it was an evening like every other evening. it wasn't warm. it wasn't cold. up on the hills, the two men, they we friends. unlike any other wednesday, they wouldn't talk. one would dig a grave, the other would lay down and smell the soil of his grave. he would be buried, alive. not for long to die, but long enough to feel the death. he needed to die, even if a fake death, to find his passion for life once again.