In the fast approach to evening, the imp watches the sky change her clothes. He is concerned by the feeling that every other imp he knows has some higher purpose - some necessary goal in life that pushes them on, if not lifts them. 'The buggers!' he says half to himself and the wind. As an imp - a good trickster imp at that - he has learned his trade wading into the great roaring river of life, snatching kisses from illicit missus'; eating and drinking in the smoky confines of attic rooms; defying the gravity of walls and car engines; showering pages with cursive flair; his voice a spectrum of colours; in his heart - a tight knot of bursting joy lined with wrinkles of disappointment - he sees himself a small figure amongst the Magogs; the demons; the frost queens; the very real minotaurs; the hard working cyclopes in their forges; the nymphs at play and working hard at breaking hearts in orchards and stinking bashments.
One imp. That's all. Just a lowly imp. But he has his own purpose; his own idea of a higher purpose. And if it fails, so be it. There's still time to find another.