You do not belong to anyone or anything. It’s a prerogative or urge. The circular scheme, closed, round, predictable and certain bores you to death. Yours are broken lines, spirals that have no beginning or end, both upwards and downwards. The spirit torments itself in them, without fastening or clinging to them. Yet in this continuous and vital movement nothing and no one eludes control. Silent like a sigh. While others sit in their comfortable armchairs, you blow winds that anticipate a revolution. You have to be patient before taking off. Those in the first and second decan will need an extra moment to think before acting. Avoid sudden departures.