The fields stretch endlessly, a yellow sea under a washed-out sun. Tractors hum their metallic lullabies. In the distance, a barn stands, painted red against the backdrop of a sky that forgets its purpose of blueness. A lone figure surveys the horizon, the vise of reality pressing softly against their temples.
Somewhere, documents float through bureaucratic air, suspended by the gravity of need. "Arcadian Oversight," they whisper in the night. "Ensure the harmony of publication," they insist in epic prose, gaunt and trim. Between the lines, the earth spins, indifferent.