Supawit Chalermkul

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.

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.

A man lies asleep on a bed. A gust of wind. A rumbling. He walks around, taking photographs. Messages from both his dreams, and mine, where we are haunted by people in student uniform.

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.

The Writer and the Rememberer, together they wander through a mostly deserted buildings, searching for something they barely know they lack.

It all starts with him having to pitch a product to a client. The product is glasses. This turns into an action film where martial arts warriors battle it out, with the glasses serving as a game-changing power in the fight.

Claude is meeting his friends while trying to pitch his music videos project. But every time he feels bad, He's got something in his mind.

A book on the nightstand - pillow talking - the hands of two lovers. When "she" woke "him" up in the middle of the night, telling him about a dream that was less than pleasant, leading to explosion of an argument, each intending on hurting the other. For how can this relationship progress, when mutual understanding is nowhere to be found, even in their dream.