You climb toward the peak of your career and the spot where your life flows easiest yanks you crosswise. Your Part of Fortune, the point your chart figures by its day or night sect and never a body in the sky, crosses the meridian at a right angle, the visible heading your work points toward. The easy ground grinds against the public direction you chase, and the elbow knocks at the turn. This hands you no promise of joy. What costs you nothing in private cuts sideways the moment you carry it into the open. Out of that grating you sharpen a hard-won nose for the difference between the comfortable ground and the path that actually climbs, and you quit mistaking one for the other.