No alternate escape.  No just-in-case for the burrowing types.  The way in, the only path out.  Erasure of the already done.  Taking back of what can’t be.   Silent, contemplative, flat.  Nothing else disappears.

***

For the desert, pack thin slices of yourself from ten fifteen years.  Stacked nostalgia.  Leave behind the sensible.

 ***

Consider rejection of procedure (the thing of least import):  not to stray outside the lines.  Perhaps fly over them, the looping rings.  Cut the transformative string that clues the return.  Consider it a talisman.

***

Fold each self in tissue paper.  They all will wrinkle anyway.  Wear each one to a daring place.  (Matching lipstick is not the issue.)

 ***

Bear in mind you are from the house of the double ax, a butterfly.  If you have to, heft that ax, hack through constraints.  Shed skin like the reborn and eat it.  Or leave the old for someone else.   Wrap the new around you until…  Repeat.