I am an old, old man, and I live in a tin shack in the middle of large, relentless forest. I can see nothing but trees from my door, but am never bored as i have the company of sounds from all around me. the flap of bird wing talks to me, but never reminds me of how i used to live, which is the point, after all. i carve small objects from dead wood, and the sound of my knife is the music of my new, old life. This is my soundtrack.