My dream.

Can you please tell me why I cannot dig a moat? Or a tunnel? Immediate response would be that the former device might kill a person and the latter would enable me to hide in an underground lair day and night, till my friends became genuinely concerned. Both outcomes would be desirable, and expected, and are no reason not to dig a moat or build a tunnel. I regret that I am not digging now. For some reason, I have been convinced to not pry open the trapdoor in my basement, and dear viewers, you can trust me when I assure you that such a trapdoor exists, and is curiously welded shut no less. For other reasons, too numerous and unsatisfying to list here, I have been talked out of enlarging whatever space exists beneath that mysterious trapdoor, with a shovel, and buckets, and much tracking of soil through the living room, till a hollow cubic space existed large enough to panel in plywood and green board and even to wire with electricity, and to floor with plywood and perhaps ceramic tile, leaving just enough room on the floor for a second trap door. This is the sort of home improvement I set about to get started when I bought this property of mine, and for reasons too numerous and too fundamentally insubstantial to cite here, I was talked into reworking light fixtures and removing vinyl tile. Such a disguise above would have made my tunnel building all the more evocative, I think. A cot. At the end of a twenty foot corridor, underneath two subbasements, a cot. My throne. I would have a ventilation shaft, and cigars. Maybe warm beer. I would survive on canned goods. This was my dream. Time to grab a beer and think about my dream.