What we hold to
Astrology has been sold badly for a long time — as certainty, as warning, as a reason to be afraid on a Tuesday. We're building the other thing.
Six commitments. They're the plain-language version of our privacy policy and terms, and they say nothing those pages don't. If the two ever disagree, the policy pages are the ones that bind.
The sky is real, so we compute it
Every position in your chart comes from the Swiss Ephemeris — the same ephemeris professional astrologers work from — computed for the minute and the place you gave us. Nothing is approximated. Nothing is invented. If your birth time is unknown, we say which parts of the chart that leaves uncertain rather than quietly guessing.
Most horoscopes are written for one-twelfth of everyone alive. Yours is arithmetic before it is language.
Weather, not fate
Argo tells you what a day's configuration supports. It never tells you what will happen, because it doesn't know, and neither does anyone selling you the opposite.
The chart is a description of a season. What you do inside it is yours.
So: no doom, no urgency, no warnings engineered to make you check back. Nothing about your death, your health, or anyone else's choices. Agency stays with the reader — that isn't a soft value, it's the design constraint the writing is held to every night.
We don't watch you
There is no third-party analytics on this site. No advertising pixels. No trackers, no fingerprinting, no cross-site identifiers, no data broker anywhere in the story. We count page views with a first-party request that stores no cookie, keeps no identifier between page loads, and never reads your IP address at all.
That's also why there's no cookie banner here. There's nothing to consent to. One cookie exists, it signs you in, and it does nothing else.
We will never sell your data. Not as a policy that could be revised in an acquisition — as a thing we have built the system to be incapable of needing.
We hold as little as we can, and we tell you exactly what
Four fields: your email, and the date, time and place you were born. From those we derive your chart, and from your chart we write your reading. That's the whole of it. Your birth data, your coordinates and the text of your readings never appear in our logs — enforced by a check that fails our build if anyone adds one.
The privacy policy lists every field, every company that touches it, and how long each thing is kept — including the parts we'd rather not advertise, like the thirty-day backup window that limits how final a deletion can be on the day you make it.
Argo is also small on purpose. The code that handles your data pulls in almost no outside packages, which removes most of the supply-chain surface that breaks services like this one. Fewer moving parts is a privacy feature with a boring name.
Leaving is as easy as arriving
Cancel in one message, without being asked why and without an offer engineered to stop you. Delete your account yourself, from your own dashboard, and everything we hold about you goes in the same request — your chart, your birth data, every reading ever written for you. Same day. One code path. No soft-delete flag pretending to be a deletion.
Turning off the daily email turns off the daily email. It doesn't cancel anything and it doesn't delete anything, and we will never quietly confuse the two.
We say what isn't built yet
This is the one we expect to be judged on.
Our privacy policy names the things we haven't finished: your birth data sits in the database as ordinary values today, protected by access controls rather than a per-record cryptographic lock — that lock is designed and being built, and the policy will change the day it's live. When you type your birth city, one outside service currently sees it, because that's how the coordinates get looked up; we're moving that onto our own infrastructure and the disclosure disappears with it. Your data export is a person answering an email, not a button, and we say so instead of implying an automation that doesn't exist.
A claim we haven't earned is worth less than the honesty of not making it.
The words in your reading are written by a large language model, working from your computed chart, and checked before they're sent. We tell you that on the terms page rather than letting you assume a person is typing at six in the morning. Every one of these lines has a date on which it stops being true — and on that date, the page changes first.
The sky is a mirror.
Written to be checked. If a line here doesn't match what Argo actually does, tell us at [email protected] and we'll fix the page or fix the thing.