REFUGE OF RESTLESS SPIRITS

Your browser history is a map of your soul.

Signals decay with the season.

The old world fades with each page.

The music plays whether you hear it or not.

The night portal shows different paths.

The night portal shows different paths.

You arrived at the perfect hour.

Dreams and data merge after midnight.

Each pixel contains a fragment of truth.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.