The hum of machinery throbs through the basement ceiling, a muffled silence pervades the dark space. Cave-like but not damp, cavernous but with no echo, the space is adorned with thousands of carefully machined, moulded, manufactured, reclaimed auto-parts neatly arranged by item, make and age. They hang silent and expectant dimly reflecting any distant light reaching the nether regions of this catacomb. Far from the scurrying forays of the grease smeared shop hands rushing to and fro, far from the front desk where scores of mechanics eager to fix vehicles come with their petitions, right in the corner there’s a bench. The small oil can sits next to the paint brush pot with a damp greasy rag nestled between. A still life scene.
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