I hoard things. I collect things. Scraps, tickets, stickers, bits and pieces. Detritus.

The live in boxes and baskets. Sandwiched between pages of whatever I was reading or stashed in wallets and pockets of bags.

When I find them I remember where I picked them up, and I hold them dear. Like little snapshots of emotions.

Then I feel guilty I haven’t scrapbooked them or kept them safe. They are dear to me, honest. These bits and scraps just look like discarded rubbish.