Hi buddy, hey, it's the time to do it.

Seven.

Dirty face cats.

The deepest nostalgia I consistently experience comes from memories of watching unsolved mysteries

at the age of 10.

While at my grandmother's little cottage house, a few dark streets away from the sandy shores of

George and Bay, in a magical place up here you've probably never heard of, with Sega Beach.

A creepy little Canadian town, one of those that floods with tourists during the summer and

is left desolate through winter.

A place of secrets that will always be kept as there, now forgotten, along with their keepers.

A place where to step out at night from your home or rental for a walk and a smoke under the glow of orange street lamps

and into the maze of trees that line every numbered street.

Seems intrusive somehow.

The place is haunted by the sound of waves crashing and wind roaring, forces that dominate the fast and

disconcerting Dan always sweeping over town from the bay.

With Sega, a word used by Algonquin Indian scouts, to warn each other upon seeing

Erika Rating Party's approaching.

It feels ancient and brooding there, a powerful place that's salted by an artificial breed of society.

Swallowing man, woman, child, whatever it can in the choppy summer waters, ripping vehicles off the road

during the harsh, persistent winters.

And did I mention the cats?

Psychic things with no home, showing up in the strangest of situations as if to take note,

...