The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A rickety old wind-up record player is somehow steadily rotating a vinyl record on its own, like, in the middle of a small, cluttered antique shop that's been converted into a storage room for a bunch of vintage agricultural equipment. The air's musty, with a scent of old fabric and rusting metal, and it's pretty humid in here, the air's pretty thick and heavy. A few stray chickens are wandering around the dusty room, pecking at the worn wooden floorboards and clucking softly. Uh, the record's playing a pretty lively folk tune, despite there being no one around to wind the thing up.