"Where did I get the inspiration for my book? That's a bit of a tale, really. It all started years ago..."
A mournful violin slides into the air like a released bat, with gentle percussion following after like a thief in the night.
Some years ago, the Singer was a dark and lonely figure. Angry hair and sad eyes and a heart full of God and Ghosts and Truth. On a night of fire and noise, the Singer met the Muse, and they flew together like a flame you could see from here to eternity. Their love-lines grew hopelessly tangled. but all things move toward their end - before long, the Singer and the Muse fought more than they talked, and the Muse left the Singer. The Muse made her own songs, born of anger and recrimination. She was nobody's baby now.
The violin scratches like a wounded animal. The drums beat louder and a bass line rumbles like thunder woken too early from a pleasant dream.
The Singer retreated, heartsick and feeling obsolete and small. He fled to a far off island, to a dark and empty cave. And there, in that cave, small and mean and cold, the Singer grew a moustache. Not a slender thin one, like a cartoon Frenchman, nor a stingy stripe like Chaplin or Hitler. No, the Singer grew a mighty moustache, born of pain and sorrow and darkness. For years, the Singer stayed in his cave with his moustache, singing his weeping songs and dreading the passage of Jesus. The stars were all angled wrong, and the sun and the moon refused to burn. At night, he'd sit and listen to the moustache sing, for he'd run right out of words.
The violin turns away like a pouting child. A guitar shyly edges closer while the drums call it closer.
In time, a woman came to the Singer in his cave. The woman took the singer by the hand, and drew him out into the world again. She took him in her arms and rekindled all the dreams it took him a lifetime to destroy. A mock sun blazed upon her brow, and the bells in the chapel went jingle-jangle. The weeks flew by, and the Singer travelled the world, singing of resurrection, ballads of murder and songs of joy. All the while, the Singer kept the moustache close, a friend closer than any other.
The Singer's wife came to him one day and said "You're a tall handsome man, my love, but I don't like that moustache you have. I don't trust it. I see it in my nightmares, I see it in my dreams. It appears out of nowhere, and it ain't what it seems." The Singer turned to his wife and smiled.
The bass and the violin clash and twist like lovers, or enemies. The drums pace between the two, a staccato peacemaker. The guitar flees and grabs a drink with the piano.
"Anything for you, my darling angel. The moustache will go." And that night, true to his word, the Singer cut off his moustache, his heart singing with all the knowledge of love. What he did not tell his wife, though, was that he didn't get rid of it. No, the Singer kept his moustache, his dark and secret friend. He placed the moustache in a wooden box, lined in satin and sorrow, like a Holy Relic. He took the box, and took a little walk to the edge of town, across the tracks where the viaduct looms like a bird of doom as it shifts and cracks. A wind blew warm and eloquent. The singer went past the square, past the bridge, past the mills, past the stacks. As the sun broke through the trees, the singer stood on a hill before a gallows tree, in a dusty black coat, his hair like a raven's wing. And there beneath the tree, the Singer buried the moustache. He traced his steps carefully, and wrote a message to himself so that he could find that gallows tree again. He left the forest behind and headed back to the world, but somewhere, somehow, he lost the message along the way. When he got home, the singer kissed his wife and went to bed.
The violin calls like a siren.
To this day, when the night is clear and cold, when the wind is soft and lonesome, when the clock pauses for a breath between ticks, the moustache still whispers to the Singer in a voice no one else can hear.
And the rest is silence.
"And that's the story of where my book came from."