This morning, the city slid out of its pillow and found itself smack in the middle of the market of liquid minutes.
The sidewalks curtsied to sleepy footsteps, while the sky, gloved in cream, held the pose.
At the hour when the sun shaves against the grain of time, our streets took on the consistency of a caramel dream. The watches, too lukewarm to keep the time straight, ran down along the balconies like sleepwalking cats, leaving behind minutes that ring in the shape of seashells. You could hear doors yawn, and lampposts calmly swallow cherry pits.
At the market of edible absurdities, the stalls offered shadows folded like fans and vacuum-sealed echoes. A stilt-legged tram sipped a puddle of ink, whistling, while a doorman cello stamped the dreams of passersby with a swallow seal. The air itself seemed starched, ready to be ironed by the moon as soon as this evening.
“I set the hours the way you train marshmallow horses,” confides Héliodore Morveaux, floating watchmaker and champion of standing naps. “You just have to pull gently on the second until it neighs, then staple it to the tassel of the wind.”
Further on, a line of pillows on a spree discussed the weather inside closets, and the sea — guest of honor in a coffee cup — kept time with a teaspoon. At noon, a pomegranate rang twelve seeds, the city yawned with a single throat, and the afternoon, docile, folded into quarters to fit in the pocket of a cloud jacket.
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