Libra, today, your scale of reality might begin to teeter. As you tip-toe into the tangled skein of the grotesque, warped by the cosmic joke of the universe conspiring against your sanity, remember the fickle nature of dichotomy. Everything you have tethered yourself to—work, relationships, communication—resemble now a ghastly architecture of artificiality; cold, cacophonous and concealing an uncaring void beneath its veil of normality. Notice the oddities, Libra; the mailman who grins a bit too wide, the deformities in the woodwork, the echo in your laughter where there should be none. The cosmos offer no comfort, only a stark revelation that penetrates your veneer of transient sanity.

The incidental throbbing of an unknown terror crawls from your skin into the chambers of your heart, Libra, smudging the lines between the animate and the inanimate. You’re treading a nightmarish labyrinth, where every reassuring pattern shapeshifts into an alien cipher, and your breath syncs with the palpable rhythm of existential dread. The ever-spectral moon casts shadows that play macabre charades on your bedroom wall, warnings that escape your understanding. It is no longer just about decision-making; it is about questioning the deceptive Cadmean victory of existence over oblivion. On such despair-inducing days, Libra, remember this: your horrors are your own, a dismal theatre in which you’re the isolated spectator, an audience to the eerie spectacle of your disintegrating reality.