It’s dusk in a forested area. I’m there with my brother, and he points out a break in the underbrush that shows a glimpse of the sun setting over on the far side of a lake. I want to take a photograph of the scene, but there is still a lot of brush between where we are and the lake. We begin to make our way through the brush toward the lake, but there always seems to be more, taller, denser brush, the further we go. As we move toward the lake, the view entirely disappears. Before that can become worrying, we are entering a large warehouse style building.
The building is filled with 1000’s of lighthouses, some stacked to the ceiling in rows, some still in production. There are craftsmen and labourers bustling about, very serious in their work. The variety and volume of lighthouses, some no more than 4 feet tall, others much taller, strike me as funny, and I start to laugh. This seems to seriously offend one of the workers, who aggressively points out the fine workmanship that has gone into each lighthouse. Indeed, on close inspection of one near where we are standing, there are 1000’s of tiny nails, perfectly spaced, in perfectly straight lines in every surface. The nails are sticking out of the wood by a few millimeters each, giving the lighthouse a slightly furry look.
Once we have conceded to the fine craftsmanship, we are guided back and forth down the long rows of stacked and stored lighthouses to painstakingly appreciate each one.
Mercifully I woke up after inspecting about a third of the lighthouses on hand.