A long-forgotten trinket resurfaces in your crepuscular reverie, its tarnished surface reflecting unresolved ambitions from a bygone era. During tonight’s commute, a stranger’s parting phrase—“The cartographer drowns in his own latitudes”—will haunt your dreams until you apply its cryptic wisdom to February’s stalled project. Beware the syzygy of coincidences masquerading as fate; only your north-star instinct can discern true omens from mere celestial noise.