Every day alone, I have trouble focusing on a solution. I stare at a persistent piece of tin I keep finding underfoot. I try to crush it into a familiar shape with sledgehammer demands. It doesn't withstand the tempering process well. Too much heat and too many impurities.
It won't matter how hard I beat it. This tin and chipped paint will never transmute into rusted iron and wine. Except with only the most fantastic of alchemies of either ignorance, or knowledge.
10:01 p.m. - 2015-10-19
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