HALL OF FINAL TRANSMISSIONS

The old world fades with each page.

Visitors and visited become one.

Your breath clouds the monitor.

You've been here before, in another browser.

Buffering... buffering... enlightenment.

Your presence here was foretold in the static.

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

The desktop wallpaper watches back.

Every 404 is a door to somewhere else.

Buffering... buffering... enlightenment.