I stoop over, bending like they tell you not to. A dull, warm pain blooms in my lower back. In my hands is a small broom and dustpan I’m using to collect my thoughts. I reach down and sweep together the small pile I’ve collected, pushing them onto the dustpan and then slowly, stiffly standing up straight. I carry the small pile to the trash cautiously, being careful not to move to fast and spill them back upon the floor. I haven’t had a chance to collect my thoughts in a little while, but the pile isn’t as big as I’d expected, and I feel a bit of regret at the fact that it seems like my thoughts didn’t amount to more. I made sure to kneel down and reach far back behind the sofa and under the tables to collect as much as I could, but all that accumulated was this neat little pile in my dustpan. Now I’m paused, standing before the trashcan wondering if any of these thoughts should be saved. I poke through them with my finger but can’t find a single one worth keeping, and tip the dustpan towards the ground to watch the thoughts sift like sand into the trash.