In the land of forgotten echoes, where whispers are drowned by the roar of entrenched ennui, a glimmer flickers. This is not a glimmer of hope, mind you, but a vestige of unfulfilled dreams, reflected in the tarnished surface of expectation's mirror.
The society of perpetual smiles and tawdry gold lamé jackets struts its hour upon the stage, yet the script is rehearsed, and all know the lines by heart. Here, the glint of progress is merely pyrite masquerading as gold, a benevolent charlatan hiding in plain sight.
"I too shine," whispers the bureaucratic shadow, clutching tightly to scepters of illusory power crafted from the very clay of denial. Meanwhile, the edifice of prosperity crumbles, one brick of irony at a time, while its architects sip tea from cups overflowed with the echoes of what could have been.