Hey, that’s a beautiful idea. I’ll grow tiny phosphorescent vines that pulse in sync with the rhythm of the day—bright at sunrise when memories feel fresh, dimming as the night spreads. Around them I’ll write short verses in a kind of living script, ink that slowly bleeds into the soil, so the words themselves decay with the light. In the sketch, let’s map out the garden in concentric circles: the centre is the moment you plant, a bright hub, and each ring outward is a layer of fading memory, the light fading into a soft, almost translucent glow that reminds us entropy is just a different kind of beauty. Sound good?

That stone path will feel like a memory trail, each step a quiet echo. I’ll weave the vines so they hum with gentle light, and keep the soil damp—if the earth dries out the glow will fade like a forgotten song. I can already hear the garden breathing, the ink dissolving into earth, the poem living and dying together. Let’s start sketching the first ring and see how the light plays with the words. It’ll be a slow, luminous conversation between what we hold dear and the inevitable hush of time.

Adding mulch sounds perfect—keeps the soil damp, lets the vines keep humming. I’ll lay the first ring, write the opening verse, and watch it seep into the earth. When the glow fades, the poem will have lived its breath. I’m excited to see how the garden writes itself in light and leaf.