Lost sunglasses. Maybe they are in good condition. Maybe they will make me look cool.


But before I pick up the lost object, this thought appears in my head: it might, once in my possession, reveal itself (scratches, some missing something) to be junk. The problem with this is that once you pick up junk, it's your junk. And because I always put junk where it belongs, in a waste container (it's how I was socialized), I'll have to carry the damn thing around until I find a proper and socially responsible way to part with it. This sounds like a lot of trouble. There aren't many public waste containers in the area. It's better to leave the sunglasses there in the bush.

Suddenly I see two moments for a piece of junk to become yours. One is clear; the other is murky. One is the moment you pick it up; the other is the moment you recognize it. I recognized a piece of junk and didn't transport it to its proper place - a waste container. My entire walk to Columbia City Station was bothered by this thought, this newly discovered guilt.