This morning, Typographers’ Street tilted one degree to the right: passersby, shop windows, and signs are sliding into italics.
We tried to stay upright, but the article, seized by narrative zeal, decided to write its own version of events.
At 8:12 a.m., the big clock at the crossroads stopped keeping time and started underlining it. The benches took on a slant, the building numbers shifted by half a letter, and conversations adopted involuntary asides. I, the front-page article, did try to line up my lines, but let’s face it: when everything goes italic, all I have is my dignity as a column to keep the story upright.
“Everything started when the comma asked for the right to rest, you see, just a little active pause,” says Lise A., a mercurial yet punctual watchmaker. “Since then, sentences lie down, bicycles pull parenthetical maneuvers, and sighs take the fast lane.” We duly note the statement with seriousness, which is already an effort, since this paragraph is secretly attempting a pirouette without a safety net.
Shopkeepers have adapted their window displays: −20% has turned into −20°, which cools ardor but sharpens curiosity. The florist is offering dash-shaped tulips, perfect for delicately interrupting a hesitation; the bookseller is sticking courtesy exclamation points at the entrance, “as an expressive safety measure.” Between two slips, I address you, reader: if my sentences seem to wobble, it’s because I hate to feign objectivity when the sidewalk is practicing calligraphy.
I admit it: I’m only a paper story playing at holding reality by the sleeve. Ordinarily, I end with a period. Today, I chase it into the corner of the page: it rolls, chuckles, hesitates… and stops short here, to avoid too conspicuous a fall.
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