wall in my mind, higher than I am tall, or can easily reach without jumping. thick, almost oppressive, but dense and solid overall. deeply set into the gently sloping ground there. tan or gray pebbles scattered through sparse short grass and clumping taller strands and loner stalks. covered with some old and some new graffiti, but much has faded or been colored over many times, long forgotten, like all but the fleeting phantom memory of it’s artists, and gone like the grandfather builder, and laborers who constructed it, and the whole supply chain from quarry to this, now. no stranger to the passage of time. a place familiar to many, unknown mostly to one another. overgrown hedges. vines. weeds. a few scrubby flowers. crumbling blocks, aged. moss and lichen are there, and the scents of strange animals. there is a curious mix of humid and a cool breeze. thick, dense clouds hang low and loom so close there seems a fog or mist. the air feels thick and muggy. Instead of seeing my breath, I see a distortion in the aethyr where mine breath airs should be. I can not count to ten. I think the image fades to black, or ebbs into white at the periphery, growing more distant and dim, and into blur, slowly turning and away.

 a ladder is built into it, wrought of iron and spotted with rust and age, oxidized, mottled dark and alternately goniochromic, gripped by many hands, as it recalls, large small male female black white and other. it is a very content ladder, sturdy and calm. peaceful and happy, and eminently useful.
a fire has burned here, more than once. camp and trash fires are not terribly uncommon, or people burning things- mostly papers and small trash but occasionally some memento, which is significant featuring real moment and intent, and brush fires have been known to occur in the dry months. so much weather has passed, so many days and nights, with company or alone, content or irritated, elated or lonely.
barbed wire is set on the top now, or spikes or something equally vicious, and the wall is transformed from a friendly retreat or a place of respite or solitude to an altogether unfriendly place- be it war camp or prison. I no longer feel welcome but can no longer leave, nor enter the place beyond where above I see the terrifying angels at war.
Now I would describe a door… adore, a laugh, a lark, a metaphorical structure even, and how! a heavy contender, sturdy again, deeply set, of the best material, artistically inscribed with runes and sigils, names in mystical languages, yes… mine… another place.
leading to some stairs in stone, well cut, smooth on top, rough down side, yea… descend.
into darkness, only to see it transformed into light! dimly lit to blazing bright, I think, no.
one could transform it again, to flowers and birds, or to a sculpture of candy. or of foam or rubber, or inflatable bricks. ha, another place, of such things! the floor!  It could be the one of puzzle pieces, nay. or the mat of a dojo, mostly, just the texture like a yoga mat. a doormat, that rubbery texture, and other textures for instance, astroturf, or the fuzziness of a tennis court, almost- between that and the balls, I’m confused. Why here?
finely marbled, concrete slabs, ‘silver & gold’? different places all… I should say! A mansion or manor, no question, great foyer, and staircase in center of fairly large room, this floor perhaps of oak. the slabs for several reasons, the mausoleum, the driveway, some paths around the house, leading through delightful gardens… themselves almost serpentine, topiary hedges, round and square bushes. How did we get here? This arch… a courtyard. A gate. Gone. I thought, a temple somewhere, deep underground perhaps, a bunker too, and a large metal shed, connected. Grimly, I wish to not describe much but am compelled, pushed on, driven, pressing forward while wishing to withdraw, enraptured, trapped between panes of glass or cellophane, then the kitchen, the livery, the rest of it, drawers- cabinets, dressers, closets, all furniture, drapes, a fine couch in a deep purple or magenta hue, not quite octarine! They know, they that live here. A swell library, of course, with a ladder, and plush leather chair, ha! sofa, and stool. a place to shine your shoes, next? or polish that floor… next!
it’s sad though, even if the war ends, when the wall is torn down it seems sentimental, but it happens, and later like it never existed. the end.
epilogue: where once stood a mighty wall, forgotten having fallen into disrepair, disuse, and devastation it served it’s purpose well. Perhaps the wind, rain, sun & moon recall it fondly; ancestor ghosts, descending infants in the future, a snowy day with rabbits and foxes, a whole new plane, and a good level higher, where no wall will stand, but perhaps some child or a hunter may pass by there, or a lady or gentleman, or youths, but all well- like a spirit and elementally seeded return, if the deep earth can feel it, the physical trace memory may hold something but perhaps no more than the sea recalls an iceberg, or a drop of spit, or a cloud remembering rain, or the sky a cloud, but the air, it too dissipates and churns, remembering nothing.