The margins of your notebook are full of lines you do not remember writing, and half of them turn out to be true when you find them again. Mercury and Neptune share the same degree in your chart, so the mind and the dream run through one channel: you think the way other people sleep, in pictures that only later cool into sentences. You write best when you stop trying, and you often cannot trace where a thing you know came from. The slow lesson is telling the sentence that arrived from somewhere real apart from the one that arrived from fog. At first they sound the same. Only one is still standing the next morning.