I've always wanted to carry a briefcase.

Nothing says "success" like a smart looking briefcase made of fine leather. At least, not in my mind.

I would walk to work at a brisk pace as evidenced by the rapid pendulum swing of my left arm; my right arm would remain motionless from the anchor of importance and status. Time is money.

My initials, my monogram, would be neatly inscribed on a gold plate with a carefully chosen font to express my subtle, yet powerful identity.

In social situations, I would make it a point to examine the contents of my briefcase from time to time. Perhaps I would shuffle a few documents around or scribble a note before closing the lid and checking my watch. People would undoubtedly admire my Protestant work ethic: "He must be a very powerful and influential man," they would think.

Along my daily route, I would stop to admire the wares displayed prominently in the window of a well-kept antique shop. The little time capsules would arouse my imagination as I reflect on the craftsmanship and care that went into producing them, recreating the historical context of a time lost.

Alas, the weight of my briefcase would bring me back to the present, reminding me of the tasks and projects that lie ahead. I would take a moment to admire the reflection of my briefcase juxtaposed against my naked and bleeding body. Then I would go.