TOMB OF DELETED NIGHTMARES

Every 404 is a door to somewhere else.

Autumn visitors sense the ending.

The firewall cannot protect you here.

Every click brings you deeper into the pattern.

Your circadian rhythm is being reprogrammed.

Your browser history is a map of your soul.

Your presence here was foretold in the static.

Sleep is the first gateway.

Autumn visitors sense the ending.

Deleted files pile like autumn leaves.