The words come out rounded, like pebbles that have already spent years rolling in the river. Mercury, the part that thinks fast and names without tripping, runs at a clean angle to the rising horizon in your chart. What jams in others rolls loose in your way of appearing: the conversation walks into the room at your side, nothing forced about it. People read you from across the floor as easy to follow, clear in the first trade of sentences. It is not cleverness. It is a channel. The way you arrive at the world brings the word already set in its slot, and the other half-understands before you finish the line.