DX01: SINGULARITY 08845

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Umm, a small wooden bucket just keeps getting filled with perfectly ripe, juicy apples, somehow materializing out of thin air, on a worn, old-fashioned apple press in a cramped, rustic orchard shed. The air's pretty crisp and fresh, with a hint of damp earth and mold as the sun shines through the small, grimy windows, casting faint shadows across the rough wooden planks. Outside, a gentle breeze rustles the leaves of the apple trees, and a bunch of birds chirp cheerfully, but it's weird that the apple press just keeps running by itself, grinding out perfectly pressed cider.