An excerpt from something I’m writing:
Eleanor was maddened by the disparate duality of her time. Clinging desperately to the edge of existence. Surviving in a bubble with no idea how delicate it was. Living in the eleventh hour with no concept of time yet suffering from the plight of banality, drowning in a viscous soup of sameness. Propelled through life by a flickering engine rather than dragging it along at her will. Her will meant nothing more than what four walls will allow. What circumstance will allow. What Roger will allow.