5 August 2021
Thursday. The masterpiece is open, and I am wearing the hat.
Two coffins, side by side, each built for one guest and not a centimetre more. Rough timber, a proper lid, a reassuring weight of earth above (theatrically speaking). The guests wake in the dark, hear a shovel, hear me laugh (I practised the laugh for six weeks) and realise they have been buried as a pair.
Here is the elegant part, the part I would like engraved somewhere: neither coffin can win alone. Whatever one box hides, the other needs. I have made a game out of trust, which is the cruellest material there is.
The first pair took the full hour and argued for most of it. Splendid. The second pair finished with time to spare and hugged the gamesmaster. Less splendid.
Tonight I polished the shovel twice. It deserves it. People will be talking about Buried Alive for years, and I intend to be mentioned in at least some of the conversations.
— U.
