He inhabits the world just like he inhabits his house: motionless. A serious accident nailed him there: in a house in the middle of a large garden. No longer can he dash around the world: day after day, he contemplates it from his house.
He’s a filmmaker. He’s only ever lived to make movies. Always one more: against all odds. He imagines making a film with all his still images, stirring himself to life by conjunction, juxtaposition, a series. He’ll select, from the immense pile, what he needs to see a year flow by, four seasons, day after day.
Day After Day will be the title, the project, all the screenplay there is. A year will flow by: An inconsequential year among the billions of years of this world. A life will imprint itself: A modest life among all the billions of lives of this world.