Walking down the snowy sidewalks of 15th Avenue, I happened upon a cold can of beer. This was no mere discarding, but was in fact an unopened can. A gift from some some stranger, perhaps. I picked the can up, and inspected it for physical imperfections, but there were none; this was the perfect can of beer.

Like an advertisement come to life, a picture-perfect can of beer had been plucked from the snow, ready for the drinking. And though I was thirsty, and though I had roughly determined that the can was honest in its description, I could not drink this beer. Not out of fear, but out of happiness.

This unopened can of beer, resting in the snow like a husky sleeping at night, had already brought me so much joy. And while drinking it would complete the circle, I knew that it could deliver so much more joy by simply being the awesome can of beer that it already was. I placed it back in the snow (even putting it back in a more photogenic manner), and continued on my walk.