You enter the way fog slides under a door, the outline never quite agreeing to settle. Neptune, the haze that softens edges and lets the dream seep through, sits at the same degree as the rising horizon in your chart, that first skin you meet the world with. No distance separates the blur from the appearance: the second you cross the sill, your figure turns into a screen where others paint whatever they came hoping to see. People read you from across the room as soft and hard to pin, forever slipping the grip. The veil and the showing hold one point, so you arrive a little between two waters, more felt than seen, an impression rather than an edge.
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