Skyscrapers

Last night I had a strange dream about a massive rooftop garden in some city, frozen over, nearly a mile up in the sky. I stood in this garden, in the middle of a blizzard, staring at a rickety rope bridge extending deep out into the unknown, presumably to another mile-high rooftop, while so many people formed a giant line as they crossed it, easily a hundred of them or more, disappearing into the clouds and snow one by one; wind rocking them gently, like an ocean wave, slowly enough to not impede their movement, but strong enough to make it clear that the bridge was not clamped down in any way, free to move wherever the wind might take it—In the dream I stood completely still, staring at this bridge while the crowd around me kept moving towards it as if it was the obvious and ordinary thing to do, and with each one that stepped off of the rooftop and onto that bridge I wondered, what must be on the other side that makes them so sure it’s where they want to go, and that the reward is greater than the risk?

A strange dream indeed.