The first time they buried me alive, I was cross. Wouldn’t you be? It’s a situation that doesn’t lend itself to optimism. It’s dark, and cold, with nothing to eat. (In case you’re wondering, they’re correct about the maggots and worms.)
The second time they buried me alive wasn’t as bad, as this time I knew how to get out. They never guess how I do it, because they don’t know I’ve done it at all. And I kept doing it. Which is why there’s no more space in this town to bury people—the cemeteries are filled with me.