TOMB OF DELETED HISTORIES

The bandwidth narrows as you descend.

Your presence here was foretold in the static.

Your consciousness is being recalibrated.

You've been here before, in another browser.

Your mouse movements are a sacred dance.

Each pixel contains a fragment of truth.

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

Signals decay with the season.

The ceremony prepares for dormancy.

The desktop wallpaper watches back.