Water that gets into an old house never comes through the door. It rises up underneath, through the seams, through the places nobody was watching, and by the time you feel it, the whole wall is already soaked. You were born with the Moon in Pisces, and you take in feeling with that same capillarity. You don't decide to absorb a mood. It seeps in through the seams, and you're soaked in it before you know it was even the room's and not yours. Jupiter and Neptune, which rule your Moon here, don't weaken you. They teach you that your emotional system has thinner borders than other people's, that you feel what's in the air before anyone names it. You cry at films that look minor. You wake remembering vivid dreams. Music carries you somewhere you didn't plan to go. The softness they warned you about is really a kind of reading, fine information the harder instruments never receive. Where it turns on you is subtler than confusion. You carry home the weather of everyone around you, set it down in your own chest, and after a while you can no longer tell which storm was actually yours. So build small rituals to come back to your own frequency: a shower, a walk alone, the dream written down. When the day winds down, ask what you felt that was truly yours, and what only crossed through. Naming the difference will set you free.