The Tower

Mars stands close today, and something you built on borrowed ground is not holding. You may feel the first shudder before the sound arrives — a plan, a certainty, an arrangement you have been bracing with both hands. Let it go down. The lightning that falls here is merciful precisely because it is quick; it takes only what was never yours to stand on. The gift is air where a wall was, sudden and cold and honest. The cost is that you will not get to choose the hour, or grieve it neatly. Stand outside the falling thing. Keep what walks out with you.

Mars burns low today, holding its lightning behind clouds. Nothing falls — and that is the whole weight of it. You move through rooms whose walls you have learned not to lean on, stepping over the hairline fracture in the floor as though it were a habit rather than a warning. The gift is time: no ruin arrives before you are ready to meet it. The cost is the listening, the small tax paid each hour to a structure you already know is hollow. Somewhere in today's quiet you may name the crack aloud. Naming is not yet demolition, but it is where the sky begins.