Long after the writer died, new works of his kept appearing in the bookstores, lovely codices of excellent binding, fine paper and elegant fonts in rich, dark ink. One of his readers set out to investigate, and hurried to the winter cemetery, where the black shadows of tombs rose from blankets of snow. At last he found the desecrated grave, and the writer sitting up in his coffin scribbling away by the light of a hurricane lantern. One can never sleep, the poor writer moaned, as he penned another line of bravura prose. There are mounting death taxes and debts in this world and in the other world. Are you not miserable? I am miserable. I now have the infinite time and silence I always wanted, I write better prose and poetry than I could ever have imagined in my waking, breathing life, but all I want is to sleep, to sleep and dream of something different!