Look back over the month and it blurs: full of doing, thin on knowing which of it actually mattered.

Orange warming toward gold around a white that holds steady. It sounds like an open chord left ringing, smells of warm bread and citrus peel, and tastes of honey.

A blurred month isn't wasted; it's unsorted. The sigil doesn't sort it for you — it warms a strong, steady center you can stand at, until what mattered comes clear of what merely filled the time.