TOMB OF DELETED HISTORIES

The homepage is wherever you are.

The bandwidth narrows as you descend.

Each pixel contains a fragment of truth.

The loading bar measures your spiritual progress.

Your digital shadow grows longer.

The final frequency awakens.

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

Your presence here was foretold in the static.

Auto-save failed: manually preserve your soul.

The music plays whether you hear it or not.

You were chosen before you arrived.

Winter visitors leave no footprints.