Writer. Musician. Weird.
There’s a ghost that haunts the forest, he never sleeps but eats lies through his crustacean eyes. He lives in an orphaned church with a vine steeple and leads a procession of patchwork people. A wolf sleeps in the basement of the church, he howls through the confession booths. A priest is overdosed in the pews. A girl sleeps with her hair over her face. Her stockings are ripped at her toes. She dreams of French singers whose names she cannot pronounce. She calls them all Oiseau. The pianos all moved out to Budapest, she wants to kiss a girl from Iceland. I just want to sleep in the forest, feeding myself to the ghost.