In the quiet stretch before dawn, where the invisible wires hum silently over dark fields, truths grow like shadows, waiting for morning's brush to expose their secrets.
They call it harvesting, this quiet gathering of whispers, the gentle sifting of data grains between fingertips touched by the chill of night. Here, in the solitude of the cold, everything feels real, more real than the urgent electric buzz of the city streets.
Meet the farmers of thoughts, of ones and zeroes, their hands callused from manual routines, eyes straining against the glow of screens obscured by their own breath.
From their solitary rows, questions arise: What burdens do these harvesters bear? What lullabies of light and darkness guide their hands in fields of intangible depth? To hold so much knowledge, whispers the wind, but to understand none of it is the heavier truth to bear.
Farms of the ethereal, where each pixel lurks like the ripe grain of the digital world, waiting for curious hands to discover the taste of its harvest.