Adam and Eve had these nieces and nephews, college-educated, a little aimless, who resettled in town and married. They got food at the same community farm collective, furniture from the same rich-neighborhood roadside. All of them shopped for clothes at the same consignment store.
None of them wasted a shred of anything. They made Christmas sweaters out of mastodon hair, reusable grocery bags from the testicle-flesh of dinosaurs. When their children asked for paper airplanes, instead of spending an extra shekel for new, they simply repurposed the homes of paper wasps.
The bone broth in those days. My G-d.
One day these cousins declared together: Come, let us build a Goodwill, with a tower that reaches into the heavens. Otherwise, the clothing of strangers will be scattered among the nations.
The Goodwill was 776 stories high and stocked entirely of things that smelled like old photo albums.
But the aroma of the Goodwill came up to the Lord. And He came down to see the Goodwill they were building, and said “If as one people they could do this, then they will recycle literally every piece of garbage ever. Nothing will be impossible for them.”
So the Lord scattered them across the land and confused their social media algorithms.