It’s always stuffed to bursting, isn’t it? Always shedding tiny white threads and has been since you can remember. The skin is a brown leather cracking in all different places. A white ruff of receipts is coming from its mouth alongside the collared array of dollar bills. All the change he needs however is kept in his pocket. You’ve gone through an old man’s wallet at least once; its contents covers the table before you’re halfway done. The receipts come from long ago, purchases of three hundred dollars he simply can’t remember, the same receipt for five weeks of where he’s brought the paper every Sunday. Mingled within the endless spending are business cards, folded up flyers, hand written phone numbers of people called Bob and Julia. Never do the cards change. They’re startlingly basic with a bank card, travel card, licence, and membership to the boat club. Nestled in the plastic sheath might be an old photo of a nephew from school. They’re old enough now to stop asking him to remove it because they look ugly in the photo. The wallet never changes. The man doesn’t either.

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