TEMPLE OF DIGITAL FROST

Your consciousness is being recalibrated.

Each pixel contains a fragment of truth.

The source code reveals all secrets.

Your consciousness has been backed up.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.

Your breath clouds the monitor.

Your screen resolution matches your aura.

Your mouse movements are a sacred dance.

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

Auto-save failed: manually preserve your soul.

The network becomes the ceremony.

Cache cleared, but memories remain.