There is a vocabulary that only exists between people who love engines. It is not taught. It is absorbed — in passenger seats as children, in workshops as teenagers, on mountain roads as adults. It lives in the pause before someone turns a key. In the way a mechanic closes a bonnet. In the silence after a flat-six settles into idle.

The phrases in The Garage come from that world. They are not invented. They are overheard — in paddocks, in dealerships, in late-night conversations between people who would rather talk about valve timing than quarterly earnings. "My Therapist Has 12 Cylinders" is not a joke. For some, it is the most honest sentence they will say all week.

The internal combustion engine is under siege. Legislation, electrification, and a generation raised on screens are rewriting what a car is and what it means. The V12 is already an endangered species. The naturally aspirated flat-six is nearly gone. The smell of a hot engine after a mountain pass is becoming a memory. These prints exist because the words matter as much as the machines. When the last combustion engine stops, the language should still be on the wall.