THE conqueror worm, the bleak and blackness of night, the damp soil, clinging onto one's garments, oppression of the lungs, the embrace of the narrow coffin, the body now entombed for evermore. The lack of air, fumes, the grass above one's head, and above that a moon, and sun and stars, galaxies, the universe, you are in a new world, beyond. Your friends are at home sleeping, drinking, laughing, all informed of your death, yet not your fate; that they are uninformed of. You are buried alive, in a hopeless position. Appalling it may be, an intolerable horror, an agonizing dream, as nothing half so scornful, but it is real, and somehow you must tolerate the burden of that reality.

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