Things are not alive. They don’t have meaning other than that which an individual imbues in them. Things are myriad and ultimately worthless to others but priceless to their owners: A 20-year-old band T-shirt that looks more like a fishnet these days; a favorite cooking pot; a piece of shit lawn mower that should have been replaced years ago but whose quirks are known and familiar; a tiny car that zips between tractor trailers on wet highways but always brings its driver home safe.
Things become more than just Things.