A short story in three parts—verbally contemplating on the death of an insignificant person—riddled with self loathing of both the living, and the dead. For death is a bitter tasting joke with no set-up; only a shocking punchline leaving those who remain with the unbearable weight of grief and longing.

A short story in three parts—verbally contemplating on the death of an insignificant person—riddled with self loathing of both the living, and the dead. For death is a bitter tasting joke with no set-up; only a shocking punchline leaving those who remain with the unbearable weight of grief and longing.

On a quiet night in the library, a young librarian prepares to head home alone, until something lurking in the shadows begins to creep closer.

On a quiet night in the library, a young librarian prepares to head home alone, until something lurking in the shadows begins to creep closer.

Fragments of a contemplative essay film drifting between memory and dream. I see an old man haunted by an elusive voice, and a fading childhood quietly watching over him, in a space where prolonged sleep blurs the boundary of what is real. This is a story written from elsewhere a place where I listen, observe, and record his story, in an attempt to weave together images of family, and the quiet violence of growing up.