Often, seated on benches along the banks or leaning against the railings of bridges, we come across men, women and sometimes children, contemplating the water and doing nothing else. They allow themselves a moment of contemplation in their day, they are pensive, which doesn’t mean they’re working out great theories, simply that they’ve let themselves be captured by the river, seduced by the river, by their movement anchored in permanence, by this image of time so different from the active, hectic life of every day, the life that passes on the bridges, on the quays, a life organized as if time were a thread always taut that never slackens.