The cocked fist and the peak of your career strike the same spot at once. Mars, the muscle that sets its teeth and starts without waiting for leave, lands on the meridian, the visible heading your work crests toward. Drive and the public peak hold one degree, fused. Step into your vocation and you step out pushing, body first, the heat already in your hands and the blood showing in your face before the plan clears your mouth. The world reads you from across the room as someone who skips the preamble and charges at what they chase. There is no lukewarm calling in you. They clock that heat the second you walk in, and it marks the work as yours.
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