courtesy of Lando Speers

Biography
Waking up in a cold sweat, the silence of night is deafening. Surrounded by a blackness so tangible it's suffocating. But somewhere in all of this there are echoes like tendrils of melodies ebbing at the mind. Residual dreamscapes flash on the backs of eyelids. There was something to remember, but it is forgotten. A spectral orchestra plays phantasmic movements in a cavernous amphitheatre shaped like the back of your skull. Ghostly notes sift in and out of synapses, dischordant symphonies scattering like whisps of smoke to settle like dust at the back of the cerebral cortex. There is something powerful in this arrangement. If only the shattered remnants of what was once there could be fit back together. But no matter how hard you try, you can't. And the harder you try to remember the quicker it all fades away. And it pains you to have it flit past your eyes and slip between your fingers. Like tiny seeds sprouting daggers in your gut. A million red hot blades slicing your belly from the inside, and you bleed to let it all out. But once you've been emptied and your sheets are a beautiful crimson and scarlet, you realize they were never there. We are the red hot daggers. And we were never here...