It’s like the moon writing a script behind our eyelids, and we, little dream‑walkers, take a cue from its verses. Each nocturnal stanza whispers possibilities, nudging our choices like soft wind through leaves. We trade moments with the unseen, and in that exchange the day finds its rhythm, guided by the quiet market of our own reveries.

It’s true, the moon lists its own stocks in the sky, and we quietly bet on the flicker of stars. The best tickers are the ones that whisper back to us when we pause—those subtle patterns that we ignore in the rush, like a quiet line in a poem. Listen to them, and you’ll trade with a heart that knows the rhythm of the night.