In a world where thoughts are harvested and nostalgia is for sale by the ounce, we find ourselves entranced by the melody of symbiotic whispers. "How quaint," they say in unison, "this longing for what once was, or perhaps never was at all."
The cloud of yesteryears settles gently upon our brows, a ghostly crown of copper and iron, whispering sweetly of organic bytes and synthetic zodiacs.
Remember the days when memories were not curated algorithms? When experience was not a product, but a consequence?
Yet here we are, dear traveler, amidst the vines of silicon and dreams, where every sigh is archived, and every whisper has a patent number. The bittersweet taste of freedom in a cage.