To know Physsius completely, one needs to stay for a single day, given the city refuses to advance more than twenty-four hours. Thus, spending a single night awake is enough to see the Physsius of the present, the past, and the future.
During the night, one can see the lamplighters lighting every lamp, while the darklighters snuff them out. The interval between a lamp being lit and a lamp being extinguished never goes above forty seconds. It must be stressed, however, that there is no rivalry between the two roles: They themselves form opposite pairs, and move as such through the serpentine Phissine streets like invisible vagabond fireflies.
At morning, when the lamps end their twinkling, one can encounter other roles: There are those who fill the royal ponds, while others empty them to stop them from overflowing. And when they’re fully drained, they patiently await for their counterpart to fill them again.
If one were to ask where the Phissine church is, one is shown an empty lot in construction, with a small wall along its perimeter. Paying closer attention, one can see builders and demolitioners: When the former places a brick, the other takes it out immediately; when one places a kaleidoscopic window, the other hurries to tear it apart. According to an inscription in a tile in front of what would be the door, the church started construction a millenium ago. Currently, it is waist-high.
If one is curious about the city’s history, they’ll find the library flooded by the noise of typewriters set out like a labyrinth between the empty bookshelves. One can see editors running along the thin corridors between a typewriter and the next, taking pages as soon as they’re finished and throwing them to a central bonfire. To satisfy literary interests, the best is to search for a writer just beginning a new volume and reading their writings as soon as the ink reaches the paper.
Another remarkable place of Physsius is a street that suddenly ends at a wall cut by a slim alleyway. At a distance, it doesn’t seem anything more than a case of terrible urban planning. But, on closer inspection, one can see two painters constantly painting over the other’s work: When the one on the left is done so is the one on the right, and both switch sides. The cycle has repeated so many times, across so many generations, that the layers of paint have slowly crept closer together.
Closer to the circular walls of the city, one can find a sea of metal roofs and workshops. Inside one of them, only and exclusively clocks are made, which are then passed to the next workshop, where they’re melted down and made into ingots, which are then passed to the next workshop, where they’re forged into ladders, which are then passed to the next workshop, where they’re once more melted down and passed to the next, where they’re turned to naval parts (Curious, given Physsius lacks maritime access). If one waits long enough, they’ll see the same metal being made into a clock.
Inside the government offices, one can find chains of bureaucrats that pass documents like ants. One stamps everything as “approved,” while the following one contradicts them with their own stamp, only for the document to be approved by the next. If they’re asked what is being approved and refused, they’ll be unable to respond: The letters have been hidden under the red and green.
Finally, the most difficult thing about visiting Physsius is leaving it, as it’s forbidden that a tourist leaves if there’s no one to replace them. It’s also forbidden, in turn, that any tourist enters if there’s no one leaving. It’s like this, with uncountable invisible mirrors, with ouroboros infesting every corner, with thousands of citizens called Sisyphus, that Physsius refuses to exist for more than a moment