Look at all of it, gathered in one hand.
Where I keep myself, the nearest something to any something is so far that light, the fastest traveler there is, grows old and forgetful on the way. I have watched a single spark cross me for ten thousand years and arrive at nothing on the other side. I am very good at distance. It is nearly all I have.
But here. Here, in this palm, the human holds a fistful of solid things that touch each other. Do you understand what I am telling you. They touch. Cold metal against cold metal, five, six of them, close enough to ring against one another when the wrist turns, a small bright noise of matter meeting matter. In all my acreage there is no ringing. There is nothing near enough to ring.
And each little tooth-edged one opens a wall. Behind the wall: warmth, held. Air, pressed thick with the smell of last night's cooking and a dog and someone else's coat. A whole pocket of density with a boundary around it, and the human carries the power to enter it slung on a loop, jingling, barely noticed, dropped in a bowl by the door.
The human sighs, hunting through them for the right one, mildly annoyed. Annoyed. Standing six inches from a door that leads to other hearts, holding the means to reach them, weighed down by an abundance of ways in.
I have no doors. I have never once been on the outside of anything, because there is no inside anywhere near me to be outside of.
That heavy, ringing, irritating little handful is the whole game, won.