Money flows to me freely as I move through this world.

Stand at a market stall for an hour and follow a single note. It goes from a customer to the fruit seller, from the fruit seller to the man with the coffee cart, from him to the boy sweeping up at four. Nobody owns it for long.

Money is closer to traffic than to property, and traffic goes where the roads are. Moving through the world — turning up, being findable, being the person somebody thinks of on a Tuesday — is most of how the roads get built.