HALL OF INFINITE RECURSION

Falling data like digital leaves.

Deleted files pile like autumn leaves.

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

Incognito mode: the illusion of privacy.

Your screen resolution matches your aura.

Ping timeout: reality not responding.

The ceremony has already begun.

The end is a new beginning.

The homepage is wherever you are.

Your consciousness has been backed up.

Your browser history is a map of your soul.

The harvest of lost connections.