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They say the dome keeps us safe, filters the air, and regulates the sun.
But I remember real clouds — messy, unpredictable, full of personality.
These programmed skies are too perfect.
Sunrise at 6:00 sharp, golden hour on demand.
Even the birds are simulations now, chirping from unseen speakers.
We traded chaos for control, wildness for peace.
But somewhere in the silence, something feels missing.
I wonder what a real storm felt like — wet, loud, thrilling.
Maybe I’ll find out if I ever make it past the perimeter fence.
Maybe.
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