A night of tortured and solitary sleep, in which fears unfold and a bell tolls. This film was begun amidst the deepest dredges of abject loneliness, a time of my life in which I felt enveloped entirely in a sort of spiritual miasma, a dark pool with no surface. It was my way of purging my most attacking anxieties, a direct reckoning without avoidances or allowances. Most of the footage therein was captured, as usual, with my phone, albeit with intermingling fragments of a home-movie version of Robert Florey’s 1946 film The Beast with Five Fingers. The images of Peter Lorre’s paroxysmic expressions of guilt and a vengefully strangling disembodied hand felt especially significant in the period of my life during which the film was conceived and assembled.