This beautiful night the city by the lake is sure glowing more than ever under the blinding moon. All the living swans are awake now, that no one argues, but when the sodium vapour lamps that for centuries shed their warmth on the crumbling streets of the vieille ville were replaced by broken mirrors to reflect the moonlight, the residents became concerned about the apparent lack of plot in the story they live in.

Some say that the story was written for aesthetic purposes only, while the rest simply live and die unaware, but who are they and who are they not? So asks bystanders every day the old piano man who plays the guitar in the street, not without irony in his voice, but what happens in his life before and after? The woman dressed in sound claims to have an answer, but every time she’s asked, all she does is run away, not without dancing to the music of the piano man.

Today, as I attempted to read my face in one of those broken mirrors, I couldn’t help but notice how it rained yesterday’s rain and no one noticed—I guess not everyone in the city counts the drops before the clouds dry out. Then I twisted my ankle in one of the cracks in the pavement but felt no pain, which led me to realize that feelings had no place in a story like this, so disgraced it could never be read backwards and make the opposite sense. Then, to my dismay, my face disappeared from the mirror, my ankle healed, and it began to snow tomorrow’s snow, forever.

I sought the plot but never found it.