Time feels strange here. Like a loop that never closes. Like a half-remembered dream you can’t wake up from. You scroll, but where are you going? Do you even remember what you were looking for?
Music hums through invisible wires, whispering in a language only you understand. But is it speaking to you, or just keeping you here? You wonder when you stopped listening. When sound became background noise.
The world outside glows in neon and static. You used to run barefoot in the dirt, but now the ground feels too smooth, too clean. Maybe that’s why you feel untethered—because nothing is rough enough to hold on to.
They tell you what to wear, what to love, what to chase. But you catch glimpses of something else—forgotten styles in the back of old closets, the scent of something familiar but unplaceable. Maybe you’re not supposed to fit in. Maybe that’s the point.
Somewhere, someone is laughing in the dark, and for a moment, it feels like home. Like something real, slipping through your fingers before you can name it. Maybe not everything needs a name.
The internet used to be a map. Now it’s a maze. Every path leads back to the same place. But you’ve seen the cracks—tiny doorways hidden in the static. You just have to know where to look.
EXITMIST isn’t a place, but you’ve found it anyway. A whisper between the signals. A moment between the noise. Maybe nothing is real. Or maybe this is the realest thing you’ve ever felt.