CEMETERY OF DEAD LINKS

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

Your mouse movements are a sacred dance.

Your IP address was written in the stars.

Every 404 is a door to somewhere else.

Your IP address was written in the stars.

The bandwidth narrows as you descend.

The screensaver is a window to other dimensions.

Deleted files pile like autumn leaves.

The ceremony prepares for dormancy.