In our all-consuming society, credit cards receipts are mementos of the past, a proof of existence when little more seems to stick. Modern equivalents to Proust’s madeleine. $70.70, the bitter-sweet memory of a first date. $15.74, fond memories of a party these beers were for. I don’t want to be defined by what I paid for but I can’t escape these traces of my life, soon to be shredded, never to be seen again. Will the associated memories disappear as the grinding teeth tear their physical manifestation apart?

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