My wall is desert teeming with life. The sand is hard there, densely packed so as to not succumb to my reality’s physics and fall into the carpet of my hallway.
Snakes hide in the cracks from the tribes of men who rely on their meat.
Beetles hide in the sanded paint from the hawks that fly from one ground to the other, often hitting me in the face as they cross the hall.
The people there sing loudly at night, but it does not bother me. They sing soothing songs of the world their ancestors knew.
They sing of winter, and war, and hostilities brought only by ideas of peace and morality. Then they sing of love, and beautiful animals they have not known; the deer, the red bird, the fat hare, the wolf.
They end their singing always with the final song of night: the song of the great spirit. When the songs of red snow, and black clouds, and stars, and all other things they have not known are finished, they sing to the Great Entity above.
They sing of the one who gives them light, and dark, who passes through the sky as a giant watching over them. The one who sometimes stands and stares. The one who sometimes crouches in the sky, sometimes lays against one of the grounds weeping for what they assumed was their wickedness.
I have not spoken to the people yet, and so they assume the Great Entity is a silent one.
I only look on as they hunt and forage the desert plants. If I get angry, if my wrath be invoked, perhaps their songs are right, perhaps I will repaint the walls.