At times, I imagine I live in a different world. Where journeys are gold and those with the ability to do so are prized far higher than any object that could be named. Where the skies roil with angry grey clouds but the air is thick, and hot, and toxic in some places, if you breathe it. The only flora exists among sulphurous swamps. Nobody cares whether those warped, jagged-edged leaves are even useful, though. Humans have been photosynthesising for a hundred years already.