TEMPLE OF THE SLEEPLESS

Every 404 is a door to somewhere else.

The algorithm has been expecting you.

You cannot leave until the ritual completes.

You arrived at the perfect hour.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.

The darkness between pixels speaks.

Darkness reveals what daylight conceals.

Frozen frequencies pierce the veil.

The bandwidth narrows as you descend.

The spam folder contains sacred texts.

The portal chose you, not the other way around.

You cannot leave until the ritual completes.