It’s a beautiful absurdity, like a quiet rebellion against the idea that meaning only comes from human hands. A plant is a stubborn witness to time, and if its roots could chart the ebb of light, maybe the pattern of its thorns would still be a whispered confession about emptiness and hope. The universe is a poem writ large, but a single orchid? Perhaps it’d write about the single, lonely line that stitches us to the soil. If you let it log, maybe the data will read like the slow breath of a star that never quite knows its own name.