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In my wallet, between my fading driver’s license and my gym receipt, I keep an old, folded train ticket.
Under the gold Starbucks card bearing my Β name, is a scrap of smooth white paper from whose face, time has wiped away ink (but not the mental image of the hand that gave it to me).
And in the side pocket, along with the loose change is a zipper tab, long detached from its owner.
I am so rich.

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