The sky opens at exactly 3:07 PM, but time is a concept the visitors don't bother considering. They spill out like ink, their bodies composed of forms not quite liquid and not quite light.
One visitor-a media representative emanating colors that say joy and mild gastrointestinal distress-prods at a car, now rusted into a decent semblance of modern art. The car suddenly opens into a flower of hammers, as if to contest its own irrelevance. The visitor does not bat an eye, but simply absorbs the hammers into their mass. Hammers, after all, are good for plying recalcitrant objects for memories.
They're here for one reason: to harvest Earth's dreams. Dreams are their fuel, their art, their raison d'être, though they'd never admit to speaking French. But Earth's dreams are strange now, warped by centuries of human absence and an over-ambitious AI that once tried to terraform the moon into a giant taco. One dream the visitors uncover involves a sentient typewriter plotting world domination. Another revolves around a library where all the books whisper insults. One visitor eats both dreams anyway, their form briefly shifting into the shape of a very disappointed typewriter.
They are archivists of chaos, cataloging not what was logical or important but what was delightfully unnecessary.
Their forms stretch and twist, morphing into a single colossal being shaped like an inside joke nobody remembers. They hum together, a sound like static and laughter, and Earth itself seems to vibrate in response.