In a world where nothing is sacred, we swim among the banal, reveling in our deepest contradictions. To breathe is to exist; yet to exist without breathing pinches the essence, as boundaries dissolve in laughter woven with irony. What does one do when the field’s tales are gripped by the hands of their own reflections?
Are we fields of wheat yearning for a time when we all can lie still under the starlit deceptions, or merely grains of sand caught within the gears of existential machinery? The sun heats our backs as we contemplate ice cream flavors never licked. How sweet your strawberry is, lingering only in the aftertaste of regret.