sit on a distant hill, their stacks long dormant. And yet, on clear nights, the townsfolk swear they can see a single light flicker within – and a low hum below the earth.

can be used interchangeably with a salad fork.

persist despite humble beginnings; great adversity; and a vast conspiracy by our enemies involving time travel, elective cosmetic surgery, and water aerobics.

will die before we succumb to the potato hegemon's appeals to unity in ecru sameness.

produce a clamor of such force that the neighbors are too afraid to lodge complaints.

belch curious emissions towards a silver-halide sky. "What are they building?" wonder the drivers who speed by on a nearby overpass. None inquire further.

encompass all: we are the flag, the wind that moves about the flag, and the minds which perceive the interactions between the two.

enhance negative entropy in all systems to which they are introduced.

leave unmistakable trace notes of 된장 and warm spices in their wake.

alarm the reassured, and reassure the alarmed.

do not seek power or control, and rebuke all seekers of power and control.

are not a military intelligence agency, though their name is a strategically euphonious acronym which belies the clandestine intent of its membership.

did not start this war, but by god they will finish it.

have taken to the skies. To those who would be free of masters, look for Izar to reach its apex, and listen for our trumpets from the east.

vow to try our best to minimize the harm we cause.

promise it was not our intent to imitate the tone of voice of a certain hysterical soap purveyor.

were abandoned long ago. The grounds are now home to a single, opulent blueberry bush that gives a faint glow each solstice.

consist of no sugar, 5x the fiber, and half the fat of competitors' products. Part of this complete breakfast.

arrange the curious, and derange the incurious.

provoke an identical series of questions to all passersby. These metastasize into a series of looping melodies that haunt them for the rest of their lives.

cannot be dismantled – any brick removed from its walls materializes elsewhere, to be used anew.

rebuild themselves every seven years to dispel any festering orthodoxies.

reviewed the Terms and Conditions of the internet and did not agree – so here we are.

reveal only the anxieties of their occupants, and nothing more.

originated the use of "wyu2" in 1999 and then, frightened by their awesome influence, abandoned the internet.

recommend you not refrigerate tomatoes.

regret to inform you that you're much too late; the ritual is complete, the research staff long since disappeared.

updated their End User License Agreement such that, as soon as you leave this page, your computer (and all materials therein), shall belong to the Bolivian state.

substituted their organic exterior for sleek, icy chrome – and, if they're honest, miss being soft.

belong to a cabal of mercenaries who can only be bought with exemplary sandwich art.

(pronounced: "bologna coup d'etat") see you sitting there, living your little life, not joining the fight against the space slugs.

eschew conventional physics – their structure reveals new sides, rooms, and halls the longer they're observed.

will fire a particle cannon towards the center of Alpha Centauri in 13 years, 8 months, 5 weeks, 3 days, and 1 hour. This is your only and final warning.

volunteer for any manner of prolonged extraterrestrial exploration for which the onset of space madness is an active concern.

rage against the taglufon.

seem to bang and hiss to life at the exact moment the townsfolk have settled into slumber.

awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, and found itself transformed into some kind of monstrous vermin.

transmit an identical message (-.. . .- - .... / .-.. --- --- -- ... -.-.--) on an unused radio frequency for five minutes each day at sunrise.

contribute to the discourse mostly via abstention from the discourse.

handed control of The Artifact to Oswalde (a proto-mollusc from Europa) – please send all queries to l'wop ("l'wop" being Oswald's pronoun, which you knew).

define success as the direct proportion between your desire to howl and the social penalty you'd incur by doing so in whatever setting you've found our work.

apologize for the racket caused by the construction. We are observing all local regulations. Please pay no mind to the trans-dimensional portal over there.

shall visit upon you in your time of greatest need, as long as you still possess the opal our god-queen bequeathed you on her deathbed.

just watched a video of a dog hugging a cat and need a minute.

are trapped in a time loop trapped are loop in time a loop time are a trapped in a time trapped are loop in are trapped in a time loop.

deny any part in the deployment of certain threatening, phantasmagoric notes that have been appearing on mirrors in unventilated bathrooms nationwide.

continue the artistic tradition established by our spiritual forebear, Don Featherstone.

are proud to announce we have achieved a specific gravity grade of "Fancy" from the USDA.

may appear to be a solitary ground pipe, dripping backwash into a gravel pit – but put your ear to the ground and the truth will reveal itself to you.

ignored the red flags and pushed on with their unholy investigations into the abyssal void. Where their proud chimneys once stood, there is now only ash.

distinguish the rejected, and reject the distinguished.

envision a future in which any portion of an individual's limited time as a living organism cannot be purchased or owned by another individual.

have expanded into three new locations, each with their own neighborhood-specific, limited-edition flavor. Collect them all today.

ȁ̧̡̅c͆̈͜͢ț̽ï͙͎̊v̟͂ą͖̎̃t̪̔e̦͖̔̅d̲͛͊͜ ̖̠̇͠ť̤̔͢h͓̿e̦̫̅͝ ̪͊v̻̀i̫̱͞͞ȓ̗u̼̐s͈̟̐́ ̉͜by̛̠͍̋ ̤̪͑͌m̡̀iś̪t̙͎̀̑ak̠̒̋͢e̦͆ ͖̒and͚̘̿͝ a̪̾p̥͒p̳͍͐̂r͑͢e̲͑c̞̐ì̯͕̽ȃ̦te̛̞̩͝ ̨̥͗͂yo̦͐ur ̣̄͋͟pat͓͘ie̳͊ñ̡̠̍c͔̭̒͐ë̡̠́͘ w̹̬̾̚h͉̃i̥̞̽͂l͒͟e̊͟ ͔̝̿͐ẅ̫ë̞̩͂ ̬̾seå͜rc̨̻̏͠h̢͔͌͑ f͉̫̽̾or̥̂̈͢ ̲͞ţ̼͞͞h͍̩̑͠e a̙̟̎̏n͖̓ť̝ị̉do̫̓t͍̲̎͌ḝ̣̈.̤̽

didn't flee the scene – the scene fled them.

disregard that common sense which undermines the common good.

govern the tides, not the Moon. The Moon is a lie.

have lost control of their central battery and may not be able to communicate for much lon

choose profound obscurity over shallow interconnectivity.

do not negotiate with Impressionists.

gain strength every time you drink a beverage through a licorice straw.

explode with brightly-colored smoke and puffs of magenta glitter.

report wild, inexplicable fluctuations within the SOFAR channel.

don't have a mascot, but if they did, it would be a sentient banana.

tire of these fatuous lies. En garde.

worship a certain psychic manatee who's kept under anasthesia in the Utica Zoo.

have witnessed the fall of several once-mighty empires, always with refreshments.

advise caution when interacting with our holographic training program.

embed the airwaves with encoded messages. Tomorrow, we raid Channel 593.

addressed the elephant in the room. We have learned her name is Pradha, and she wants tree bark.

swore off social media and suffered no grievous financial loss as a result.

maintain the tenuous metacenter of the cosmos as we all sail through an infinite sea of background radiation.

dominated a news cycle in 2011 and wouldn't recommend it.

work in a cul de sac of curiosity. The intersection of art and technology was too loud and congested for our liking.

endorse quiet ambitions, reasonable appetites, and making it to the end of our lives with no unique medical conditions that bear our names.

are allergic to taxidermy.

composed an ultrasonic opera to placate our wolf brethren, but lost the transcription in a game of 骰寶.

invented the e/8 time signature on a lark, to confound our tetrarchical oppressors.

can't help but notice the ever-expanding voids in American snack food packaging.

have successfully calculated the mass of the median daydream. Serious enquiries only.

store their collective regrets in a balloon that floats at a constant elevation in the mesosphere.

mt vwls frm thr stndrd cmmnctns t ptmz cmpctnss fr ntrstllr cmmnctn.

offer no promises of salvation, only an excellent cheese selection and good if meandering conversation.

sweep away your lines in the sand.

have discovered the smell of cyan. Productivity has stalled to historic lows.

provide the highest box-to-fun ratio since the Wildberry Pop Tart.

carry on the thankless work of resolving how a square meal can be composed of three parts.

come alive at dusk, without fail, though no one remembers when they arrived or how they were built.

descend only when the black moon is at its zenith.

broadcast their subaudible messages through a network of yew trees in Wisconsin, whose pitch-black syrup is the "essence" in your LaCroix.

move through the walls as if immaterial, our trajectory perceptible only through the faint rustling of potted plants.

carve desire paths through the fabric of spacetime, to facilitate romance and ill-advised acts of petty vengenace.

materialize at the edge of your vision, but vanish when observed head-on.

feel the pull of the tide, no matter our remove from the sea.

rumble to life at night, and appear as a monolithic heap of rust in daylight.

exhumed a talisman of incredible darkness and are forever altered.

emit smoke in forms too deliberate to be random.

crane their ancient optics towards the moon, watchful for the enemy's return.

have suspended operations while we identify the source of this infernal whistling.

are awake at 3 a.m. beset with visions of a new, better Oreo geometry.

have tried to melt down its old machinery, but the metal refuses to forget its former shape.

trade in first thoughts only. Second thoughts are the sustenance of cowards.

operate according to clocks that have lost all connection to the linear passage of time.

administer an archive of historically significant condiments and flavonoids.

devised a sophisticated algorithm that analyzes the dust of a Dinamita Dorito bag to pick individual stocks.

hold monthly seances with James Alexander Dewar for business advice.

sleep beneath the mountains, our dreams leaching into the over-illuminated waking world.

stand guard at the mouth of the cave, never daring to enter.

murmur in forgotten tongues, to summon those listeners whose names predate the word.

grow taller under the light of the Dog Star, their shadows splintering into hardened, unholy configurations.

guide the lost back to the point at which their journeys began.

celebrate the passage of your Great Ordeal. You've done well. Rest, and we will feast in your honor tomorrow.

are a twice-Emmy nominated design, copy, strategy, and animation studio. Please refresh the page to end this hallucination.

are nearly fork-lift certified.

have harnessed Megalon, Unobtanium, Dilithium, and other fictive substances that reify the inevitability of resource hoarding and offer our stores to you, free of charge.

intercepted a signal from Kepler-452b. We regret to report it was an unprintable "yo mama" joke.

have converted the gaps between thoughts into a computable unit of distance, and can pave these lacunae with music for our paying subscribers.

wish you a happy whatever day it is right now.

are eager to share their revolutionary pasta shape, tesserattoni, as soon as the samples stop driving our tasters insane.

can't concentrate with the din of your eyelashes smashing together like that.

sing lullabies to the great machine, to placate its unruly clattering.

deploy a proprietary blend of static electricity and coffee grounds to achieve continuous low-power operation.

pioneered software as a disservice.

are here for the resurgence of the dream ballet in contemporary cinema.

bear no responsibility for the sudden absence of gentlemen named Todd in adult social settings.

are optimized to deploy ClearHelmet QX metaphyiscal machines to facilitate cross-reality data transmission at speeds of up to 2i quettaflops.

have uncovered a vast mycorrhizal entity named Fred that spans four of New York City's boroughs and feeds on our collective complacence.

abide by one rule and one rule only: no weenie business.

have devoted an entire arm of our research division to the discovery of the elusive Seventh Taste.

are sort of like a virtual-reality podcast, but for dance?

strictly hunt non-ambulatory contradictions. A walker will cost extra.

don't endcode ⓢecrⓔt messages iⓝto our ⓓatabase, wⓗo'd ⓔver do something ⓛike that? ⓟlease.

𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝓅𝑜𝓃𝒾𝑒𝓈.