And the comedy assumes magnified proportion, so much so that the noises outside get a physical presence - suffocating and soiled.
While some long lost music plays in the background, you only try not to fall into the well of crust nostalgia, faded to inglorious paleness.
The birds chirp in the early morning sky, sitting on the stairs leading to the terrace, talking of faraway lands you realise you can never visit while the concrete present and everyday life suck you inside a whirlpool - inescapable, deep and ceaseless.
Where are you stuck?
The pied-piper left way back.