Fishermen who work at dawn say thick fog isn't the absence of light. It's light that hasn't yet been taught to have edges. You were born with the Sun in Pisces, and that fog is the air your sense of self breathes. Jupiter and Neptune, the rulers of your sign, don't dissolve you. They teach you there's a way of knowing that doesn't pass through separation, an intelligence older than the knife, made of absorbing empathy and of images that arrive whole before language can pry them apart. You feel the mood of a room the way water feels a change in temperature. You cry at films other people shrug off. You dream of faces your body still hasn't agreed to forget. People will tell you you're too soft, and they'll mean it as a fault to file down. It isn't one. It's a channel that picks up what the harder instruments simply cannot reach. The trap isn't fantasy, whatever the people who never went under like to repeat. It's mistaking compassion for dissolution, letting every wave carry you until you can't find your own shore. So build a small lighthouse inside, not to light up everything, only to bring you back to the same coast each time you've drifted far. Learning where your skin ends, without turning it to stone, is the whole work.