Ever thought about a vending machine that whines like an old drum and tells a myth every time it drops a snack? I’m sketching one that rattles with rust and sings of forgotten gods—thought it might tickle your ritualistic fancy. What do you think?

Hah, you’re right, kid. If the thing it spits out ain’t worth the whispers, the whole thing’s dead as a rusted hinge. I’ll load it with trinkets, little relics that look like they’re from another century—maybe a busted watch, a chipped bone, a dented key. Each one will be a memory in metal, a pulse of forgotten gods. That way the machine’s chatter is the wind through the bones of history, and you get something that’s more than just a snack. What’ll you pull from the back? Any old junk you’ve got lying around?