POPOVITCH (V.O.)

Did you ever have a dream that stretches out time?  An hour seeming like two?  A year a day?  Sometimes when I sleep the time just slips away.  A night is gone and I don’t know when it was 3 a.m.  Or a nap where a whole afternoon just flies by.  But then there are other times when I dream hard.  When I dream immediately.  As soon as my eyes close.  And I wake up here and there, catching the sounds around me—movement.  And then it’s the dream again.  And when I check the clock only thirty minutes have gone by, but it seems like so much longer.  The stories in that time.  The stories my mind is telling me from I know not where…  Some might call it inspiration.  The inception of an idea that I take as my own.  Making its story my story, part of my story, and what I would like to tell.  And it’s like a song.  A remake of a remake.  And sometimes I hear the remake before I hear the original—the remake inspiring me.  Causing me to think.  To see an aspect of life an entirely different way.  Not knowing that whoever made that remake was inspired first by the original.  Perhaps crude, underdeveloped, not all the sounds there that I’m used to hearing in what caused me to listen in the first place.  And how is it then?  How is it that I’m inspired by what was inspired?  How do you follow a dream to its beginning without first knowing the end?  This how time stretches out, enfolding the idea of itself in our concept of it, our measure of it.  Why you accept the dream as real until you wake up…  I don’t know what I’m going to do with them—these men.  They are not the cause of my daughter’s death, but they know too much.  They know too much of the original inspiration, and the truth there.  And it’s like falling back asleep again.  When you can.  When you have the time.  The bed soft.  Comfortable.  And you embrace even nightmares—bad dreams of what you know isn’t right.  The mistakes from your past.  Maybe not even intentional, but they cause you to not like yourself.  Not like what you have done.  Yet you embrace it anyway, like a warm blanket, and you bury your head in the pillow, closing your eyes to let it all happen again.  Hoping this time, this time it will be different.  Like you can control it somehow.  You can control what you dream about…  I am a foolish old man.  Sometimes I feel like I’ve learned nothing.  Nothing from the faces that stir in my memory.  Nothing from the pain I’ve caused that gives me pain.  For that is the secret.  The secret to good dreams.  And why bad men embrace nightmares.  You don’t do the right thing because someone told you it’s right.  You don’t do the right thing to please anyone.  It’s more to have peace, to feel peace.  And forget the riots caused from your memory.  The riots your memories see when you know you could have helped someone, but you didn’t…

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