The Nautilus Machine began in a dream forty years ago. It spun. It hummed. It glowed. It looked like nothing I had made in the past, it didn’t look like anything I would make in the future. A few years later I remembered the dream, and now it came with a title: The Nautilus Machine. 

Over the years the machine has acquired parts, and lost them. It coalesces only to fall apart. It coagulates and thins. It breathes. It comes in and out of focus. Fading sometimes to a word or two, and then it’s back, noisy and overloaded.

I do know something now about the mechanism at the machine’s core: The randomiser. It has a whole bunch of inputs and a corresponding number of outputs, but the paths between them are constantly and randomly switching. An input is always mapped to an output, but it's impossible to know which one. And I know that this switching is done with hundreds of mechanical solenoids, clicking on and off, a cloud of noise.