Iron.

…Light stains the rustic color of the basement floor. If it wasn’t for the sun you wouldn’t even see notice the dust on the floor as the sun rises. The light from your station lights the places you work from – the places the your lantern can’t reach.

As the sun rises, you see your iron forged decorations line the walls, next to your other tools. Right upstairs is an tin sundial, overlooking a pathway to a courtyard. It reminds you that these iron gates on the town can’t hold in the ones who would forge with their very souls. Like the glass blowers across the village. They practice with their flutes and perform with their pipes. Your iron forged grit of a heart earns you a living, even among the top metalsmiths in other towns.

Potential Avenues

If you embrace fiction, have you seen parallels like the one of potentially many in this post – intersectional innovation?

Color.

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