This morning, the sea began to write thick-and-thin strokes on the sidewalk, in spilled coffee ink.
The clocks, suddenly soft as tepid poppies, yawn from the balconies, letting caramel seconds trickle down.
In the city, the lampposts wear perfectly waxed mustaches and hold the pose, thinking they are portraits. The sidewalks, polished like dreamy pebbles, ebb and reflect, undecided, a light that has lost its shoes. At the market, apricots with drawers offer secrets by the pound, while shadows escape from teapots, impeccably coiffed with steam.
A lace staircase goes down by itself toward the sea, trembling with a porcelain murmur, and crutches planted in the sand prop up the sky, in case it folds in four. Rag giraffes stretch up to the rooftops, snapping ribbons in place of eyelashes. In the square, a liquefied watch slowly slides into the golden maw of a motionless sardine, which blinks its scales the way one turns a page.
“I attest that silence has the buttery taste of morning, and that it leaves crumbs on the clouds,” sighs the old sleepwalking bell, eyed askance by an egg in a suit. The cloud merchant, who gives change in drops of oil, shrugs: he has sold three foldable cumulonimbus clouds and a twilight on sale, without managing to reassure the light that is still seeking its signature.
Deep down, in a drawer forgotten by the landscape, very punctual ants arrange the minutes by color and tie the hours with gold thread. The sea finishes its sentence, caps its pen, then steps back with good manners. One would swear that a vanilla scent is holding the world by the hand, while the sun, shy, apologizes for melting and promises to return, impeccable, at the next beat of shadow.
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