A dream you cannot quite recover by morning, gone before you can hold it, and yet it has rearranged all the furniture inside your chest. You were born with your Moon in the twelfth house, the room behind the room, the house of the threshold of sleep and everything the daylight quietly forgets, so your feelings draw from tides with no visible source. The mood of a room you just walked into. A whole city's grief. An ancestor you never met whose sorrow still seems to surface in you. Some mornings you wake up heavy with no event to pin it to, and the honest truth is the explanation may simply never arrive. You do not have to solve it to honor it. What helps is a small daily emptying you can count on: pages written and thrown away, one quiet hour nobody is allowed to interrupt, cold water on the face. Skip the practice and the inner ocean rises until it is sloshing through the kitchen. Keep it, and you slowly become the rare thing, the listener everyone needs and almost nobody has the depth to be.