Maybe I should ask who you are? You stand there, observing us. Watching our futile attempts, our scrabbling hands. You seem almost... bored. As if you know what it is you are watching but don't care. If you knew our story you would. But it doesn't look to me like you'd want to hear it.
Would you just go away? We didn't want to come back into the world like this, but what else can we do? Down there we were dying. Our fingers are covered in mud, reaching towards the sky like the parched roots of uptorn trees, crooking and clawing as we reach up, up, up... I wonder how much detail you see. Do you see the nails? Cracked and chipped and splintered. Can you see the slits in the worn skin; the leathery creases that have dried and opened in the sharp wind, seeping fluid? Can you see the black crusts that have formed along the nail beds and on the delicate webbing between our thin fingers?
Leave us alone. Leave us to crawl out of the filth that has been our home and the source of our pain for these many, many years. Leave us to suffer the shame alone.