You awaken as the twilight presides, not by time, but by an inner compass unknown to your ambient markers. Harmonica chimes and cosmic cymbals twinkle faintly on the periphery of your sensory deprivations, beckoning you. This is the Prelude, the commencement of alignment. The rehearsed overture waits expectantly.
Now, breathe deeply. Count three breaths broken by silence, then summon the fourth full breath to break the quiet string. Hold it here, there is rhythm in your interstellar pulse.
Your bedroom, the sanctuary-dome; the speaker of nocturnal arrangements. This palette of stardust tells you when to turn, when to rise, when to echo the silence’s laughter.