The vanilla sky signified a whole new direction for longing. The despair of humanity against the severe oppression of natural science was at an imminently pending doom. The only hope of salvation lies in the form of mechanical science. But a mere mention of such suggestion only irks the majority, they who lead the masses to survival, saying it only represents a slight tinge of hope and success, even an abashed surrender, in simile, like clashing bonfire to wildfire. There are no winners, only death and suffering, more oppression and inequality including amongst themselves.
The planet has melted into chaos, a globe which was once round now became crescent from depletion. It is no longer a safe haven like once before. The word 'animal' ceased to exist, there only is an 'organism' which hardly takes up all living matters in general in scope. Only the ribald mind of a schizophrenic can this everlasting pain be minimised, an involuntary escapism to the horror attributed to the greed for ultimate truth of the 'organism' itself. From afar it seems like limbo to the hypothetical eye in the stars.
But the cry of help that echoed all throughout is finally heard.
The eye of the stars behind the shadow of a dark galaxy glided along with an army of a thousand ships headed straight for the condemned planet where an invasion overlaps another invasion. Mystery arises as to whom carries the burden of a paladin.
The sudden course which ended in self-destruction or the silent whisper in the clouds with a fist full of glimmering false hope?