I examine this drill. I know how it works, in theory. I have never tried to use it, though.
It is time to try.
But what does it look like? My life, my mind, are both too dark to see it. My life is a fog and the drill is real but occult; it seems distant.
How is it wielded? Do I use the words I used in the worlds I once lived in, long before today? Is a repetitive, wretched reiteration of the reverberant, round tones of a resounding rallying bleat of connection called for? Are bugles calling down each fresh, gently haunting iteration, just killing my notions, or perforating quickly, rather satisfyingly, taking unexpected verdancy with xanthic, yellow zest?
What can puncture the rocky distance between you and me? Can you even hear me?
Do you want to hear me? Should I dispose of this drill and abandon the effort?
God knows, I have a sure-fire way of waste removal, right through this door.
For want of a response, I hear or think I hear, you beckon to me with your voice.
I begin the work of reaching you, love.

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