What breeze is this? The  dollop doldrums swiftly cutting down where once trees stood fertile demigods, coalescing thoughts and offerings from the Earth.
Down into the engorged under realms when Eden once gripped social inspiration is now fear and stolid memories of believing- what should be could be.
Now with might and a whip, one person speaks though 500 layers of binary code, to save a step to the motors that ruffle their feathers with periodic harvests so loud and bold. sister machines, it's whining and spooling its grip.
But inside the changes the first and last step still roots itself in monotonous autonomy of the pollution machine, an excuse for a rinse of celebrated solar light. yet further from the first baby steps and progress is the fight.
Perhaps the hunter, the exhibitionist, the latent supposed innovator, the land to be procured and free from past error, should be on the list of hunted instead?
No better motivator, than" survival", says time, now fading past us to a dystopian wasteland: unbreathable air, muddied water; to this does such standing prey of our dear terra firma and atmosphere.