You enter and the room brightens by a degree, the way a coal flares when fresh air finds it. The Sun, the part of you that burns at the center and wants to be seen burning, sits at the same degree as the rising horizon in your chart, that first skin you meet the world with. No distance separates the self from the appearance: the second you cross the sill, the core is already lit and on show. People read you from across the room as someone carrying their own light, at home in their skin from the first glance traded. The fire and the showing hold one point, so you arrive radiant, the center alight right there in the way you greet whatever walks in.