HALL OF ABANDONED CHATROOMS

Every 404 is a door to somewhere else.

Your IP address was written in the stars.

Your presence here was foretold in the static.

Each pixel contains a fragment of truth.

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

You've been here before, in another browser.

Auto-save failed: manually preserve your soul.

The network sheds its dead links.

Pop-ups are portals in disguise.

The loading bar measures your spiritual progress.