The part of you that was never broken to the bridle sits on the peak of your career. Lilith, the Black Moon, that calculated point at the Moon's farthest swing where the exiled appetite lives and never a body in the sky, settles almost on the meridian, the visible heading your work climbs toward. The refused thing and the place you show up before everyone fold into one degree, fused. Step into your vocation and the wild part walks in with you, asking no leave. It beats at the dead center of what you are known for, an edge nobody smooths out before they understand you. No body in the sky lends you this heat. It is the angle your own refusal cuts.