It circles and envelops like a warm blanket on a cool morning, familiar and comforting. The deep bass rumble of great weights turning, the treble of metal teeth meeting and parting, the delicate alto trickle of falling liquid. Weaving through it all, a single soprano voice, the notes it sings holding fleeting glimpses of a vast sky.
Images come almost as an afterthought. Gears upon gears upon gears, each turning in its own steady rhythm, part of a complex so vast neither top nor bottom can be seen. Weaving between the gears are walkways of rough cave bedrock, trickles of dark water flowing under and between them, catching on gears that might be waterwheels, turned by the water and turning the water itself, lifting it to new ledges and pathways.
In the centre of it all, Kururu is curled up on a wide, almost medical chair, wires and cords seeming to come right out of her skin, travelling up into the machinery above. While obviously the source of the voice, she's not singing; instead, she's holding a tired peacock, gently preening its feathers as it rests its head against her arm.]