Blumfeld seems to be unhappy. But who is to blame? His surroundings, which create conflicts constantly? Or he himself who is unable to bridge the rift that seperates him from these surroundings - and who is perhaps "happily unhappy"? These are just a few of the questions that come up while we observe Blumfeld in a series of absurd situations in which he is confronted with the difficulties of dealing with closeness and distance. For example, balls are suddenly bouncing around in his apartment - and then a ghost appears. Based on texts by Franz Kafka.