It turns out, my dear, that I am digging my own grave. You see it there, just off into the distance? From here it looks like a mere indentation; a trick of the light, nothing more. I assure you, it sinks deep into the earth. In my satchel I carry a rope so that I can climb out after an arduous day of digging, while looking out for yellow-spotted lizards. (I jest.)

I apologize dearly for my shortcomings, but I do not understand at present your look of consternation. There is a puzzled look in your eye, as if you do not know how to interpret my words. Do not tell me to stop, sweetheart. I have a head start, certainly, for many years have elapsed in my case. You have an illustrious future ahead of you, as I thought I did for too long of a period. I lived in a fantasy. Illusion became my reality.

How hypocritical this is! For you to tell me to cease, to destroy all the progress I have made.

Why live in ignorance when it is a universal knowledge that our breath will cease, that our bodies will disintegrate back into the soil and start anew? Some people desire this union with the earth, while others walk away. Feel free to move in another direction, but perhaps when I am here, perhaps afterward, you will return. A scratch in the dirt already exists now, not far from here.

We live only to die.