A home movie in the ruins of modern architecture. A arborescent stream of consciousness that gloats over one of the most elementary cinematic mysteries—the thrill of discovering a secret.

Letters, photos, furniture, hats, pipes, combs, eyeglasses, pens, pen holders, infinite books. An inventory of all, almost all, or simply some of the things that rest in the neocolonial house of a man whose name was Ricardo Rojas and who, one hundred years ago, wrote a delirious book called Eurindia.