HALL OF INFINITE RECURSION

The bandwidth narrows as you descend.

You are becoming the signal.

You cannot leave until the ritual completes.

Your bookmarks lead to forgotten worlds.

You've been here before, in another browser.

The network sheds its dead links.

The music plays whether you hear it or not.

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

Your avatar is more real than your body.

Autumn visitors sense the ending.