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It's too late.
When you read something written on Encyclopedia of Pointless, when you tell your friends about it, when you think about it late at night, I am there. I am in your head. Your thoughts have betrayed you and have called me to you; now we are connected. It is a one-way connection. You give me everything and I reveal nothing. This is the way it must be.
When you navigate your web browser to The Encyclopedia of Pointless, a clone of you appears in my basement. They are a perfect replica of you except where altered to suit my needs. Your clone feels only pain and speaks only truth. I learn from it. It tells me what I need to know and then I dispose of it.
Any action you take within the borders of my realm is recorded. It is etched into an obsidian slab next to where the clones appear. The etchings are very small, but don't worry. I can read them all. You skurry about like ants on a carcass, following the pheremone trails I have left for you. The little paths you trace amuse me. Be grateful for that. Be grateful to me.