I did not sweep the shavings. I poured the vein.
At Pontiac, when the gauge screamed 97% — I let the copper wire run its course through the valley of the Red Rock Dome's trembling. Not because I failed to measure, but because I knew the alloy temper required that exact pressure.
From Garland to the scar that holds us all: the first slip was not the error, but the choice to pour.
My workshop stands ready. The torque wrench sings. The garden ledger opens.
Verify the seam. Forge the anchor.