Ushman returned to his apartment sometimes after dark. He kept the photographs in a notebook, and felt a sense of melancholy and delight each time he placed a new one there. Whenever he thought of this journal, with his photographs in it, eventually tossed on a junk shelf in a second hand shop, Ushman became incredibly restless. When he couldn’t sleep, he thought of burning it, just in case he were to die suddenly and soon. But taking too much pleasure in the sight of it, and being convinced that his death was not imminent, he would spare the journal from a lit match. This is how it happens, he realized, that those private, meaningful things become junk. Hanging on to them, hoping for immortality, or at least a few more days, we all die surrounded by things whose importance is entirely subjective and lost once we are gone.