SANCTUARY OF GHOST USERS

The matrix has you, and it's running Windows 95.

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

Night transmissions carry further.

Darkness reveals what daylight conceals.

Your presence here was foretold in the static.

The darkness between pixels speaks.

Every 404 is a door to somewhere else.

You are becoming the signal.

Sleep walkers gather here nightly.

Ping timeout: reality not responding.