Our man Prometheus is wearing a leather apron and a welder's mask, its onyx visor bejeweled with light.
Sparks spit and fly like chimney embers, only to fizzle and die in the damp morning dullness.
But the tongue of sun is inspiring. One is tempted to scale the tower and cup one's hands around the welding torch's white-hot glow. There is a frosty wind. The sky is a swirl of icy smoke. The city is raw, exposed.