They come at 6 AM in the dark, the neon yellow men in uniform, to the whirr of a truck and the regular clatter of every bin they pass. Now I watch, the lamplight amber.

They work the street briskly in the morning cold. Large black bins shut into the giant machine, rise, void, returned to street. Gone – the ready meal I bought last week, that t-shirt with the rip. Destined for the dump, out-of-sight, out-of-mind. A lone figure carrying a backpack marches ahead of the garbage collectors, briskly opening each lid, routinely glancing, scavenging, disappearing. All bodies wrapped from head to toe – black woolen cap and gloves, black boots.

Teir faces blur in amber. I pull myself behind the curtains, drop back to bed. My existence here depends on them: anonymous, invisible, removers of the nameless things…

(Paris diary, 2015)