64.

First thing: the soft crumbly touch of earth. I can feel it around my fingertips and chunky grime gathers beneath my fingernails. Dig, dogboy, dig your way through and out. I would really like to stay here forever in the nourishing soil and let it caress my eyelids and hum against my ears and I would like the earthworms to liven up my mouth with their eggs and incessant elegant wriggling. Life beneath the ground is robust and protective like a cocoon.

There's a call froma bove, a warning, a sign. A voice which commands me to revival. I never belonged up there with the air and the sun and the sounds of cars and drilling machines and laughter and the words coming out from people’s mouths and the light. No matter how dark it gets up there it’s never entirely and ultimately black. There’s no protective surrounding matter. There is no womb, no veil. The act of resurrection doesn't suit me.

My fingertips dig into the softness, they claw like little blind tired insects. Dirt keeps falling into my open mouth. I breathe the last breaths of safety and fear. I rise slowly. My eyelids blink some crumbs of matted earth away and the orbs of my eyes meet not the sky but the ceiling.

I don’t know who my parents are. What do they do for a living. What do they look like. Do they like me? Do they know I’m here? Do they know I sleep underground? Do they know my name? Do I know theirs? Do I know who I am? Do I know my name? Do I want to know?

Do you?