Only at the Quikky Pro.

super messy but whatevs.

I see creativity as a dark parasite living inside. Cutting tunnels in the cells and messing up the wiring. Sometimes in the head. Sometimes in the guts. Sometimes it seeps through the hands, morphs itself into some kind of liquid and moulds something before the eyes; words you don’t remember writing, a photograph without the frame.

Most of the time it buries itself, brooding in the dark space between heart and spleen. And you can’t do anything. You can’t write. You can’t eat. You can’t sleep. You can’t speak. You ache from your sick affliction, wishing that your star-crossed curse would drown itself in it’s own colourful mess.

Some people are normal. They are accountants or dentists and on weekends they play golf and wear sandals.

I wish I was one of those people.

Marius Roosendaal creates something every day most days. I’m digging.

msced.mariusroosendaal.com

I don’t know what you feel like
Ambushed on the road
stole your gold
You’re a rose
and you’re laughing now.
Everything that I own
Starts to pile up like bones
Like the walls of a prison
Later on the bed
Later on the bed
Later on the bed
Later on the bed
I don’t ever want to go to bed
You stay up for the fight
The champ goes down like a clown in the second round
I wish we’d had a better goodbye
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends