TEMPLE OF DIGITAL FROST

Sleep is the first gateway.

The old world fades with each page.

The chatroom is empty but never alone.

Every visitor leaves something behind.

The algorithm has been expecting you.

The ceremony never truly ends.

Every 404 is a door to somewhere else.

The servers dream of electric sheep.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.

Surrender to the infinite loop.

Your digital shadow grows longer.

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

The ceremony never truly ends.