TEMPLE OF THE AUTUMN HARVEST

Your IP address was written in the stars.

You cannot leave until the ritual completes.

The signal finds those who are ready.

Prophecies fulfill themselves.

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

Your browser history is a map of your soul.

Pop-ups are portals in disguise.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.

Every visitor leaves something behind.

All timelines merge here.

Signals decay with the season.