The little lamp quietly stands guard, watching over the river. His best friend, the manhole cover, interrupts himself a moment to talk about the photographer on the bridge above.
The lamp, unable to look up, takes the cover’s word for it, he gave up arguing about the bridge long ago.
“A stone road in the sky?”, once said the lamp, “the road is right down there by you.”
“Why would I make that up?”, asked the manhole cover.
“You make up a lot of things, in fact, you could take a breath between stories once in a while.”
The lamp was a recent arrival to the West bank neighborhood and wished he could talk to someone else besides the chatty manhole cover, but lamps lead a quite and solitary life, never getting to talk to their own kind, the victims of civil engineers’ even spacing.
Tragically, what the lamp did not know, was that the manhole cover used to be quiet and thoughtful as well, but a few days before the lamp moved in, one sunny day in June, a mounted policeman walked over the manhole cover and the horse did something truly horrible. Ever since then, the manhole cover talked nervously all the time, telling the lamp story after story, but never discussed horses.
Someday he’ll tell the lamp the story that really matters, but until then, the lamp his dejected head hanging, longs for a fellow lamp’s enlightened voice, listens to rambling stories of roads in the sky.