Every Saturn–Neptune conjunction feels like the night the “unsinkable” Titanic met the unfathomable Atlantic Ocean: man’s towering constructs—be they our bodies, ideologies, or empires—are permeated by mysterious forces indifferent to our ambitions and ideas of control...

Words are weapons. They strip the pretence. Excoriate any performative relationship with their abrasive 'honesty'. Regrets? You might have a few. (Try to keep 'em minimal.)

We’ve already crossed the Rubicon; the emotional wastelands behind us look ludicrous in hindsight—spent, untenable, faintly cartoonish. It’s impossible to feel sentimental. There’s no going back to any of that. Yet the opposite bank still feels impossibly far. And vague. So vague...