Styx’s ‘The Best of Times’ sounds softly within the slightly curved hall.
Frank's countenance is that of a beaten god. With a burgundy yukata on, The Man of the House sits in the middle of the slightly curved staircase that leads up to nowhere. Simply put, bored out of his mind for decades now, his only current concern still is to somehow reach Adrian. His eyes vacant and lips shut tight, his message to her nonetheless screams out from his mind:
I know you feel these are the worst of times, I do believe it's true
When people lock their doors and hide inside, rumor has it it's the end of paradise
But I know if the world just passed us by, baby
I know you wouldn't have to cry
His message repeats, over and over again, incessant.
But it has been falling on deaf ears, so to speak, over and over again, incessant, too, for years now.
Adrian's beautiful, yet fallen, face, fills the frame now. The Pretty Amazing Housewife is sitting, glumly, at the center of the living room sofa.
There is not any longer any omnipresent, louder-than-life music permeating every cubic inch of the inside of the house but silence, and along with it, a lingering memory that softly crystallizes in the form of the ticking clock and initial bars of the song 'Hung Up', by Madonna, from 2005. Which just now starts to permeate every cubic inch of Adrian’s mental soundscape until it's just as omnipresent, louder-than-life, all-encompassing nevertheless:
Time goes by so slowly
Adrian's beautiful, yet fallen, face, fills the frame now. She looks straight ahead - at nothing - her big grey eyes dry and muted. Static.
Stolen novel; please report.
The only freshness in her countenance is her shiny, oblivious-to-her-woes, taglio di capelli con frangia -- her dark brown, straight blunt bob to her jawline with straightedge-even horizontal bangs to mid-forehead. There are tiny freckles on her nose and on her cheeks to either side of her nose. Her cute jaw slightly slacking, lips chapped and colorless, the once radiant smile on them, these years, these days, these seconds, these milliseconds, a distant remembrance; youthful as ever, Adrian's face is, as, again, ever -- a reflection of her spirit, an open book… and there's at this moment no space on that book’s pages for anything other than spirit-crushing, spirit-bending, nameless, hopeless, listless, dejection. Youthful as ever, she is a victim of her boundless free will. Or rather, youthful as ever, a victim of a free will unbounded within the boundaries of the shallow arch.
Time goes by so slowly for those who wait
No time to hesitate
Those who run seem to have all the fun
I'm caught up, I don't know what to do
Disinterested in everything else, the only relieving solution would be the end, the blank, The Big Zero, the Naught. And, as if like praying, the S.O.S. call is repeating relentlessly inside her head, hopefully exteriorizing and becoming a plea that will reach her Creator…
Disinterested in everything else, her only interest now, is Jarvis. Everything you say, everything you do, I’m hung up on you, waiting, waiting for your call, waiting night and day, baby, please, I’m fed up, I’m tired of waiting on you!
Every little thing that you say or do I'm hung up
I'm hung up on you
Waiting for your call, baby, night and day
I'm fed up
I'm tired of waiting on you
Disinterested in everything else, her only interest now is getting through to him. Couldn't he gratify her? Time goes by, so slowly, so slowly, so slowly. Indeed. So excruciatingly, to be true. So. Excruciatingly. Slowly.
So.
Slowly.
Time goes by so slowly
Time goes by so slowly
Time goes by so slowly
Time goes by so slowly
So slowly
So slowly
So slowly
So slowly
Adrian's beautiful, yet fallen, face, fills the frame.
She looks straight ahead, at nothing, her big grey eyes dry and muted, static.
The only freshness in her countenance is her shiny, oblivious-to-her-woes, taglio di capelli con frangia -- her dark brown, straight blunt bob to her jawline with straightedge-even horizontal bangs to mid-forehead.