Your mouth is still drawing the map across the sky while your boots have already left the room. Jupiter and Mars sit at opposite ends of your chart, a see-saw between the grand plan and the body that just goes. Tip toward vision and you stall, rehearsing a journey you never start. Tip toward the legs and you arrive somewhere with no idea why. Friends know the pattern: you announce the whole continent, then sprint off after one street. You spend years thinking one side has to win. It does not. The plan needs feet or it is a daydream. The feet need a horizon or they just run. Let both stay loud across the axis.