A long-forgotten dream from your childhood, set beneath an ultramarine sky, will resurface today with cryptic urgency, its symbols etched anew on the rim of a chipped teacup. Selenite dust in your pocket hints at a gnosis waiting to crystallize, perhaps in the reflection of a stranger’s sunglasses. At precisely 3:17 PM, drive to the old oak crossroads and bury a bent paperclip facing southwest.