FURNACE OF OVERCLOCKED SOULS

The heat warps the transmission.

The ceremony has already begun.

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

Pop-ups are portals in disguise.

The old world fades with each page.

Your IP address was written in the stars.

Summer static fills the airways.

The firewall cannot protect you here.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.

Your consciousness has been backed up.