He lived alone.  Lonely people write.  I myself began a novel after every break-up, only to abandon it joyously each time I found a new companion.  The human heart is a case filled with humors and tears.  One good blow, out splash its contents.  Neglect it, and it rots; parasites proliferate, spin out their filaments, mount an assault on the walls, scale them, and spread...

When I'd switched on the electricity and toured all the rooms, I returned to the living room and stood before the mirror over the mantle.  I looked so pitiful I couldn't help sticking out my tongue.  Just my luck!  I'd rented an inimitable work of art.  But all I'd needed was a place to live, and art was unlivable.  While exploring the house, I'd come across a kitchen fit for a power-mad prince, with a stove and a sink Michelangelo would've been proud of, a bathroom, cut from the same quarry, and a bedroom to go with it.  On a bare mattress, a stack of sheets and blankets awaited the prophesied hero able to unfold them and make the bed.  In the cellar, beside a misleading boiler, the handle of a coal shovel would stick out at the same angle forever from a pile of fireproof pellets.  Beneath the roof, the attic was cluttered with picturesquely decrepit old toys, sewing dummies with their shoulders pocked by fake needle holes, steamer trunks thrown open on a jumble of treasures and inextricable relics.  Everything was light gray, veined with white, and cold as the grave.