You lean toward the sacred and in the same breath the good clouds over and loses its outline. Your Part of Fortune, a calculated point your chart reads by its day or night sect, squares Neptune, the two set at right angles and rasping: the mist pulls toward dissolving, what thrives in you asks for one solid thing to grip, and that strain has carved how you seek well-being. You have idealized your contentment until it arrived and you could not see it. You have taken your satisfaction for a mirage and let it pass. What gets carved in return is a discernment that tells the dream from the real meal. Every time the illusion collided with what fed you, the blow chiseled one more facet of your embodied joy.