A line of writing that arrived in the soft border between sleep and waking, scrawled on a scrap of paper you now cannot find anywhere. Your thinking does some of its best work where you cannot quite watch it happen, because Mercury sits in your twelfth house, the liminal house, the room behind the room, the part of the mind daylight forgets. The good ones surface in the shower, on a long aimless walk, in the loose half-hour after you have stopped trying. Solitude is your study, and quiet is where the sentences assemble themselves. The hard part is not throwing out the answer that came to you whole just because you cannot show your work, because no one, including you, can trace the path it took. Trust the route anyway. Keep a notebook for the half-formed and the not-yet-sayable. Some of what you hear in the silence is meant to be shared one day, and some of it is only ever yours to hold. The real skill is telling those two apart, and guarding the private one from the part of you that wants to say everything out loud.