Same old, same old

Here it starts again, every October, without reason or rhyme. Every act a mere repetition of what was done before; every speech a replica of what was said before.

Inside the living room of a distant relative. Sitting straight on the floral embossed sofa, afraid to move a muscle. Lattice windows welcome the warm October sunlight. The crystal chandelier, reflecting the light, hangs like Damocles Sword. Not knowing what else to do, we watch and wait.