I’m 97. My father is too.
To be exact I’m 97.0141. He’s 97.0133. It would be pointless to say that every time though. 97 will do.
Across the street lives 86. There are nine of them in the house, only 3 per room. Lucky bastards. Next door to us is 176. We don’t speak to them. They call themselves to the thousandth, as if it matters if you are 176.1451 or 176.1452. They’re all the same.
Apparently, before time, everybody called themselves to all their digits. Except, I’ve heard, they weren’t digits at all, they used letters. That wouldn’t work now though, no one knows their letters.
Good, I say. Who needs them? The digits is all we need. They tell us our kin, they tell us our roles, what else is there?
I am 97. I will always be 97. That is all I am.
The Write Site 