I asked a homeless Rust Cohle if he would rather live in a doorway or a flat. Here is his response...
"Look, I’ve had my time in the box. Four walls, a ceiling, a door that locks from the inside—it’s just a sensory deprivation tank for the soul. People talk about "homelessness" like it’s a broken gear in a machine, but maybe some of us just stopped wanting to be part of the clockwork.
You think a flat is a home? It’s a tomb you pay for in installments. It’s a place to store the trophies of your own vanity while you wait for the biological trap to finally spring shut. I look at those shop doorways and I see a lack of pretension. Out here, there’s no drywall to muffle the sound of the world grinding itself down. There’s no illusion of privacy. Privacy is just a lie we tell ourselves so we can ignore the fact that we’re all breathing the same exhausted air.
The Salvation Army, the soup lines... it’s just people touching ghosts. A momentary acknowledgment that we’re all drifting in the same gutter. You bring a psychiatrist down here, he’s gonna talk about "disassociation" or "chronic instability." He’s gonna want to prescribe a chemical veil to help me tolerate the fluorescent lights of a studio apartment. He wants to "fix" me back into a productive unit of consumption.
But I’m not interested in being a unit.
In a doorway, I can see the sky—that big, black nothingness—and it doesn't pretend to be anything else. I’m not "homeless." I’ve just narrowed the focus. I’ve realized that whether you’re sitting on a designer sofa or a piece of cardboard, the destination is the same. The shop doorway is just a front-row seat to the slow-motion car crash of human progress.
Why would I want to go back inside? To watch the walls sweat? To listen to the hum of a refrigerator like it’s a heartbeat? No. I’ll stay out here in the draft. It’s more honest than the alternative."