This morning, the sun was found rolled up like a snail beneath the tablecloth of the sky.
Passersby, weighed down by their dreams, glided with dignity in shoes of soap.
In the Inner Desert neighborhood, display windows full of wind began selling time folded into eighths, which caused long, motionless queues where everyone advanced by their shadow. The bell towers, overcome by modesty, lowered their hands to turn them into walking canes. Clouds with drawers were seen opening with a sound of silk to release lukewarm memories shaped like spoons.
At the riverbank, elephants with spindly legs crossed the water without creasing it, carrying on their backs suitcases of perfume that they let fall like droplets of memory. The asphalt, seized by a velvet cold, sneezed midnight confetti at high noon. Majestic eggs were incubating miniature cathedrals which, upon hatching, bowed to salute the passersby lying in the direction of the wind.
“I confirm that silence has changed texture; one can now fold it and put it away in one’s jacket pocket,” declared Mireille Lenticule, horologist of foam, holding out a magnifying glass to enlarge a dream that had slipped under the door. She maintains she set the time to the breathing of a lemon perched on the edge of an invisible chair, “because lemons know how to count the seconds in drops of light.”
By late afternoon, the mustaches of mist had been combed against-the-sky with a comb of salt, restoring to the sidewalks their velvet slope. The City Hall of Sand — which exists only between two blinks — has recommended not to sit on mirrors, so as to avoid spilling the shadow of sighs onto them. Tomorrow, so they promise, the tide will rise inside the clocks, and everyone will be able to fish for minutes with a porcelain hook.
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