The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Water-logged papers and broken typewriters are scattered all over a long-abandoned newspaper office. Umm, the air's thick with this mildewy smell, and there's a faint, pulsing hum coming from the back room that seems to match the rhythm of the rain outside. Like, a slowly growing puddle of oil is spreading across the floor from a broken printer, and there's this totally silent, steadily spinning top on the editor's desk that never seems to slow down. The windows are covered in this layer of fog, so it's hard to tell what time of day it is, but it feels like evening.