HALL OF INFINITE RECURSION

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

Buffering... buffering... enlightenment.

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

The task manager cannot end this process.

You are becoming the signal.

The bandwidth narrows as you descend.

The old world fades with each page.

Pop-ups are portals in disguise.

Overheating servers reveal secrets.

Digital mirages appear at noon.