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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A perfectly still, abandoned library sprawls across the middle of a vast, empty salt flat. Umm, seagulls are perched on the tables, preening their feathers as wisps of fog curl upwards and somehow stick to the spines of the books like they're covered in glue. The air is dry, with an electric charge making the feathers on the seagulls' necks stand on end, and it smells like stale paper. Outside, the sky above seems to be... folded in on itself, so that the clouds are somehow touching the ground about a mile away.