Geoffrey is a dying earthworm. He can feel the cold hand of death creeping up the ass end of his tube-body. He is digging a tunnel. A magnificent tunnel. It has perfectly smooth and rounded walls, twice the diameter as is necessary for any noodlish being. There are no pebbles on the tunnel floor to irritate your underbelly, and there's a general attention to detail that is felt beyond what can be perceived consciously. Even though the disease has spread to Geoffrey's third tubular section by now, he is prideful for building a magnificent tunnel while his body is ravaged by ass fungus. He is not at peace though, because he only started building his masterpiece after his ascent into the void of nonexistence began. He wishes he had the foresight to start earlier.

Angela is also a dying worm, afflicted by a similar mycological phenomenon of the posterior. Unlike Geoffrey, she has been putting every fiber of her wormish soul into every tunnel she's built throughout her stupid worm life. She artfully constructed an entire network of tunnels in her land segment. She can't wait for another to come along and find it, filling them with joy and appreciation for Angela as one of the great excavators.

These sentient flaccid weiners don't know each other and they never will because they are separated by literally meters of grassy wilderness, though they are connected by the same ambition. They must dig tunnels to prove their existence is real. They must not leave the world as they found it. Surely, building great tunnels that other worms can use is their life's purpose.

A few worm generations later, about three days, a young adventurous and healthy no-limber, George, finds Geoffrey's tunnel. He appreciates the beauty for a moment, feeling reverence for those who came before him. He eventually makes it to Angela's tunnel. He is old now, with less smooth roundness and sheen to his body, as if the inside of him shrank while the outside of him stayed the same size. He is even more struck by Angela's tapestry of intricately woven passageways. He quickly moves on.

George slinks his way to a new land, an entire foot away from Angela's tunnel network. He must have picked up the fungus because his tale is purple and he can feel the cold hand of death creeping up the ass end of his tube-body. He realizes that even though he had filled his life with so much adventure, the journey was as impermanent as a gust of wind. Who will remember him? Who will recognize his unique contributions and state of being? The idea of leaving this world without leaving behind any proof of his superior abilities horrifies him.

So George starts digging.