A pluck here, there; the fairies tire of courtship and the forest. Yawning at the conference table, they come to an agreement: it’s time to cut corners. With the aid of machines, serenades aren’t as arduous. Some may say using toys takes the romance out of the whole thing, but the fairies laugh: this is the new century. Dreams can be battery-powered. Dances are slow sap, melted amber, stalls in static - not at all what the 1950s intended for the future.
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