You go to swing with force and the horizon smears just as your fist closes. Mars squares Neptune, the solid will cutting across a dream that will not keep its shape. Push, and doubt floods in. Drift into the image, and the muscle goes slack. You paid in years of motivation that would not hold steady, projects you started clear-eyed that then fogged over with no reason you could name. The grind gave you the nerve to act inside the mist without waiting for it to lift. Imperfect movement guided by a hunch beats clean movement guided by nothing. You walk on now in partial light and do not flinch.