You step out to meet the world and the familiar ground you came from yanks you crosswise, the same retreat you keep sliding back into. Your South Node, the familiar end of the lunar nodes, a calculated directional axis and never a planet, crosses your rising horizon at a right angle, so the way you arrive and the heading you owe yourself keep hauling along different lines. You have paid for greeting people through the worn old mask whenever the route asked for something new, for meeting the world from the rut instead of stretching past it. That grinding has carved a shape in you. The way you arrive ripens each time you stop ducking back into the known manner at the door.