Troughout my work, the core of my writing has unconsciously, but constantly emphasized two of my greatest poetic fascinations.

The first is the passage of time and its sometimes turbulent movements. Tumbling through time one is blind, but at the other side of moments passed by one sees parts of long gone truth like on magic eye pictures. To never really live in truth, but to only be able to grasp it once the matter of fact is behind you is one of the great tragedies of life. It is also something so so so so beautifully mysterious.

The other is the search for the great operator behind what I percieve myself to be. What is it that made me the person I and others think I am? Sometimes, in music I try to uncover the great operator as my father. Sometimes as God. Sometimes as an ex lover, and sometimes as a long gone friend. Sometimes it is the mysterious agalma which through glimpses is my childhood self, peeking through the grove's trees and almost finding the figure of me reaching out to him.

The point is: Artistic ventures are to me this constant misunderstanding of everything. The rapid vertigo zoom towards truth, missing the shot, and then having to start all over again. This is the drive and hunger behind a project. It is the sudden rush of lyrics appearing onto some newfound chords, clueless of where they came from. It is wearing sweatpants, being queasy on norwegian beer, and watching Dreyer's Ordet in 360p, all the while trying to churn out a song or two.

Music is sad. There are no final answers to be found. There is no living in the absolute. It's a cosmic carrot dangling a million songs away. My father is never going to take a knee before me and tell me what it was all about. And if he should, I would never believe him. It is all rushing by, and I am trying to keep my eyes peeled open for much of it, but missing most of it.

I am making music, but not because I live to make music. I live my life and songs fall out of my pockets sometimes. I am grateful when they do. It makes me feel free, alive and rational. But I am also lucky exactly because of my drive and hunger. I understand very little about the past, present and the future. I am not much more than flickering images exploding from the projector onto the walls of the contingent house of Tom Vigebo. With time, I hope to find worth and value in this.