Nothing is robotic about the creators of the operation. They seek satisfaction and seek to satisfy. It is the natural love combination. Gives and takes. Even the clouds are not linear, they are akin to fingerprints and DNA. Spiralling. They are organic, they are like a paint brush with a thousand strands, whooshing across the sky. All unique. Always 4D, with curves and heat. With lights and darks combining. That's where the angels go to play and rest, to practice. Everyone is friendly there, kind and benevolent. As the cold gets colder, they will disappear. Time means nothing to them, the concept is irrelevant. Eternal infinity.
Above, from what we call space, it is a sphere of perfect harmony. A big picture. Silent and peaceful. Except for the beeps of the monitors, the creaks of the hydraulics, and the horn of Miles. Like heaven has sounded off enough. The talking must stop, it leads to nowhere. It is primative. Writing will last. Art survives. The sphere will last.
The Revolution was a revolution. The sick and tired just got sick and tired. It really was the reason, no one likes to be told what to do. Compel and be compelled, that is the answer. Inspire and be inspired.
Ask those who know about sunrises and sunsets.