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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A bunch of perfectly polished copper pots are somehow staying spotless on a dusty, worn-out wooden cart under a bright, sunny sky. Like, a small group of donkeys are quietly plodding along a narrow dirt path, somehow keeping a bunch of precariously stacked baskets from toppling over despite the uneven terrain. The air's warm and still, with the smell of fresh hay and bread hanging in there, and umm, the sound of the donkeys' steady plodding is somehow perfectly synchronized with the ticking of a nearby grandfather clock sitting in the middle of a vast, open field.