You arrive at the door already a size too wide for the frame, shoulders rolling back, filling the whole jamb. Jupiter, the part of you that throws the chest open and says yes before anyone tallies the cost, sits at the very degree of the rising horizon in your chart, that first skin you meet the world with. No gap separates showing up from swelling: the second you cross the sill, you are offering more room than the room can hold. People clock you from down the street as someone who brings good weather, and mostly they are right. The largeness is not a coat you put on. It is the cut of the doorway you walk through to greet whatever comes.