Return to the Aluminium Factories

Still dark when the shift begin - not really, but the air had that feel of too-early night-time. Fire up the machines, load the devices, oil, petrol, rust, and breathe in the chemistry under it all. Check the gauges, the needles, in the red, escaping steam. There are cracks in this factory, ruptures in the wall, and the underneath is swelling through.
Breaktimes are curtailed, and during the half hour lunch, the rain outside is cold and still tastes of night.
Melancholy roads, nostalgic Sainsburys shelves.
I'm not sure what we're making here, not sure what we are even, as we tend this moebius strip of abstract process and watch the sea between backwater industries. I can't see any reflections on the factory floor, all I hear are the echoes caught in the pipes, asking for so many things, and I can't be bothered to understand then any more.
The coffee machine kept breaking down during the day, and this was the worst thing of all.