The dirt is soft but heavy. My spade easily breaks through the wet earth, but my shoulders ache as I lift the shovel. With every thrust perspiration builds under my shirt, caking on my arms as it mixes with the rising dust. My lungs burn, and the white plumes of my breath hang stubbornly in the air.
All time disappears with the regular squish of the spade meeting earth, the throwing of the dirt over my shoulder, the deepening of the hole. Sleep is ever invading, and my drowsy eyes close.
A hollow sound wakes me. Have I been digging in my sleep? I lift my shovel again and bring it down. The same dull tone rises from the earth. Falling to my knees, I begin brushing the dirt away, quickly revealing the dark wood of a coffin.
Tale Told 
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