A briefcase years since a purpose. Bolts sprung skyward and the innards peeled from the backboards and organs of crushed aluminium beer-cans and sweetened vodka tonics. The lining rain-soaked with mold spores building green meadow homes fake and reeking by the roadside.
I had worked together with its owner a long time ago. He still wore the same suit. Pastel shirts with ties that matched his pocket-squares and a deep voice to correlate his height. The precious metal fillings with which he used to flash morning smiles had cracked when turned like a freshness seal on a plastic bottle. I carried them with the fistful of loose coins that came spilling from his pocket.
I will move another of my collection outside in the coming days. What the environment does and the story it tells are so much more interesting than keeping them fresh.
