SANCTUARY OF COLD STORAGE

Your screen resolution matches your aura.

The recycle bin is never truly empty.

The ceremony has already begun.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.

Your mouse movements are a sacred dance.

The recycle bin is never truly empty.

The old world fades with each page.

Digital frost spreads across the network.

The spam folder contains sacred texts.

Pop-ups are portals in disguise.

The final frequency awakens.