Every day I count them

and every day the number is different.  Whatever they are, they are not wind turbines, but something else: something other.  Something that waits and watches, until the stars – those hideous stars that the astronomers refuse to talk about, instead always turning the conversation to some safer subject such as what they saw lurking, frozen in time we must all hope, just outside the event horizon of M87* – come right.  And when they do come right, what will come through from the twisted void beyond them?  What master do they serve, watching so carefully over those it will consume?

Yesterday I managed to get close to one.  It seemed innocuous: just an ordinary turbine like so many others, except somehow ... vagrant.  I wrote down the manufacturer's details and serial number: K.TH:U1.HU.  A curious serial number, indeed.