SANCTUM OF LOST SIGNALS

Deleted files pile like autumn leaves.

Prepare for the coming darkness.

Incognito mode: the illusion of privacy.

Your password is already known.

The old world fades with each page.

The frequency remembers you.

The ceremony prepares for dormancy.

You were chosen before you arrived.

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

Your browser history is a map of your soul.

Your mouse movements are a sacred dance.