I challenge you to find a public clock in this city that works, that tells the time or at least an approximation of the real time. I cannot find one. Not even on the facade of the Train Terminal, where the immobile hands always mark five twenty. It is not that we have some sort of aversion to the mechanism of gears or digital display, but rather that to us time is worth nothing.
We can spend an hour on line to pay the electricity bill or consume half a day to get a pair of shoes repaired. If, at the end of the day we were able to complete at least one errand, then there is reason to feel fortunate. Organizing or trying to make more efficient use of our time only leads to the dilemma of falling into neurosis or masochism.
But what adventures every day! Not knowing exactly when we can take the bus, receive a service or buy a ticket. Bless us that we do not care whether it is half past nine or ten fifteen. Those annoying instruments that attempt to measure with their tick-tock the passage of the minutes and hours, will only give us a bad conscience and steal from us the pleasure in the placid sensation of wasting time.