In an age where tranquility is manufactured, the fields remain, steadfast and still, beneath the spinning wheels of industry. Yet here, in the aether's gentle embrace, one might find an illusion cherished more than reality.
Imagine, if you will, a pastoral dwelling. Resplendent fields of a synthetic chlorophyll grace the horizon—fake grass, green paint, the 21st century’s Eden. Farmers of Fortune brandish iPads instead of pitchforks, cultivating crops of social clout and hearty likes.
The breeze whispers secrets only those blessed with Wi-Fi signal can comprehend. "Ah," one muses while squinting at the sun-dappled glow of their device, "Life as it should be. A series of perfectly timed tweets echoing the cosmic silence." And the wind answers back, or perhaps it was just an app notification.
This is not a critique, nay, a satirical sketch of dystopian revelry. We revel not in destruction, but in the reconstruction of old bucolic dreams. Wander beyond the aether:
Pause to inhale deeply. The synthetic air conditioner hums a symphony—a dirge for days unposted. Valor in the face of blandishments, courage in the uploading of moments.