Polly

In that place, Frank’s days mean nothing, weeks are fleeting and hazy, flying past with little regard for his sensitive mind. Not like living in the real world at all, he knows day and he knows night and he knows that somewhere, not far past the bricks confining him, there are people and places and clocks and watches, schedules and schools and offices and homes, busses, trains, cars, people waiting and people going places. But in Frank’s solitary cell, it’s hard to remember all of that, real life becoming almost like a dream he once had; distant, fabricated. In the present, it’s only him and Gerard and his little house and habits, pet names and homemade soup.