Dawn put on gloves and everything seemed temporarily ready to be disproved, at precisely 7:12 a.m.
We were there, of course, since we are exactly what you’re reading right now.
At the moment when the baker was straightening the display window (which was tilting with doubt), the crosswalks decided to slip two tiles to the left to avoid a badly placed puddle. The sidewalks, courteous, stepped back a pace to let hesitations pass. The clouds above pretended to be heavy to convince the sky it was still holding up. If that seems absurd to you, that’s normal: this article has taken out a subscription to the bizarre and promises a refund should any logic be proven.
“I confirm: the minutes have stopped lining up single file; they’re now holding hands in a roundabout,” assures Lucienne Drapier, itinerant watchmaker, while adjusting a yawning dial. According to her, certain seconds have begun to trot instead of elapse, a behavior tolerated “as long as they put the hands back where they found them.” In the square, a lamppost was blinking out of modesty, claiming it had “never wanted to illuminate more than necessary,” a testimony collected by our own page margin, extremely professional.
At this stage, the article acknowledges it’s overdoing it. We tried to reach our seriousness, but it went to voicemail. Our headline, too sure of itself, put on its cape; our leading, seized by a shiver, decided to widen reality to air it out better. We owe you clarity: if the sentences look italic to you, it’s because the day itself is leaning, and a typesetting sigh is passing through the city.
Around 9:03, reality discreetly took off its quotation marks and went back to pretending to be simple. The crosswalks resumed their parallel zeal, the sidewalks stopped nibbling at their own edge, and we, an article consenting to our own implausibility, promise to stop when you stop reading. In the meantime, if you find a stray period, please return it to the counter: it concludes badly, but it concludes.
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