The untamed part of you watches the peak of your career from the far rim of the sky, dead across the axis. Lilith, the Black Moon, that calculated lunar apogee where the exiled appetite lives and never a body in the sky, faces the meridian, the visible heading your work climbs toward. The refused thing and the public direction you chase keep colliding, each pole naming what the other will not own. Reach for the vocation you show everyone and the wild thing pulls from behind, refusing to stay out of the portrait the world is painting of you. Some days the work plays agreeable and nobody quite wants it. Other days the exiled part splits the polished version open. You answer it without letting it run the climb alone.