[MIRROR] fixes rotation on soda machine in shuttle pilot's office

[SierraHelper]

Оригинальный PR: Baystation12#34364

🆑gy1ta23
tweak: shuttle pilot's soda machine rotation is fixed
🆑

Recently, I have given myself to fountain pens quite fully. I have always been a man for pen and ink over the graphite of pencils, both wooden and mechanical. There is something in the permanence of ink that speaks to me, and I find it lends itself to a paraticular eloquence and elevated diction that smudged carbon struggles to match, no matter the pigment nor application. Of these ink pens, I used to find ballpoints acceptable, but these fountain pens, they take what I like about ink and exemplify it. I could not live without the feedback, now. Writing with even a Pilot G2 feels as if I am missing something as integral to myself as a finger.

These pens take care and attention. Sedulous effort, refilling by syringes, rinses and ink rotations, correct grips and caution. No matter my lack of haste or dogged determination, I find myself suffering for this craft. My hands, even now, are covered in blue ink from a recently completed paper. Perhaps tomorrow it will be cerise, or a black deep as night. A craft, it is, and if I were permitted to be so bold, I would link it to mapping for Baystation 12. These immutable axioms of care and attention remain, even in such a separate environment.

Such it is for all crafts. I hold craftsmanship in high regard in all aspects of my life. Craftmanship, as it is, is a uniquely applicable concept. Everything can be elevated to a craft, and so everything you do requires the utmost attention. It is why I spend hours spit-shining my boots or shaving my face perfectly, why I always try to present myself as a gentleman, or why I draft and re-draft these pull requests of mine. I would rather spatter myself in my own carmine than put forth anything of myself I believe of improper quality, and on occasion, I have. Those who know me can attest to it.

Improper mapping irks me so, as an extension of that. It displays a lack of craftsmanship, a lapse in the commitment to excellence every individual should pursue. When I see it, I see that there is a different side of the numbers, one in which people of weak wills and low discipline reside, and although it perhaps does not physically pain me, it yet strikes at my soul like the end of a constable’s nightstick. Something is harmed, something invisible down below the veil, and while I cannot count it, I know of its presence.

Improper mapping that has lasted, gained longevity through inaction, thusly harms me even more so. It does not display a lapse in commitment to excellence. It shows an abject failure, perhaps even a revocation of the idea that one must strive to be all they can be. No matter how minor, it takes the strings of my heart and plays them like a harp until I am altogether incapable of anything but breath. It puts my being in the same sort of complacent rot as a Soviet tenement or South African power-generation facility.

Is this really what we have come to? Are we not civilized gentlemen, gentlewomen, gentle-enbies? I thought we lived in a proper society. A society safe from such depravities and deprivations, a society where I would remain unsullied by these sights. Did Lee Harvey Oswald die for this?

Did Kissinger die for this?