A huge chip falls off me as I walk a crowded street.

I look down. It is rust: layered thin slice, brown-red.

Inscribed on it: "OVERUSED MEMORY".

"A huge piece -- that one," yells someone.

I am embarrassed someone has seen rust falling off me. I pick it up and begin walking again.
It must be a sign of age. No one likes ageing in public. It must be a private affair.

The person follows me and with eyes of an eagle speaks to me from across the street:

"You shouldn't pick up the rust that falls off you. It stinks and besides it is useless. It could even harm you."

I vanish in the crowd. I hurry to my attic to get my box. It is labelled: "USELESS COLLECTIBLES".

Things inside are magical: my teeth pulled out by the orthodontist, wisps of hair I cut several years ago, chipped nail with blue nailpolish, an eyelash that refused to fly away with a wish...

As I open the box, these things smile at me and talk about new stories they have for me. That is the magic of this box: it gifts me new stories every time I open it. Sometimes they are old stories with a new flavour.

I carefully place the piece of rust inside and walk away.

I will open the box tomorrow, or may be a few hours from now.

I am a restless collector of stories and useless collectibles.