The grass grew as high as a man's knee. Tiny spring flowers peeped from within, dots of purple and white. A river wended through, its narrow banks dropping steeply into the water. The cobalt of the water set off the brilliant greenery.
A poet would call it idyllic, a verdant land of wonder. A painter would set their canvas on a rock in the middle of the river in order to capture the rush firsthand. It was hard not to feel a thrill of virtuality, a tingle down the spine.
But, if one were to stop, one might notice discrepancies. There was no movement other than the push of the river. No wind stirred the grass. No small animals left sign of their passage. Not in the earth with its dull sheen.
If a handful of dirt was taken and raised it to one's nose, one might be surprised. It had no smell of good growing things. It was cold and sterile. Nothing but crumbled metal, so small that they ran to smoothness, like the sand of an ancient beach, worn until it bore no resemblance to the mountains it had once been.
The grass was soft, but it didn't have a scent. It was no green, growing thing. Every leaf was a wisp of cloth. With some examination, the warp and weft could be seen instead of tiny veins and capillaries. The stems were wire, bent to contain their cargo. Any flowers were puffs of tulle or wispy gauze, delicately arranged.
Then, confused, if one went in search of the river to anchor oneself, they would find no comfort in the susurrus of running water. Propelled by some unseen force, bolts of cobalt satin rustled downstream, conforming to a proferred hand.
There were no other sounds than the rushing fabric water. Birds, small animals, even insects. It was a still place. Not one meant for life, but for admiration. Nothing sustaining could grow.