On that road the hobbyist used a screw driver to pull the circular drillbit from the tarmac.
He held it up and marvelled at it, the teeth in it, how the steel shimmered in the neverlight.
He spoke about how he would add it to his personal collection.
The grey dull road was deaf to his words and just lay there soaking up tame neverlight.
Somewhere not far a brook inhabited a ditch.
Like a child does a playground.
For all of it's insistance it couldn't reach the roadside.
The overgrown couchgrass waved to the tarmac where the hobbyist stood bewildered with the drillbit.
The tarmac was blind, the hobbyist was stuck in time, neither here in this reality, nor in the other.
Only partially aware of the tides of air coming in from the pastures and forests.
He threw the drillbit in the air, the way a child might a ball.
The thing spun as if on command, a disco ball of mesmerizining cutting power.
A thousand truck carcasses littered the end of the road.
Somehow how more useful now as rotten metal soaking in the neverlight.
Ever in prayer facing the hobbyist looking approval, dead inside.
A realm beyond a realm, a blessing misunderstood.
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