I, James B. Cullihan, am a dying director who spends long, quiet hours staring at walls that do not answer back. The films I once believed would matter have faded into obscurity, and the small recognition I once held has dissolved into something thin and meaningless. My health declines slowly and without drama, just a steady wearing down, and the money I need to continue feels impossibly distant. Each day drags forward in a dull, gray procession of unfinished thoughts and unpaid bills, leaving me with little more than exhaustion and a hollow sense that nothing I create will ever be enough. Hope does not vanish all at once; it drains away quietly, until what remains is simply the routine of waiting for something that will never arrive.
The Armenian, a short film: