He wanted to plant his pants with a gyroscope to increase the g force and the m of the moan, but his tool bent immediately on hitting rock. He rubbed his fingers briefly to offset pain, then returned to striking earth, cutting deeply, loosening its jowls and pushing his weight around. He did not anticipate it taking all afternoon. He did not anticipate the hole too small come dark. He persisted anyway, though he might have preferred eating steak medium rare. By the rise of moon he was finally ready to insert his pants. Lightheaded from hunger - and likely dehydrated - he’d forgotten how or why the pants. He kicked the pile of dirt beside the waiting gape. He kicked not once or twice but uncountable times, the repetitive motion of his leg like a ticker without its parade. Already worn out, the repetition drained him further, and he lost his balance, failing knees falling first into his fruiting labor. With a blink loomed unconscious, some might say unconscionable, though none of that mattered to him, matter claiming the better of him, settling his tired, crooked body into a receptive earth. Blisters burst and hunger waned, and the wind heard a faint moan.
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