You enter skin first, feeling the room before your eyes have even sorted it. The Moon, the inner tide that lifts and falls with whatever passes through you, sits at the same degree as the rising horizon in your chart, that first skin you meet the world with. No distance separates the feeling from the appearance: the second you cross the sill, your mood is already laid bare on your face. People read you from across the room as soft to the touch, someone whose weather can be felt before a word is traded. The feeling and the showing hold one point, so you arrive with the heart pressing up through the gesture, near the surface, plain to read.