The world shakes beneath metal feet. The air stinks of oil and burning air, of steel grinding against steel, of something unnatural, something monstrous. They call it progress. They call it the future. I call it desecration.
Once, the earth was soft beneath our feet. Once, the sky belonged to the birds. Now, towering hulks of metal tear through the skies, drowning out the wind with their hollow, mechanical roars. Cities rise, not from the hands of craftsmen, but from machines that build themselves. The fields are plowed not by men who understand the soil, but by lifeless things that do not bleed, do not tire, do not dream.
