A different spiritual wavelength, mine seems to be, and greatly unfortunate that it is so. Neither dark nor light—night nor day—but, for lack of a better description, twilight: somewhere in between all things clear and demarcated, at the limen between the sun and the moon, I am ruled by neither. My time is set by the ebb and flow of Saturn's glow. I think, now, that it has always been this way. When I was young, I sought relief from pain—toward some vague acceptance of the perpetual reality of suffering—in the dark of the night. The dark, it seems, was far too dark, and so I ventured toward the light. I wanted to see the world and myself in the pure rays of daylight. I did not like what I saw. The light quickly became blinding. I did not know where to turn. I do not know where to turn. All I know now is that the cool breeze through the threshold is soothing, and an eternally rising and forever setting sun, with the great and terrible eye of Saturn staring down (and up) at me, gives an uncanny solace which I think I must seek for the rest of my life. Succor from whatever it is that ails my spirit is rare and its healing is hard-won, but it does exist. I have to believe it will continue to exist. Between the terrors of the night and awful visions in the day, I pray that the singularly slanted, crepuscular rays between the suns may see me to (and through) the end of this. And I hope, under the watchful gaze of Saturn and his Master in the Highest Heaven, that my prayer may be answered.

But I have my doubts.