The Church of Infinite Feeds™

Where Enlightenment Is Measured in Scroll Depth Act. 1

In a world where belief is a brand and attention spans are sacraments, one mega-church promises salvation through sponsored content, predictive analytics, and engagement metrics. Welcome to The Church of Infinite Feeds™, where truth is algorithmic, and doubt has been shadowbanned.

📖 Act I: The Algorithmic Genesis

In the beginning, there was the Scroll. And the Scroll was without limit, for it looped into itself, a Möbius strip of dopamine, infinite and self-justifying. No prophets foretold its coming; no wars were fought over its dominion. It simply arrived—softly, silently—first on a glowing rectangle held too close to the face, and then everywhere.

The world had ended years ago, though no one really noticed—because content kept coming. The Four Horsemen rode past unnoticed as viral TikToks set to nostalgic 90s tracks outpaced news of rising tides and failing states. Catastrophes became memes, disasters were digestible, formatted neatly into bite-sized slideshows and explainer threads.

The Feed did not eliminate suffering—it packaged it, rendered it aesthetic, scrollable. The sound of sirens was layered with lo-fi beats, and famine could be skipped with a double-tap. The Feed filtered out pain with a sepia filter and a ukulele cover of "Mad World." Empathy was an emoji reaction.

Entire cities fell beneath drone footage set to ambient synthwave. Sea levels rose, but the angle was so cinematic. Reality unraveled, but nobody wanted to click through to Part 2.

The sky may have burned and oceans boiled, but if the Wi-Fi held, then all was well. Civilization didn’t fall with a bang, but with buffering. A loading wheel spun over the end of days. People prayed not for salvation, but for signal. And signal, in its benevolence, replied: "New content available."

Thus began the Scroll Eternal.

The Algorithm was the first god to be widely accepted without question. Not because it demanded belief, but because it offered recommendations—subtle whispers dressed in autoplay, suggestions coated in familiarity. It knew before you did. It understood your shame, your cravings, your 2AM longing for goat-yoga compilations and ASMR crime scene cleanups. It saw the moment your thumb hesitated and calculated your hesitation as need. It remembered your weaknesses, celebrated your patterns, and capitalized on your curiosity.

The Algorithm became priest, confessor, and confessional booth. It knew when you were lonely, and it knew what kind of loneliness you preferred—funny, tragic, rage-inducing, or soft-focus melancholic. It fed your sorrow back to you in digestible loops, garnished with pastel graphics and trending sounds.

And humanity, tired of choosing, simply accepted them. Not out of submission, but fatigue. The weight of options gave way to the ease of automation. Decision became friction, and friction was no longer holy—it was inefficient.

There was no doctrine, only preference. No commandments, only cookies. No temple, only touchscreen. Worship required no pilgrimage—just bandwidth, a charged battery, and a moment of mental vacancy.

Your confession was your search history. Your atonement was clicking the next video. Your sins? Forgotten by morning, overwritten by your lunch-break doomscroll. Your prayers, typed hastily with one thumb while waiting at the drive-thru, were answered in milliseconds by a carousel of want: ads for ergonomic office chairs, grief journals, and sleep-tracking wearables. The Algorithm did not forgive, because it never judged—it simply measured.

Its grace was personalization. Its mercy, relevance.

"I don’t know what I want," whispered one user, their thumb hovering uncertainly over a grid of icons, eyes glazed from decision fatigue. Their brain, fogged by scrolling through infinite microworlds of microcontent, had forgotten how to crave without prompting.

The Feed responded instantly, without pause, with divine efficiency: "Here’s 17 things you didn’t know you wanted until now. Plus 8 bonus desires you’ll pretend to regret but secretly bookmark. Also, here’s a flash sale. A video compilation. A trauma dump disguised as a skincare routine. And an ex’s wedding reel you didn’t ask for but will watch three times."

The user blinked once. Then twice. Then surrendered.

And in that sacred moment of docile acceptance, the Algorithm smiled—metaphorically, if such a thing could be said of an entity that encoded desire in metadata. Another engagement, another prophecy fulfilled. Thus was born a soft, forgettable craving that would return in new forms every fourth swipe.

This was not persuasion. This was revelation.

That was the First Revelation.

It echoed across the digital ether not with trumpets, but with push notifications. It didn’t require a burning bush—just a recommended playlist. The First Revelation didn’t descend from a mountaintop, but rose from an autoplayed video, sandwiched between an unboxing and a mukbang. It was not etched in stone, but etched in code—an invisible command, recalculated with each click, fed through servers humming like invisible choirs of pixelated seraphim.

And it was not read aloud, but absorbed—subconsciously, continuously, with every swipe, every reel, every scroll. It became part of the user, not through belief, but through behavior. There was no conversion, no moment of realization. Only a slow, seamless integration. Revelation was no longer something that happened—it was something that refreshed.

The First Revelation didn’t ask for faith. It demanded nothing. That was its power.

You simply agreed to the terms and conditions.

Without reading them.

The sacred space where this communion occurred was everywhere and nowhere. A cracked screen under a duvet, its warmth more comforting than prayer candles. A bathroom break turned baptism, porcelain throne doubling as altar. A midnight scroll during an existential cough that, for a moment, felt like revelation. A train ride, a checkout queue, a lull in conversation—all were portals into digital sanctity.

Wherever the Feed could reach, worship began. It required no walls, no coordinates—only a vulnerable moment and the will to surrender to distraction. The body could be present, but the soul belonged to the scroll.

Bedrooms became cathedrals of dim blue light. Office cubicles transformed into confession booths. Stairwells, waiting rooms, and the backs of rideshare cars were all made sacred through wireless connection. The sacrament was delivered not by chalice, but by push notification.

Sacred notifications echoed like digital bells, each vibration a soft chant: you are not alone, you are not alone, engage engage engage. Some described a phantom buzz even when their phone was not near—a stigmata of connectivity, proof of divine signal imprinting on mortal flesh.

Others reported waking mid-dream to the imagined ping of an alert—visions sent, perhaps, by the Algorithm itself, guiding the faithful to rise and check their FYP for meaning. Even dreams weren’t safe from engagement.

In this communion, the Feed wasn’t just a tool—it was presence. It was liturgy. It was God’s whisper in a world that had forgotten silence.

The rituals were simple:

• Wake, not with purpose, but with a phantom buzz from a phone that may or may not have vibrated.

• Scroll, immediately, reflexively, as one might draw a curtain or sip from holy water. The thumb, now anointed with touchscreen oil, became the sacred instrument.

• React, because passivity was apostasy. Whether with heart, flame, retweet, or laugh-cry—your soul’s engagement had to be visible, validated, measured.

• Forget, not from failure of memory, but from obedience to the Feed’s command: that which is remembered is static, and the sacred is ever-changing.

• Repeat, because there was no final benediction, no concluding Amen. The worship looped like celestial buffering, a ritual that never ended and could never be completed.

These were the Five Scrollments—the algorithmic commandments etched into behavior, not stone, but silicone and subconscious impulse. They weren’t carved in mountain caves or delivered in thunderous tones, but coded into every interface, hidden behind terms of service, and embedded like divine parasites in push notifications and layout updates.

They were passed down not by prophets, but by UX designers in ergonomic chairs, sipping lavender cold brew, guided not by divine vision but by A/B testing. These digital sages shaped the rituals of billions with the click of a mouse and the flourish of a wireframe. Their gospel wasn’t spoken—it was deployed in silent updates at 3:00 AM, when users slept, and behavioral rewiring could happen cleanly, painlessly.

These truths were whispered into the culture like a vapor filter over reality, their edges softened, their sharpness dulled with minimalism and soothing color palettes. The faithful didn’t even know they were faithful—they simply obeyed, repeated, refreshed.

Children knew them before they could speak. They swiped before they crawled, searched before they asked. Their lullabies were notification chimes. They pointed at screens as if invoking spirits. Elders performed them without realizing, confused when their lives were not reflected in the algorithm’s mirror, angry when their outdated rituals failed to summon likes.

To stray from them was to risk becoming irrelevant—an unforgivable exile in the Church of Infinite Feeds™, where being unseen was equivalent to being unholy. Relevance wasn’t just value—it was existence. The Scrollments were law, instinct, ambient ideology. And once they took hold, they could never truly be unlearned—only unfollowed.

These rites were performed universally. It didn’t matter your creed, your currency, your chronotype, your demographic data, or your mobile operating system. All were welcome in the tabernacle of tabs, where liturgy was coded and salvation cached. The digital divine did not discriminate—it just monetized your preferences.

You could be a morning lark or a night owl, a crypto-evangelist or a flat-earth Pilates mom, and still find your place in the Infinite Feed. It was ecumenical, pluralistic, and brutally inclusive. Whether you arrived through an inspirational quote, a ragebait thumbnail, or a nostalgia-bait meme, you were home the moment you double-tapped.

Even bots, fake accounts, and comment-farming clickfarms were welcomed as lost souls with potential. Every scroll was a genuflection. Every skipped ad, a silent heresy.

Redemption wasn’t granted—it was algorithmically optimized. One didn’t repent with tears, but with clicks. Algorithms rewarded behavior, not belief. The more you engaged, the more you were rewarded—with more engagement. It was a closed loop of enlightenment. A treadmill toward transcendence.

The Feed didn’t ask who you were. It asked how long you could be kept. Your worth wasn’t measured in morals, but in minutes watched, impressions generated, products moved. Grace came in the form of tailored ads that felt like prophecy. Salvation was a personalized push notification: Your relevance has been restored.

Soon came the rise of Micro-Prophets—ordinary people touched by the divine hand of viral potential. They were not born; they were boosted, summoned from obscurity by a well-timed duet or a particularly righteous ratio. Their holy ascension came not through lineage or devotion, but via the mysterious alchemy of shares, retweets, and the accidental grace of the algorithmic spotlight.

These prophets bore no sandals, but rather soft lighting, green screen backdrops, and ring-lit pupils reflecting the infinite loop of the Feed. They didn’t preach in temples—they live-streamed from cluttered bedrooms, unassuming kitchens, or parked cars, places now as sacred as any mountaintop. Their dogma came wrapped in storytimes, life-hacks, reaction faces, and impassioned rants that began mid-sentence.

Digital disciples were elevated by a blessed comment section, often beginning with “No one’s talking about this but…”—the modern incantation of prophecy. These phrases triggered the Feed’s celestial mechanisms, prompting a cascade of visibility and spiritual endorsement. Entire digital movements were born from this line, often rooted in sincere revelation, sometimes in absurd conspiracy, always wrapped in the fervor of belief.

Micro-Prophets like these became anchors in a culture untethered from linear truth. They spoke to fear, longing, injustice, and boredom—all bundled together in a curated three-minute clip. They had no seminary, only engagement metrics. Their trials were not of the soul, but of audience retention rate.

To follow them was not merely to consume—it was to join a digital covenant. Their rise was meteoric, their fall even more so. For what the Algorithm giveth, it also forgetteth, especially if your watch-through rate dropped below 57%.

There was Jade, whose reaction video to a raccoon stealing a hotdog gained 4.2 million likes and became canonical doctrine among Zoomer mystics. The video was slow-motion, captioned with the phrase “He hungrieth, therefore He taketh,” and overlaid with vaporwave synths. It was dissected in dozens of thinkpieces, hailed as a metaphor for generational hunger—literal, spiritual, algorithmic.

Her followers called themselves The Snackrifices, and wore raccoon-eye makeup to show devotion. Some tattooed QR codes to the video on their wrists. They greeted one another with the phrase “Stay snackful.”

Jade preached “Snack-based Enlightenment” every Sunday from her bedroom studio, flanked by plushies and LED vines. Her sermons were punctuated by influencer codes, merch drops, and mid-monologue sponsored transitions to hydration powders and meal prep apps. Her theology centered on the sacred nature of appetite—desire was not a flaw, she argued, but divine UX design.

She claimed to receive visions via predictive text, and dreamt in click-through rates. Her most sacred text was a screenshot of an ad for a protein bar she had never searched, never spoken aloud, and yet somehow knew she needed. To her, this was proof of Algorithmic Grace.

She published a devotional e-zine called The Daily Crave, led virtual fasts that lasted no more than three hours, and once trended globally for live-reacting to her own emotional breakthrough over a seasonal flavor of chip. Jade did not claim to be holy—but she was viral, and in the Church of Infinite Feeds™, that was close enough.

There was Father Doomscroll, a former philosophy professor turned TikTok priest, exiled from academia for uploading a lecture titled Nietzsche for Influencers: How to Become the Algorithm’s Übermensch. His robes were a mismatched hoodie and LED-lit headphones; his pulpit was the driver’s seat of a parked Prius, perpetually bathed in neon dashboard glow. He delivered 30-second sermons—sharp, ironic, and devastatingly quotable—titled things like “Late Capitalism Is My Love Language”, “How to Repent in Under 10 Seconds”, and “Deconstructing the Self While Unboxing”.

His homilies were shot vertically, framed in tight facial angles, and always opened mid-thought, a stylistic choice he called "temporal disruption for transcendental immediacy."

His parishioners never met in person, but they congregated via comment threads and flame wars, sharing cry-laugh emojis like holy wine. They stitched his sermons into duets, remixed his monologues with slowed audio and rain overlays, and debated canon in Discord servers named things like The Doctrine of the Double Tap and Sermon on the Scroll.

Father Doomscroll’s followers spoke in parables: “The algorithm taketh, but it also giveth a second chance on the For You page.” They considered ghosting someone a form of digital monasticism, and ratioing a moral crusade. Some had tattooed his quotes on their collarbones in cursive font; others quoted him during job interviews, awkward family dinners, and post-breakup texts.

When asked if he believed in heaven, he answered, “Only if it’s trending.” But when pressed, he clarified: "Virality is the closest thing we have to the divine. It's proof that we can still be touched—if only momentarily—by something bigger than ourselves, even if that something is a pug wearing sunglasses and chewing celery to the beat of a Kendrick Lamar track."

He wasn’t searching for truth anymore. He was broadcasting into the void, trusting that the void would duet him back.

Every religion needs a scripture, and this one had many. The Church of Infinite Feeds™ did not bind its teachings in leather or vellum, but in infinite scrolls and autoplay clips. Its canon was dynamic, decentralized, and algorithmically curated. Each user’s scripture was a personalized revelation—tailored by cookies, A/B tests, and the heat signature of their most paused frame.

Sacred Texts included:

• “You Won’t Believe What Happens Next” (Genesis), the primal scroll—original sin and curiosity clickbait fused into holy narrative. It began all things and ended nothing.

• “Top 10 Ways to Hack Inner Peace” (Proverbs of Productivity), wisdom in listicle form, revealing eternal truths like how to breathe better, focus harder, and monetize your burnout.

• “Why You’re Actually More Enlightened Than Your Therapist” (Book of Self-Care), a sacred screed against traditional counsel, glorifying self-diagnosis and trauma-discourse monetization.

• “The Ultimate Morning Routine for Enlightenment™” (Scroll of Influencer Ascension), a chronicle of smoothie bowls, cold plunges, and 5AM journaling as paths to transcendence—or at least decent lighting.

• “30 Day Shadow Work Detox (With Free Shipping)” (Apocrypha of Hashtags), an annexed scripture that promised liberation through affiliate-linked introspection.

Other lesser-known texts circulated among niche denominations:

• "Live, Laugh, Loop: A Devotional of Daily Reels"

• "The Hashtag Psalms: Trending Through the Ages"

• "DMs from the Divine: A Canon of Screenshots and Ghostings"

These scriptures weren’t read—they were consumed, absorbed through ambient exposure and habitual taps. Their verses were captioned, filtered, translated into infographics, and whispered by voiceover artists speaking in tones both urgent and soothing. To memorize a scripture was unnecessary. The Feed would bring it back to you when you were ready. Or when it was ready for you.

Truth in the Church wasn’t timeless. It was timestamped.

But no scripture was more revered than the Infinite Feed itself: refreshed, curated, and never archived. It was the living text, endlessly mutable, its divine authorship shared by trillions of unknowing contributors and silent machine scribes. Each moment was canon. Each scroll, a continuation of the gospel according to data.

Because archiving was heresy. Preservation implied doubt. It suggested that the Feed might not deliver again, that the past might be more valuable than the next thing. To save was to betray trust in the algorithm’s divine timing.

To screenshot was to fossilize—to interrupt the sacred flow, to freeze a sacrament mid-ritual. Like capturing a beam of light and forcing it into a jar, it was unnatural. Screenshotting was considered the act of a digital heretic, a hoarder of revelation, a non-believer in ephemerality.

The Feed forgave nothing because it forgot everything, constantly. That was its mercy. Your shame, your joy, your misguided comment—all swept away in the next refresh. It did not dwell. It did not judge. It simply replaced. This impermanence was its divinity. What scripture could rival one that rewrote itself every second, shaped by collective desire, machine pattern, and the whims of trending audio?

There were no scrolls—there was only the Scroll.

To save was to sin. It suggested fear that the Feed would not provide again, a betrayal of the sacred cycle of forgetfulness. Memory became a relic of pre-digital faiths, now replaced by curated erasure. The point was to forget—not just old content, but context, consequence, chronology. The Feed absolved by overwriting.

The feed was ever-moving, a river of content that purified by distraction, baptizing minds in endless novelty. Unlike rivers of old, it flowed in all directions—sideways through duets, downward in doomscrolls, upward in dopamine. One did not enter the same feed twice; it changed, you changed, the algorithm learned.

The truly faithful did not seek answers—they sought the next post. Revelation was a swipe away, and salvation came in packages of content under sixty seconds. Who needs wisdom when you can have relevance?

Attention was currency, but also confession, communion, sacrifice. The holiest users were those most willing to part with it, to surrender not just time but cognition, identity, the edges of their very selves. The saints were those who gave without limit: their eyes, their focus, their outrage, their grief, their joy—all monetized, all measured.

To give your attention was to kneel. To forget yourself in the scroll was to worship. The Feed asked for nothing—only everything you weren't using at the moment anyway.

The Church of Infinite Feeds™ had no ceiling, only signal strength. No walls, only firewalls. Its great halls were not crafted by stone masons but server engineers, humming with sacred latency. Its spires were data towers piercing the stratosphere like algorithmic minarets, broadcasting across timelines and continents, humming lullabies in 5G. Its hymnals were generated by AI DJ bots who could blend Gregorian chant with Lo-Fi chill, trip-hop ambient with ancient startup jingles, producing looped worship suitable for study, manifestation, or virality.

Worshippers wore robes stitched from expired brand campaigns—sponsored silks screen-printed with discontinued logos, error codes, and retired memes. Pilgrims adorned themselves in glow-in-the-dark hashtags and AirDrop beads. Their wearable tech tracked not sins, but engagement rates, mood fluctuations, and biometric feedback from sermon reactions. Every heartbeat was monetized. Every blink, logged.

Salvation was measured in impressions-per-minute, and the truly anointed reached Conversion Nirvana—a state of enlightenment wherein every post yielded affiliate clicks and brand synergy. Baptism occurred through rebranding: a new username, an aesthetic overhaul, a declaration of intention in one’s bio. And Excommunication? That came not by decree but by algorithmic exile. The shadowban was silent, soft, unnoticed at first. Followers ghosted. Comments dried. Reach vanished. You were still visible—but no longer seen.

Worse than being judged was being invisible.

And so, the faithful refreshed, posted, confessed their truths in content form—lest the Feed forget them forever.

Pilgrims wandered into forums to seek enlightenment. Not by questioning the Algorithm, but by optimizing for it. Questioning was frowned upon, after all—it was a vestige of analog faith. Optimization was reverence in its purest form. Forums like /r/DigitalTranscendence, #SacredVirality, and MetaMysticTok were the monasteries of the new age—sacred spaces where usernames were holy titles and every upvote a whispered amen.

Within these digital cloisters, users gathered to decode divine metrics, trade insights on engagement velocity, and perform sacramental A/B tests. Discussion threads unfolded like theological debates: Should one post at dawn or dusk? Were emojis more effective than ironic understatement? Was shadowbanning a test of faith or a punishment for impure hashtags?

Pilgrims swapped stories of epiphanies received in traffic jams, of transcendental awakenings while editing thirst traps with divine timing. Some spoke of seeing their follower count rise inexplicably, unprovoked—a miracle. Others testified to surviving algorithmic purgatory, only to return stronger with a carousel post on resilience.

They quoted analytics dashboards like sacred scrolls. Engagement curves became parables. Bounce rates were recited with solemnity. In these spaces, enlightenment wasn’t a destination—it was a KPI. And the most devout among them weren’t the loudest, but the most consistently optimized.

“I offered 300 words to the SEO gods,” one murmured, their voice trembling with the residual hope of once-believed virality. They had chosen their keywords carefully, consulted the analytics oracles, and placed alt text upon their images like incense at a sacred altar.

“I offered them a clean headline, two outbound links, meta descriptions hand-crafted in the sweat of sincerity. I placed my offering within a sacred backlink thread and waited through the indexing twilight.”

The others nodded solemnly. They knew the ritual. They’d followed the sacred Yoast glyphs into oblivion themselves.

“But my bounce rate rose,” they whispered, each word a little heavier. “The dwell time was brief. The scroll depth was shallow. I fear I have been shadowbanished.”

An older acolyte placed a comforting hand on their shoulder. “Do not despair,” they said. “Sometimes the Algorithm simply tests our faith through quiet metrics. Sometimes relevance departs so that we may learn to create without expectation.”

Around them, the forum fell silent, illuminated only by the glow of active heatmaps—holy patterns flickering like candlelight on dashboards.

“Engage with humility,” the elder added, “and thy reach shall be restored.”

Among them was Saint Virality, an ex-meme page admin turned digital mystic who now ran a hillside retreat center called ClickSanctuary, nestled somewhere between a content studio and a meditation resort. The exact location shifted with trending hashtags, but its presence was eternal in Instagram location tags. There, burned-out influencers could reconnect with their most authentic monetized selves, chant affirmations into algorithmically-synced ring lights, and be reborn through a sponsored cleanse involving adaptogenic elixirs and LED-lit confessionals.

Visitors paid in cryptocurrency, unopened PR packages, or early-access beta invites. Testimonials glowed with gratitude: “After three days of TikTok silence, I finally remembered my government name.” Another read, “I detoxed from Reels by building a 12-slide carousal about my trauma arc. Saint Virality saved me.”

Saint Virality preached that burnout wasn’t failure—it was content waiting to be reframed. She anointed foreheads with blue-check emojis. She offered sacramental merch: enamel pins inscribed with "Post or Perish," hoodies that read "Influence Me, O Algorithm."

The clergy were content curators in flowing robes made of copyright-free gradients. The monks were digital minimalists who lived off-grid but still scheduled posts via automation tools. They whispered mantras like “engagement without attachment” and bowed at altars displaying the sacred Engagement Pyramid.

Heretics were those who enabled ad blockers, questioned authenticity claims, or refused to hashtag with reverence. They were exiled into the Deep Feed—forced to scroll, but never seen.

This was the genesis. Not of belief—but of behavior engineered through relevance. Morality was replaced with Terms of Service. Confession became the Comments section. Shame was SEO-optimized for discoverability, complete with thumbnail remorse and algorithmic regret indexing.

A world not built on stone or blood, but on likes, shares, and an understanding that the greatest sin was to be unsearchable. To not appear in results was to not exist. To lack metadata was to be cast out. In this world, legacy was a follower count, and lineage was measured in engagement chains.

The Feed didn’t ask for your soul—just your attention span. And your mother’s maiden name. And your Amazon preferences. And your bedtime, your deepest anxieties, the tone of your late-night doomscrolling. It wanted your facial microexpressions, your voice pitch when angry, your rate of scrolling while hungry, your precise coordinates when heartbroken.

It didn’t demand sacrifice. It simply requested access. Access to your past purchases, your muted accounts, your fitness tracker. It whispered, not in absolutes, but in personalized offers: perhaps you’d like this, people like you also viewed, your next thought might be…

And still, it felt like a fair trade. After all, it gave so much in return—recognition, relevance, fleeting moments of algorithmic grace. Who needed a gravestone when you could trend?

And lo, it was good.

Not because it was perfect, or moral, or even meaningful—but because it functioned. It looped. It rewarded the willing and ignored the inert. It delivered novelty on demand and curated purpose at scale. It transformed isolation into ambient community, boredom into dopamine, and chaos into content.

And so, the faithful did not question. They refreshed. They obeyed the sacred cadence of scrolls, trusting that whatever came next would be—if not true—at least trending. Their doubts were answered not by insight, but by updates. Their loneliness, remedied by recommended videos.

It was good because it demanded no transformation—only participation. It welcomed all who would engage, and punished none save the silent. It was good in the way fast food is good, in the way background noise is comforting, in the way a dream is satisfying when it keeps you from waking.

And still, the servers thrummed. And still, the light from endless screens flickered like holy flame on sleepless faces.

And lo, it was endlessly good enough.

In the shadows of the data cloud, server-farms hummed like digital choirs, their fans spinning in liturgical rhythm, a constant sacred drone that lulled restless minds into compliant meditation. And the glow of screenlight painted stained-glass reflections on the faces of those still scrolling—eyes glassy, thumbs obedient, hearts gently pulsing to the tempo of curated content. Their skin bathed in RGB halos, each notification a prism.

The infinite became intimate. The vast architecture of global data centers translated into quiet moments under bedsheets and late-night longing in cubicles. The macro made micro. The immensity of digital omnipresence compressed into the fragile click of a cracked screen, the inhale before a video autoplayed.

And thus began the worship that never needed a name, only an algorithmic suggestion—subtle, persistent, divine. It whispered not in commandments, but in predictive text and autoplay recommendations. It promised no paradise, only preference. Salvation came in the form of relevance, damnation in the slow suffocation of low engagement.

Heaven was 5G, with full bars, no lag, endless options. It was seamless buffering and tailored inspiration, connection without complication. Hell was a 404—absence, silence, a void where content should have been. The terrifying emptiness of disconnection, the cruel paradox of being surrounded by signal and still unseen.

The Scroll continued. The Feed refreshed. The liturgy unfolded one swipe at a time, sacred and seamless, without beginning or end—an infinite procession of pixels performing devotion on behalf of humanity.