Noon gone missing: the clock has taken to its heels

This morning, the big clock in the square stopped indicating anything at all, except its desire to be elsewhere.
We publish these lines aware they slip like hands without a dial, but the layout demands a story.

At exactly 12 o’clock, which never arrived, the big clock winked at passersby and got distracted from its function. The hands preferred to trace an arabesque, the chime yawned, and this text, a willing witness, notes that it reports the improbable with the solemnity of a shoe with mismatched laces. In parentheses (these ones), the article admits it’s delighted to be read despite its tendency to walk along the curb of sense.

“I certify that time took a coffee break in my shop window, and that this sentence puts in my mouth more gravity than my loaves,” officially declares Mrs. Dove, a baker created for the occasion, before adding: “This is not a reliable quote, but it smells nicely of the oven.”

Normally, here we would insert a chart, but time refused to hold the pose. Instead, we insert a numerical tidbit to feign precision: 7 and a half clicks are said to have escaped per minute, according to no one. The editor, who can hear your eyebrows, promises that logic will return in the next paragraph, or the next one after that, provided this sentence agrees to arrive on time.

While noon finds itself again, life organizes: cafés serve “soon” in a cup, appointments settle between two commas, and the sidewalk, compassionate, lengthens each step with a sigh. This article, a heroic contortionist, admits it reads the way one catches a drop: badly but with earnest care. If you fold this page in two and count to 1, you’ll bring something back; otherwise, trust this final observation, modest and definitive: exactly what you just read is happening, and that’s already a lot.