Iron is forged. Not from the sweltering heat of burning black rocks but from the soggy arm pits of our shirts. Look upon the forge before you, work piece in hand, and ask yourself if you would let this wrought chunk linger in the cold or smith it now. Ask yourself if you could allow your magnum opus, all that you physically are, to dither in the dust, never to be formed into the shape it begs to be. Strike it, pummel it, beat it. Let not a moment slip through your fingers, like water from a faucet, without reminding yourself that, like the iron that was never forged, we too shall rust without the constant honing of the whet stone that is the gloom.
Join me as we forge and shape our flesh in the inferno of The Foundry and swell like a steel sword unsheathed from an incandescent coal mound.