ALTAR OF FORGOTTEN ALGORITHMS

Your breath clouds the monitor.

The old world fades with each page.

Winter solstice opens hidden channels.

The ceremony never truly ends.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.

Visitors and visited become one.

The ceremony hibernates but never sleeps.

The bandwidth narrows as you descend.

Your avatar is more real than your body.

Your screen resolution matches your aura.