What phantom have I conjured in the space blurred between waking and sleep. With clumsy fingers dancing across the peculiar tuning of neglected guitar strings, the veil dissolved totally by candlelight, muted city starlight, the smoke of Osha, grains of sand and knowing. Is this paranoia or Mugwort's deep sensing of the unseen? Phantom. Who is knocking at my door? Who keeps ringing the buzzer so briefly that I am unsure if I've imagined it? What terrible spirit has come to call on me in the dark time of the Moon?
I wake fully and move to bless the entrance to my home, relax my cat arched shoulders and set about to purring once more. Three cards drawn by the grace of San Miguel in his dim + glassy light reassure me that perhaps this is just a trick of the evening star, a realer than real lesson shared with me by the Mugwort beneath my pillow.
There is nothing to fear--there is only that which you create. Choose the threads you follow wisely for your web will only be as habitable and inviting as the fabric from which it is woven.