Folded, rewritten, thrown away, wrinkled, crossed out, stuffed in a pocket, handed to the book keeper, only to find out later that it was the wrong one; then written down, torn out, worn out, sometimes crumpled up, with morning coffee stains. The film’s protagonist walks around the pulp mill with jagged movements, performing his duties. “I doubt we’ll meet again. I really do,” he repeats to himself, addressing the void.

Director Valērijs Oļehno, who came to cinema from the world of dance, maintains this connection in his film. He describes his work thus: “Experiencing the quarantines and restrictions to physical contact makes us think about how much human beings need other human beings. The flow of information becomes garbage that needs to be sorted. This is an age that makes us think, rather than feel.” Just like in David Lynch’s Eraserhead (1977), but this time it is about pulp and a man who is slowly losing himself.