He’s a collector who collects things. Little things. Bottle tops, buttons, gum wrappers. Guitar picks, chewed up straws, packets of creamer.
Capless pens with the ink exploded and useless. Ticket stubs rubbed bare to a faded pink.
He keeps them in a box. And every day he has something new. The box never seems full, but it never seems full enough. So he keeps collecting.
They all seem innocuous. Meaningless. But Devon knows that every single one of these items means something.
He spends hours organizing them. He lines them up, one by one. Categorizes them by type. Then by color. Then shape. Even size. Trying to remember something. Anything.
When it doesn’t ever make any sense and he can’t take it anymore, he’ll thrust everything to the ground and lay his head on the table.
It’s not unusual to find, when he lifts his head, that the items have all ended up back in the box.
