Fragments of an inner projection. Memories of our old universe in the black studio of our imagination. Full of lonely marionettes of human beings, changing figurines of the ego, endless material for monologues, mono-plays and tragedies on celluloid. Dances of death, dialogues of death, dialogues in the land of the dead. One hundred years afterwards, a thousand years, millions. Passion plays, oratories, who knows? But how shall one, how shall I, how shall we, who am I, who are we, who acts us and for whom are we acting and what for? What remains? Everything again, all together, the remnants of a lost culture and of a lost life. Of our Europe before its collapse. A farewell to the oxidant, sub-specie aeternitatis and everything on film. The story of the death of the old lights from which we lived, and our culture a distant song. An artificial light now in the black inside of our film fantasies before our inner eye. The echo of music in our ear, growing more and more distant.