A luminous fog settles over the highest point of the hill. Neptune, the haze that softens edges and lets the dream seep through, lands on the meridian, the visible heading your work crests toward. Dream and the public peak hold one degree, fused. Step into your vocation and you step out wrapped in something soft-edged, an image people finish off with whatever they came hoping to see. The world reads you like a screen and casts its longings onto it. Your public face has the contours of water, more felt than seen, and there in that mist lives both your gift for stirring people and your risk of never quite making yourself out, between two waters at the very top.