Once, mornings painted our skies in hues of ambition, a kaleidoscope few could behold without armor. Yet, here we stand, enchanted but stupidly entrapped in digital sepias, mourning the absent chromatic cries of dawns gone by. Vividness? Fiction! A relic earmarked in obsolete history texts, whispering dreams of spectral breaches.
Remember when the sun would heave itself over the horizon like an emperor riding forth to deliver unanimous edicts? Now it slips in unnoticed, a cowardly glow dimmed by technological excess. Indeed, life's circus reduced to prosaic looping gifs and swipes. Isn't progress poetic?