This book wrote itself.

The symbols you're about to encounter don't correspond to reality. If you find similarities, they're yours alone, birthed by the twisted logic of your imagination. This books isn't for you - it's about you. You, the reader, the listener, the doubter, whose brain insists on making sense of the nonsense.

Everything in this book - the voices, the stories, the dreams - is an artifact of the mind's detritus. coincidence reigns, relentless and unyielding, its throne bolstered by the mirage of meaning we all crave. Like the faint violinist on the platform of South Kensington, drawing a crowd of ghosts with no bodies, its music lingers, tugging at the edges of your reality.