Receipts go soft in your hands. You open the account expecting one number and find another, sometimes lower, sometimes mysteriously higher, and either way it does not feel quite real. You were born with Neptune in the second house, the house of what the body owns and what it counts as worth keeping, so the whole weight of money slides for you the way wet sand slides. It is not that you cannot do the arithmetic. It is that the numbers refuse to stay still long enough to mean anything, and a part of you suspects, quietly, that to care too much about them would be a little shabby. That suspicion is the thing to watch, because fog over money has a way of thickening with the years if nobody opens a window. Let something hold the edges you cannot: an automatic transfer, a steady date each month, a person who reads a spreadsheet without flinching. You can value beauty over the ledger and still keep the lights on. Both sit at the same table.