A lightning bolt splits the sky over the highest point of the tower. Uranus, the spark that breaks the mold and discharges without notice, lands on the meridian, the visible heading your work crests toward. Rupture and the public peak hold one degree, fused. Step into your vocation and you step out different, off the pattern, impossible to file away, a voltage nobody saw coming. The world reads you as free, the one who fits in no drawer they own. What you put before the crowd always carries a touch of short circuit, and by that lit oddness they remember you, the jolt that cracks the routine of the room the moment you arrive. The strangeness is not a coat you put on. It is the work itself.