Our streets gained altitude and our toast found its confidence: the ordinary stood up on the table, arms crossed.
This article, fully aware of its absurdity, promises to remain sober as long as the spoons don’t ask for an autograph.
At precisely 7:03 a.m., everyday objects began to hesitate between falling and remembering. Keys floating eight inches up, socks meditating above the hamper, sighs in slight weightlessness: the entire city held its breath while this sentence, yes this one, checked whether it was still standing. “We know we sound like we’re exaggerating,” says the article, “but it’s reality that’s adding the zest.”
“I saw my bucket refuse the floor and my broom nod like a choreographer,” says Clémence Tourillon, part-time librarian and philosopher on even-numbered days. “I’m not crazy; it’s my dust that is,” she adds, eyes fixed on a crumb from yesterday floating with today’s ambition. Other witnesses speak of hesitant staircases, coats turned into shoulder-height clouds, and a silence so attentive you could have spread it.
In the newsroom, a comma escaped from our third line; we are pursuing it with a butterfly net and patient grammar. The copy editor informs us that this article has begun to answer itself, to which the article replies: “That is correct.” The margins have expanded slightly, out of pure curiosity. Rest assured: this paragraph is ballasted with two adjectives and a pinch of recycled common sense.
The phenomenon, according to the calmest among us, should come back down as soon as the coffee stops rising into the cups by sheer contemplation. In the meantime, read us with lace-up shoes and a heavy modesty: if your newspaper tries to float, fold it into a plane—it will return to you out of nostalgia for the ground, and because, despite everything, it knows where its front page is.
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