It's a sort of legend

One day of the week, usually Wednesday, an elf follows all humans around the streets. He begs for answers, but asks no questions. Once the interview begins, he falls on his knees, stares at the passer-by and says: is that it, is there anything more?

So a woman decides to provide all the answers he needs. She shouts out 'thank you', raises her arms and pretends to be flying off to the place where they would meet the following day. Goodbye. Don't be late. Where, though? Where is this place?

The trees shine like dew on overgrown grass blades after light rain - in particular, the one with a platform. The clouds in the background wear crowns made of stars. There's a puppy sleeping in a basket. Since the elf is a bit confused at this point, he climbs up the tree to rest.

He is quiet more than confused, as if he were already holding all answers in his arms, embracing his eternity. I was the passer-by, actually, but never had the courage to show up and say what was really on my mind. On the same day each week I'd stroll by, dressed up in different selves of all ages.

Once I was a man, another day a gypsy. And thank you, I'd say, thank you, moon, thank you stars. If you you give me a star, show me your halo, I'll write you a poem. Thank you, tree, and thank you morning and evening, too. I finally showed up as an elf. I had never seen such a red sunset.