If a baby doesn’t know it has a Mother till it’s born, what do we not know we have till after we die? If a baby doesn’t know it’s inside its Mother, what are we inside of we don’t know we’re inside of? A baby in the womb doesn’t know it’s in the womb, Doesn’t know it’s inside anything, Has no idea there’s anything outside the amniotic ocean it floats in, No idea it’s surrounded by a living being that has an outside, A living being breathing, walking, talking, touching, seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, thinking, sleeping, dreaming, loving. A baby in the womb has no idea its Mother loves cool September breezes floating through the twilight window with cricket dreamtime energy. And a baby in utero doesn’t know there’s an outside world of light and objects and other pregnant Mothers with babies inside them not knowing and human society and history and geography, geology, astronomy, zoology, botany, ecology or an affectionate puppy that sleeps next to the Mother. What about us? What’s outside us we don’t know about? For all a baby knows, what it’s in extends outwards forever, the way deep-sea fish who never come to the surface or swim to the Ocean floor never know there’s an Ocean floor under them or Ocean surface above them with the sky above it and think the Sea goes on in every direction forever. If a dog can hear a baby sucking its thumb in the womb and the baby has no idea dogs exist or ears exist, What do we have no idea of that exists, that hears our most intimate sounds? What do we have that we have no idea of that nurses our just-born souls after death with invisible milk from its invisible sweet-smelling breasts?