You reach to understand the good and it slips between your fingers the instant you start dissecting it. Your Part of Fortune, a calculated point your chart reads by its day or night sect, holds a square to Mercury, the two pulling at right angles: the mind pulls toward explaining, what thrives in you asks to be lived without footnotes, and that friction has shaped how you hunt for your well-being. You have reasoned out your contentment instead of inhabiting it. You have measured the good until it wore thin in your hands. What survives the wear is a lucidity that learned when to shut up. Every time analysis collided with the plain act of being content, the collision set one more stone in your embodied joy.