DX01: SINGULARITY 36178

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Dusty air's thick with the smell of old hay as sunlight streams through wooden slats, casting intricate patterns on the ground. Umm, I'm pretty sure that's a vintage threshing machine... in the middle of a sprawling, Baroque-style, mirrored infinity corridor. The still air is somehow supporting hundreds of fluttering paper scraps, stuck in mid-flight, frozen like insects in amber, while more paper fragments appear to be slowly devouring the threshing machine's metal components. Like, the hum of some unseen engine or low-frequency vibration is causing my teeth to ache, not helping my already pounding headache.