HALL OF FINAL TRANSMISSIONS

The music plays whether you hear it or not.

The homepage is wherever you are.

The ceremony prepares for dormancy.

The spam folder contains sacred texts.

Your avatar is more real than your body.

The old world fades with each page.

Your password is already known.

Buffering... buffering... enlightenment.

Every visitor leaves something behind.

Each pixel contains a fragment of truth.

Digital decay creates new patterns.