Old rusty truck, cracks on the pavement, faded railings, smokestacks on the horizon, the key in the hand. If you spent the large part of your life in a small town of metallurgists, you mention invisible details against your will. It's an alien aesthetics that attracts an eye. Objects call you, ask for attention. You hear their rustle and creak, see how they cover with rust and gray dust.
No wonder people named eras of human history by names of metals. During long years metal, a friend and a helper of a man, got the right to have a soul and the right to be tired. In contrast with human tiredness, its fatigue is fatal: railings will be replaced, truck will stay to rot on parking. However, this long and viscous consenescence has its beauty and romance: cracks become a quaint puzzle, rust spots turn into paint strokes. Objects come to life. But alack, no one will notice it.