I set out to run a few errands. The main one was returning a book to the library.

I got to the library, and reached in my bag. The book wasn’t there.

I rummaged a little, but it still wasn’t there, even though I knew I had carried it out of the house. I sighed, shrugged, and figured I would pay the library the fee for it if I couldn’t find it. 

The book could be in Loss Space, where all my lost things go. Or it could be everywhere, like a wave function in physics before it is observed.

I spend so much of my life dropping, losing, and misplacing things that I no longer grasp for them when they escape me; I just watch them fall, with an interested expression. Sometimes things break when they fall, or get wet or stained. Sometimes they just dwindle into the distance and vanish, never to be found again, like DB Cooper.

I ran the rest of my errands, caught the bus home, and retraced my steps just in case, and there the book was, at the bus stop. It had decided to manifest itself in my life again, which was sweet of it.