(Welcome, everyone, to the recording of a very avant-garde artsy art film of oppressive suffering, unstated feelings, vaguely explainable actions, non-sequitur scene shifts, deep meanings, and long gazes. Do not forget the clash of new and old, death and sex, individual and collective. Just remember: It all has to be deathly serious. Oh, and since this is a French-American coproduction, we speak english.)
A small room. It seems to be a cheap apartment in a big city. The wallpaper is actually a shoddy green, but the monochrome visuals don't let us see that. A slightly wrinkled woman in her forties sits in a cheap sofa, by an equally cheap table. On the table is a book, a rather large, bound one. It is closed. For a long time, the woman sits there staring at the wall. We can see her sweating. She takes up a cigarette, lights it, and smokes. No music can be heard. A knocking sound can be heard, two sharp thuds. The woman takes another pull on the cigarette.