The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Umm, sunlight's barely peeking through the dusty windows of an old, dilapidated factory, casting a pale glow on... like, hundreds of antique clockwork machines scattered all over the floor, somehow whirring and clicking away in sync with a repeating audio clip of Terence McKenna's Machine Elf lecture. A heavy scent of oil and rust hangs in the air, which feels stale and musty, with a hint of static electricity. Outside, it's overcast, but in here, iridescent flowers are somehow blooming out of the metal gears and wires. The sound's really hypnotic, like...