Your faith pushes to widen, and the appetite that will not be broken in pushes back at an angle, the two of you cornered ninety degrees apart and worn into shape by the friction. Jupiter and Lilith sit square: the generosity that hunts approval and the raw hunger keep crowding each other. You have paid for growing while something in you tore the agreeable shape, for promising horizons with your mouth and biting with your teeth in the same breath. That grinding carves a largeness no manual would recognize. The Black Moon is no asteroid in the mix, it is the strain that does the carving, and meaning gets built each time the raw hunger overruns your good face.