The old man travels inside his head and his phantoms leave him little respite. Shadows cross every shot, they slip their names into all the time zones of his life, they lie in wait ate the bottom of each drawer, behind each window, like the dead tree in the courtyard or a conference of crows in the snow. The diary for the year 1996 begins almost by chance: 'I am happy to have found my camera again. Now I shall be able to film. But I don't know what.' In search of pictures, in search of a subject, memory goes on the tout, the film takes shape despite its author, despite the seeming disorder.