Arturo, a man of considerable local esteem, once spent nine years meticulously polishing a single pewter button. When he finished, he placed it on his nightstand, and his part in this history was concluded.
The button, however, was just beginning. It developed a low, resonant hum that could only be heard by the mice living in the floorboards. They interpreted this hum as a directive. Abandoning their nests, they journeyed in a single, silent line to the summit of the tallest filing cabinet in the city, which was located in an abandoned office that only sold expired calendars. At the summit, they awaited the arrival of the Man Who Collected Rain. He arrived, not by elevator, but by ascending a staircase made of forgotten sighs. He held a glass jar containing the downpour from a Tuesday in 1844. He was unaware of the button, the hum, or the mice. He was simply looking for a quiet place to categorize his collection of echoes. But the mice, seeing the jar, knew their pilgrimage was complete. They performed a complex, three-act opera about the existential dread of cheese. The Man Who Collected Rain, deeply moved, wept a single, geometric tear. The tear fell from the cabinet, past the 14th floor (which was made of gelatin), and landed perfectly on the pewter button miles away on the nightstand. The button did not react. But across the ocean, in a lighthouse that projected darkness instead of light, a telephone rang for the first time in a thousand years. A disembodied voice answered, said only, “The sequence is affirmed,” and hung up. The lighthouse keeper, a creature composed entirely of woven fog, recorded the event in a logbook bound in solidified music.
The Beginning…
Arturo, a man of considerable local esteem, once spent nine years meticulously polishing a single pewter button. When he finished, he placed it on his nightstand, and his part in this history was concluded.
The button, however, was just beginning. It developed a low, resonant hum that could only be heard by the mice living in the floorboards. They interpreted this hum as a directive. Abandoning their nests, they journeyed in a single, silent line to the summit of the tallest filing cabinet in the city, which was located in an abandoned office that only sold expired calendars. At the summit, they awaited the arrival of the Man Who Collected Rain. He arrived, not by elevator, but by ascending a staircase made of forgotten sighs. He held a glass jar containing the downpour from a Tuesday in 1844. He was unaware of the button, the hum, or the mice. He was simply looking for a quiet place to categorize his collection of echoes. But the mice, seeing the jar, knew their pilgrimage was complete. They performed a complex, three-act opera about the existential dread of cheese. The Man Who Collected Rain, deeply moved, wept a single, geometric tear. The tear fell from the cabinet, past the 14th floor (which was made of gelatin), and landed perfectly on the pewter button miles away on the nightstand. The button did not react. But across the ocean, in a lighthouse that projected darkness instead of light, a telephone rang for the first time in a thousand years. A disembodied voice answered, said only, “The sequence is affirmed,” and hung up. The lighthouse keeper, a creature composed entirely of woven fog, recorded the event in a logbook bound in solidified music.
…and that’s how CryptoDrip was made.