A false sense of nostalgia engulfs me as I stroll through the mounds of discarded memories.  It calls me, pleading me to find something to latch onto, to keep, to cherish.  It’s all second hand – even the nostalgia.  For certain it’s no high-brow antique store.  It’s the home of the heirlooms sold by desperate families to pay for food.  It’s the remains of a recluse’s life no family member bothered to claim.  It’s where our unwanted go in hopes of finding love and affection from another.