All those concert videos on my phone: the search for the perfect angle. The ideal setting. The zoomed-in superstar.
I never watch them.
That one crumpled ticket I found in my jacket pocket:
Soaked. Because we ran through freezing rain so we would not miss the intro.
Stained. Because Coke spilled over my trousers while we were singing along.
Torn. Because for a moment it got lost beneath dancing feet.
I pin it to the fridge door.