There is an hour, often after you have sat quietly with your eyes closed, when the line between you and the room simply goes soft and you do not miss it. You were born with Neptune in the twelfth house, the edge of sleep, the room behind the room, what the daylight forgets, and here the planet is most at home. Solitude, dream, prayer, long stretches of retreat are not exotic to you. They are how you metabolize being alive at all, the way other people need a meal. You knew the quiet before anyone taught you to sit in it. The pull, the one you have probably already felt, is inward and constant, and it can thin the outer life until the dishes pile up and the calls go unanswered while you drift somewhere lovely and far. Give the depth a shape it can live inside. A morning practice that ends, deliberately, with you walking back to the kitchen. Your inner ocean is vast and it is a gift. It stays a gift as long as you keep a doorway back to the shore.