Cut. A fax arrives at the collector of images. A female voice reads it:
Dear collector of images, I still don‘t know why we are photographing ourselves to death. Let us suppose the image is still the reflection we attempt to become like. Through television we find ourselves in a ubiquitous house of mirrors. An international mafia of images imagines they are able to illustrate our dreams. They broadcast the images enough times around the globe until we believe they are our very own dreams. A woman is broadcast into living rooms 10,000 times. What is the result? In the end, every teenager looks like a supermodel. Go out on the streets. See for yourself. It‘s like television. The daily routine has been repealed to such a degree that television is forced to invent banality. What got lost on the streets may find its museological refuge here in the four-cornered frame.