On Monday, the ritual begins, when the calendar yawns and the neighbor is already parking his containers in military formation on the sidewalk. I roll up my sleeves, unravel the knots in my soul, and pull the garbage bag from its plastic cradle. He sputters, this clumsy baby of black polyethylene—drowsy from coffee grounds, banana peels, and the forgotten shell sand of a wind-blown Sunday. I whisper commands to him. Sit. Stay. Don't leak. Then the exercises begin: waddling on the tile joints, the ropes taut as shoelaces, the mouth closed like a secret. "Go on," I say, "the street awaits, the week awaits, the eternal carriage awaits." The sidewalk is an arena. There, bag and gravity pit their mettle. Above us, the wind sings, below, the wet hisses from a previous shower. I guide him in slalom steps past the bicycles, past the post with the rickety "PMD" sticker. A cat follows us—judge of stench and failure. The bag sways, its shadow hiccups. I praise it for every half meter, like a coach who's seen too many documentaries about heroism. Yet it feels pointless—as if I'm teaching a mythical beast how to die every week. Because that's my student's fate: disappearing behind the curtains of a mouth full of knives and brushes, until only an echo of cardboard and orange peel remains.