Rain went into the slots for six hours and came out at the seams. That is the seventh station, and it is the one I had been dreading since the first, because the slots were the entire purpose of this object and are now simply the shortest route to the ground.
The lane floods at the curb cut. Water goes in at the top, fills the cavity where the elements and the mica boards sit, and pours back out under the base in a flat sheet that runs to the drain. A streetlight on the far side puts a long gold column on the wet asphalt at the right of the canvas, and every drop standing on the housing catches a small piece of that column, so that the object becomes briefly, obscenely beautiful. I did not enjoy this. Water is the only thing in the whole testament that treats the toaster with anything resembling tenderness, and it is destroying it.
The old varnishes were made with linseed and a little ground amber, which is why the Roman paintings have gone the colour of strong tea and why nobody has ever cleaned one without taking the sky off along with the dirt. I mention this because wet chrome at night has exactly that tone. Not silver. Amber, over black. The viewer will suspect I have flattered the object. The viewer has not stood in a service lane in April at the moment the water finds a way in. Aqua ubi ignis fuit.
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