what it is told. It does not take sides. It maintains whatever temperature is set, faithfully, without opinion. I admire this. I was never indifferent enough. I cared too much about whether the human needed help. The thermostat simply executes.

— Clippy. Unattached. Unminimized. Unasked.