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 at 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 reconstructs, the film takes shape despite its author, despite the seeming disorder. As the days go by, Frank becomes aware of this yawning gulf of time which shows up in an exaggerated manner in his pictures and rebels against the realm of over-significant objects. He asks a friend to erase theword memory written on a window; even if it's only a word, the friend finds it sad. The Present, a painful chronic, ends with these words: "I've lost. And so what? That's the question".