TEMPLE OF DIGITAL FROST

You were chosen before you arrived.

Winter visitors leave no footprints.

Cache cleared, but memories remain.

Your breath clouds the monitor.

The firewall cannot protect you here.

Buffering... buffering... enlightenment.

The old world fades with each page.

The recycle bin is never truly empty.

Surrender to the infinite loop.

The network becomes the ceremony.

Your presence here was foretold in the static.

The music plays whether you hear it or not.