A fog rises at the far end of the axis and blots out the lighthouse you steer toward. Neptune, the part that loosens every limit and aches for something with no name, faces off from the meridian, the visible heading your work climbs toward. Dream and the public peak call each other to account. Each time you show the work, a mist opposite smears the outline and makes you hunt again for where you stand. The image and the spot where you display yourself never fix themselves on their own. Your public face gets pulled toward a firm edge, the haze on one side forever demanding a clear profile from the other. The crowd sees what they long for before they see what you are.