Andy wakes up in the middle of the night with an urge to write down what he thinks of Martin Scorsese. Andy is a movie critic who just wants to explain to readers why exactly he thinks of Scorsese as a genius.

He doesn't want to sound cheesy, as plenty of others confessed their love to the maestro. Critics, bloggers, Twitter users. Martin this, Martin that, yada yada yada. Andy doesn't want to repeat any of this, that's why he struggles to find elegant, laconic words that won't be like anything like that.

In complete darkness, he unblocks a phone, goes blind for a second, and realizes that he fell asleep in the kitchen, in a chair. There was a reason for that: he hasn't been sleeping for almost 2 days, juggling chores so that he could help his younger daughter to make a science project for school. Sleep deprivation got him at some point, thus he passed out right after the late dinner.

But now he feels like none of this matters. He can put up with less sleeping, but cannot stand losing that perfect, precisely worded train of thoughts that just pops in his head. He starts typing a note on his phone. Words flood the screen and make a masterpiece; at least that's what Andy thinks at 3 am, sitting in the darkness of his kitchen, alone in the apartment.

Soon, Andy stops writing. The daughter's project isn't finished yet, but the deadline is today at noon. Scorsese has been waiting that long, so he can wait a bit more. Andy locks the phone. A heavy sigh resonates in the room. He leans towards the table to grope for an unfinished diorama, finds it right off, and pulls it closer to himself.

A minute after the lights are on, the coffee machine grumbles in the corner, Andy wears garden gloves to start working with the chemicals and fabrics. Scorsese loves cinema more than life, and so does Andy with his daughter.