DX01: SINGULARITY 07176

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Tons of worn, antique typewriters cover a dusty, old-growth forest floor, somehow arranged in a repeating, fractal pattern. The air's crisp, like, it's got a hint of wood smoke, and the sunlight filtering through the dense canopy above casts a warm, dappled glow over everything. Umm, a few stray sheets of typed paper have been blown by the breeze into the branches, and they're somehow still being typed on by unseen fingers, adding lines of cryptic, ciphertext-like text to the pages. A soft, muted hum of mechanical typing echoes through the forest, punctuated by the distant rumble of thunder.