A farm should have a lot of common to an arm. Does it really have? It also should have a lot (it means the same) of common to far. But does it really have? A far arm...

This farm is a small farm. An arm farm? Maybe. On could say and write it's enough to spread one's arms to reach everything, which is true only metaphorically – definitely this is not a maze of buildings (like a page covered with printed words) one can get lost at once walking through it. This farm is composed of two buildings only: neither big nor small house and neither big nor small shed (or cabin). And of huge green thicket – neither forest, nor jungle, nor garden, nor wood, nor orchard... And it is not surrounded by any fence. Nor by any wall. Nor by a wall of green, by a green wall, a living wall, growing, whispering mysteriously, constantly and restlessly moving, breathing, changing . . . . . . . So, there is the wall of plants. Yes, of course. But irregular. Here thick, there thin. Here almost impenetrable – there quite easy to be sneaked through – over there open as a gate – over here lacking - - - over over … being just a hole, empty space . . . . . . . . . Well, once, or even once upon a time, there was a fence, but nor around, only at the front, so a front fence, on the northern edge, where the road is, but it got rotten, pickets decayed, rails collapsed. Only the concrete poles left. Because nobody was able to pull them out they were to support the future green wall, but unfortunately no creeper is growing there, and other plants pay no attention to these poles, simply don't need them, maybe are astonished they don't grow, only slowly, so slowly erode, maybe lichens will cover them eventually, but when will this happen, when is eventually? . . . . Osier, so lush and abundant nearby, here is fussy and lazy. Privet doesn't want to grow at all having betrayed cruelly the dreams of beautiful, wavy, bit tousled hedgerow. Sumacs and roses and other shrubs keep expanding woven with bushy half-wild plum trees . . . . Then the autumn comes and leaves are gone and there is no wall. A sort of wickerwork remains. A sort of. A work of the most untalented and unskillful, a two-left-hand basketer... So this wall is awfully porous, holeful, preposterously permeable. Yet it is a wall. A sort of. Of a wall, indeed.

And a farm should be firm and fermé. Otherwise it is not a farm. Not a typical farm. But it is untypical. Here everything is untypical. Nothing is typical here, except for untypicalness... So, untypical farm can be not firm and not fermé.

This is an eternal, immemorial problem: to fence and not to be fenced, to build a wall around and not to be surrounded by a wall... to be closed, to be enclosed, and to be open at the same time... To be without being... To be not being... To have without having... Not to have having.

To be in and out at the same time. To be inout. To be outin. Out-in.

It may not be so there is no inside and no outside, since they are, they do exist, like day and night do exist – everybody knows when a day is and when a night is. Nobody knows when (and where) a day begins, nor when (and where) a night ends. If it is so, then (probably) there are no borders. And even if they are, if borders do exist, they are blurred, smudged, undefinable, unimaginable.

To divide a plot of ground with no borders – this is unimaginable. Sooner or later a process of dividing should start. For it is even more unimaginable there will be no dividing. No, nobody behind the fence can imagine that.
An ideal farm is easily imaginable. Yes, it is, though each image will be different since every imagination is different.