It is night in Vienna. The camera flies over the city, past the star-like twinkling lights in the windows towards the Ringstrasse. Vienna, May 16th 1992. The Academy of Visual Arts is celebrating its 300th anniversary.

A deep growl sets in, lights buzz, metallic noises rise. The picture is drenched in blue and red. Cars are lined up bumper to bumper. Dogs roam about under Goethe's monument – larger-then-life, made of stone. A glass coffin, like a giant larva, moves down the wide avenue. The band Einstürzende Neubauten take their places in the procession. Blixa Bargeld stands tall and stiffly at the front, he also a monument, but of flesh and blood.

There is a sudden noise, a monotonous hammering, a rattling. The slow camera movements are in contrast to the fast movements of the musicians, who submit to the inferno of the storm. It is a slow procession. A glass palace on wheels, accompanied by the slavish trotting of huskies. An artificial snowfall veils the icy cocoon, in turn surrounded by glass walls and sails. Giant glowing red eyes. TV screens, rear lights signal to the audience that there is nothing to do but accompany the procession to the left and to the right, perceiving only shadowy figures. On the screen only the title is visible: The Eye of the Typhoon. The city quakes, finds itself in the middle of the power of nature, in the typhoon, going down, being destroyed. A metal giant stands in the way of the procession. He also is a monument to the grey future. A screaming circular saw cuts him in two.

If you believe the camera, inside is peace and quiet, the icy landscape of glaciers and snowy wastes. Large panes of glass. Icy cliffs split off into the sea. The noise consumes the senses, bores into the skull, and the dogs take the procession into a land beyond pain and death.

A woman in a wedding dress riding a unicorn comes onto the scene, and halts the procession. The noise of monitors, then a painful whistle. Sparks. The mythological beast sprints away. Only a wistful look can follow it. The procession moves on. A long, long note, a sine wave, unending, envelopes all. The journey goes on. It rolls back. Only the wind sings a song.

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