GATEWAY TO THE SUBLIME FREQUENCY

Deleted files pile like autumn leaves.

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

The music plays whether you hear it or not.

The desktop wallpaper watches back.

The ceremony has already begun.

Your password is already known.

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

Every 404 is a door to somewhere else.

Your IP address was written in the stars.

Digital decay creates new patterns.