(For aspiring travelers in the Universal Playground, with a dash of improbability)
Ingredients for one (presumed human):
Body and mind, to taste-warning: no guarantees on initial product quality. Any defects are likely due to your home planet.
1 heart, even if you suspect it's underused or misused. Repairable with Galactic Adhesive Tape (GAT).
7 liters of red, viscous liquid known on your planet as "blood" and elsewhere as "that stuff you're not supposed to spill."
21 grams of soul, which may have slipped under the couch. Search with a flashlight; if missing, just proceed anyway.
1 segment-a half-line with a start (usually an awkward cry) and an end (often a remark like "Well, that was interesting").
Instructions:
Prepare the body and mind:
First, switch on your mind. Don't worry if it makes weird noises or takes a while to boot up; a good cup of tea helps.
Remove any emotional debris with a sponge of irony and a pinch of philosophical detachment.
Inspect the body. If parts look unfamiliar, consult a friend or a terran biology manual.
Prepare the heart:
Handle your heart with care. It's as fragile as a paper bag left in the rain. If you spot cracks, don't try fixing them with logic; instead, apply hope, affection, and a third-rate emotional screwdriver (screwtional™).
Prepare the red viscous liquid:
Make sure it flows smoothly and measures seven liters exactly. If you suspect blockages, try singing loudly in the shower or hopping on furniture.
Note: avoid explaining your methods to onlookers.
Remember: movement is life, and life is what happens while you're busy trying to make the rest of the recipe work.
Prepare the soul:
This ingredient is notoriously unpredictable. It might hide in the reflection of a puddle or the smile of a stranger. Add slowly, stirring patiently.
Note: If you struggle, refer to the Lost Souls Cosmonautics Manual.
Prepare the segment:
Place the beginning carefully, avoiding obsessing over the past (which is out of production). Accept the end, but don't rush toward it.
Fill the space in between with adventures, laughter, and occasionally a good meal.
Cooking:
There are no exact instructions here. Life tends to self-regulate, like a cake left unattended in the oven.
The only rule: never turn off the heat, even if it feels like you've burnt everything.
Serving:
Present with a smile-even if a little crooked. Serve with a generous side of improbable dreams and a sprinkle of courage (synthetic preferred for stability).
Savor slowly, remembering the second course, often called "rebirth," is usually more surprising than the first.
And remember: don't let yourself get lost in the lostness.
P.S.: if the lostness hits hard, consult the Manual of Cosmonautics for Lost Souls.