Pack light but take your bones. Don’t forget the calligraphy brush to clean the dust from our hearts. And fold your soul, but it cannot be folded more than seven times. Do not take clothes, you will not need them. Explosives are not permitted on the craft, nor jam. Write a good book to take and read on the journey between membranes. Take your own needle. Take your own blood for the needle. Pour yourself into this-sized container, whittle a bit of the sides to fit flush. Walk through this security scanner – the guards will pour over everything you ever ate, every name you ever forgot. Change yourself, your mask dispenser smokes like the deck of a blurred and glitching croupier. Clearly mark your luggage and leave at the station – it will be forwarded to you and not be stolen, sifted, as your ashes themselves will not be sifted, for gold teeth, pacemakers and dice. You are mostly empty space. We will condense you to the size and shape of a pawn, a potential queen, as maths is a language and a potential world. You may find that your destination is like that dim star you can only see out of the corner of your eye, four or five moves ahead, which, whenever you look at it directly, disappears.