Do whatever you desire!

the musical director and the musical talent

if you could be a Disney princess, who would you be?

work iiit!

You said you won’t forget me Guess time has changed in all

the musical director and the musical talent

Life is occasional, dull raindrops hitting the roofing tiles flat after the summer tempest. Space-lost ticking of two arrhythmic clocks and a constant buzz of the refrigerator as their acapella back vocal. Life is heavy blinks at the ceiling in a silent room before the clock even hits midnight. It was deaf battle cries echoing in waves of D-minor through a suffocating room of white cushion walls in a disoriented head. The cutting edge when the muted sting of an untuned piano hit the drum of the ear. Distance of mind in a drowning tremble of a broken heartbeat, a whispered underwater inhalation. The image of being chained on stage naked, like a wild circus animal, with a mass of lifeless bodies underneath – mist eyed, remote controlled, hive minded – overwhelming copies of hysterical laughter directed at the visual in front of them. A looping room with no end, where exiting meant entering it anew; again, and again, and again. A repetitive take-away after the build-up, something being snatched from grip in the same moment the fingertips first get to know the surface. It was a daft fever. A blurry reflection of grey in the dirty mirror. A play of thousand dozen connect the dots, with no numerals in sight. Burnt chestnut smelling smokescreen caressing slouched shoulders with thick, heavy branches, its black wild fruits popping in oily manure wherever they touched the armor that was his skin, corroding right through, as if it was thin air. A poke upon the tip of an anthill, all until his veins were filled with agitated itches of frenzy, claustrophobic bites. It was restlessness within calmness. It was broken bleeding porcelain. White noise as the soundtrack of life for a fast-forward withering vine of roses, leaving behind a herbarium of dry memories. A sharp crash of a lit up lantern upon a gasoline drenched, wooden floor – and a found peace in the warmth of the house fire it causes. It’s a refrained cough with a lungful of dust and amphetamines. It was a melancholy painting of a long abandoned home by a lonely, desolated lake. A siren’s call towards the darkness heard by a lonely, rum drunk pirate sailing through the seas in a forgotten lifeboat for a fortnight. Life is heavy limbs and being so hungry he’s full. Life is short cut breaths, then long sighs, and a blank mind. It’s in something that makes him wish there was a throbbing ache behind his temples in order to feel anything at all – in order not to live with this nonexistence within existence. Life is… numb.