This morning, at the exact hour of irregularity, the city flipped over like an hourglass without sand.
Witnesses: a piano in flames that isn’t hot and a cloud equipped with crutches.
At dawn, the sidewalks stretched into fresh pasta, applauding with their plush cobblestones the parade of barefoot thoughts. The balconies, polished like liquid mirrors, were pouring tea onto the street, and one floated there in slow sips. The clocks, seized by a panting thirst, lapped at the tides by the shop windows, leaving on the panes a mustache of foam and mercury.
Léandre Filament, watchmaker of the mist, swears he saw noon meow as it came out of a drawer planted in the facade of a fig tree. “I woke up with a key tied to my tongue; turning it, I heard time overflow, like an egg too full of dawn,” he confides, while picking up minutes that had fallen to the ground, which were wriggling like tin sardines. At his feet, ants in tailcoats were picking withered seconds to make bouquets of waiting.
Further on, a herd of elephants with threadlike legs was distributing nap cushions to windows still closed; each step left in the air a hole with an edge sewn of light. A shy giraffe, its throat constellated with postage stamps, was sending postcards itself from its own neck, announcing: “I’ve just returned from an interior landscape, please do not disturb the sun that is drying.” In the square, a giant egg was breathing softly, exhaling tidal mustaches that perfumed passersby with a sweet doubt.
By way of a forecast, let us note that shadows will advance two steps ahead of their owners this afternoon, ready to negotiate an embrace with the supple shop windows. Residents are invited to hang their dreams on hooks of wax and to wear shoes full of window. If your heart begins to melt, there’s no point in alerting anyone: offer it a spoon and let it taste the landscape.
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