1.      Most bony fish survive, so hold your breath. Learn
        to extract oxygen through the thin filaments along
        your pharynx.

2.      Pack what still matters into boxes. None of it matters.
        No, all of it matters. But you don’t know that yet.

3.      When you discover your childhood piggy bank,
        flimsy tin and cracked open, spilling
        a rainbow of buttons, crumple. Understand that this,
        too, was a lie.

4.      Set the boxes in a window. Arrange books
        on the shelves. Discard the miseries
        that are no longer needed. Place the rest
        in a cabinet, like heirlooms. Learn, slowly,
        that having held on to something for years
        doesn’t make it precious.

5.      Let yourself mourn: no tetrapod
        bigger than a wombat
        will survive the impact winter.

6.      Adapt. Wear buttons like flowers. Wear flowers
        like teeth. Drink sangrias below a mural
        of the meteor. Delight when a woman tells you
        your face is so fucking alert.

7.      Grow a space for breath in the cavern
        of your new body. Then, begin to breathe
        as carbon regulates — life proceeds
        inhale by exhale.



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