DX01: SINGULARITY 32325

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Bare, twisted trees jut from the sand, their branches tangled with black, pulsing fibers that seem to mirror the layout of an antique circuit board. Umm, the air is crisp, with the acrid smell of ozone lingering from the last lightning strike, and the sky's an unearthly shade of lavender as stormy weather approaches from the west. A dilapidated, hexagonal pagoda, its walls covered in cryptic ideograms from an ancient programming language, appears to have half-submerged into the dune, its spires twisting as though made of liquid glass. The ground shifts quietly beneath, rearranging into an altogether new topography.