The Language of Intuition

The air in my small room, once thick with the scent of old paper and a nameless, electric tension, now felt… familiar. The heavy velvet cloth draped over my table, a stark black against the pale wood, no longer seemed like a shroud but a stage. The cards, spread out before me in an innocent-looking tableau, were no longer a jumble of cryptic images. They were speaking. Not in booming pronouncements, but in whispers, in the rustle of their edges, in the subtle tilt of a figure’s head