At daybreak, all the clocks took a liberty: they added sixty minutes out of pure elegance, and reality stuttered.
Stay calm: this article is fully aware that it is nonsensical and will explain it to you with the gravity of a stopwatch in a tutu.
It all started at 6 a.m., which looked eerily like 7 a.m. without quite being its replica. Cafés served breakfasts that showed up twice, alarm clocks cleared their throats, and the trams claimed to be on time even though time itself had doubled. For our part, we confess to having checked the information with three cuckoo clocks, an old twin-bell alarm clock, and a very self-assured microwave oven: confused unanimity, therefore absolute reliability by the standards of the absurd press.
We still tried to reach the source. After several calls left on common sense’s voicemail, a specialist appeared, as imaginary as she was competent. “I confirm: the second hand asked for an extra lap, out of pure jealousy of the minute hand. The minutes, offended, followed,” says Molette Roux, an alleged neighborhood watchmaker, before handing us a screwdriver that, honestly, didn’t exist two sentences ago.
At home, people are getting organized: some tidy a shelf that had never found the time to be tidied, others treat themselves to an official nap, stamped by no one and approved by everyone. We, in full transparency, are tossing in a gratuitous sentence here to occupy the space left by that extra hour. If you find an extra minute on the sidewalk, please pick it up: either return it to its rightful owner, or lose it nicely. In both cases, we promise to keep you updated yesterday.
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