Blame loco motives for greasing the wheels that squeak, mouselike, above the caverns where coal blossoms grow. There, free from the pressures thrust upon their multifaceted kin, they live in monklike isolation, feeding on koans and comics with only the occasional canary to interrupt their scholarly pursuits.
When the mood is right, they shift to the left, swaying to the rhythm of the rails that run amok in their haste to make waste, for smog is seldom carbon-neutral in any botanical sense.
When the mood is in the seventh house, it's understood that harvest time has come. All that blossoms is not gold, but that's no reason to take chances during an identity crisis. Bags packed and passports at the ready, no 'niners are going to shovel their dreams away this time.