Your body launches into a thing while the deeper you stands back, unsure that launch was even you. The Sun squares Mars, the action that drives crossing the self that wants to recognize itself in what it does. Act, and you wonder whose hands those were. Watch yourself instead, and you fidget at not moving. For years you mistook yourself for your own speed, then froze convinced only the slow parts were truly you. The grind handed you the knack of acting as yourself. Not before the act, not after. Action you recognize while it happens. Who you are and what you do finally line up, and you welded that line yourself.