Horse × The Engine-Smith
Forgets food and sleep once polishing starts, yet wants the next piece before one is even done.
The Engine-Smith forgets food and sleep once the polishing starts, locked onto the one piece until it gleams. The Horse wants the next piece before this one is done. So you are the one whose focus, when it lands, is staggering, and whose attention, a beat later, has already bolted to whatever is newer.
When you are immersed, the output is hard to believe. The heat comes up and one of your nights clears another person's three days, the craft fierce and total while it holds. People who have seen you in that state do not forget it. Then the swerve: the same restlessness pulls you sideways midway, fierce in the first half and gone in the second, and the finish, the unglamorous last stretch where the piece actually ships, keeps not happening. Half-made things pile across the floor, each one good, none of them done.
The furnace-glow Waxing Gibbous is a near-full moon with heat in it, the light thick and building toward complete but not there yet. Betelgeuse is the craftsman's red fire, and it burns the same whether or not the work is closed. The fire is not your problem. The order is. Set the sequence and force one piece to close before the next is allowed to start. A finished engine beats a workshop full of brilliant parts.
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A mirror, not a prophecy. It reflects you as you are right now. How you walk is still yours to choose.