Kif Theodalakis
The Ontological Experiment
We live inside a ghost dressed as economics. We fall in love, fuck, pay taxes, panic quietly in bathroom stalls and call it adulthood. The news insists everything is stable; the body knows it’s a hostage situation.I don’t write to reassure anyone. I write to pick at the wound. To question the scripts we obey, the cultures we defend, the systems we smile for even as they grind us down. If comfort is what you want, there are friendlier shelves.My work lives where reality frays. It’s surreal and melancholy, political and darkly funny, painfully human and sometimes cruel in its honesty. It explores the lives we perform, the identities we inherit, the narratives we swallow, and the quiet complicity we’re terrified to name.These aren’t tidy stories. They don’t exist to heal you or redeem anything. They are mirrors, confessions, arguments, interrogations. They unsettle. They disturb. They refuse to let you walk away unchanged.If that excites you more than it scares you, you’re in the right place.
Dramatic Fiction
The Drawstring Cord
The Drawstring Cord is not a novel in any comforting sense; it is an unlit existence in which a single mind speaks to itself with absolute conviction, building and dismantling its own reality in a relentless, inward conversation that never admits it shouldn’t exist.There are no characters to save you, no plot to guide you, no horizon to orient yourself against. Only a consciousness circling itself with obsessive precision, cataloguing the banal, the irritating the mundane mechanics of daily life until they swell into something unbearable, something grotesque in their ordinariness.This world with no edges, no time, no proof of outside life, the speaker clings to thought the way drowning people cling to water, worrying at each idea until it frays, pursuing every feeling until it dissolves, arguing with a presence that may be comfort or threat or simply the last fragile trick of a self trying desperately to remain intact.What results is a claustrophobic descent delivered without spectacle: no grand revelations, no theatrical breakdowns, just the slow, suffocating tightening of a consciousness that cannot escape itself, railing against work, identity, consumption, normality all while never quite trusting the ground beneath its own words.Visceral, disorienting, bleakly intimate and darkly hypnotic, The Drawstring Cord refuses narrative, refuses the reader the luxury of standing outside what they are witnessing. It asks you to endure proximity to a mind that cannot step away from itself and see how long you can bear to stay inside.
Dystopian Fiction
Ghost in the Machine
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Collected Poetry
Landfill Hearts
I am not healed. I am not fixed. I am not better now. I am a mouth full of storms and bad decisions and half-buried tenderness that still twitches when you touch it. I want things I shouldn’t. I remember things I wish I didn’t. I keep loving like a bruise that refuses to fade because it enjoys the attention.Shame lives here. Beauty lives here too, but it’s cracked, stained, dangerous to touch. Beauty with makeup running. Beauty with its ribs showing. Beauty pretending it’s fine until it fractures. There are facades in here, and the quiet horror of realising you’ve built your life inside one. There is loss with teeth. There is the slow violence of letting go. There is the terrifying freedom that comes when you stop lying to your own mind and it finally starts screaming back.There is sickness here. Sweet sickness. The kind that snarls when you try to clean it, the kind that tastes like truth when you finally stop pretending you’re above it. There is lust dressed up as feeling, feeling dressed up as salvation, salvation laughing because it never planned to save anyone.There are nights that last for years. There is panic with a heartbeat. There is softness with blood under its nails.Everything aches and everything wants and everything keeps going anyway, because stopping would be mercy and there is no mercy left in this system of bones and memory and hunger.If it hurts, good. It means something is still alive in there.
Surrealist Fiction
Inverurie
The world in Inverurie has slipped out of place. Not enough to break, just enough that nothing sits comfortably anymore. At the edge of each street there’s a murmur that something has come loose and is quietly spreading.A woman walks by sounding like a clock, her every movement counting down to something no one will admit is coming. Rafe is there and not there, his face never quite the same, as if he’s made from nothing and everything.Mr Duckington turns up again and again, impeccably dressed, wordless in his porcelain bath, as if his only purpose is to arrive and refuse to explain himself. People disappear. Days repeat themselves with tiny, unnerving changes.Inverurie is surreal, melancholy, darkly funny and deeply unsettled — a place where the questions won’t stop: who is she, why does he keep changing, why won’t the duck speak and what, exactly, is quietly falling apart - and what is Inverurie?
Non Fiction
Everything is Fine (and other lies)
The world hasn’t exploded — it’s evolved into something stranger, faster, louder and somehow emptier.We’re surrounded by technology that claims to understand us better than we understand ourselves. We turn people into brands, bodies into currency, identity into content. There is more noise than ever and yet the loneliness feels radioactive.Everything Is Fine walks through the modern world with its eyes open and its patience gone.It looks at AI pretending to be wisdom, porn pretending to be intimacy, influencers pretending to be authenticity, HR pretending to be care while workplaces quietly begin to resemble cults of productivity and “culture,” and language itself stretching so thin that words barely mean anything anymore. It looks at far-right politics pretending to be common sense, gender discourse pretending to be progress, mental health language pretending to be salvation, and the strange, quiet violence of systems that insist they are keeping us safe while they quietly exhaust us.It asks the question you’re not supposed to ask: If everything is “fine,” why does it feel like we’re suffocating?This isn’t a lecture. It isn’t neat. It isn’t polite. It’s an autopsy of the present and a love letter to the human beings trapped inside it — an attempt to tear a hole in the story we were sold, and finally look at what’s actually happening to us.Because everything is fine - Keep telling yourself that.
Science Fiction
Strange Quarks:
Dot
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Egastas
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Iaculis at erat
Consequat
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Author Profile
About Me
Does it matter who I am?Be honest — you don’t want a human being. You want a story you can consume. You want a neat narrative. You want a genius myth, a tragic childhood, a trauma you can fetishise, a heroic arc you can clap politely for. You want a brand. A logo. A curated personality disguised as authenticity.Writers are expected to sell themselves now. Not the work. Themselves. The life story becomes the product. Suffering becomes content. Every scar rehearsed for emotional engagement. You want to know who I really am? Why? So you can buy with confidence? So the capitalism inside your chest feels justified when you click BUY?Most of what you’ve ever been told about great creators was marketing anyway. False quotes, stolen credit, PR fairy tales pumped full of oxygen until they looked like destiny. History is practically built on bullshit biographies and curated lies. Edison didn’t invent light — he industrialised and monetised other people’s work. Einstein is quoted daily for lines he never said. Marie Antoinette never uttered “let them eat cake,” but the fiction sold better than truth. Gandhi didn’t say “be the change.” Walt Disney didn’t personally draw his empire into existence. Steve Jobs didn’t build the future at all merely repackaged others ideas but the myth was profitable so we applauded it. We don’t celebrate reality; we celebrate marketable fiction.So here’s the fuck you part: You don’t need to know me. You don’t get to own me.What’s real isn’t my journey, my childhood, my identity packaging, or whatever emotionally satisfying shape you’d like to pour me into. What’s real are the books. The poems. The pages where the words actually are. If you’re looking for something to consume it’s right there. If you’re looking for a personality to adore or dissect, go drown your self in a parasocial relationship on Instagram or somewhere else. There are entire ecosystems of smiling author-brands built to give you that.Buy the work or don’t.
Read it or don’t.
Decide if it matters or throw it away.But don’t pretend knowing me would make it truer. It won’t.
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