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Ask me who I am, and I will not hear you, for I am deep within this crowd calling out my own name. I will not know the sound of my own voice until it whispers back. Until then, I will spend my hours wondering at fate’s reason for the rise and fall of my chest. I will ask why and how, and the priests and the atheists and the protesters in the streets will profess their own truths. But not mine. Until I am found, I will choke on these memories and count the bruises on my soul. I will shout my given name through the unlit alleys and across the lofty mountain peaks, straining to hear a response; or at least an echo.