Japan Daria died for the job he loved. How many of us can say that? Not many. He worked in the petro-chemical industry. His dream career was cut short one awful day. He died inside an ‘oil’ storage tank, an above ground metallic cylinder. Did he fall in or was he cleaning it? No one knows. His body is still there, in the tank, today. His dear fiancée placed a memorial sign on the tank, Japan’s tank. I filled his boots but I don’t want to die in them, thank you very much. I’ve shook his hand. When I open the tap to get fuel, out popped his hand! All preserved and leathery. Such miraculous qualities of oil and fuel. It won’t bring him back to life but pauses time. Japan is now my working companion, my buddy. I talk to him. He tells me faster but safe ways to do the job. Will he look over me? Be my guardian angel on the oil site? His spirit ventures with me everywhere. We’re inseparable and both love oil.
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