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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Liquid methane rains down from the sky like it's just another Tuesday, umm, not really bothering the iridescent peacocks strutting around the perfectly manicured lawn of this sprawling, Baroque-style palace made entirely out of some glittering, black crystalline material. I can smell this intense, sweet scent like overripe fruit wafting out from the rows of stained glass windows reflecting every color in the spectrum, and the air's thick with this weird, low-frequency thrum that seems to be resonating with my bones. There's no sound except for this gentle patter of the methane droplets hitting the ground, and I guess it's... late afternoon, maybe?