HALL OF ABANDONED CHATROOMS

Signals decay with the season.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.

The spam folder contains sacred texts.

Your search history searches for you.

The final frequency awakens.

The recycle bin is never truly empty.

Your mouse movements are a sacred dance.

The ceremony has already begun.

Pop-ups are portals in disguise.

Your screen resolution matches your aura.

Your browser history is a map of your soul.