It’s an album about loneliness, lust, forgiveness, and the long slow search for meaning. Not the kind you find in books or belief systems — but the kind that flickers, quietly, just beyond the horizon. The kind you chase even when you know it might not be real.

They weren’t all about escape anymore. They were about trying to stay. Trying to make peace with the wreckage and the waiting. That’s what led my to my first album - Stars — a record written in the stillness after the storm.

That’s where The Restless Dream came from. Not a band, exactly — more like a name for the thing that had taken hold of me. A way of making sense of everything I’d left behind. Eventually, those songs began to materialise. With real players, real parts — drums, organs, pianos, harmonies that felt like ghosts in the room.

I didn’t think of it as a career. I just kept following the thread — playing them to half-empty rooms, typing lyrics into my phone, recording demos that only I would ever hear. But slowly, something started to take shape. A sound. A feeling. A kind of weather.

I wrote songs in motorway service stations, cheap hotels, borrowed bedrooms. I chased pleasure, dodged feelings, and stared at the ceiling until the ceiling started staring back. But somewhere in all that noise and mess, something true started to emerge. Little melodies, scraps of lines, constellations of feeling. The beginnings of songs that knew more than I did.

There were months where I barely knew what day it was. I played bars where no one listened and drank beer I couldn’t afford. I got lost in daytime TV and wandered through the supermarket just to feel human.

There wasn’t some big explosion. No dramatic collapse. Just a slow, quiet drift into the realisation that the life I was living didn’t fit. I left without knowing what I was walking toward — only that I was being pulled by something. A signal. A feeling.

It’s an album about loneliness, lust, forgiveness, and the long slow search for meaning. Not the kind you find in books or belief systems — but the kind that flickers, quietly, just beyond the horizon. The kind you chase even when you know it might not be real.

They weren’t all about escape anymore. They were about trying to stay. Trying to make peace with the wreckage and the waiting. That’s what led my to my first album - Stars — a record written in the stillness after the storm.

That’s where The Restless Dream came from. Not a band, exactly — more like a name for the thing that had taken hold of me. A way of making sense of everything I’d left behind. Eventually, those songs began to materialise. With real players, real parts — drums, organs, pianos, harmonies that felt like ghosts in the room.

I didn’t think of it as a career. I just kept following the thread — playing them to half-empty rooms, typing lyrics into my phone, recording demos that only I would ever hear. But slowly, something started to take shape. A sound. A feeling. A kind of weather.

I wrote songs in motorway service stations, cheap hotels, borrowed bedrooms. I chased pleasure, dodged feelings, and stared at the ceiling until the ceiling started staring back. But somewhere in all that noise and mess, something true started to emerge. Little melodies, scraps of lines, constellations of feeling. The beginnings of songs that knew more than I did.

There were months where I barely knew what day it was. I played bars where no one listened and drank beer I couldn’t afford. I got lost in daytime TV and wandered through the supermarket just to feel human.

There wasn’t some big explosion. No dramatic collapse. Just a slow, quiet drift into the realisation that the life I was living didn’t fit. I left without knowing what I was walking toward — only that I was being pulled by something. A signal. A feeling.

It’s an album about loneliness, lust, forgiveness, and the long slow search for meaning. Not the kind you find in books or belief systems — but the kind that flickers, quietly, just beyond the horizon. The kind you chase even when you know it might not be real.

They weren’t all about escape anymore. They were about trying to stay. Trying to make peace with the wreckage and the waiting. That’s what led my to my first album - Stars — a record written in the stillness after the storm.

That’s where The Restless Dream came from. Not a band, exactly — more like a name for the thing that had taken hold of me. A way of making sense of everything I’d left behind. Eventually, those songs began to materialise. With real players, real parts — drums, organs, pianos, harmonies that felt like ghosts in the room.

I didn’t think of it as a career. I just kept following the thread — playing them to half-empty rooms, typing lyrics into my phone, recording demos that only I would ever hear. But slowly, something started to take shape. A sound. A feeling. A kind of weather.

I wrote songs in motorway service stations, cheap hotels, borrowed bedrooms. I chased pleasure, dodged feelings, and stared at the ceiling until the ceiling started staring back. But somewhere in all that noise and mess, something true started to emerge. Little melodies, scraps of lines, constellations of feeling. The beginnings of songs that knew more than I did.

There were months where I barely knew what day it was. I played bars where no one listened and drank beer I couldn’t afford. I got lost in daytime TV and wandered through the supermarket just to feel human.

There wasn’t some big explosion. No dramatic collapse. Just a slow, quiet drift into the realisation that the life I was living didn’t fit. I left without knowing what I was walking toward — only that I was being pulled by something. A signal. A feeling.

It’s an album about loneliness, lust, forgiveness, and the long slow search for meaning. Not the kind you find in books or belief systems — but the kind that flickers, quietly, just beyond the horizon. The kind you chase even when you know it might not be real.

They weren’t all about escape anymore. They were about trying to stay. Trying to make peace with the wreckage and the waiting. That’s what led my to my first album - Stars — a record written in the stillness after the storm.

That’s where The Restless Dream came from. Not a band, exactly — more like a name for the thing that had taken hold of me. A way of making sense of everything I’d left behind. Eventually, those songs began to materialise. With real players, real parts — drums, organs, pianos, harmonies that felt like ghosts in the room.

I didn’t think of it as a career. I just kept following the thread — playing them to half-empty rooms, typing lyrics into my phone, recording demos that only I would ever hear. But slowly, something started to take shape. A sound. A feeling. A kind of weather.

I wrote songs in motorway service stations, cheap hotels, borrowed bedrooms. I chased pleasure, dodged feelings, and stared at the ceiling until the ceiling started staring back. But somewhere in all that noise and mess, something true started to emerge. Little melodies, scraps of lines, constellations of feeling. The beginnings of songs that knew more than I did.

There were months where I barely knew what day it was. I played bars where no one listened and drank beer I couldn’t afford. I got lost in daytime TV and wandered through the supermarket just to feel human.

There wasn’t some big explosion. No dramatic collapse. Just a slow, quiet drift into the realisation that the life I was living didn’t fit. I left without knowing what I was walking toward — only that I was being pulled by something. A signal. A feeling.