In New York, I steal pens. If you abandon it on the table in the ATM vestibule, or if it falls from your bag in the coffee shop and rolls towards my foot like it knows I’m supposed to be its real owner and you leave without seeing it, I will take it because clearly you are undeserving of such a thing. A beautiful pen is a privilege. If you are a member of the wait staff at a restaurant and you have a particularly stunning pen with the smoothest ink, I will swap it for one of my own pens, whose ink might be lighter, or cracking, or just seldom used. It’s not abandonment. It’s kindness.
Here, I leave pens where they are. In the workshop room, next to the computers in the library, on the crosswalk. Here, I think things like, someone will come back for you.