HALL OF FINAL TRANSMISSIONS

The spam folder contains sacred texts.

The homepage is wherever you are.

The harvest of lost connections.

The firewall cannot protect you here.

Every 404 is a door to somewhere else.

The code is alive and it knows you're here.

Time moves differently in these chambers.

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

You are becoming the signal.

The servers dream of electric sheep.

Time moves differently in these chambers.

The recycle bin is never truly empty.

Your presence here was foretold in the static.