Alone in his studio, late into the night, he would meddle, tamper, and fiddle.  A troop of tools lay sleeping on the table, their hooks and gears and threads in a pile, intertwined like lovers.  They were cold and hard, and menacing.  The lamplight glinted off their skins and cast shadows onto the wall with barbed edges.  He loved them like a collection of books--they had just as much history.  Their grips were softer and worn where his palms would clench and caress them.  His eyes wandered over the nuts and screws, the bolts and washers.  In the dim light, his work table winked like a jewelry display.  Bits of dust and gold leaf would jump from the surface and float back down, always returning.  The storefront window stared lidless at the naked street.  Throughout the day passerby would stop and admire his trinkets, tiny ferris wheels, carved whistles, bells and door knobs.  Sometimes they would become so steeped in the beauty of the objects, they would gently place their fingertips against the window and lean in closely.  They could hear the steady whirring and see reflections in the polished metals, it was carnal and indulgent, voyeuristic even.  The viewer felt the history and intimacy of the tinker and his wares; they could see the leathered lines of his hands in the edges of the bronze.  He would observe from the table, and watch as their breath against the window swelled and faded in fog.