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in my viens

I wrote Where Do the Lost Kids Go? for the nights when it feels like nobody’s saying your name out loud. This isn’t just my hurt—it’s ours. A zoom-out from personal breakdown to shared grief and stubborn hope: we’re all just echoes looking for bodies. The song moves from a hush intro to a heartbeat build, then explodes into a call-and-response hook—say my name and don’t let go. It’s part anthem, part roll-call, for anyone who’s ever typed “I’m not” and backspaced it.

Lead single from Sleepwalking Season. If you need this, drop “here.” in the comments so someone else sees they’re not alone. Repost it to reach the kid you used to be.

Where Do the Lost Kids Go

FAULTLINE (formerly Vox Astra) is the sound of someone still standing after the floor gave out.

The name doesn’t come from a trend. It comes from lived experience. Faultline is a trans musician, lyricist, and storyteller who turns survival into sound—crafting music that sits at the intersection of alt-rap, emo rock, spoken word, and atmospheric collapse. His songs aren’t clean, they’re honest. They’re the unspoken parts of healing, grief, identity, and mental health—captured in a raw, narrative voice that doesn’t flinch.

Growing up with trauma and silence, Faultline learned early how to translate pain into something rhythmic. He was raised by headphones, healed by lyrics, and found his voice somewhere between the static and the breakdown. He writes like a journal entry someone forgot to burn—emotional, sharp, intimate.

He pulls from a wide range of inspiration: the quiet poetry of isolation, the aching production of bedroom records, the emotional intensity of confessional rap and indie rock. Whether it’s slow-burning verses or broken-syllable choruses, every song is made to carry weight without asking for pity.

Faultline isn’t here to perform resilience.
He’s here to name it.

“I don’t make sad music.
I make music for people who lived through something and don’t know what to do with it.”
—Faultline

His work is for the ones who overthink in empty rooms, who wore hoodies in summer to feel protected, who survived without a trophy, and who carry stories no one ever asked to hear. It’s for the outsiders, the chronically tired, the quietly angry, the dissociated poets, and the ones who never quite fit the mold.

Faultline makes music that bleeds slow and lingers long.
He isn’t chasing the charts—he’s building a home for people like him. The ones who still shake, but haven’t shattered yet.

Welcome to the rupture.
Welcome to Faultline.

Where Do the Lost Kids Go

Faultline Kid

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