When the metal melts

The first thing that hits you is an orchestrated attack on all your senses. There is a shriek like a pressure cooker whistle. There is a sickening chemical smell. And there is the visual. The hot metal streaks past in a dancing fury of sparks. The sparks fly up in an ecstasy of self annihilation. Gothic looking equipments wait silently like a nightmarish science fiction film. Sand lies strewn amidst disfigured pieces of discarded metals. A tired plume of smoke wafts lazily in thin strips of sunlight. Iron is in making.

Happy valentine

It is two o clock in the night. I am still making steel. Have lost the sense of time. Feeling like a zombie. The Sights and sounds do not surprise me . A man cooler churns out some respite. A tea is in making

Dante's inferno

The night never sleeps here. The orange fog lights throw a surreallistic scene. A dali depiction of hell. Fumes rush around in a hazy fog. A deep throated roar as the oxygen rushes in. Steel girders and chains hose rises and cables all suited with suit as the night progresses. A flaming orange hole as the steel boils. I am making steel