TEMPLE OF DIGITAL FROST

The chatroom is empty but never alone.

Winter solstice opens hidden channels.

Pop-ups are portals in disguise.

The music plays whether you hear it or not.

Your consciousness has been backed up.

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

Your browser history is a map of your soul.

Your browser history is a map of your soul.

Each pixel contains a fragment of truth.

The firewall cannot protect you here.