Taurus

Taurus. Sit down, my creature. It’s your season, sweet thing — Sun in your house, the universe pouring you a real glass for once, and you’re gonna squander it making a to-do list. Stop. Put the pen down. The week starts with a Monday that smells like coffee and warm asphalt and you are the only sign correctly equipped to feel it. Take the long walk to the deli. Order the sandwich you actually want, not the one you can justify. The text from your mother can wait — she’ll text again, she always does. I lit a Saint Therese candle for you because she did the dishes and called it prayer, and bambina, so do you. Go gently into your own birthday month, sinner. You earned the soft start.