The doorway you come in through and the peak your work climbs toward stare at each other from opposite edges of the sky. The rising horizon of your chart, that first skin you wear into every room, faces the meridian where your public life shows its face, the two strung along the long axis. How you arrive and where your work climbs call each other to account from either end, each pole naming what the other forgets. Step toward the heading you show everyone and the way you first appear pulls back from behind, demanding to be answered too. You learn to hold the cord taut between the entrance and the height, letting neither rope go slack while the other does the work.