it's quiet.
i'm not asleep?
me.
margaret.
fernando. how are you?
great, too.
! good, sir.
it's delicious.
good morning. . his speech is still rather flat, halting.,
yes.
i used to read quite a lot.
thank you for these. i . sayer nods that he's welcome.
everything.
try. sayer smiles again. for a man who just yesterday learned he has been cheated out of the greater"- part of his life, leonard seems to have recovered extraordinarily.
i'd like to go outside.
what a wonderful place the bronx has become. the music continues over: '' ' *
you just moved here.
your son?
you seem uncomfortable.
what if you just want to go for a walk?
: you're not married. * it seems to sayer a non sequitor. *
eleanor would disagree with you. * sayer stares at him blankly. he doesn't seem to know who "eleanor11 is. . *
but you meant normal people. sayer seems at a loss as to how to respond. the accompanying . til**) silence grows awkward. 7
now?
my name is leonard lowe. it has been explained to me that i have been away for . . . quite some time . . . he seems to withdraw, to wrestle with the thought, to try to somehow come to terms with it, to somehow resolve it. he nods as he finds within himself some source of strength and looks directly at the camera.
i'm back.
he's a patient, mom.
he's still a patient. you're not a patient.
there's your bus. . the public bus, behind her, coming down the street. as she hurries to the corner, sayer climbs down off the hospital bus.
i've decided not to go. he waves to his mother. sayer stares at him.
i'm staying here.
nothing. wave. he waves again to his mother; she's boarding the public bus. sayer does as he's told, waves too. impatient, miriam honks the horn again.
i'll see you later, have a good time. he climbs the hospital steps and disappears inside, sayer staring after him. miriam honks the horn again, and he climbs aboard. the doors hiss shut and driver turns to him.
no. 
i live here.
i don't? she smiles and shakes her head 'no.1
but you do.
s yes.  * his tone is that of someone speaking of a fact, rather than * offering an opinion. she studies him . . . and eventually: *
' i receive medication. , she waits for more, but it doesn't come. only a smile.
, i'm okay now. * - '
they won't be angry.
okay. ] they're almost to the doors. she offers her hand to him.
bye.
he knows.
what is this place?
me?
 . . bookcases there . . . there . . . take some of these benches out . . . maybe have a ramp over here . . . he's not exactly sure where everything is going to go, but he's proud of it. gesturing to the operating lamp hovering from above like a giant spider
i'm going to get rid of this thing. the thing is so unbelievably macabre they have to grimace. another mover comes past dollying out old: operating equipment.
i think it's important. i think it's important some things were said.
things that matter. things that have happened to me. things i've cone to understand. things.
read a newspaper, people have forgotten what life is all about. they've forgotten what it is to be alive. they need to be reminded. they need to be reminded what they have, what they can lose, what i feel, this, the, the, the . . . < his mind seems to be racing ahead of his mouth's ability to
 . . the joy, the freedom, the spaciousness of life, the gift of life. this is what they've forgotten. this is what they need to remember. this is what we'll tell them. leonard waits for a reaction to his idea, his "gospel according to l-dopa" lecture tour. sayer can manage only an uncertain nod.
yeah.
i ' m thankful, but what i need now isn't here.
the simplest thing.
i want to know that i'm free to go for a walk, if i feel like it. like any normal person. the board members glance among themselves. they seem relieved. {v that is a simple request.
i am? alone? now there's a pause. and leonard's hand makes a gesture to his * face, to his brow. he ignores it . *
i think you know.
it makes all the difference. he brushes at his brow again. sayer studies him, or rather the tic itself as it repeats. leonard - * you didn't wake a thing, you woke * a person. i ' m a person.  *
how could i be aware of something that's unconscious? * sayer smiles to himself. so does kaufman. the psychiatrist * doesn't. **
i ' d walk around. i ' d talk to people, i ' d look at things. i' d decide whether i wanted to go this way, or that way, or keep going straight. i ' d do the things you do everyday and take for granted. long silence. then:
yeah, i was aware of it.  i was nervous. it's nothing. what'd they say?
and what did you say?
did you agree with them?
bye. -- and turns to leave.
for a walk.
wake up.
it isn't us that's defective, it's them. we're not in crisis, they are. we've been through the worst that can happen to a person and survived it. they haven't. they fear it. and they hide from their fear by hiding us, because they know, they know . . . the men wa it for the rest, but l eonard loses his tra in of t ho ugh t. f ru str at ed, h is t ics r es urf ac e and ela bor at e. h e seems unaware of them. to one of the men: .
how long have you been here? * you don't know? a month, a year? . sj^ (^7 whv are you here? he doesn't know that, either. to another patient:
you don't like it? aren't you an animal?
then why are you in a cage? the man's getting agitated . . . they all are. leonard stops pacing, faces them, and almost whispers:
anger . . .
that's what you feel .  anger! the men erupt in a burst of noisy approval; they cone alive. tight on kaufman on the other side of the "cage," watching. and, over the din -
he's all right. leonard's "bodyguards" step aside. sayer crosses to leonard and is greeted in a tone precisely that of master to servant, very courteous yet unmistalcably condescending:
how are you today?
never better. a strange gesture, a tic, appears and repeats.
that's the thing, isn't it, you never know who. someone i least expect, i expect. look at history.
yeah, well they're mistaken, they're crazy. j .  * the smile that appears this time on leonard's face is as insane as anything sayer's ever seen. he hesitates. then:
hey, buddy. . sayer * the drug's not working. these are * side-effects and they're consuming * you, and if we don't do - *
hey, i appreciate you coming to see me, i have some things to do. leonard abruptly extends his hand; it's a little twisted. * sayer doesn't so much shake the hand as hold onto it.
i want to be back.
thanks. the others come over, shake his hand and pat him on the back, * but all a little too gently, too concerned, like he might break. leonard manages a smile.
i' m all right. the others nod quickly in agreement. and the room falls into * silence.
 . . some are new . . . some are * elaborations . . . some are counter- tics. they don't bother me. what bothers me is that i know they shouldn't be there . . . one of his hands makes a movement to his ear, to his pants, to his ear again, like some bizarre genuflection.
this is new . . .  '
it's not that it feels bad, it's, nothing, i feel nothing. like i'm nothing. like i ' m dead.
i feel good when i ' m working. i feel good in here.  * in this room. they're alone in it, he and sayer, by a table- * saw that's cluttered with the original hospital blueprints and * leonard's plans and notes.
it's here somewhere . . . as he hunts for it amidst all the notes, his hands and head begin shaking. the hands seize on some other papers and, hard as he tries, he can't make himself let go of them. the pages crumple.
get the camera get the camera get  the camera get the camera -. f '  >! '
no - no - no - no - watch - watch - watch - watch -
- learn - learn - learn - learn - learn - learn - learn -
no, i can do it. she watches him try to get the tie on by himself, and casts around, feeling, perhaps, without a purpose. eventually, more to herself than to him:
yeah.
i know. she watches him struggle with the tie a moment more. finally, * she can't bear it any longer, and reaches to do it for him. *
i can get it. *
i can, get away from me. ., * he pushes her hand away and turns his back to her. she can't * believe it. silence. then, to herself, in a murmur - *
 she, she, she, she .  hi s a rm lash es out , s end ing the mo del of the li bra ry cra shin g * to the floor.
 she devoted her life to me . . . she'd have a life if it weren't p- for me . . .
 . . i ' m ungrateful . . . i'm ungrateful . . . > hi s m othe r t rie s t o c omfo rt him , t o h old him , t ear s c omin g t o * her eyes, too.
i'm sorry . . . i'm so sorry . . .
i can't read anymore. the words are written too slow. i keep going back to the beginning, to the beginning, and trying . . . he turns back to the beginning, tries again, his eyes moving too quickly across the lines, "ahead" of the words. his hands and head begin shaking out of control and it' s' all he can do to close the book.
i've let the others down.
i'm grotesque . . . grotesque . . . grotesque . . .
look at me.
look at me and tell me i am not.
this . . . isn't . . . me.
like what? those are great things. i've never done any of those things.
they'll never let me out of this place. they shouldn't. they consider each other for several moments -- the one, young and healthy; the other, old and ill.
i'm not well. i feel well inside when i see you. i wish you could see what's inside. instead of this.
goodbye.  he ho lds out o ne of his sh aking han ds to her. s he reach es to it, places her hand on it, holds it, and the shaking slowly, slowly, slowly begins to subside. she lifts him gently out of his wheelchair and leads him away * from the table. she arranges his arms in such a way that he is sort of holding her and begins to slowly dance with him.
i'm back. light moves across the screen. someone has entered. miss costello. she exchanges a long glance with sayer before they both look back to the screen.
i thought it was a dream at first. silence except for the sound of the projector. then -
when i spoke and you understood me. one tear snakes down saver's cheek. the film cuts to silent footage of leonard, soon after his awakening, combing his hair and delighting in the fact that he cjan comb it. quietly, without looking at miss costello --
am i speaking?
i'm stronger? sayer is finally revealed seated beside him. he doesn't answer. leonard's hands slowly reach to his face and feel its features.
,x i'm here, aren't i?
, they're so life-like. (
i like them. leonard glances out the window, a little puzzled, to the sky, to see if there's one flying overhead.
yeah. as they rattle along, leonard peers back but the window at things going by, and absently pets the mechanical dog in his lap. eventually -
i am. i was born here. but.i've been away a long time.
the bronx. hector has to laugh, but it's cut short by the blare of his * horn as he slams it in response to another cab sliding into his * lane.
i don't need it, you keep it. hector puts the money back in leonard's coat. leonard finds paula among the skaters, isolates her from them, and watches her glide around the rink. a fine mist of snow is falling, veiling her.
unforgettable.
you have children, hector? hector takes a photograph from his chauffeur's permit plate and hands it back. a boy, five, healthy and happy.
he's lovely.
i have to be leaving. i want to th-ank you. you've been very kind to me.
i can't. and he can't explain why. he takes the crumpled wad of money * from his coat pocket and tries to give it to hector again.
it has no value to me, believe ; me.
it's for your son. it's for him. hector doesn't take it but doesn't say anything more about it when leonard sets it down on the coffee table.
no, i think i ' d like to walk. . thank you. she nods, your welcome, from the doorway of the kitchen. leonard offers his hand to hector to shake.
bye.
what for? he smiles crookedly, then looks out across the water again.
isn't that something . . . sayer looks out. the morning colors are mirroring off the water like paint on glass. they both watch. the colors are deepening right before their eyes. long, long silence before . . .
can you take me home? sayer helps him up. and as they move slowly toward the waiting taxi. hector opens the rear door. the only sound is the hiss of tires, the -rhythm of wheels, .until -