Neptune squares the nodal axis, your drift crossing the heading at ninety degrees and grinding even through the fog, and the load sits on a step your longing keeps dissolving before you can plant a foot on it. Whenever the route turns demanding you disappear into vision, imagining the move in vivid detail so you never have to make it. The friction is no failure. It is firming something solid under the mist. The dream turns useful the day it lights the hard step instead of fogging it over, and the growth finds its frame each time you walk the turn instead of evaporating around it.