Just before emptying the bin, I had a habit of rummaging inside, looking for forgotten things that I might after all want to keep. It was a strange habit that my mother often disapproved of. “Why do you keep throwing things away only to pick them up?!” She would ask me, exasperated. I wonder why indeed. It could be my indecisiveness, my inability to decide for certain whether something was still of use to me or not. Or it could be my naive wish to find a gateway, a connection to the times lost. The bunch of old bus tickets that fell flat on my palm had two tiny holes punctured in the middle, marking its validity as a pass to grant me permit as I travelled across the city perhaps dozing on and off in my seat. I evened out the pieces of thin paper on my table, blue, green, black and orange against the wood. It fluttered slightly in the wind, faded numbers hardly perceptible, and yet I couldn’t find it within me to discard them. It doesn’t really occupy much space, what’s the harm? I sneaked a glance around, looking out for mother again before pocketing it. I’d rather keep it inside my diary in memories of another time, a few days somewhere lost in transit.