I dig. It is what I do.

The hole we are digging is growing larger.

This shovel is not interesting. It is like all the others. But this one is special because it is mine. I know the grain in the wood of the handle. I know where I got a splinter from it once; I handled it badly.

The hole we are digging is growing larger.

Some might say it is the wood that is bad, or the manufacturing flawed, but that is not true. It is simply a shovel, and as a shovel it does what it does. It gave me a splinter just to introduce itself. Now I know my shovel, and it knows me.

The hole we are digging is growing larger.

Once someone tried to take this shovel from me. I disagreed. It is my shovel. We fought, and I won, because this is still my shovel. I continue to dig.

The hole we are digging is growing larger.

The man who fought me for this shovel is not here anymore. I did not kill him, but he was taken away to the hospital.

The hole we are digging is growing larger.

I continue to dig. Arbeit Macht Frei.