Among other things, the Surreal Art Psychonaut is a conduit to a lonely desert track, lined with abandoned museums, subterranean laboratories full of aliens and aliens full of subterranean laboratories. Agar gel is their marmalade, lethal bacteria is their herbs and spices and steel is their fiber. This place I speak of is littered with lost humans. It's a wasteland where ghosts recite poetry scrawled in the labyrinth of tunnels. In the sunlight they manifest as dust sculptures.

The Psychonaut's LIKE button is not there for decorative purposes, if you enjoy one of his poems, short stories, or articles, PRESS IT. Striking the LIKE button is as critical as sounding the alarm when the Triffids rise again.

All feedback is appreciated, especially constructive criticism. The most creative critics will be in the running for prizes such as commemorative chalk dusters, gold plated red pens, the veritable Rolls Royce of erasers (complete with a diamond and ruby encrusted case) and bronze plaques testifying to their critical prowess.

If I am displeased by a critique, I will paint the offenders lounge suite with a cocktail of rats piss and goats blood, graffiti their cat, tattoo their goldfish and reduce the tires of their pride and joy to a molten mess, with some epic burnouts in the nearest police station car park. Then I will waggle my finger at them and say, you should not have said that.

Some of my hobbies are vampire hunting, werewolf taming and exorcising flagons of rum. Look, the spirits are all gone.

Possibly I'm joking, said the most naive person in the history of the universe.