Forget everything. Open the windows. Clear the room. Eat your Doritos. Close the lights. Fill up your tank. Listen to Flock of Seagulls. Nod, nod, nod. And don't listen to the joyful tears. Well, I don't know. I don't know where this is going. I don't know, exactly. Naked, dripping, rush out of the bathroom and find the red toolbox. It’s there, exactly as the voice said. Go, go back to the bathroom. Rip out the drain cover.  Sink the auger and find the G. Pull out the G. The G squirms at the tip of the auger. Is this the G? Is this God? Can these things be what you want? And then you touch, and then you don't touch. You stare at her naked body: the lines under her eyes, the fragile tummy, the moles on her pale, pasty legs, hoping somehow reality will jump out at you, grab you by the neck. You sit beside her. Search for a toggle switch on her back. Find none. She is human, not machine. You caress the back of her smooth neck. You touch her hips, and her tanned, thin calves. She smells of musk and the sweet tangy citrus of French perfume. Do you remember any of this? Back when you weren't a machine? And she was machine?