I have no keys

I just realized this. One way to look at how are lives are defined is through our keys. Keys to our homes, keys to our cars, keys to our offices.

I have no keys.

Oh, I’ve temporarily been carrying around a set of keys to my brother’s apartment, where I’ve been staying for the past week-plus. But I’ll give those back tomorrow, when I leave. And I’m keeping my post office box open, and there’s a key for that... but that’s in the possession of bronxbee, who’ll be collecting the mail for me once in a while.

So I have no keys.

It feels weird.