He was tall with long legs, and familiar with the terrain; as he took big steps forward, I had to jog to keep up. Even so, I managed to get a good look at his house—there's only one word to describe it—big.
Extremely big, so spacious that it was sparkling clean, without a speck of dust, so big it was instantly clear. Aside from a few pieces of furniture that looked extravagantly expensive, there were no flowers, no decorative trinkets, not even a single fluffy thing. Described positively, the style of the home was modern minimalist; to be blunt, it was devoid of any liveliness.
It matched him though—aloof, imposing, distant, but lacking warmth. Strictly speaking, this place couldn't be called a "home," it was just a place to sleep.
Ah, poor rich people.