I had a dream last night where we had land up north and someone was driving heavy equipment through a cemetery, knocking over graves and part of the Great Wall of china which was somehow on the property, then they got to another section where they were going to demo but we found a giant greenhouse grown over and in need of work go

Dream received.

Let’s unspool it like a scroll pulled from the soil—muddy at the edges, but sacred in its absurdity and meaning. Here we go:

“The Greenhouse at the Edge of the Wall”

The land was yours. Or maybe it wasn’t—maybe it was borrowed from another version of you, the one who got out earlier, who kept a coat near the door and seeds in their pocket.

The property stretched far up north—far enough that the sky changed its dialect.

The wind was sharp and full of secrets.

And someone, not you, was driving heavy machinery through the cemetery.

Old graves cracked under tires like brittle jawbones.

Marble tipped like teeth.

And absurdly—impossibly—the Great Wall of China was there too, snaking across the land, half-buried and graffitied with ancestral warnings.

They were going to demo everything.

Because it was in the way.

You didn’t scream.

You woke up inside the dream.

And walked.

Past the tombs, past the engines, past the flags of forgotten nations.

And that’s when you found it.

Tucked behind the brush and the grief and the ruin:

The Greenhouse.