Walk the streets of the town you moved to but don't quite fit in, flinching at the cigarette packs that scatter the gutters, the abandoned green straws from Starbucks, the one-shot liquor bottles and caved-in Capri Suns, the caps flicked out carelessly from car windows, torn remains of shopping lists, the tops of old paint cans and bottom ends of old bread, receipts from the gas station and the pharmacy and the ATMs of all seven banks that line the main avenue. Bend, in your overwhelm and alienation, to a single square foot below you, the one whose pile of castoffs offends you most. Reach a hand toward the source of your greatest displeasure, then close a fist around it. There is a place to empty what you don't need to hold onto anymore. Go there now.