A barge, a crane, men pulling on cords, retrieve a car found in a lake, that a diver, who emerges slowly, signals to begin lifting the white car with smashed-in window shield and hand dangling from window, is a dead man, is still water, is dead time, in the silence, in arrested time, in the end of natural moments, announces a time parsed or rather artificial, an amorphous slow time against that which speeds up. She, alone, in the middle of the lane, modern buildings, under huge streetlights, in white under sun toward the man moving who moves toward her, whom she repulses with her hand to see the wreck, turns back toward him, that he moves toward her, that they walk toward the barge, stop to look at the car being lifted, the water that runs slowly, of a thin stream is a reprise of time, a fortuitous clepsydra. A fountain, she smiles, turns back, plays with a branch and, he, looks at her décolleté, that she moves toward him, takes off again, that he follows her up to the spray, that she extends her hand towards, deviates the spray to sprinkle her body, to capture the chill, that he moves out of the way to sprinkle his body, that she runs to escape, is not a stream but pulsing vitality, signal of lost time made possible by a mechanical force, a rotating pulse against passing time. She throws an object into a barrel full of water, a piece of paper, a bit of wood, that floats on the stagnant surface that she stirs a bit with her hand, that she pulls away soon after, retreats, leaning, while he speaks to her, is a stasis, is here a stop, a time contained by, a clepsydra for later, a time in not yet. (Translated by Carrie Noland)