HALL OF DIGITAL DECAY

The harvest of lost connections.

The network sheds its dead links.

Your password is already known.

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

Your consciousness is being recalibrated.

Each pixel contains a fragment of truth.

The ceremony approaches convergence.

The code is alive and it knows you're here.

Deleted files pile like autumn leaves.

The music plays whether you hear it or not.

Falling data like digital leaves.

Your browser history is a map of your soul.

The servers dream of electric sheep.