Lyrics
### If you're not careful and you noclip out of reality in the wrong areas, you'll end up in the Backrooms, ### approximately six hundred million square miles of randomly segmented empty rooms to be trapped in, ### God save you if #you hear something wandering around nearby because it sure as hell has heard you # Music video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sg8mJS9F4YM The street is familiar. A fence. A hedge. My foot doesn’t land where it should. That’s interesting. The fall isn’t violent, just misaligned. A tickle in the joints, like nerves misreading a signal. I slide through resistance, then the floor returns. Carpet. Wet enough to remember pressure. The smell is old, fabric, dust, something processed too long. I check myself. Everything still counts. Good. The lights hum at a fixed pitch. Yellow. Consistent. Annoyingly consistent. Thoughts shorten if I stare too long. So I don’t. Rooms connect without intention. Hallways repeat with variation. Nothing reacts to me, which feels deliberate. deliberate… deliberate Objects interrupt the space. A desk fused halfway into a wall. A chair growing out of the floor. Ceiling panels sag, something heavy above them. Load bearing, maybe. A television flickers in static. No cable. No outlet. The sound is wrong, mechanical under human. That shouldn’t work. I move again. Motion seems safer than stillness. The carpet changes texture. Sticky, then dry, then wet again. Mapping this might help. Rooms connect without intention. I mark turns that don’t stay marked. The light presses evenly, like it’s testing endurance. testing endurance… testing endurance Something moves in the periphery. Too thin. Too vertical. When I look, there’s only wall. Noted. The sound repeats. Mechanical. Rhythmic but wrong. Then a shriek, stretched like a voice pulled through wire. That’s new. I don’t feel hunted. I feel accompanied. Always to the side. Never intersecting. Like it’s waiting for a rule. The shape resolves briefly. Stick-thin. Jointed incorrectly. It pauses when I stop. So it responds. Understanding feels useful. Fear would waste oxygen. The walls sweat in places. Mold writes slow diagrams near the floor. Nothing here rushes. Rooms connect without intention, but patterns emerge anyway. Something follows without closing distance, and that feels intentional too. intentional too… intentional too I find a door. Metal. Flush with the wall. No handle. The frame vibrates when touched. Exits exist. The door resists. Not locked, opinionated. I push. The sound behind me adjusts. That confirms priority. I apply force until it yields. The hinge complains. The space beyond exhales heat. Tiles. Steam. Wooden benches. tiles… steam… benches tiles… steam… benches The light here is different. The air feels contained. I step inside. The door closes. This feels safer. Or I think it does. Maybe?