Old village postmen crossed three towns before noon with a stack of letters tied in twine, and they could tell from the weight of an envelope whether they were carrying good news or a bill. You were born with the Sun in Gemini, and you have that same touch. You pick information out of the air the way other people pick coins off the ground: a stray word from a stranger on the train, the half-second someone hesitates before answering, the way the light in a room shifts when a new face walks in. What others read as restlessness is, in you, an instrument tuned to catch what most people never register. Mercury, the ruler of your sign, doesn't scatter you. He teaches you that knowing is translating, that every conversation is a bridge laid between two shores that didn't know they wanted to touch. Here is where you fool yourself, though. You start to believe you've lived everything you've merely touched, and an inventory of impressions begins to pass, in your own mind, for the slow digestion of one real experience. So try this, just once today. Stay with the first sentence. Don't change the channel. See which thing finally lands in the body when you stop reaching for the next one.