In the village where I grew up is a man made of metal; seven foot tall and powered by oil and steam, built from titanium with tarnished skin and joints that creak after rain. No one knows where he came from or when he was built; he’s been here longer than memory, living in a small wooden hut he built by the lake with nothing but an old guitar for company. He can sometimes be seen in the tavern, telling stories of people he had once known, and at night you can hear his music playing out across the water.

 

part of an ongoing project I’m working on

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