Upon a scrap of wasteland close to the sidings of the railway line which connects Eastcote and Trenford stations stands this anonymous building - one which appears to possess neither doors nor windows. A pulsing thrum of machinery emanates from within, perhaps leading one to assume that the squat, blocky structure is some kind of processing plant - were it not for the fact that the throbbing cadence of that internal machinery seems, on a closer listen, to delineate the contours of a wholly alien rhythm; or for the oddly organic, lapping sounds one can occasionally discern from within - as of something vast, fleshy and amorphous constantly pressing upon the inner walls of the place.
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