Once upon the oscillating boardroom of the Grand Quantum Custodians,
it was whispered that progress would gently nudge,
yet here we sit, binary nomads amid dystopian nostalgia.
Listen—
the holograms of civic pride flicker in pastrami hue,
while our pneumatic tubes update social statuses
with memories diminished to pleasant verbosity.
Stroll down the vine-infested fiber optic lanes,
where market forces meet the contemplation of cats on kneeled couches.
Irony has prevailed thrice over the vaulting whispers we draft sheafs of.