In my neighborhood there's a multi-unit building I sometimes walk by, a fourplex, with the apartments above a set of four one-car garages. The garage doors are glass. This gives the building the appearance of four separate tiny auto showrooms, each with space to display one car. I wonder who thought this was a stylish thing to do. Two of the garages contain cars, one has lace curtains that hide its contents, and the other is clearly filled with junk. The psychic residue that adheres to household junk doesn't thrive in the light, it needs the darkness of a basement, attic, or closet for its evocative qualities to achieve full bittersweet intensity. People exploring their own forgotten junk, preferably with flashlight and while slightly drunk, are like archaeologists breathing the ancient air of the unearthed sarcophagus. They are just asking for trouble. The melancholy of the never-played board game, the half-finished crafts project (why did we ever think we wanted to make candles?), ugly itchy sweaters still in their department store gift boxes, the photo albums full of smiling people you never talk to anymore. Nothing but the remnants of sad errors in judgment, dissipated enthusiasms and moribund relationships.