"Lonely men live like wolves.
Their houses are only a place to come back to at night, to collapse on the forever-unmade bed and lose consciousness. There's nothing for them to do inside those rooms during the day; there's never any food in the fridge, not even fresh milk for a cup of coffee; no comfortable sofa, no soft light filtering through a lampshade, no wood for fire. Only the smell of stale food and unwashed socks.
The bathroom is bare: a tiny piece of cheap soap yellowing on the sink; an old toothbrush, its bristles spread open; a half-empty bottle of shampoo. What else would a man need to get clean? The stark emptiness of their houses haunts them at times. It's not clear how, in which way, but things around them could be arranged differently in order to produce some comfort. They know what it should feel like - They see it all the time in other people's houses. The smell of fire, meat sizzling in the oven, soft music in the background, children running around before going to bed. One can feel the entire household breathe, exude warmth. It's just a matter - they sometimes think - of filling up the fridge, replacing the light bulb, changing the sheets. And in fact every once in a while they attempt to recreate the same warmth they have seen elsewhere and which they secretly long to obtain by fulfilling these small tasks, but the result is always cold, almost inert, as if it had no life of its own. None of the objects gently blend with the others to generate that same secret harmony, not the lampshade with the pillow, nor the books with the shelf, nor the carpet with the floor. Not even the milk with the coffee.
Each molecule of these separate bodies obstinately stiffens and rejects the others. Nothing mates or remotely suggests the idea of an internal rhythm, of a spark of life.
It's only a matter of days before the dirty clothes pile up again on the floor, along with muddy boots, empty glasses, and overflowing ashtrays. It will feel cold and uncomfortable as ever. Everything will have either been flung, thrown or crushed, as if nothing, absolutely nothing, deserved any care."
- Rules Of The Wild, Francesca Marciano.
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