Goa, June 4 -- STEVE CORREA

The cupboard door opens with a small wooden groan, and a faint smell rises-paper, dust, old cloth, something metallic from forgot ten keys, something sweet from envelopes yellowed at the edg es. Inside, nothing is dramatic. A few files. Old diaries. Cassette tapes in cracked plastic boxes. Movie CDs whose titles have begun to fade. Visiting cards of people I once meant to call again. Bills I no longer need. Receipts for things long bro ken, repaired, broken again and gone. To anyone else, it is clut ter. To me, it is evidence. Not evidence in any legal sense, though I often pretend that is why I keep these things. I tell myself there may be an important document, a forgot ten warranty, a useful refer ence from...