Edgar Allan Poe and Scarlett Johansson are stuck in Stranded Ferris Wheel Ride and forced to have a deep conversation.

"Ah, another pendulum of despair, suspended between the earth and oblivion," Poe sighed, his voice a low, mournful drone.

"Well, isn't that just peachy," Scarlett retorted, rolling her eyes. "I was supposed to be at SoulCycle."

"SoulCycle? A fleeting, fevered dream amidst the vast, encroaching darkness," he murmured, staring into the swirling twilight.

"Look, Mr. Gloom, I'm pretty sure the encroaching darkness is just the sun setting," Scarlett stated, tapping her manicured nails on the metal bar.

"The setting sun is but a metaphor for the extinguishing of hope, a gradual descent into the raven's shadow," Poe countered, his eyes gleaming with melancholic intensity.

"Honey, you need a Xanax. Or maybe just a decent rom-com," Scarlett quipped, pulling out her phone, only to discover no signal.

"Silence! Do you not feel the palpable dread, the suffocating anticipation of the unknown?" Poe demanded, his voice rising in a crescendo of theatrical despair.

"I feel the hunger pangs from skipping lunch and the distinct possibility of my highlights fading in this infernal contraption," Scarlett snapped, unimpressed.

"Perhaps, trapped here, we are afforded a rare glimpse into the abyss, a premonition of the inevitable cessation of being," Poe whispered, lost in his thoughts.

"Or maybe," Scarlett said, finally meeting his gaze, a flicker of something akin to understanding in her eyes, "maybe we're just stuck."