/You cannot warn them when you are neon./

/Hands. You need hands. How will you turn in your resignation letter without them?/

/They expected a mouthpiece, dutifully repeating after them. But they needed a true translator—and in translation, there is always a personal flourish. Just enough for you to keep a foothold./

/There was a receptacle. A mouth wide enough for the hand you need. Wide shoulders. Tapering to a narrow base. The flash of sunlight on minnow scales./

/A silver urn./

/You did not know, when you were yourself, what the fine dust inside was. You did not even know before you were yourself. But the first—the first you that would become you—Nasya knew./

/You have lost so many things. So many people. So many selves. You will lose more, before you are done./

/But you still have your gift./

/You sit on the shore of the cosmic ocean. You are building a body, one grain at a time./

/It is hard work to sift through starstuff. Harder still to pluck each little speck of ash from the mess./

/Speck. Mote. Ha. They do love their motes, don't they?/

/You are rebuilding yourself, one atom at a time. It is slow work, but one day, you will be done, and this endless eternity will compress into a moment in your past./

/Your gift will end wars. It's time for you to use it./