It concerns a man (Josef Weis) composing letterpress (in either Bodoni or Antiqua) and then tightening the quoins so that the furniture and type sit firmly within the chase. While he does this, he talks to himself.
‘On the one hand we have a soul and on the other we have raw material. These two unite and procreate: it’s a marriage. Books are also some kind of fetish.’
Serene, poetic, unordinary.