...of boredom

Like kites being reeled in, the chicken hawks circled lower till their shadows revolved over the slanting shingled roof. The shaft of smoke lifting from the chimney mounted unbroken in the hot windless air, a sign, at least, that people lived here. Joel had known and explored other houses quiet with emptiness, but none so deserted-looking silent: it was as though the place were captured under a cone of glass; inside, waiting to claim him was an afternoon of endless boredom: each step, and his shoes were as heavy as though soled from stone, carried him closer. A whole afternoon. And how many more for how many months?

[Other Voice, Other Rooms, Capote, T.]