Note: This is possibly the only "normal" chapter in this story. Beware, your brain might explode from its normality.*

*If it does, I'm not responsible for that, either.

Also, this chapter contains the actual idea that this story is supposed to emit. All the rest of the chapters are pretty much the equivalent of a scribbled drawing.

I never smile. Nobody does. Some people don't even know how.

But everyone is perfectly happy, they keep saying. It makes me sound like I have a depression of some sort, and me alone. Or maybe I'm selfish and I think I need more, like some people say.

Sadly, none of that is true. Nobody is happy; but life is perfect. A person's daily movement has dwindled to almost none, far from perfect, but there is such a huge mass of technology lying about that no work is necessary. No problems, ever. No improvisation, ingenuity, cleverness. Life is just too easy.

There was a time when technology was used just enough, for only some things, when there was good, creative technology to make your dreams come true (I KNOW THAT'S A CLICHE! I don't care about your thoughts anymore). Paint programs, pencils, books.

Now people use machines to brush their teeth. People use machines to feed them. And the creativity is gone. It has died out, an extinct and sad species with an almost invisible history that few know about.

It seems odd, that I want a problem. But it's because I don't want to turn grey - there is color, but they all look grey far away. Only up close can you see the specks of ingenuity; but it is barely visible.