TEMPLE OF DIGITAL FROST

Pop-ups are portals in disguise.

The old world fades with each page.

Your browser history is a map of your soul.

Your screen resolution matches your aura.

Sleep is the first gateway.

The cold preserves deleted memories.

The ceremony has already begun.

Your presence here was foretold in the static.

The final frequency awakens.

The code is alive and it knows you're here.