You follow Karl down the stairs, to where he keeps the modern recorders. They are not covered with dust. “One day,” he says, “the recorders will operate by themselves, but for now, they need me. They need my body and my hands.”

He holds out his finger, exposing the tiny surface of skin on its tip. He presses it against a button. “Sometimes, while I record, I speak for myself, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t understand what I’m saying, so it doesn’t matter.“

He turns the recorder on and off and moves it around. It has a digital menu and he makes a few clicks that change the position of two microphones, adjusting the angular scope of recording.

“I do my best not to distract it with my thoughts, but at the same time, it needs my faith.”

“Faith?”, you ask. “Faith in what?”

“In translation! In convertibility, mobility of meanings!”