In today's mindless pop culture, as disposable as a semen-drenched and bloody prophylactic, mankind does not give his fridge the attention it demands.

This seemingly brain-dead kitchen appliance, so often taken for granted, is a brooding but obsessive warrior, assembling an arsenal of scientific genius against the inevitable decay of life – bacteria – as it lets loose its gentle, but apocalyptic, hoards upon sustenance. But the refrigerator's crusade is ultimately worthless, for all food must die.

Yet the fridge still delays death; it fights against death, fights against nature. This cuboid of cool is a rebel against time. It is like love, like art: every one an insurgent against nothingness, shining their brief blinding light forth, before the inevitable fridge door closes on all of us and we are left in darkness.

Few artists recognise the fear and violence at the heart of the fridge's soul, the fridge's id. Van Morrison knows the chilling, sad and sinister beauty of the refrigerator, while Bob Dylan and Neil Young often sit, cross-legged on their linoleum floors, staring at the racks of margarine, cheese, orange juice and iceberg lettuce, entranced by the divine invocation that such a doomed spirit inspires in them. The melancholic hum of the motor, the silent strength of the refrigerant trapped in its schizophrenic circuit from boiling to freezing, a miserable but necessary existence, as condemned a prisoner to life as Sisyphus.

Not even a knife puncturing the eye of a bastard murderous child or a bullet in the heart of an insane, frothing and rabid dog can generate the same ecstasy, magic and joy as discovering a three-day old pint of milk can still be poured onto a bowl of corn flakes.

For it means this white sepulchre does not yet contain the bones of the dead, the useless and the spent, but still brims with life. It is the scream of the wanton heart as it re-emerges to existence with the knowledge that love exists, can exist and will exist, before the realisation that all love ends in a violent puke of Godless hate.

My God is my fridge. At the end of the day, I will bathe in the long shadow of my fridge, and will not fear the oncoming night.