Cutting, Polishing

All around, I hear the sounds of cutting and polishing. A diamond-edged (or at least carborundum-edged) blade is cutting through concrete, maybe steel. It is far away, but shrill and loud. You can almost smell the metal, the grease, the static and the diesel generator. There is dusty death in the air.

In front of me is a mass of material. I think there must be 300,000 words of it. It has to be cut down to somewhere around 80,000. Woe is me.

Cut boldly. Polish finely.

Easy to say. I am going mad.