This morning, Reality left a note on the door: “Come back later, I’m putting myself back together.”
Here is the account of a newspaper that insists on covering what slips between the lines.
We are the front page, that is, the place where everything is supposed to look solid. Alas, the air preferred to be elsewhere. At precisely 8:17, the clocks decided to be punctual each in their own way, the shadows arrived before the objects, and a sidewalk shifted two centimeters out of politeness, to “avoid being too peremptory.” Don’t take this for a hoax: if we had one, we’d charge more for it.
Our reporter, armed with a skeptical notepad, tried to reach Reality at the corner of a page that resisted turning. “Honestly, I took a personal day. You try being coherent twenty-four hours a day, with metaphors walking all over me,” says Reality, which promises to offer “a neatly arranged sky and facts lined up” upon its return. In the absence of a press conference, it slipped in a directive: please keep your objects in their place, except for doubts, which benefit from being taken for a walk.
We will no doubt be reproached for this tone, this immoderate use of lighthearted gravity. It’s just that we are writing from inside an event that knows it is an event, which is, let’s agree, not very discreet. Our columns, aware of their pretty parallelism, nevertheless pledge to straighten any sentence too proud of itself. Updated at 2:04 p.m.: if everything returns to normal, we will republish the same thing, pretending it was on purpose. In the meantime, please read carefully; some words are still lukewarm.
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