I am left alone to find an answer.
The figure means nothing now. Meaning has gone. The clock ticks.
The two hands are convoys marching trough a desert. The black bars on the block face are green oases.
The long hands has marches ahead to find water.
The other, painfully stumbles among hot stones in the desert.
It will die in the desert.
The kitchen door slams. Wild dogs bark far away.
Look, the loop of the figure is beginning to fill with time; it holds the world in it.
I begin to draw a figure and the world is looped in it; and I myself am outside the loop;
which I now join
-so- and seal up,and make entire.
The world is entire,and I am outside of it,
crying,
"Oh save me, from being blown for ever outside the loop of time!"

virgina woolf the waves