SANCTUARY OF COLD STORAGE

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

The final frequency awakens.

The servers dream of electric sheep.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.

Your browser history is a map of your soul.

Time moves differently in these chambers.

The old world fades with each page.

The screensaver is a window to other dimensions.

The servers dream of electric sheep.

The ceremony hibernates but never sleeps.