You climb toward the peak of your career and something wild in you drags the ascent crosswise. Lilith, the Black Moon, that calculated lunar apogee that holds the refused appetite and never a body in the sky, crosses the meridian at a right angle, the visible heading your work points toward. The untamed part grinds against the public direction you chase, and the elbow knocks each time you step out to be seen. The wild will not slot in clean to what the world expects of your craft. No asteroid weighs on you here. It is the exiled load you haul into the open, and out of that grinding comes a public manner that refuses the mold, teeth still bared under the title.