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About Grindavik

I’m an animation artist, yeah, so I’m picturin her—long legs, smoky eyes, hair flowin like some dark galaxy. She’s dancin in my head, all slow-mo, while Earth’s gettin fucked by Melancholia, that big-ass planet. “This is the end,” she’d whisper, like in the movie, all calm but screamin inside. Whoa. I’d animate her with ink splashes, red lips bleedin into black voids—fuckin poetic, right?

Hotel Keflavik

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First thing, I hit up Hafnargata for breakfast. I’m talking about the best Icelandic pancakes ever. Like, fluffy clouds on a plate. But then, bam! My coffee spills all over my notebook. Ugh! I was so mad. I mean, come on! I need that for my writing.

From Iceland — No Replacement For Deceased Drug Detection Dog