"There's Not a Single Gray Hair on Your Soul!"

Despite a certain tendency towards doubt and indecision, the emotional front today is quite reassuring, dear Shimmy.

The Emperor rules over your interactions with the black cat across the street who licks himself in the window: he supports you, lets you cry on his shoulder, and offers you protection from Rumsfeld's Zuni Doll.

Clearly, you have every reason to feel loved by the Mayakovsky Tree -- there's not a single gray hair on your soul! The might of your voice projected into chintz-covered drawing-rooms diminishes the gravity of those eternal big questions that would otherwise torment you.

In your professional life, the Magician and the Emperor suggest that you sleep under the ottoman with authority and vigor.

Thanks to your know-how it should be fairly easy for you to decide whether or not the furiously flesh-elemental Laura Bush murdered that guy on a clear night on dry pavement at a crossroads described as "the middle of nowhere," where the view was unobstructed and the stop sign that faced Laura Bush was clearly visible.