When you visit this planet, make sure you have everything you need within reach. Your organism must adapt to the subtle chemistry drifting through the air. Assimilate—slowly. Let your lungs learn the grammar of this new breath: its unnatural pauses, its displaced accents. Like a language you thought you knew, but which here declines differently, conjugating time in ways your memory never anticipated.
When you visit this planet, make sure you do not think about the past. Do not remember. Memories here act like acid on your mood. Nostalgia is a slow poison: it crystallizes the blood, turns thoughts into statues of salt. Every image of what once was becomes a molecular weight anchoring you to the ground, while others float lightly, amnesiac, free.
If you meet someone, guess their name—but never speak it. Be generous. Let your space intertwine with theirs for a moment. Hold their name suspended behind your teeth, a sound that—if released—would disrupt every equilibrium. Instead, allow your boundaries to blur, let your shadows merge on the ground, until you no longer know where you end and the other begins. This uncertainty will be the only form of intimacy available.
To orient yourself, when you resume your journey, look at the stars. They are unlike the ones you know—brighter, unstable. The constellations here have no mythology, only provisional geometries that rearrange themselves every night according to laws no one has written. Find the secret pattern that binds them. You must draw your own imaginary lines between the pulsing points of light, invent the map as you walk—and then believe in your invention completely.
Choose a direction and do not question it. In this place, doubt dissolves you.
In doubt, you would become a bodiless question, wandering the sands, never finding an answer.