Imagine the amount of air that moved through these ducts, heating spaces and toes, providing a warm place for a dog to lie against on the coldest days. To build takes days, months, years even, but destruction takes seconds, or hours. These ducts in the back of my truck, scrap tapping against the window; I’m driving it away to recycle it into something new. I look at all the metal in the world; mined and forged, molded and shaped, pieced together into things we’ve made. I imagine the first fire: simple, direct, bodies warmed. How did we get here? This tangle of metal, aged now, heaped as waste, the work of it finished.
Tom Schabarum | Writer 