An incomplete dream, scribbled in a diary and almost forgotten, can be the starting point for opening up an unexpected territory. That’s how the drift begins that leads Julián Galay into deserted museums, silent laboratories, and streets saturated with noise. What starts as the reconstruction of a memory expands into an inquiry that blends science and poetry, exploring the traces that animal life leaves on our memory and in our urban landscapes. The fascination of this drift lies in its form: far from following a closed narrative thread, it feeds on encounters. A parrot that seems to converse with an invisible dog, a monkey unsettled by the roar of cars, a researcher trying to listen to the dreams of birds — each scene adds layers to a sensory map where the minute and the monumental intersect.

Galay doesn’t just observe; he invites us to listen. The city of Buenos Aires becomes a space of resonances: over the constant hum of traffic, the songs of birds and the echoes of empty corridors in an abandoned natural history museum overlap. The soundtrack, composed by Galay himself along with colleagues and collaborators, works like a fabric that holds together the sway between chaos and stillness. In this weaving, the idea of memory takes on new shapes: it is both archive and noise, both text and song.

The scientists who appear on screen provide clues but no definitive answers. They are part of a larger experiment: a film that asks how to look at animals without taming them into fixed categories, how to listen to their silences and escapes. The subtitles, which replace a voice-over, emerge like diary fragments, slogans, stray thoughts. They flash by quickly, almost like secret messages slipping between the shots. As the film unfolds, its essay-like structure loosens. The register becomes more intimate, almost confessional: homemade recordings, casual filmed notes, bits that Galay collects without pretending to close any argument. This openness is one of the film’s greatest strengths: it doesn’t explain, it exposes — it lets the question vibrate.

Rather than imposing a narrative about the relationship between humans and animals, the film offers space for surprise. The wonder of realizing that, among highways and tin roofs, there are still creatures that evade our attempts at control. The crossing, then, is not just between species, but between scales: the murmur of an insect resonates next to the shriek of an airplane cutting across the screen and drowning out all conversation. Perhaps this is the true heart of the work: to remember that dreaming — like watching birds or jotting down stray lines in a notebook — remains a form of resistance. That chasing someone else’s dream can lead us to inhabit others, shared with creatures that, without asking permission, go on dreaming beside us.