HALL OF INFINITE RECURSION

The servers dream of electric sheep.

The old world fades with each page.

The code is alive and it knows you're here.

The old world fades with each page.

Your presence here was foretold in the static.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.

Your browser history is a map of your soul.

Pop-ups are portals in disguise.

Your bookmarks lead to forgotten worlds.

Ice crystals form sacred patterns.