You come in talking, or close to it, the tongue already taking the room's temperature. Mercury, the part of you that names things and splices loose wires together, sits at the same degree as the rising horizon in your chart, that first skin you meet the world with. No distance separates thinking from appearing: the second you cross the sill, the mind is already racing, and it flickers in your eyes. People read you from across the room as quick, fast to the question and faster to the reply. Introducing yourself and reasoning out loud hold the same point in you, so you arrive with words already in hand, the sentence half-built before you reach the chair.