DX01: SINGULARITY 08610

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Tons of dusty, old grain sacks are piled up on the worn wooden floor of this small, rural barn, and a bunch of chickens are pecking at the ground, clucking softly. Like, the air's pretty still and musty, with a strong scent of hay and feed, and a few faint streaks of sunlight filter in through the grimy windows. A rusty old pitchfork somehow keeps scooping up piles of hay and tossing them neatly into a stack, all by itself, as the chickens scratch at the floor. The warm sunlight casts a cozy glow over the scene, umm, looks like it's maybe late afternoon.