TEMPLE OF DIGITAL FROST

Your cookies remember what you've forgotten.

Digital frost spreads across the network.

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

All timelines merge here.

You've been here before, in another browser.

You cannot leave until the ritual completes.

Your IP address was written in the stars.

The screensaver is a window to other dimensions.

Your breath clouds the monitor.

Ice crystals form sacred patterns.