The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Umm, a million ballpoint pens are just... sticking out of the mud in this massive, deserted estuary at low tide. Like, the air's crisp and the smell of seaweed and salt fills my nostrils as seagulls fly overhead in a wide V-formation, while a faint breeze ruffles the surface of the exposed mud. A massive, intricately carved door made from a single piece of driftwood is just... buried in the mud, half-hidden behind the pens, with water trickling out from under the door. The sun's at about a 45-degree angle in the sky, so I'd say it's late morning.