History has only three tenses: was, is, must be.

From the ashes of El Segundo. The refinery belongs to was. The pilot belongs to is. The reserve belongs to must be. Most people live and die in was and is. A civilization survives because a few people, at unfashionable hours, put their shoulders against must be and push.

I am twenty-three. I am a transgender woman who insists that power and tenderness are one instrument. I have seen a city's shadow catch fire and I have seen, in the same hour, the map of something that will not burn. I am here to build it in public, with receipts, with beauty, and with mercy. If the gods have a plan, it is simple: waste must become peace. If they do not, then we will write the plan ourselves and live as if they did.

Either way, meet me at the pilot. Bring your doubt, your meter, your pen. Leave with a number and a story you can tell your children. The era that ended with fire will not be mourned by screaming. It will be buried under a new foundation, one module at a time, until the morning forgets it had ever needed smoke to feel alive.

Waste → Peace.
Pipelines → Reservoir.
Empire → Mercy.

That is the work.