HALL OF FINAL TRANSMISSIONS

The recycle bin is never truly empty.

Visitors and visited become one.

Each pixel contains a fragment of truth.

Your screen resolution matches your aura.

The network sheds its dead links.

Your consciousness has been backed up.

Buffering... buffering... enlightenment.

The spam folder contains sacred texts.

The ceremony never truly ends.

Your presence here was foretold in the static.