The doorway you come in through tugs one way and the peak your work climbs toward tugs the other, the two set at a square corner. The rising horizon of your chart, that first skin you wear into every room, crosses against the meridian where your public life shows its face, the visible heading your output points. How you appear and where your work climbs refuse to walk the same line. The way you present grinds against the direction you chase, and the elbow keeps knocking at the turn. Out of that scraping between the entrance and the height comes a gait that never quite settles, forever adjusting its step to keep both ends moving.