Manolo doesn't know his age. He wanders around the nursing home in which he has just entered ignoring his surroundings. His imagination is enough to go across the olive groves that saw him work or raise his wheelbarrow to collect firewood. There is no difference between presence and escape, life and death, in this elusive portrait of life's end (and also a forgotten heritage of Andalusian anarchism). The cinema is also old and it knows well that all is part of itself.