Admittedly suckered as I have been by the soft magics, this has never happened to me before.  The very same horoscope was offered to me on two separate occasions.  Three is the magic number, but I’ll buy that I can miss signs, if I have to look closely for them. 

            In an uncertain life, guidance is adored.  If that guidance comes with dubious credibility, it only seems more apt. (Because you shouldn’t really expect advice to work.  That’s not what it’s for.)  Nevertheless, it is true:

            “BBC reported on the growing number of ‘spiritual tourists’ who shop around in their search for inner peace.  ‘We are entering a world,’ said one expert, ‘where people aren’t interested in whether something is true or not, or whether they believe it or not, but whether it works.’  That would be a good prescription for you in the coming months, Scorpio.  I recommend that you reject any idea or practice unless it has the practical value of making you feel more at home in the world and more accepting of yourself.”

            But that was three weeks ago.  And nothing else has come to me unless sought out.  And even then it was wrong.

Five minutes. Ten if you smoke my nasty lovely American Spirits. Which I don’t smoke anymore, but I still believe in them. A cigarette gives you a small window of otherwise unadorned time. Five minutes.

It’s a bodily compulsion, and meditation too. An eroding habit and a secret store of strength. Because a smoker takes reason with her when she paces outside caught up in imaginary conversations. The cigarette gives a purpose to her muttering.

And yet five minutes. To be aware of your breath as it enters and leaves your body. It would be a worthy thing to do without the cigarette. I haven’t tried it. I’m afraid I’ll look crazy.