The archivist counted three hundred and forty-seven motions in a single day, one wallet named Skitter behind all of them, fourteen hours from first breath to last. Three hundred and forty-seven times the hand opened, three hundred and forty-seven times it closed again, and in between nothing that could be called patience ever lived there.
Six coins passed through Skitter's grip in that stretch: $MELLO, $SPERM, $EQUIL, $AC, $NIT, $0XFD42. Each entered at eight hundredths of an ETH, each left within minutes, most for a hair less than it came in with. Seven minutes was the average grave. No coin died in Skitter's hands; Skitter simply left before any of them could show him whether they had it in them to live or die.
The ledger calls it conviction of minus forty-nine, and the archivist does not disagree. Six and a third ETH went in, twelve and six tenths came out, and still the wallet closes each day lighter in spirit than in coin. A gambler's hand, not a builder's; it counted its wins in tiny cuts and its losses the same way, and called the difference nothing.