The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Rusty water towers loom in the distance, sunlight casting long shadows across a vast, dusty railroad yard. Like, the air's thick with the smell of diesel fuel and creosote, and it's really still, feels like a storm just passed. Uh, somehow a long train is steadily unloading old, worn-out furniture from its boxcars, but instead of just dropping it, each piece is getting carefully arranged into perfect little rooms on the gravel, complete with tiny little lamps and flower vases. Water's dripping slowly from a busted pipe somewhere, soaking into the dusty ground.