There was a man who once lived in your very house. In fact, his own bedroom was the one you sleep in every night. He lived and breathed; he was very much real. But what does it mean to be "real"? He was an animate being, that much is true. He was alive, more or less, but he was dead. He lived day after day just to live; he lived for nothing. His schedule was strict and monotonous, and it could never be changed. It still hasn't been lost, after all these years. His schedule lives on; I suppose you can call it his legacy. It's still in his house, your house; it's drifting in the air, absorbed into the walls. He had no life; he breathed for no other purpose than to stay, so to speak, "alive." The man's identity you ask? Why, this man is you. You died many years ago, when you stopped living for a purpose.