Foreword by Michael Sheen

I can see the sea from up here, or at least what's left of it

Feel that ballpark around my heart. I'm slipping through your lungs and into the lap of god

It's what my father would have wanted, that and a basic grasp of geometry. Nobody really talks much these days

I've got a fear of the sun, and I'm not afraid to use it on my downhill trip through space

Unpack that reality, unpack it

And here we have a Foreword by Michael Sheen

Typed through tears in a Hollywood basement. Vials of rain between his thighs, and casting calls pushed to the back of his mind

It's really rather simple, to dry your meat while you run

Find the wind blowing in the most unlikely of places, like your imagination, your overdraft or the laws of physics. Hiding your faith in denim and doughnuts and fake panic attacks

Foreword by Michael Sheen

Typed through tears in a Hollywood basement Chained to trenches in Silicone Valley

The lady In the lake had a look about her that I simply had to get on board with. Blowing bubbles through her Nigel Slater pepper grinder, and calling out the gods of thunder

We are all about to experience mind control, we are all about to fall in love Hold on to the rising corners of your carpet, take a peek through the holes in your cartilage and manifest the type of death you want