You reach out to greet the world politely and something wild in you drags the gesture crosswise. Those two pressures, repeated, have built the whole way you arrive. Lilith, the Black Moon, the calculated lunar apogee that holds the refused appetite, crosses your rising horizon at a right angle, so the agreeable face and the untamed thing keep clashing at the door. You have paid for stepping forward while a part of you tore the pleasant shape, for offering a hand with teeth still bared. That grinding has carved an approach no manual could have scripted. No asteroid is weighing on you here. It is the exiled load you haul into every entrance, and your real manner got built each time the wild overran the polite face.