How can one survive in a house of quartz?

I've day-dreamt of a world made entirely of polished, shiny white quartz. infinite expanses of white; mountains, seas, deserts, forests of crystalline trees over looking frozen rivers of pale rock. Every last thing would have long since become the white perfection, save me. I would go on. Every day I would walk to work and speak to my quartz friends, frozen where they stood. I would walk down the street where people stood frozen mid-stride. Cars. Planes. Pigeons. Dogs. All glowing under a white sky and a pure, white light. I would go home to my house of quartz.

The walls, the doors, the beds, the chairs and tables and televisions, all made of polished, glittering, beautiful, perfect white quartz. I would open the fridge and find quartz milk and bread inside. I would walk past my quartz dog and kiss my quartz wife on her cold, glimmering cheek. There would be no dust, no difference, not a single speck of anything that should not be, since everything should be and would be of quartz. Late at night I could stay up and stare at the monochromatic world I had created; lose myself in the infinite complexities of semi-opaque iridescence... And perhaps, one day, I would become quartz as well; at last the clock will have struck, the last piece will have fallen into place and I will have become what I should have always and from that point on would always be; cold, beautiful, perfect quartz. The world would be motionless, cold, perfect. not a thing would move or stir or breathe or live or die or want or need or be or not be Everything would be the way it should. Everything would be the way it have always been, and would be forever more. Heaven. Paradise. Immutability at last. Eternity in Perfect, opalescent white stone.