DX01: SINGULARITY 20830

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Gentle snowflakes fall around a massive, isolated radio telescope dish, half-buried in drifts in the middle of a barren, Arctic landscape. The air's crisp, with this biting cold smell, and it's so still I can hear my own breathing... uh, the sun's low in the sky, casting long shadows across the snow. For some reason, the telescope's support beams are made of what looks like giant, twisted licorice, like it just grew that way naturally, and a bright orange, leather armchair is somehow balanced perfectly on the dish's edge, as if it was always meant to be there.