Macchine
A tapping ring: a small, precise hammer striking a perfectly milled steel cotter pin. The smell of shaved steel and machine oil, a dark, musty but sharp scent. Brilliant platinum halogen lights try to penetrate the thick darkness of the cavernous room, but light is sucked away; the room’s corners are invisible. The lights seem lonely, frightened, by the immensity of the cold, hangar-sized space. They huddle around the workspace, where a small, elderly, balding man hunches over a tiny mechanical assembly, his eyes obscured by a grey metal magnifying visor. Above the man, the great beast slumbers, menacing, dominating, drawing my gaze, sucking the light into itself as if its gunmetal-steel hide is made of shadow. ...