You curl into a warm room and something in you stands up to leave the moment you have settled. Your Part of Fortune, a calculated point your chart reads by its day or night sect, sits at a square to the Moon, the two straining at right angles: the pull to take cover runs inward, what thrives in you runs toward the world, and that strain has shaped how you go looking for your well-being. You have mistaken being comfortable for being content. You have stayed lukewarm in the very spot that asked you to move. What the tension leaves is a tenderness that knows when to slip the moorings. Every time the nest collided with the thing that made you grow, the impact framed more of your embodied joy.