You can’t paint on top of rust. You have to remove the cancer, or else it will spread through the body, and eventually eat the frame. When you cut out the oxide, you fill in the hole with non metallic putty. Once it dries, you sand it down smooth, primer, and paint it. Since paint wears at different rates, the newly painted area will stand out. To blend it properly, you must sand, prime, and repaint the entire car. Unfortunately, the fixed body work will never be as strong as it was new, and the affected area is no longer magnetic.

Worn transmissions will slip if you flush the old fluid out. This is because the old fluid contains bits and pieces of the memorable clutch, which increases the friction capacity of the fluid. With a worn clutch, more energy is transferred between engine and transmission. Over time, this increased viscosity and energy will increase the pressure in the veins of the machine, the clutch fragments sanding down the walls, and eventually, a seal will blow out, and the life fluid will spray everywhere until the machine grinds to a deathly halt. The only way to fix this is to completely rebuild the transmission one piece at a time, and put new fluid in. Cost and time wise, it’s better to just try another transmission. But people are more than a transmission. Sometimes, we get too emotionally involved, and we dig a hole to the center of the earth. A transmission cannot repair itself; it needs the help of a mindful mechanic.

On an old candle,
The wicks, like man,
Have piled upon themselves.
Do we reach our highest point?
Drawing up our oil.
Only to extinguish.

I like chests and *****

Whispers of an old candle,
Evening sunset over the hills,

Remembering the lost sandal,
A match illuminates a row of pills,
Clocking my punch card in,
Everyone around me, fading away,

In a race, life is thrown in a bin,
Never having time for play,

Drawing up the oil,
Urban toil, covering the soil,
Only to extinguish

For I wander here,
Along the same mountaintop,
My home is with me.

It’s hard to get a DUI if you can’t make it to your car without passing out. I keep a fresh bottle of whiskey next to my arm chair so I can throw the brakes on life and kick my feet up at the skies. I fly high, but it’s the only way to feel sober.

In the cockpit, I radio my vector to the victor, switch on the autopilot, and step away from the controls. From this point of view, it is hard to distinguish who is at loss. Is it me; the trained pilot, who is trained to give tasks to the autopilot? Or is it the plane, who is cutting through the skies a hundred times faster and higher than mankind was ever meant to travel? Or is it the fuel that was ****** out of the ground in the desert, where it’s lubrication was needed for preventing earthquakes, then separated by pressure and heat, before being barreled and shipped to the other side of the planet, where it is squeezed though a maze of pipes, into the tank of the jet liner. Once airborne, the jetliner burns thousands of tons of fuel every minute. Is the airline at a loss, chained to this ancient machine? Is the passenger at a loss, for being stuffed into the back of the plane with hundreds of others, stinking their way to the cabin. All dancing in line to get to the only toilet in the plane.

No, surely the toilet has the worst job.