When the wheels of civilization grind across the earth, all that's left is a noisy wasteland. And I've just returned from a private exhibition—not of paintings, but of natural wonders collected from across Carlos, untouched by human hands. Every mineral, every feather, frozen in the Creator's most perfect stroke. Alas, most people only see their price, not their beauty. Beauty never belongs to the masses; it whispers only to the few souls who know how to gaze.