The smell of popcorn drifts from one. The taste of soft pretzel spills from another. Another one sounds like Sonny Rollins, playing his saxaphone to the beat.
They are like little paper time capsules, those tickets. They each tell a story of the places I’ve been, of the things I’ve seen.
They peek from the envelope, their corners torn and frayed. They’ve seen a lot, those tickets. I finger them gingerly, carefully. I am afraid of breaking them, destroying them, losing their stories.
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