I can't fall asleep during movies. God knows, I've tried. I almost succeeded once during college while watching some atrocious modern Italian comedy, a plot point of which revolved around Richard Gere. I recall a scene in which someone who looks like Richard Gere waits on a road, then boards a helicopter that lands out of nowhere. Maybe I imagined it. The movie was terrible. The point is I tried to fall asleep—shutting my eyes, bowing my head, letting my mouth hang open, tongue lolling. But I couldn't do it. The sound was part of the reason; disconnected from the visuals, it took on an unsettling clarity. I knew there were images I was trying to avoid. But the larger part of it, what I quickly came to realize, is that, for me, motion-picture viewing mimics dreaming. I love looking at a blank screen before a movie starts because it's a promise of something: Anything can happen. And my reaction is never exactly as I predict. Once the movie starts, my focus becomes laser-precise. I cherish that because it's not at all like I am in life. And I don't want to sleep through that. I have to admit here that I'm telling a little bit of a lie. I did fall asleep at a movie recently—Aleksandr Sokurov's Francofonia (2015), though it was my second viewing, and I think it was because the lulling nature of the movie permitted me to slip in and out of consciousness, as if caught in an aural-visual slipstream. It was a new experience, one that hasn't been repeated since, though I look forward to anything it might portend.