William-Winter

In Kingsdale, resides a phantom, a merchant of the forlorn. A figure known as The Watchman, beckoning towards the shore. He's said to inhabit the lighthouse, cascading that beam every night of the week. And every time we see the glow, someone's life is come to reap. That apparition is a keeper, a collector of those that have passed. He's said to light the beam at night with the souls that flicker on masts. The people in Kingsdale feared him, they hasten to lock their windows by night. For those that remain out past dusk, are to view his eerie light. O'er the peaks of the cliff face, beyond the gabled rooves and shacks, dwells the fig

Entry I As the tides advance, and dearth in ferocity, I proclaim the initiative to embark upon the quotidian endeavor of angling, a state of exertion that has compiled a great deal of my time here upon the Faroe Isles. Ever since the bequeathment of my father’s estate, in 1945, I’ve inhabited this humble fishing shack, resting upon the rock face of the isle, surrounded by deprived shores, since the conclusion of the mainland conflicts. As preferable attire, I was cast in a leather dilapidated rain cap, and grey raincoat, purposed with the task of opposing any precipitation that may become a hindrance in my gaze across the grey wa