A street that awakens. A movement that stops. The warnings cease: consequence. She who gets out of a car. She who requires patience. She who approaches, monument, a hall that she crosses, waiting between pillars. She who searches recognizes, and enters there for real. She who sneaks into the noise confusion, passes between, stands between, comes, sneaks in, with a sign of her hand, from each side of barrier, to her before the man telephone in hand, pulls herself up, looks towards up and down. She who slips in, seems a diffuse perturbation without perceptible cause. The percussive noise is a motor is a stop theatre where lives the action spent. A man who leans over. Men who murmur. One who remains on the threshold, telephone in hand, asking for patience in the simulacrum of a conversation feigned. One who approaches to hear whispers murmurs. One who is eclipsed followed soon after by another. One who sneaks in, stirs the crowd. One who wonders what he’s doing, struggles, accelerates the disorder. A man sign who notices carefully the mobile values: accelerate temporal. One who reveals the entire mechanism. One who goes changes his mind. One who passes between, stops, points out, takes off again while to his smiling watches them pass, follows with calm eyes, he who slows perceptibly down. A sole bell stops ringing, letting out a small sigh, loud speaker from the middle column, the a-rhythmic concert, stop double of regular beating, of time beating isochrone heart. Nothing moves, rushes, gives the signal, the fall. He who sketches a movement on each side, column, addresses her abruptly, she, behind to see who where him: “here one minute of silence costs millions.” One minute is a real time. (Translated by Carrie Noland)