It's bitterly cold. It's the end of the last winter of the 20th century. I'm in Chicago for a festival, but also to think things over, determine where I now stand in relation to others, to the world. Here, everything that eats away at our daily lives is exacerbated : passing love affairs, snow and oblivion. My letter is the chronicle of that "winter of love", the unstable paticulars of that congealing of reality. Welcome to indifference.