As I was walking on rue de l’Esplanade, I found an album full of photos, discarded along a pile of trash. I took it home, inexplicably cherishing these found photographs. I was granted access to a whole family’s memories that hadn’t been deemed important enough to keep. When one leaves something on the street on garbage day, it cannot be anything else but an invitation for strangers to put it to a new use. And yet I felt like I couldn't keep these photographs if I didn't erase the identities of the people pictured, I felt like a creep, so I painted them white. These photos have now become my personal collection of non-memories, a palimpsest of untraceable meanings, an analog Tumblr gesture, and a story I like to tell when people point at them on the walls of my room.