Imaginary Money
This can’t be real. The money is in front of me. I can feel it. I can’t smell it in front of this bank guy, but I know it must have a faint smell of power. I don’t know what to do. I run the tip of my finger against the stack of bills hoping for a paper cut, a sign that this is real. But I hate paper cuts and I can’t commit to actual pain. I can’t do anything right now other than stare at this $20,000 that my imaginary friend left me in their will.
