Aries: A veil hangs, atom-thin, over your head and shoulders. Some nights a voice ripples through it, muffled, calling the name you bore in some other world. You’ll pause, just for a moment, as if you remembered something and forgot it, all at once.
Taurus: You’re changing slowly. Pavement grows harsh against your feet, and the sharp angles in buildings and streets become strange to your eyes. The loamy forest floor bore your footprints one thousand years ago, and awaits your return. This ill-fitting body cannot keep you captive forever.
Gemini: The ghosts in your lungs turn restless, and you’ll hear their strained voices each time you exhale. They’ll urge you towards dark trees and rainy parking lots after nightfall. These are only passengers—remember this life is yours, and you may walk where you choose.
Cancer: In the far away hills, there stands a deer which shares your breath and blood. It hears each word you speak, knows the scent of your skin, feels every aching bone. Its body is a vessel, and it turns about in endless circles on the slick moss, waiting for your call.
Leo: Overcast skies whisper to you and thick clouds churn overhead in the direction you walk. You will be the first to understand their warnings, sent down through chilled air that prickles your flesh. You’ll know what approaches, but only just before it arrives.
Virgo: After dark, a house appears on the horizon, black and angular with impossible geometry. Yellow light streams from its windows and hazy figures flicker and flow from room to room. One of them is shaped like you, and beckons from the open door. Don’t look at it for long.
Libra: Phantom limbs stretch out from your body, appearing and vanishing in ways you feel but cannot see. Their long, timid fingers reach into a sightless void, searching the unseen spaces. Do not let them travel far, and pull away when you feel something reaching back.
Scorpio: A strange musk and the creaking floor in the next room tells you that you’re not alone. They’re coming closer than they have before, but you’ve known these specters since childhood, and remember them along the roadside at night—just beyond the headlights, eyes button-round and gleaming wetly.
Sagittarius: Crows will hang pine boughs at your window, and watch how you receive them from afar. Bring them inside, braid them into a ring, and place it under your pillow as you sleep. You will travel with these birds in dreams, black and glossy and pure, and wake with the smell of smoke and resin in your hair.
Capricorn: New thoughts will come to you, sprouting tender and pale from the cloudy water in your head. They grow toward the light with a yearning you feared was gone. Rest beside windows, and strange blossoms will unfurl behind your eyes.
Aquarius: In a damp thicket you’ll find clumps of dark hair, tangled and pressed into the earth in the shape of a rabbit’s head. Encircle it with stones and pile soft dirt atop it, but be careful not to disturb its pattern. It will protect you if kept intact, but it is a curse if pulled apart.
Pisces: Animals weep in distant woods, and cry your name with voices never meant to speak. These sounds will trouble your heart, set it thrumming like a moth pressed under a hand, beg you to follow. Try not to listen—they lie beyond a threshold you cannot return from.
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