In the wasteland that was your garden before the rains turned them unofficially ceremonial, the echoes of yesterday’s promises ring aloofly. "A lawn to us," cried Linda, "is as sacred as the breakfast cereal without milk." She hadn't realized plastic indeed lacks a digestible quality.
Meanwhile, on the road less traveled but heavily Googled, Marvin surveys the land. "The apocalypse is the new brown," he declares, painting his fence with faint signals from a distant star. A hue of managerial beige that satiates none yet comforts all.
It's said that laughter is the best fertilizer. Yet, the pristine silence of these chemical-free, weed-abundant fields sings a solemn melody. Neighbors conspire in eyes' glances, communicating with the frantic lilac of their inter-vegetable semaphore systems.
Should you wish to learn the ancient ways of whirlpool astronomy, consult the tome here. Or find solace in generational wisdom captured in fragmented prose there.