The Lampposts 

On a street of copenhagen and prussian blue, a lawyer walked briskly, followed by a doctor, coroner, judge, pastor, chemist, philosopher, landlord, coachman, and numerous other shadows and trades. Some were carrying crosses, some not. What is that—a pilgrimage? asked a foreign visitor. No, said the lamplighter, that’s a man. The lamplighter thought about it for a moment, and added that with the current inflation and depression, it was actually one third of a man, possibly even a fourth or fifth. The foreigner shook his head sadly. After some moments, the street was empty and quiet for a while until a soft glow emerged from behind a tall, narrow building. It was a tall man in a black coat with a head and face resembling a round of camembert and the eyes of a byzantine icon. Now who is that? asked the foreigner. Having lit his last lamp, the lamplighter looked back at the street and laughed gently. That’s the moon in the man, he said. They watched the moon pass down the street and take the same left turn the first procession had taken. The lampposts were beautiful. 

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