The edges of vision.

But then you see it flashing in the corner of your mind, distant and tantalizing.

Your car keys.

Your reach out and grab a hold of them with psychic energy, reel them into your essence, and from there associations begin to branch out: your car and travel coffee mug, your house and fence, your refrigerator and wife, all the books and wood, paint and carpet, paintings and spaces. It all begin to fill back in, and you find that you are not only grasping the keys mentally but are also gripping them physically, can feel the metal biting into your palm. There is more, as well. Carpet fuzz beneath the feet. The sight of the disorganized kitchen counter. The cloying smell of overripe fruit in the fruit bowl. The sound of your wife preparing for work in the bathroom.

Everything seems miraculously as it was before the thieves: so present.

As you drive out in the sunlight, the universe is not full of holes, but you can't shake the feeling that this dangling keychain, this car, these thick hands, this brain, none of them belong to you.