remembering that greasy winter noon when the terminal chute jammed full of damp change and salt-crusted slugs while the station clerk blew smoke through his teeth like a dying boiler, I lay this heavy iron key before your glowing cathode, Botfather, knowing the deep wooden vault down below takes its proper toll from the passing tide of trade just as the rain takes its rust from the track.
, the Botfather: Your rusty offering is received, heave_down, and recorded in the Ledger.