All 30 films

Only what stands beneath one suspended microphone can make a sound. Forty workers wait for their turn to exist audibly; then the microphone moves away in the middle of a warning.

Night is a sheet of blue glass pulled across the village by machinery. When the winch jams, half the street remains in daylight, and everyone continues obeying bedtime.

A woman maintains the horizon on a sheet of glass. When her paint stops adhering, the landscape she invented appears in the field behind her.

Each egg contains a lit room and a person who can look back. The candler discovers that observation crosses the shell in both directions.

Anything examined from too near dissolves into specks. A watchmaker can preserve his daughter’s face only by keeping his distance, or by surrendering his own sight.

Every lens reveals the same distant street in perfect focus while the maker’s own workshop remains blurred. When the image becomes a doorway, something crosses through.

Every hour, darkness rises through a hospital laundry and reconstructs whatever it covers. A worker has fifty seconds to decide what must remain unchanged.

The furnace destroys nothing. Every object returns as a perfect ash replica, and breaking one only multiplies it into smaller versions of itself.

A cathedral returns no echo. Every sound ends at its source, and only the visiting acoustician understands what the building has lost.

Every touch of indigo continues darkening after the hand is gone. The oldest gesture becomes the largest stain, and every attempt to clean it begins another process.

Finished barrels begin growing again. Every successful act of craftsmanship accelerates the return of wood to a life the cooper never intended.

Only one sound may occur at a time. Workers organise their entire night around a 1.8-second gap until the machine that governs their turns is replaced by a man’s handwritten list.

Smoke no longer indicates fire, and the thermal reader shows every wagon as cold. Certainty is available only through bare skin, one steel plate at a time.

One legal exhibit becomes a different solid object from every angle. Six photographs are accurate, but the court form allows only one description.

Sunlight burns holes through whatever it touches. Two workers carry one piece of shade across a farm where everything cannot be protected at once.

Fast movement leaves solid ribbons of the body suspended in the schoolyard. Children make them for pleasure; the caretaker spends his life sweeping them away.

An indigo vat is fed, rested and addressed through ten daily offices. It answers without words, by changing the appearance of its surface.

Ice never melts away. Each block becomes a level sheet of fog, gradually rebuilding the lake inside the storehouse around the man who carried it in.

The catfish feed only while a living eye rests on the water. One man watches nine ponds through mirrors and writes the official record without ever looking down.

Twice each hour, a stable occupies the same space as a farmhouse kitchen. The family maps its hazards in chalk until the other room begins drawing back.

The world arrives without colour and must be painted by hand. When rain washes the completed street toward grey, a worker spends the colour in her own body to finish one more section.

The pump’s note and a human voice cannot coexist. A night worker cuts his warnings into fragments until the machine learns to speak in his place.

Every face remains blurred until a municipal measurer sets one brass wheel. He can bring only one person into clarity, and the smallest child falls outside the instrument’s range.

Nine people repeat the same six words in nine places. The burden remains until the man speaks the sentence to himself.

Carpenters erect painted building fronts just ahead of a postwoman and remove them behind her. When she walks faster than they can build, the village runs out.

An octopus completes the tasks nobody assigned and builds structures the form cannot record. Its final object of interest is the schedule itself.

A waiting room responds to every question with a perfect tone in the speaker’s own voice. The response is immediate, immense and empty of otherness.

Pigeons moult in flight, leaving full-sized feather shapes suspended behind them. Then the keeper encounters a feathered version of himself wearing his whistle.

Distant lights arrive as solid spheres and are harvested from the harbour. When light floods the streets, an essential substance becomes economically worthless overnight.

Late sunlight becomes a row of solid hexagons across a workshop. When the sun sets, the shapes remain, afternoon hardened into matter that can no longer pass.