Tom Ghostly has torn himself away from his whining office chair and, by whatever means, smashed a hole in the walls that surround him. Now whatever the bricks enclosed can get out. It seems safe to say that what he has been building behind the walls for a long time—a website, it is rumored here and there by the spirits of the wind which have passed by the windows—will be expanded in the coming weeks and months. He will build on it, floor by floor, until it is as high as Beachlandia's faculty of narratology.

Look! Now the polychrome thing's finally here, barely taller than a butterfly bush, and offers you basic information about who, what and where Tom Ghostly is—and what he writes. He doesn't really want to tell you much more, because he tends to leave everything else behind for writing. He puts on his ghostly galoshes, but doesn't wander too far with them; he only walks in his mind, one could say.

Being Tom Ghostly means eating ABC cereals for breakfast and having souls of corrupt university professors for dinner.

Being Tom Ghostly doesn't feel like much, if he's not writing at all.