Years ago, I was having a difficult time moving on after a breakup. For months. Actually years. It became my own personal Jean de Florette.

Then one night, I had a dream.

In it, I decided the only way she'd truly understand how much she'd hurt me, how much pain I was in, was to hang myself from the porch in front of her house, so she'd discover me when she came home. And she'd finally understand.

But I got the address wrong.

I was across the street.

She came home with her new boyfriend. They glanced over at the silhouette hanging from someone else's porch. "Poor guy."

Then they went inside.

That's how I see life.

Even in pain, there's humor.

Not because heartbreak is funny. And certainly not because suicide is. But because the universe—even in dreams—seems incapable of delivering a perfectly tragic moment. Instead, it offers something quietly absurd.

I DIE SLOW grew from that same sensibility.

It's a film about loneliness, anxiety, routine, and the fear of moving through life unseen. Charlie's world follows the strange logic of dreams, where a towering paper-mâché Ferryman politely tips his hat, bureaucratic offices stretch toward infinity, and chance encounters feel both miraculous and meaningless. These impossible images aren't surreal for surrealism's sake. They are emotional truths made visible.

I wanted to make a film that finds humor in despair without diminishing either. One where the audience laughs, then catches themselves laughing, only to realize those emotions were never meant to be separated. Because beneath all the dream logic and absurdity, I think our greatest fear isn't death. It's living an entire life without ever truly being seen.