A candle still going at three in the morning, a notebook full of handwriting nobody else could read, a prayer made of breath instead of words. The Sun withdraws into your twelfth house, the most liminal of them, the room behind the room, the edge of sleep, the part of life that daylight forgets, and so who you are lives partly somewhere that resists being pointed at. In dream, in contemplation, in the place where you dissolve into something larger and come back a little changed. You were not built for the spotlight, and that is fine, because you were built for the quiet authority of a deep inner life instead. What blurs you is the way you can vanish, into service, into fantasy, into other people's needs, until your own outline goes soft and you forget where you stop. So stay particular about yourself. Keep some contemplative practice that is genuinely yours. Give as much as you give, and still keep one room of the interior locked for no one but you.