The year... The FUTURE(?)
To work is to drill.
Drilling a bit.
Count down to run out of air.
Crushed by block.
The soul leaves drifts heavenward, seeking to escape the spelunking bodies fate.
A precarious situation.
Deeper you go... and so the blocks change.
Almost rubbery now.
Need air! Or death shall soon be Mr. Driller's fate.
Deeper still, block types repeating.
How far you drilled before dying.