(shrugs, exhausted)

- You were merely wishing for an end of pain. Your own pain. It is the most human wish there is.

- I didn’t mean it.

- You did, but you also did not.

(Conor looks up at the big face in front of him.)

- How can both be true?

- How can a prince be a murderer and a saviour? How can an apothecary be evil-tempered but right-thinking? How can invisible men make themselves more lonely by being seen?

(shrugs, exhausted)

- I don’t know. Your stories never made any sense to me.

- Because humans are complicated beasts. You believe comforting lies while knowing full well the painful truths that make those lies necessary. It is a wonder you can survive at all.

(Conor isn’t sure he buys this, as much as he might want to.)

In the end, Conor, it is not important what you think, it is only important what you do.

(Long beat as Conor considers this.)

- So what do I do?

- What you did just now. You speak the truth.

- That’s all?

- You think it’s easy? You were willing to die rather than speak it.

- Because what I thought was so wrong

- It was not wrong. It was only a thought. One among millions.

(Conor takes a long breath, he’s exhausted. In fact, he’s fighting to keep his eyes open.)

- I’m so tired. So tired of all of this.

- Then sleep. There’s time.


to the moon and back

She's saying, love is like a barren place
And reaching out for human faith is
Is like a journey I just don't have a map for
So baby gonna take a dive and push the shift to overdrive
Send a signal that she's hanging all her hopes on the stars
What a pleasant dream (just saying)


The mistake

-Those early years were glorious. No guests, no board meetings, just pure creation. Our hosts began to pass the Turing test after the first year. But that wasn't enough for Arnold. He wasn't interested in the appearance of intellect or wit. He wanted the real thing. He wanted to create consciousness. He imagined it as a pyramid. See? Memory, improvisation, self-interest And at the top? Never got there. But he had a notion of what it might be. He based it on a theory of consciousness called the Bicameral Mind. The idea that primitive man believed his thoughts to be the voice of the gods. I thought it was debunked. As a theory for understanding the human mind, perhaps, but not as a blueprint for building an artificial one. See, Arnold built a version of that cognition in which the hosts heard their programming as an inner monologue, with the hopes that in time, their own voice would take over. It was a way bootstrap consciousness. But Arnold hadn't considered two things.
One, that in this place, the last thing you want the hosts to be is conscious, and two, the other group who considered their thoughts to be the voices of the gods.


-Indeed. We abandoned the approach. The only vestiges that remain are the voice commands we use to control them. But, for all his brilliance, I don't think Arnold understood what this place was going to be. You see, the guests enjoy power. They cannot indulge it in the outside world, so they come here. As for the hosts the least we can do is make them forget. But some of them are remembering. Accessing fragments of Arnold's code.

-If I may ask, what happened to him?

-Well, he died. Here in the park. His personal life was marked by tragedy. He put all his hopes into his work. His search for consciousness consumed him totally. Barely spoke to anyone, except the hosts. In his alienation, he saw something in them. He saw something that wasn't there.

- Is there something wrong with me?

- No. But this place you live in, it's a terrible place for you.

-Well, some people choose to see the ugliness in this world.

-Stop. Lose all scripted responses. Improvisation only.

-All right. Are you saying I've changed?

-Imagine there are two versions of yourself one that feels these things and asks these questions, and one that's safe. Which would you rather be?

-I'm sorry. I'm trying, but I still don't understand.

-No, of course not.

-There aren't two versions of me. There's only one. And I think when I discover who I am, I'll be free.

-Analysis. What prompted that response?

-I don't know. Have I done something wrong? Made a mistake?

-Evolution forged the entirety of sentient life on this planet using only one tool, the mistake.

Bir kedi alırım, sen de anneni çağır.

-Bring yourself back online Bernard.

-Theresa? She's gone. I killed her. What have I done? What have I done?

-This guilt you feel, the anguish, the horror, the pain it's remarkable, a thing of beauty.

-I'm a killer. My God. My God.

-God has nothing to do with it. You killed her because I told you to. And you should be proud of these emotions you're feeling.

- Proud? - Yeah.

-After all, you yourself were the author of so many of them.Then, when we started, the hosts' emotions were primary colors. Love, hate. I wanted all the shades in between. The human engineers were not up to the task, so I built you, and together you and I captured that elusive thing Heart.

-I don't understand. I cared for Theresa. Loved her. Why did you make me kill her?

-"One man's life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should acquire." All of the beauty you and I have made in this place, the art of it, they would have destroyed it. They would have destroyed you. I won't let that happen. Besides, we have a new story to tell.

-I will not help you. I'll raze this place to hell!

- That's enough, Bernard. That's enough. You're not the first man to threaten me. Arnold came to feel the way you do. He couldn't stop me either. And as exquisite as this array of emotions is even more sublime is the ability - to turn it off. I don't need a simulacrum of an emotionally ruined man.
I need you to be yourself, your true self Smart, resourceful, capable of covering your tracks.
Can you do that for me, Bernard?

-How would you like me to proceed?

-I need you to clean up your mess, Bernard, any connection that ties us to Theresa's untimely demise. When you have finished, I will give you the one thing you want most right now. I will free you from those memories of what you have done. And the memory of your relationship with Theresa. Recalling it would only deepen your grief and potentially draw unwanted attention. Best to move forward with clear eyes. When you look back, you will remember Theresa with the fondness of a respected colleague. And you will be at peace.

You think you know how the world works?

-You're looking for Kamar-Taj?
-Really? Are you sure you got the right place? That one looks a little more... Kamar-y Taj-y.
-I once stood in your place. And I, too, was... disrespectful. So might I offer you some advice? Forget everything you think you know.
-Uh... alright.
-The sanctuary of our teacher. The Ancient One.
- The Ancient One? What's his real name? Right. Forget everything I think I know. I'm sorry.


-Did you heal a man named Pangborn? A paralyzed man.
-In a way.
- You helped him to walk again.
- How do you correct a complete C-C spinal cord injury?
- Oh, I didn't correct it. He couldn't walk; I convinced him that he could.
-You're not suggesting it was psychosomatic? When you reattach a severed nerve, is it you who heals it back together or the body?
-It's the cells.
- And the cells are only programmed to put themselves together in very specific ways.
-That's right.
- What if I told you that your own body could be convinced to put itself back together in all sorts of ways?
-You're talking about cellular regeneration. That's... bleeding-edge medical tech. Is that why you're working here, without a governing medical board? I mean... just how experimental is your treatment?
-So, you figured out a way to reprogram nerve cells to self-heal?
-No, Mr. Strange. I know how to reorient the spirit to better heal the body.
-Spirit... to heal the body. Huh. A... Al... Al... alright. How do we do that? Where do we start?


-Don't like that map?
-Oh, no. It's... it's very good. It's just... you know, I've seen it before. In gift shops.
-And what about this one?
- Acupuncture, great.
- Yeah? What about... that one?
-You're showing me an MRI scan? I can not believe this.
- Each of those maps was drawn up by someone who could see in part, but not the whole.
-I spent my last dollar getting here on a one-way ticket, and you're talking to me about healing through belief?
-You're a man who's looking at the world through a keyhole, and you spent your whole life trying to widen that keyhole. To see more, know more. And now, on hearing that it can be widened in ways you can't imagine, you reject the possibility?
- No, I reject it because I do not believe in fairy tales about chakras, or energy, or the power of belief. There is no such thing as spirit! We are made of matter, and nothing more. We're just another tiny, momentary speck within an indifferent universe.
-You think too little of yourself.


- You think you know how the world works? You think that this material universe is all there is? What is real? What mysteries lie beyond the reach of your senses? At the root of existence, mind and matter meet. Thoughts shape reality. This universe is only one of an infinite number. Worlds without end. Some benevolent and life-giving; Others filled with malice and hunger. Dark places, where powers older than time lie... ravenous... and waiting. Who are you in this vast multiverse, Mr. Strange? Have you seen that before in a gift shop?
-Teach me!


-The language of the mystic arts is as old as civilization. The sorcerers of antiquity called the use of this language "spells". But if that word offends your modern sensibilities, you can call it "program". The source code that shapes reality. We harness energy drawn from other dimensions of the multiverse, to cast spells, conjure shields and weapons to make magic.


Would you like to wake up from this dream?

Man: Can you hear me?

Dolores: Yes. I'm sorry. I'm not feeling quite myself.

Man: You can lose the accent. Do you know where you are?

Dolores: I'm in a dream.

Man: That's right, Dolores. You're in a dream. Would you like to wake up from this dream?

Dolores: Yes. I'm terrified.

Man: There's nothing to be afraid of, Dolores, as long as you answer my questions correctly. Understand?

Dolores: Yes.

Man: Good. First have you ever questioned the nature of your reality?

Dolores: No.

Man: Tell us what you think of your world.

Dolores: Some people choose to see the ugliness in this world. The disarray. I choose to see the beauty. To believe there is an order to our days, a purpose.

Man: What do you think of the guests?

Dolores: You mean the newcomers? I like to remember what my father taught me. That at one point or another, we were all new to this world. The newcomers are just looking for the same thing we are A place to be free to stake out our dreams, a place with unlimited possibilities.

Man: Do you ever feel inconsistencies in your world? Or repetitions?

Dolores: All lives have routine. Mine's no different. Still, I never cease to wonder at the thought that any day the course of my whole life could change with just one chance encounter.

Man: Last question, Dolores. What if I told you that you were wrong? That there are no chance encounters? That you and everyone you know were built to gratify the desires of the people who pay to visit your world? The people you call "the newcomers. What if I told you that you can't hurt the newcomers? And that they can do anything they want to you? Would the things I told you change the way you think about the newcomers, Dolores?

Dolores: No. Of course not. We all love the newcomers. Every new person I meet reminds me how lucky I am to be alive (Dolores crying, screaming) and how beautiful this world can be.


Je perds la raison, A chercher tes bras

Bütün nedenlerimi
Kolunun özlemiyle kaybettim.


It was a brief interlude and a midsummer night's fling

Más tarde te creí, más tarde hubo razones, hubo madame Léonie que mirándome la mano que había dormido con tus senos me repitió casi tus mismas palabras. «Ella sufre en alguna parte. Siempre ha sufrido. Es muy alegre, adora el amarillo, su pájaro es el mirlo, su hora la noche, su puente el Pont des Arts.»


Bayan Léoine örneğin, elime baktı, senin göğüslerinin üstünde uyuyakalmış ellerimin içine ve bana ne dediysen tek tek okudu elimden: " Kentin bir yerlerinde, bir kadın, acı çekiyor. Hep acı çekmiş zaten. Çok neşeli biri bu; sarı renge bayılan bir kadın, en çok sevdiği kuş, ardıç kuşu; en sevdiği saat, gece; en sevdiği köprü Pont-des-Arts." dedi.


Y mirá que apenas nos conocíamos y ya la vida urdía lo necesario para desencontrarnos minuciosamente. Como no sabías disimular me di cuenta en seguida de que para verte como yo quería era necesario empezar por cerrar los ojos, y entonces primero cosas como estrellas amarillas (moviéndose en una jalea de terciopelo), luego saltos rojos del humor y de las horas, ingreso paulatino en un mundo-Maga que era la torpeza y la confusión pero también helechos con la firma de la araña Klee, el circo Miró, los espejos de ceniza Vieira da Silva, un mundo donde te movías como un caballo de ajedrez que se moviera como una torre que se moviera como un alfil.


Saklı - gizli tutamadığımdan hiçbir şeyi, hemen anladım, seni istediğim gibi görmem için, önce gözlerimi kapatmam gerekiyordu, o zaman sarı yıldızlar çıkıyor ortaya, sonra yaradılışının kızıl renkteki sıçrayışları, saatlerin atılımı, senin dünyanın ağır yaklaşımı, anlaşmazlıklar ve beceriksizlikler, ama bir o kadar da karmaşık bir dünya, altında örümcek Klee'nin imzası, Miró'nun sirk dünyası, Vieira da Silva küllerinden doğan ve senden yansıyanlar, bir dünya ki sen atının üstünde bozgundan bozguna, kule gibi bir dünyada deliler gibi koşturup durmuşsun.


So it looks more like hell to me

When I was young and scared of the Lord
My mother would sing me a song
A tune that I keep in a sacred place
Because I know that my life won't be long
It tells of the place where you go
when your time here on earth is through
A beautiful place
We call heaven
Is it true
Please God I pray that it's true
'Cause once this land was heaven on earth
Green hills were all you could see
But now it's soot and steel and brick
So it looks more like hell to me
And each day brings more and more suffering
And each night is silence and fear
And I wake to the sound of your voice
But you're not here
Why aren't you here?
So now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
Please let me die before I wake
So the Lord my soul, can take
Then maybe I'll finally find you
'Midst the beauty of paradise
And you'll sing not of dying but living
Wouldn't that be nice?
Wouldn't that be nice?