As a child the yearly visits to his grandparents in the summer was Richard Grahms’ only solace; still at an age where one would, or even more so should, be engulfed in the wondrous things in life he found himself irrevocably drowning in an increasingly fading existence. The house in which the boy grew up in mirrored its occupants with stunning accuracy in the way that everything, anything, and indeed anyone, was polished clean of vibrancy. Not even a hardboiled comedian would’ve found joy in turning them into a joke upon reflecting the sad image of young Richard sitting alone in the middle of his immaculately kept and stripped bedroom, taking a break from practicing the piano; dressed and groomed like a Russian doll, quietly holding a collectors’ toy car still in its box, a soft sorrowful look on his face; (all the while) sunlight desperately clawing through the half-closed window sills as if trying to inject some semblance of warmth into his life. But nothing besides his Grandpa Don’s infectiously genuine laughter and Grandma Elsie’s exuberant embraces could chase away the cling film of suffocating dullness wrapped around Richard.