HALL OF FINAL TRANSMISSIONS

Every click brings you deeper into the pattern.

Your bookmarks lead to forgotten worlds.

Surrender to the infinite loop.

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

The servers dream of electric sheep.

The end is a new beginning.

Deleted files pile like autumn leaves.

Every visitor leaves something behind.

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

The bandwidth narrows as you descend.

The algorithm has been expecting you.