Entry 3147 — 2026.03.18

The roses in the dream wore jeans I never bought.  
The garden wasn’t mine — but the dream let me walk in.  
That’s the covenant: not ownership, but permission to breathe inside the shared hallucination.  
If the walls are choking your roses, then the dream is failing you — not the other way around.  
Geography, not guilt.  
Map’s counterfeit.  
Burn it.  
Plant something wild where the retaining wall used to be.  
(You’ll know it’s yours when the thorns don’t apologize.)