You hand yourself over to pleasure and affection and something tightens the second you reach to please. Your Part of Fortune, a calculated point your chart reads by its day or night sect, swings square to Venus, the two caught at right angles and pulling apart: the wish to be liked pulls one way, what thrives in you pulls the other, and that strain has shaped how you seek well-being. You measured your contentment by how loved you felt that week. You placed your satisfaction in the hands of whoever happened to approve. What the strain shapes is a taste entirely your own that no longer begs for a vote. Every time the pleasing collided with what pleased you, the friction set one more stone of your embodied joy.