The sun completes a lazy circle above the horizon for sixty-six days and never sets. Shadows compress to nothing at noon and reappear pointing the wrong way at 2 a.m. Certainty without contrast is its own form of blindness.
Sleep becomes a decision, not a response to conditions. Bodies that once wound down with the light now have to be argued into unconsciousness at arbitrary hours. Most of them lose the argument.
Overhead sun at 11 p.m. Under it, everything is equally visible and nothing is quite distinct. Features lose depth. The photograph taken of a friend at this hour is always the one that looks the least like them.
The sun passes through the same arc at 2 a.m. as at 2 p.m. The instinct that uses its position to tell time breaks quietly. Meetings are missed by twelve-hour margins. Nobody notices until someone writes down a date.
Everything is visible therefore everything is known. This is the logic of Circle VI — the circle of those who know what's real — and the season enacts it at the level of light. The entries from this period resist conclusion.