Ancient tales of the woods from my grandfather fostered my love for stories since a tiny age. I write to remember what came in with the fog from our northwoods farm. In an age of automated thought and false fire from street lamps, I record that which wrote on my very soul....that which still hides within the womb of the river fog. Funny, it still reaches me in foreign back alleys, in cafes crawling with the wretched, and in catacombs dusty and dry....this is my progression, my being. This is to breath.