Description
In the realm of your memories there is a place. A dusty old garage serving as a mancave for your grandpa or your dad. This is his workshop, his chamber of solitude, his forge of creation.
More than often you used to pass by this place as a kid while attending to your yard adventures. You used to peek inside every now and then only to see your grandpa's big back and shoulders leaning over his desk, working on something that you could never ever, ever (!) build or create yourself. Occasionally he would reach for his beer on the side of the desk, take one or two big gulps, burp and get back to his work.
Often he would work on a new wooden toy for you. A sword, crossbow or even a little skatepark for your tech decks. You just had to ask for it.
The vibrant smell of the freshly cut sawdust fills this place, always full of many different bangs, knocks and bams. The colour of this memory is orange, as radiant and lively as the firey sparks flying off the circular saw that he used to cut the biggest planks with.
All the sensations of this place always fused together into a beautiful tapestry of timber, engraving into your mind as an image of a place that men go to work to. This place resides deep in your memories, and while the workshop is still on your grandpa's yard, there is only a small resemblance between that and the image in your head.
