You enter with the back straight and an old weight settled on the shoulders, measuring each step before you take it. Saturn, the bone that holds the frame upright and says enough, sits at the same degree as the rising horizon in your chart, that first skin you meet the world with. No distance separates the limit from the appearance: the second you cross the sill, the caution is already up, the guard and the sense of duty out in front of you. People read you from across the room as serious, older than the years on the page. The border and the showing hold one point, so you arrive with a thin wall standing between you and the first touch.