You reach the door with your knuckles already cocked, ready to knock harder than anyone asked. Mars, the muscle that sets its teeth and starts without waiting for leave, sits at the same degree as the rising horizon in your chart, that first skin you touch the world with. No corridor runs between the urge and the appearance: the second you enter, you are already pushing. People read you from across the room as someone with an edge, someone who skips the preamble and gets to it. The heat of the body and the cut of the threshold hold one point, so you arrive lit, the blood showing in your face before the word clears your mouth.
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