The light in the November morning mingles closely with the night. It struggles to shed the skin of the dark. It stills me these days, the dread of it gone, this underworld, this shadow, this journey inward to some kind of light. And the understanding is different in this place, without the glare of summer's publicity. Here I can be quiet. No flashlights, no paparazzi of false revelation but a turning inwards, a beginning of a level of depth of insight, with the night touched by a pencil of light on a softer skin.