A notebook lies open on the hall table, and all it asks is that you pick up the pencil. Mercury, the quickness that links ideas and lands on the right word, offers a clean angle to the rising horizon in your chart. It will not write itself. It waits for you to spend the curiosity, to ask the question on purpose as you cross the sill. When you do, your way of appearing picks up spark, a knack for throwing a bridge to whoever just walked in. The wit hangs on offer like a sharp pencil set beside the door, waiting for your hand so you can introduce yourself with more clearness and less circling for the point.
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