Loneliness
Investigating the connection experienced through our sensory environment
Preserving mess was his new way of making it feel like someone was actually living in his bedroom. Tidying was a masochistic act of self-erasure, as once everything was turned or returned to its prescribed place there was no evidence that he had been alive before he last entered the room.
Just before his last entrance he had passed a tower of unopened mail and known immediately that none was for him. Then opened the bedroom door and lost a crease of his frown as he was met by the embrace of four days worth of clothes concealing the carpet. His shoulders dropped at the smell of yesterday evening’s coffee, a pungent ally against the oppressive odourlessness of walls and prefurnishings.
The sigh poured from his cracked lips as his eyes met last night’s glass of wine. He had fallen asleep before even kissing the rim, and his dreams had been the only barrier to him finishing all the bottle. The wine in the glass was his only case for calling it a wine glass, for its shape was almost nothing like a woman’s.
