en Cuevana. 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.
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