The Author’s windows open to a hill of trees or to a quaint city street with various slush levels, depending on the month. The Author started out as a songwriter, know for franticly scrawling out ideas on anything they could lay their hands on. The Author’s poetry manifests itself in much the same manner, on napkins, envelopes, receipts, and the odd piece of birch bark, hence the name “PaperBits”. Formally training in printmaking of the fine arts variety and photography of the same.
Much like The Author’s fine art, The Author’s poetry is an homage to friends, and living a life anyone could easily associate with or slide into.
Unlike fine art, the written word is their vessel for the awful parts of life, basking in the maudlin, the incoherent, stale champagne and minor chords.
The Author does not want to live past the age of 27.
The Author is cowardly, jealous and reclusive.
