In his house Frank was a prisoner. No one to talk to about his fascination with ultra left political movements, Guy Deboard, Post Modern French lit, cars and Joe Frank.
Frank would say something and the conversation moved along without him.
He felt as if he were chained to a block of cement struggling to rise to the surface.
Trouble was no one would throw him a life raft?
Frank wanted to yell “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”