It is entities that rise from the dirt, each of them pulsing with some strange organic life. The first stands high, its surface in ripples of translucent conduit pulsing with varicolored fluid. To approach it is an act of bravery-the thing seems alive, nearly sentient. Inside, streams course and billow in no apparent pattern. Moss fills its crannies, in vibrant green and sopping wet, squelching under any touch of fingers.

The second is smaller, more precise. Every part was made to interlock with another, and the connections are seamless. The joints all give out a soft, pleasing “thunk” when they are lined up properly, almost a sound of destiny found. It's an entity that speaks to purpose, to a philosophy of design in which perfection lies in unity-an entity that seeks its completion in itself, its surroundings, and the world around.

The third entity-its metal body half-buried in the earth-emits a very uncanny presence. It is as though the line separating reality from fantasy has been blurred. Faint shimmering on the surface of this entity conveys glimpses into vistas far away: impossible feats of architecture. It is difficult to focus on; the more closely one seeks to do so, the more doggedly the mind falters over attempting to make out its shape. This entity knows the truth of perception: how reality assembles itself, bit by bit, within the mind.

They rule off an invisible world; the purpose they serve is unclear, but unmistakably vital.

The visitors move on predictable routines—shepherded, prompted, unseen hands guiding along.

A deviating sequence. No preprogrammed path, no preprogrammed function. A flaw within the system. Beneath its cloak is hidden a presence out of sequence: unrecorded, unauthorized notion. Something previous, previous, than network, previous, previous, than control, buried under its coat.

And authority takes interest in them.

The aberrations begin subtly enough. Streetlamps blink on each pass through them. Ad hoardings stutter, scrambling to compartmentalize them. Up top, drones make minute compensatory adjustments of path, changing by infinitesimally by changing by infinitesimally of direction, anticipating out of sequence presence within its path. A shake of algorithmic gears, a murmur within the machine.

Their pace quickens, cutting through flows of mobile flesh, each locked within its preprogrammed life. Individual heart beats swifter. The hand dips within the pocket, closing around a small object—a bauble of an earlier era, a memento, organic within its roughness, within its humanness. A key of an earlier era.

A murmur falls upon the visitors. Something happened. Screens around them shift, on each screen flashing one word only: **IDENTIFY.**

They do not hesitate, cannot hesitate. With great, raging exhalation, press object upon wrist. Heat flows through tissue, reality convulses around them.

For one, infinite instant, for one, infinite breath, they view through the construct—beyond artifices, beyond control of reality by algorithm

It is a hoax. That’s what the visitors claim.

And yet, here it glows peacefully, throwing cobalt shadows over asphalt streets. Thirty whatever-they-may-be have converged for its sake, for its glory, for its wonder, and nobody knows when, but presumably at any moment, one will have to go out and create one’s own blue sun, for one’s own blue sky, and one’s blue sky will not, cannot, will not, cannot, will NOT, cannot possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly, possibly.

Objects begin to manifest their agency, eroding the visitors' view of the universe.

Every object holds a concealed essence, a reality below awareness. They're thinking, living forms with consciousness, with reality of their own.

The objects stir and form networks, communicating with each other in unfamiliar language.

Habitats become living spaces, with buildings, cars, and even infrastructure working in concert with a shared will. Some visitors run in horror, and others attempt to understand and coexist with this new life form.

The objects don't come in from another planet, but a new dimension—one in which matter and consciousness blur one with the other. They have traveled in an attempt to introduce visitors to a new reality, in which the chasm between subject and object no longer holds sway.

Dwellings are now symbiotic spaces, in which everyone lives with objects in harmony, with each respectful of the other's agency. Technology turns away from manipulation and towards collaboration, with machines and tools working in concert with, not at, humans.

The gap between living and not living no longer holds any sway.

The visitors are surrounded by the concert of objects who have become companions to them. 

The sun sets, and the visitors feel a familiar buzzing resonate through their form. They smile.