There is a drawer somewhere that locks, a letter you never sent, things the body keeps that the daylight forgets about. Your Sun is lodged in the eighth house, the threshold house of the hidden and the shared, of what we inherit in secret and what we hold in common with one other person, and so who you are gathers in the places where the ordinary categories stop working. The buried, the grieved, the deeply shared. Your light has a gift for finding exactly where the floorboards are thinnest. The pattern that follows you is a steep one: every so often life asks you to let one version of yourself quietly end so that a more honest one can take the chair. Refuse, and that intensity hardens into a need to control everything in reach. Accept, and the very same intensity turns into the thing you are best at, which is starting over from the studs. The promise worth making is this. Bring witnesses to the descents. When you can, do not go down into the dark alone.