I have opted, against the protestations of my editor, to forego this tiresome ritual. Every word, every thought, every mark of punctuation in this work is my own, except where stated otherwise according to the dictates of careful scholarship. Few things are more depressing to an intelligent person than the revelation that a whole league of supposedly enlightened literati is in fact a mob of petulant nitwits. Beyond the gate the path forks and each tine wends its way amongst the headstones, the mausoleums, the bouquets of wilted flowers, the miniature red and white flags painted over otherwise unmarked plots. At night the white pebbles seem to irradiate a ghostly phosphorescence.
Fireflies float and wink against the looming black backdrop of forest.
A sole insomniac cricket emits a single chirp. I stepped swiftly, silently. The air was crisp and noticeably cooler near the woods. Kneeling on the damp ground, I unrolled my tool sack and laid out my implements side by side. The grave, as I had been told, was as yet unmarked.