The monolog of a soul who is damned for all time to his own nothingness. Klaus Kinski (posthumous/ pre-mortem) as Nosferatu, unloved for all eternify, and chronically melancholic. Language as a cage, clawed onto speech and rotating, forever - an undead dock of death, ticking into infinity. Every dead soul and every catastrophe glorifies the sameness of indifference, sucking the life from images and from blood. Time passes. Mea- ninglessly. And after centuries, nothing remains except a hollow monolog. Cutting laughter on the razor's edge leaves an apathetic line between horror and catastrophic comedies. Transsyl- vania laughs in every livingroom.