This Isn’t Just a Book. It’s a Portal with Paper Cuts.

I’m working on something.

It’s not a book in the traditional sense — no clean plot arc, no tidy chapters.
It’s more like a fossilized hallucination, or a zine that got struck by lightning and survived.

“Flower Child of the Night” is part memoir, part myth, part séance.
It’s a guided tour through my cracked skull, where gods I invented argue with traumas I inherited, and sometimes we all get high together and make art.

It’s about addiction, recovery, and what it means to rebuild your life with glitter glue and ancient grimoires.
It’s about grief, and growing strange fruit from it.
It’s about becoming your own archetype before the world does it for you.

There are demons who dress like clowns.
There are playgrounds made of bone.
There are truths told sideways through dreams and dumb jokes.

The pages are haunted with poems that wouldn’t sit still, sketches I channeled more than drew, and stories pulled from the undercurrent of my life — filtered through the lens of the weird, the holy, and the kinda fucked up.

If you’ve ever felt like your life was secretly a myth in the making,
if you’ve ever tried to stitch your soul back together with duct tape and mantras,
if you’ve ever been the fool, the witch, the weirdo, the whisperer—

This book is for you.

Or maybe it’s for the version of you who hasn’t come back yet.