There is a crude shrine to Nick Land in the front porch - a ring of half-melted candles, a dented picture frame, and a strange poetic collage - the first paragraph of Meltdown, pieced together from individual words torn from magazines and philosophy textbooks. A white noise generator hisses quietly from the windowsill, and a carefully typed note tacked to it asserts that the seed value for its inbuilt PRNG "came to me in a terrible dream from which I am yet to wake".
No resident will admit to building it, but when pressed each will mumble something about "the will of Gnon" before making hasty excuses and leaving.