The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Sunlight's filtering through a grimy window into some cramped, old woodworking shop. Like, the air's thick with the smell of wood shavings and sawdust, and it's pretty quiet, just the sound of a few birds chirping outside. Umm, a bunch of half-finished wooden birdhouses are scattered around, and somehow, this old, rickety wooden lathe is steadily spinning a piece of wood into a perfectly symmetrical chair leg, even though there's no one operating it and no visible power source. The air's pretty still, and it's warm, must be late morning or something.