You climb toward the peak of your career and the fog crosses the path sideways. Neptune, the haze that smudges every outline it touches, pulls at a wrenched angle against the meridian, the visible heading your work climbs toward. Dream and the public peak cut across each other, and the grinding leaves a murky film. The image you give goes blurry, the heading of your work muddling right as you show it to the world, or you lose your own thread of who you are. From that grating you learn to wipe the glass, to set a firm edge where the haze wants to dissolve it. The vision is earned by rubbing the murk against the frame until an outline holds and the true dream comes clear of the smoke.