LP: “It was midnight. The moon stood transfixed at its zenith in the depressed blue sky, as white smoky clouds swirled over the gleaming white orb as it looked like a fortune-teller’s magic ball delving deep into a curious man’s after-life. And sometimes it almost seemed like the cauldron of an evil witch brewing potions to trick the daring young men who venture into the woods in search of monsters to slay or treasures to take away. The chilly winter wind never failed to hasten the snowflakes which would otherwise drift at ease and choose a tree-branch to rest upon. The Park across the lonesome street looked enchanting that night, with the fresh sheet of snow that it had received – the solitary ashen angel on top of the gothic fountain at the centre of the park, the rows of old wooden benches and lamp-posts, the leaf-less trees with brown branches encumbered with the weight of the accumulated snow. Everything looked so magical yet placid. Comatose - all but the distant city across the lake sparkling with thousands and thousands of lights embroidered on to the black skyscrapers. A retiring fishing boat glided over the lake, reticent about its day’s hard work. Just over the distant horizon…”

TRAMP: “Arr! Stop it fella!”

A punch-drunk tramp had decided to sleep on the bench beside him – something he hadn’t noticed before.

TRAMP: “I’m trying to catch some sleep here dude! Not that it seems that you need it, but unlike you, I’m human. So keep your goddamn mouth shut. You get it?”

LP: “Oh! I’m really sorry about it. Okay. I’ll keep quiet. Sorry, I get carried away by nights like these. They make me nostalgic. Actually I wanted to become a writer you know. But then again, some people aren’t made to be! He he he! Not made to be. He he! You get it? Not ‘maaaayyde’ to be? It’s a joke.”

TRAMP: “Ha ha ha[Sarcastically] That was the funniest joke I’ve ever heard. Now please let me sleep.”

LP: “Uh, okay! As you wish. Who am I to interrupt your sleep? Of course you deserve sleep. You must’ve had a hard day back in there at the pub. Yeah go ahead. Snore as loud as you like.”

TRAMP: “Aah! You god-damned piece of … wait a second.”

The tramp rubs his eyes and takes out a pair of spectacles from his pocket. After a minute of wide-eyed disbelief, he stammered.

TRAMP: “B..b..b..But how come?.. H..h..how come.. You’re speaking?”

LP: “eh? Surprised ar ye? Think you’ve had too much of that local rum back in there. I can speak as much as you can. What’s so surprising in that?”

TRAMP: “Holy cow! And I thought I had completely gone bonkers! But.. haven’t you spoken with other people before?”

LP: “Nope. Everyone is too busy here. And moreover, people just love sticking those ipods into their ears. Who wants to listen to me?”

TRAMP: “But wait! That description about the night … you made it up yourself?”

LP: “Yeah man! Totally!”

The tramp thinks for a moment.

TRAMP: “You wanted to be a writer, huh? Do you want to get published?”

LP: “Oh sure I do? But which publisher are you from? Penguin? Harper Collins?”

TRAMP: “Let me introduce myself. I’m The Xeno. I have a blog Sarcasti-nation, which has been suffering from article-drought for quite some time now, you know. And I’m not a drunkard, really. These are just desperate measures to become inspired to write something. But you seem to be quite good! So with your consent, I can get your works published on my blog Sarcasti-Nation. How about that?”

LP: “But what do I get in return? Its you who gets all the girls and the appreciation!”

TRAMP: “Tell me what you want.”

LP: “Well I could do with a… umm… a fresh coat of paint because the old one has worn off and I shiver like a tuning fork In these chilly winds.”

TRAMP: “I’ll paint you tomorrow night itself. But instead, you’ll have to tell me one article each night, which I can publish in my blog. Deal?”

LP: “Hmm. Deal!”

TRAMP: “Great then! What should I call you then? Mr. Lamp-post? How about LP?”

LP: “Yeah LP sounds cool! Lamp post is too old-school.”

TRAMP: “Great! I’ll rush off now. See you tomorrow night.”

LP: “Do not forget the bucket of paint dude!”

But the man had already run down till the end of the street. The lamp post started practicing early, being infused with fresh spirit and insipiration at the thought of a fresh coat of warm paint.

LP: “And so, the crescent moon inclined at a wicked angle looked like the Cheshire cat’s evil grin upon the innocent earthlings…”