As the first light of dawn crept through the mist and dew in the quaint borough of Musselwell Hill, an ageing philosopher, of sombre countenance and profound passions, contemplated what seemed a lamentable state of affairs. Residing in one of the few original historical homes left in the beautiful leafy suburb, the venerable Aristotle Jones devoted his existence to considering matters beyond the comprehension of the masses. His hair was long and white, cascading well past his shoulders, with a strong resemblance to a scholar from former times. As he stood by the window of his study, sifting through one of his more obscure postmodernist texts, Aristotle was seized with a sudden clarity on a subject that had preoccupied him for some time now— the ever-increasing cruelty of romance in this confounding 23rd century. Having navigated the tumultuous vicissitudes of the 23rd century, witnessing the curious meanderings and feverish advances of technology, he had found himself not only a critic