The periphery is a continual motion machine drawing in the hip and sway of diversity. But, this edge is controlled by centrifugal force. It spits out as hard and fast as it draws in, and it has spun the pioneering crew out beyond its tidy hemline.

All that is left in this spiral-jettied wasteland is an odor. The space that was once made full has now been transformed into a ghostly cipher. There are messages in and around this scented space. The center writes the code for the container. But the scent keeps the space from collapsing. The cast out dwellers have coded a fragrant and malodorous message.

And now a new batch of spirited and witty ones will be selected to sashay into this fringe and the cipher will be once again filled, for a time. Can they pick up on the remnant scents? Can they read it? It contains a warning. How long will it take for the continual motion machine to spit them out?

There periphery is merely a space to temporarily sojourn.