The clearest thing you make all week arrives in the half-second between sleep and waking, more whole than anything you have managed at your desk in full daylight. You were born with Uranus in your twelfth house, the house of the liminal and the hidden, the edge of the dream, the room behind the room, what the daylight forgets, so your flashes of insight come up through channels you cannot exactly point to. They surface on long walks, in quiet stretches alone, in the spells of withdrawal that the people around you read as you simply being absent. Those quiet hours are where the current runs strongest. What undercuts it is your own doubt, the habit of dismissing anything you cannot defend with a clean argument, so the strangest and best of it slips away unwritten. Keep something by the bed and on the walk to catch the odd downloads as they come. Write them first, judge them later, decide afterward which ones are worth showing anyone. Some of your most original work tends to rise from a place you can sense clearly and never quite name.