The gutter overflows after the storm, carrying not just rainwater but the city’s unspoken residue—coffee grounds, motor oil, a lost mitten. We avert our eyes, step around it, call it filth. Yet this slurry holds a story: what we discard defines us as sharply as what we keep. Our collective revulsion toward waste is a cultural reflex, rarely examined. But what if we paused? What if, instead of recoiling, we leaned closer to the smell of decay, the texture of refuse, the undeniable thereness of it? This isn’t about glorifying filth. It’s about dismantling the reflex to shudder and look away.