Now that the paper newspaper has depreciated, it’s time to say (was it?) that this is a really well done piece. A work of art that is assembled and disassembled daily, like sand castles washed away by the tides at night. Temporary art, like ice sculptures, pyrotechnics, sound sculptures. There was something (was there?) on Ave Fénix too, as today’s newspaper was born from the ashes of yesterday. There were days when the paper newspaper froze and burned. There were days when he had a fever. When the world woke up with forty degrees in the shade, no one described the fire of the world better like a paper newspaper. Fiery newspapers were also ideal for lighting the fireplace. The front-page headlines burned like kindling, while the obituaries burned slowly, leaving the embers like charred bones.
The paper newspaper implied the existence of huge warehouses for the press. The press was a prehistoric and twilight animal, because it would spend the day napping to get into action towards evening. Living architecture, monumental mechanics, was a beast of steel, ink, lead and gears. The executives of the newspapers liked to give the Christmas drink in the press offices, because the attendees saw nothing but the rigorous engineering that treated the newspaper with the delicacy of a King Kong lover. Some guests have requested to attend the release of the first issue of the morning that gave birth to the incredible by the guts of that gigantic printer made of cylinders, belts, and screws.
It was a pleasure to take the first copy off the conveyor belt and carry it under your arm like the world carries under your arm, to the nearest cafeteria where you start reading the truth at dawn. It was like reading to yourself. You were outside the paper, but you were also mysteriously inside the paper because everyone was there, even those who weren’t, on that paper you couldn’t get by without getting your hands dirty.