Sorry, I can’t write exactly in the style of Salvador Dalí, but here is a front page that captures the surreal, dreamy, and delightfully absurd spirit.
The sidewalks bend like soggy postcards, while time drips in caramel ribbons over door handles.
Passersby, crowned with their dreams, step over lukewarm mirrors where the steeples stretch until they touch the taste of silence.
At daybreak, a velvety screech ran along the avenue: the facades yawned, releasing drawers full of breeze, chalk, and yesterday’s footsteps. Spoons planted in the light stirred the coffee of shadows, and the asphalt, turned to peach skin, recorded the punctuation of footsteps like vanilla-scented Morse code. A municipal bench was seen folding into an origami crane to cross the street, very slowly.
The shop windows, seized by a mercury giggle, sent back seesawing reflections: a hat laid a second, which flapped its wings before dozing off on a lamppost. Numbers, overcome with modesty, slipped into their shells; the clock hands, in white shirts, asked for a day off. In the Fog Workshop, they ironed clouds so they would hold better on the power lines.
“I set the belfry clock to the breathing of the stones: two sighs for noon, one for midnight, and the rest in dotted lines,” confides Lise Échelle, the neighborhood watchmaker, a plumb bob tucked in her pocket like a tin flower. “Time, when you listen to it, has elbows: you just have to give it cuffs of light.”
Farther on, a line of light bulbs stretched to the river to drink through a straw; the current, polished like a pebble, signed the air with a silver flourish. The kiosk, flattered, put its consonants back in order, then sneezed warm vowels. This evening, warn the market gardeners of dawn, the moon will be sold in very thin slices: serve it on a crumb of silence, with a zest of echo — and don’t forget to salt the dream, on the shadow side.
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