A pinecone in my pocket, a bone tucked into my bag. Clean shoes; go through. Travel through seasons; from dark to light. New stars, new currency. There is a sense of urgency now. Demanding proof of value, real or imagined. I am tempted to pile all the paper, set a match to it. Watch it burn and walk away; warming myself with my spiteful destruction. But, I know this will do nothing to stop the waves of questions, the bone shattering way I am crammed into boxes and shoved into drawers. Instead, I close the door. The clock ticks and cars sound like waves on the road behind me. I organise the paper, and breathe in.