There is a parking lot, a stadium. A wood and men. The Ardèche river flows. Habits, appointments and messages on the trees. Patrick, his voices, his fingers. Christian, his flowers. The water crosses then the stone, the green. There is, there is, there is.
At dusk, boxers from the La Frappe collective train in a Marseille park. Their bodies get into motion, gradually forming a community of gestures, sensations and emotions.
