Nothing looks so innocent as a rusted tank of compressed nitrogen chained to telephone pole in the middle of the McMansion-covered hills of a beach town in Southern California.
Someone cared for you once, I can tell because they lovingly chained you here to keep you safe. But since then you've been forgotten, neglected, and subject to all the elements of all the seasons -- mist in the early mornings, sun in the days, and breeze in the evenings.
Who left you here?
Why?
What is your legacy?
Someone has seen fit to allow you to grace the world still with your presence. You have a story. It could be one of purpose once-upon-a-time, or one of gradual declination in your utility, or one in which you are the victim of cruel forgetfulness. Perhaps you were an antique collector's prized ornament -- there is, after all, an antique shop around the corner. Perhaps you belong to Joe's fans, who take their hash browns home and pressure-seal them with nitrogen to preserve freshness. Perhaps a chemist lives in the little pink house, and keeps you a block or two away so no one will suspect him of brewing his own with nitrogen instead of carbon dioxide. Perhaps a grease monkey at the shop across the street hid you in wide open space as his April Fool's joke, and none of his buddies have been able to find you yet.
Or, perhaps you simply are. And if you simply are, what better thing for you to do than to simply be and provoke thoughts and wonder in passers-by?
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