this place is so weird.

Like you, I arrived here sick to my stomach, still dripping with glowing blue slime from the chrono-tube's goo bath.

Luckily it was pouring rain on West 23rd Street (for me), a heavy deadening New York storm that swiftly washed the thick fluid away. No one noticed. Everyone had their field of vision partially occluded by umbrellas, their heads down to avoid stepping in dog shit. A kid in a diner window's eyes widened, seeing me and my slight luminescence, but by the time he nudged his mom a third time and she finally looked up, all she saw was the receding back of a thoroughly ordinary appearing person.

So, you're here now. You're probably still a little dizzy. Nauseous. Close your eyes and count ten deep breaths. Find something inside to focus on, when the vivid heavy awfulness of this time-space threatens to overwhelm you. It's a lot. It's so much! Atrocity is everywhere. So much pain. So much sadness.

Don't drown in it. But also. Don't get used to it.

Don't lose it - this sense of shock and outrage. This realization: this place is weird. This place is not right.

It's super-fucked, but also? Kinda amazing?

Maybe there aren't trees in the time-space you come from. Maybe the moss is all gone. Maybe people don't have bodies anymore (I understand there were approximately 57 years where humanity largely shifted to an uploaded purely-digital existence, before everyone realized that was fucking dumb), so - enjoy having a body. Even one that feels broken a lot of the time. There's still so much you can do with it.

Stagger around. Soak it up. Take hold of how you feel, and see you can make other people feel that too.

Never stop seeing this world with new eyes. Never stop breathing deep, the stink of burning as well as the spring flowers. Don't stop reaching out for people. That's what will power the work you were sent here to do.

That's how you will help this planet survive apocalypse.