The world is bloated with stuff.

Books and film and music and gigs and exhibitions and documentaries and photography and podcasts and newspapers and newsletters and magazines and cartoon strips and adverts and social media and blogs and their posts. Those are just the stories; stuff we consume amid the whipping whirlwind of our own lives: places we’re born, live in and travel to, the food we eat, items we own, our career, our hobbies, people around us. It breaks us down; welds us back together.

It all contributes to who we’re becoming.

Some of those stories are magic.

lot of stories are shit.

& one day I’ll be dead.

That’s the rooted reason from whence this blog sprouted, coupled with having a place to exhibit my same-ilk freelance work: I recognised that the finite number of years, days and seconds in my life justified a demand for considered content and sterling stories.

dnlchrlsklly is where I’ll turn the coarse soil beneath me, talk about the things that make me, and the things I consequently make.