Messages from the Doctor -- Setherick

Writing is a sickness
Not like rolling a joint to pass the time
Or spending too many nights drunk off tequilla is a sickness
But rather spending your nights frantically scribbling down word for fear you will lose them forever
Eating pretzels and tootsie rolls and using them for silly analogies
"Tonight my soul is as dark and smooth as the milk chocolate that I consume by day"
Because nothing can be assessed at face value
The world becomes shades of gray
The sun becomes a firey ball
And the moon a steel plate
Love becomes rose thorns deep in salty wounds
And life becomes so many cliched roads and rivers floating drifting free fall in time
Because you are sick
And there is no cure
You find yourself moving quickly from place to place
Ingesting every movement/moment to elaborate on
Every detail not leaving your mind
Insanity becomes your nights
And anonymity your days
People become paints on moveable easels
Done by abstract artists whose names have disappeared into the annals of history