In the spine-cracked silence of forgotten books, a new kind of secret grows. This series of hand-pressed prints—crafted on yellowed thrift store pages—invades the margins of discarded prose with the creeping dread of Twin Peaks’ woods. Red and black inks claw across the paper, etching jagged pines and chevron patterns that hum with Black Lodge static, while a blood-red sun bleeds through the trees like a warning from another dimension.
 
Each piece is a collision of past and paranormal. The original text—recipes, love letters, grocery lists—lurks beneath the ink, half-erased but haunting, as if the woods themselves are rewriting the narrative. The red sun, a Lynchian omen, pierces the canopy, its glow warping with the Lodge’s angular geometry. No two prints mirror each other; the thrift pages’ scars and stains force the ink to pool, crack, and rebel. This is art as possession, where every crease and coffee ring becomes part of the myth.
 
Why thrift store pages? Because the woods have memories. Because Twin Peaks taught us that nothing is ever just a book, just a tree, just a shadow. These prints resurrect the dead pulp of mundane lives and baptize it in fire (well, ink).
Limited to a sparse, fever-dream run, this series is punk in its scavenger ethos—raw, unpolished, and hungry. Owning one isn’t just acquiring art; it’s adopting a fragment of haunted ecology. Plus, every sale funds more raids on thrift store shelves, more rituals with ink and ambiguity.
 
Hang these in your home and the air will smell faintly of pine smoke. The owls won’t be what they seem. Neither will the text under the trees.
 
Buy the secret. Feed the woods. Keep the ink flowing.