Paperhead

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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.