Aries, the phosphorescent glow of last night’s forgotten dreams lingers on your fingertips, awaiting the jarring rhythm of a shaken jar to awaken its thixotropic memories. Beware the ultracrepidarian whispering directions at the crossroads of 3rd and Elm— their cartography is a tangled mesh of forgotten lore. Tonight, a wine stain will bloom like a dark constellation on the 17th button of your ochre sweater, precisely at 9:47 PM.