HALL OF INFINITE RECURSION

Your password is already known.

Visitors and visited become one.

The chatroom is empty but never alone.

The spam folder contains sacred texts.

Each pixel contains a fragment of truth.

Pop-ups are portals in disguise.

Your bookmarks lead to forgotten worlds.

Signals decay with the season.

Surrender to the infinite loop.

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