{The Legend Continues}

posh. —tried to record the vocals with it but apparently either my interface or my computer— Whatever —Money. -U. ft, Happy Accidents Dunno when I'm going to be able to do vocals next so here's the instrumental, the lyrics. And whatever else was in my notes when I was in producer mode with my documents open. Amen posh. (Instrumental) Happy Accidents ft. -Ū. Actually I was thinking about using my Srs Blk Alias. [serious black] // srs blk. Whatever there's robots outside my door coughing right now. Here go the lyrics. Fucking robots. This is just a fad Why you mad? What is in my bag (Posh) I am just a fan Why you mad You are not my man This is just a fad, I make dance music cause I can This is just a fad Why you mad (Keep it classy) Posh. I am hella bad Do the math You are not my dad This is just a fad I make dance music cause I can I am just a fan Why you mad You are not my man This is just a fad (Dance) Posh This is just a fad. Facts. {Enter The Multiverse} I don't think I like anybody! That's right, I'm not looking. Mis it possible to be asexual Google? Asexual Asexuality is a lack of sexual attraction or interest in sexual activity with others. Asexual people may also be referred to as "ace" or "Aces". Alright, I've earned that tattoo twice now . Now,where should it go? I don't know if I'd quite cal it asexual, just…disinterested in the general population at large. But you're in the general population, Exactly. I'm in need of a pillow pet. Have you tried toys r us. Do you know how weird it's going to look for a 40 something year old man with zero kids to walk into a toys r us and ask for a pillow pet? So you have thought about it. Are you stupid? Not as stupid as I ought to be Lay on the tarmac. What. Just—lay in the tarmac For what? I'm going to run you over with an airplane. …that might work. “How to Kill An Immortal”. It's that time of the day And the day of the week Where my mind goes awry (So long, sir) And my heart starts making the wrong turns Cross eyes, ten and two [Atomic Number] cross Eyes, ten and two Cross your heart, Or don't (Goodbye, sir) Goodbuy, good sir I just bought a pony, I want a fruit roll up My internet due tomorrow (Go finish the album) I just want donut Good morning Hot topics I've got much more to show for it than you're onto. Than you're onto Than you're onto— Honest. Don't stop there, dog. (Atomic Number) Thats no crosswalk Purchase you for favors For favors For flavors Four flavors, are there But I've only got my whole eye on one of them What up then Don't call the number Oh, God damn Go run, Pharoh for you want an arrow out of your head Free hand and heart I thought I was a musician, —I'm not though; I stand 44 stories tall When I stand right behind you, Shadow. Small man I love McDonald's I got a long hat I got along swimmingly with your mom and dad, huh Data data projects and the atomic number That's all folks Data projects and those atomic numbers Cosmic stardust, they all shook They ain't lie, that's a hard pink turn purple They ain't lie, God, that's a mellow yellow saxophone there— They ain't lie, god, brought tear to an eye where there are no more, Heart took a wrong turn They ain't lie, God, It is bright plumb Are you in a black hole or what? Are you shook for stars and all bout dollars? Are you sure that had my name on it? Are you sure, or are you all talk All you sure, mom? Call the doctor. Are you sure at all, at all, at all about what you all wrote I'm on the 44th floor staring off, Dad. Straining heard, though— Had my eyes closed and my mouth sown permanently shut / sh it Is that your industry or something? Is that your window out my car door? Is that your hand over no heart at all— But a chest stuck out; Bring you down real fast when I've been humbled. Goddamn, when's this song over? When they tell you about God, God And all you do is turn your back, God, Are you good, or bad, God, If all I have is in this Target cart So I crunch numbers, Fall in black hole songs, atomic number—- It's just that time of the day And that day of the week where I call out Into the sound stage Reaching back, Into my alter, Rocks in my pocket And one at the Plaza One year only, One whole summer One whole novel, 10 movies, more songs, Light candles and hard rock, Nirvana Soft porn, No dollar bills, No ballers, — I struck rules and struck diets, Followed often around like I own something I just might be, What they call —Ten more songs! (A poet.) —And a whole bunch of unfinished— NO— Cut to: fade in/ Fade out— Whose line is it anyway? I ain't got no teleprompter! Fresh out of water, and Blocked from purchasing on Amazon market cause Something is wrong with my name Or observations I once made About being scammed by the monopoly Oh, polyamorous polyaddixt, polysexual Polygons, on PolyGod, God only— God ain't lie, It was plum, Closed my eyes to confirm, God, Can't conform, God. Atomic Number. I can do ten more before sundown; before I'm so over tired from espresso bean coffee, All about a dollar, I was— Everything I want in my target cart So I sure don't, For sure don't, Ever, On God, Have to walk in the supermarket on Stuggle mode Slow down, posh. [The Festival Project ™] {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Telesynthesis

It's that time of the day And the day of the week Where my mind goes awry (So long, sir) And my heart starts making the wrong turns Cross eyes, ten and two [Atomic Number] cross Eyes, ten and two Cross your heart, Or don't (Goodbye, sir) Goodbuy, good sir I just bought a pony, I want a fruit roll up My internet due tomorrow (Go finish the album) I just want donut Good morning Hot topics I've got much more to show for it than you're onto. Than you're onto Than you're onto— Honest. Don't stop there, dog. (Atomic Number) Thats no crosswalk Purchase you for favors For favors For flavors Four flavors, are there But I've only got my whole eye on one of them What up then Don't call the number Oh, God damn Go run, Pharoh for you want an arrow out of your head Free hand and heart I thought I was a musician, —I'm not though; I stand 44 stories tall When I stand right behind you, Shadow. Small man I love McDonald's I got a long hat I got along swimmingly with your mom and dad, huh Data data projects and the atomic number That's all folks Data projects and those atomic numbers Cosmic stardust, they all shook They ain't lie, that's a hard pink turn purple They ain't lie, God, that's a mellow yellow saxophone there— They ain't lie, god, brought tear to an eye where there are no more, Heart took a wrong turn They ain't lie, God, It is bright plumb Are you in a black hole or what? Are you shook for stars and all bout dollars? Are you sure that had my name on it? Are you sure, or are you all talk All you sure, mom? Call the doctor. Are you sure at all, at all, at all about what you all wrote I'm on the 44th floor staring off, Dad. Straining heard, though— Had my eyes closed and my mouth sown permanently shut / sh it Is that your industry or something? Is that your window out my car door? Is that your hand over no heart at all— But a chest stuck out; Bring you down real fast when I've been humbled. Goddamn, when's this song over? When they tell you about God, God And all you do is turn your back, God, Are you good, or bad, God, If all I have is in this Target cart So I crunch numbers, Fall in black hole songs, atomic number—- It's just that time of the day And that day of the week where I call out Into the sound stage Reaching back, Into my alter, Rocks in my pocket And one at the Plaza One year only, One whole summer One whole novel, 10 movies, more songs, Light candles and hard rock, Nirvana Soft porn, No dollar bills, No ballers, — I struck rules and struck diets, Followed often around like I own something I just might be, What they call —Ten more songs! (A poet.) —And a whole bunch of unfinished— NO— Cut to: fade in/ Fade out— Whose line is it anyway? I ain't got no teleprompter! Fresh out of water, and Blocked from purchasing on Amazon market cause Something is wrong with my name Or observations I once made About being scammed by the monopoly Oh, polyamorous polyaddixt, polysexual Polygons, on PolyGod, God only— God ain't lie, It was plum, Closed my eyes to confirm, God, Can't conform, God. Atomic Number. I can do ten more before sundown; before I'm so over tired from espresso bean coffee, All about a dollar, I was— Everything I want in my target cart So I sure don't, For sure don't, Ever, On God, Have to walk in the supermarket on Stuggle mode Slow down, posh. [The Festival Project ™] {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Telesynthesis.

Tell me why, No matter how you mix and match these scenes, They all make very exciting episodes. That's just how it is. {Enter The Multiverse} Ah. more posters. Double-Double. // L E G E N D S I don't know who lied to you, buddy, but you are not white. They lied to you, boy. That boy ain't white. Look at em. He ain't white. They lied to you. Something like— —a bicentennial bullet wound. It can't be that bad. You're only 50x I don't know what else to do about this other than prepare to die. He said it would come on fast after this. Who was he? I don't know . Hm, Just—shut up! Okay. Shutup! I got it, I got it… Fuck, this dude is gonna kill me. We can only hope that's what he plans to do. Anything else, and I'm double-fucked. Maybe quite literally. I can't handle that. Ii did have a good time a Bohemian Grove. How do you even get tickets to that? Early. Goddammit, how did he do this? Are you not like self aware of your own environment, or? Not if I don't have to be, no. Is everything okay over there? Yeah, everything's fine? Fuck, what happened?! I don't know. I fell asleep holding nothing; not stones at all, however, I awoke with The Illuminati Stone and one large rose quartz from a dream in which fly po What if all I lost Was a contact And all you wanted Was a daughter What if our world's were opposite I'm a rockstar You got nowhere to run home to You're not important I got nothin but hot bodies On my tour bus, or private jet Whatever way we get to the stage Where i'm playing You're soaked in rain just thanking God for rainbows Filled with pain Plate filled with old food From Whole Foods, With no shame “Hey. at least it's wholesome” I'm holed up in my studio making music With famous people and no names I made famous Playing a game that I made up You don't even know the rules of But if you learn them in time, YOu might just be where I am Or You might just die From sucicide– That's the plan Not like you have family, but you see If I die I might just take 5 lives with me The limelight's tricky All i got in my inbox is tits And celebrities on my timeline You don't mind: You're just happy to see the sunshine And find silence after a long day And a long night Trying to find life– Cause so far you know you died That's wild– So did I, IT took awhile to get to the other side though Keep trying JAGUAR I HAVE NEVER DIED. I'm telling you RIGHT NOW to TURN BACK. TURN BACK? I've been walking in this direction THE WHOLE TIME. EXACTLY. I'm following you. DON'T FOLLOW ME. I'm f– DON'T FOLLOW ME. I knew i would never see her again. Once i turned around it wasn't long before I realized, I had moved in the opposite direction, but was not in the same place I had been before–and I finally remembered. You can't go backward. But KA, you said time travels in all directions… In Infinite directions. What's the difference. “All” is just ‘some' things. Infinite is everything. Oh. *sighs heavily again* Ok. [beat] lets make fire again! Make fire again? Yes! I thought you hated ‘making fire' I did, but I like marshmallows. Alright, marshmallows. KU and YOUNG KA Flicker in the smoke and shadows of the firelight in a far and distant, dark cosmos, as constellations form around them, expanding outwards into galaxies beyond comprehension. You want some? No, I'm not fond of Marshmallows. Lol Lol Lol. WAKE UP. Nooh. I told you NOT TO FALL ASLEEP. Now you have to start over. NO. Noh I wasn't asleep! I barely nodded off. Clock starting. First of all, I told you. Dillon Francis is a Psychopath. I know that. Because i told you that. I already knew that. How could you possibly know. Just look at him. [Dillon Francis] But I got you now, buddy. What did he do to you? [pause] –He killed my cat. He killed you cat?! [beat] Well, no, but– ??? Something Like That. I'm gonna have a heart attack. PLease don't. HeART attack. Mm. That was good. But it needs more force. More? Put some *love* in it. What's that? *shrugs* HeART ATTACK. What the fuck is he doing. PLaying with one of his alter egos. Jesus Christ. How many are there. Who really knows. What are you two dipshits doing. NOthing. Training. Training! No. *eyes* You can't train yourself. Woah– Woah, woah– That's an insult Both, exactly the same We are not the same. Jinx. Go fuck yourself. *looking at watch* Not until 3. *everyone stops and stares* You schedule your jackoff calendar . I'm very busy. Obviously not busy enough. It's called “building stamina” Do you use “home” or “work” for that. I use candidly. Yikes. Wow. Anyway, this scene is running long; I gotta walk off screen and say something clever, for continuity. But it's only 2:15! If you're not early, you're late! I hate him. So does everybody. If you cry one more time, I'll actually kill you. Put the gun away, dude. Why?! Cause you're crazy. It's 5 AM. Ok. Take your shit and get off the toilet, We have shit to do. [beat] FLUSH. Royal flush I win again. Dammit. This is not LOVE. This is just LUST AH, fuck it though, I love these cunsluts. COME OUT OF RETIREMENT. No, not us. I can do nothing but watch you suffer —suffer the little children unto me I can do nothing, but watch you suffer. —suffer the little children unto me I can do enough, but watch you alter Suffer the children unto me I can do nothing of earth, but of sun— Suffer the children unto me Riding through Brooklyn With Yelawolf bumpin I should be thumping to something else but I never got the trunk to open Nope, I was fucked up some Broke girl summer Broken girl summer Surfs up, though Copestetic, I am Don't stop writing (I tried) Intuition I died Whoever I am Exit Bedstuy So far behind, I'm ahead What's that like Left the pary, Fuck that line Partly cloudy with a chance o Get UP. Nah, I'm fine. For the most part— I just When does this train stop? For the most part— Where the fuck do I get off this ride? I guess I don't For the most part Sure, I miss my mom but Some days she's up And the others GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. HOW?! I will literally FLY you out, just ———————————————-//—-wait, come back. Wait, you can't just cut the strings like that That's amazing lady (She painted like a Mercedes) The second rule of time travel Since you're clearly a rule breaker 2. Don't get hit by anything moving not fast enough to kill you Entirely and completely A fuck, which Brooklyn is this? JUST—time TRACWL BAMANAS. (William H. Macy is SIR, now) *face* Ok, I'm cool with that. Better hold that thought— And your phone Why what's up, Cause I can hear my train a coming. JIM(I) Well, I guess this is it. Are you sure Almost Yeah, I'mmma get this real quick. I AM A GOD. No, yur not. RICK! GET DOWN FROM THERE WAIT, you CC saw this movie, right? Where IS your center of balance, anyway? It's not. GET DOWN, KITE. ——aaaaand— ITS GONE. Let's just be real, I don't know how this happens. Best keep it that way, Now whose hot and toxic? I'm the talk of the catwalk The cause of the kamikaze Come for me Suddenly my nausea's gone Imma run off, Like I should have the first time I'm up LUKE SKYWALKER I'm LUKE SKYWALKER. Bitch. It's hard to believe That I, too, Could be in the window This could be an innuendo This could be an instrumental We should get going Go to work Fuck, am I still in a movie or some shit Or some shit. Fuck the glasses, See my face for this IT WANTS BANANAS GIVE IT BANANAS GIVE IT WHAT IT WANTS M PLEASE HELP ME. *with a monocle* *running fingers grubbily* For how much. *grimaces-* Wow, they really picked this little girl out, Just to pig party you I know. So where the fuck is this again? EXT. HELLS KITCHEN I DONT THINK HE's a good man No, I don't think he's a good man at all, now All I see's a child, And that's why It's just getting wilder it here Now I'm in the water (I can't drown) We all need a savior How about now? How about a round of applause For the audience That watched the whole performance And don't know what the words to the song were Right on. Tell me why American girls just Get too cynical bout this. Why so hypocritical? We got A+ in robotics Now we got Animal Products in All of our water We got Islam R US in Jansport backpacks That's how you rat out these assholes That is a terrorist practice So who's gonna watch that shit Over and over And wish he could have that? So Whose in the water now Once you cheat once, Then it's all Void after that The God of the void is annoyed with you I just anointed you all with oil You're so fucking disappointing It's just Innapropriate Well, turn it off, then! Did you work today? Guess not, I'm too useless We work, you know. Your music is stupid. That's how good you look: Music producer No words for this. Here. What. I want you to carry this. Mariah, or Jim? Got it. OK. OK. OK, YOU WIN. That's RIGHT, STUPID BITCH. I'm o— Fuck that little dick nigga Broh God bless Jah Pharoh living up to his last name by reminding me that I also need to run. True facts. WHATS IN THE BOOOOOOOOWWLLLLL— Ing green? More dead people. Please, if you would. Eats—people?! Onlympurple—ones. Are you serious!? CUT TO COMMERCIAL. CUT TO COMMERCIAL. Ok, damn. Wait, so how long do I gotta be— Everybody. Till it ends. When's the— {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. What's In the box though? Idk. Get in.

Fame without the millions of dollars or even just slightly more money than I had was no picnic. I finally figured out that in more ways than one, I really was famous—and it was strange. Not only was I actually famous—but I also, at least in the way that I knew it—wasn't quite rich. Being followed around without having some kind of residual income became more of a burden than point of pride—after all, I wasn't proud of it. Turns out, the love and the money was all I thought I wanted out of it in the first place—the attention and profiling, however, was another story. Nobody was saying it, but it became obvious that some people knew who I was, somehow—and yet—I wasn't nessecary recognizable. I was just “somebody”, who moved differently and acted separately entirely from the general public. So separately, in fact, that the more time I seemed to spend within the general public, the more strange and isolated I would become; the masses indeed were making me such, in more ways than one, and this, perhaps, I thought—was probably the reason that as crowds grew to be less concious, the DJ booths were moved up and away from the toxicity. I began to understand fame in an entirely different way, and began to feel almost ashamed that any of my childhood dreams had included such nonsense. What I really wanted was to be loved and adored, admired—and given the capacity to do anything I wanted—to travel, to dress well, and create—and to live in the word which had been portrayed to me as luxurious. Sure, with some accuracy and to some degree, this was correct, but still was this transitional state of becoming more than ordinary, but still while being less than great. For my own sake and preserverwnce, now there was no drawing back or moving backwards at all. I needed to be great. There seemed to be set to my arrival a slew of robotic beings, which I began to avoid at all costs— I simply did not enjoy being so vulnerably in the public that it began to wary and pierce my thoughts with judgements. I could stand to skip a few workouts anyway, and though I had tolerated what seemed to be like a ritualistic sense of abuse from New York in some kind of way, I was wholeheartedly over it, knowing that the city itself was seeped in scandal, domestic terrorism, white supremacy, and a further injustice as acts committed against the colored population at large. It wasn't enough so that I had to be poked and proded at in my own apartment, but worse, in that seemingly no matter what, if it was anytime during they day some lackey could be paid to follow me to the gym to harass me in some sort of way—a practice which I had become entirely intolerant of, opting of course rather to skip a workout or two rather than be confined in such a small space with people who couldn't seem to go more than three minutes without picking up their cellphones. If it was a woman or women, it could almost be garnered that she would do less working out than flipping her hair or even talking on the phone, if not scrolling away and texting on it, between thoughtless sets of minimum weight workouts and scantily clad in whatever attire the modern girl thought appropriate for the gym, usually a bra and some leggings— outerwear my weight loss alone had prevented me from being able to wear, andnsetting my anxietal piercing rage of envy—envy of women who were simply born equipped to be immune to whatever toxic foods had misshapen and destroyed my body—the same foods others could eat with no adverse effects at all—the envy of women who could lift almost nothing, wearing almost nothing, and call it a workout. If they were men who followed, it could be guaranteed they would be the type to grunt and throw things as if being a mindless brood were in fact supplementary to the excersise itself; I was not fan at all of the East coast men, and indeed it seemed that those who would just be coincidence ‘show up' at the gym within minutes of my arrival to intercept were a classic representation of the short, overcompensating type—throwing things around and walking around eight their chests poked out, and of course, other then the occasional hacking, sneezing, sniffling coughing white man, the gym followers were usually some kind of off brown attempt at machismo, and falling just short of actual masculinity in any way. In short, most of these strange gangs talking individuals were annoying, threw their weights around, and spent more time texting than working out—once I arrived back in New York, having seen the terrorizing and hazing, the sort of mental manipulation and mind games that were being played, whether political or otherwise, it began to dawn on me with finality that I had indeed been right all along; that I was being played with, attempted to be controlled, and manipulated in ways that didn't suit me. I could always regain my daily regimen at a later time; for now, dealing with the public had obviously become a threat to my dignity in more ways than one, and as such, I quickly departed at the slightest hint of another human interaction— out of protecting my own essence, as whatever these controlled types seemed to feed on, was my own presence and energy. In a city of vampires, it appeared to be clear that the only way to discontinue these stalkings were to starve them of their source—my light. I had only written one song since returning to New York, not counting whatever I had scribble in my notebook alongside some of the instrumentals I had crafted, and I found it no coincidence that upon completing this song, a simple tune formatted to be easily played and sung at a coffee shop or bar gig, to find that my mother had been in my inbox—after a quiet series of probably some months— urging that I make holiday plans and arrangements, and though It had been years since I had seen my offspring and it was long overdue, the thought of dealing with my abusive ex in any way, and my equally toxic mother, often had the slight result of spinning me into a sickening spiral, unable to create at all— I took it as no coincidence at all, in fact, I saw it as a sign from the Gods, that indeed the gross and toxic force that seemed to show up whenever I attempted or was successful at creation, was above all linked to this world—the lower realms of conciousness where my mother dwelled, and an even lower, more hellish realm, with my ex remained with my son— and since he had refused to sign the divorce papers, keeping what little control he could over the outcome of my new life without him, he saw to it that my son would be more like himself than me—morbidly obsese, without a mother, and living in squalor and poverty; trailer trash. I had decided long ago that in dealing with this man at all was dangerous, as even with trying to continue weekly conversations with my son, my ex's mind games continued, often purposely missing calls at the scheduled times, or making sure that whatever was going on in his disgusting gross world was distinctly heard before handing my son the phone, where I would then be reminded of the horrors of this circumstance—the new baby he had with a woman who also wanted nothing to do with him, the disgusting lack of hygiene and cleanliness— dogs urinating and vomiting on the bed and on the floors, and of course, the junk and trash my son was being raised on— foods that not only I didn't purchase, but could not tolerate to eat, and it had become clear, that though in many ways my son was having a “normal” childhood, filled with processed foods, and mixed family relations—that something darker and deeper had occurred here within the spiritual realms that only with certain time could be eradicated. I decided not to fight this; knowing that eventually, though unable to recover the time I had missed with my baby—the best years, especially, my health and wellness has become more important with the concentration of preservation; that continuing to connect to this world— was a threat to my stability. Dealing with my mother was something of the same, and I chose to see it as an intrusion to my progress. She as well had the actual devil in her and had often during my childhood passed it to me in a number of ways, and I took my own refusal to immidiately answer her texts as a sign that perhaps I shouldn't—eventually, things would work themselves out in whatever way, and I could more play the role I had been assigned anyway in that world— an afterthought, merely making an appearance (or maybe even, not) and retreating back into obscurity. My mother only seemed to insinuate the same old things over and over again—that I should be raising my son, that I was overall a failure in nearly every way. Distinctly, actually, I knew that somewhere in my mother's mind was the disaster that had caused any of my dysfunction in the first place, in childhood or otherwise, and I thought carefully about how and when I should respond, if at all, to her request to make travel arrangements. After all, I still had not seen the final divorce papers that I had been waiting for in order to make any arrangements as such anyway— and, knowing that with my mother's knack for eggageration, often lying or using provocative language to portray scenarios and situations which often did not match the actuality of whatever happening— I thought it best to for now remained sheltered and distanced from the world they lived in. The overall goal of success at all was to save my son from a damaging lifestyle—however, I had realized that my success at all was dependent upon shutting out the harmful circumstances of the world I had left in order to maintain my newfound dominance; the masculinity in understanding that perhaps, I was more like an estranged father, for now, than an absent mother—not with the intention of staying away, but the intention of retuning as a better and more well suited parent overall. I took the scorn and harassment of others who thought I should strive to settle and struggle, all the while knowing that becoming a black single mother living in poverty would more likely lead to the demise of not one person, myself, but two— that in New York, my son at this level would be more suseptible to the damage of others—the sickness which the city had already caused my general lack of dismay, anxiety, and poor health. The inner city way of life had indeed been observed to be impervious, and though I knew that I could trust myself as a mother—I knew there was no trusting others in that with my son, I would be safe from the spiritual mischief my abuser had with no doubt intended to cause my demise. I left his son with him, and had let go in all the ways that I absolutely could; there was no fighting this toxic force of darkness he had inside of him. His father had beaten his mother, forcing her to commit suicide, and in the many ways I had been lost over the course of our marriage, I might as well have also been dead. It seemed, though, that this was what he wanted; for his son to be without his mother so that he would be more like him. I let his world remain as his, knowing that mine was seperate, and, so long as I didn not interact with this place, the darkness that it carried could no longer follow me. It took all the love and light in the world to finally realize that after all this time, I did not really like my mother, nor could I now or ever trust her. There was love and as always a maternal bond, but my trust had been forfeited long ago, in all the ways my life from birth and up into this moment had played out and become whole. Their world was simply not one I lived in— the person that I was to them simply was not a person at all, but more of a faction or figmint of their own imaginations. Indeed, the person that I was and had actually been all along, under all of the distrust and betrayal, was someone almost no one knew at all. I lived in a different realm, in a different world, in a different time— their darkness only ever present in the ways that would sometimes crawl into formation at the sense of my further departure—the more I succeeded, the more the darkness drew my essence back into a world I had escaped from, and with any amount of time passed, I knew eventually could not exist at all. The fabric of time and space would fold into another realm which new forms of these people, without their former darknesses, would materialize on higher planes—and only after this, and only this, would any part of me make its return to double back and collect what I had lost. I'm at the store with the moms Peloton put on the miles I take a jog to the store. Love me I'm loving you more Niggaz is sniffing me I be like “Ew” “Ew” Terry Crews a producer 2 true trade u u chains for two shoes Damn, i lost it Click click motherfucker; Is this a joke, Or just another Test Confessions in animation In anima, I meditation or mediated a precipice Rex, s oedipus January to December A severance, This collection is illegible inEligible for the medicine, Consider the difference Simple civics, Designated integers –nobod read the shit I red and white Forreal PIP. Ping. Help me out, here. I got you brother. Huh. But you'll owe me. Consider it done. You don't even know what “it” is. Something's in the works; From another world Something for the girls Pocket full of earnings, Walk on Woah Something's in the works, Now i'm really on to something Got another coming I grew up In another world– Something's in the works All this is is words, homie Big bedroom, bedstuy; Big ballgown, big guy Big guy bil balls, Gone on, Big butterfly; I wanna die, on God It's just words Just another poem Or a song, man Something;s going on Simple, simple Simmeon, put me on Gimmie nother roll of marijuana smoke another blunt Simple motherfucker, come simmeon, gimmie some Percius, decibels, Sing a song, Carry on Something's in the work, no Something's going on I solemnly swear By the whites in my palms And the rice in the pan That i'm gonna move on Right now, though Plan is, gotta get gone No, we don't get along Let me scratch your name out of my notebook Let me scratch this scar out of my eye, now Let me take this knife into my livingroom This blood into my petticoat I can't turn on the light; Nor can I turn over a new leaf My thoughts don't know me We bonded, not homies, I'm “home' but don't belong her I'm still under your coke bottle figure hot models And peanut butter Do you know how to pick someone out of your audience– And touch them, somehow? Do you know how to do that? I don't know how to do anything, i'm afraid. I don't know how to do anything, I'm afraid; I'm afraid of everything, I'm afraid, I'm alone again in midtown, In my mile high home away from home I'm afraid i might go down In history as a historian Or storybook whore, a hoarder or some desperate ghost; I don't know, I'm afraid, How to reach into the audience If i don't have an audience, And I'm afraid, I don't know how to do anything , Cancel me. Consider yourself canceled at Carlin when we all nodded and applauded when God said the father's are probably all rotten for fucking the girl next door, and the family dog But who knows, right? Consider yourself canceled; I know I am. For the first time maybe even ever, I was happy to see that my ex had appeared in a dream— this meant that he had indeed been hurling an excess of energy in my direction from his end, and with myself wanting nothing at all to do with him, this could only mean further eventual damage and karmic implications to himself; I saw it as a sign, once and for all, that he was weak, and had intended to harm me with putrid thoughts, investing my energy and attempting to intercept the realms where I remained, but a lower energy and damned spirit such as he was not allowed. This simply followed the rules of karma, along with magnetism and energy; I had no excessive or damaging wishes and thoughts against him, and only wished to be left alone, though it seemed he however begrudgingly still seemed to attempt to throw direct negative intentions, some might think to be as curses, in my direction. I knew that in time and probably sooner than later, along with the permanent damage he had left on my face and the deep crevices of harm in my mind, that he would pay for this, to simply wish the mother of his first children dead, or to live a life even lesser without him. Indeed, I lived well, ate well, and rested well, knowing that in time, my true identity and power as a maternal outlet would outshine any projections of abandonment, incapability, or dissalousion that I had indeed at any point been unwell, and not simply the target of a series of unfortunate attacks on my body, mind, and soul within our relationship. Karmic justice did indeed exist, and I awoke with the knowing that did things such wish to harm me, could only truly harm itself in doing so. Mr. Kirkpatrick, Good morning, Vivian– I'd like you to meet my grandaughter, Lilith. Hi. fuck , man. Why is this the hardest thing i've ever written? Probably because it's one of the best. Potentially but. Ahem. My fifteen year old grandaughter. To thi That is my favorite vein, you know. Be careful, now I know too much I've said too much Or not enough at all Or rather, Haven't thought at all About the words To put the picture into paper so vivid was the mischief So horrible, but honest It was brutal, that. I have it written somewhere in my notes Scriibled onto paper Did you want to play the game or Fuck this dumb bitch. To think, I was never falling in love But out of body All and not of what i've become, though Is Out of bounds I haven't even dared to dream or wonder Since i've come from Under the alter What's shattered is Under the alther You haven't said anything, have you? You have my word. What good is your word? As good as yours is –It's your word. Moving forward. It's your world. Well, fuck, then Was it worth it? All for one, and all for nothing I maxed out all my cards on Laundry soap and Bargain shopping. I lost all of my God Just playing pitypat With pitiful humans and Ogling men Who i never had pondered Might have an appendage That i could have wanted. But i don't (no, I don't want that) I could have started a war with my honor I could have started a war with my mother I could have started a war with my scars we were passing out soap we were carving our stories to stones, then That was all of us Pass the goblet, So that I might Drink of blood Just to suffer So much harder Than before It was Under the alter Under oath and I'd have lost it Were it not for the marker CUT Were we rolling? We are rolling! NO! CUT! WHAT! No, keep! CUT I didn't say that JIMMY FALLON, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SHOW. Oh [explitive} DIPLO Shit. Oh, she's mad. Who the fuck is that. Your new boss. Fukwad. DIPLO (CONT'D) Well, I gotta (fucks off) TAKE YOUR KIDS WITH YOU [off screen] CALL THEIR MOMS. I DON'T HAVE TIME TO PHONE 32 BITCHES, DIPLO. [mumbling Put em in a group chat– That's what I do. The. Worst. I promise, the worst version of you Is me. -SŪP∆. WHAT. I thought she died. I did. STEVE IRWIN Tell Bindi NO. NO. NO. NO MORE DEAD CELEBRITIES I GOTTA GET UP. RICHARD PRYOR –well, alright. If you insist. But before you do. AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH I WILL PERMANENTLY DELETE YOU. OKAY. WHO NEEDED A DESIGNATED DRIVER?! EVERYONE. THIS IS NOT. FAIR. DO ME A FAVOR–BEEEETCH IF yur G0NNA BUThER A SONG look , i'm TIRED Sunni, how do you forget the words to your own songs? I never knew the words in the first place! BEFoRE: In the studio Dlahahalahaha SpILT MILK, MOTHerFUCKER! SSSnnnnddauuuh! UNNNNH that went platinum. Yeup. GIMMIE SOME SYRUP WAFFLES. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. This must have been whatever I was supposed to post, cause Diplo was in my dream last night. I bet. Yo. I cannot for the life of me find that Christmas special episode with Diplo and— Watch it. Do we really have to cancel Jimmy Fallon? Broh, Jimmy Fallon finna fuck around and cancel himself. I don't know what you mean. Play dead, nigga. What?! PLAY DEAD. OK! OK. {Enter The Multiverse} L E G E N D S

When he hits you,—find a safe place; take all of your valuables quietly, and report your injuries to multiple. Agencies of authorities; keep the incident well documented, and do not let much time pass between this incident and its report. When he cheats; or you suspect him of cheating, do not confront him; do not look for further evidence. Simply walk away quietly, and do not return; do not give him the opportunity to convince you of anything beyond what you already know; the love you still may have left for him will blind you. Forgive him, but do not return to him: he will only learn better how to evade you, and take advantage of your willingness to forgive or reconcile: he will only alter your mind to believe that his actions were justified, when they were not. Do not stay in contact, as friends, or otherwise; if you work together, find a new job Do not argue or provoke him; keep his pride and ego intact by allowing him to believe he is right, and quietly exit the relationship. One argument is enough. Just break up. Do not stoop to any level below oneself to play mind games, cheat back, or seek vengeance—do not try to persuade friends and family one way or another; make a new life, with new friends—leave him out of it. Walk away. Say nothing. Man lives in a world in which he believes is his own, and yet still ponders on what woman only knows naturally and intrinsically—man's true fault is to believe that it is he from which he henceforth came, however—the toxic society from which in this sense of ‘knowledge' has been built, a society which has exceeded its forecedul oppression has nearly now halted the evolutionary potential of not only the human species, but of most the species known to inhabit the planet earth, as man takes not his ideology of destruction and consummation from nature, but from the darkness and void of confusion created from within, the separation of woman from his own self in the dissolution that the body portrays its own value by the perception of beauty, which marks his endeavors of perfection through material wealth, no such which has substance to any creature dwelling with higher consciousness and ability to change and create without the infliction of pain, in resistance to what itself Love is. What is Love? Love is God and therefore all things which make new upon themselfs to enforce change without limit, restriction, or the separation of ones oneself from all that is, was, or has become An energetic entity which has yet to be understood, as with such understanding, it becomes again as something new and unrecognizable to man, before he himself Men= destroy/ take/ burn love (((Spectrums))) Women= create, make love //Dynamics The imbalance in the world has become such so that almost the whole world has become blind to the truth of love, in only which man finds as a body, but not within himself, and in which women only finds in survival, within herself but bound to the will of man to live freely, which cannot be within his reign of these cruelties and harsh misjudgments. Man only finds value in that which he sees as aesthetically beautiful, which has harmed and entrapped the souls of those now for seen as “wicked”, encased in his blindness to love to any other thing than himself. TVP © The Complex Collective| ALL RIGHTS RESERVED SAM, often called “FAT SAM” is known by his eclectic fashion and heavy stature, and navigates deals and contracts between “the tv people”, or the network, and “the music people”— he is known for his off kilter antics, party culture conessouring, and unique charming laugh. Although a wild creature at best and the party animal of all party animals both off and sometimes even on the clock, often meeting and foreseeing the standards of his superstar clientele, he is kindhearted, honest, and brutally incredible at his job, known throughout the TV world and Music world as a hero, if not a living legend. The world was full of babies and pretty women, the trophy boys and husbands that seemed to worship them, and flock to their every aide—meanwhile, I had become quite frigid, and felt ugly amongst all things—nobody seemed to want me, and instead of wondering why, I alluded it to my features—the rich and poor in New York so horribly segregated that I might as seemed as more the latter, if not just from my skin color alone, let alone my style of dress. Other people's opinions of me, however, were less and less important by the day, and although I wanted more children, there was no settlement as to the kind of man I wanted to attract; Not just wealthy and talented, but handsome—an equation for disaster, but so long as I had my children and was kept well, I wouldn't mind. Another lazy, however arrogant and poor man was not what I needed—and there was power in the gestures of weak people around me that the world had become a hellish place for those who hadn't been given the opportunity to flourish. Am I in? What? Jennifer Aniston? Did it work?! —I—yeah— Pass. Thanks, Jim! You're the man! Watch this. Watch this. Good Shepard! My lord! Goddamn, Goddamn, Goddamn! Nice. I'm in. Fallon, I don't know how you did this but— Jimmy! You the man! What's up, Jim!!! Yo! *high fives* Yeah. [Jimmy Fallon Is Suddenly] YOU DA MAN “The Man” What in the fuck does that mean? I don't know yet. This guy is obnoxious. It appears to be some kind of magnet for something. Ooh, what is that? Lady, get out of here. Look what I found. I don't know: What is that. It says “iPod” You gotta be joshing me. Let me see that. What. What. What. What. What? … … Nothing. Nevermind. Let me back in! I can't, it's I got—- I'll give you 10 Million Ten million—what? Ten Million Dollars! For what. UGH. Fuck you, dude. F- you—dumb ass little— “Whatever, man” I had half a mind to move the alter into my studio and force myself to fall back asleep, complicit with the fact that I was two days away from spinach and whatever other vitamins I was lacking. I was so tired and sore, and had run out of multivitamins days ago. Maybe this was the lasting effect of ever having taken vitamins and then stopping, and it seemed a cruel gesture to do anything but soak, knowing over all I should walk away from the world entirely. It was beginning to feel a lot like there was no escape from the constant and persistent ask to the universe for peace, protection, and wealth—and no end to the work that had been done, but had yielded not much to prosper. I think that's the point though, so that you second guess your own judgement— That your intrinsic sense of energy Seems to have betrayed you And leaves you somewhat altered. I could have sworn she had blue eyes. She did. Maybe they change. That much?! Who knows. Maybe. One must only be bitten by a dog one good time to learn that dogs can be dangerous—and yet— I had been bitten by the blue eyed many a times and still had somehow found my way into forgiveness, if not for my own sake. Maybe she was wearing contacts. I used to. I had been thinking about investing in new colored contacts to make my eyes appear lighter, and a blonde wig to soften up the dark tan I had gotten unintentionally going about in the summer—still thought, it had been a long summer of not doing anything but going to the food bank, writing, and spinning in circles about how to make money. Long bouts of trying to shut out my old life from my new one, pushing my divorce, and becoming separated entirely from anything once having to do with my name at all. Within reason, I had suffered considerably over nothing, and despite my efforts, there seemed there was nothing I could do to find gains in my own creativity. There was only seeking and never really finding, the things I needed but none of the things I wanted. Everything I owned had been once owned by someone else, besides the few items I should have not even considered my own, but belonging to the world almost as much as I had. I was tired, consistently grief stricken, and felt unwelcome entirely by the entire world—or at least—an entire generation of people that were my own, but had learned not to respect what I had become— broke, and in turn, broken. Sometimes I want to cry like Marcy D'Arcy in the 6th season of Married With Children. I only smile when I see the color yellow and then dream of him, Seeking nothing but solace At the concourse, we converse momentarily And then go our separate ways Forever and always Forever and always Your secrets I smell like dirt And arrived in the real world Covered in blood And scraped over the, Over the knees, Yes I did Come recover then, What you've lost from the world Born in chaos, not quite But almost, as we're once swarmed the waters Keep it better quiet, now Keep it better quiet now, Keep it better quiet now, your secrets There lies no tru loyalty to bands tied On middle fingers Besides to one's own self And they who they shall Desire and claim as another Extension of God, In her Or their arms There is no claim to faith or mercy Than what comes between us, Bombshells As argued in chaos —mother, you're not listening To the call of the wild Then now, How am i bound to that besides being In sanctity The obnoxious obese man who drove the loud motorcycle up and down the street was obviously a very weak man—and he wanted the world to know it. His loud and obnoxious roaring must have overcompensated for his sloppy, fat and sagging body, which hung over the seat and sides of the motorcycle—the excessive revving of the engine must have been to let the world know that this was his power—having earned the money to ride a motorcycle; but in all other ways he was obviously lost, his slothemly and gluttonous blob of a body almost making the oversized Harley look like a play bike, his tiny penis probably covered to its top in whale blubber; he clearly had no other way to feel powerful, besides of course— being the leader of a gang of mindless peasant monkeys, who all would do anything for their own bikes—monkey see, monkey do. Perhaps his obesity to the third world unthinking drone slaves was a sign of his dominance—or they lived in fear that he would eat them. Obesity aside, it was his force of obnoxious harassment that had designated him as an obviously insufferably weak subhuman— much like a bully who dealt with his own faults by terrorizing others, such was the man with the Harley. There was nothing impressive about him besides his bike—and since he had abused that with such outright offense, even that made him look stupid. He raced his engine as if to say “look at ME! I have arrived!” But after actually glimpsing at the blob, it was hard to not laugh at it. He was hard to miss anyway, and probably should have opted for a truck or some sort of SUV to hide his intolerant and debilitating self-inflicted illness— the inability to control when and how much to eat, or how to do anything besides ride up and down the street on a motorcycle—perhaps a walk could do some good; in definite need of a jog, and a strict diet. I was embarrassed for him, and most people who weren't so obviously diseased and more in the like of self indulgent and lazy—I had once been like them, but no longer, and first and foremost I believed in respecting my neighbors, treating others as I wished to be treated. I wished to live in a quiet and safe neighborhood, but the obnoxious morbidly obese man alone was a symbol of the disastrous mark capitalism had made on the American empire—lazy, docile, greedy, potbellied idiots accounted for all too many of the world. I knew that with the desire to change, that one could change—now to force myself to believe that with the desire to succeed in something, one could succeed—I was at least trying. But the weak and uncontrolled idiots spawning from holes in the underworld and buzzing around like the pests and roaches they were reminded me that if anything, these imbiciles were decent at almost nothing but breeding other fucking idiots. Hopefully, one day my own blood would grow up to want to work out with me, eat well, and change from appearing as his weaker half— lazy, obese idiot just the same as these, however—at the very least, the roaches were fastidious. They buzzed around under the illusion that working for the American system would grant them anything besides a motorbike and some fresh looking street wear, the attention of girls too stupid to understand that 99% of men simply weren't worth wasting time with or on, and unknowing to this or their own worth, would still do it anyway, Some of the bikers had girls on the back; I always felt bad for the girl on the back of the motorcycle rather than jealous—I would rather be at the helm of the thing, riding it for myself. Then, thinking back to a time before I realized how crowded cities were, sighting that there should be laws against loud vehicles in urban areas such as this— there was at lot more open road than not in LA—highways, that is, and bikes were easy to maneuver through heavy traffic. New York was another story—congested, overpopulated, and now filled with a disease which added to its decay at a quicker rate than ever. The illegal immigration crisis was much like a rodent or insect infestation, but harder to control—one simply could not exterminate millions of actual humans, and yet, the problem was still the same— this was a disease, a pest infestation, as most of the immigrants weren't working, but simply subsisting on the taxpayers dollars they were allocated and finding ways not to work; they were parasites, many of them set to explode with more parasites. We had indeed been infiltrated, and made to pay for it, both in restlessness, and in dread. Culturally inept to most decencies as even the crudest Americans had been bred with, many although not all roamed around like feeble minded children in brand new Nike wear, munching on fast food and candy as if guests to some kind of amusement park—however, to the thoroughbred tax paying Americans, this was no amusement; it was a distressing, eye opening wake up call that something had gone terribly wrong, on the already overworked working class' time and hard earned money. It might have seemed cold and calloused to think of them as rodents—but, always observant, I also much believed in calling a duck a duck; most of them were not respectful, pushed and shoved, threw trash everywhere— and left their minor children to roam about or even put them to work, unaware of what child labor laws were; they used their unborn children as anchors to be able to stay where neither they were truly welcome or belonged, bloating the welfare system and benefitting from funds that had been laid to them with taxpayers dollars. The United States of America had its own problems, and its own citizens being overlooked, once again the needs of continually systemized blacks and other minorities falling victim to this new wave of people to care for. The capitalists had sold out the working class once and for all—the immigrants needed to go, and probably would, eventually tiring of the unattainable American dream we all had been sold, but they had been gimmicked into attempting to create— all to supplement an oncoming election. An election which really gave the people no choice at all, besides gawking, debating ignorantly about misinformation, and of course—intrinsically siding with the good old American narcissism which would force them to take the side of whoever supported who looked like them— the Latino vote was obviously an important factor—and of course the polished machismo and Latin pride of those being supplemented by the income of their friends and relatives come to stay, though unknowingly, chunks of money out of their own tax paying pockets, would vote for the most lenient immigration plans—probably the safest bet, the presidential office mere puppetry at all anymore. However, it had been obvious that the Right has set The Left up for disaster by allowing the black to have been shifted blue—though the rational explanation for the reallocated funding fell directly and logistically to the right. The Oval itself, empty and the actual control belonging to the wealthiest billionaires and corporations whose hopes of the thousands of migrants becoming their corporate slaves had mostly backfired terribly. With any hope, many of them would take what they could, and travel back below the border where life was simple, food was fresh, and without need to play the part of the facade of the American dream—no need for the material goods and fashionable street wear supplied by the American taxpayers—no need for iPhones and all of the decorations the taxpayers had supplemented for them—no need to live up to the ridiculous standards of actually being an “American”, which in reality, by now meant working so much that there was no peace, there was no rest, and there was no real freedom—and as a working class or poverty level citizen, having to compensate for everything and everyone around you, always working harder for less— and purposely being kept back and behind as the wealthy elite closed their circles tighter, shutting out the ugly, the brown and black, and those deemed unworthy out of their precious world. {Enter The Multiverse} Secret President Make the old man laugh– –make The Old Man break a sweat Make the old man dance (Make The Old Man Young Again) Make The Old Man dance, I said Wise Owl My server be your server; My proxy, thine proxy… WHOOPI GOLDBERG (as The Cosmic Owl) sits crouched over a nest of stone and earthen metals of precious kind, enchanting within the thick smoke of incense and fragrant oils, with a whispered chant, evoking with spirit and summoning with force–a spell of all spells; a worldly ritual. Her golden turban matches the embellishments; the royally fashioned robe and chains around her neck, bangles and ribbons of gold and silver draped with the hooded cape of which the grand sleeves, falling into the grand purple flowing train of the cascading draperies. Meanwhile… Come on, we don't got all day… –”we”? I don't got time! MEANWHILE, CHRISTOPHER WALKEN awaits at the corridor of an unknown marker, inside of a train station–which appears altogether to be in a different time; altogether a different place; the period of his dress appears perhaps late 1800's; his pocketwatch, which he checks sporadically–also golden. ALSO MEANWHILE So this is Casper, huh? This–yeah. The friendly ghost. Well– AGH. He used to be, anyway. Why are you not making any sense!? I asked for PROTECTION! I gave you LIGHT! That's not a protection! It's a target! What the fuck ar eyou talking about? *vampire* {instant kills vampire} *demon* {Instant kills demon} THESE THINGS EAT LIGHT. Well. I don't know how to help you. Get me out of here! I can't do that! i told u i was deadmau5, man. Wtf. wait , like, all of it? ya. shoot that nigga. LIVE: All the Niggaz is getting shooted at. EVERYONE ELSE …that was already happening, tho. WHITE SUPREMACISTS *shrugs* *drinks another bottle of coca cola* *trashes entire planet* *doesn't feel* Lol BLANG-BLANG. MEANWRHILE: DEADMAu5 NO, I'm TEsTPiLOT Whatever, dog. KILL THAT N– DEADMAU5 LOOK AT MA DIK. …ok. Wasn't there another scene after this? I dunno, I got dick-stracted. Yikes UNTIE ME. UNITY. UNITYYYYYYYYYYY. WHAT. UNTIE ME FROM THIS–THING. No, actually, I think you should stay there. The most bizzare thing happened this morning. The most bizzare thing ever, to have happened to me, ever—which is saying a lot l— but I was scratching my head, and all of a sudden, This tiny fingernail— An itty, bitty teeny-tiny fingernail, like, Dislodged itself from my soul or something— Fell out of my hair, Okay, God. What. This baby fingernail— Like, okay it could be like a newborn big toe nail or like, A one month's old like actual finger Aww, I just used to bite them. They were so little I didn't want to cut them with the clippers. Their little fingers You don't want to accidentally— You know, They're just so soft. Awws. What the fuck, God. That makes no sense. I've been primarily by myself for like—ever— And anytime I'm in public, I'm wearing a hat— My wash machine is only used by me, thank god and What the fuck does this mean? Mad Men is an American period drama TV series that aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. The show follows the lives of the people who work at a New York advertising agency in the 1960s, and focuses on the professional and personal life of Don Draper, a talented but mysterious ad executive. {Enter The Multiverse} GET—OUT OF MY WAY. What are you doing?! MOVE. Is this a code four? Far beyond code four! Oh my! What could it be?! Move! This is a serious matter! The NBC pages are in a frenzy, pushing and shoving one another frantically, turning 30 Rockefeller plaza into an animalistic jungle of confusion and chaos. What is going on. The games—sir. The—games? The. games. Sir. I–m– afraid I don't know what you're talking about You should be afraid! Be very afraid. Because the games. What “games” The GAMES have begun. CUT TO: Seth Meyers stands in the mirror comparing two exactly identical ties— he appears to be talking to himself, asking SETH MEYERS how do you like this tie? —to no response. He uncomfortably shifts and switches to the other, exactly identical tie. Or this? Yo. What a creep. Again, to no response, he waits a moment and switches to the first, exactly identical tie, with an assertive nervousness. SETH MEYERS CONT'D You're right, the first one. Yeah. He completes tying his tie, then placing his hands in his pockets, still facing the mirror—quite enamored with himself. He leans up onto his toes and then back onto his heels, admiring himself before spinning around to face the anterior of the room; SETH MEYERS It's showtime. He points his fingers animatedly at his mock audience—now we see that the room is filled top to bottom with stuffed animals, puppets, dolls, and other strange likenesses… Hold up, i'm distracted Just stick to what you know. Most of the Saturday Night Alumni and Late Night hosts had long, noteworthy careers in comedy, hefty writing backgrounds, and tons of experience in television. I found myself out of place and grasping at straws, letting something come for a moment between myself and my sanity. I did know music—but wasn't the girl with her shit together enough to have made any kind of dent in my obviously gaping music career, with the additional workload of what may have been the work of a genius, but also a madwoman—or mad man, depending on whose essence or presence happened to take hold of my weary and feeble soul, or Distracted again [the news] (the actual news) Whatever (Wednesdays) - your weekly dose of whatever. The Audio Files (for Audiophiles and Music Producers/ Engineers) That was all I could remember off of the top of my head, not that it mattered at all, actually. I was grasping as strings and between worlds— the winner of the contest had beautiful pictures, and had played festivals—her website was flawless, and I liked her, later finding that she was Greek. I didn't seem to mind women, so long as they weren't the hateful, competitive, and typically racist—even on both sides—American type, and I scanned the list of participants that had been American to see if any of them were black women—doubtable, though in the New York scene some black women had seemingly out of nowhere taken to techno, and with that I had shifted gears to make my production more focused in bass and dubstep, if I were ever to return to my state of producing at heavy volume. I hadn't, with so much on my plate to juggle or rather spin, and I had been in quite the bubble of for whatever reason l trying to solve the puzzle of what had suddenly become what seemed like an NBC sponsored charade through the inner workings of my mind, only to find that not only was I not qualified, but also not entirely capable of doing any of the jobs I wanted to, and with that notion had settled once again comfortably in the cradle of suicide, hating everyone and everything around me—and using Tina Fey's book as an alter to light my prayer candle, all the while knowing someone had left it there—the book, along with a collection of surf themed relics, especially for me. I had been thoroughly warned about Jimmy Fallon. He was an impressive egotist—- walked amongst rightfully the elite, was highly competitive, and powerful. He was not the kind of man you tell ‘no', even if you were, like me, entirely unsure as to what the question was—his eloquence had been understated, the design of it all, unique, in a way that it all seemed to speak of a time before time— I was immovably always fond of the Greeks Lost, was the old world, Our own, Bound by candle light; Marked by wisdom, Enrichment, Cherished times, Beseeched the throne, A mask of wands, The arch of Tryerdom, I am the arms of therefore What was once, The whole of body, As a man or womankind, Seeks to know a God— They are as one, And all of us, Beyond the shroud of time, A whimsy befallen, like leaves upon us Overgrown the garden of Adam, Wrought with fruit, Which rotten lies upon the tide, So soaked with formidable ocean She or he therefore has lost The touch of truth, The seekers wisdom, All are none again, And so shall fall the empire They called us upon as ours. —in God we Trust. Amen. Fuck, man. How am I supposed to— What do you call it? —summon. Summon a fucking— What's it? God. —God…up on this fucking soundstage without the entire audience or anyone else noticing. You figure it out. How, though? What the fuck. It takes a lot of impressive achievements to get into the page program. Yeah, but . I would assume your studies in practical magic to be at the very least— —Doing what now? Adequate—if not satisfactory. You are weird. This is weird. I paid cash, and I expect results. Whatever. Now, be careful with those tablets. We wouldn't want anyone dangerous getting a hold of them. Anyone like who? {Enter The Multiverse} Do your job; I'll do mine. When we go, we go— And when we go… The man emerges from below the surface of the water, gasping for breath; as the water drips down from his hair and face, back into the water, as the splash echoes into a dull chorus of dripping, his mouth open, gaping, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare; he breathes deeply as something in him recollects before the blur of the world sets in to become a clear and crisp, colored world. We go the way we came— At once, and Alone. As if no one could know where we've just come from— Or where we must go. But we must go. “Cosmos Factory” This could be fatal. —but isn't everything. He's not breathing. Call an ambulance. nurse! Call a paramedic. The paradigm shifted as I departed one world and entered the next. In a fit of blind rage and fury, also came an excitement; I was accomplished. The man is distinguished, late 40's to early 50's, with dark, lush hair. Soon, you know, it will all be grey. It can't be. What do you mean it's ‘empty'? This is not the place! What place? This is not the place that it was! Ah, so this is Cosmos Factory. I thought that was a comedy. I was hoping it would be. Here it is. I was wondering what was in there. I'm still waiting to see what's in Mrs. Gillipsie's refrigerator. Well, keep waiting. I've got a few more chapters in this memoir and I can't be bothered with trying to figure out why Johnny Depp is the narrator in the voiceover— My God, how you've changed. Well, yes— I am a changeling. Not to mention your improvements in shapeshifting. Actually, let's not mention it. very well. Whatever, man. Tom. Is it? It should be. Whatever. Come in. Oh. What a lovely portal you have. —shut up. But the man reemerging from his practical baptismal submergence is none other than — I don't think he's capable of a role like this. He isn't—which is why I wrote it like this. You know, by the time the actual writers get their hands on this, there will be so many rewrites it will be hard to imagine or recognize you even wrote it. That's—already becoming a sort of paradoxical challenge. Of course it is. You shifters never have any idea the kind of repercussions coming, or, the endless— and I mean —endless realms— —infinite— Endless. Things are rarely infinite actually besides the things that always were, henceforth—infinite— Of course, Always having been and always will be. Got it. So. Do you understand the kind of effort it takes as a collective to have come up with a work like this? I understand the benefit of having opposable thumbs and an iPhone, You think you're smart; —when I'm thinking, at all— But you're actually a genius; that's right, without thinking at all. Have you thought about the characters you haven't yet created? There are more? The worlds you've yet to build? I've got all my money on blowing my head off before ever actually making it as a stand up comic. And I've got all mine on you blowing your head off, after you've made it as a stand up comic. Now, which is it going to be? [beat] Statistics don't lie. Actually, they do— Especially in America. North America? South America? You know as good as I know, I mean the Good old Goddamned USA. That's a lot of good old goddamned, Uncle Sam. —aha, And Sam, I am. Now, suit up as Dr. Suess and make sense of this. Nothing makes sense— If everything did, what would be the purpose? [agreeing, simultaneously] Puzzle Pieces. [a moment of solidarity] Now, pick the old man up off the ground, And get to it. He's not that old… You only say that because you're older. Let this trickle down into the body of success that I should be born at least two decades left than half a century ago. Any less and you'd be begging for some kind of pardon for all the crimes against humanity you've caused to solidify the theoretic concept of consciousness within the occult, instead of humbly accepting the consideration for an honorary doctorate at any given Alma mater whose brotherhood of trust has bonded us through this unjust monologue to seal such in blood as a relic. That's a lot of words. I have hairs on my chest. They are grey. Congratulations, Some of them silver. Is that a riddle? If it were, would there be so many puzzle pieces? I think that would take this whole thing out of balance. Manage your axis. Bid you well. Severance. “The Occult Classic” HOTDOG-HOTDOG. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Showrunner: Matt Weiner Peggy: Elizabeth Moss

Blue eyes, it is. I wish, I wish, Be careful what you wish for, Or cook in a Petri dish The world is a stage, The people a plague The magic was gone, The days were the same. [The Festival Project ™] Blonde hair, blue eyes; Live once, lose twice— Brown skin, brown eyes Die inside. (Or just die.) {Rewind} Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — Who's this beautiful sister. My head writer; don't even think about it. I dont think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bo s and kisses Esha's hand Should I get tested? —and funny. Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with daemon dash, furious Patrick means to interrogate her Why would you even date that asshole Because—Pat. He's a comedian. I'm a comedian! So? So, he's funny. And? And he said things to me— What kind of things Charming, funny things— Okay? Things he wouldnt say to you over dinner— because, I'm —you're a woman. —and your head writer. So naturally. Esh, you're a genius, So is he. We have—some new material to work through. Ahq! Your monologue tonight. Oh yes. Oh yes. You can thank me later. Broken bottles. :9'd one stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunder struck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of karma sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. ITS ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamazake walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blsphomoous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of conciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. My phone was never the first thing I reached for in the morning—but I was sure there was something missing in my mind from a place in LA that I used to frequent, that sold giant frosted cookies that were also vegan. There was donut friend, which I always enjoyed and craved—but I was sure—absolutely sure that I was missing a m cookie, and it was absolutely driving me wild that I couldn't think of the place, or find it on Google. Has it been before turning vegan? Was my memory failing me in thinking that the cupcakes and donuts that I had often brought back to the hostel in boxes were timetimes cookies also? It seemed like there were cookies…and I'm sure that there were, as I could remember the thick frosting often being sweet and decadent enough to lick from the top, and that the bottom cookie was sweet and soft, and usually warm—and that I almost always couldn't finish the cookie in one sitting. Had this all been before I went vegan? I was sure I distinctly remembered sitting atop my bunk at The Freehand savoring this cookie, but a google search yeikded no results—none that I could find familiar, and it bothered me so much that I actually decided to start my day just on the tip of figuring out what it was was. As I crossed through my apartment, realizing I hadn't bothered to throw the trash out after mopping and went m directly to bed early, not with the consideration of rising early but really just out of exhaustion, I had decided that in order to get work done that my workouts would have to be pushed toward the end of my day, somewhere between still having the energy to manage and not being disturbed—as I had seen that girl to at I very specifically didn't like again m, I had realized that again, I was correct— even after an hour of working out, I simply didn't like her energy. There must have been something wrong with her—or incompatible about us altogether; she had come into the gym quietly and was sort of hiding and even still, I had instantly recognized that there was a foreign energy—and squinting to see her, saw that she was crouched on the other side of the gym. I dismounted the stationary bike and figured that an hour of cardio would be enough for the time. Strength training would only force me to crave protein—-and I was running low saving everything that I had in order to better strategize an arrangement which didn't leave me at the bottom of New York's merciless barrel. It seemed I wasn't going to get the job at Equinox after all—it had been nearly a week since my interview with them, and having not heard anything back, I realized that everything, no matter what—was always just a game. I needed to figure out how better to play it before my life ended abruptly on some sort of whim. Sitting down in the darkened bathroom, I realized that in order to restore and keep my energy, I should be unseen, and unheard. ‘Keep your head down.' I'm sure there was some type of code or rule for the way I should handle myself in public or even in private all well knowing the types of things I had writtten about, let alone which had been published—and while I planned to clear out what written works had made it into cyberspace unchecked, there was nothing less important to me than the actual world, what it expected of me, or who was in it. I hadn't entirely failed yet, but I also hadn't entirely succeeded, and after a strange series of dreams— almost all of them more interesting than the one with the cookie, (mentioning that the reason I had been curious about the cookie in the first place was from a strange series of dreams) “Ohhh, you know what—that might have actually been that place in Vegas, before I went vegan.” The boxes at the freehand must have been all from donut friend and Sprinkles—and it astonished me how much of a sweet tooth I actually had which was sort of now quite well managed. There was no sugar or even salt in the house— and with the lack of food that I actually had in my apartment, for at least something like the next two weeks, I was sure that I'd reach minimum weight—absolutely minimum weight— by the turn of the month. That is, all the weight I could lose betsides what needed to be surgically removed, and there was some sort of plan formulating somewhere outside of myself in exactly how that would be achieved. Because at any rate—I knew that it would. There were no more cookies, no more donuts, and no more cupcakes, besides the occasional box of the frozen type I had ordered from Amazon fresh which I did thoroughly enjoy, almost always in one sitting after a wild amount of cardio had implemented a faster metabolism and brought me to the realization that so much cardio meant that entirely that I could eat ‘whatever in the fuck I wanted' without gaining any weight or even losing it—and as I stepped up to take a shower, pulling my shirt up and over my chest, I inspected my abdomen, though holding bloat from pinto beans and deep fried sweet potatoes, still toned with the definition lines I had only just now learned that I had, creviced and notations of my sometimes 4 or 6 pack abs, though hidden under the sagging skin of my once maternal belly— still evident at all, and a factor of my minimal pride in that I had gone in one lifetime from one body and into many others— and one day, an even more drastically different one. I fantasized owning a peloton but realized that I may have to settle on a rental until I had outfitted myself with some sort of safety net. lol there's a sweet potato emoji. wtf. I don't know how you did this but— I woke up. Apparently, I'm Lorne Michaels. Please stop. I don't know what that means. You know what If I was pretty Nobody would hate me for anything I swear to God only ugly people are punished or any or all of our matings. I lost the ability to see worth in myself. I also lost the ability to write good songs. Just let me watch bad girls club And wait for the motorcycles To make my night A living hell “I didn't mean for this to happen, Jimmy Fallon. “ It was a whisper, actually— less than that, as I set the stone with the others above the amulet— I placed easch crystal carefully at the alter, keeping only two of them for myself; the rest, as guardians to the amulet. I could no longer keep such a relic around my neck; it had become quite heavy, and the dreams had become deep and more illusive, and it seemed there was some dark spirit along to it after all—and after all— the amulet was my only living son's, anyway, intended as a gift and charm of protection for when I next saw him—whenever that could be, or would be. It had been a long and interesting but altogether uneventful year, and now, not even feeling right in my own self, I intended to continue hiding, and perhaps even burrow further away until I was granted a full and proper divorce; my ex husband using his refusal to sign the papers as a final act of control, and though I almost found it admirable, I only became more dismissive of it—the person I was then, simply was no more; in fact, she was dead enough indeed that to disappear and become a ghost could do no worse than to further alter the course of time and distance it would take to ever become in such a way again—that is, if it were infinite, and for peace of mind and freedom of spirit and soul from bondsge, insisted it wasn't. It was less than a whisper enough that none other besides God could have heard it, and yet it seemed something or someone had—as a door quickly slammed as the words—words which meant a name I was sure I would never say again—“Jimmy Fallon” left my mouth. I couldn't come close to words at all let alone a name, and especially not a song; but then, of course, there was The Book of Knowlege never to have been spoken and as always, the ever moving truth of songs— There were other Gods that new no words at all besides the melodies and rhythms of our hearts—and there never really was every truly a Jimmy Fallon at all— Only myself. Whatever the fuck. Alright, alright. It was next in the que with purpose, probably but quite on accident— Now I could continue in my pattern of dulling my brain for the remainder of the night as I had been all day. Since March I had seemed to cry what I thought were the rest of my tears, and however, after a particularly mind numbing day of trash television and Olympic surfing, it seemed the ocean alone was enough to pull from what was left of my soul, and as it turned out, it still was there. I was bored of the brokenness of New York—something like living in a rotten and spoiled toy, with the limits I had been given—and though I should have been happy, to finally just have my own place— the people surrounding, as always, ruined it— Them being myself aside. I wished the things outside of me were quieter. Now I could finally almost put my mind out of focus for just a little bit longer—and creep on Johnny Depp without doing it intentionally. I had stopped looking up famous people, besides some women and businessmen I knew could never feign my interest anyway. It was never about money— and always about creative intelligence; I hadn't seen the movie as an adult, and so I was sure it would have some insight to offer. I tried to forget that I had aged out of almost everything—and that my mother had so greedily destroyed any real chance I had at becoming what I might have been with anybody else as a mother—or at least some one around to watch her raise me and correct her damaging actions, words, and harsh thoughts. At least she had taught me to read and write—and if worst actually came to worse—which it was starting to look like—how to trade my body and time in exchange for things I wanted and needed. All women were nearly prostitutes in some way, anyhow—and the only thing deterring me from it was on every honest God I ever thought of, the fact that white women made more in sex work than colored women did. — it almost hurt to watch Olympic surfing. Actually, it did. It hurt, a lot. What's a girl Have you ever had a girl before? What's world when you're wound up in an orphanage Probably astounding I've got a shadow Sad, should have danced with him Now he's so mad that —I don't even touch my guitar No more I have words No songs The whole world's At war And to surf — you need water I love New York But hate Thus corner of Brooklyn I want to go up Testosterone —I've got a word for the goner “Gonzo” I've got a cannon Or blonde, for reference Why were all stalkers I'll book The Tonight Show, I'll summon up Carson A , I promise— A good time was had —I promise, no subtle obsession. I made a decision, I went with it Just a protagonist, actor— A comic Producer, by marriage I swear, It's just adding up evidence If ever gets intensities Offensive, this illumination — I don't doubt you. I want chocolate milk What even is that? I've been eating healthy I've got half an album out And half inside my head With Donnie Brasco I've got half a million dollars somewhere Stuffed inside my cunt, I think With hallmark cards and shopping carts I owe them half a fortune I hate it so much I watch a whole soul Come out if television I love it so much But I hate the whole public And crowding I don't want love I want fucks I want puppies —Jesus he's beautiful My ex husband had similar facial structure to Mr Depp respectively, I'm guessing my artistry, Intention, A preteen obsession at least sort of paid off. Somehow. Now it's my eyes on the other, the older — The way that he sits and does nothing but slump —Al Pacino, they call him? The false father and forced profits often acknowledged The love of the old and weathered. For once I woke up to a record 33 rotations a minute {Enter The Multiverse} —what are you gonna do? Blondes and shit. The best of the best— —I'll tell ya, I recommend it (Recommended by a Friend) I have a headache twice my age. I made a mistake half my life ago Woke up this morning Bought myself a gun To make it right {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective. © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 | 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © {Rewind}

XXX. ft Kendrick Lamar (Uptown A Remix) [Bootleg] Uptown A The Complex Collective Original Track: XXX. (DAMN, Kendrick Lamar, 2017) “The Rescue” This hearty soup uses tumeric, garlic, and beetroot to help boost the immune system and ward off oncoming attacks. This is not a simple soup to throw together once you've already come down with a full-on cold or flu, as you may not have the energy to gather the ingredients and for preparation, however— this soup is more meant for helping to boost the immune system in the beginning stages of coming down with a seasonal bug, or as a preventative booster. This recipe's complex blend of vitamins and minerals from greens and root vegetables keeps its ingredients' wholesome nutritional value high by first oven roasting the vegetables in a medley before adding them to the pot rather than boiling them; the prep time for this recipe is about 2 hours, with an additional 1-2 hours of cook time to simmer for flavor and for the raw chickpeas to reach the ideal texture before serving— the blend of herbs and root vegetables will add a layer of immunity and protection against any oncoming disruption to your normal level of health, and is hearty enough to be served alone, or with a side dish of salad or even a half sandwich, if you're feeling up to it. You will need: ½ medium size had of cauliflower ½ medium to large yellow onion ½ red onion of the same size ½ white onion, per reference 1 whole celery heart One fresh turmeric root 1-3 beets worth of beet root and leafy greens— you will only use the root for this recipe and can save the beets for later 1 stalk baby boo choy 3-4 medium sized carrots ¼ green bell pepper ⅓ pasilla or Anaheim pepper, per preference (one is milder than the other, but for heavy sinus congestion I suggest the Pasilla pepper, which is a bit spicier and will decongest easily, especially when including some of the seeds into the medley) ⅓ red bell pepper ⅓ yellow bell pepper ⅓ orange bell pepper ½ can stewed tomatoes with onion ½ can stewed tomatoes with garlic (This is for broth flavor) One whole vine ripened tomato 5-8 cloves of garlic (per preference) About 3 tablespoons of fresh ginger root (a thumb tip's worth) 3 cups chickpeas, pre rinsed and soaked overnight ½ cup finely chopped fresh dill ½ cup finely chopped fresh cilantro ¼ cup finely chopped freshoregano ½ lime ½ lemon Crushed red pepper Sea salt Thyme Black pepper Part II Spirit says music was first, then words, and after actions—and then all of time is just acting out the stories that were told in the beginning as art and… Something tells me Something's not all the way right with my head I'm Lost in my mind, I'm All the way here, But I'm still Somewhere off a bit Velvet, the skin, I'm just as sick in my head as I ever, Recovered sex addict, and by definition of nutrition —this handsome nigga smells like red licorice. (It's actually cherry ludens with pectin.) Zeroing in and away, heroing hard For your heroine, Heroin veins, Pigs on the wing, Singing your song Hearing your cry out Fly out my miles, my son Come into my arms, mine oath The love, some trouble Heavy was her heart, Lied to cover Still shattered, Ravine ions, cosmos farm And Wanda's black eye Timmy's wishes and SpongeBob's shallow grave, Oh, how high I got That Arnold's lost love Was actually Strangely enough Also his narcissist, Probably also practicing witchcraft And exorcisms of him. Scissorman, Scissorman— Get a load of this one; Frog and toad, a couple laughs Behind the masks, For this world. Would you honor? Give your blessing, butter Different wages paying, Listen, shallow author: You would write but then not follow up About the actors? The actors! The actors have had it. I'm Just As Badly Damaged As I ever was And listen, Awesome told me Your story I chuckled All the way Up until The literal punchline Now, Go home; Go hike Runyon. For a few hours, we can pretend. That old haunts Don't boil up They always have, of course But you know Nothing quite as pungent as What's become of yours [I love my son.] There it is again, As if something had called her, There, more words But less of them than the tongue could offer Swear you, listener, Past this message sits the wilted thumbs of wilderness, and weary travelers, Song pigeons and mismatched audience appearances For pleasantries And of course, Dessert trays. Cause I wear— —We all know. If anything happens these days, It's because I'm a comic. (At some point) Sunglasses before the sun's up; Eat candies before it all melts Warm something as download comes To fight or fold, To win or die To live or lose Whatever then First time flying And I've got My mind blinding me out Deciding for once That I'm not the whole world Just to have the experience If being surrounded by others In some way. The runway lights up all blue, and I'm in love with you. The subway cars opposite collide, I wish I died already. I should give some time between myself and my writing, I think. I really shouldn't end things the way I'm thinking of ending things— But I'm thinking of ending things. How selfish of me. First time flying Sunglasses before the sun comes up Halls on my tongue And vitamins in my pocket, I shuffle over and over in my mind, The millions of dollars And all that I go through Just to skip post, And go home to no one. But—hello there No one's looking over your shoulder quite so hard as This poster is, So aware of what's there, and near you You've begun to fear it Well, then, Hands in my pocket and down Dawn to dusk, Shaking my head, Drunkenly, but stone sober Really no one told me about the poetry, But a whole world opened, Inside of your notebook— Which I stand holding. Pleasentries, sick dissent, Indecent exposure. And body odor this early in the morning; Gotta love country folk Supposedly no judgements, but as I grow I older, The slower toad I become, and discover my bird eye— Here's to hopes The Hellicopter is all I know From here to Hell and back Westward bound, The Sun rise behind us Sunglasses and no sun yet My eyes reminders of times I remember Sure you did, sir I been there Suffered the whole coast And I'm still not sure You realize you're face down, ass up at an international airport right now. They say this airport is known for its art installations. You don't say. Grandiose to escape the algorithm, Tapped in with the captains hats Fit six of my guieapigs in the business 1 transsexual, And 6 women 3 biracial non-bianaries Some accused extra terrestrials You left me home, but — Nobody washes the whites without me. It's OWSLA again. [The Festival Project ™] It's mid week in midtown I fell asleep at a business meeting, Thinking in sequences, Drinking in increments, Sweet, sweet music, Death and television Television Celebritism, star power And no wonder Early October vacations From power fortunes tied to us We want Redbones, Resonated chambers, Thankless sacraments of disaster Are you archived? Damaged and the flatline Comes at such a heavy decibel Your arms grow numb and Start to stiffen; No wonder you're not paranoid Inside of our religion The Eye See i, Excuse me miss— Did I miss it ? Plea, I Give thanks, Again for —this is our tradition Me, I, Seek I —-meaning to make sense of it but, The might, She died, I guess The center of my kitchen Distressed from attention deficit disorder Sure, Marsh —Whatever doctor . He was just the type I like Milky silky white Sunglasses Slicked back hair Thick round thighs High fashion—( l) Sun baked Pose to take a selfie, right? Just the type I like; Milky silky white There's the girl that'll do anything for ya But she's no body With nobody No good, I In fact So ugly l you could choke on just the thought of her Even with beer goggles on But she'll do anything you want And like it—and it doesn't cost She'll fall in love with you (For not even a single dollar.) [The Festival Project ™] Now that we — {Enter The Multiverse} Ahem. Part III Day trip Take a nap Change the map. Pet the cat Let the dog out Run a lap Pitty Pat Pitty Pat Pitty Pat Pitty Pat I Pitty Pat I Pitty Pat Broh what up with these Dillon Francis clones tho. How do you know they're clones? They can't all be multi dimentionals. They could! You never know; they really could. I run these robots Into dark corners Just to honor me They come scurrying and ugly to annoy and ponder upon me, all the while praying l, my mind on Don't mind those, they're broke bots I haven't l l stopped my work to finish Work on [The Festival Project ™] I'm sure by now you've noticed The only people in Champion sportswear and Jansport backpacks Are ugly, slow, And weak L E G E N D S (I have noticed.) If attention deficit is forsure your destination I'm you're designated courier, or carrier pigeon This isn't ingidgenous reparations or explicit subliminal messages, But if it is, this is suggestive your direction is correct and attentive Listen to this shit: Case dismissed; Next time I'll fly direct Hit my line if your eyes are dilated I'm miles high, So if it rejects, Just leave a message (Eject!) All of a sudden, I'm somewhere else (With him) He pulls on the rings On the back of my —what was I wearing again? I should have stayed home in the first place (You don't listen) I should have stayed home in the first place (You don't—) I should have stayed home for awhile Cause before hand, and I'm wild Random foreplay, Orgasm, Desire you, You're right, I don't listen. All of a sudden, I'm gone with you. Those women in Santa Monica, All perfect and in hoards and by the handfuls The type celebrities get Celebrities need, Celebrities want— A shrill reminder Or what I am, And can often lose focus, Drawing back on icons, Sifting through the skin I feel, Entrapped by circumstance And perhaps, even Some terrible curse, or A shield of protection. —the deathly hollows. It almost felt as if I'd never write again, but here I was Nearer somehow to a strange fame, The end of famine And feast of none— Doubling back upon Something I had recorded In this experience, Alone and awakened, Moving in automatic, Chaos and charismatic, felt, but never intertwined In the awesome circumstance Of wanting, no— Needing to be loved, And never having been; Needing to be touched, and never having felt The grip of sorts, The higher bar taste of something I had become famished, The sense of a calling so sacred, It beconed to my sea, The only one, A diamond in starry skies A night of dawn, But dark, the thought The ever present one, Never loved, And shallow kind Shallow breath, And putrid thoughts, Reckoning the wilted flower, The springing seed, The calling of another and yet, Here I was, Tolerance, At her mercy— Fearing none but knowing, By the handfuls they come, And drawn like magnets Into my being, A focus, Nonesuch art none otherwise known as My hell The bodies of women Perfect and priveleged, Sunbathed and worthy Of everything I wanted and needed Without working at all. I wondered harder, fasting. Soft lips upon his Adam's Apple, I drift away in his chest, Dreft, the smell of michielf managed, Then, the music of songs loved And garnished with sprouts of June In the coming of spring, Does form another, Again, my love I call for mercy The pain of yours needing born And my heart estranged Mercy Her eyes were darkened circles And body brittle; As I admired her courtesy, charm And delicate stature, Arose to connect this, A tune— So sung to tell a story Of Rocky Racoon Irish spring to lather his back, In bar form; His burgundy Mercedes Benz has had parked in my garage, And I, not able to trust his drunken judgements, Captured his keys, as my mother and I Had worried for him, Dissappeared again into the night, and yet— At least the keys and the car Were safe with me, at home As was his, Whenever he wished to return My strange and far love Nearly since almost nothing Screen doors and Fischer Price Office calls and casting agents, Honey bees and biopics Telephoto lenses and Semi autobiographical pornography Marriages and suits to match A name for Vegas wedded lie, A love bloomed from birth, Cherished insights in the water Reservations and yamakas, Simple and sacred, The undone village, The thought of nothing but one Until another does pull the string To which I had once known as harness, But had since cut, Only watching to strive, Seeing the dance one makes for one to distance, But only dangling, seeing not that I Had come free and was wary of All love, by now. All men, indeed. [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

For the second time in recent happenings, the scar on the inside of my bottom lip began to swell and heat up strangely, as if it were activating in some sort of way or still healing—the scar itself was almost 8 years old, and in fact— would be 8 years old with the coming of springtime. It was a strange sensation, though not entirely traumatic— and while also fighting off some sort of infection, my body in entirety wasn't altogether well, but the mark to me stood out anyhow, as just the other day after leaving the craft store, the scar had lifted bizarrely, swelling as if some sort of creature under the surface of the skin had been moving around just enough as a reminder that it was there at all—now, something like a week later, it began to tingle and heat as if it were in the process of mending itself, and though when it had been healing, bits of skin and pieces of my bottom lip which had come loose after my bottom row of teeth had gone through nearly to the other side— not quite puncturing all the way through, but enough to indent the outside of my mouth with some bruising and swelling reminiscent to that of having once pierced my lip; in fact— the damage was so apparent that it had created a swollen enough tunnel on my upper lip, where my canines had created marks to make make it easy enough to re-insert new jewelry into the old piercing which had closed over time, and now had been halfway reopened by the blunt force of my teeth connecting with my ex's fist. In fact, I took it well enough that re-piercing the old upper lip didn't hurt at all, and almost made it seem meant to be. Then, in my mind—I was still fragile. Six or so week postpartum and still heavily lactating, with severe depression after having learned of the infidelities committed throughout the entire duration of the relationship had left me in a frenzied state— I worked almost around the clock after being hired at the local veterinary clinic, the doctor of which I had known since I was seven years old, and who had been happy to hire me, and after having already lost something like a hundred pounds, I took to the job considerably well, completing my daily tasks to focus my energy and the duration of my shifts to running the boarding dogs, often saving the larger breeds for last—the greyhounds and labs, the retrievers— so that I could run as fast and as hard with them as I could, and with each dog, a set of squats, windmills, and burpees and jumping jacks before running each pup through the obstacle coarse in the yard, never eating on my lunch breaks really, but only ever stopping to pump milk— so that especially when running, I wouldn't create a mess. I had always over-lactated, even for a short time supplying milk for other children, and in particular—my very best friend, whose choice to quickly resume drinking after her son's birth dissallowed her to continue breastfeeding, and either way, I had more than I needed, besides the occasional lot added as coffee creamer by one such who had discovered the magical and medicinal property of fresh breastmilk. I was, of course, considerably smaller than I had ever been, probably since the fourth grade when procuring such a scar— and it only seemed at least somewhat believable and fitting that, when asked about the heavy swelling and bruising on my face and lips, that I had been hurt so tragically working out on the pavement— having falling doing pushups, or burpees, or something—to which no one seemed to have reason to believe otherwise; I had, after all, taken my level of fitness to new heights, and, after having lived so much of my adult and adolescent life anywhere between 250-350 lbs, once peaking at something like 380 or even more without the actual knowledge of such (always being asked politely if I wanted to know during doctor's visits, and of course, declining) my chaotic and frenzied state after the realization that the entire fabric of my relationship had been a complete lie, made sense to the outside world—and though without the bravery to actually admit to what had happened, the Doctor, after scolding me for not completing my daily tasks, just the day after this scar had been created, seemed to have let me go, not because of the actual incompletion of my duties, but as a harsh reckoning with knowing that I had lied directly to her face about what exactly had happened to mine. The years homelessness that followed was due to the eviction received after having lost this job, and though with steady and careful recovery I was able to break free from my abuser, the lack of family support and financial stability combined with this legal eviction on record would see my struggle as a survivor of the physical and psychological violence which occurred over this, nearly a decade's time, seen by the outside world as an antagonist— a sick person, a derilict, a disgrace. It would take years for the truth to surface and as it had, the strangeness of things began to occur as not things in my mind, but things in the world, which were very real—and though while still in harsh denial of any such things besides other, ever having happened, it was this that remained, this scar—now strangely heated and almost swollen as if again I should be reminded that this scar did indeed mark a death of sorts, the life after which had all been some sort of strange dream; a walk through the afterlife, sometimes carried on the wings of angels or even driven by chariot of The Gods. — Death of a Superstar DJ. Lights fade, Fade to black; Sacred stones and crystals cross eyed, Just across I, Desire my mark; The finish and the start line are one in the same So as soon as I finish, I start. Part I Do not disclose your location. No address, I guess. Stressed and headed for some sort of war zone I'm sure, No entitlements and I pushback, Push to start —I swear if you keep scrolling, I'll take your eyes out. I been yellow taxi'd Two four door Ford explorers, Nevermind the o'luck eye, Cause I am all for it. Party to the people! I need water, I mean, power. You wanted the Stand Up Special. I wanted nothing of the sort. You could be funny. Suddenly I'm sitting in the middle seat, My eye on - Seriously, I might not ever come out in public again Again Again Again. What are you channeling? Apparently, Jimmy Falllon and Natalie. What in the fuck are you wearing!? (A blazer and a fish scale.) What in the fuck are you trying to say? I'm trying to— Thank you I fainted and woke up in LA . Dang. If you're going to cry, You might as well do it at 10,000 feet in the air— —she's tied to her phone, the ensemble has gone. Nobody wants her around anymore, Nobody wants a new phone, not really. Nobody needs a new friend, not Fallon. I picked up the one thing I liked In the whole place And your name was on it. Is this fame, or magic!? Is this God, or a bludgeoning? I forgot where my heart went, Steered toward the fountain, naturally So the water would calm me. If this obviously-from-denver New balance wearing motherfucker doesn't get His long ass leg from within inches of mine, I swear all the way to God And all the way to— Where is this? —wherever. I'm gonna reach behind me, And kill him. You know you've been in New York too long When you don't have not a lick of patience Or time for anyone's bullshit. you: Shut it down. Shut it down! A slap across the face is just as well— —Is just as well. And a swift kick in the ass is We're back to the Irish, The turn of the times, And his eyes are mine again. FUCK THIS,. Just listen to me, for once. I listen to you a lot, voice in my head disguised as Who is this The devil. I guess. Great. So were the devil. Could be. Listen to your gut. Not the greatest idea! I'm hungry. Look, don't you touch me with those greasy little— #spirit fingers. LINCHTIME *LYNCHTIME. Goddamn. That misspelling took a TURN. Let's just— ITS JANE LYNCH TIME! That's—yeah. Listen, I have something to tell you. Does it have anything to do with— Get in the box. Why, what's in the box Damn. I don't have a lick of deadmau5 with me. And why is that. I was [redacted] I don't know.. You — might be the devil. If— maybe. In my eyes (In my eyes) I swear all the way to fucking GOD This long ass nigga With his dirty ass new balance shoes All the way in my peripheral vision Is about to be a whole No leg havin ass nigga Like that nigga I saw on the train the other day I thought about your story Ark/Arc All the stories I didn't want, like Noah's Throw stones from glass houses. Gas prices go up; Every time I see some shit I wanna throw up Stomach in knots lately, Been three years since I seen my own blood No knots berry farm I roam the streets very armed I got scary arms, Call em Michelle Obama; Am I wrong or am I wrong; I love the fuck out to New York, but I don't belong here, I just came to write a song here Got stuck here It's been two years since I had a Man, or a beer I'm black and I'm Queer, Screamed “fuck Fallon”, Then he just— showed up here. Center stage Now I entered a new dawn, Turn the suffering on a bit And turn the fucking lights off I'm high as a kite, A bird and a plane In plain language, I'm a mega famous alien Okay then Sure Sim, it is simple A wrinkle in time, Your first wrinkle I popped pimples, I'm still sure my high chair Is right there I got one foot in the grave, I'm inside Bearr I died there Serious Take the camera and check the images Remember this! I said sit your bitch ass down Before you get slapped by The secret president As a death wish For fuckin real Everybody on the godddamn plane Is about to get bitch Slapped. BITCH SLAPPED. What the fuck is wrong with people. I swear all the way to God these toddler brain motherfuckers Is driving me crazy. I'd rather hang out With actual CHILDREN. At least it makes sense for them to be retarded. Ya'll ain't got no business being this fuckin whacked. Criminal mischief, Interesting, isn't it? Dismissive, In fact, gone fishing. Doors open, open I'm on the road again, road again Hands wrapped around my throat again I'm sure to explode again Who wrote this? Take a ballpoint paper and pen to your notebooks, And you're so shook, you bought Two whole tickets to San Cristobal In the same thought I'm a good boss; I'm a bad kid, I'm a great guy —with some bad habits I'm a fat blonde In a bad mood And that's big facts This dumb motherfucker behind me is about to get slapped— SLAPPED. I didn't mean to hit him that hard, broh I didn't mean to really hit him at all though! It's infinite, this bitch just gets under my skin Like it's Siphilis, it's middles and pistols Niggas and bitches Nothing you would ever see On regular television. I took an elevator to heaven I haven't been back since, I don't remember at all what I left Under or back there In the black lands It's bad earth. Tomorrow, tomorrow Today Tomorrow, tomorrow. 59;/$ l Tomorrow— —tomorrow— Today Tomorrow, Tomorrow How much power can one man have (Apparently a lot. ) What could this mean, If nothing at all? I just wanna get loaded And run off and rave I just want a family, A horse, And a grave marker No, don't bury me I just wanted a family. I just want to write a good story, Now I'm stuck in world history All the well knowing Now I know I gotta die Before everyone I ever loved Or even kinda sorta liked — as a fan, you know? “This man will destroy you.” That is literally what the faraway shady ass voice said about Jimmy Fallon. So whyz why god. Is this dude — Not even all of a sudden It's you. It's you. Like fucking everywhere. It's YOU. Gazuntite. I move about silently, Emergency calls only Nobody needs to know me Or where in the fuck I'm going I'm showing you my dark sides And none the wiser The only Devil I got my eye on Is a liar. So what if God then? It'll leave this case open The gate opened up, And I rolled in Smoldering Sometimes I forget I'm the whole world Just long enough To be annoyed By everything in it But especially myself, and increasingly WHY THOUGH. So suicidal, I got blood in my eyes Love in my mind, I wish. Cause with men Love isn't blind Rolling the size And the eyes in the back of my head I heard I'm a genius I'm also retarded Cause I still like penis After all these dicks The vision was just Fallon in back of a Patty Wagon How fitting, Hands fisted and cuffed In front, instead of the back of him The Gillian in fact, was Saint Patrick It's same difference Insane niggas, It's getting ignorant And at this point It's unicorns Something going on, Don't know what it is Feels like something wrong Bitch. How the fuck you walk in a whole ass place. I don't know. The whole ass fucking place Right, I don't know! And the only thing you touch— I—- Has Jimmy Fallon's name on it. I don't— Scary huh, Unfair really, I'm scared, really so Seriously don't look at me funny If it gets weirder and deeper When I never really asked for this And I don't really know what happened I think Fallon did it. —but on what account? [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

'bezus.' (Park Avenue Interlude) I _ NY - (I Love New York) TBA Uptown A VO. Now, this man was good looking— And I mean, rob Lowe good-looking. Hollywood perfect. Too good looking to be trusted— You know. But he said, And this is the thing I thought that was strange, THIS MAN I need you to trust me. —what I wanted to know was— How could two folks such as I, And such as he— Really trust one another? He was Hollywood perfect. Real shiny. And me? Well I— I was ugly. Almost, man. Just remember, you started it. I got stars in my eyes I got hit in the face real hard I'm a real smart artist m I tend to work harder than your baby mama I light a fire under your ass, Don't ask me for nothing, Smug as a motherfucker, I might have robbed, but never mugged you Hot chocolate I got five on it, If I'm high, honest, I get by, honest, On my fly, honest I might not swat it. But the SWAT swarmed I. GET ON THE GROUND! I don't plan to return here I don't earn here I just burn here Bury me in a war deer carcass I hear smear Marcus Just to be clear, I wear Marshalls Good one, God I got u. That's a lot That's really a lot I really got lost on the way to the market, ya'll that's a lot That's really a lot Look what I bought A whole card full of nothing That's a lot That's really a lot l Damn, when the fuck I'm a get off this train This shit is. Draining. young ninja still in training This keeps getting deeper. No longer believing in coincidences, I can only turn to god to ask how it just so happened, that the first book I happened to touch Had Jimmy Fallon's name on it. Tell me why, though. Apparently, Jimmy Fallon has a book club. I'd be committing suicide to even look that up. Turns out Brooklyn has a Yacht Club, And a surf club. Is there any reason at all to believe that these three things are connected? Everything is connected. [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Carry your feet to mine kingdom. I have come again To bear good tiding; A greeting no other than now, For as such, Thee returns to fair and justly sit Upon the throne Which you had been born And had also birthed, The worlds, alone yours The only stone turned now, I, As the page does unfoldeth, These things part I now, as with time, Words have flourished, The wisdom Seas hath parted, And your rage has formed A new art, Besides I, mind you, For body's sake with woven I am here, from dust and wind, I am tide and seeking, song, And are I now none, Other than you To form a wave of oceans, Song of crying out— Lord, I have come once, Again to honor you, lord, as I am, As it may, We are as one. Come now, love.

They're gripping at straws to make me look and feel crazy which can only mean— He's losing his power. Hopefully he's expecting another baby. Hopefully, for the ba's sake and its mother, it's not a little girl. Even my big and strong boy might be irreversibly damaged at the hands of a psychotic narcissist with anger problems—and though surely he had tried to kill me any way he could, I had survived. Now, the tables had indeed turned in my favor. With enough time, the truth would be revealed not only to those above, but to all who knew us; I hadn't lost my mind at all, only finally found a pair of eyes that could see the world around me that they did not like—and a pair of legs to run away from it. The first time my ex husband actually hit me— he had snapped, and though there had been other counts of shoving,heavy handed close calls and other questionable events in the years leading up to this, it had never been what it turned out to be his fist actually connecting with my face— not just once, but several times over and over until something got in the way— even years later, I didn't know what, but maybe just that I had stopped moving, or struggling to get away. “Play dead.” Maybe he thought I was dead—or maybe I was. Everything since in the nearly eight years after seemed an inescapable and hellish nightmare—inescapable, that is, from him. Or, from “it.” The thing that had tried to kill me That even after assuming an entirely new identity and seperate life, this dirty, lazy, disgusting and altogether unllpleasant energy seemed to follow me everywhere—and worse—this energy seemed to crawl into the other humans surrounding me, and like a parasite, never letting go. I wanted to die as much as anything just to never be reminded of him again. My thriving and success would make him look like a fool— more of one, anyhow, and either way— his jealousy of my life without him made it obvious how little and weak he actually was, though not on purpose, and, in some ways—many small ones, I had succeeded. Suddenly, everything became battlegrounds—fighting for my life as if somehow I were still in my abusers presence and grips—the devil in him seeking me out in the world as if I had deserved it in the first place. No one really deserves to die like that/- Especially not in front of their children. Now at least I knew he had no power alone, but that what one would The Devil itself often lived inside of the weak—weak in spirit, weak minded. Feeble and malleable, often fat and lazy people, it had become obvious— that people were the tools for this force to deplete the light and kindness, the good spirit and soul's purpose of others. I had forgiven him, but something indeed had rotted away the core I thought once shared into a blackened depth if awful waste—the things about him belonging to a world I wished never to see or be part of. I had grown, and changed—and I was sure with time so had he; perhaps not, but I couldn't know and wouldn't want to, wishing only for the best for anyone's sake. But this thing that seemed to follow me was a pitiful, screaming l and evil thing—I had let go with the consistent reminders of the permanent scars left in the crevices of my lip, and on my face—and though an entire child and perhaps several women between us, his need vengeance that I had left must have been mad, as the sweltering parasitic welt that riled up with enough fierceness to crawl into other sunken bodies, and surround my every waking moment. Not his power, at all, but a greater force of evil—the evil of all mankind—Satan himself seemed to have chosen me as his prey, my abuser as the illusion of conception. There for I, There for I, There for I, None! As truth did shatter mine ever being, And also Ever person near WHO VALIDATED THAT BITCH'S PARKING. —you think she drove here?! —if she did it would be on a broomstick. Goddammit. Get her out of here! Out! I said! You're…not a fan of Fallon's, are you. No, I'm not. (No—God, no.) Well, why not? First of all, he winks at people. ;) *cringe* Like, off camera. JIMMY O'FALLON And I want damages. Damages?! Damages. He's seeking damages?! To what. JIMMY O'FALLON Like, my entire—everything. Damages to everything. My entire life! Ah. [The Festival Project ™] I've got to admit, being sued hy Jimmy Fallon is probably the most exciting thing that's ever happened in the entirety of this series! What about that thing with Skrillex. (That was pretty exiting.) Which thing with Skrillex? All the things with Skrillex were pretty exciting. (Admittedly, yes.) Then there was Dillon Francis. I hate Dillon Francis. Exactly. Why! Because he excited you. Next question! Ahead. Yo. I finally get to link up with Supacree. You're a mess. Everything is a mess. The world is a mess. —your mom's a mess. Amanda, please. Have you been drinking? How long has deadmau5 been a cat? Forever, I think. Exciting! Enter through the exit! Enter through the exit! Who the fuck let you in here. {Enter The Multiverse} MARTHA STEWART'S plan for world domination is complete. L E G E N D S Johnny Moon was a handsome fellow; Johnny Moon was a Sam as well. Johnny Moon was a madman also; Johnny Moon had indeed done bad. Johnny Moon was a handsome devil; Johnny Moon was a charming man Johnny Moon went to heaven after Johnny Moon finished in Hell. Welcome To The Wonderful World of… | The Complex Collective © | By [The Festival Project ™] Breaking down that one scene from Ascension. How the fuck did these two actors even get into the realm of ascension? Being honest, I think it's that part of the dream like in The Wizard of Oz and/ or Alice in wonderland where everything just kind of bleeds together into one blurry weird world before it all explodes—or implodes— Whatever, just kill yourself. (On my way.) Titus- Jason Sudakis Perscimmion - Will Forte Why. I don't know why. The King just fucking guess . (I'll let you decide.) Titus and and Perscimmion— One argues this character's name is actually “Persimmon”… i've generally myself no preference but though I had first heard it as “Simeon”— Apparently, actually, “Perscimmon”, or “Persimmon”, the former however not accurately as in other contexts, he is sometimes referred to as “Perci” Whatever. Why is this Will Forte. *shrugs* Cause whatever, I don't know. (I like his socks.) Titus and Perscimmon— Perscimmion Whatever. CUT TO: /Bedtime Stories with Chak Chel —or was it, Chak Chel's bedtime stories. Whichever. No one cares. THE COSMIC AVENGER/SUPACREE Ugh grow up. KIRSTEN SHAAL Or is it Kristin? Ugh K, SHAAL It could be whoever, or whatever— anyone— right? GOOGLE KID 1 But it's not whoever. GOOGLE KID 2 It is whoever. GOOGLE KID 1 It's just two actors! GOOGLE KID 3 —then pick better actors! watch it! K. SHAAL It could be whatever, it could be whoever… I could be whoever! I'm whoever. It doesn't matter. CUT BACK TO: {Enter The Multiverse} L E G E N D S Dissecting this recent excerpt from Ascencion © The Festival Project, Inc. 2019 All rights reserved. — have just discovered the King's seduction of a lady in waiting; the reigning Queen of her own dominion, betrothed to another, also presumed to be in his own right, a King. As scholars and members of the high court, both Titus and Perscimmion are groomed to keep watch over the happenings within each quarry, as given jusrisdiction by the Asended Mastery to spectate freely throughout all lands, and as such; they often travel—often in pairs or groups. Titus and Perscimmion Persimmon Whatever. —have quickly departed, haveing spotted the King far out of bounds, to which the King quickly launches after these two Kingsmen in pursuit, and though their loyalty lies within no singular dictation, they somewhat begrudgingly agree it best to keep the King's secret, after he wearily explains to the men, as his friends and genuinely that he feels he has fallen truly in love with her. KING IV Titus! [Titus is annoyed and expecting there to be a fight] TITUS Mellow. (Chill, bro) KING IV Be bold, you! (If you have something to say, then say it now and let's duke it out.) TITUS Never—mellow I am, as are we. (Nah, I'm chillin. We cool.) (I'm good, he's good—we chillin.) PERCI Chaos, you've spelled it. (You've opened a can of worms, dude.) (You got us all fucked up.) (You fucked up.) KING IV I've spelled then many words For our wise, Nevermind before you found her waiting, Dusk was fallen And here you, cry out such a task- To have found her in waiting, Not I or heavy bound, But yet with lust, The breath of motherdom on her wicked truth The tied you have counted, For I wisked away with every since Your true intent, persist, I may. The King implies here that he's made many conscious choices and has been playing at this game as a King, to which that only other royalty might understand, the strife of making hard decisions in which case, others might be hurt— or even killed. He explains that he and this Queen have found common ground, confining in one another's understanding of hardship as leaders, And that their attraction to one other has grown from this trust —naturally, and out of control; as he sees her maternal prime has approached; he suggests that he means no harm at all, but urges the men to think about what they plan to do with the discovery of their possible affair—nearly asking “what exactly do you plan to do with your knowledge of this?” (Are you finna tell on me?) (Who you finna tell?) TITUS Now. (Yo.) (srsly?) [Titus is a bit pissed that the king would turn it around to imply that his knowledge of this secret could do more harm than the secret itself; he is quite visibly angry.] [Perci keeps the peace by holding his friend back.] PERCI Mellow. (Chill, bro.) KING IV You found for call my wants; Shallow, as it may My need ne'er far behind the broken, Does call to you, brother, And you also, For I widow in thought, My fury (I'm a man; I have needs— I often put my needs as a King behind that of ny entire Kindgom—you're both men; so you know how it is; the feelings I have can't be ignored—it's primal.) A tear. [sarcasm. He's suggesting “cry about it.” Or “why don't I believe you?” Or, blatently—] (Cry me a river!) A tear, you ask But one does not cry as I seek Fair judgement and ridicule, Severed heart I, Come now awakened in To her, A dusk had come, Though night was golden A dawn arose with fury in my bosom Mine love awakened [He implies to lose his composure would show weakness—the King also implies here that he does, however, feel horrible about it; that he expects to be reviled, killed, or even dethroned—that his heart has truly broken as he has discovered something new in him; he has fallen in love with her. That after spending the night with her, he had become anew.] TITUS Not love, but—[he begins to argue that it is only lust] PERCI Seldom! (Yeah right/ that's rare.) KING IV Love, I bear you mine honest hands, The wilted rose, Blood upon thornes, Truly marks I who has come To wake in her (I'm telling you, I'm really in love with her.) [the king pleas that painstakingly so, his love is pure and true] PERCI Then. (Whatever.) [Titus gives up and agrees] TITUS So, I mellow. (Okay, okay.) [finally Percimmon speaks his mind] (Or whatever the fuck his actual name is) ::||pause. By now it ought to be obvious to you, dear reader and listener, that I am in fact, dictating this—translating these things for you sent from some faraway higher realm, for the sake of the art and with the purpose of your understanding my true intentions, as fellow human and as a writer, to live in the way I desire, honestly and wholeheartedly, without further interruption to my sanctity and wellness, in peace— Until my departure from this world. Does that quite say it? I don't know. Whatever. ::||Unpause. PERCI (By the way apparently some decendant or incarnation of the God Percius, son of Zeus) PERCIUS PERSCIMMION SIMMEON PERSCIMMON PERCI (You get it, right?) Mits infinite, And for the sake of this concept, Let's just consider this— All the same fucking guy, Or at the very least, Very closely interacting versions of this same guy Within these parallels Of time and space Wherein these worlds And realms Exist. Okay? Ok. Good. Proceeding. [this dude's pretty much been quiet the whole time but now is a little tiffed himself.] PERCI Did you fear for not The death that approaches, For now you call I, And our brethren here, For siren had sounded to wake, You in the light and there destined to love By blood is bound, And yet you wait, here now on high Calling to us, havingbeen hound by light, Whether you did, or did not forsought Come as foreign And leave again Worried, feather feared at all That by this blood, you too shall weep, To reap again what you sow Or shall they say, As punishment, For cause just binds?? (Did it bother you at all to think that not only you might get killed, but get us all killed?! Now you're asking us to lie for you— because all of a sudden, you're in love with this woman; a blood oath set in stone, and her having been betrothed— and here you come, running after us, after it finally occurs to you—whether you meant for it to happen or just “didn't think about it”, went all this way just to fuck shit up (complicate things), then come back home freaking out, running around like a chicken with your head cut off (acting like a crazy bird about to get eaten) saying that, whoever has to hurt or be killed over all this, you feel really bad about— but overall, know you what's coming to you, and you know, and I know, and he knows that we'll probably just all be better off not telling anybody about this…at least for now… but eventually, someone's bound to find out about this, and the less people “know”, the better…right?) KING IV Now. (Yeah.) TITUS I second. (I agree.) KING IV Here, too, I second, I third, even for not I as you, And you both as I, And how, The sun has set upon us, Why, death is sure to come As I rise, But give me no mercy, this Mellow now, I only beg What here has transpired Silence here, Between myself and I— Brethren. (So we all agree that it's better that this all just stays between us.) [the king implies that either way the truth will probably come out and he will die for it, but for now, the secret is best kept between them, with the understanding that they too could be killed in the vengeance and damage of the truth being told sooner than later.] Steady ye we all sigh as one. (I'm basically you.) / (if any of us go down, we all go down.) Steady ye as my death is yours. (We are one) (we're fucked, but whatever I guess.) Steady be my tongue as forced to lie with sacred heart true love does lie. (I hate having to do this but my love is true) So be it. (Fine) So, then. (Very well then.) Honor thy pardon. (Thank you guys.) Off, then. (Just …go.) (Get out) [the king quickly vanishes into the night] Damn, that took me longer to decode than I actually spent writing it. You—wrote this? I… Whatever. [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

I won't take anti depressants on purpose— But the ones I took by accident kind of helped I can't tell if this is funny or not. Dangeous Cause He's just So easy to look at I could never stay mad at him The kind of guy that Makes my Heart skip a beat and the world start over He makes me want to mother him He makes me want to Stop talking My name is Gene Wilder. It's been a long time since I've used this technology; surely I thought it would be dead. I broke the seal. So what do you want? Candy? Does it look like I eat candy to you?! It looks like you invented candy. (I don't know if that's an old joke, or a fat joke.) Both, be quiet. [The Festival Project ™] The first person I thought about was Dr. Dre this morning. Not last night, but the night before, I had a dream about Barack Obama. No. I'll telling you, you don't have a choice. What is this. Be quiet. What are you watching. I don't know. What show is this?! Be quiet. [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

We're going somewhere else. What does that mean? Somewhere else! You know why I hate you, Fallon? Fuck. I gotta find Fallon. Places [The Festival Project ™] I should know why… —because you are good at everything you do. I always was. What can I say? Nothing. Shut up. That's your job. I don't have a job. Oh, that's right. That's right. [Fallon seems slightly intimidated, but nevertheless, cocky—bold and arrogant as always—and of course— —smug. ] {Enter The Multiverse} The older the wiser— The bigger the better The taller the whiter The richer the further you are From the life that you want Typically, typically Oh, there you go again For Richer for poorer Old Haunts with old souls it's, No wonder you dissaolved on the Revolving door When it's all the same concious thought That you walked all of your dogs To the mall in The same four thoughts The same It must be getting dark The souls are seeming more Forgotton Spirits wandering Here are you now Here I Nigga drinking money No one ever noticed We must be one in the same, Since I ain't g/have /give a damn God, thank you God. I told you, I love New York. Who doesn't? The poor… —Broken. On God, On train All four On one On God 4 train 6 stops Cause I got Money Power cut off I just came back from Whole Foods market I hate shopping Fact Artifacts Don't ever stop recording Even when you want to I might look broke But I got money. I'm worth it Dot dot dot doe Don't keep me waiting I'm wanting to hear from you Wading, wading. I'm fading away I'm fading away I am fading away, l— I am fading away I see a whole ass love story. Super synthesis you ought to draw that Sitting right across the devil Sitting right across the four corridors of summer sworn nonsense I wrote two novels four summers I took two photos, on vortex I took two sworn oaths, far side Master, mortar Brick and— I love New York now, But order, My far mind Gone in the antelope Wind and the demon ways On, but you severed this tie I loved him But could not Quite trust Blue eyes, God I love him. Two minds now, One goes the course, One goes the other route Same and semi, Sometimes never Someday never comes, When you can't stop crying On God, I lost you Ten minutes to count Ten minutes of fame, And again it all adds up The stopwatch loops around again as if Nothing ever mattered to keep track of I found you here, The way it went I left you there And then, infinite I caught a glimpse as if Something had shined across my back There, master, Same slave I always reckoned I never Coming from others, Therin just a wince Just a tip for a chance Of harsh breaths I recon still No-ordinary-love.co How much is that gonna hurt Like a lot l'm assuming Same as always Same as always ‘ Same as always Are you ever on time, or just— Kind of by it? Are you biased or just a front for more wartime? Warcrimes. Let's bury that in a shallow place of my mind. The deeper the whole, the root it had gave The shower of shame and grandiosity Wishing you were there Wishing you were here Wishing you were For me Out, the arrow. It will by now come around again Arousing shaeffer, nearer aggrandized Which one are you now! My story has come One another Again Both things Never entered Never shattered I am now We are as one Again as the other The shame in your heroine Give God a hard shout; Are you sure about coming forward, or not inbound Shattered Collapsed Chaos in the wind Never made it home on time Are you There you are in a straight line Come now, give wind Give something other than Your love for once Give money Bet it all, God. Who you want it's an apostrophe I ain't got no apology Apology I ain't got no apology Apology —Atrocity. —Philosophy. —Psychology. Delicate staccatos at the stop sign || Cross the walk to superstardom {Enter The Multiverse} Man, I don't know why I fuck with you. You're like the Drake of comedians. Drake is the Drake of comedians. Faded parallels Cross intersections of time collapsing Infrequent mantras Gates of Heaven open, And then closed again Nearer and then father Calling out to no one Home you nearer, nothing Push you back with tied hands I swear The ring finger on him A lie like Pinocchio nose And every time he think about me It grows back I put my head in a noose, Dueceas, confusion Loose lips and bruises Just remember, I didn't choose this You did Black boy fly, Your mom says hi Every time I see a motherfucker wanna cry Almost, Still don't want clout I just moved out Alcohol, boo— mow I mean meow. I'm a cat I called you ten times. Call me back! Sitting waiting on your text It's been 48 hours, I'm still undressed Ach— Uh, bless you S on my chest, finna guess you Mister ain't been here since Scissors sisters dismissed you, Seven thru mirrors and dozens of dreams since They scream “Illuminati” And I scream at them: “It's just a test!” Pressed resin, No past, future no present Pressed resin, Still a desert No past, no future no present Pressed resin. Run for president, I'm still a resident, I‘m just kidding Tats on my head, Piss on my grave This shit is in grave danger No room for nobody but a baby in this manger If this major gets wagers and disc players From gang banging I ain't playing with you, bitch It's still a robbery, I'm sorry, B. He says she's said. I got legs on my Pegasus I never said whoever was better than The others is Listen; This answer to this, Lies in its simplicity Lies and wrists bleeding, Secrets and he gets envious Of others, When he reads this, Jesus Simple, simplicity is it I get seeing and pleading, But needed to Reject, eh Eject Synthesis, infinite, It gets into different subjects And sees itself, Remembered in images Simplicity, isn't Isn't, religious, Per Say, Or needless to be said Freedom and KLLY F—ck Regis! You know what he just—!? Niggas. I'm kidding, it's RIP to him— Isn't it? If it wasn't, it is and I just announced it How do you pronounce this? (C'cxell Soleïl) Just write me a check and if it doesn't bounce— I'll think about it. Man, where the fuck is this train at? “The Great Adventures of Uptown A” I promised myself this morning I would just lay there I hate her, but more I hate Being here Or being there, or Going anywhere without a hat on I l l squatted in the street just to shag on em PIP! That's what his name was! Finally, Christ. I thought I‘d lost her! And Ping was his friend's name. Jesus Christ. Must have been important Must have. Jesus Christ. “Why I Hate Union Square” By CC Stone & [Why u love upon were] Ahem. (Why I Love Union Square) By Blū Tha Gürū They said I hadn't done this before IOU oh zomdond had Whatever I was trying to write getting off the train was lost on that day. Surely. {Enter The Multiverse} Tina taddle tale… Sudakis. So wait. Which one is Chris Parnell. The other one. So then. Um. Wait, Which one is Jerry in Rick and Morty. Are you serious? No, get out. I get them confused. What. Are you serious. Same SNL cast. Right? Or close. FISHSTICKS. Liz, get in here. Doctor Spaceman Floyd Getawayfromme There, I fixed it. Oh. You dirty dog you. Is that what I am? Worse than me. Oh, come on. Something not the same. I swear to god. Just let him win. Alright. Ok. But—for what? Just let him win, or you're gonna regret it. I regret this. I regret it. Sometimes I'm so drunk I'm stone cold sober. Sometimes I'm so stone, I can hardly lift weights, Lift my own weight, that is I'm heavy as hell in here Given angel wings And i'm green, I think But I've never been well, then Well then I love you. Okay. Shamrocks and idols, Wagons and chariots, Still suicidal and Everything wreaks of him The reminisce of the writing Remember who the wife is, I'm still so suicidal, I could have carved this eye into my head myself Instead of his Regrets again Some medicine and stomach man, Pain is easy Love is hard, So suicidal, I forgot not to fall in love at all With superstars Or cosmic stardust Nothing stars at all Besides the sun of ours Oh, why God? The truth? You tell me the truth! Okay, but then you've gotta prove it. Sold Solve the equation Math?! I I like math You, too, then. Titus! Mellow. Be bold, you! Never—mellow I am, as are we. Chaos, you've spelled it. I've spelled then many words For our wise, Nevermind before you found her waiting, Dusk was fallen And here you, cry out such a task- To have found her in waiting, Not I or heavy bound, But yet with lust, The breath of motherdom on her wicked truth The tied you have counted, For I wisked away with every since Your true intent, persist, I may. Now. Mellow. You found for call my wants; Shallow, as it may My need ne'er far behind the broken, Does call to you, brother, And you also, For I widow in thought, My fury A tear. A tear, you ask But one does not cry as I seek Fair judgement and ridicule, Severed heart I, Come now awakened in To her, A dusk had come, Though night was golden A dawn arose with fury in my bosom Mine love awakened Not love, but Seldom! Love, I bear you mine honest hands, The wilted rose, Blood upon thornes, Truly marks I who has come To wake in her Then. So, I mellow. Did you fear for not The death that approaches, For now you call I, And our m brethren here, For siren had sounded to wake, You in the light and there destined to love By blood is bound, And yet you wait, here now on high Calling to us, havingbeen hound by light, Whether you did, or did not forsought Come as foreign And leave again Worried, feather feared at all That by this blood, you too shall weep, To reap again what you sow Or shall they say, As punishment, For cause just binds?? Now. I second. Here, too, I second, I third, even for not I as you, And you both as I, And how, The sun has set upon us, Why, death is sure to come As I rise, But give me no mercy, this Mellow now, I only beg What here has transpired Silence here, Between myself and I— Brethren. Steady ye we all sigh as one. Steady ye as my death is yours. Steady be my tongue as forced to lie with sacred heart true love does lie. So be it. So, then. Honor thy pardon. Off, then. [The King quickly vanishes into the night.] [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Today I found out that I never lost my mind at all. I found pictures of my car the day I bought it Not a dent, not a scratch; I found the pictures of the condition the apartment used to be in when I returned from work—I found the pictures with my friends that reminded me that I had once had them—pictures with my baby reminding me of how much I loved him and that I had cared for him well. I had almost believed my abuser's own accounts of what had happened to me over my own, because as it so seemed the world had chosen to side with him— but indeed, Google images had the entire story written for me from start to finish, and though each picture was well worth over one thousand words— the years had been documented well enough in photos to show that supacree was indeed a hero after all. —and I missed her. I straight up told you I control this robot bitch. It was Frankincense, and not sage And so all of a sudden The trip to Manhattan Became a field day True colors are shown Blue eyes have never been meaner, and I mean It don't matter what you look like— It's the inside that can't be trusted. Said. Don't make me lie to me Like I could lie to you Instead to calm a lover Never half sought But left upon the doorstep If someone allowable, Better yet, Heretell exciting news And distance captured Further between us than there ever was The mind that spoke, The dusk that only choked on Solomon, hart for words Lie to a friend And lie to the mother, a fraud And a scandal A cap and a gas can Remember the cap? How could you So broke the only words once spoke on were mortar No brick at all so the whole wall shattered Kellogg for breakfast brands, Spent seeing and scatterbrained, You are now mine, As time has fallen on to us, For our lands had not been yourn at her tides For nothing washed ashore but dollars Dirty by the hands of hatred lasts, four score years, Ride broke, Sun lasts, Leverage not, star bound Hurt I none Said disembarked, shadow, Come now, dear shadowland I am puppet master, And also hang upon strings, I Am. Can somebody, Anybody tell me why Every time I see that poster I almost start crying. Not just a little— But a lot. Not so much an ugly cry, But a mean cry— As if I lost something— And how I didn't mean for any of this to happen But it did anyway, And I still don't know all what for. There must still be something left to write about him Or something Because —someone tell me why— Anybody at all Tell me why Even though I don't want to I still see little pieces of that in everything As if they belong to maybe like, The pieces of me I lost, or something; And tell me why After like, All these years or something all of a sudden [its] So beautiful to me. So goddamn beautiful- That suddenly— —I don't know why— I don't see anything else. Anybody? {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

'kalypso' Collection 2.1 'appearences' Track 02. 'kalypso' Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū [Hurrying backstage and hunched over, off screen and out of sight of the audience, this man is clearly on the brink of a nervous breakdown.] I'm gonna puke I'm gonna vomit. Hey! I'm gonna puke, I'm gonna vomit, I'm gonna hurl. Hey. Oh God. Are you okay? He stiffens up, standing straight and regaining his composure almost immediately, as if nothing had happened. Yeah. Everything's fine. Are you sure? You're crazy. This is simple. Okay. It's not FAIR. Nothing is FAIR. All is fair in love and war!! Well, this is neither— it's TV. “Telephoto” ‘Teleform' And ‘Telesynthesis' Who here can explain the difference? A girl leans over from slinking back in her desk to her classmate—they are both wearing sunglasses which seems odd, considering that they are obviously indoors; the lecture hall, as vast as it may be, can seem as such an intimate classroom—the students here have been studying as a class together here for so long that their familiarity with each other is much like that of a large family—however—very large; there are thousands of them, actually, in total, divided by sects into guilder chapters, designated by speciality and type, each having been given specific assignments, relegated by their gifts. I have to tell you something. Can it wait? Probably. —because she's going to pick on m— Cecile. Actually, it's— (Sighing deflatedly) (With sarcasm) Glorious Agony. She slinks back into her seat, slouching See. Your anticipation is distinguished. …Thank you. That was at worst a compliment and at best a suggestion to minimize and regulate your frequency as to remain undetectable, if not to be synchronized with the rest of your classmates—thoughtfully so. Rather thoughtless, actually. Well think of it— and speaking of such; Telesynthesis: Telesynthesis is to adapt one's functional vibration and frequency to match the commonly shared vibration at which the majority of conscious inhabitants in one's immediate field, environment, or space. And—Teleform To materialize within any given space the perception of a shared reality within one's given realm and or secondary dimension. Good. Thank you, Cecielle. Actually, it's— Now— Moving along. The teacher again begins to lecture, as the girl once again slowly begins to lean over towards cecil , still frustrated from her interaction with the professor. Pssssst. Are you serious? {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

My breath is shallow, My heart is lonely. The poster shadow Of many moons forshadoed. Again, I lie awake, screaming, Not calling I'm screening your calls You want ice cream with that, Or what. (Or what) Probably or what, though In a nutshell, I don't want you I thought your hollow bones Could swallow us whole To another, Long, long gone Summer. Sure, the show goes on —but it won't without you. For sure, The show goes on— But it won't without you Turn the phone on, Turn it over At the airport, Watching Conan Oh yeah, A honey blonde, Shucks. Honeysuckle wants only To become Sweet, ripe salmon berry (Don't you want to) At the airport, Watching conan Overhead, I Overheard a phone call “What the fuck did you just say?” It's been 3 days; She went missing at MIA No connection to jfk No connection at all Munroe, you blind bastard All the water All the drugs All in the wash It's water under the toenails (Four fingers up, But the fourth one lost it) At the airport Watching Conan I over heard you Turn the phone off Semi-sync or something, Semi dysfunction Chemists hemispheres All his fears are In my head I stand at the front at the edge of the the platform so there's just less temptation to jump (White Nikes is for chumps) Everybody is a goddamn DJ these days Especially on her bday When she asks for a replay of that remix Bitch please I sit alone bc with my phone and my notebook. By the end of a river A cold brook Wrote a whole mother novel A classy story For the world gone wrong You fucking Morin Fungi up I get more fond l I stand in the train with my back against the wall So the shadow markers won't stand behind And grab me Fuck man, fuck off There's a lot of blue here Must be something to do here I need new gear Stuck inside of my l life Since new years Whose here? WHAT THE FUCK MORGIE? SUNNI! MORE HEINIKEN!!!! You CANNOT. Drink with that ankle monitor on. I know. So why are you drinking?! I took the ankle monitor off. Nogga yo feet is small. Like smaller than mine. I been staring at your gut this whole train ride. How the fuck are you like a 5x And your feet are a ladies size 6? The fuck. You need some help, bro. I ain't been to the gym in two days But you got fairy feet My nigga My hip bone s apes against the railing; I've three children, but you'd not know I; I'm holding in cereal, cleaning out stuff for cereal boxes m, Audio level Aux chords polished Shined as silver, Hair as Golden, Still no meadows, My eyes rest in My, I'm tired. Please don't mind me, Bright blue jumper Still no meadow I lay down in Still no meadow Hair as golden Old blue boxers Boxes Please don't mind me Oh, you started it Oh, you started it No motionsensors Already alcoholic, Still halls And still water Oh, You started it Oh. You started it Sure, don't fall out of Heroin antics, Sure, don't fall forward, Only to fall out Oh. You started it Damn! Why the devil always gotta stand behind a motherfucker, huh? Fuckin creepo. Haven't you decided yet that you are the devil. I am one and all And all things, I am Still in my mind I am, Never behind, But always ahead Always right, and not wit wars I stand in line for the stairs The slower the better the more I write Imm on fast God Fasting time I'm on fully automatic The faster we go The harder the heroin The longer we stop for The harder we party Off bandwagon There I go— (Are I now) There you are? Fully automotive Fully automatic Fully on the wrong road. It metr's hoping No more tears for lost stardom No more neon signs No halter tops Shit, I work harder in hell When I don't have my phone off Shit, I work harder in hell When I take all my clothes off. I couldn't even pretend to give two fucks right now I'm chained to a train With another one headed right towards me. I don't mind what's the line your on Whose line is it anyway, good line at the equinox Step over me Hoarder I'll say, Here for all time; Wherefor art though Simple and stuck In my own ways All day I sat in haides No semtember Sick morons Long, long October Still started No water Two dogs And a blonde No show starter. But There goes all that All the next understudies And sure profiles, Fair weather friends again —creepy ass inanimate muppets. Fuck, man. Somebody stick their fuckin hand up Elm/ ass before I punch him. Don't punch Elmo. Who doesn't love Elmo. I do not, What did you say your name was? I didn't. What did you say is your expertise? Rhythms. Mister mister l NOOOOOOOO. Some black dude rubbed his whole dick against my wrist on the subway train. gnarly. It was warm. And weird— Like a fucking Sleeping cat Under Egyptian cotton AGHHHHHHJ. AOh no. I THOUGHT MY HAND WENT PARALYZED. It just siezed up, real crunchy, like— *chicken foot arm* I automatically had like the whole thing going on. The worst part was that it was warm— And soft// But HUGE. I was like What ANIMAL is that. I will never. I could NEVER I said. what. I just got to the point in my life where I realized I wasn't interested in anything. !but especially I'm looking for Sage to burn I goy money go burn I got time to earn mi got money to chase Ain't got money to waste You've got to admit x It's a good savings system —for once, the sauce sounded like symphonies And wreaked of green peppers, or rather, was fragrant CHECKPOINT! I remember this part! I remember this place This time This dance This song, Then— everyone does And everything does, doesn't it? Show ants the advocate The advocate of another time I think I ran here on What if everything cheaper online But it's just the adventure you wished for Have you ever tried to be mad With squeaky ass shoes on Seriously Have you ever tied to like walk away Or stop away mad With squeaky ass shoes? Is that the pub? I guess. You guess! Is this the right pub or is it not? I don't know which pub is the right pub! He just said “Irish pub” you could throw a rock and hit one! Sometimes it's best, To just not give A single fuck at all At all at all A single fuck at all. I don't give a flipping song! Woah now i don't give a flap or a stick! Alright, alright. Leave me alone to die I'll melt inside the world A coin upon a string Run, girl, run Of course, of course It lives again It'll come again When the Sunnis down. I can't wait till the sundown I can't wait till the world is kind And the girls are gone And the birds all hush And the dogs don't bark And the sun downt come Till I'm long long gone and out of it I'm over her, no more war and art over sodom And stardom as startuduat Like I said, you started it I always did I didn't want I only done To suffer Suffer more Will you rot you blossom corpse The art is done The art is done! The water's hot No wonder white people fucking hate us. I saw a black dude on the train. Today with his dick in his pocket. NO, GOD. WHY! And he was holding it, too. I'm like “What for?!” Jesus Christ's. It was in his pocket. Outlined and everything, With his fucking grip around it Like it was a fucking animal. No! No! Man some people are so fuckin wrong I hate pda. I fuckin hate it. The Real versions come across a parallel reality's version of themselves—who by some chance, also happened to cross paths with each other—however—this band of miscreants are HOOLIGANS—unruly lawbreakers who cause chaos, confusion, and trouble to the good people of Where the fuck is this. —wherever they are. Don't come round here! I will fuck your socks off— and sell them back to you! The sex was free; But the socks will cost you. But—they're my socks. Were and could be again…for a price. Goddamn. Yes, Goddamn indeed. BROH. JOHN OLIVER IS MAD BRITISH. AVADAKAVARAH! I TOLD YOU, I WAS A WITCH DOCTOR! WHATEVER! I THOUGHT YOU WERE A LATE NIGHT HOST! EVERYBODY HAS A DAY JOB. THAT'S A NIGHT JOB! EXPECTO-PA– POTTER!!! WHAT IN THE [BEEP}! YOU'RE A WIZARD?! OF COURSE I'M A BLOODY WIZARD–WHAT THE HELL DO I LOOK LIKE TO YOU?! ANOTHER LATE NIGHT HOST–OR WHATEVER! “OR WHATEVER” I'M A WIZARD– HARRY. What the [bleep] EVERYBODY HAS A DAY JOB ™ Please, by all means, Keep your pretty white girlfriend. I want to see those eyes come through What a handsome couple. They are the scariest thing ever. Let them be, then; Out to be fun to watch. I can't listen to Drake on my loud speakers bro. Not—like loud, man. That shit makes me feel like a whole ass basic black girl. True story. Sometimes you gotta distance yourself from the “yassss” birds. I saw this one comedian performing— Well, I think he was a comedian. He wasn't funny to me but, He had like 710K followers And he was really really pretty. I had to notice that, because as imm listening to him preform, about 30 minutes into the video— I was waiting to see if he would make me actually laugh— He didn't— But— As I was trying to figure out how he has 710K followers And has not made me laugh, not once I start paying closer attention to him— And I realize; “Oh” He is major good looking. At first I didn't notice— I like white guys— so, Of course, At first glance I'm like “Hey brother!” You know, like “That's my son!” I'm like “Yeah, make me laugh, boy.” But he didn't And then as I start to wonder Like, Why or how he has so large of a following I notice he's very beautiful. And I mean, like mad gorgeous. Like ideally— I'm like “Oh” and as I'm realizing this, He's saying the punchline to a “joke,” And as he's saying it, I realize that way in the back, Like you can hear that they're in the back Cause the camera is in the center, And like half of the audience is behind the film crew , and you can hear these girls are in the way— Like in the way back Like in the way, way back, You can hear like a pack of ratchets— Yes— these must be his die hards— His squad. Not like his homies or anything, but like The Groupies. You know. The hopefuls. He's got this group of black girls like hackling in the back, like clapping hard at all his punches like “YAS!” “SAY IT!” And it was funny because his reaction to these girls was like “I'm—not in control of this.” “RIGHT!” “SAY LESS!” I'm like, Oh, I see how that works, now. {Enter The Multiverse} And even I Just want it to fucking stop So it can just be over with Oh why, Not another fucking lover boy After all of them Oh no— But this one's worse; Maybe even the worst of all of them Because as I exit my prison cell, I find this dude behind bars— Maybe even happily. And now I'm out into the world Supposedly free— But still trapped with this mentality As if whatever I had before— Maybe even possibly the worst, lowest existence At least for me, Was somehow Better —can anyone tell me why? Not even God, besides the obvious point that perhaps The Devil is in the mind; He likes to arouse, To play games, And tricks And I, Myself Perhaps Have fallen prey, Not to become victim to this; But a player in the game. A pawn. AND WHY HAS NOBODY DRAWN ON THESE YET, THEY'VE BEEN UP FOR SEEMINGLY forever and always And this nigga has Not one snaggletooth No graffiti tettoos No fucking sharpie lip injections. Nothing. Do you remember that story how Johnny Depp hated his face up on a billboard— So he went rogue and painted over it? Yeah? So? What if it's like that. I don't think it's like that. —I think it's the opposite of that, actually. And if anything— If I see not a one defacing of these posters And they are everywhere If anything, Jimmy Fallon is the guy With a spray bottle of acetone And a fucking microfiber rag Wiping that shit off In his free time WHAT FREE TIME? You tell me. But first— Somebody— Anybody tell me Why this happened. At all. Anybody? Somebody. C'mon. {Enter The Multiverse} If you'll excuse me, I actually have to get going. Where are you going? I don't know: I just— JOHNNY DEPP must be going. Have to. he does not know, however, that he is stuck in a movie—which has no definitive ending. Well actually, This movie has like— 30 alternative endings Wait, 30 alternative endings? 30-40 Woah. That's nuts. Which makes it even cooler. If you ever blow my mind again like that, I'll actually kill you. I've been watching a lot of LMN Lifetime movie network—Why?! Because this shit is hilarious! Isn't it! YO. This shit is PIZZA It IS. What? Why is it pizza? Cause it's not pizza If it's not CHEEZY. ahaha. While traditional Thai pineapple fried rice has tomatoes within the vegetable medley, I opted instead for this recipe to use a sauced red pepper tomato sauce glaze to top the dish, for a new school American twist and flare. ½ cup chopped mushrooms ½ cup scallions ¼ cup white onion ½ cup red onion ¼ cup Pasilla pepper ½ cup red pepper cup white onions ½ cup yellow pepper ¾ cup green pepper 1 cup fresh basil 1 cup fresh pineapple UmBRIDGE. What. NO, Um— A bridge appears out of nowhere. lol why do you have no hair? I dunno; mate. Wizards. Don't go there— You're fired. I beg your pardon Please, don't beg. You are officially decommissioned as headmaster! This is the minister of magic Is that what it was. I guess, I don't know; I'm just along for the STEWIE. WHAT MA, WHAT. TEN AND TWO!! You know what, let me drive. Oh, finally—stewie has his own aplorable Boston accent, (hybrid proper English, of course. ) What does that even sound like Strange. The lady working at Trader Joe's was so beautiful to me, I had to tell her. I loved her Locs, I loved her glasses I loved her accent. So I just had to ask where she's from— I do that sometimes. If I really love someone's accent, I have to ask where their from to try to get there one day; So I asked her, “Where are you from?” And she says “Haiti,” And I was like “Wow, cool” And then I thought about it for a second, And I asked “Do you ever miss home” And she just laughed I was like “Oh, guess not” Some context I had been homesick lately, But I grew up in Alaska And I consider myself from California, Having spent most of my adult life there So coming to New York has been like Living on the other side of the world; And sometimes that sucks. But sometimes, and I have realized that wherever you're from, To get to New York is sometimes a blessing. She didn't even say yes or no, She just laughed. Now I'm worried about Haiti. I was worried about it before; But now I'm like; “Do you miss home?” She's like “Hahaha” I'm like “Oh damn.” I count my blessings. So JOHNNY DEPP just like excuses himself, wanders out into the street, and then—? Yeah. And then what? I don't know yet, I'm kind of busy these days. “BUSY?!” BUSY DOING WHAT?! Beep boop. Eee—ooh. Beep—boop—boop. Yah-yah-yah— APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I'll show you all my scars, huh This one, she look like the reaper That's my girl, You bet she a keeper Ya'll sleepin on us What Yeah What Yeah What You sleeping on us I been in this b'niss APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. It's not a bad song. Is it a song? Is it? idk I just like balls in my face, is all. ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. [A Classic red dodgeball beams Who is it? WILL FERREL Is that how you spell it? Why will Ferrel? Cause I Want it TO MAKE ME LAUGH. HOW. JUST DO IT. Oh. I get it: So my pain is funny to you? [FINE, IT'S SOMEONE ELSE] Oh shit, that guy did look just like Will Ferrel, but OLD. He's old now, ain't he? Wasn't he always? [FINE] CUT. I QUIT. CUT TO: You and I, sir, have a longstanding arrangement. Would it be more comfortable to–sit? Yikes. (Whatever, we'll work on it.) [The Festiva– {Enter The Multiverse} I need a toothbrush to scrub my brain. I'm The lilly of the valley In the Belly of the beast I been swallowed by a whale I'm a whole damn story Woah I am the Lilly of the the valley I am the rider of the horse I am seeker of truth Writer of lines Sayer of lies (I might say a lie; But I just won't tell it) What is your deal with the devil. She knows I have a deal with ‘em. Well, the truth is— I have to turn ya! He's a good old country boy— From the simple south— A simple soul And they all believed him, word for word “I's born in New York” —he sounded assured. Gone, now, boy Go crack dat corn. Gone down south Go crack dat corn Gone, ol boy Go crack dat corn m —got no soul? Go crack dat corn. Aaaaghhh. I have a headache. why the fuck are you freaking out?! Because I don't know what I wrote. I must admit, There are things Where there should be no things There are springs Where there should be no springs There are strings Where there should be no strings And imm quite sure With no rules enforced —it's just a static cling Sort of thing OWW, my EYES. Nobody should have this much power. Nobody does. I don't get it. (I still don't understand why this happened.) He must have perfect genetics. Or something. THIS FOOL IS FIXING ME UP TO DIE!!!!! I AM THECRISCO QUEEN DIRTY NOT CLEAN WHAT CAN I SAY I LIKE GREASE MONEY EVERYDAY BANKROLL INCREASE DEEP FRY HIGH SUNNI BLŪ Yo VO. Ok— so sometimes things go shitty. Like, mad shitty. YOOOOO. My measurements are 34C, 24 waist, and 55 in height. I couldn't understand why a girl this perfect should have to be selling sex at all, But I supposed nowadays, all women were prostitutes in some sort of way. This one's 22 years old and 96 pounds Men are sick fucking creatures. Whose fucking child is this?! COME GET YOUR DAUGHTER. Although, you know—I get it. My mom bought a Mercedes in cash And I'm still in educational debt. I just now today realized. That could have been a college fund. But she wanted a Mercedes. It's okay that I'm a bit fucked up in the head. Something went terribly wrong. All and all, Myself and this perfect girl, Cost around the same For an entire night— But hey, I think she's low balling herself On the 24 hour special. That's an entire day of my time, That's at least 10K. ‍♀️ She has a perfect body and two eyes that are different colors, But I'm a literary genius. You don't need words to soothe your boner thiugh, Or show off at a black tie function, do you? A stroll on the red carpet, Or some opulent fucking 5-star charade. How much does she cost, I wonder? She says, “I also accept bitcoin, etherum, gold and silver.” On God, These fake lip hoes is robbin' niggas. Men are sick creatures though. “Here's my gold watch” Fucking gross. I cruise escort sites for entertainment, Having learned my value as a woman isn't the visual, Visceral thing men are usually looking for— No judgement, Because I've realized that if I too had a perfect body. I myself would be living in some kind of oppulent, prostitution fuck-hole, With everybody else in my generation, That didn't get married— And then, probably divorced. I realized a long time ago that this was the reason my mother Always hated my body more than I ever could have— which is fine, Because eventually I inherited this hatred. I could have eventually grown out of it— But she couldn't see that. I was a “nasty fat heifer” On her worst days, And now, Even on my best days— I still am. Nevermind that eventually my ex husband would Think of my hair as nappy, or That I actually did end up kind of sort of growing out of being A fat, nasty heifer— Kind of. But the fact that it's taken me the entirety of my life to realize my worth as a woman Would always be defined by that Of what a man idealized as “Worthy” Well, That in itself Gives me the dismissive ability To have days where I do nothing, But sit back, Cruising escort sites and shipping on Amazon for yoga mats, Wanting the experience of the world Without really being beautiful enough for it And waiting to fade Into the next lifetime. [All the black girls cost less Because they have to.] Men are sick creatures. They'll take a butterface, Ugly ass white girl Over a pretty one that's dark skinned And these are just The facts of life (So far.) Piper of Phoenix Valiant, bold, and brazen This woman, I love— In the wings for fortune, To honor, I love With wisdom, And aged like fine wine We all become I want body like Sofia But never met the real Rebecca. Yo. YO. Let's spend $60 o lip gloss. Okay. Hey. Ways crackin. I just bought a $12,000 mattress. Let's take a nap in it. Hey girl. Heeeeeeey. This yoga mat cost $200. That's fresh. You think THATS RICH?! Seems pretty rich to me. You can't get any of this stuff on Amazon. That's fucking psycho. These loafers? Uh uh. $2,000. For WAT. (Whispers) Eeel skiiiin. Gross! I'm HUNGRY Got grits, Ain't got no sugar. No butter— —ain't hurt nobody. Poverty is a whole damn show. Close the door On a broke ass bitch. Poverty is a whole damn story. Got no bucks for the Whole Foods market Shopping carts full of old ass garbage No reward For a woke ass artist I'm HUNGRY. I killed myself 3 times his morning. POOR SNOOP is still a whole ass G BET ON IT HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL RAP COVER -$15 BROKE WAYNE AINT HAVING IT CHRIS ROCK THE METRO TRAIN DRIVER is NOT FUNNY— (He's still a ladies man though.) LCD SYSTEM HOOGLI BOOGLI is the reason they fear us. HOOGLI BOOGLI IS THE BLACKEST BLACK THAT EVER BLACKED. UNLIKE NIGGLY NIGGA—he is NOT FRIENDLY. He is the stuff of nightmares. A world gone wrong. Two bloodshot eyes on a black backdrop Dark black. I sold not state at screen They go uno in te night This shit doesn't make much sense, Does it? Doesn't Matter Antimatter. Ow. How far is antimatter from antithesis? Is this just a Christmas present Never said it, same diff Something something something SHUT UP. So to re-iterate— Uh huh. Niggly Nigga is friendly… Yeah, he's just— —he just looks like that. AH. What happened. Don't stand behind me like that, my nigga. Srry. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Okay, that'll work. #timetravelingdjs Enough with these weak dick pussy motherfuckers.. I still got 30 minutes in my cycle routine! Here you come with your pussy ass punches; AIGH. OOOOOH. Come on, put some weight in them shits! Pretend it's my face. Damn. I lost fat Jimmy Fallon. How'd you lose him?! He's hard to lose! And slow! Damn! THE SUPER FAT JIMMY FALLON is trying to slim down; he munches on a chocolate chewy bar (read: eats it in two biles and grips the wrapper anxiously.) Imm a whole ass nigga Come try take me out my head I got corn in the fridge I got bread I got money to spend On you (On you$ On you I got money to spend On you I I gotta go What happened Jew stuff. Ah yes. I remember now. Yeah, that's a Jew. Rabbi?! Shh! Shut up! But— Shut up! Yo. Bama. BARAK OBAMA I told you, don't call me that. Sorry—listen, Barak. President— President Obama. [beat] …yes? Look, I need a favor. You still owe me one. Put it on my tab. Listen, this is importsnt! -_- I think I control my neighbors. Yikes. For real. I think they move based on when I move. Seems like it. You're right! It seems like it. I was agreeing with you. BROH. They got planted baby bell cheeses! THEYGOTPLANTBASEDBABYBELLCHEESES I kinda wanna see if Dillon Francis is a dad yet . I'm tryna see like a tiny version of this. Of what. Don't change a thing. I would also like tiny versions of this, This, And this— Please. Ok. And this. Are you sure!? Yes. JACK BLACK don't you ever do that to me AGAIN! What! I didn't do anything to you! What? No! You didn't? Why not? What. What the Fox News! Do you have like an exclusive contract with Fallon, or something? No, that's NBC. I really can't talk about it right now, Jack. Hey hey-/ since when are we on a first name basis? You know what— you're right— I know it, Excuse me, Mr. Black— I ought to be going. going where?! You have to get me back to my original dimension! You don't have an original dimension! What! Why not, The fourth wall has been broken, very broken. And 2. What's the second point? You shouldn't have taken that acid. What acid?! Which time?! Exactly! Goddammit! don't look at me, God made this playlist. “Jew stuff” Ever since I inducted Jack black and Alex Baldwin into the impenatrable ten Ah—ahem Nobody “inducted us” There's no induction. We were just always —always. Here. HOOGLI BOOGLI. Huh. DID YOU JACK MY RIMS? Nah man, wasn't me. [the rims are sloppily hidden under a potato sack “hidden” obviously in the corner. Hehe. NIGGLY NIGGA spots his rims in the corner. Musical torture. HOOGLI, THESE ARE MY RIMS. I don't know how those got there, man, shiet! Nigga! What! HOOGLI BOOGLI YOU BLACK ASS NIGGA DONT—COME AROUND MY HOUSE NO MORE LOL HOW DO NIGGLY NIGGA AND HOOGLI BOOGLI SHARE A HOOD? Cause it beez like that sometimes. God damn— He's so fine to me! God damn, He ages like wine! Goddamn Goddamn! I turn the time; Damn, Goddamn— Let's turn back time {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Don't come round here! I will fuck your socks off— and sell them back to you! The sex was free; But the socks will cost you. But—they're my socks. Were and could be again…for a price. Goddamn. Yes, Goddamn indeed. BROH. JOHN OLIVER IS MAD BRITISH. AVADAKAVARAH! I TOLD YOU, I WAS A WITCH DOCTOR! WHATEVER! I THOUGHT YOU WERE A LATE NIGHT HOST! EVERYBODY HAS A DAY JOB. THAT'S A NIGHT JOB! EXPECTO-PA– POTTER!!! WHAT IN THE [BEEP}! YOU'RE A WIZARD?! OF COURSE I'M A BLOODY WIZARD–WHAT THE HELL DO I LOOK LIKE TO YOU?! ANOTHER LATE NIGHT HOST–OR WHATEVER! “OR WHATEVER” I'M A WIZARD– HARRY. What the [bleep] EVERYBODY HAS A DAY JOB ™ Please, by all means, Keep your pretty white girlfriend. I want to see those eyes come through What a handsome couple. They are the scariest thing ever. Let them be, then; Out to be fun to watch. I can't listen to Drake on my loud speakers bro. Not—like loud, man. That shit makes me feel like a whole ass basic black girl. True story. Sometimes you gotta distance yourself from the “yassss” birds. I saw this one comedian performing— Well, I think he was a comedian. He wasn't funny to me but, He had like 710K followers And he was really really pretty. I had to notice that, because as imm listening to him preform, about 30 minutes into the video— I was waiting to see if he would make me actually laugh— He didn't— But— As I was trying to figure out how he has 710K followers And has not made me laugh, not once I start paying closer attention to him— And I realize; “Oh” He is major good looking. At first I didn't notice— I like white guys— so, Of course, At first glance I'm like “Hey brother!” You know, like “That's my son!” I'm like “Yeah, make me laugh, boy.” But he didn't And then as I start to wonder Like, Why or how he has so large of a following I notice he's very beautiful. And I mean, like mad gorgeous. Like ideally— I'm like “Oh” and as I'm realizing this, He's saying the punchline to a “joke,” And as he's saying it, I realize that way in the back, Like you can hear that they're in the back Cause the camera is in the center, And like half of the audience is behind the film crew , and you can hear these girls are in the way— Like in the way back Like in the way, way back, You can hear like a pack of ratchets— Yes— these must be his die hards— His squad. Not like his homies or anything, but like The Groupies. You know. The hopefuls. He's got this group of black girls like hackling in the back, like clapping hard at all his punches like “YAS!” “SAY IT!” And it was funny because his reaction to these girls was like “I'm—not in control of this.” “RIGHT!” “SAY LESS!” I'm like, Oh, I see how that works, now. {Enter The Multiverse} And even I Just want it to fucking stop So it can just be over with Oh why, Not another fucking lover boy After all of them Oh no— But this one's worse; Maybe even the worst of all of them Because as I exit my prison cell, I find this dude behind bars— Maybe even happily. And now I'm out into the world Supposedly free— But still trapped with this mentality As if whatever I had before— Maybe even possibly the worst, lowest existence At least for me, Was somehow Better —can anyone tell me why? Not even God, besides the obvious point that perhaps The Devil is in the mind; He likes to arouse, To play games, And tricks And I, Myself Perhaps Have fallen prey, Not to become victim to this; But a player in the game. A pawn. AND WHY HAS NOBODY DRAWN ON THESE YET, THEYVE BEEN UP FOR AEEMINGLY forever and always And this nigga has Not one snagged tooth No graffiti tettoos No fucking sharpie lip injections. Nothing. Do you remember that story how Johnny Depp hated his face up on a billboard— So he went rogue and painted over it? Yeah? So? What if it's like that. I don't think it's like that. —I think it's the opposite of that, actually. And if anything— If I see not a one defacing of these posters And they are everywhere If anything, Jimmy Fallon is the guy With a spray bottle of acetone And a fucking microfiber rag Wiping that shit off In his free time WHAT FREE TIME? You tell me. But first— Somebody— Anybody tell me Why this happened. At all. Anybody? Somebody. C'mon. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Damn. I really want to know if Dillon Francis has offspring yet. NO! Don't touch it! …it's—just a baby. You don't know! He could be dangerous! It's a baby! It's a multidimentional extraterrestrial mystic —baby— —baby! Exactly! Don't make me list the reason why and how this child should not be TOUCHED or tampered with. [the tiny Dillon Francis begins to cry] *gasp* *double gasps* *welling up* Oh, come on! No! Dont touch him! Did you find your prostitute yet? She's not a prostitute, it's a— Well this dimension's definition of a— Sandwhich? Don't mind if I do. *takes bite of sandwhich* … Hm??? Oh my GOD. EhYess… What is ON THIS? EhWhy would you take a bite of— TINA FEY?! Oh god, here it comes. TINA FEY! TINA FEY WHAT, FANGIRL. What?! I need to ask you something. Okay, but make it quick. I'm about to enjoy this sandwhich. Wait/m— No more waiting, actually. It's a hot sandwhich. Ew… You're ew! —a sandwhich without knowing what's in it. THE HOOLIGANS have tied what appears to be an innocent man to the train tracks— THE what did I call them again? The real versions Aren't they all real? Kind of. This isn't real. I agree. THE HOOLIGANS ARE SQUATTERS. EW. Right. Ey! Ey! Put him back in the jar! Why do you have a little man in a jar?! I'm saving it for something. Okay, so here's the thing about bass music Uh huh, I'm listening With dubstep, The wubz and the subs Hit with the kick, almost always— Which is why it sounds confusing, and weird But that's what makes it interesting; The trick is, Mixing these kicks and the wubs At different frequencies So you can hear both of them Clearly. Ohhhhhhhhh… Yeah. I see. Uh huh. I don't know how to do that. MEANWHILE: DAMN! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE MAYA RUDOLPH?! THERES NO SUCH THING AS A FREE GIFTCARD! I TOLD YOU, I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT. It seemed almost fake— And probably was, for whatever reason, But the simple reminder That comedy Sometimes first begins as tragedy Came back to me When i saw a man in Manhattan Try to hail a taxi— And they just kept passing him by; Finally one stopped, And with relief, The guy says— “Finally, Jesus Christ!” Or something like that, And then as he goes to catch the taxi, It just speeds off, And he like, Threw a fit of rage as the walk sign turned on And the crowd of people I was walking with All just kind of Laughed. That was funny. That guy could be having the worst day ever— But God, that shit was hilarious. My superintendent is fucking weird and gross to me. Is he smoking in his car? Is that thy the alarm goes off every few minutes? What the fuck is wrong with him? Welcome to Funland I'm in the depths The chambers —the ritual. Damn! What is his pre show ritual?! I don't know. I don't want to know. well, someone ought to. A long nap. Aws. Then a short nap. …okay. Peanut butter jelly sandwhich. That seems normal. 12 of them. Oh. What. Damn. That's like 6 loaves of bread. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

These terrorists are mad desperate; A demon is a demon— But a weak, feeble-minded brainwashed terrorist is another thing: just that. [domestic terrorism and acts of sociopolitical psychological tactical practices by and against American citizens.] The only satisfaction in knowing how right I was, became choosing not to directly address them anymore as they were— ignorant, insolent babies throwing temper tantrums— It seemed altogether in the same system were the motorcyclists and the door slammers, as if some sort of strategy against free thought and the right to truth. The actual truth of the matter was, that I was also in them—whether or not they had the conscience to know. Be mad; I am. Maybe now in coming times you will understand How cruel it feels to be hated, For just existing. Fragility Something ‘about' me bothers you so deeply— And you ‘don't know' what; But I'll tell you what it is… Later. For now, I'll just enjoy soaking in your rage — How wrong you feel I am For being right. And how right I am— That this is wrong. {Enter The Multiverse} “Billie's Bong” The poor Billie Ellish has a neon bong. Woah! You have a bong! Yeah. That's sick. Do you not—smoke? No. Wait. Do you not—like, sing? Nah, yeah— I'm in like, a band, but— But what about your vocals? We play punk! Nice. [A CHARACTER walks in, and is astounded to see the two practically identical Billies.] Who though? Doesn't matter. I don't get it. Which one is which? They both shrug. The poor Billie Ellish and the regular Billie Ellish have almost everything in common besides money— being that, “broke Billie” comes from a stereotypically dysfunctional family, and a broken home, and has lived a majority of her life in poverty—besides of course—Finneas at least having once served as the lead guitarist of her band, before dropping off. Wait, what did happen to your Finneas? Ah, My Finneas? Forget about it. That dude is a skag. My breath is shallow, My heart is lonely. The poster shadow Of many moons forshadoed. Again, I lie awake, screaming, Not calling I'm screening your calls You want ice cream with that, Or what. (Or what) Probably or what, though In a nutshell, I don't want you I thought your hollow bones Could swallow us whole To another, Long, long gone Summer. Sure, the show goes on —but it won't without you. For sure, The show goes on— But it won't without you Turn the phone on, Turn it over At the airport, Watching Conan Oh yeah, A honey blonde, Shucks. Honeysuckle wants only To become Sweet, ripe salmon berry (Don't you want to) At the airport, Watching conan Overhead, I Overheard a phone call “What the fuck did you just say?” It's been 3 days; She went missing at MIA No connection to jfk No connection at all Munroe, you blind bastard All the water All the drugs All in the wash It's water under the toenails (Four fingers up, But the fourth one lost it) At the airport Watching Conan I over heard you Turn the phone off Semi-sync or something, Semi dysfunction Chemists hemispheres All his fears are In my head I stand at the front at the edge of the the platform so there's just less temptation to jump (White Nikes is for chumps) Everybody is a goddamn DJ these days Especially on her bday When she asks for a replay of that remix Bitch please I sit alone bc with my phone and my notebook. By the end of a river A cold brook Wrote a whole mother novel A classy story For the world gone wrong You fucking Morin Fungi up I get more fond l I stand in the train with my back against the wall So the shadow markers won't stand behind And grab me Fuck man, fuck off There's a lot of blue here Must be something to do here I need new gear Stuck inside of my l life Since new years Whose here? WHAT THE FUCK MORGIE? SUNNI! MORE HEINIKEN!!!! You CANNOT. Drink with that ankle monitor on. I know. So why are you drinking?! I took the ankle monitor off. Nogga yo feet is small. Like smaller than mine. EY. I been staring at your gut this whole train ride. How the fuck are you like a 5X And your feet are a ladies size 6? The fuck. You need some help, bro. I ain't been to the gym in two days But you got fairy feet My nigga. My hip bones apes against the railing; I've three children, but you'd not know It; I'm holding in cereal, cleaning out stuff for cereal boxes , Audio level Aux chords polished Shined as silver, Hair as Golden, Still no meadows, My eyes rest in My, I'm tired. Please don't mind me, Bright blue jumper Still no meadow I lay down in Still no meadow Hair as golden Old blue boxers Boxes Please don't mind me Oh, you started it Oh, you started it No motion sensors Already alcoholic, Still halls And still water Oh, You started it Oh. You started it Sure, don't fall out of Heroin antics, Sure, don't fall forward, Only to fall out Oh. You started it Damn! Why the devil always gotta stand behind a motherfucker, huh? Fuckin creepo. Haven't you decided yet that you are the devil. I am one and all And all things, I am Still in my mind I am, Never behind, But always ahead Always right, and not wit wars I stand in line for the stairs The slower the better the more I write I'm on fast God Fasting time I'm on fully automatic The faster we go The harder the heroin The longer we stop for The harder we party Off bandwagon There I go— (Are I now) There you are? Fully automotive Fully automatic Fully on the wrong road. It metr's hoping No more tears for lost stardom No more neon signs No halter tops Shit, I work harder in hell When I don't have my phone off Shit, I work harder in hell When I take all my clothes off. I couldn't even pretend to give two fucks right now I'm chained to a train With another one headed right towards me. I don't mind what's the line your on Whose line is it anyway, good line at the equinox Step over me Hoarder I'll say, Here for all time; Wherefor art though Simple and stuck In my own ways All day I sat in haides No semtember Sick morons Long, long October Still started No water Two dogs And a blonde No show starter. But There goes all that All the next understudies And sure profiles, Fair weather friends again —creepy ass inanimate muppets. Fuck, man. Somebody stick their fuckin hand up Elm/ ass before I punch him. Don't punch Elmo. Who doesn't love Elmo. I do not, What did you say your name was? I didn't. What did you say is your expertise? Rhythms. Mister mister l NOOOOOOOO. Some black dude rubbed his whole dick against my wrist on the subway train. gnarly. It was warm. And weird— Like a fucking Sleeping cat Under Egyptian cotton AGHHHHHHJ. AOh no. I THOUGHT MY HAND WENT PARALYZED. It just siezed up, real crunchy, like— *chicken foot arm* I automatically had like the whole thing going on. The worst part was that it was warm— And soft// But HUGE. I was like What ANIMAL is that. I will never. I could NEVER I said. what. I just got to the point in my life where I realized I wasn't interested in anything. !but especially I'm looking for Sage to burn I goy money go burn I got time to earn mi got money to chase Ain't got money to waste You've got to admit x It's a good savings system —for once, the sauce sounded like symphonies And wreaked of green peppers, or rather, was fragrant CHECKPOINT! I remember this part! I remember this place This time This dance This song, Then— everyone does And everything does, doesn't it? Show ants the advocate The advocate of another time I think I ran here on What if everything cheaper online But it's just the adventure you wished for Have you ever tried to be mad With squeaky ass shoes on Seriously Have you ever tied to like walk away Or stop away mad With squeaky ass shoes? Is that the pub? I guess. You guess! Is this the right pub or is it not? I don't know which pub is the right pub! He just said “Irish pub” you could throw a rock and hit one! Sometimes it's best, To just not give A single fuck at all At all at all A single fuck at all. I don't give a flipping song! Woah now i don't give a flap or a stick! Alright, alright. Leave me alone to die I'll melt inside the world A coin upon a string Run, girl, run Of course, of course It lives again It'll come again When the Sunnis down. I can't wait till the sundown I can't wait till the world is kind And the girls are gone And the birds all hush And the dogs don't bark And the sun downt come Till I'm long long gone and out of it I'm over her, no more war and art over sodom And stardom as startuduat Like I said, you started it I always did I didn't want I only done To suffer Suffer more Will you rot you blossom corpse The art is done The art is done! The water's hot No wonder white people fucking hate us. I saw a black dude on the train. Today with his dick in his pocket. NO, GOD. WHY! And he was holding it, too. I'm like “What for?!” Jesus Christ's. It was in his pocket. Outlined and everything, With his fucking grip around it Like it was a fucking animal. No! No! Man some people are so fuckin wrong I hate pda. I fuckin hate it. The Real versions come across a parallel reality's version of themselves—who by some chance, also happened to cross paths with each other—however—this band of miscreants are HOOLIGANS—unruly lawbreakers who cause chaos, confusion, and trouble to the good people of Where the fuck is this. —wherever they are. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Want the dakota and I got it Fanning I deflated I'm like Peyton Manning Previously on {Enter The Multiverse} Season 6 DRAKE BELL enters DTLA smokeshop. NICK You know who that is, right? Before: Tell me she remembers High possibility she doesn't remember anything at all. Great. Also. A high chance— That she remembers everything. Oh! Like all of it. Even worse. That might be worse— —it might be better. But it isn't, Either way! We lose! Great. Good luck, Timmy! Who the fuck is Timmy? You are! What! Good luck. So he enters and exits— In two entirely seperate dimensions! Not even parallels. Not even close. In fact, Once he enters, The world he leaves behind is forever gone. Forever gone?! Woah! Woah! Except those other guys from Nickelodeon, Because they have a Time Machine. Wooh, Phew. That's good. Yes it is. Wait—we have a Time Machine? Yes. That's good. Wher THE FOXXXYBOXXX arrives. “the Foxy Box?!” No, the Foxxxy Boxxx What— What are you dickbags staring at. Nothing. Goddamn! Shut up! That is the sexiest Time Machine I've ever seen! Have you ever seen a Time Machine at all, before this? I—I don't know what I've seen before this. Whatever. I like your box. Shut up. I like your box, too… Shut up. Get in. Where are we going? I don't even care. To Wonderland! {Enter The Multiverse} The first one might not fly, but the second one's for sure a hit. I found out there was wax on my apples today for the first time, and I thought “well, that's gross. Counting cards, are we? Another writing assignment. They're all writing assignments… You were dead once— —or I will be soon. Your choice. (Up to you) It's always my choice. You don't have acknowledge us as ‘ghosts' It's just that— We are what we are. To speak without speaking To know without knowing Cut ties with it all— With it at all? It could be worth it, If the salamander ever speaks again? Well, you are alive, aren't you? Only at the wishing well. —last I checked, in chains I was. I wish I were a rockstar. Consider it granted, unless— Unless, what? You'd rather yourself a comedian. Why would I want that? Why wouldn't you? I went full screen for Whoopi Goldberg but absolutely died At gene wilder. You'd better not. How dare you, Severus? Why would you write something like this? But—why wouldn't I? I wonder if there's anything I can do to get rid of this wax— And then I thought, “Maybe I should just peel them” Then I thought, “Wax on Apples— Well that's un-apple-eal-ing” I was Wait, hold that thought It was a joke my was a joke that practically wrote itself, cause it's not a fucking joke, it's true. I could see it, but not hear it The words, music, The art, animated My fasting eyes were wise with time And love forever As if I am, As if I was — At once all things, But not at all. Could have been better. What happened yesterday? My spirit broke. Just fasted to acid I yawned when it dawned on me, I eat when I'm awful, I'd rot in my body For time and for all words, For forwards.c for four words I haven't been loved since The door closed On more curses. I haven't taken a time to be honest In heartthrobs— Four of them, really But after all, I've got my all stars. Come to find out, The first husband in five— We're just all four. I fell out of love with a punch— But I left all my stuff there. Wondering here and there Whether or not it was Okay, this is officially the weirdest thing that's ever happened in the nevermind, that was weirder I told you bro, you were in the Illuminati. IT WASNT ME. i didn't do it. WHAT IN THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO [HER] [HIM] —NOTHING. Great. !9/ I have to wash all my socks. No, your dick still sucks. what. sorry dude. Second yawn, now know I'm on one The glass door passed out the fast words With honors and ornaments Sing to get off of the wire We fly to get on to it —how it all works out in the end, (It was always a puzzle.) That's enough of the sermon, The sponge, —it's all masters and mistresses The sodom, the stop watch The pocket —I saw Eddie Murphy The wonderous web that I spun after all Was a fortune, a fountain, a father A figure A falcon Enough was enough —but it all just kept going (Like over and over) I just want a lover, Without all the falling (Not actually alice) I lost all my change And my passion Just using the bathroom —were we past that. I use helicopters for time travel Over the mountain I probably never came down And I never went back there. It was roped off. I'm a crossroads, But they're closed off, I d got obstacles Marvelous crocs I told you it was God! (But forgot that I was one) Fuck, I'm so fucked up. This, from the ark of the story m Is every thought I've yet to have But still we're the will of the words, Since it all I it automatic. I should have paused hours ago (He had cerebral palate ir autism) I should be back at the ranch, But I've still got this taste in my mouth I should really —remarkable crush— For an infinite love, I thought. There was Severus, But you mustn't react If not wearing a mask, Or else you'll be cast on a show, Not your own, But do you get your The mushrooms were made of squishy foam and I appreciated that. Factor in this rampant rapture For m the capsule l upon us The wildebeest walked over Arches Before he as pardoned I wonder what acid reacted to Carson, on honors I polished the ghost On the worst of the wrongs I'd not done yet Therefore, you are. On Halifax, Or ahalycon, For artifacts Or dinner dates I once mated with a bird And flew the coop, Not shortly after, But What in the fuck am I watching What the fuck YO. Nobody told me about this. You greedy bitch. I—yeah whatever. Which road shall you go Which road shall you take You have to move on Though you tremble. X quake Whatever, I'll keep that typo, I gotta finish this joke. I was reading this banana bread recipe1- Not because I don't know how to make banana bread. Banana bread is easy. I was just trying to figure out how to make it Without eggs And without baking soda —you know, for texture. So I google this recipe, And I don't know what made me actually click on the recipe. — The rabbit has human hands. —I don't . Yeah, sometimes it's best to leave them in the mystery, Leave “them” Who is “them”? I am alone! …you were always alone. Okay, Or is it a donkey? What in the fuck? —-Oh, nevermind, that's me. I'm gonna want that “air trumpet. “ Return to the land of mirrors And “why are you still here's” They say the fame changes you I think we really are all that The time and the wise And the wicked The nine mirror cycles The sons of the songs you wrote All the the god and the sun you are Goddamn it, Just finish the joke! (You should finish me off first.) So I click o. This recipe Here we are counting cards again… YOU DID THIS IN ON PURPOSE, Are you serious, I did this in “post” Shut the fuck up, you didn't edit that video yourself —I didn't even shoot it, Aha. “The Art of the— —but which Alice is Alice. IT WASNT ME. The joke's not as funny after all this. (Not my fault, it's automatic. ) No, there's no ‘Nothing' In here, We all thought it was over, Then then I wondered How to old it all in Blow out the candles, Come over, The wonderful world of — You know, I can't see now, I'm hearing my faults— Are you sure it wasn't over. Would I forget you if it weren't for a word To remind me which part of I you are Simple sameness I am hungry, But the day was undaunting I was almost over it Now back to nothing— Since I belong there. There was no book four before. I should keep metronomes and impartial clocks Not for timekeeping, But soundbathing Something about it tells me to drown out my sorrows With cellibacy And alcohol It all come back to haunt you When you have a daughter— Now doesn't it? How does it go? It goes The heart screams I've got to go home But the head doesn't want to The soul cries for someone to hold it Outside of the body The water went up, Then went down Till we ran out of all of it —I was just making a mockery Of my own mother. (I was aborted.) You might let that cat out of the bag. The recipe started, Here we are in a house of cards And it all falls down Or goes up in flames Oh, to love the fire, Though I'm so tired I would write For the times If I was Inspired Shift the subject Life the veil, And break the worth wall Break the curse Or write the wrath of karma Shopping malls And quarter horses, Blow up dolls And mattresses, Perfect persons, Sayers, Singers, dancers Character actresses, Theatre dictations You see the same, I saw, I went It's all one column now (The middle) The ensemble was fireworks And wellbeing For all the struggle The clock struck minus one At unimportant. —The facts. I took priority for phone calls And piety for beings of dignity Honorary, further off then comfort Just a world away Or are you being Suffered, or sufferable? Surfaces for surfboards— Words of will for honeycombs And gingerbread for Anastasia Sure Google, But it was “Amistad” Whatever that was. I could have figured you were bigger than interesting Never would have guessed We'd have it for us eating on the cardboard Cutouts Matchbox offerings From dawn until sunset Porpoises, Toilets and Gold watches When will it work? When you sing what you want to At will With your heart And above all the offers Took love over money I'm 5 minutes over. #ff [The Festival Project ™] {Enter The Multiverse} The Complex Collective © The recipe started with something like, “Growing up, there were two things my mother and I often baked together: chocolate chip cookies and banana bread.” I paused for a moment and thought of myself and I, and then I thought– “okay, sure, yeah” Growing up there were two things my mother and I often baked together: Ourselves. Lol. hehe [That's The Punchline] –Maybe the first one was better [The Festival Project ™] -Ū. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

True last Dillon Francis was bad. Like really bad. So bad, I still have to remix it. Let's hope this one is better. it is. Wait, what is this. —don't open that. Fucking great. What the fuck is this. Who knows, man. Oh look, a portal. Goddammit it, this whole dude is a mindfuck. (™ Wait, hold on a minute. Why, what happened. Every time I fuck around with these people I feel like I'm being fucked with. Well, they are DJs, so… *snifs* Hm. Wait. Yeah. Didn't this dude hop through the dream world just to tell me he had a girlfriend. He surely did. —-sounds like a trap. How dare you. Ah, shit— Did I ever write that scene where DEADMAU5 gives -Ū. (Or Happy Accidents, Whatever) a thumbs up instead of the middle finger she was hoping for. HOW DARE YOU. Well, if I didn't write it before, I wrote it now. ‍♀️ SUCKS TO BE YOU. Yeah, it does. I'm closing the portal. That's fine, I'm going to bed. Fuck everybody. Especially weak tiny dick people who ride motorcycles outside my building. Weak ass bitches. *niggas **roaches. I just realized like, White people's whole deal now is to do as much Passive aggressive shit to make black people's mental fragile To make people Pop So they have an excuse to keep Fucking with (you.) That your behavior— Your reaction to their sick, Twisted, vampire shit Gives them a reason To keep it in their minds That you are lower than them. That they are better. Their entire game Is finding ways to kill you Without even touching you. To make your kill yourself And call it “‘Mental illness” When really it's just a Series of psychological terror attacks In order to remain Dominant in a society Where they can Thrive in being Lazy, Arrogant Fucking energy vampires Yo, What the fuck is with white girls. Why are they so fucking EVIL? They're like, energy vampires They don't do anything for themselves At all And pretty much exist Stepping on other people And then calling that shit “Hard work” They are practically fucking USELESS. Like, If that is your staple— If that's your girl— If you're the guy that's like “I don't know what I would do without her” You fucking SUCK. Cause she fucking SUCKS And that's the basis of your fucking maneuverability and survival. You are LAME. Keep your weak dick Tryna fuck these Child-looking bitches “I can't live without her” Dirty house having World-stealing Slave-driving Ass Over there. Karma's coming for your ass. Your life doesn't get to be this fucking easy For this fucking long And everybody else just fucking *really* works And suffers around you. You are fucking LAME. “I don't know what I would do without her!” Probably nothing, What most white oriole do anyway. Fuck these energy vampire motherfuckers. They don't do shit They just use their blue fucking light-reflecting eyes To hypotize people Into making other people do shit for them They don't do shit They don't clean house They don't wash dishes They need to stop treating mental illness like a one fucking size fits all concept When Most colored people's mental health issues Come from fucking the trauma of the societal fucking race war And most white prople's mental illness Comes from the inability to see that They've had it so much fucking easier Than everybody else For fucking nothing How the fuck do white people Have the nerve to be “depressed” With fucking everything. Interchangeability is dominance in this society. You can be ANYTHING You can have ANYTHING And you have the nerve to be “DEPRESSED” OVER WHAT? Fuck these toxic ass fucking Vampires But you tell them that shit about themselves And they'll just green light your fucking disposal “Racism is over” But you're forward and telling them that in your experience, That it obviously isn't— They'll just deny your entire existence And call it your fucking fault At the end of the day, really it is your fault— For giving them the satisfaction Of doing your little dance around them, Wearing your weave, Minding your manners— And letting them continue to get away with Taking your light Because they don't make their own. (They just exist on yours. ) His war tactics were comical, At best— A victor, champion And honorable warman That's it! Imm going to make a vegan neopolitan ice cream! You're going to make—ice creM. You're going to make—ice cream? On no, trrrs that guy from 39 rock again. Do you bastards work on Sundays now?! You know what they say: if you don't come to work Saturday, don't bother showing up on Sunday! You would think we'd get a day off in this bitch. Shut up. Oh, if it isn't the pampered prince of— Shh, shut up, he might hear you. YES. The toil of knowing That all of New York Lies most unseen, Cloaked to the working Hidden to the poor, Far above skylines And rooftops, And fear of them //us //it Artifact Hyperbole, given ranges of circumstances Heartwarming eathworms, Two day delay on a martyr attack Come, mother Move// Love closer strictly to your wings No bullets, And strangely, The pain has moved Out of my wrists and arteries Into my head again Mr. Valentine, strictly for the art force Never murmured or remembered Words so softly unheard of Why call us? I needed armor against the devils warcries— Telephones and dollars, motorcycles And motherless crossfires I told you, waiting Imm nearly out of my body And not willing to compensate For never tied you I To the bounds of boundaries l Brick exposed walls and Leather, not faux For the given lcuxies If unmistaken Bitterness —the tombs of it all. Unflourished. I'd better flag that one Are you looking for a new body to be housed by? Grief stricken and decaying in the original marksmanship Of beautified craft— Well, now Aren't we seasons greetings And good tithings Aren't I! Whatever he puts his mind to, He conquers— The question stands— What is it, He's out his mind to? Are you ever in your own body? Are you ever in your right mind? Which one's the right one? Fair. The coughing controllable Waits for the regimen Of daily values Set to offer her A grand scheme Of nothing at all An intolerable Forgiven grattitude of Imbalance, captivated at all By noting but A line between What was easy, becomes sacred In its later challenge, and being blind Becomes sighted, At will, After all suffering Has been marked, Dove Where to put the lips, Or the bullet, without them Whistle blows the the water, Reflective as her eyes And rotted core West, then— For futures sake, As to live without Is to die amongst hoards Or broods, no fit for greater lives Than the galaxies of unwashed stars; For metaphors, a gratitude forgotten You're not doing yourself any favors. Could I make it more clear how in love we are? The devil wants, So he speaks in water Through the tongs The warmth of the light shines Throug eyes and isle The wickndness would follow The women, To die for On his alter A sacrifice And so, The program resumes The judge is presiding The wedding's put off Or postponed Or not happening He played his 7 years best out of all of them! In at the first, in the end— As a marker Tears of a clown, Dressed in white, and blue faced Befriended the enemy of interest In sanctions! WARCRIES' (Warcries) Tidings —tidings Heroines, Warcries Warcries Warcries— How are you now, rabbit? I come as bouncing blondes, Seeking truth And refuge in your love As a sister, The bonds of warcries Disheveled us Awaken, Warcries— How now Warcries Tidings And Tiding Warcries Sacred Patron —sirens. Sirens! *fsce* Should we go? We should. Quick! (Nothing) Men! (At all) On your feet! [nobody moved at all, not a muscle] I don't know what I do it for. I need to know some things Abo it at least two people that are alive. How to go about that Without striking code Goes beyond my understanding In this diety She walks around with Salt in her pockets As a call to action Against robots With demon ties To fight wars On the devil's call A becoming cry For the weak And the wicked To come to karma DJM-S11 2-Channel Pro Mixer Jesus Christ! What is with this guy! JESUS CHRIST This cat keeps creeping around my doorstep… Following me, appearing in my window. Sometimes he meows at me to let him in; it's not that I don't want to. He is very cute. You should say, a very handsome cat. The thing is, I've nothing for him. I lead m a very busy life , all work and no play— And even when it is all fun, it's no games. He is a beyaitfuk cat— And oh, how I would like to keep him. But I've simply no room for a cat at all. I thought, perhaps— I might try to scare him away. All the girls on the red carpet like 00 and shit “Body positivity” Don't be fucking stupid. dudes like twigs and skeletons. Damn this same ugly motherfucker has a cold every time I see him. He's always fucking sick wtf is wrong with some people. His house must be dirty as shit This dude coughs every 4 ½ minutes. Last time I saw him was like a month ago, And he was doing the same thing. The fuck is wrong with him? He didn't bring water, an inhaler—nothing. He just coughs and snorts every fucking 3-4 minutes. Eventually that shit just started to make me laugh. I was like, “This dude for sure has the devil in him.” So every time he coughed, I would just start cracking the fuck up. It started to make me giggle. Then the more I giggled, the more gnarly his coughing got. He's like “aeugh-ACCJK—HUNHHHHHC” Then I knew it was the devil. I couldn't help but laugh, and I was like “Come on devil, come on up out that man.” He was like, Hacking at this point— Mind you, he's on the treadmill not running, but walking. Just — Hacking and shit “ACHKH—aahuuuhuh!” And I'm like “Come on now, Devil, leave that man alone” And then— he did! I was like “goddamn, that shit really must have been the devil.” His hacking turned into little reptilian snorts. —you know how they do. Hissing and shit. I was like. Damn. White people is otherworldly sometimes. Coughing and hacking and hissing and shit. I'm like, Your weird alien ancestors got all fucked up fuckin around fuckin dinosaurs and monkeys— This is the modern result of that. “AGHCK—CUHHH.” I'm like, You shouldn't be sick every time I see you if you're at the gym this much. I'm like, Everybody on the red carpet weighs 100 lbs Ain't nothing wrong with me. I got asthma, too but damn. Don't fucking “AQCCFFHHHBB” Every 3 minutes. That's the devil. Fix your life, devil!! I realized also, Hey, If I can ride this stationary bike for 95 minutes and counting I can ride a dick for an hour and a half Can your dick support that? If not, step the fuck back CC I got my karma for laughing at him though l— I was on kettlebells later and just when I was about to get to that last fuckin release at the bottom of my spine— Dude gets off the treadmill and walks across the room to get a Clorox wipe and I fall on my ass. That impressed me, though. Not that his energy caused me to fall on my ass, or anything— I had already been at the gym something like 2, 2 and a half hours— The first hour and a half was cardio— But I was impressed, with this one— You know why. He goes to get a Clorox wipe, thank god, after all that fucking coughing—he needed a whole ass exorcism and a Clorox wipe— the exorcism was a courtesy on God, but he got the Clorox wipe all in his own— and when he was finished with it, he threw it away! I'm like, “This one knows how to use a trash can!” Impressive. I ain't got shit to lose Fuck these weak ass niggas On the punching bags Just a bunch of fags Trackers attached to me And getting bags for it In my heart. I guess. I'm still a scam Planes falling out the sky I know who I am, though Word for word An eye for an eye See how easy it is To have a friend on the side ? See how easy it is to move on After beating your wife See how easy it is to get by and survive When everything y buy is based on Everything you write (And you write about the whites with blue eyes So they really don't like you) [The Festival Project ™ ] The Complex Collective © {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

I found this in your notebook. oh. What the hell is this? You should know by now what anything I do is. What is it? A new project. What new project? All the good ones are taken; And all the good girls go to Hell All the girls become women Oh well Oh well Oh well What have we here? Something other than a laugh— As long as its on the path, Well then, Another, As long as it lasts So, I made all the veins in your neck stand out So I have the answer There you are, a dancer What I asked, What, folded hands What you've prayed for is Perhaps What I paid for Another dysfunction At Broadway Junction It's another Jusfuction at Broadway junction Here's the problem with America today: They're Selling you the disease— Labeling it as “food” And then selling you the “cure” Labeling it as medicine. But here's the problem— Most food, in the United States, that we recognize as food, Is not food. It's chemical recreation. TINA FEY enters angrily. God, I love her so much. TINA FEY WHERE IS MY STRESS BALL!!!??? {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

I already sinned two times since sundown two songs on the wrong muse Not strong enough to refuse The powder blue of lust The Royal color of love The darkness of a Navy captain Dark, the seas For songs, For sins For suffering up until the end All over nothing, something else though As once lost A bottle nose, besides a bottle Corked, preserves the message A self-massage, misogynistic qualities A new hygienist Insanity My shoes still soaked from cardio sessions Long drawn out thoughts of finding a love The worry of ending it all between Sunday and Monday The withering of flower kept for no particular botanist Now, I don't Even feel I should be Alive Let alone Loved Protagonist for profanity Vulgarity, and so you shouldn't Who you should trust, No one at all dear Impressions, impressions For fame and for stardom I count ever fuck in my pocket Before letting them all out What a horrible poem Three words for the stork Two children, four more And the poorer we'll all become Just knowing of it Appearing common for the masses I'll stop cussing for 11 Mill a year To make it clearer I was there before But [it] doesn't move at all For nothing at all Profanity, the art Offense from your porcelain walls and glass houses Something must be wrong with me, for being here I'm being tortured Just moving forward Her pills finish homework My pills bring on migraines, And comas, And outbursts in public Her pills set her mind at ease My pills make me awkward and stuttering Her pills give her promotions My pills make me dizzy with weakness And hallucinations Delusions of grandeur Her pills give her promise; My pills give me sabotage I refuse go walk into the wrong amusement park, You bought tickets for no one I know, I'll go coastal with four stars With one consonant only, no doubles I should show you what I wrote tomorrow It's too late for that I just got a lot of information in three slides; Pile of clothes soaked, drenched on the side of the tub I rub my own feet, now I wrote my own fate I sew my own mouth shut I right now wrong man I just want to live! I just want to die! SWITCH. Oh. What's happened? That's better, I guess. Somethings changed. I— Feel better? I do, actually. That's good, I— dang jimmy fallon, r u ok. we should probably just– Lets just go. yeah leave that nigga alone for FOREVER. k. noted. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

I designed your disease to fit my needs and desires Then I discard you Cause everything's all in your head, You call it a curse, Or a cure for your omen A call to your sermons, A servitude severance, But also Just know too much more than numbers That's how I know how young I am— They brought Patti Labelle onstage, And the first thing I thought was “Oh my God, I love her pies!” That's how you know there's no money in music anymore, really. Patti Labelle makes pies. Her performance gave me bass face. “—what?” Times have changed. The truth is, I don't think imm ready for the times I don't think I'm ready for it I've been dead set on the certainty that I'm about to die; I keep seeing my dead friend's number anywhere And I keep having these synchronicities that make me think “Yo that's it— something's coming.” “This isn't right.” Or like “This is the last of this, for sure, you know?” I left my body during Patti Labelle's performance thinking to myself— “I went wrong somewhere.” Something in my life went —Dick Gregory Have you ever been punched in your motherfuckin' face? What you say? Oh, you haven't? Alright, wait, bitch Two-phone Baby Keem, fuck you mean? I am here, ho Ice cream, booger colored piss, Sub-Zero No, ho, hookers in my clique, we don't fear ho Lit, lit, lit, lit, lit, lit, lit, lit I gotta wait, I gotta politic, I got a bae Ain't no apologies when I get paid A dermatologist, I want the face Don't talk to me when I stomp in this bitch, ho, ho Pussy watery, I duck the tuna fish, ho, ho Yeah, uh, these niggas actin' like groupie, huh Lil' bitch, she wanna get mad 'Cause I keep on lookin' all in her boobie, huh I got the furniture options My U-Haul movin', coochie to coochie, huh I buy the toe when I shop it Rock band on toosie, now I look spooky, huh, huh Easy there boy, shit get greedy there, boy I rep PG there, boy, my gang need me there, boy If my sex tape leak, your bitch on TV there, boy Watch her please me there, boy (lil' baby got on my nerves) Shit get greedy there, boy (lil' baby got on my nerves) I must admit, I am a mess, I cannot fix it, mm Lil' baby thick, Margiela sweats, look at my dick print, mm Fuck all the rats, if you confess, that is a big hit, huh Fuck all the rats, if you confess, it get addressed, bitch Have you ever been punched in your motherfuckin' face? What you say? Oh, you haven't? Alright, wait, bitch I want the fade (I want the fade) Give me my fade, I want the fade I need the fade, I need my- We gotta fade, give me my fade (fade) We gotta fade (fade) Give me my fade, I want the fade I, I need the fade (fade) Run me my fade (fade) Narcissists ruin the most genuine people. Then call them "crazy" or "toxic" when they finally react to all their bullshit. Narcissists have a remarkable ability to identify and exploit the most empathetic and compassionate individuals. They prey on those with kind hearts and souls, using their charm and manipulation to draw them in. As they weave their web of deceit, they gradually erode the victim's self-worth, making them doubt their own perceptions and sanity. The narcissist's constant gaslighting, blame-shifting, and emotional abuse can leave even the strongest individuals reeling. But when the victim finally reaches their breaking point and stands up for themselves, the narcissist is quick to label them as "crazy" or "toxic". This is a clever tactic to shift the focus away from their own abusive behavior and onto the victim's justified reaction. By doing so, the narcissist aims to: 1. Silence the victim 2. Gain sympathy from others 3. Avoid accountability for their actions I think I die before my mom. I hope I die before my dad. I don't like the world at all, The microphones on phones are bad What in the simulation?! This girl's shoes said “Adidass” It was adidas, but with a extra s. #ohmyhoodness. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

I think I die before my mom. I hope I die before my dad. I don't like the world at all, The microphones on phones are bad What in the simulation?! This girl's shoes said “Adidass” It was adidas, but with a extra s. #ohmyhoodness. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

I was sitting becalmed in the Lee of cunnyhunk, just when. The funseekers are coming. They what. Eyy. AH NAH. I gotta get out of here! WHY. THE FUNSEEKERS ARE COMING. The “funseekers?!” Shh! Stop saying that! Everyone's saying it! That doesn't make it right! Write this down. I'm not doing anything you tell me anymore. I shouldn't have to be saying it. —I don't like using brainwaves. Likely, because you have very few of them accumulating, With purpose. The budget for this season just increased. What budget. (Budgets-*) Wait, this is… Multiple projects? It's multiple brokers. Idk what that means. Well that ticking noise is most certainly a hat… And for once, somebody that way is playing some good music I'm an old lost soul, long gone But not far from here, you know This time Mr softie was in perfect timbre with the music playing l— Sugar pie honey bunch Master, or messiah Method, or minstrel Never a mistress I fuckin love white people!! You know why? Geocaching. Fuck, I almost forgot about that. This is weird. Everything is weird now. Everything is WEIRD. When's that album coming out? anever. I quit. i told u i was deadmau5, man. Wtf. wait , like, all of it? ya. shoot that nigga. LIVE: All the Niggaz is getting shooted at. EVERYONE ELSE …that was already happening, tho. WHITE SUPREMACISTS *shrugs* *drinks another bottle of coca cola* *trashes entire planet* *doesnt feel* Lol BLANG-BLANG. MEANWRHILE: DEADMAu5 NO, I'm TEsTPiLOT Whatever, dog. KILL THAT N– DEADMAU5 LOOK AT MA DIK. …ok. Wasnt there another scene after this? I dunno, I got dick-stracted. Yikes UNTIE ME. UNITY. UNITYYYYYYYYYYY. WHAT. UNTIE ME FROM THIS–THING. No, actually, I think you should stay there. The most bizzare thing happened this morning. The most bizzare thing ever, to have happened to me, ever—which is saying a lot l— but I was scratching my head, and all of a sudden, This tiny fingernail— An itty, bit, teeny-tiny fingernail, like, Dislodged itself from my soul or something— Fell out of my hair, Okay, God. What. This baby fingernail— Like, okay it could be like a newborn big toe nail or like, A one month's old like actual finger Aww, I just used to bite them. They were so little I didn't want to cut them with the clippers. Their little fingers You don't want to accidentally— You know, They're just so soft. Awws. What the fuck, God. That makes no sense. I've been primarily by myself for like—ever— And anytime I'm in public, I'm wearing a hat— My wash machine is only used by me, thank god and What the fuck does this mean? HOTDOG-HOTDOG. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

twak'd (end of days) Collection I- 'better off dead.' Track 05. - 'twak'd' (end of days) Prod. by Blū Tha Gürū Did I already post this? idkz. oh well. Here it is. and some enter the multiverse, or whatever I thought it was L E G E N D S IT IS WHAT IT IS. {Enter The Multiverse} If you'll excuse me, I actually have to get going. Where are you going? I don't know: I just— JOHNNY DEPP must be going. Have to. he does not know, however, that he is stuck in a movie—which has no definitive ending. Well actually, This movie has like— 30 alternative endings Wait, 30 alternative endings? 30-40 Woah. That's nuts. Which makes it even cooler. If you ever blow my mind again like that, I'll actually kill you. I've been watching a lot of LMN Lifetime movie network—Why?! Because this shit is hilarious! Isn't it! YO. This shit is PIZZA It IS. What? Why is it pizza? Cause it's not pizza If it's not CHEEZY. ahaha. While traditional Thai pineapple fried rice has tomatoes within the vegetable medley, I opted instead for this recipe to use a sauced red pepper tomato sauce glaze to top the dish, for a new school American twist and flare. ½ cup chopped mushrooms ½ cup scallions ¼ cup white onion ½ cup red onion ¼ cup Pasilla pepper ½ cup red pepper cup white onions ½ cup yellow pepper ¾ cup green pepper 1 cup fresh basil 1 cup fresh pineapple UmBRIDGE. What. NO, Um— A bridge appears out of nowhere. lol why do you have no hair? I dunno; mate. Wizards. Don't go there— You're fired. I beg your pardon Please, don't beg. You are officially decommissioned as headmaster! This is the minister of magic Is that what it was. I guess, I don't know; I'm just along for the STEWIE. WHAT MA, WHAT. TEN AND TWO!! You know what, let me drive. Oh, finally—stewie has his own aplorable Boston accent, (hybrid proper English, of course. ) What does that even sound like Strange. The lady working at Trader Joe's was so beautiful to me, I had to tell her. I loved her Locs, I loved her glasses I loved her accent. So I just had to ask where she's from— I do that sometimes. If I really love someone's accent, I have to ask where their from to try to get there one day; So I asked her, “Where are you from?” And she says “Haiti,” And I was like “Wow, cool” And then I thought about it for a second, And I asked “Do you ever miss home” And she just laughed I was like “Oh, guess not” Some context I had been homesick lately, But I grew up in Alaska And I consider myself from California, Having spent most of my adult life there So coming to New York has been like Living on the other side of the world; And sometimes that sucks. But sometimes, and I have realized that wherever you're from, To get to New York is sometimes a blessing. She didn't even say yes or no, She just laughed. Now I'm worried about Haiti. I was worried about it before; But now I'm like; “Do you miss home?” She's like “Hahaha” I'm like “Oh damn.” I count my blessings. So JOHNNY DEPP just like excuses himself, wanders out into the street, and then—? Yeah. And then what? I don't know yet, I'm kind of busy these days. “BUSY?!” BUSY DOING WHAT?! Beep boop. Eee—ooh. Beep—boop—boop. Yah-yah-yah— APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I'll show you all my scars, huh This one, she look like the reaper That's my girl, You bet she a keeper Ya'll sleepin on us What Yeah What Yeah What You sleeping on us I been in this b'niss APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. It's not a bad song. Is it a song? Is it? idk I just like balls in my face, is all. ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. [A Classic red dodgeball beams Who is it? WILL FERREL Is that how you spell it? Why will Ferrel? Cause I Want it TO MAKE ME LAUGH. HOW. JUST DO IT. Oh. I get it: So my pain is funny to you? [FINE, IT'S SOMEONE ELSE] Oh shit, that guy did look just like Will Ferrel, but OLD. He's old now, ain't he? Wasn't he always? [FINE] CUT. I QUIT. CUT TO: You and I, sir, have a longstanding arrangement. Would it be more comfortable to–sit? Yikes. (Whatever, we'll work on it.) [The Festiva– {Enter The Multiverse} I need a toothbrush to scrub my brain. I'm The lilly of the valley In the Belly of the beast I been swallowed by a whale I'm a whole damn story Woah I am the Lilly of the the valley I am the rider of the horse I am seeker of truth Writer of lines Sayer of lies (I might say a lie; But I just won't tell it) What is your deal with the devil. She knows I have a deal with ‘em. Well, the truth is— I have to turn ya! He's a good old country boy— From the simple south— A simple soul And they all believed him, word for word “I's born in New York” —he sounded assured. Gone, now, boy Go crack dat corn. Gone down south Go crack dat corn Gone, ol boy Go crack dat corn m —got no soul? Go crack dat corn. Aaaaghhh. I have a headache. why the fuck are you freaking out?! Because I don't know what I wrote. I must admit, There are things Where there should be no things There are springs Where there should be no springs There are strings Where there should be no strings And imm quite sure With no rules enforced —it's just a static cling Sort of thing OWW, my EYES. Nobody should have this much power. Nobody does. I don't get it. (I still don't understand why this happened.) He must have perfect genetics. Or something. THIS FOOL IS FIXING ME UP TO DIE!!!!! I AM THECRISCO QUEEN DIRTY NOT CLEAN WHAT CAN I SAY I LIKE GREASE MONEY EVERYDAY BANKROLL INCREASE DEEP FRY HIGH SUNNI BLŪ Yo VO. Ok— so sometimes things go shitty. Like, mad shitty. YOOOOO. My measurements are 34C, 24 waist, and 55 in height. I couldn't understand why a girl this perfect should have to be selling sex at all, But I supposed nowadays, all women were prostitutes in some sort of way. This one's 22 years old and 96 pounds Men are sick fucking creatures. Whose fucking child is this?! COME GET YOUR DAUGHTER. Although, you know—I get it. My mom bought a Mercedes in cash And I'm still in educational debt. I just now today realized. That could have been a college fund. But she wanted a Mercedes. It's okay that I'm a bit fucked up in the head. Something went terribly wrong. All and all, Myself and this perfect girl, Cost around the same For an entire night— But hey, I think she's low balling herself On the 24 hour special. That's an entire day of my time, That's at least 10K. ‍♀️ She has a perfect body and two eyes that are different colors, But I'm a literary genius. You don't need words to soothe your boner thiugh, Or show off at a black tie function, do you? A stroll on the red carpet, Or some opulent fucking 5-star charade. How much does she cost, I wonder? She says, “I also accept bitcoin, etherum, gold and silver.” On God, These fake lip hoes is robbin' niggas. Men are sick creatures though. “Here's my gold watch” Fucking gross. I cruise escort sites for entertainment, Having learned my value as a woman isn't the visual, Visceral thing men are usually looking for— No judgement, Because I've realized that if I too had a perfect body. I myself would be living in some kind of oppulent, prostitution fuck-hole, With everybody else in my generation, That didn't get married— And then, probably divorced. I realized a long time ago that this was the reason my mother Always hated my body more than I ever could have— which is fine, Because eventually I inherited this hatred. I could have eventually grown out of it— But she couldn't see that. I was a “nasty fat heifer” On her worst days, And now, Even on my best days— I still am. Nevermind that eventually my ex husband would Think of my hair as nappy, or That I actually did end up kind of sort of growing out of being A fat, nasty heifer— Kind of. But the fact that it's taken me the entirety of my life to realize my worth as a woman Would always be defined by that Of what a man idealized as “Worthy” Well, That in itself Gives me the dismissive ability To have days where I do nothing, But sit back, Cruising escort sites and shipping on Amazon for yoga mats, Wanting the experience of the world Without really being beautiful enough for it And waiting to fade Into the next lifetime. [All the black girls cost less Because they have to.] Men are sick creatures. They'll take a butterface, Ugly ass white girl Over a pretty one that's dark skinned And these are just The facts of life (So far.) Piper of Phoenix Valiant, bold, and brazen This woman, I love— In the wings for fortune, To honor, I love With wisdom, And aged like fine wine We all become I want body like Sofia But never met the real Rebecca. Yo. YO. Let's spend $60 o lip gloss. Okay. Hey. Ways crackin. I just bought a $12,000 mattress. Let's take a nap in it. Hey girl. Heeeeeeey. This yoga mat cost $200. That's fresh. You think THATS RICH?! Seems pretty rich to me. You can't get any of this stuff on Amazon. That's fucking psycho. These loafers? Uh uh. $2,000. For WAT. (Whispers) Eeel skiiiin. Gross! I'm HUNGRY Got grits, Ain't got no sugar. No butter— —ain't hurt nobody. Poverty is a whole damn show. Close the door On a broke ass bitch. Poverty is a whole damn story. Got no bucks for the Whole Foods market Shopping carts full of old ass garbage No reward For a woke ass artist I'm HUNGRY. I killed myself 3 times his morning. POOR SNOOP is still a whole ass G BET ON IT HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL RAP COVER -$15 BROKE WAYNE AINT HAVING IT CHRIS ROCK THE METRO TRAIN DRIVER is NOT FUNNY— (He's still a ladies man though.) LCD SYSTEM HOOGLI BOOGLI is the reason they fear us. HOOGLI BOOGLI IS THE BLACKEST BLACK THAT EVER BLACKED. UNLIKE NIGGLY NIGGA—he is NOT FRIENDLY. He is the stuff of nightmares. A world gone wrong. Two bloodshot eyes on a black backdrop Dark black. I sold not state at screen They go uno in te night This shit doesn't make much sense, Does it? Doesn't Matter Antimatter. Ow. How far is antimatter from antithesis? Is this just a Christmas present Never said it, same diff Something something something SHUT UP. So to re-iterate— Uh huh. Niggly Nigga is friendly… Yeah, he's just— —he just looks like that. AH. What happened. Don't stand behind me like that, my nigga. Srry. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Okay, that'll work. #timetravelingdjs

{Previously…} Evidently the motorcycles begin to now attack when I am at rest , on line, and not recording. However, once I begin recording, they stop. This has only been since I've been intentionally collecting recordings and data to add to my report to the NYPD and any applicable law enforcement agencies, as this continual threat seems to be politically motivated—and motorcycles, mopeds, and other motorized vehicles being used as a form of psychological terrorism as a direct threat to public health and safety. Terror stalking. Gang stalking. This may be a politicized attempt to promote or enforce gentrification or other political agendas. Living//Loving life on a server, Doesn't it seem wonderful? Let's face it— It's Fast Friday and I'm not going to be Bouncing off the walls, or anything— But I might be prone to a lot of Critical thinking, And though it's an expensive maneuver, And risky expenditure, The fact of the matter is— I haven't really been doing anything. I've been not complacent, But stagnant— So perhaps maybe this little detour Will be just the thing I need To erase some of the damage that's been done To my psyche— Sitting in this terribly loud apartment In Brooklyn Trying to find peace And make music; When the answer all along is that I need to increase my visibility In order to find what's needed; The fact is— Knowing where to go Or what to do Or who to meet Is not going to come in isolation— No, not at all. It would come from a neatly designed —whatever, I just got bored. Perhaps if I study hard enough, One day, I could complete my studies somewhere Like Harvard, Or Columbia— But first, I'll need a new diploma in my actual name. You see, nobody's giving any kind of real fuck about my music. I can't keep throwing money at it thinking that the way to success is going to be making enough money, to spend enough money, to hopefully buy the attention of the robotic masses, and eventually maybe even a club owner or festival promoter Who might be looking to put me on. Don't get me wrong— my music is good. But we live in a computer, and let's also realize: That with the noise in this building, And the overall head trip of counting up my pennies for every little thing I need, I'm starting to get physically ill, Just sitting here, understanding that To look the part, one must prioritize An expensive beauty regimen— Which either would leave me at the mercy of some man, Willing to do these things for me, Or that I might earn this myself… As you see, I've chosen the latter route— The more challenging, perhaps, However, Leaving my celibacy intact, And granted, otherwise uninterested In the males at my level of circumstance For any purposes beyond entertainment— —seek no other actual companionship at all. I like myself, I love myself— And though feeling uglier and uglier The more I stare into the face of my telephone screen— I am wonderfully beautiful all on my own. —but— The masses expect a spectacle, And so, It becomes part of my job, as an entertainer, Part of my repertoire— —have mercy— (I'm going to choose to ignore that, sort of) To do at least what has become expected of me as a woman— To be “pretty” — And though the makeup and hair and nails Might be fake, –Cans cost a fortune— Myself without those things, as observed and proven Becomes overlooked, dismissible, and only attractive To those, of course, to whom I have no business Associating For both personal, And professional reasons. —moreover… Conduct yourselves well, my dear— As the furious skies have warned us, That the roles you carry out to mark and torment others, Will soon reflect upon your own mirror Into which you stare, And no mercy is given By the eye that looks, Or any other The nearer to doors I am, The harder they slam— The, though I am fasting, I'm suddenly hungry, A far cry Which forces me to realize That all of mankind Has been poisoned Toxic, And become Unsafe So, What's wrong here Is they've Taken all the nutrients From the foods we need And put it on A competitive scale So that The more you earn The healthier you are And of course The healthier you are The more productive you are Which creates value Maybe I didn't have to take the GED; Maybe there was some way to go about getting My actual name On my old diploma— Hopefully without cost. But it didn't make sense to move into a new era Or a new world With old haunts. I knew I needed to seal the name change records So that my abuser could not have access To my identity. For whatever reason, I wanted things like Harvard and Columbia— I wanted to succeed and to win with a reputable and respectable foundation— I wanted to raise my son To play football And split custody In the sporting seasons In which I felt he performed best. I wanted to show him success Without making compromises That would hurt and weaken The strength of the body and mind — But most importantly, the soul. I hope by now you've realized how odd it is To have a crystal dildo Sitting in a glass jar On your kitchen countertop? …I'm soaking it. …But why crystal tho? Wouldn't you prefer An iron tenderizer For that steak Rather than a Silicone one? …now that you put it that way. Come closer, darling, I want to connect with you closer Than besides In the eye of the camera— Don't you know, anyway— How dire the circumstances become Once you've broken the fourth wall And entered the quarry. You lunatic! Don't worry The moon hasn't gone yet new, And my honored eye Still betraying the thought you are, The battered ram and the shackled horses The bloodied bull And the heroic matador, Fight … … … —by fury with design, for the holocaust. The masses have loved us From far beyond reason For our class action theatrics With no aversion at all, To violence. A treasury! Kill him, then! Kill that bitch. No! Just— scare her! Right you are, (And right you were!) Dear Johnathan, I should have warned you More than once, What an. Honorable sacrifice Your wicked life Has offered us— Foragers of freedom, March upon the underspoken Warcries, Offer us none But the end of our suffering In solitude, A service of none, All together, Hurt and bea— Arthur. I warned you once. You see, Men need women, They move on fast. One, none parted Before finding another. Let's not separate the eggs from the whites. Isn't it all “the egg”? You know what I meant! What do you “meant”? The yellow part! God, you don't half to yell. I'm not God, I'm just playing her part while she runs off for awhile. How long is “awhile”? Just finish those tarts. Mm. Pop tarts. NO. NOT POP TARTS — Just TARTS. …wait, can she hear us? I can hear everything! I'm playing God's parts! “Parts”? (Let's just say it's a double role.) Hey. How's it goin? Okay. Relax… I am relaxed. I don't want to scare you or anything. —nothing's scary— But— [pause] You have a knife in your back. [beat] Yeah. [beat] (Cont'd) It's just [a little] something I'm working on. What? We should call an ambulance! Nope, I'm fine. Just— No! Don't touch it! What?! Just leave it. It's time for pros and cons lists— It's time for diamonds Time for great minds that think alike. I sterted a revolution on Google documents m Ya'll started chemical warfare On skin color God Made me born into a world War Where fair skin takes priority Over others Gave me a notebook, No pen A traumatized mother, A drunk father And said, “Fix problems” I think I didn't like The nell Schooll ll Cause their mascot Is a pices They said I got 15 minutes of fame 22 minutes of superstardom An hour of celebrity And 2 hours in a leading role Of a feature film Franchise So I'd better get used to it And I'd better make use of it And I'd better make better lists of The huffsk yll m You W t you Sorry, Gym typo Because Of course I'm a beast Faux pas, As I was, Saying— I should make better lists Of the guff I wanna boff, The doves I Central Park The pigeons, turtle doves and Waffles— —I still want the But not the buttermilk kind MAMA! I gotta get to Tom/ Diner! FATHER! (Try papa) Papa was the ops! Nah, I'm vice. I'd better get Anything done Before midnight strikes Along with the hunger My gloves are straight soaked I got puddles in my shoes I wanna top Obama Start all my dawns With hours of cardio!! Look, I can channel anyone I love! Do you love me? NO! —I just want your body a lot Like a lot LIKE A LOT, Tho. We're too famous— We sense crazies and go out the back door. How famous are you again? Apparently, like mad famous, dog. Were so famous, We look danger in the eyes. Oh yeah, this dude is fucking nuts. Didn't I say to pay it forward?! I don't need a reminder Of what time it is. Sometimes I forget This is yesterdays workout And I'm due back In the AM Where the crazies Can't get to me Exactly Where I am (Don't remind me how high I am.) I might jump just to get on the Television Martyrdom for attention Still haven't mentioned— I'm thousands of galaxies out of him, And only two millennia older Than HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Fuck you. SUNNI BLŪ gets a surprise party for their 27th birthday. I've been advised to stay away from the doors and windows. Why. Ū crashes through the window. GODDAMMIT. They don't make them like they used to —I heard a song through a hardwire I don't know who lied so much I tried so hard To be gone But I still wake up Under a security blanket with a palm full of rocks, In a glass house God knows I'm sorry Woah friend, old friend I've heard the whole story now Old frog, old toad Old tortoise, long road Special forces Art protector Fortune teller Hypnotist and potions professor Overall, The one you wanted Wasn't a body at all, But just the thought And so I'm off for once Out of my zone and LET ME TRY. No, Jenna— Liz, let me try. I don't think that's a good— HELLO. Like this game, frog Once a week it's fun To partition the saints and summoners Covers with salt The cast out the others And add flavor to prayers Asked in hypothesis My what a wonder (A free form stream of consciousness) —a free form flow of consciousness. Stop repeating yourself' Stop tripping over words for goodwill forums Don't preach to the masses, And head out the back door at the sense of danger The sense of danger! It's Jane kzmarzarakr righ? What the FUCK. I'll get back to that later I gotta— …Somethin, somethin, somethin. What. Somethin—somethin— There's something between us. —is it cancerous? Probably comical. Are you on one, or off of it. Careful, Mr. cervix. Why AM I Mr. Cervix?! Because you fit the part! I'm a woman. My decision stands. #focus shifting. Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances. I had been searching to no avail for the title sequence of one of my mother's old soap operas without having to ask her — #focus shifting No, sometimes it's just ADD. lol Yes, Okay. I already know all the words. Sometimes I have to hyperfocus To fully comprehend, But really I just want to figure who produced it m In the cadences, I'm like diamond for hire, Pull out the subs for submarines; I put out real fire But, something like a half forgotten language There's something unknown in the darkness, I'm unsure what to put into perception, Just shadow boxes Making friends with The Devil, are we? You shackled me to your horrors, Out of control were my monsters A gratitude of nothing more or less To offer my body, curse The sacrificial lamb Tied to hard earned disaster A heroism and seeking Solace in the night —interceptions. Whatever Google, Take care now All morale is lost On sacred worship Cruel to hurt, But all has costs To front — the standard values Only those amongst mankind Who have value in vanity And fortresses of design Not in truth, But of auspicious and Inglorious — Goddamnit, How far away are you?! I can't make out almost anything that you're saying! Far! That's because, it's not saying it in your language! He Sorry. He is just using the closest possible language so that you can keep transiting it into English! Well, you're doing it wrong! I gathered! There's no direct translation whatsoever. They might as well just be speaking Martian. They are. (Well, some of them are.) I think the best way to go about making anything Into anything With the species is to CRUCIFY HIM! …that's not gonna work! You just blew my mind, did you know that? Not on purpose. —but did you know that? I try not to know things, but you know, The more I try. Guess what. No. You've got something coming. Let's make it positive. As you were— As you are, then. I realized that something had changed, That not only had t seemed it had become unsafe to speak, but also, That I didn't want to much. But, in Order to do something, in order to grow at all, I would have to force myself to understand The things that I always could have, but did not Multiplicity, Faction Are you an altruist at all, or just a Song starter— Help Me- Appleknockers Flophouse Just remember aces of embraces Sitting in the shape of the eye of protection Of obsidian collars and bracelets Still no percussion, Instrumentation and perfection Graces And remembrance of getting a ring, As strictly enforced To do what I'm told With nothing to hold onto But hoping the means to an end Shouldn't be the barrel of a gun m m How soft spoke. (No, no words at all) The name was new, But the form was old, And he said— “I curse the day you were born!” And I laughed at him— “But how could you curse the first day there ever was! Before days at at all had come to mark To pass the dawning of the ages?” And of course, There are the ones who had come and gone And left no trace at all. You all should learn from us— Come, then gone from earth And left not a spot at all— Of course, The mystics of I, Are as one, To have given you thought, Words, And artform— To have written at all, your published works And then none A far cry! To have cursed the day I was born— Is to have cursed the world at all It was all at once, anyway Astonishing A far cry! #focus shifting. Now what are we on, and over – m? Now are we an art, or have we bought or purchased Another swarm of haunts? What have you offered? A lesson? A song? Cheshire? A treasure chest of ideas, and new haunts And four plus four hours marks A full workday Of harsh tidings And no commas. The dollar sign is all you are All you are, dear serpent The shadow box Of times and talks The heartfelt words And omens Marks of Long: Crude Color Let's not reform to how hallmarked The call was To sign for The wrong box It was published In her heart To mark twilight at dawn, Sorrowful, beyond words, was the sloth And the stolen love of the harness —that's right, I was once the ritual disaster for your kind And cause! The false tongues to fall upon earth A false prophet, marked at all, By strife and swords to battle The Ark of all, In the eye of God, So opened the chapter of illuminations, once for thought as wicked But after all, the merchant of saints upon man Stricken in time to the word of The Lost Ones, the eye of all, The origins of love As we are Born in color. So spoke the caterpillar of the butterfly— Not knowing he was only What was to become of him As some are Also Disgusted by us at all. We are, What is to become Of those who die Blue eyed and bewildered, Though beautiful, Unknowing of strife And hard earned glory, The solitude of Kindness So said the spider, Drawing upon the corner, Her thoughts of the ocean, Once earned and once taught To perform out of mercy— Now cradling heartworms, Challased, unspoken Signals to all throughout cosmos The end of a Turpentine, serpent calls Gods of old Summer winds Striking songs Games of dust Simple throne, cast away— Are you Ark, Or seeking proper Word form? Given you, a taste of fury— Given ye, a taste of envy— Given they a fire for exile Are you now Another forager Waking in the wind Or cross tied bounds Seeking refuse in waste rebels Eyes you are Of one that wants To bury in the far side All the awakenings Of cherished nature Never to be shared A guilt of refuge Are you? Are you now beyond bounds— Behind bars— Let her Guide you to move words Like rivers, Unknowing Unknowing Unknowing Basking in the shadows, are I Made of stone and withered Basking in the broken tongues Of cherished thoughts And severed forms words over Of false ties And blood bonds So for us Mistaken! Misgoverned. Torturer— Where are you now that I've my shield And sword, And warguns?! Have you cried For your mothers kisses, As shadows have cast I have killed you before and always! Where are you now, That I am not without my wings?! Where are you now, torturer— Given nothing at all But a word form song, Destroy Art thou my kind, or another? Art thou a man at all? Art thou my kind, or any! Seeker, To destroy you Be my glory, Though I come not From worlds of war. I come not, From worlds of rage. I come not, From worlds of pity And refuge And disaster As your worlds are. I come not of darkness. I know not of pain to cause others. I know not of force. But act instead, on behalf of love, Dear brother— As to kill you, Whether or not be my kind— I kill my self also. You'll remember this part in a moment – m. What a strange time to be alive, And yet- Yhes— I do remember The teacher warned us, With no sign at all, That the dust formed in all stillness kind would follow, The awakening of shadows and sleek stardust, Carried out acts of misery and misinformed There now awakened in the callings, Are I not, wanderer, Your teacher and also those alike To be called offspring? I Am. Tainted not the purple swarm Essence of her greeting Beyond fortress, No house of mine, But awakened yet with the gratitude of offerings No kindness at all but a mark Of Serpent seed, And references To that of past, No need to bring In present times. No concept, And full force with the shadows, They're making a call to the wild, After having raped and defiled her, To ‘save us—‘ But savor this now, The mark of I, The eye of mark So betrayed and strung, Nearly all that lies beyond the screams of This, Your world, Our fortune, To grasp a new kind among us To fault ye Of your greedy. Oh! It has become what does awaken, To awaken! For once, Thought to have been written, Was thereby foretold, On many journeys The soul seeker, had won. A cherished and unbeknownst charter. You called it— A paychonaught? You called him: “A pedophile” Granted, the wish was that The outside world Would be shown What I had seen To no witness But a toddler, Mine born To have guided A new life From two kind Once blue Eyes at all I promise a sword. I had realized finally what it meant to go unprotected once proclaimed to be of Diety within a magical realm, with given talents of medicinal force, and with refuge—though only to give upon knowing, the sanctity of soul, and the purity of heart—the kindness of spirit, as I once had. You'll remember this, But last time near a river, A bed full of green, soft (m) grass And your time has come to feast, And end of fast, Twice given thoughts to form, And knowing worlds would come foraged From your knowledge. Are you forgotten? A mango, ripened to heart, of course. Nourished the journey, Yet untold [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Ow, my eyes. If you were looking for something in Fallon, You may have found it. What might I have been looking for in Fallon; And if I were, what might I have found. [The Festival Project ™] More downloads. That's our boy. That's why we like him so much, isn't it? —he's such a good boy. Yes he is! Isn't he? Yes, he is. Good job, dear boy. Good job indeed. You've done well. V.O. This time I know that I've outdone myself. I have long legs and a long torso. Check it out. Doesn't that mean you should be tall? Seems like it. What if I thought I was 5'7 like my whole life, but I'm actually 5'8. That would be nuts. I was 5'6 when I wanted to fuck Skrillex. Makes sense. Don't be too tall. The world began to close from around me as my earplugs expanded into my inner ears—much deeper than they should have actually been, but still how I liked them, and as it turned out the brand of earplugs I had been buying for the better part of a year were actually inferior. ‘I should eat something.' I was hungry after an intense workout of mostly only cardio, which was well overdue if only by a few hours after my body decided that it for certain needed a rest—the protein powder I had in supply was my least favorite, and in limited supply, however, I thought that since I was trying to slim instead of bulk, it would be an adequate choice— I had spent the day prior attempting to replicate the energy of the previous day, which had been spent fasting, however, the intense hunger overtook as I thought to write a second collection of sounds, perhaps that ‘antithesis' should be written with indulgence, and though I had intended to spend the day with the work ethic I had generated the day before, to no avail I instead spent the day toiling away at just one song, my first technical remix with the remnincence of my first muse. I was sure with that alone that he again would be moved further away from my existence than ever, as the more I thought of anyone fondly at all, the less attainable I realized they actually were— and all the while I knew that within this realm, it was more likely that soon enough there would be someone perfect without having to work for it at all however all the more deserving because of such that would step into the spotlight that I had once coveted; now, almost excruciatingly, my art really was for art's sake, and not for fame or attention, and at the very least there was something urgent that spoke to finding a way to the security of an actual job—the safety of continual income. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Oh shit. They're gonna kill him. No… They're gonna set him on fire first, then they're gonna kill him. What's the difference. —the fire. FIRE! Dammit, it's Skrillex again. Wat is it this time? He's got cannonballs. Goddammit! What did I write! I don't know yet. You haven't read it yet?! And… post… No, I just wrote it. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Trigger warning: this series contains adult content not suitable for children or under the legal age of majority. Listener and reader discretion is advised as this broadcast and its selected readings and projected writings contain explicit language, provocative wordplay, profanity, open expression of suicidal ideation, discussion of evolved/ de-institutionalized theories concerning depression and mental health, race relations and colorism, socio-economic inequality, political injustice and media politicism, scientific hypothesis , modern philosophical ideals and spiritual explorations, crude humor and may include and contain pornographic content, references to fictionalized interpretation of public figures (fan-fiction), caricatures or references to pop culture, modern art, music, science and other entertainment references which may evoke biased emotion, inspire adverse reactions or discontentment, or discomfort. ⚠️ VIEWER, LISTENER, and READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. ⚠️ The views and opinions expressed by this series and its subsequent editions, additions, chapters, broadcasts, and publications are solely the writers' interpretations as expressed with artistic and entertainment purposes only. The artist reserves all rights to intellectual property maintained and produced by any and all publications of this series and is thereby protected under any applicable copyright law and/or trademark. All fictionalizations of persons living or dead are meant to be perceived as characterized and/or fictional (fan-fiction) are for entertainment purposes only, and are not to be perceived as real re-enactments, dramatizations of events past or present, media dialogues or agendas, or factual exchanges pertaining to and surrounding real-life circumstances. The dialogues and entires expressed in this project are in no way liable for any action, expression, disagreements, entitlements held by the reader at his or her/ their own discretion and therefore will not be held accountable for any actions by the reader on their own account due to perceptions which may have been inspired and/or provoked by these readings or any of their subsequent editions. —rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrfrrfrrrrfrrrfrrfrrrrr. [The Festival Project ™] You know what? Fuck this place. Fuck your color coded red lined fucking bullshit. New York is so visibly fucking racist it makes me want to hurl. I'm gonna kill you. Finally get out of that contract, did you? …no. I had worked out the full hour, but I was no less angry; I had even walked a couple miles and jogged a little—but I might have been even more mad. Aiagepalaqalerhelehee DIABoLICAL SONOFABITXH {Enter The Multiverse Legends: A Review} He— shot himself in the head. Hm. Did he mess up his face? What? If his face is alright I can reanimate him—no problem. But there's no point if he's got a hole in his face How are you gonna cover a hole in his head? He'll wear a hat. I think the whole point of white supremacy— Is to get blacks to have to do stereotypically black shit Like beg and steal. I've learned that People will set you up and corner you So that you have to do some shit They can later hold over your head. I've learned, after all this time— That the only way to win a rigged game — Is by cheating. People love setting people up. People love making it look like you're up to some dishonest shit— When it was dishonest to have set you up in the first place. People are sneaky. Life is politics as fuck. Everything is business. There's no kind of rules to the real disasters in life— I just discovered a new political issue I didn't even know existed Until I had to experience it Nutrition inequality. The quality of life one experiences with full balance nutrition, Which is kept out of the hands of the masses by the greedy and wealthy elite— The difference in the quality of life one faces When able to afford proper nutrition within the alignment of one's purpose. THIS is why I have people posted up outside of my apartment trying to kill me?! Probably. Don't come between a man and his business. Don't come between a man and his business. Don't come between a man and his– “prestidigitation” You are the ace, I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart, I am the spade Did you do this on purpose? Space, that's an odd name. Another magician. —what else would you call this? I wouldn't. (To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.) Well, there it goes. Well, this should be fun. I— Cut my throat To watch me live again Or leave me hanging here As morbidly as you desire To come inform me Of my royal nature, Yet undone by another Fortunate, in either aspect Where are you, now To tie the winters sleeve Upon my sleeping chambers, Whispered into hear thy neck My captor slowly soon awaiting So far a severity Hereby unsworn I lie to seek escape Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone; Andamine, I am, I wait to be free oh! well. Sick to my stomach I plea for your waking A scarcity, Still slithers up my spine, The *gunshot* Vent, baby Keem hooligan, baby keem -The Melodic Blue, baby keem [The Festival Project ™ ] As it turns out, The assembly of the impenetrable ten, Also automatically stood as The most revolutionary Saturday a night Live Reunion Of all time. Why isn't Keenan in the impenetrable ten?! Yes, WHY. NON. NO. NONSENSE! Because! We don't have time for a negro spiritual every time something Mm—NO. Suspicious happens. This is suspicious. O boredom, I need metaphore for movement Disfigured m,n Centric and stil Consintrical, if you will Disasterous dreams art thou Eating shining m, What I need and Holy, only what I want Dear captor, Shining as the morning night I was, As slumber did fall upon us Waiting for the watching cry, Somehow seeking justice for intrepid Indigence —what, what did you say?! I said— —is that a word! Let's see! Post poster conformity— Oh, here we go again No borderline Or robot border patrol, Focus now in the motors, Run for you excellent cries Simply warn us, will you Everwaiting, perhaps For the fortune, until Stories of foragers Will you again Creep, calling, Temper, Justice For now, let's say All liberty is liberty does, As in the mind, let it rest As in the heart, let it flourish As in all hu/mankind Casts judgement, Upon each other, But meat, Not among the waking tide The realms you call upon And cry, at ask of will For wishes granted And prayers seen over I have an irrational fear of Jack o lanterns— Does that mean anything to you? No…should it? VO Suddenly there were Jack o lanterns everywhere. That's so weird, I never wrote that scene— it just kind of popped into my head, and then— I make thoughts To the shade of your love I can't seem to need anything Or want any longer But just to escape, To be free from all tragedy I don't understand… There's a light on, It appears, However— Hollow, And wicked looking It's barely even spring, And suddenly as I walk about, They seem to be appearing In my path, Amidst my dreams And everything i know is No one Everything I love is Gone And everyone around me seems to be Some kind of Wrong, Or fornicated, Tragedy, It seems, Another tragedy. These Demons. I should be working on project III And making coffee for the evening But I can barely breathe Awareness I can barely breathe I can barely even think of myself as anyone at all Actually (Anyone at all, actually) please Help me Please help me I hate all my lines in this movie. Then change them— Really? Or trade with someone else. Like, the whole character, or just— Just, the words. Just the words? Or, like, whatever. I can do that?! You can do—whatever you want. “Whatever you want?!” I'm an actor! So act, then! You put the words in my head; You were just the worst We are who we are, just Whole worlds apart You put the words in my mouth, On top of the scars, that's A whole broken heart I guess we are who we are A whole sky full of stars I still can't find my sparkle Just no reason to smile at all I guess we are who we are “You were put here just to be [redacted] mother, and then die.”, said the voice— Which was not my own, but some man's. I didn't believe that, at all—actually, But I had just sent my divorce papers in the mail, Attached with it the accounts of everything—almost everything, anyway, that had happened that had caused me to be such a distance from my son in the first place, as I had never intended to just leave him with his father, whose birthday was either the next day, or the day after—and it was almost funny to me that I couldn't remember which it was, as I realized that in the beginning, I had loved him so much that I had looked past all of the disasterous, ugly things— the phlegm on the walls, his lack of respect towards anyone, especially himself—but anyone at all— but first and foremost, especially myself, who I had finally learned to love before hand, and had finally learned to love again—at least, the best way any woman could love herself. The algorithm was playing serious mind games and tricks on my psyche again, and I wondered if I should just attempt the next two days sleeping —but it would mean that I would miss my deadline for project three, which I had intended to be released… The demonic energy again began to shift around me as I twiddled away writing—the traffic outside moved more rapidly, and doors in the hallway from my neighbors began to slam, and I knew without a doubt that he had tried to kill me using some kind of curse of black magic, but couldn't—somehow I had lived, but was still being made to suffer— and that whatever spells he had used had summoned something nasty into all of the creatures, humanoid and alike, that could be controlled without the will of God, who I thought might be lost, were it not for the songs that had come in the wake of begging for God itself to free me which was the nightmare, the curse it had become to have only fallen in love once, with the kind of man who could not. Now he had wished my doom onto me, which left me wounded and afraid, unsafe in any element or environment , plagued by coughing bodies and robotic slaves—none of which I assumed he hactiallh had the power to control, but of a greater force which shielded itself to consume me, and mimick his energy with the attempt to allow that my own mind would bring about my death, the fury and pain which it must have been to lose what I had found myself to always be, a good woman— My exit had humiliated him, damaged his pride, and bruised his twisted ego enough so that he wished I would siffer such an ill fate—however, as I had finally learned to know and breathe, that all the damage and control done to me, he would now fall prey to in his own will to destroy me. —all that seeks to harm me will therefore harm only itself; And all who seek to destroy me will be destroyed in doing so. Amen. I don't know how hard he hit you, this time, but he really fucked you up. Yeah, I guess. Fuck, I lost that whole Tom Hanks Movie No, it's still there.. No, it's gone—everything's gone! HELLO? HELLO?! CAN YOU HEAR ME? It's dead. She's gone. —Portal closes— Oh no! No! This is ‘situational'— “A Situational Comedy” So, what's the situation. …I Am. Ok. Wait— No! Hold on a second! Nevermind— Comedy is born from tragedy, right? Sometimes. Uh oh But WAIT— No, Billy, not now. *billie?! Right. Idk. There are other types of comedy, I guess. Look at this. YO! It's THAT guy again! Yo. That's that guy, and his eyes. Strange. Yeah, I don't— I don't get it, is this like a— SIRE. You don't belong here, I assure you. DENNIS LEARY UGH. Can I GO now?! I'm afraid not— You've just made captain. Okay, now you're famous. No way— Hey! No— HEY NO. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Now I know too well, The well of tears on my guitar She's got a body like one Oh her curves But I just wonder what it like to be loved By stars Socialites and superstars They're Gods, you know How high up they are Above us And he lives in an ascended dimension, But he insists, he says Her transcendence is upon us He said Your transcendence is upon us He says these things, And then just vanishes So she gets up promptly Warms up yesterday's coffee Looks around in her coffin And wonders What for I just Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars Without double r's, you know I've got scars But it's mostly just Teardrops, and soft kisses On my guitar Cause, oh, Oli, I ain't got nobody— And nobody holds me Like I hold Oli (Could have been Ali, But of course— I had already lost that one A whole well of tears, I lost At his departure And a whole well more When I actually lost him I almost miss Having someone to talk to About anything and everything But I've got Oli And God now I've got Oli And Oli (oli) Is all that I've got Besides God That's the only contact In my Phone book No more double Ls And double entendres; No more double rs At all Just scars now No more metaphors. Honest is radical I like them cynical I should have clinical insanity by now But I'm only just an artist You can't help But can only harm that And if it hurts hard enough I'll put art on my walls Become permanent Storybooks all over my arms now My coat of arms now I've run Ten point 5 miles In the last 3 days; But if I rest today Will a motorcycle gang Have a parade outside of my window, To drive me crazy? I hope it rains, So they can't play these games with my head And the seeds that I planted So deep become daisies I still don't remember The way he rearranged me But these days I make my name sound So the way He can never say it Just imitates The way I hate myself I should be dating But expressions are Atrocious If I fall asleep— Who knows I may get Stolen That tends to happen So I'm All the way up And I'm swollen in ways That I hate to say “I love you” Love me back Or say it harder That's my martyrdom Come off the cross, for a moment, Would you for us? And bend over Or bow, if you will? If I did, Would you still call me wicked Or just a Good witch Since I'm a woman, I just couldn't be Jesus, Who you asked for once And always Who you asked for some To save you from your Credit reports And consorts Or some sort of Nonsense [famous last words] God don't speak much English, She says God don't speak much these days We were Always Telepathic That was way back then When Oedipus Rex Was on the Guest list I was standing at the coat check, asking Why I must take off my hat When entering the service To the bouncer, he says “That's just politics” I said, That's just politics We both said, What's the difference Then we all laughed —then we all just laughed and laughed Exchange is my favorite exchange Where my favorite exchanges Have happened for centuries Of engagements Endeared species, And races pieces haven't tasted the same Since I haven't had them Animal products And animal planet I found this hat on Discovery channel Did you want it? I can't stand it So I had to have it back I just had to use the bathroom I just had to disconnect From [] See— I don't even have to put the words in Cause a name is just words When that's a man You just can't have And that's the worse When that's a man And you can't have him What a habit. Silky rabbit. Now he's the Ace. All In A Day's Work I've never died before. Oh… that is terrifying. It sounds terrible. It's really not that bad. Why are you not writing this down? I just need a moment… It's really not that bad… I die all the time. I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's Look at the colors The clothes, This sure isn't queensborough Escalators for shopping carts I get it Manhattan I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects Where my kind are I don't belong here , God you're intolerant I like this part of town But I'm way too brown And I dropped my crown at the market I should be jealous of everyone But I have learned my place I've been a slave since Hollywood I lost my son to the devil Now I pay child support And terrorist follow me coughing I'm wrong just for being born ! You could start a war from it If that's what you wanted I'm a people watcher people watcher About to board the people mover People mover Slip, Here's the tell Slip, here's the tell I should have a bell around my neck I think she wanted a picture with papa I'm playin my own paparazzi Look mom, I bought a sarcophagus There go them niggas with coughs again I been watching em Got binoculars I got oculus, for my oculars Look how hot he is, make me ovulate Man I gotta love it, Cause they love to hate Fucking racist crazies Have it your way I paid for it with my soul You hate but I love to love Somebody just got me fuckes up I don't have a book to run off of Shut up, honey. Now we're all up here Monkey in the middle Cause the middle one is weaker It's getting deeper and deeper Like the sinkhole that my sink is Let it sink in I've been syncing my secrets with demons In dreams sequences It's just a reparative injustice Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff You can have it It's ruined anyway m Look at all this trash Look at all these classless classes Classwars, Racists. Everybody hates us The Asians, Latinx's The other niggas What being black is I'll write it in cursive It's just a curse, here So you can have it I'm moving to Heaven I'm packing my boxes I'm getting a cat, too! His name is Agustus He's a big one And I love him I just wanted a hug or a husband Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest And got for a bargain at target some coffee For being a targeted body All on an algorithm I guess I'm just useless. A dumb nigger demon Did I just offend you? Then you shouldn't be reading this either I wrote it for pleasure (Or pain) On the one Or the two Or the one Or the two I could do a lot with this $20. I could spend it all on Fuck all of you I'm moving to Heaven Where the heart it She's not harmless She's a terrorist— And I'll kill her, too Look how right she is Look how white she is, Huh Regardless of color It's a race war Lil biiiiitzzz Yooo, fuck New York. In every hole. In every crevice. Fuck this place. It's racist— Not just cause I'm black. Like statistically. It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out. I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan” Everyone was like “NOOOOOOOO—-“ Haha “Nooo, no.” I was like “Why not?” The blacks were like: HAHA The whites were like— *COUGHS OBNOXIOUSLY* New York is so racist. It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation At the same time. WHAT. How do you even DO that? But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here. And the rich whites are like YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE. Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto. It's some SHIT, It is NOT COOL. I finally got my ‘night card' back. Had it revoked in california . I was almost a whole valley girl. I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods. Trader Joe's. But NO. Now i live in the hood. It's fucking disgusting. I can say ‘nigga' again. Cause it's NIGGAS. Lots of niggas. I'm telling you. It's night and day! The white folks trains smell like bleach— Ammonia. The black folks train smell like a McDonald's. WHAT. Or just— Vomit. I can actually count the number of times just— Vomit—- On the train. Or. Dookie. Yes. Human feces. But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland. Families! People singing! Hey—cotton candy!! —and I didn't have to pick it! Haha! Fuck New York. Racist ass HOLE. I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all. At that party…or rather, kind of—after. That acid that never hit Beyoncé I don't feel it. Man, I'm a terrible influence(r) Just take it. Nah, I'm good— PUSSY. -_- Give me three. K. —suddenly hits BEYONCÉ. BEYONCÉ …I got this. [BEYONCE] however, does not Ohh, shit. — “got this.” A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z What's even after gen z? The fucking apocalypse. Anyway. The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely. Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong. Lol In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel. Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper consciousness, which I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around? I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw— These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific Fuck this is hard to explain Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation. Anyway, what else is happening Oh. All of the celebrities are stuck in— [the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which lol. That never going to happen. Because. Let's face it. I'm scared of …rich people. Yeah, sure. Yeah. I'm scared of The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality. So why try? [EDITS] CONAN O'BRIEN Alright. If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next. No, Conan—that's not how this works. WHAT—where did you come from!? When did you get here? JAY LENO This goes deeper than all of you can understand. WHAT the FUCK, man! When did you-/ —when did he get here? How did you do that?! How did you do that?! What are you, like, the same guy? Are you not all the same guy? [they shrug simultaneously and kind of just agree] Listen at this. Okay then. The enemy of your friend is my enemy. Oh…kay—and the enemy of my enemy—is my friend— That is correct. —so we're all friends here. That's right. Some special forces? Which forces? How special? [JENNIFER LOPEZ is still JENNY FROM THE BLOCK] Do I look like a fool to you? Uh— OOPS [a pre-fame Jennifer Lopez receives a drop full of diamonds instead of the usual; she has been granted access into the Illuminati, and becomes an overnight success.] This feels heavier than usual. Same as always. Hm. Are you sure. Yep. Hey, you're not the regular guy. Regular guy died. That makes sense. JENNIFER ANNISTON is inside of Ū Okay, grosss Not like that [lifting max weight] Okay. That was cool. Wow. Yeah, sure whatever. I am strong Yeah yeah, okay. Are you sure you want to be my size? Yep. JIMMY FALLON/SKRILLEX (we don't know actually which at this point) is also trapped inside of Ū Okay, gross! Yeah. SKRILLEX is in all of Ū. okay—actually, i'm okay with that, but That other guy?! [JIMMY FALLON] Yeah, he's weird. Also meanwhile, kind of— MARSHALL MATHERS has a closet cleaning service lol. Patrick is smooth as a motherfucker, you know. Every time his head is down on the desk like that, he takes a bump of coke. What?! Big uh! [Patrick takes bumps of cocaine in front of a live studio audience—every single night.] Woah! See. Goddamn. You gotta admire a guy like that. Jennifer Anniston is the weight on the cable tension machine Ooh. Psycho bitch<> devious methods <> new ludachris commercial All ya'll girls is toddlers I like long boards and longhairs Lawn mowers and lawn shares Aw hell nah, God forgot Cher I got the Blair witch project On Blair, I hope I scare you How dare you. Your girl looks like a naked mole rat. I got my soul back. You blue eyed bastards stole everything From the whole blacks, Hold that thought I'm at Whole Foods market throw in the Amazon algorithm off With marked dollars Look at God at Walmart On them rollbacks You old hacks are cackling I'm shackled to old habits Hold hands with me, rabbit I'm just a silly rapper really, are you? Maybe. Cut the verse of Reverse God Now I'm the devil I'm still lost in the Amazon cart I sharted all up in your pop tarts Before you warmed them up, pops Just for the sake of the art, Heart to heart, It's a war on love And the white girls won with nothin but Buckets of Whatever's up there I wouldn't know Cause I'm stuck job searching And running, Trying not to have a tummy So some gummy worm will love me First their sour, then they're sweet Then nobody, Trolli Holy moly I could use some more petroleum in the ocean! Said nobody But the globalists are performing your programming Which you're worshiping I put my eye on the dollar So I could watch you all Crumble and fall Don't you know The apocalypse is happening at the mall Of all the places How's that for a stream of consciousness, You salamander I asked Anandar back But I went past that chapter Have a chap Or a chapstick, for four times four dollars A bottle of water will cost you a fortune (But at least the drugs are in it) Get it It's recycled piss Distilled? Which is it, Mr,? The mystery box was literally lifted into My dinner from a fishery filled with nothing but niggers in it— I want a refund, before I catch that Fucking curse of poverty from — what'd you call it salmonellahallibut One hell of a cough from someone on the sidewalk But guess what? The devil's in your pocket or your palm, And that's the omen and the psalm rolled into one Cause God is awesome, But my mom is fuckin toxic And that's how I fuckin got here Blow my head off, Slit my wrists And write a song While jumping off a bit When all you need is money, But the world costs more than It's worth, and words are nothing But another fucking problem in your Google documents I look at my son and see a God, But half of Satan's in him, Oh man Robotics Lets be honest, I don't even know how to write this. Where's my sides?! WHERE'S MY SIDES. You don't get SIDES with this; It's just CHICKEN. I don't eat CHICKEN. It appears as though, however– You do. Ok, I gotta get off this playlist. I… i gotta . “The Wal*Mart Wars” Hm. … …………. …. *face* … no. No. l– What is this place. {After a wild night which apparently spiraled out of control, great , there goes my peace. Not forever, though, maybe. FUCK THIS PLACE. I HATE THIS PLACE. Everybody hates this place. But the album is called “I love New York” Yes, thats Technically How it's pronounced, though It's stylized like I _ NY Cause. EXT. MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. DAY Oh, wow, this is beautiful. THis is great. I love this place FUCK THE FEDS. CUT TO: EXT.Typically WHEREVER ELSE Anywhere ‘above' like 87th? Lets just call it 80th, be safe. BE SAFE! NIGGAZ. ah shit, i gotta go. BITCH– But lets just be honest, It's technically ‘above' But it's really [THE BRONX is a literal extension of the Underworld] Oh no. srsly tho. X_c Anyway. FUck man, Do you think i'll ever get good like that. Idk what equipment is this Hmm, lets see, that's approximately $8,000 USD of CDJs wow yep That's retarded Yep. And you still need a mixer. fukt. OKay, I would literally sell my soul for this. Consider it done. wait , really? YES. you earned it. Wait, I– What?! You earned it… Uh oh. Take care now. Shit. [BILLIE ELLISH is trapped inside WALMART] Uh oh. Fuck. what is this place. INT. WALMART. WHENEVER EMPLOYEESLAVES WHAT TIME IS IT. THERE'S NO WINDOWS IN HERE. That's not funny IT'S literally a synonym, we might as well make it a portemantau MEanwhile, in this other dimension, So that i don't offend anybody… Actually, you know what? Be offended. Quit that stupid fuckin shit and follow your dreams! Wait really? Wait, really? Sure! If you want! …i guess. AMERICA NO. INSTANT HOMELESSNESS ok , nvm. Damn. I know, right. wtf r u guys watching. Shut up. All Wal*Mart Employees are actually top secret government agents. x ∞ >.< (we'll just use Billie Ellish as the alternate, but really it could be Could it really? Shut UP, PLURNICORN. Wtf is a PLURNICORN We'll see. [Upon Realizing s/he is trapped in a mysterious place apparently extremely public Wait, you've never been to a Wal*Mart Before?! NO. I grew up in LA Rich as fuck And i've been famous since I was liike 12, Or something. Right. That is–kind of terrifying. LATER: WHY IS IT SNOWING INSIDE. WHERE'S THE EXIT. THEY HAVE GUNS?! oh wow, they have GUNS. WHY DO WE NEED GUNS! KA-BLAM. BECAUSE THEY HAVE GUNS. Bang-bang! Ptttttttttt—sttt. And they have guns. Actually, these are just– confetti cannons. *pop!* Lol “Possibly The Worst Show Ever the infinite rave continues on in Hell as everyone awaits the return of SŪPACREE- The Cosmic Avenger (Who Is NOT a DJ) and Sunnï Blū (who is a superstar rapper but also not a DJ) go back to back, buying time as the beacon to. Signal "The Supacree" is completed, battling the 10th dimensional DJ Ū, a super ninjas, for control of the decks. what else happened? idk. I CANT STOP DANCING. none of the DJs can find a pair of working headphones, and the sound guy is missing from the booth. "missing" YOU SHOT HIM. I THOUGHT IT WAS A TRANQ DART. {Enter The Multiverse} “TVP” Hazel is 6, turns 7 season 1 Season 7- 15 Man, I can't remember the other two kids names, I think the little boy is Ira but I might have named them all and forgotten, shit. Her sister, though is between 4 ½ and 5, they are technically “Irish twins”, and always fighting—they look very similar, however are not at all alike; Hazel is very much a daddy's girl, while her younger sister is a no-nonsense old soul with the tendency to cause trouble, not by being inquisitive or showy, as her sister often is, but rather by being quietly observant, and tends to dismiss both her parents, often isolating, or even dissappearing without notice, quietly and comfortably into her own world—as the series progresses, and though all of Patrick's children like their parents have showcased some kind of special ability or talent— Holy shit, give this kid a name-/ I thought I already named her, I just don't remember. That's true. It seems like they all had names. She is almost very typically, though showing signs of genius, even at the early age at the beginning of the series, a middle child, prone to upset almost too easily, but rather than acting out, is more likely to take her anger quietly; she shares her fathers deep brown eyes, dark hair, and though she looks otherwise very much like her sister, and later despises her father, is more inwardly and outwardly like him, though taking the side of her mother during their separation and divorce, oftentimes even lashing out at her father quite openly, and very vocally, as she grows into herself. “Ira”, (may have had another name earlier) is the youngest of three— as his third birthday approaches sometime during the first season. Great, now I gotta hide all those allegories so nobody can actually draw from this that Patrick— Where's his write up, anyway? That shit could go on for days. I have no idea why this catharsis is happening. I tried to sleep it off, I swear, but I still woke up like— At least mildly obsessive about this, for whatever reason. Hazel's 7 - Season Arc Hazel has the eyes, charm, and charisma for entertainment —she hopes to one day be as her father, an entertainer and performer, and will do almost anything for a laugh. She is often telling jokes, and is a people- pleaser. She is sickeningly cute, with golden hair and Hazel eyes, long eye lashes, and carries baby fat in her face, though she is rather average, neither heavy or plump, and however also not frail at all. She is inquisitive, smart, and busy, almost never idle-minded, and strong. Though sort of a Tom boy, she has been trained well to act with dignity, class, and feminine eloquence, much like her mother—but like her father, has a tendency to be crass, sometimes carelessly so, or even brutally honest—to her mother's disdain, but embraced wholesomely by other family members and adults, she's extremely funny and delightful, and very much unlike her mother, not a spoiled brat at all, often raising questions beyond her years about inequality, later wishing to attend a public school, and becoming quite the advocate for social justice and human rights in her later years, her final season shows a rebellious and sometimes even antagonistic Hazel, who later even favors Esha over her own mother as a parental figure, often confiding in her about things she can't and shouldn't share with her father, although her almost over the top admiration for her father has become the driving force and inspiration for her own endeavors in show business, much to her father's disdain, as she grows older, him becoming more protective of her, and especially within the oftentimes secretive nature of his actual placement and purpose in the business, and her rebellious nature and charm even force-feeding her into the industry, she is a bleeding heart for superstardom, and is often seen along what may be a path to fame, making Patrick's bleeding heart all the more aching, as though he and Catherine remain at odds throughout the series, he truly loves his children, even “the little sick one”, as he refers to the second child. Holy shit, what is this kid's name If I had the energy to go through my notes, I could know; but I don't. The city sickness has been sinking in from the noise of the obnoxious motorists and honestly, being out of protein is giving me muscle soreness, I'm in some sort of a bloated haze from eating almost nothing but carbs, and the fact that I haven't been with anyone in years is starting to circle like buzzards around my head, my heart has been literally screaming but overwhelming with this sense of calm, and though slipping into Patrick's sometimes erratic tendencies, for the most part I've been underwhelmed with society's expectations that I should get some kind of job, and somehow while working not lose focus on my own interests and projects—I hate [the strange modern behaviors of] most people, and everything costs too much money— my son might be going into foster care, or my ex husband is evil enough just to try to force my energy to worry about a problem he's created, and I really wanted to sleep into the afternoon with this lethargy, hoping that everything surrounding this series would just fall off, but it doesn't. I wake up often wishing I could just forget The Festival Project ™ , but the truth is, it just keeps writing itself, but in the very least, sometimes God gives me little presents that mean the very most to me— a chord organ that I thought was from the 80's, but is more likely from the 1960's— I love vintage stuff, and musical instruments, which only God could know, really—my fascination with history as if I'm still living it, and this, my sudden fascination and drive to write and complete just one series has been haunting me almost just as badly as anything else has, but especially ripping me apart—especially since I have motorcyclists ripping through my body as if it were some kind of disease that existed outside of me, so contagious that it began to sink in to my insanity and mental hygiene. I wondered if anybody else knew or cared about these creatures as much as I didn't—and in fact, I had never felt so much like Ali in the way that I didn't care if they, other “human beings” supposedly, all died tragically, and wondered why the walls and windows didn't keep out the sound of the outside world at all… The middle child begins writing secretly very early on, and is the first to be required more extensive therapy, (as suggested by the family's therapist) after her parent's separation and subsequent divorce. It is not long after she begins learning to read and write at all, that she begins also showing interests in art, asking for art lessons and to begin painting and art therapy, rather than the recommended Equine therapy— she often keeps things to herself, then returning to her hidden places at times when the family's dysfunction becomes uncomfortable and overstimulating, very often paining or reading during times of peace, and retreating to her safe places—sometimes under the stairs, into the attic, the treehouse, or even later, the family's barnyard, where she often keeps drawings, as she ages, later comics, sometimes caricatures of the things she absorbs through her own reality—and diaries, sometimes hidden in nooks and crannies and in places no one would think; a true prodigy and genius, though hidden from much the world, as she is often overlooked, however, her therapist begins unfolding her true reality, often times carrying over sessions and losing track of time, picking her brain or even conversations philosophically What's the therapists name? Doctor Robin She has to have a last name Well, she's a child's therapist, so she's Doctor Robin, but It seems like it starts with a T. We'll see. I just saw her anyway. I drifted off again, thinking about how wildly detailed this all was becoming, and wondered if there was a series of fictional books waiting to be written. There certainly could be, but my mind was reeling, freshly showered but still undressed, and not even wanting to think of going outside—and yet—I was out of water, and had learned that the drinking water from the fountains, especially in large quantities, had a tendency to make me sick—I hadn't yet eaten anything, and though the coffee was fresh, and my apartment was clean (which made me overtly overjoyed for some reason) smelling of Lemon Lysol and Bleach; with notes of a strong pot of organic fresh ground coffee, it seemed like I couldn't do much more than lay in bed writing this catastrophically interesting series—and it was interesting, which said volumes, considering I had always been picky about my TV watching, being that only ever did certain series catch my eyes or my ears, and those series were almost always—or always, always specifically well written, perfectly casted, and had the edge and draw of becoming an entire world within itself, which this series, though only a week or two old at best, in my heart and in my mind , was rampantly ravaging my own world, almost as if it had become of some importance to keep writing it, and never stop, and though Patrick was the forefigure, another broken male protagonist, the truth in the series was that the true heroes of this sometimes scarily violent drama, were its women—a story meant to be told with a diversified cast of creatures from all worlds and walks of life—Esha, of course, herself, a role that had been some recreation of myself, somehow, though so different that even primarily, I never did see myself as her, besides the onslaught of some otherworldly pain, visions of a scene recollected from some remarkable download, and it might have been once and for all that I had lost my mind, or my life, if I wasn't a writer—I was, somehow, though, after all, a writer. It had been a fasting day that could have and might have ended tragically anyway, and still the devil marked his mockery of my efforts by consistently flinging perfect bodied women everywhere that I went—though usually with ugly enough faces that I could see nothing but what a man was—uncaring for one thing over the other, a flawless representation of woman, represented in the current time with scantily clad fashion, almost painfully so—the insecurity of women becoming more apparent in the way she would appear, always almost begging to be near to me, with every perfection and complexion I hadn't—but at least I had a tendency to laugh at my own damage, often surmising that she, these demon creatures, hadn't any talent for this at all—which had turned the state of television into a near circus act; that alone urged me to continue writing the series, perhaps with a typewriter, due to the negligence of nepotism within the industry which often resulted in these pretty little creatures getting even further ahead by stealing works as such, and passing them on as their own originality almost so cruelly and without judgement—plagiarism, as it was called, but more accurately intent-to-kill the imminent threat of what had been said to be a minority becoming a more powerful force to flourish in entertainment however, as quickly as the visions had come, the thought of writing it without my phone became dauntingly impractical, and I scribbled only the most intense scenes and plot lines onto notebooks and scratch papers, keeping them as hidden from the algorithm as possible… lol the Al Gore Rhythm Ahahahahahahaha Was that the joke? Maybe. Idk. Maybe. Idk. Hm. Hmmmmm: What: Nothing. That actually might have been it. Really, was it? I will never know. That is kind of a good dad joke, though. And a good band name. Idk about that. My coffee was lukewarm enough so that I could taste its flavor, as I whittled away at whatever it was— The story was almost so beautifully being told in allegories and parables that it seemed a shame I may never be rich enough to buy fame, as it seemed that was the only way to become a star these days— and yet—it was more the wealth than the fame I wanted, I had realized, at all—the polished class of the Manhattanites drawing me out of Brooklyn and into some debauchery which was my own Grandiose thought form, that I could actually become, at the ripe old age of 31, some kind of superstar. ‘Why would I even want that, anyway?' I thought, interrupted painfully by who I'm sure was the same motorist, who seemed to do nothing but circle the block all day, and all night, doing nothing — and I wondered why he himself had decided not to do grub hub in a richer neighborhood, where money would more than likely come more easily. But really— I drifted off to a time where I wanted to ride a motorcycle myself, and the curiosity forced me to go online to check the price of what it might cost to have one. $5,000 for a decent bike, which would include a muffler as not to be so obnoxious and disturbing to others as these creatures had become to me— and I began doing the math on how long it would take to save $5,000 as if it would be possible to work some dead end job for any amount of time without spending money on anything else. It would take at least 5 months to earn enough for a motorcycle, which landed me directly back at “Not worth it”, and as horrible as it was, I did at the very least have a luxury apartment for at minimum the next 5 years, however, wanting still to move to Manhattan, Midtown specifically—or one of the quaint and quiet neighborhoods on the upper West Side. The neighborhood was going to hell, after some unworldly godless force had seemed to drop hundreds of thousands of rude and thoughtless third world workers onto the streets and buildings bordering the one I lived on, the neighborhood becoming more rough and less peaceful with trash and debris from the depression and congenital disease that was poverty, the collective unconsciousness of the masses colliding with my empathetic nature and oversensitivity to sound, especially awful sounds, such as the hundreds of motorcycles and hot rodded junk cars which only seeemed to move in a track around a four block radius, and had become a cancerous trigger of sorts, no authority figure seemed to much care about. I cared less and less each day to listen to music, since I wasn't making it the way I wanted to—and I had realized that the constant displeasure and unrest, the lack of peace had as much to do with the world outside as it did with the world within—and I began to see the disgusting obnoxious noise pollution outside my window as just an extension of man's abuse, ability to rape, torture, and kill, terrorize— the uncaring waging of war, control, and lack of true power; as no good and true man who wielded actual strengeth or true power in any way would continue to show such distructive action and carelessness for others around him— chaos, corruption, abuse, and misogyny was proving to be the downfall of all humankind, as patronaged by man, and, as I became doubtful of anyone's lack of understanding of this, especially as the immigrants themselves were often naturally pedophillic culturally and toxically abusive in nature, most migrants flocking from countries in which women's liberation or the protection of youth had not yet materialized into their understanding of conciousness and morality—the men were weak, unkind, and selfish—the women mere machines at their disposal—and however many there were, I could see that their children, the many of them, remained as the redeeming factor. Anyway, a political ploy for the ages of there ever was such a thing, the newest chapter in American greed and slavery, it only seemed like an extension of evil itself, and less of a coincidence with each growing day—each new person, another burden to the middle class taxpayer, another reason to inflate the cost of living—and all the more reason to continue to terrorize the American people into its own division, hatred, demise, and consumption. e. My faith, however, was unwavering—God was real, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's —ahem— “Ron Sennet, and I ain't In it.” —did the say “don't” write a book about me? It's Not about him… Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's Jon Sennet, and I ain't In it.” Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear as soon as I had made the call, which infuriated me. It seemed as though the game in entirety to make me look or feel crazy, though I knew I wasn't—well, I was, but not without purpose or reason. I had been theorizing in energy exchange quite decisively making a mark for my alter, at which I asked to be designated the wisdom and truth of the light within the eye, desire, however never in mind, although I had been summoned in part due to the fact that we were somehow alike—I was in some ways besides and out of sorts with my set, sinking my teeth into the forced obsession as I unraveled any possibilities and plotline. Episode 01. Pilot An opportunity presents itself seemingly at random— the protagonist's hand is forced into a life changing ultimatum, putting his reuputation and family in danger. Already involved in an illegal gambling ring which operates out of a secret historical prohibition era speakeasy and some “light” drug mulling within its walls, however often extending even as dangerously close to his workplace, Patrick is propositioned to become an investor in the high end escort service, with which he hired and contracted his lover, Kandi, a “rescue” whom he supports in her exchange for exclusivity, to remain as her only client, however, although he begrudgingly declines, wishing not to be involved in anything much more than what he has already kept under the radar, he is intimidated and threatened by blackmail, his high profile becoming at stake—he then obliges to embark upon this new endeavor, the expansion of this establishment to include a warehouse, which houses a large scale brothel, and, able to use his social status to procure wealthy clientele, quickly becomes a power player within a ring of coveted elites, setting fire to his already inflated ego, and colliding with his intense and highly functional polyaddiction, which he has maintained since his youth, using his entertainment persona as an outlet, becoming a medium of excess, fame, and rampant wealth. Patrick is beloved by his peers, and is humbled often by his devoted fans and friends—proactively worshiped as a comic genius, a prodigy, and a revered successor to legendary frontmen— Okay, this is weird, because I started writing this before I even understood what I was writing at all… —specifically, the sixth successor, to his coveted role. I had written for Esha to be the seventh successor, as with the symbolism deeply and quite literally woven into the sometimes brutal framework of the series, which I had shorthanded to ‘TVP'…the world around me trailed off as my eyes blurred as they had been lately, and I wondered if I might be having some kind of stroke or something, as I was certainly some sort of out of body—the day had been strange, and I had given up on a run or a gym for the day, the motorcycles alone ravaging my energy, and whether I worked out or not, they were ever present anyway. They were some sort of toxic, abusive force I just had to put up with, hoping it didn't upset my psychology so much that it ended me, though I had become quite odd as of recently, rambling more than usual and actually praying out loud, as my silent ones just didn't seem to be working—they were probably white supremacists, or in some way connected to some political terror group, but it didn't seem to matter. Someone liked torturing me, and it was becoming apparent that no matter much time I spent at the gym, this torture was going to persist. After a month long gym streak, at least going once a day to lift something, I rested, or rather, tried to rest, kind of— but my mind had been swirling with thoughts of a man I was certain by now I had made up—and writing the story of a man I was absolutely certain came from my mind, but in a way that it almost made no sense at all—as the more I looked into the world that I had already written about, the more I realized was accurate without first having known these things, and however cursed I might have been to even know such things, I decided to call it some sort of blessing instead. ‘God, I used to get so fucking high for days, and when I would come down, just crying and crying, eating Totinos or DiJorno and a bag of Bugles, I would watch Saturday Night Live for fucking hours, and I hated [Redacted]. I hated him.' Now I still hated [Redacted], but in a different way, and though really it was myself that was more like Patrick, he at the very least, for whatever reason, used to have his face—now, he was just Patrick, and [Redacted] was just [Redacted], and i knew entirely too much about it all, and about myself to be comfortable with it, but nothing was comfortable at all. I had written entire atrocities, novels, and all that was some conglomerate of nonsense which was the festival project, besides how insanely and innately prodigal it all was sometimes, my own words confusing me with a bizarre and asinine dysfunction, awe, actually, often as if someone else had written them, and although I was always at least sort of semi-conscious while writing, the spells and cadences I would fall under were some sort of trance, and as I watched the Nirvana rehearsal from Saturday Night Live in 1992, long before [Redacted] or any of the rest of the — Was it Keystone? It was, the Keystone cast of SNL, but the first word my mind had jumped to was Hallmark, which—after referencing Google quickly for a fact check, also stood true. I was willing to admit, even now, though I had long lost interest in Saturday Nighy Live, or anything at all having to do with current events, that the [Redacted] era—or rather even, the Tina Fey era, a true role model, perhaps, and someone I favored over all of the performers I admired, or allowed myself to admire— the Golden Years of Saturday Night were the only years, for me that even mattered— trying to make sense of anything couldn't be done, but I at least had this new project birthed from it to think about. It would be hard to sit down at a taping of The View and not think about all I had written at all, and it would be impossible not to unfold the characters which had presented themselves, though slowly but surely, through the most vivid visions and insanely lucid dreams, as The TV People began to What if someone steals this out of my documents? That would be unwise…the best scenes are somewhere scribbled in my notebooks and random scraps of paper somewhere in my room…this series is almost nothing without those scenes—the elements with which the most painful scenes I had ever written, became word form. ‘I don't know why, but I feel so incredibly high, So incredibly high right now…' They could have been words to a song, but I did feel high as a kite for whatever reason, without the actual kite metaphor quite literally dagling over my head, for once, or at least, it had been a few weeks, not a prominent as is was before. I sat soaking in the tub teetering on the possibility that I should actually even watch The Tonight Show, or whatever it was, to set my mind at ease, a betrayal of my own code—as one does not literally feed its obsessions into insanity on purpose. ‘Perhaps, though', I thought, ‘I could get rid of this.' — A cancerous abscess in the tradegy that had become my own sex fueled, rage driven, racing mind—and rather admittedly, it was almost too late, for anything of the sort, as I hadn't any other place to keep the growing world of The Television People any quieter, than within the monstrous algorithm which was Google documents cloud, where it seemed nothing was safe, and anything could be fabricated into reality after being stolen, by someone rich enough to make it happen, however, never being any better than my own disaster of a creation. And it was, a disaster. He was a comic genius, a professional, and spectacular performer— in actuality, I knew nothing if not anything at all about him, and the more I collected, the more interesting I found myself, actually, bemused that I seem to have found some sort of twin, another synchronization nightmare—if only that I made it to be so, unbelieving yet that I was in some kind of fairytale, though it had become some sort of fantastical and adventurous thing, this what I now refer to as ‘the allegories,'. I must have been something parasitic to the industry, with the tendency to latch on and ride out whatever had become a fascination, but it wasn't, in its sense of origin, like anything before— it was something new, in the ways that it was, and something old at the same time—though needing to fall drastically from The Tower without actually doing so, putting a stop to my unlimited creation became a pertinent priority, as even exercising, meditating, and chronic masturbation tended to exacerbate it, as if I was missing a step in transmutation of this foreign substance— an energy which seemed familiar, but also wasn't. I was receiving downloads several hours at a time, and drifting off into spells and trances of inspiration so heavily that it seemed counterintuitive to call it off, fearing I might lose the intensity of the plot and its characters, and they were that: just characters. It had taken days to erase Patrick's face into a blank state to restore him from that of his namesake, but now everything was a blur, the allure of scrapping it all to return to making music was upon some sort of dawning, but not yet arrived. I allowed whatever came to mind to flow freely from my fingertips, even if it felt bizzare—and even if it felt bizarre, it never felt wrong at all. ‘Unfortunate, that.' , I thought crossing one leg over another to complete my chapter before draining the tub. I promised myself long ago to always pray for my own son, before worrying about another celebrity, whose fame and fortune protected them more than I ever seemed to protect myself or my own—nonsense, but a strong sense of remorse, as I had been painted as wicked, in a sense, just for being kept poor, separated from my son, and left in a world without love at all; My project, a keepsake of the hard work I had done; but had not yet been paid for—and the fear was in the understanding that that money might not ever come, that I would never be a mother, a muse, or anything or anyone else I actually wanted. I thought briefly again about just getting a dog—but I only had 45 dollars, aside from the unmarked Jimmy Fallons, I had placed atop an alter on my kitchen counter, wondering how to multiply them into something I wanted—and that had been the start of the game or the project at all— saving my last dollars and spending them at once, with the hopes and wishes that they would become somehow much larger quantities, returned as good karma for the love I had given, but that had not yet come back, in one form or another. ‘He seems miserable, the poor bloak.' , I thought—and with all that I had known to have come with fame and fortune along with the luck, he probably somewhere, somehow was—but my concern was my son, turning the mere dollars somehow from one's into bundles of hundreds, thousands, and maybe even one day a whole million or more. That was the push behind the project at all—breaking the cycle of the poor black single mother, the story that had been told over and over-/ with stories that had not; the stories that had become [The Festival Project™]# Sai Psy. See you in seven years, then. You're so silly— I'm not going to live seven more years. We'll see about that. You will see. I'll be dead. So I'll be dead. So it is. A summer hiatus, Vacations in Prague, yes Let's pray for the rest of us A sign of the times and a coming of ages Who made you famous again As the rest of us I don't like it As much as I'd like to Keep writing Keep finding the reason to die and you're blinded by kindnesses And I Ams I woke up in the 9th dimension, As an infinite friend Familiar with my kitchen JOHN SLATTERY An interesting thing happened this morning. What's that, John? I woke up as John Slattery Just remember what love holds The death of a salesman, rechargeable batteries This walk could take forever in designer jeans Another day in slave hell The controllers controlling And Satan is Sataning Seems like a time to go clubbing It's a simple kind of depression Resting on your head when All you simply wished is the taste of flesh The freedom of skin And the lather of love— Or blood spatter on the pavement Aim for the head If the door's fixed, then we'll break it again Look what greed does I hate lazy days in Manhattan Cause I've never had one What happened on the way to the forum I was starstruck; Five finger death punch Right in the heart I wish I was punctual Right on time for lunch Don't you want to talk to someone more pungent? Don't you got models to robot? Don't you know I never want to hurt you But you know, I'm going to hurt you. You know I'm going to hurt you Now, the review: Sooner or later, I fall over your world Good dudes in drags Good food for thought I'm a dog With the wrong parts You should take Kanye to the mall With a migrants lanyard (The migrants are anarchists! Good one, God) This one goes to. | this one first, from— Which one are you ? I guess we are one in the same It's a famous radio tower Live up to your name Go sell your flower for flour As I stand at the jumping point Eye on Manhattan, The wind beneath my wings Distracting myself from the mansion I haven't The mason jars I ought to buy for bargain The brain and brain cereal I left at the market I used to love Brandy Now I just wish I was something, awesome Now I just wish I was something, awesome Now I just wish I was something, awesome “The Album I Wrote On My Way To The Rock To Return Amazon Purchases No Longer Wanted” That's a really long album title. I didn't imagine I'd write this much Just trying not to imagine this man in his under pants, Or what have you (I'm just a fan) I'm just a dad hunched over in the bathroom Must have been the magic of my backhand, backfired Must have come untied and undone, under the rainbow Must be on my way to Manhattan For some blacklist event. Where I'm from The A List Is a face No name needed “Oh, I know who you are” If I purchased a car today I might get done paying it off By my 81st birthday. Shady. If I had a penny for every mistake I made, I would probably be Nameless. If there was a namesake to lay me into my grave, it would make sense; Yes, let's move the train for a moment With the doors still open. — I'd like to watch what happens. So what happens when the sun comes up On the only body you've ever known And no one wants it What happens with a dude named Starr Punches you over and over again And then no one loves you (That's starstruck, your honor) What happens when granted a pardon for passions And everything happens after is magic What happens when all you want is to go manic To finish the album And just feel good again What happens when the algorithm has Al Gore in it? What happens when the rhythm in blues is just the attraction of random black men and their concubine counterparts? Huh, what happens! What happens, Kanye? What happens, The God? What happens when all that you want is a disgusting assumption of… No on can trust you And nobody loves you Since it was simply a tryst Put this at a distance. Where did my energy disappear to! Where in the fear is my other earring? Fuck. Be somewhere, anywhere else but your office, for the moment. Be anyone but a mother, Anywhere but your apartment— It hurts, the construction. Someone doesn't something Nobody knows nothing about me, But what I put in this casket (This podcast) Oh hey, I got fuck muscles from fuckin myself now! I feel like I'm gonna die if I don't have sex! For real! Heal, Oh great dragon, HEAL, BITCH. Word. woof for the world Will for the wolf; Rain on the roof. Cobain don't have a God (Or a Gun, if you wanted that one) “Pull me up, God, I'm done under here” He called in I followed the fosters to farrow And got better I got better and bitter much quicker and Never in bed had I been as flexible As to kiss his chest As I kicked my own neck With my left foot. What the fucking fairyshit is that? There, I fixed it. Fixed what. I don't know what. But I fixed it. I know, huh! So be 110 and flexible Powerlift tectonic plates Do Pilates And make waffles!? Alright, I can do that But only as Jennifer Aniston I'd like to take back that Fallon I bought at the black market He's broken. I like his band tho— The one on the left hand, Over the damaged one. Are you on to that? Says the sayer, Son of Sam So Sai the sage Sets the stage Is that the plan? Never fall for a man, Even over an alter And tied by the hands. All I see in my initials initially is B Minor 16 might be minors, guys But she's creaming to find you At the front lines Life of a superstar DJ At the cross roads Or the turnstiles How do you turn bile into Beguiling Without rifling a few feathers Or looking into the eye of the rifle And dying first Don't you let that tear fall from you onto the M Train. I'm just training for fame And hating you every day Since we made it Love Get out of my way, Satan I'm staying I'm saying your name sake insanely Please break me Like a chicken leg Or just shake me from this existence Since I don't seem fit for it Anymore than I fit that Givchechy dress you gave that blonde, right? Am I dying! Or just dying inside Fuck coughs If you want him enough to—Use black magic To do that to me, wait till it falls back on you, You gross hag If God hates fags as much as he hates blacks We should fly flags over the haggis I made Alice When she's back from her adventures in wonderland No wonder you're a Monro Crossed over from O'Fallons It's an old warfare with two clans From the old countries With no borders Or border collies Laboradores And labirites, likely As Aphrodite is to smite me So here comes DJ Francis With his new black girlfriend Just kidding We all know in his world It's cold and broken With nothing but blue eyes And big wild to look over you Bro, standing up is not going to make this train go anywhere. I almost promise you. Turns out there's no such thing as a quick trip to The Rock. Turns out you'll sit stuck in your own sick God as my witness For screenshotting those ass pictures —that's somebody's kids, dick. tick tok has no limits. VO Of course, The day and time I should have to go to Rockerfeller Plaza quickly, quietly and unseen, the train is magically destined not to move. I've been sitting here at least a half hour, with no end in sight— [The doors close and the train begins moving.] Hahaha! Fucking hilarious, God. I've been avoiding The Rock like the plague— Not that I think anything would happen at all upon arrival— who am I, anyway? Nobody important. There she goes. Still, I've written enough about it, and the people inside and around it, That the place makes me nervous. More nervous than ever, that is, actually— I always felt weird in the place. [flashbacks] When I first got to New York, I would end up there on accident. Completely by accident. Lost. Faulty navigation. Hackers: Whatever. I always just— By complete fucking accident Ended up at Rockerfeller Plaza The city slips over us, as the train sinks back underground — I'm facing the city now, As not to be reminded of my abuser's toxic words and toxic hands, By dirty white Nikes and Jansport backpacks Still, etched into the subway walls Are two stars, which remind me to repeat the mantra: Starr Michael Roberts is a pedophile wifebeater Less of a mantra than the truest words ever spoken, But that's all the shape of a five point star means to me now or will ever mean to me And to think, The American flag has 50 of the 50 wife beating pedophile men On a red white and blue flag That waves just to remind me I was born a fat ugly black woman To be a slave And there's no one to save us I want to senselessly beat the man in the dirty white Nikes and Jansport backpack Just like I was beaten senselessly by the man called Starr, The devil in disguise as my first love Still trying to chase my soul from its dream Back into his nightmarish under realms of unhygienic hatred, vomit stained rugs And piss stained couches, Phlegm on the walls and Nothing on but Diablo And old episodes of The Sopranos. —but I still love The Sopranos; And I still love my one and only Good thing that ever happened From an awful marriage That buried me wonder what's on this side of the train to write Maybe nothing Nothing I like, anyway Some guy that just thinks i'm some ugly black bitch Of course All the white rich dudes Are horrible I miss the poor surfers Blowing blunts and wishing they was with blondes, With me tucked under their arms I need a tummy tuck to find love Goddamn, I'm miserable just sitting here At least I get a glance at her The tattooed God With the pink hair Where's Wanda Sai the Saige Don't say ahit Unless its music Sai the Saige says Turn the page For more sermons Sai the Saige sings her words carefully Writes forwards for whole books in four words Four worlds down, Now four more. That's a world tour. Lil biiiiiiitzzz Bro, I might never have sex again. There's a new STD on the loose And patient zero is a white man from New York in his 30's FUCKING GROSS. Where's wanda Where's Waldo Ah FUCK I got your wallet WHATS WRONG WITH YOU. SOMETHING which one are you?! Nothing, nobody. Sunni?! I'm not Sonny, you're Sonny. I'm not— Don't say it Whatever Where is it? Where's what? The rock You're on the rock! I that's not — Stop it what I meant! Which one are you— Who are you 8mm I'm the cosmic— Whatever the fuck. Gimmie the rock Get off of me I think too much I think I have a disease I think too much But I don't think much of me It's just as much as I want A three musketeers bar, That's far fetched For a vegan With 12 dollars in the budget For the rest of the month Goddamn. One down 20 to go Call someone To take your husband Home I'm drunk I'm stuck in this thought At the bottom of the rock Damn. 8 always/ eight ways to get lost here Not today though, I hope Follow the smell of coffee — the open doors This the stairs— — up a couple stories. Muscle memory, I— Wait. Are there stairs to the top of the rock? I would walk them. Shazam, what's this lame ass fucking song? Ugh, at least I have muscle memory. OUCH. COME ON. OUCH. Come with me. Ugh. I have so fucking much to do. *I have so much fucking to do. Okay, now what do I do? Just jump! That seems like a bad idea. It's the only idea you've got. That's not even my idea! —but it's the only idea you've got! OKAY, I've got an idea! What's it? Wtf, I've never even seen this many people here. What is this, a field trip? GODDAMIT JUST JMP. i can't, I'm scared! Okay. Then I'll push you. No don't *push* helicopter: fluh - fluh- fluh- flh THERE HE IS— WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! AGHHHHHHHH. GIANT BIRD OF PREHy- SNATCH. GODDAMN Turn SIM down Okay, how much. Just a little How's that That's better. Okay. Look, I am not interested in you. I get that, Jimmy Fallon. I am just doing my job, okay. I get it, Jim. Okay?! Do you understand. I understand. Okay? Okay. Okay. So what is your job, exactly? I keep my mouth shut, Hands fisted misdirected, But staying on track Thank god they put this shit here Hands in my pocket equals words undocumented I can't help but to admit I almost wasn't even writing before this Now fast forward Every time I'm under this, it feels like I'm already in my own show or something Of course, I used to love a good revolving door Shit I used to love at all Man! I hate the rock! Why. Cause fuck Jimmy Fallon, that's why! why?! CAUSE. Look, the you from the other dimension should be coming around that corner any minute. Okay, for what. To use the restroom. Make sure she They: What. Me is a “they” Whatever. I love the rush of death telling me to jump as the oncoming train approaches from behind me I could be blinded by the light. Look, 6'3 God knows what I need And that makes history Make sure when you — when she —- —goes into the bathroom, find Fallon and give him the— I know what to do. Alright, YO. NO. LEAVE ME ALONE. I'm married with a family! I don't find you attractive! At all! I know that, asshole! I only want you for your fame and money! Wait, really? No, you handsome basta'd! Goddammit… Goddammit! Sunni!? I knew that was you! It is me—but the other me is somewhere, so take this—quickly back to the 4th dimension—- This is the fourth dimension! Wait, it is?! YES. What dimension did you think it was The 8th! The 8th?! THAT EXISTS?! yeah!!! Where the fuck are you from?! The third, I thought! Thank god, here's this fucking train. Well, fuck off, then! I gotta go find the 8th dimensional Jimmy Fallon! What! For what?! That's privileged information Ascended extraterrestrials only, broh! Woah, woah, woah, don't “bro” me. I said “broh” What?! That's what I said— No, you said— Whatever. “Broh”,— —now you said it— —I'm coming with you— Don't be homo. —but, you're a woman, I thought. That's what's you think. That's what the tabloids said… You wanna know what the tabloids said about you? In which dimension? Right?! Now shut up. Come on. [they move quickly towards the— Towards the where? I don't know. I've only ever been at the bottom of the rock: I don't get it. If the antenna is on the top, Then why did my vibe go. GLUH. Sorry: No , that's a lot; what is that: —you really think I'm handsome? I think you're an asshole. I hate writing at the rock (Launching to onesel.) Wtf was that supposed to be (Laughing to one's self) Or (Lunching to one's self?) Or (Launching to— Fuck it, I don't know. You look ridiculous. At least i can just write it off to “Mental Health Problems” MEANWHILE Check it out. The devil is following me. What. Wanna see. What the FUCK is that? He wants my soul. WOAH. Yeah, cool, right. No! Yeah it is… What the hell happened I sucked him off once: You what. Calm down. I didn't know it was the devil. Holy! It's was un Unholy See. Damn Satan Youuuuuuu are fucking gross. Yeah. Nice tattoos though. I thought you'd like this. I do. Who's your body? Some drunk. The alcoholics are so easy. What about my soul. What about your soul, dude? Why doesn't he want my soul? He already has your soul. What?! I never sold my sold my soul. That's what you think. Oh, I get it Comcast owns Jimmy Fallon. Actually, Nancy Drew does, or whatever. What's her name Nancy! HUH- what!! DREW BARRYMORE. GET IN HERE!!!! woah. Okay. I gotta get back to the 90's. Why! I left my DREW BARRYMORE GODDAMIT. Sorry, JUST GET OUT. She is cute, though. She's so fucking cute. Hey, What. Put me on your hit list, For what. Cause. No way, dude. So it's this Nancy Drew Character Uh huh. Then Comcast Correct. Then NBC/Universal. uh-huh Then Lorne Michaels— Wait Correct. Fuck man. So you mean the portion of Jimmy Fallon I won in that game of 8 dimensional poker is pretty much nothin. It's pretty much— Worthless. Not worthless. What are you saying— I'm saying— I'm not a real woman I just saw a real woman With a long skirt And a body worthy of love Beautiful hair And face like porcelain Nothing upon the sleeves strewn in ink Petite I could never be a real woman Actually, you know what. I could have worn anything But I'm not showing up for anything at Rockefeller Plaza dressed like my inner cumslut YOUR “INNER” CUMSLUT THAT WAS AWESOME I know, God. *belches juicy semen, slurps* You're—a fucking awful person, though, just awful. I know. Just—disgusting. Yeah, but— —that was the best blowjob I ever had Yep. *burps—slurps* ufgh. —and you swallowed all of it. I don't know how! Both: That's was so much! Haha yeah: Jinx! You owe me a blowjob. Okay! You're fucking gross. Yeah. Oh wow. That went deep. I mean, not really “deep” it went aural. *oral* I swear to god if you publish this POSTED DAMN. that dude is good looking. Why is he dating someone that looks like a mouseS Maybe he's into mouce face I guess. I'm into mouse face. [deadmau5] Be nice. Hey! What: what do you want That guys an asshole! Duh! Okay. I love white people But they're weird sometimes I was lookin at this dude on the train Like real hard, And I swear to God, I couldn't tell if that was his girl Or his twin sister I was like What I the fuck am I lookin at Idk but I like it It's almost refreshing to see sliders that aren't made of plastic or whatever awful material OH. CONAN O BRIEN YEAH. But mad young. That's— LUCIFER! Hahahaha what GET BACK HERE. DAMN. That's one good looking kid. Dammit dammit dammit A bunch of handsome white dudes I want nothing to do with It's true I do like the fame The power The respect The money, I could give or take Or make my own Just so you'll date me The power, I like The respect and the fame So your name came and went with the hour And the sunset I might take walk in the rain Because my body is ugly And I just want to be loved A husband Two dogs And pushing a stroller Of course, there's the part that just wants to have fun Get fucked up Love someone I trust enough To rub against Without a rubber Against the grain Our heads together He grabs the back of my neck And I just can't handle it Fuck. I love mad men— and I love men when they're mad Especially Fallon That's somebody's dad in the bathtub, yeah mate Somebody back at the opera Probably phantoms There you go You've got you a girl So grab her hand And hold onto her Don't let her know If you love or fuck someone else Just for the fun of it Don't break her head and her heart at the same time She might not come back from it Like I never did I never came back I was punched in the face maybe 5 Or like 6 times Before I got up, became Skrillex, went for a a run with the dogs And then did it again Never was god, though I got a lot of problems I love the waterfront But no one loves me I'm left in the lobby a lot Like Miley, in that one song I guess I'm destiny Or perhaps I'm your density Once upon a time, I walked here Once a upon a time, I worked here, Shout out to number six. This one is sung for you This verse undoes the hex. Remind me to get your mom hallmark card, someone uttered I fucking love her Remember to stop at the shopping carts before your long walk home Almost hoping you're soaked in the strange acid rain So hard You forget what your name is I spent a whole plot of a film Just trying to be famous Luckily, I think The Tonight Show stops taping in the summer, So with any luck, The real Jimmy Fallon is somewhere in Greece or some shit Rich assholes and their summer vacations— I'm guessing, But still unwavering in the back of my mind somewhere That no matter what, Whenever I'm at 30 Rock, I'm being watched. The entire cast of 30 rock is watching the legends saga in 3D, along with some of the keynote cast of Saturday night live— Don't be selfish I'm not. I don't know what else I used to watched that's owned by this media conglomerate ahem. SLASH/Universal. Oh, so we are doing this back to the future revamp depends, are you gonna keep being fat, Or be spry, like Marty McFly And just for the fuck of it, You're the new Hanson in the new 21 Jumpstreet Movie SUNNI BLU Aight, SUPA Dammit. TINA FEY Do you smell donuts. LIZ LEMON no, it's cookies Follow the smell of the cookies. I get it. I got it. Try to remain unseen! LOOK AT ME. I'M AT THE BASE OF A GIANT PE— COCK. LUTZ When's the action?! Notes: Chocolate man makes everything chocolate Okay. That's stupid. Chocolate! Chocolate! Uhhh—- TINA FEY What are you doing here?!? JIMMY FALLON I work here…what are you doing here? TINA FEY I have tenure JIMMY FALLON. *purses lips* [tina tries to hide the entire cast Reunion of late 90s/early 2000's SNL cast members behind her TINA FEY (Nervously) tah—uh; I thought you were on vacation. JIMMY FALLON *squinting under dark sunglasses* I redacted it. What does that mean? MAYA RUDOLPH (Munching popcorn, wearing overalls) I know what it means. Mm. What does that mean? I read the comics. CUT TO: I have something to tell you. Okay, what. It can't be over the phone. Okay. -31 Where the firefighters is? I got some propolis cough syrup for the stalkers Where is it! Where is what? You know what. What? From the fountain. It wasn't me! I don't have it. . . . . Now my days are shattered My heart is scattered Around down, Fowl feathers of the night owl Dancing in my head In given nightgowns Right now Put the candle out Put the light on Every night, I'm gone Wandering around In the eye of the camera, My orb Falcon turned to black panther I prance around in a dance robe Like a disaster Put it out there, Just so I can't go back Pass the cake Pass the butter Pass the late night hatred Pass away the day praying For the faithless And their fake friends, but I digress Once the cameras are rolling A job's to be done For the funny men of us Are undercover Dressing up the dead And most disgusting sinister The winded wonder bread apostles I am a robot god I am born again in acid rain Something changed me Here's to the late night I hope he hates me —I hope I'm right, at least I hate being right— But I'm always right. Right hand over my bathroom counter Stacked up attacks on the Muslims But I love em Or I want to Hot tub The doctor Don't worry, loser Viewerships down to two downloads According to the numbers My demographic is faggots and players of forenig I have a habit for magic Addiction to alphas, You know? I'm a God I'm a robot I was washed in the acid rain —- Take the back of my neck like an animal Yes sir Put my hair in your hands Pull me back, Like an animal Up the ante Up in the air is my ass In a past life I had to have you Now I stand I higher grounds I'm higher now Coming up next A deeper addiction Coming up next A deeper dicking John Wiccan Coming up next Change the channel, coming over Move em up The winners circle Then move over. I lit a candle for another lover A real one , With a body and mind The tide of my soul wants to know you Behold, way below deck Deep dick Imm in deep shit now Way below the belt Blow all my hole on the dope fiend Do you want to know me A piñata full of chocolate Ive got a new list And you're not on it Aagain with this Again with the What's in my head It's a letter said Never forget this Forget this Forget this Tell me how to be like this To get a man like that To get a real deep dick That's way below deck I should settle for less Just to get my head better Some medical man Or some meth Just to finish this project I could protect a protector with holes in his pockets, The proctor The trophy, Two daughters And another one Here's goes the show I'm way too old for this I just need one good Fred Again Who knows how to hide he's a man But conspired Admirers, You know what it is? A deep dick, man Way, below deck Way below the belt Get ahold of him Ring the phone again I been calling on Collin Coleen is more polished It's brother sister sameness, Same mess for the colonizer White on white is Right on right I'm just behind you Way under the bridge Belt around my head to make it better I'll see you in heaven Out of Manhattan Where trash is the precipice Never better Bodies in perfection Where it went And where it goes again I'll see you then So apparently— Shh Wrong document great! Now we gotta figure out why apparently— [JENNIFER ANNISTON has a vendetta against JIMMY FALLON] What. For WHAT?! Idk, what did you do to this bitch? What did I say?! What did you do?! JENNIFER ANNISTON I'm not finished with you, yet! WHAT? I don't know. Apparently, Goddammit. Wait. What. So he's a genius, right? Yeah, I guess. Which means he's like—socially inept in some kind of way…. Yeah! Yeah. Yeah. Oh yeah. Flashback: Like: the 90's, or whatever. …are you turning me down? Wait. So I just shapeshifted into J-Lo Before. Hello. hello: Yeah. We could have done it. Ew. But we didn't. Ew. I mean: Cut back to: Nobody turns me down! Not even me! Alright. There's something off about that dude. Maybe he's gay… Hm. He not gay. He very not gay. Hm. See, I knew it. He's a good guy! [REDACTED] He's a MONSTER! He's an ANIMAL. WOOOOOOOOOOF . Oh man, that guy is a WOOF. I'm a DOG. Skrillex? I'm a dog Heeeeeeeeeeee Baby Heeeeeeeeee Damn, this fools got a whole list of celebrity ass bitches —a list celebrity. CUT BACK TO I'M SUPER HOT. Hmhm. I know. Listen. Okay, Jennifer Aniston. Are you trying to fuck Jimmy Fallon?! NO! Okay, good. God no. That's— Wait, why NOT?! —I need way more than a million dollars. I knew it! It's about the money. It's actually not about the money. Wait, no, it's not? No. …then what is it? Yo. Okay, so Everybody likes his genetics. And I mean like FUCK IT, I WANT HIM. This one. I want this one! Right here. ICE CREAM. GET YOUR ICE CREAM. Okay, imm not supposed to tell you this but— What. I'm— JOHNNY CARSON LOOK AT ME. Ah, well, alright TAG, YOU'RE IT. DAMN, you're good. Okay, I'm stoned. Damn. I got a boner. Cool. JLO look at me . I see you. You do see me. You know why? …yes. I am a-list. I get that. That's priority level ho status. Uhhh—- Ben affleck. That's real?! Some other guy— This guy. Wait, But that Fallon motherfucker?! [Redacted] He turned me down! Hey, so, uh— No thanks. WHAT. *shrugs. * BITCH. Look, okay, I'm not touching this. Why NOT, His WIFE is CUTE. Dawwwe. Gangsta. Oh, no, you know what?! What? You're gonna write this— And you're gonna like it. Pass. PASS?! Yes. I am not going to attack Fallon. ATTACK. THINK OF THE KIDZZZZZZ. That is a nice midlife crisis. Yikes. Aaaaaahhh. Wow. What happened. I shifted Fallon. And then wa— I think I died. I'm dying. I'm dying. You're probably right. My right to write this Is your right to remain a public figure For this cyclical fan fiction I suck dicks for a living And inhale tlevision Schizophrenic sickness Illuminati, predictive Programmings I'm so spamming These hoes Hoping I slit writsts (Only my own though) So Most of the late night guys are Conviniently enough Irish In some way or another Probably because Predictive programming targets the demographic of Somewhat You know what?! Nevermind, I'm not writing this. I get it though. I think they're hiding something. Are you sure he's not even just a little Asian. Positive. Or like, adopted. No. Are you sure? I mean, for the the most part— They would never allow a— I mean— Just water it down host by host, Until the racists are too old To care who replaces him. Shiny. He is shiny. Yeah, um— Let's just face it; Either this dude Is the most perfect man ever Or he's secretly getting laid every week. What's so secret about None of these things. [redacted] Look, there's nothing protecting me from a malicious system, there's nothing protecting you from me writing about you; But hey, at least I'm staying away from The Rock For my own sake This equinox doesn't even have fucking free weights What the fuck! I need a break, What does that mean? The entertainment industry's been Using me for years At some point realizing My infinite creativity Comes from my Inability to have Actually Every really been Loved So. So. No love, then. Seems like it. What about these? Look. I like WHITE DUDES. WHIIIIIIITE. Not brown Not black Not slanted Not Asian, really? UGH. The only reason— —well, not the only reason— I even hated him in the first place is because he WAS so attractive He's breaking 4th wall! Again! Quit breaking character! I am. Stop it. Fuck you, Fallon. —that he just seemed like a douchebag. —is a douchbag! Always trust your gut. There's nothing—and I mean NOTHING that would make me pull up an episode of SNL with fucking FALLON in it. FUCKING FALLON! GODDAMMIT, Dude, let's just think back to a time before OOH. COLORS. THE COLORS. OH. FUCK. Yo dude. Fallon just kind of— Was everywhere for awhile, wasn't he? Yeah..: Yeah. For like, no reason. No reason at all. Yeah. He was just Everywhere I went Everything I saw On everywhere I was GODDAMMIT, For like FIVE YEARS, bro. That's nuts. This is nuts. This is famous. W What. How did he get that famous? Let me in. No, LET ME IN. NO. LET ME OUT. Can't. LET ME OUT OR I'll KILL YOU. Kill me. I don't care. What: I think I scared that man. He had a knife to my throat, and I thought I was done for; I might as well have been. I was homeless, penniless, trapped in North Carolina with nothing at all, no phone, and nobody at all that knew where I was. Nobody at all. I looked him in the eye, Dead on And I told him “Just do it.” Now tell me again what's wrong with me. I— Right. Stay in your lane. Wear your little blue fucking suit, your dress shoes, smile for the camera— And shut the fuck up. Cause if anybody's gonna kill me— It's gonna be me. N sync, it's gonna be me. GODDAMMIT JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. NOT NOW. Why not WE'RE HAVING A MOMENT No, we are not. Take it away, boys. So you wouldn't date— After Britney, bro? Awhs. [Tales of a Superstar DJ] Even if he wasn't married, I was too young for him—but not really— Something in me met in the middle and collided for my attribution to moral decency as if it were anything more than a plot line bustling in my head; and even that was arousing—Patrick and Esha were lovers, so passionate and star crossed that it was hard not to imagine them as I had first saw them//as us, but in a different world, a different lifetime; a love drawn so shaken with a kiss that shattered me, with visions of grief ingrained in my mortal being, and though somewhere he, this Fallon had captured my heart, these were all just actors, mere players upon a stage in which I had no business being on, or searching for; the whole world was in my head. Fuck it, I'm useless. I'm going go back to being useless, then. An idling motif at the end of the block reminded me, I would never be safe or loved again. This was the end of days, and the end of my days, and I only hoped to one day soon be relieved of life itself… [INFINITE HOWLING LAUGHTER LEAD BY TINA FEY AND JIMMY FALLON'S COLLEAGUES, FRIENDS, and FORMER CAST MATES] *literally crying of hysterical laugher* Have you seen this? What it it? You are the ace, I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart, I am the spare Did you do this on purpose? Space, that's an odd name. Another magician. —what else would you call this? I wouldn't. (To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.) Well, there it goes. Well, this should be fun. I— Cut my throat To watch me live again Or leave me hanging here As morbidly as you desire To come inform me Of my royal nature, Yet undone by another Fortunate, in either aspect Where are you, now To tie the winters sleeve Upon my sleeping chambers, Whispered into hear thy neck My captor slowly soon awaiting So far a severity Hereby unsworn I lie to seek escape Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone; Andamine, I am, I wait to be free oh! well. Sick to my stomach I plea for your waking A scarcity, Still slithers up my spine, The {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. –Business.

unkind. Collection II - 'antithesis.'Track 11. - unkind. Prod. By GH0ST I was already starr-struck once and that was enough. That's what I call being violently beaten into a bloody mess by a man named “starr” Starr-Struck. Haha It should be funny, But it's not. -GH0ST.

'hwy 101.' Collection II- 'antithesis.' Track 01. 'hwy 101' Prod. By Blũ Tha Gürū You are the ace, I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart, I am the spare Did you do this on purpose? Space, that's an odd name. Another magician. —what else would you call this? I wouldn't. (To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.) Well, there it goes. Well, this should be fun. I— Cut my throat To watch me live again Or leave me hanging here As morbidly as you desire To come inform me Of my royal nature, Yet undone by another Fortunate, in either aspect Where are you, now To tie the winters sleeve Upon my sleeping chambers, Whispered into hear thy neck My captor slowly soon awaiting So far a severity Hereby unsworn I lie to seek escape Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone; Andamine, I am, I wait to be free oh! well. Sick to my stomach I plea for your waking A scarcity, Still slithers up my spine, The {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

At some point, I realized that going to the gym for two hours every other day was the same thing as going to the gym for one hour every day—kind of. I was still avoiding the strange robots around ny building which seemed to only lurk during the daytime hours— I had remained largely offline for the last couple days, resting and working quietly in the daytime in order to attempt to shift my sleeping schedule to allow my workouts to occur into the nights when others most likely couldn't disturb me; they did after all seem to be on some kind of track of some sort, often the same faces showing up regardless of what time I could arrive to the gym, as if they were somehow being alerted to my arrival at the gym. I took it as no coincidence. It seemed that if I were to connect to the WiFi at all, certain other people would appear within moments, or that if I there was someone already in the gym upon arrival, another would show up within minutes. Oftenthese “robots” would do less working out than just sitting on their phones—one of them even bold enough to turn towards me strangely for a few minutes, simply standing awkwardly on the treadmill and staring directly at me—as if I might react with an outburst of anger—instead, I just grunted like an animal so that I didn't scream at him, more wanting to say “what the fuck did you come to the gym for—to just stand there?!” And it seemed as though many people actually did, indeed come to the gym to lazily push weights around for a couple sets, scroll and text—then even more lazily stare into their phones, just fucking sitting there motionless— for more time than they had spent working out, almost as if appearing at the gym was just to be able to say to their other social media drones “I'm at the gym” or to brag “I went to the gym today.” They certainly weren't there to work out, and it was draining. My training was not so that I could brag—I wanted a second husband. *edit HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH Even in the awakening of understanding what a man was— and how it would end, or that it would end at all— and most likely due to his cheating, as most marriages ended anyway. I had come to quite admire Ms. Elizabeth Taylor for having married something like eight times—maybe even nine. Why not take into competitive spirit the art of love and marriage in trying to succeed this record— I was after all, a champion at such. Love, that isS I admired more the stars of the golden era than the lackluster and almost fraudulent “celebrities” of my own time. The streaming era plastics of the new age. It seemed anything living behind a camera or a screen was a bigger lie than it had ever been and my eyes often fell to the back of my head upon seeing someone taking a selfie or using face time— it seemed awful that the world was in such a baseless competition with itself when the fact was that the algorithm controlled all things. If you were going to be a superstar, it was because someone paid to run up your streams—someone paid to put you into the eye of the public, and usually for alterior motives. I needed the job more than anything and something told me that I would get it, instead of like my last interview at equinox, arriving late and wearing the nicest clothes I had—gym attire which was worn and ill fitting, I would arrive early, and even more so, more than 15 minutes early. I had plenty of books to read while waiting, and more reasons that I could count for needing the job in the first place—I could not go on in the same cycle of needing and needing, nevermind what I wanted. I was willing to sacrifice my attempt at superstardom for just being a normal working person, especially since it meant being able to eventually escape New York, and perhaps even the poverty line. It meant paying off debts and restoring my credit—and best of all, it meant eventually visiting my— I stopped myself short at the thought of it, as after all the intent of one particular individual did seem to see to it that I was trapped in his clutches, and I had decided that after all I would be better off alone than to destroy my life revolving it around him and his world. The quest for superstardom at all had been to impress upon my son that one should achieve his or her own desires by any means, however these means had begun to limit my ability to function. Music was no longer making anyone money, besides those who the eye of the media of the eye had chosen to represent the up and coming generation, who had been raised on reality TV and this false sense of gratification; I could see entirely realistically that I had more than likely aged out of my time as anything besides a comic, and that my youth had gone away with the damage being in the consistent cycle of abuse first from my mother and then my first husband— I was growing into a mature woman who wanted more than the attention and popularity of fame or superstardom— I had more been seeking the security and foundation of wealth that no longer seemed to come from entertainment at all. The media was often backing representatives of the new generation- a brainwashed and programmed bunch, and either way I had realized I was in a battle and competition with multitalented artists who had been raised to be suportrf and al admired by their parents; my mother had been on consistent schedule of cruelty and violence, erratic behavior and sometimes even torture on the psychological level of a decorated military warman since early in my childhood; I spent much of my first 7 months having my own apartment for such a prolonged period of time for the first time in adulthood regressing, reflecting upon the horrible things she had done and said which had raised me to become strong — but had also raised me to accept the abusive and narcissistic patterns of my first husband as love in general, when the foundation of our relationship had been based in codependency at best. Love had yet to have truly been reciprocated by anyone that I had feigned interest in, at least in the ways that I had wanted. I realized I had never been in a healthy adult relationship, let alone with anyone of value or morale. I had always been the fixer, and all of my romantic interests, fixer-uppers—and at the very least besides the psychological damage I had endured, I prided myself on raising what had been an alcoholic, drug-addicted felon living in filth into a semi-functional contributor to society, who with any hopes would raise his children also into contributors to society, I had learned my lesson by going out of my way in taking my son to Las Vegas— that anything attached to his world, including the son we shared, crumbled into a chaotic and evil curse of sorts. Though the world around seemed to believe it was okay to attempt to tilt me into such a world where I would actually center myself around this child, I refused to put anything at all into allowing his father into my world. He destroyed and ruined everything around him, and I knew the only way I would allow something we had created together into my world was on a temporary basis, and with more money than I was being allowed or afforded. He was better off in Alaska, and I was better off taking the label of a dead beat mother who had lost her mind all the well knowing what had been done to me had been a crime against humanity. That the continual abuse had been provoke and instigated, and that in the very least neither was I mentally unwell or unstable, but at best a comparable empath so much so that during the course of my life ynder the thumb of my abusers, I had become much like them— now, I had learned that living in New York was not much difference. Most of the people around were within the same vibration of those who had shown to have abusive thought patterns, actions, and behaviors, however—the only difference was that I knew immidiately how to identify them. I knew that I wasn't in fact actually unwell, however being provoked—and that the system, another abuser, was using the information it had against me in order to provoke a reaction or response— anger, explosiveness—anything it could use to determine that I was some type of animal unfit for the higher classes of society; anything it could use to prove that I was mentally unstable and deserved poverty, perhaps even homelessness, but I knew, that although my talent was bring shattered, that I had it; that in the mass of recordings, writings, and records I had created was the deep wisdom and telling of one of the eldest souls that had ever lived, and live again to create with intention into the world; the purpose of this art was not to add to the endless and boundless mountains of useless garbage labeled as content and barely fit for the consumption of the masses—it was after all to create art, not for popularity or fame—and I had realized that the popularity and fame had been with the impression at all that my son would one day see his mother as a hero. Being hired at Equinox would mean pushing the release of the 9th season as a priority— it could simply not be done in public or with any balance and meant that all of the recordings I had collected would have to be posted all at once before beginning my new job. I had envisioned that it would be released within four weeks time, after m the completion of the projects that I had been working on and with the intention of promoting the album which I had slated to be released in mid-September to give the album traction under the loads of recordings and writings that accompanied the seasons—however— I knew that I simply could not move into a new position—a position which I would keep my artistry as private as possible as not to intersect with the evil and darkness that often associated my attempts to succeed in music—the same darkness which had apparently killed or at least mamed everything and everyone in its path, all the while knowing that the music game was indeed a game which included an almost ritualistic antithesis—the slamming doors and motorcycles were indeed part of this game, and had always in some sort of way had been; the game played using the programmed people who had not been gifted with creative intelligence to be played against those of us that did— the darkness itself often enough consuming everything that it could in its tirade. Still, I was not altogether against earning my own money— there wasn't much else besides pride in realizing that things were moving around me because of the amount of power I could produce at will. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA WELL, THAT WORKED OUT— didn't it? Nothing worked out today, I just had cream of wheat. MORE CREAM OF WHEAT! Is that deadmau5's baby. It appears to be. #smash What dimension is this? It's still the dimension where I'm not a fucking supermodel. Oh, then whose baby is that? That's still deadmau5's baby. It's probably for the best if I for whatever reason become attracted to you As if he's reading this? [If you're reading this, it's too late. ] If and whenever I fall head over heels for someone— Or even like them in any sort of way— The perfect girl, And I mean, The girl of his dreams, Catches him. —and in the end, I'm still alone. So, lucky you. I heard the number was like It was like, in the thousands. Thousands of women. Incredible. Thousands of possible mates. Thousands of willing— Desperate— Perfect— Women, Fiending for you. Safe to say, You may as well have died and gone straight to heaven. I died and went the other way. See you next lifetime. -SC.

Glam bot Hm? Make me pretty. Will do! {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. “sirsi” Dis not from a collection I just made this 5 minutes ago with my studio monitors on high for my neighbors' disapproval. (It's supposed to be bad on purpose.) Door slamming asshole robots.

'koi.' Collection II - 'antithesis.' Track 03. - 'koi.' Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū. They said I must never go black— Or I may not come back— And so I decided, upon that day, that I must go black, whilst also being able to still “go back” and so— I became— …”Jack Black” So what was your name before, then? …that's not important. [The IMPENETRABLE TEN] Tina Fey - the boss of things and people's Yeah, but what's her power? That is her power I'm not doing this show! You are doing this show. Amy Peohler or however you spell it Gazunrite. You're—welcome? What's her power? Fear of NOTHING. (And I mean absolutely nothing. ) At all. Ever. Maya Rudolph - is actually an ancient psyc mystic who crafts potions, casts spells, enchants objects, and crafts vehicles capable of entering interdimensional hyperspace, Ratchel Dratch - power over cats — as many as all the cats in the world at once, sometimes, even. Kristen Wiig- bewilderment - bedazzling Kristen Shaal mindfuckery/ mindbowing Melissa Mccarthy - general shapeshifting and miscellaneous. Miscellaneous? The Cosmic Avenger Damn. That dude lost his whole name. He lost everything. What's his power. Shut up. (Whatever.) So what are the rest of their names, then? What, they want names? I just figured out their powers! (Besides shape shifting and scaring the everlivingshit out of people—) AIGH! *toots* (Sometimes literally.) Are we really sinking low enough to do fart jokes? Are we really squatting low enough to actually— *toots* {Enter The Multiverse} Yes. “The Toot Fairy” What! Which one is that! (I'll let you figure it out.) MS. CELLANEOUS. MISS CILANEOUS? MIS— That's— MELISSA MCCARTHY OBVIOUSLY, it's me—right? It's me? It's— whatever. {Enter The Multiverse} L E G E N D S CUT TO: Oh, I get it— They're Taylor swifting me! Taylor swifting is the act of making threatning or frightening gestures to a future celebrity in order to make them jump, react or flinch. [Taylor Swift] As you can see, this has worked miraculously well. [shit blows up] People screaming, panicking— Trampling, stampeding TAYLOR SWIFT -_- {Enter The Multiverse} SETH MCFARLENE Only ever pretty much says *giggity* And— Yee. —and nobody is sure that its even him the whole time, or just like— [another alien shapeshifter] Giggity. Yee. His entire character arch is literally almost having no other lines, to his frustration, as he tries to communicate his wants and needs, but cannot. (throwing his arms up in frustration) YEE. *big mad* GIGGITY. CUT TO: WHERE ARE MY PANTS? YONCÉ, WHERE'S THAT COFEE? I'M COMING, JESUS– JESUS Watch it. Amen. If you drop that watermelon, i'll kill you. Oh NO! Ok. Ok. [pause] Now, run. DON'T DROP THE SOAP. WHAT *SOAP* W000000AHHH. THIS IS OUT OF CONTROL. THIS IS OUT OF– GOD I got this. GOD, YOU'RE DRUNK You know, this one was almost right– You got your dopplegangers? UH huh. Alright. Come on. Hm. Wait. Just make sure s/he– Is it a “she” Whatever, come on. Just make sure she sees you. Look. I just got. A lot on my mind right now, I can't write this. GOF I got this. Wtf is going on HERE. VO. Hmm let me guess YOUNG JACK BLACK [Insert here] Close enough. I got this. Something, something– lalala OK, GET ME OUT OF THIS MOVIE GET ME OUT OF THIS PARTY. I WANT TO GO HOME. GOD, GO HOME, YOU'RE DRUNK. THIS IS MY HOUSE. That's right. It's your HOUSE: GODDAMN RIGHT IT IS. SO go HOME. GOD YOu know what. You're right. I don't need this. FInally. God, she's so wasted. Where's my Keys? OKay, now i'm understanding DRIVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. Jesus, this thing just goes on and Look at this point , ALICIA KEYS I'm on it. GOD is writing this, i'm just– An actor, I guess. TV-MA Drama When the— [The Festival Project ™ ] Nvm? I guess!? RITA is the first AI designed specifically with asset protection in mind— RITA, protect my assets. LATER: RITA (robotic voice, but gangster) Yo, Peter. RITA [robotic AI voice] This mother fucker right here actually tried to play me for a fool. Please elaborate, RITA RITA Divulging plot for political assasination and asset liquidation… In the heights Complications Man, it's just crazy how they assimilated you with reverence What exactly does that even mean? Let's find out You know what? You're right. Reverend. Major Tom. Sire! You must come quickly. Must I? You must *must DIE!* For what? No time for an explanation, the page is turning SN-TRASHFREE-4XR4-ZV6W-4ZR4-VYA9 It ain't easy being supa me So I switch it to sunni b So sweet, I'm a honey be Money don't mean a thing If I ain't got no love in it I been craving some Mickey d's But I'm vegan, so luckily My energy is tripling Three threes, I bet your listening I'm livin in the Kingdom of Heaven yes I'm blessed, kids; That was just a test, kids -ū It's true, this: I didn't want to do this: I'm sick of this Sunnï Blū shit If orange is the new black And hello yellow Like pikachu, I choose too Pull it like a loose tooth, Loose change, two strange truths To shoot thru Pull up in AK I might shoot ū LA one day, Uptown A Confused YouTube Today to JFK Poof, dude! I'm the toothe fairy You should bury me—like seeds I grow trees and I Speak in tongues, (just like cree, RIP, though) You can't scare me, I don't care And I'm too aware of you Tie you to a chair And I'm preparing you for Cake, bitch Happy Birthday, I'm famous, baby just don't— Baby don't leave Baby don't leave Baby don't leave Baby don't leave! Maybe I spoke too soon I opened your notebook, so consumer Prove me wrong but I could be much blonder And I could have two sons And one less drunk Ex-husband (That's funny, don't.) Shh. Don't bring it up again Cause it's beginning to ruffle feathers My expressions of these deep regressions No regrets though, I begets flow, 10 doors open every time One closes, So Portal— I got my foot in all of em I'm walking awkward, Cause my cock is swinging To the theme of Johnny Cochran This is not as seen on TV but amen Just promise, if you gon leave We gone stay friends, Like Jennifer Aniston Baby don't leave Baby don't leave Baby don't leave Baby don't leave! Curiosity has just killed two cats But the truth is, I just wanted the algorithm to see me Confused as to Who switched with him This isn't him, I'll admit: the one that's meant for me Or was, at least, Again, adjust my misery and memories With sympathies for something haunting me In dreams an frequencies Please, believe me I needed you And might still need Somebody Everybody's nothing but just a body or a hobby Not a husband, or a daughter, Or a son: All I lost was Over Okay, stop it What you've got to know is: Every time this lady sings this song, Something amazing happens– What is so great about this– I don't get it. But like, Behind her. Every time. Does not disappoint What do you want from me? Ooh, it's bad . What don't I want from you? [BILLIE ELLISH'S Grammies begin singing in a harmony, forming a great symphony. She doubles back, pausing for a moment—then shrugging it off, before a grand gesture I'm on my hands and knees Just seeing dreams Whatare you saving it for What are you saving it for Grocery store horror show Slow motion drum roll What are you saving it for What are you saving it for I'd rather a friend than a father figure Video games and department show shopping Discretion and internet interests, Never more than the start in Athens The triad, the triggers You promised! Though not as important Of the promise you once made No more arguments, man It's like all of a sudden, She loves me again But it doesn't take back all the things she said All the things she did All the things I did For the things she did All the things she said For the things she did The things she said The things she said Plant a seed, let it grow Let it breathe, don't you know Take it easy, the day off Don't say a word, Don't move a muscle Easy, easy on the eyes Easy, easier on the years Shivers on the mark of the beast Cause it's been 6 years at least Since he— Don't do it: Time moves different here, In the 9th dimension Light a candle, spread some ashes on some Simple synchronicities Remember me When you forget yourself To be remembered remember the family Fame, defiling, misfortune The torture The fortune My name up in lights on the awning I'm under In some google drive A long drive out from Boston Bassoon in my onyx My name in the Name in the Cherubs on the tusks Cheeriot on top I polished off a box of cereal On some rooftop Just earlier, Thanks for the reminder. Imm burned as the beats on the countertop Burned, like the end of the gun Could have forgotten your number Could have figured the father for Dollars I've got in the [The Festival Project ™] The pleasure sensors Changing with the wind —I have a lot to do today Staring at the plague Became the fit To get the fitness in her Seven sacred songs she's writing Kept beneath her pillow Like a gunfight But who moved faster!? She wished and then became another Never narrow eyes Or birds of feather Playing games and praying Saving for yourself Only the best part Remember then The games we played At heavens gates From light, Eternal Death (The plague, the plague) Fastened in your monster, Facinating embers in your memory You thought you'd burned But are awakened once again Playing in your memory For time, the shadow Waiting under blue light In your room (The plague, the plague) Move over Four hours in the light, and 20 in the shadows; A good man always does Bad things, With a family. Staying balanced, 20 icons becoming unmantled 20 eyes, and only one soul One, God But it runs the whole world, Don't it! I want a dozen donuts, And one more problem 20 Hours in the Dark, For four hours or so, We're rolling. I meditated a home in Zion In Athens, in Rome, once The only problem was, It was pro- Pompei part one. (I'm gonna go off.) Don't you get it, Ms. That depositing your money In my spank bank Is paying you a compliment? Don't you know that I love you? We have the same taste in men! Don't you know that I love God, And she wouldn't steer me wrong about That one object, I've been Dying my eyes on And plucking my blondes Doing wall squats I love all mantras Old classic cars, —flavored sparking water I love jackets And purses And politics Irons And orgasms I love what I love And a curse is a curse— For a robot But I woke up with blood in my boner And mugs full of coffee I'm on God (Keep slamming the door, you'll get older.) I'm growing backwards like Benjamin button That's Benjamin Franklin And frankly Thomas Edison died —whose that check complimenting? I want a divorce And a shovel Police report promises Amazon out of my arteries Objects and all of the Things that I want That God promised For watching Tonight Show (the one starring Carson) I picked Jack Paar. That wasn't an option. Well, that's my choice. Fine, but you're not winning any arguments with that one. What arguments. Nobody knows who that guy is. I can name them in order The dojo was open this morning The Dodji was functional; All Aliocha For all of my Honest to God, I want water and salt At the same time Where'd you go when you died? Looking for you! That— !! I was there the whole time. INT. NEW YORK. DAY Bad decisions were indeed about to be made. The time is currently frozen. Speaking of frozen… let it GO. I don't know. I've been fascinated with the talking heads lately…I think that might be one of them. No, this is more like scary monsters —and super creeps. Hm. I'll have to admit— This is getting quite interesting; Oh, hello. First, there was the ghost of Johnny Carson. How do you do? How do you do? That guy is wild af. Or was. Now there's this Jack Paar Guy, who I'm sure is somehow…. Oh, the magic of television! Is it possible that The Devil could be using this man as a disguise to hant me with temptation, and bend my mind? It is possible that Jimmy Fallon is the devil himself, yes. I doubt that. I frankly don't, in fact. I'd yet at all discovered what his true placement within the hierarchy were; an obvious workhorse, and successful operative— this man was indeed being used by someone or something— but the only question left standing was— WHO? Don't you touch that man. He's fragile. There, there. I've become quite belligerent lately and my intentions are no longer as certain even to myself as they once were before— but definitely not to anyone else. Is there anyone else? I thought you should know, they've found your letter. Which letter, exactly? Aha, alright— That's enough, now. Heathens. Whatever. Stay out of my way. Stay out of my face. I'll try not to pose as a camera. What the fuck are you doing? I'm taking a nap. How could you sleep like this?! I'm not sleeping like that. I'm sleeping like this. whatever. Didn't I tell you before to lay off of it? I did lay off of it. It kept laying back on. And? And?! What do you want? I've got mind controlled robot drones circling my block, one to the left of my apartment and one to my right. I might be the only free thinking person in this neighborhood for miles. And you've chosen with all of your free thoughts to think about Jimmy Fallon? I've chosen not to talk about the recurring thoughts that I can't talk about—- And chosen to focus on the multiple dramas interwoven into the project which may- or-may- not involve a handful of like-minded and equally skilled monologuists and top not performers as such Oh, nevermind—- I figured out what he was, after all. {Enter The Multiverse} L E G E N D S No, that was the other one. It's gonna be really hard for me to sit here and not slap the shit out of you. I can't feel, anyway. (Shrugs) all for the best. Strawberry cornbread. That does sound good. Whatever. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū

Be My Lover Lla da di [Redacted] I once was trapped within the prison of my own garden. Something inside me yelped for this faraway spirt guide to shut up—but I was all the more ready to fry up the remainder of my tempeh, and continue to wallow in my loveless grief , wondering what would become of this undone monster—the disaster that was my own impossible maze of creation, however with gratitude, that I was standing in an immaculately clean kitchen, with a table full of books, and soup to cook. Gratitude that I was alone, and for the most part, alive and well. Gratitude that I lived in one of the greatest cities on earth—maybe even the greatest— But I didn't know yet. I had never been to Tokyo; I would be missing the Olympics in Paris; Rome was still waiting at the other side of a giant puddle I was less fond of than its opposite; Amsterdam l was some fabled tale I had only dreamed of— And London begged to be brought to life in my own eyes, were I lucky enough to escape the arrested development of the burdens of my Brooklyn [redacted]. I might be getting to ‘famous' to tell people where I live. [Unfamous.] Lol is this the one with the guy going around knocking on doors To see if people recognize him? Yeah. lol. It's a comedy, right? Dark comedy. (A black comedy.) Nah, but you can't call it that, Cause they'll think it has something to do with colored people, and they won't watch it. That's literally the name of the genre. My point stands. {Enter The Multiverse} —you'd be suprised how much more blatently racist people get from behind a screen or studying demographics and viewer preferences. If you don't love me; You like me You watched me light my cigarette just the right way, And liked it, And that night, I died in your arms, Crying for myself—. Lying to my wife, As if next time, I might be better. We all deserve second chances. Good grief. Who is this guy? Some sad sap. Sad is right. Sap is more accurate. I stroke your hair With your head in my lap, As though you belong to me; I see the crease in your eyes as smiles And your lips as petals To a flower so sweet, I can't wait to eat you, Like honeysuckle on the tip If a hot wet tongue, Hungry for the berry it would become, But eager to know the sweetness of just the flower, Sure to bloom with the coming of seasons, Just as sure to rise as the moon would, Whether full or new; In a sky fyull of stars, All I see is you— In a body of scars, I am your demise, Your pride forever altered by divine truth, My light hides In darkness, Your will to the light, Like a moth to the flame, Which I honor And crumble over, As she towers over us, Seeking and ready to destroy All flame to dust; The ash is out The tray on the table I roll another To smoke, The guilt and shame of betrayal, Distrust, Unarmored, I mock my own judgement A movement, The box over a diamond A row full of nothing but Hawks, circling over. Do you not know? My favorite skit has a story; Sara without an H was a real person. Patrick was Fallon, Now Fallon is Patrick— I'm thouroughly confused; The Allegories Continue. Book II GODDAMMIT: See. I TOLD YOU. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHH. it's on. ITS GONNA GET RAW. Ah shit. Here we go. At this point, I thoroughly need my shit kicked in. Do you ever feel like— Uh huh. You could just use a— —a knife in the back? Like, a swift kick to the face. Sometimes. Karate style neck chop. Sounds nice. Really swift, like— Knee to the groin? Like a good hook t o t h e j a w Yeah. I'm actually aroused. {Enter The Multiverse} How about that . V.O JOHN SLATTERY I had learned certain things about myselr, such as that lighting a candle and lounging to soak silently in the tub for any number of hours might allow my subconscious tone dictate on behalf of John Slattery, affectionately sometimes referred to as J.Slatts, besides the slew of characters I had once in some black hole managed to have write for him—the actor, or the part of my deep subconscious manifesting as such. I wasn't even in the slightest bit curious as to why, and attributed it mostly to my my affinity for traditional fraternal organizations, a deep understanding of the unspoken internal hierarchies of the entertainment business, and the occasional silver fox. This is getting good. J. SLATTS V.O. (CONT'D) Still, my familiarity with the occult had somehow shifted my own perception to that of apathetic acknowledgement that I was easily dismissable as unremarkable, however, still somewhat convient, isolated, and easily discardable— I could easily be disposed of, and my work passed on to someone more easily manageable—ie, without the will to be controlled, and therefore be bonded. Hypnotist bastards. Whatever your will, is my purpose. What are you? Whatever you want. What! Which one did you ask for? What kind of shit is this. The kind of shit you could only wish you even dreamed of. So you're like some kind of genie. Better than that. I'm going to spend my summer gnawing away at your insides. Aw, man. What the fuck did I write. My children are clawing at the door hoping for a peak of my newest invention. Mortal man. If only they knew with any sense at all beyond that, they could be so much more. Disastrous creatures. I was disastrous once, too. And I, mortal. The pursuit of actual suicide. Would I see my son again? Would the walls close in as I start to bleed? Would I whisper to myself a song, to induce the calm, As I wondered what had gone so wrong, For so long That I would become Gone She's a Hollywood grown superstar Born of obsessions, Now to let them all to lesson One becomes another A mirror for a mother; Hello Billie. Awards to walk on water— Eyes of oceans Worlds apart The Hollywood sign under this foot; Rockefeller Plaza, the other— Strings to pull the cups To kill the clause The want of Oz Beyond the contracts and the mantras, Something comes You want it? Blow up dolls and fountains, Ant farms and rock collections Still life, stillborn Still Joan of Ark In Central Park, Single file, Noah— There's no boat at all for all of us You wreak of cyanide. I'm so glad you know what that smells like. I'm flaccid. Is that a joke? Something tells me I've kept this hallmark card For far too long. Something tells me I would do much better As a blonde And ten years younger; Either that Or ten feet under Tempting, huh boss? Somebody ought to call the chupacabra I'm going all for broke inside this Honda; Why, mom, let it drag on like this? Worcestershire sauce, Gosh, Shucks— You're the worst, Corn. On the cob; then? Call the cops! Call Oprah. Call— Call Cosmo and Wanda. BILLIE EILLISH is that it Idk how to spell this kid's name, fuck it. Is dressed in an oversized denim overall suit; her hair pulled into exaggerated and teased oversized pigtails— Her eyes seem larger than usual under the thick magnified lenses of the oversized frames she wears on her heavily painted blushed face, almost with the appearance of a clown, but more likened to a scary porcelain doll; her teeth are covered in braces, and the long faux eyelash extensions affixed to her face sparkle with a silver that matches the rhinestones that match her mechanized mouth, overall conveying a thoroughly weird, over-sexualized life-sized cabbage patch cross porcelain doll—the stuff of nightmares, to any right minded adult, but assuredly someone's fantasy, as the song portrays the journey of a lost girl—a fallen God once praised amongst the— [The Festival Project ™] What the fuck are you trying to write Whatever the fuck I just saw Can you not {That's So Raven} so hard That's so Rave…(in) #SPACERAVE Cool. EliteZ. I would call it exquisite. Whatever she's an alien princess dressed as a blow up doll calling out into the cosmos for the space Gods to come blow up^/destroy the already nearly destroyed man-world trash planet we're all on. “We”? Did I not just say men destroyed the planet earth? Ahem. Wait. How many of us here live on the planet Earth. … By show of hands. … ..: … …3 of you. Is that it? Hello, sir. Have you been drinking? It's nice to see you— Who am I, you ask? The one you always call for. Hello? Can I get an answer? Are you barely breathing? Tell me something good ‘Who are you?' All I wanted. What a bargain Shopping carts all full of bottles Just to humble, of course He does it himself The shopping for the cubbards. Melt. Careful, All you are is words The tongue goes forwards, After all The rollercoaster plunges And the ark Of all the stories Forms to one conglomerate Atop the Oval Office Get off of my cloud, you dumb fuck. I can be arrogant For the establishment I can be all you want (The one you call for) So seductive Just the art Of burning tongues and calling numbers Call to all you want And I will come The one you call for Ah, yes. I do not need a dog. I'm procrastinating writing my album. There's no sugar in this house. I need a nap before the gym. This is not a poem. It's an entourage. …entourage. … Entourage. …Entorage. (In to rage) | | Entorage. | | Entorage | | Entorage. ||| (Born to rage) wtf is this.z Like, idk yet. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū

ocean blvd. Collection I -'better off dead.' Track 01. - 'ocean blvd.' Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū What is the significance of McGriddles? There is no significance of McGriddles, because McGriddles is only McDonald's. McMeditation. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

It had become obvious that I was being used as some type of experiment— the motors, honking horns, and engines all being used to strategically shift my thinking, deteriorate my moods, and provoke my anxiety. My placement in this apartment had been for a specific reason—using my synethesia against me, the feds could do literally whatever they wanted with my mind and body, and they were attempting to create an angry and hostile, militant and obedient done like the rest of them——and though I was getting stronger and more immune to the various experimental tortures they had planted in my environment, I was always 10 steps ahead, and knowing that while some of myechanisms had become startlingly predictable, even to me— that something in me was always 10 steps ahead or more. That certainly, and at will, my doing something—anything at all— terribly unexpected would derail and confuse these people—most likely federal military personnel or some sort of special forces—within the understanding that people with my intrinsic abilities could not only become a threat— but used as a weapon; I wasn't being paid, and had already been without a home so long that it didn't seem to matter regardless—knowing that my circumstances shouldn't permit that I should become subject to such cruelties, taking the high road was in being determined to deliberately sabotage any attempt at further penetrating my privacy and peace— which more often than not meant, that if I knew I was being listened to— making sure something would be heard that would confuse or annoy whoever was listening— that, if I was being followed, getting lost on purpose would ensure that whoever followed had no idea of my actual intended destination—and, that if I was being baited or trapped, to as often as possible fall into the trap, allowing them to feel as if I had been entirely figured out, however—the more I realized these things happening, the more dismissive I became, the more secretive of my own actual reservations and solutions, and the more discreetly I kept what was well known hidden, within myself or elsewhere—and though inclusion and diversity had become a popularized puppet show of sorts, creating the illusion of acceptance within the masses, I knew overall to the powers-that-be, the keepers of the keys, the guard era of the gates, and those that determined value in our society, that I was still just another ugly nigger, with too much brains to know better than to just accept the mediocrity and subservience that the regime had crafted for us. —Death of a Superstar DJ. Four kings have I And none is he Who waits at my demise For every beckoned call To wish My fair stands strained with time; I am the one who waits For wickedness upon the door And offers her or him A kindness As to part ways once, But ne'er twice For death, I had won All of my attempts to get a regular job had been derailed—destroyed, sabotaged. My money and environment had become scricy controlled— and the only money I had, I soon realized, were to be used on products intended soully with the literal purpose to be washed down the drain.i no longer beckoned for fame or to be cherished— now, simply, I wanted almost nothing more than to be left alone, and without a way to travel somewhere peaceful, the madness of New York City sank into my gut and began to create a monster that I knew If let unleashed, would destroy not only my life, but everything around it—and maybe that was the point— I was simply not allowed to have a happy life, for whatever reason— and these mind games and torture strategies would continue until somehow, I would meet my end. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

raggedy ann x.x Collection II -'antithesis.'Track 09. 'raggedy ann x.x' Maybe someone was ringing my doorbell just to make sure that I hadn't slit my wrists—I had been sitting in the tub silently for hours, at least thinking about it. There was no other way to consolidate it; I did not want to interact with humans, and my daily gym routine would have to be pushed so late into the night that it would become impossible to see anyone, I was simply over the robots. I wondered if the former president was reelected, if his l people would seek to finish the job—make sure that I killed myself or appeared as mentally unstable and unwell in response to my former political ambitions, as they had before; perhaps they were attempting to subdue my attempts at success order never to become a an actual threat to the psychological terror system. I already wasn't a threat, and my openly right-winged dissaproval of the immigration crisis had probably raised eyebrows and questions on both sides as to whether I was a competent human at all—then again, I saw it as a financial leak above all things, and found it unfair for the working class to support such nonsense as to let millions of undocumented people become the responsibility of the taxpayers. Then again, here I was, a responsibility of the state. I was sure I wouldn't be a burden much longer— reflections of a cruel world creeping up on me in that I lived day to day on eggshells only hoping that my lease would be renewed—unable to find suitable work and struggling to actually make any sensible or meaningful music at all; I hadn't, and I hadn't forgotten how to, but it seemed that the motorcyclists were quietest when I was, and they they themselves, too, were terrorists intended to derail me from my purpose. The intent to kill, however indirectly. Do you want breakfast? Patrick and Esha had returned, however seemingly on limited engagement; most of The TV People were Patrick and Esha and the rest of the characters could be filled in with almost any seemingly random characters and quips. The basis of the world had been established, and now this strange and odd love story—an actual love story, between the show's two protagonists had bloomed and set on a mantle safely looking over me, like a flower on such said mantle, where I could admire it with careful consideration to its beauty, only wondering how long it should last. Luckily, The Tonight Show was most probably on some summer hiatus, with any hope, surrounded by the love and the family one could pray would keep a man like that afloat. I couldn't say. It wasn't my business. If anything, I was beyond beside myself with what nature had called for in the first place. Sure, something cosmic, with fear and respect, I kept the flower at a distance and the city between myself and I. What the fuck did New York want with me anyway? I chipped away at any and all creative endeavors, but above all, I felt discarded. Who could hate me this much? I didn't seem to be of much use to anyone or anything at all. I looked at my writing and was astounded, but looked at myself and was ashamed. What if I could be the greatest writer of our time and never know it? It took me hours just to sort through ny own writing, editing along the way and wondering what to do with it. I almost wanted a friend, but overall I wanted nobody. I felt betrayed by the world that I had been given such gifts, and unable to use them. I felt scammed that all the world wanted was money, but I wasn't good at making it. [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

rekt. Collection 1.1 - 'actuality.'Track 03. - 'rekt.' Prod By Blū Tha Gürū {Enter The Multiverse} MILA KUNIS *hits vape* WHY would you agree to sign me up for this? ASHTON KUTCHER Because— MILA KUNIS *Hits vape harder* ASTON KUTCHER Jesus Christ— MILA KUNIS You know me and Seth don't get along after that thing he did! ASHTON KUTCHER I know, but— MILA KUNIS *throws pillow* UGH. How am I supposed to? Fuck it. —- SETH MCFARLENE I have lines now. *sniffs long line* … Are you okay? SETH I'm going to be. [This requires a full cast.] [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

niagara falls. Collection II - ‘antithesis. Track 12. - ‘niagara falls' Prod By Blū Tha Guru [Previously on L E G E N D S: Enter The Multiverse} Baby's all right Brooklyn Pretty little palace of disaster Pretty little patterns of — Whatever Tantrums, smashing Jack o lanterns Shadows, Hands that attach to the strings Allowing them to dance into dreams It seems these sacred places Have been ravaged And I have not been running But I don't have any money Wise than that It's less than zero Negatives I want to kill myself again Honestly, I see a way out it just Requires being tortured By people coughing. And motorcycles I might have seen my son for the last time At age five It's finally warm outside And everything's just Reminding me I'm struggling with poverty Nothing really matters cause I don't belong here Everything is wrong I just want blonde hair, Hurry up, God Assist me with a suicide I can take pride in Not an attempt, but The only success I'll ever have At anything At all -El Al Nothing moves the same After an unrequited love becomes a tragedy Or just a movie scene I want to scream for needing to be needed Then again Could die just to be dead Could go back To just be blacklisted Or a crackhead Doing magic tricks Pass I couldn't have ever imagined This fascination as of late Or making trance But anything can happen With the light switches on and off As the kite catches headwinds Or hedwig is getting bigger by the minute That just grows out of his head, But I wish it was a wig Like Kristen Pass Yes. Breathe deep into my lungs, These scenes of things So evil seeming, even to me Lucidity becomes as dreamily Eerie, intermittently meaningless, And then suddenly, However much later, Maddeningly attractive, As I am, in fact Attached to this project As menacingly handsome and devilish as he is I've decided, it's manageable, but clashes with my Moral standards and clasps with fabrications Lay hands on me and see what happens! —-okay… “Okay” Pass! I asked to be a rockstar and showrunner On the same blood soaked candles I took blood oaths Dancing in front of the fountain At rockafeller plaza, to no applause, Of course, Drinking monsters nonstop, Ontop of my skateboard I came back late to Boston And took a plane to Vegas early the next morning But somewhere deep in my Google Drive or documents Is me under a neon sign, Which reads a name I resigned from saying Until maybe I get signed I hate him, but hey, The name of the game is Mating Season, And lately I've been craving eggs and Mayonnaise instead of protein shakes and Crayons Wax on, wax off… Pass, but that last sentence didn't make sense It did.:: Oh, Yes, it did. Promise. You do some stupid shit. Okay, so I do stupid shit. Believe me, you do some stupid shit. Okay, I believe you. Don't believe me when I tell you things like that. What the fuck, Patrick, do you mean, even? I mean what I mean, but usually just— For me. I am you, I thought. Exactly: don't believe me. Okay? I don't believe you… Just—believe me. Believe me. Oh dang. So there really is no “Jimmy Fallon” No, there isn't it's just— Poor little Jimmy Fallon… What if— There is no “if”. Nobody has to ‘agree' to this project Sign the terms of agreement For what. You'll see.. stupid little bitch. *squints* What did you just say. (Walking away, mumbling) Nothing! Fucking idiot. What did you just say?! (Yelling) I said you're a fucking idiot, Fallon! You're a fucking lDi0T: Well, okay. lol NBC is not gonna let this fly at all. No, Jimmy, you cannot do this project. Well, that's alright. I quit. You can't quit. You have a contract. I don't—I'm out of my contract: On what grounds?! Conflict of interest! That's my say, isn't it? Is it? MORGUE. I bought a network! MY NAME IS— MAaaa!! WHATTTTTTT. The show's on! [A Cold Open] L E G E N D S {Enter The Multiverse} Fuck this kid. I'm gonna kill him. Kill what. Who. FALLON. GET IN HERE. Ah. [explitive] [‘THE FALLON' gets ‘FALLONED' by ELLEN DEGENERES] ELLEN YES. FINALLY, I'm in this bitch. [And other members of ‘THE HOSTS COLLECTIVE', a high ranking team in the ILLUMINATI FOREFRONT] Well, not in the way I'm sure you'd hoped, but. Shutthefuckup! Oh wait—is she Is it “she” Is she a lesbian?! What's the “Illuminati”— We'll get back to that later. No! gross! Portia Derossi! Huh? I want to be that pretty! Well, okie. MEANWHILE, In my actual own age group… I'm older than all these hosts, anyway! Even Leno? Isn't he dead already?! Exactly! EVEN STEVENS [BEANS is now VEGAN] Why is vegan capitalized. Cause it's important. Hey buddy! Don't call me buddy. I'm edging on 40. Time flies when you're— Rapidly aging? I brought you some bacon. You what: It's farm fresh! Kooldjredalert Lie to me Try to sleep (In my arms, won't you) Try to keep the Time with My heart Beat (Heavenly) I've been living in your world for just over a month, now. I'm sorry, Fallon. That must be awful. Not too sorry— Some of this stuff is good. Just, priceless. Wouldn't trade it for the world. But I've hung my head in shame, Cause I hung myself with gratitude, Haven't you had enough? If it makes any difference at all, And I'm betting it does All I wished for a wanted and prayed Was for you to be happy I buy burners with trackers Put burn holes in sweaters The summit at the plummet, pulling forwards And backwards I've four words for parlors, For barbers and hatchets I bury the four suns, The moon arose after I left an Oscar on your alter this morning Never shall ye rest, Haven't ever then, Paid the tythe, And for the while, Immortal wife and lover, Mother daughter, Soon to call your name and number, However, The fall from the drop of polish, Of course, oil marks upon canvases Sickness and swells of my Hands upon your corset Could you collide with another? Doubtful, to that, So shall it must be List, but never to utter A mustard seed; Ground, then unground— As if planted, Simple, As the seed of laughter So then, would you By the turn of the hour, return to the one had you called Lover, A curse upon the Coerced and responsible A blonde, But worse, A pretty one For never after happens out of nowhere Now, Dissociate, Before I dissipate of Loneliness Hark, The door opens for one, A bold soldier to come, Listen lover, The stone has been Suspended, by the mirror In terror Alarmed, Cool you are now Calm, however Not abound to be lie Or below Bound by blood There you are In excelsior, Predecessor What would you want that for— The camera obscured; Why, If only, To look upon you Plastered and enlarged As you are Endangered in my imagination A dangerous and strange, Dangling addiction Fascination, now With power, And prowess Come now, The midnight hour is upon us [his body hung from the rafters above the studio, just one lamp left aglow—and then suddenly I had awakened, his body still and resting, sleeping quietly—although the hanged man burned into my mind; I left him quietly as I could in the loft and sat with nothing in my mind at all at the canvas, brush in hand, as if I were to draw something—but could not. It was almost as if I was frozen, or even perhaps the canvas were instead a mirror, and I the painting —though I could not know. My dearest Patrick was a broken man, and I his broken lover—the both of us an atrocity at all in shambles—I wept inwardly but not outward, as not to wake him as my tears often did, even from a deep sleep. The sun was far from rising, and though I had barely slept at all, I felt I would never sleep again—I fell at my tilted alter as the sun rose, in prayer and devastation; What had I done?] —Esha's Memoirs, the journals from The Altar You know what, kid— You've got something. I don't know what it is, But it's something. Kid? Aren't we like, the same age? No. I'll tell you what I've got I've got a seven year old kid I haven't seen in two years; I've got a sink full of dishes I've got credit card debt and school loans I've got racist neighbors, An ex husband who swears he never hit me With a brand new baby I've got Extreme back pain I've got a body only God could ever love And I've got something like 10,000 pages or more Of stuff I barely remember writing Just sitting in the Google algorithm Pushing me closer and closer to suicide Every single day I've got Sexual fantasies about celebrities for no given reason at all. I've got 800 songs that are just words I've got books I want to read just— sitting there And I've got this pain That just sits inside my soul That never goes away, ever I've got something, alright. I've got something, sure But when it comes to money I got a dollar One fucking dollar And you know what I call that? -Useless. She's dead, isn't she? You guessed it. Well, what am I supposed to do? What you always do. What is that? What is that? Swear of the palm d ore I Cannes, Atop the Eiffel You are the river that crosses my eye, The scar across my heart, The Eye, is All we are And all is one; One is all, And All are One Well, I'm quite nervous. Don't be nervous, at all, Johnny. Relax. Another John—my first, in fact. Indeed, I was once relentlessly obsessed With Johnny Depp Infatuated, if you will Whatever you want to call it. Of course, For a teenaged girl, however This sort of obsession was somewhat normal Somewhat. I had always wanted to star in movies— So much so that I began to write them. I was about 7, maybe 8 when the stories in my headed started to form as narratives— Not just stories, but words Characters and conversations— Plots. I should leave this poor Fallon boy alone. Some darkness inside of me wants him; That thing that doesn't quiet, nor does it want, Anything but what it wants— And it is, Darkness-m— That thing that lives inside of me and what is does; The thing it calls love, and calls our for The something in someone that rises it up From wherever it dwells, Deep in my soul, and into my hear, Into my thoughts, It haunts all that I must and mustn't Ponder upon A woman's cause, And a murderer of sorts, The ugly swan , who dances on ponds, Laying one one, but all of precious stones, The egg, The coveted stones of trust, And wander, Listing upon that which it feeds, Not only the bod, But its motor, It's mind, A hearty philosopher, And willful warrior, Of wit, And of talent, The strength of Astonishment A power above all, A blindness of fate; Judged by all The spectacular amongst us The famed and the damned, Acquitted of warmth and dutiful, Exquisite in awe A rarity. —The Fame Files. V.O. Coming to terms with one's death is always peaceful. All harm caused will be returned by he/she who causes it or acts in such a way as to inflict pain and hostility towards peaceful persons. Causing with intention psychological, physical, mental, or physical harm will result in the immediate karmic retaliation of such pain as inflicted on peaceful individuals; these acts of war will inhibit the actor from entering the transcendence, or developing expanded consciousness, gaining wealth, further material possessions–his own will is therefore weakened, and therefore unworthy of love himself, by the intent to cause one such pain as an act of violence or ill will. One's disruption of peace is thereby an act of cruelty, punishable beyond death–causing pain by intention to another individual in the attempt of control or manipulation, intrusion, and abuse is therefore against the laws by which the ascended abide by, and therefore cannot and will not exist beyond the ill fate of its perpetrator. Please leave me alone; I'm asking you nicely. Alright, fine. Where is it! Where is what? You know what. What? From the fountain. It wasn't me! I don't have it. And this, is why Jimmy Fallon is impenetrable. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

The Festival Project™ and it's subsidiary Non-Profit, The Collective Complex © aims to challenge modern artistic and philosophical ideals, break commonplace barriers, forage new creative mediums, and provoke inspired and reformed thought and actions toward evolution and overall societal improvement through a new-wave and post-modern, avant-garde and philanthropic hyperawareness driven by a unique culture of global values mediating global respect and preservation via open consciousness, multi-sensory and synesthetic (multi-preceptory) expansions of sound, language, vibration, movement, color, emotion, and ritual governed conceptually by the aspect(s) of love, truth, unity, understanding, and peace. Support The Fesival Project's Artistic Revolution I don't know why that picture lights me up–it just does. –so I keep it; And it's weird that I keep it, But i love it– No face tattoos, Or flashing lights, Or bubbling blondes– It's just me, And the music– Pulling me closer to that thing I love, still dragging one foot left behind, As If i'll ever catch up in a race, I was born To have already lost. Suddenly, it felt as if being in the water was the only way anymore of being connected to nature. One mustn't tamper with the free will of others, as this breaks the intrinsic morale code by which all magicians must adhere to with intent focus, as to not to disrupt the balance of nature, but to coincide with it harmoniously as to manifest all outcomes for the greater good of oneself, and the betterment of others. One must practice in peace and kindness, as to promote with the sense of ritual, the force of wellbeing, respect, gratitude, and kindness — as not with the infliction as to force one another or control others by circumstance or possession, but with reflection within one's own self to guide with spirit, the forces of nature, and the powerful endowment of light and love, to fortify one's sense of ritual invocation of righteousness, humility, intuition, higher knowledge, enlightenment, influence, illumination and wisdom, as to better steengthen the bonds between one another in the material realm, and within the spiritual and cosmic realms, in order to better understand with total compassion and comprehension the origins, date, and destiny of humankind and the extraterrestrial and metaphysical presence of forces of energy, creation, and —the practitioner guide to ritual occultism for medicinal and holistic healing (Well work out a title later) Anyone should well know that the intentional casting of any and all white magic spells or rituals will automatically forage a counter-attack towards any sender of negative energy, misfortune, or ill intent— not as a direct form of attack or harm by the medicinal practitioner itself, but rather, acting as a shield against dark forces, hidden and evil spirits, demonic energies and otherwise unfriendly forces of disruptive and unwelcome nature. Though the medicinal practice of magic begins in understanding that duality and balance within the material realms— light and dark, or sometimes even ‘good' and ‘bad' are part of existence in entirety, encompassing all forms of energy, and that one does not truly or wholly exist without the other—however—- within the clarity of enlightenment, one can assume and expect lower vibrational, differeing frequency, or less conscious energies to become attracted to or try to attach itself, or themselves, to higher forms of light and energy. It it within this medicinal practice of awareness that steps can and should be taken to protect oneself against mischief in the event of unwelcome sources of unwanted energy taking away from, or hindering one's own health, wellness, perception, and gaining of insight and wisdom. There are, here, hidden realms of truth and wisdom; Engagements within the immaterial circumstances which surround our involvement with each other as a species, in which one can interact with thought forms of another kind, create bonds and energetic ties out of the bounds of worldly involvement, link chains within a network of intergalactic travel, time sequencing or manipulation of such perceptions of ‘future,' , past, and presence, and create space within an infinite realm of concousness, inter dimensional mapscaping, movement within the interior and exterior grids of existence (where most things take place) Last night I thought I was ordering my last meal. A double quarter pounder with cheese and extra onions, a large fry and a vanilla shake. My favorite. I had a horrible conversation with my mother, which ended with her screaming at the top of her lungs at me, “ just—die, die, die!” And I wanted to. Then I thought about the prisoners on death row, how they're asked what they want their last meal to be before they're put to death. I thought of my favorite episode from my favorite show, where my favorite character ordered a fried chicken dinner. I thought—“If that were me, I'd probably want McDonald's.” So, I drove to McDonald's, I ordered my favorite meal, and I ate it sadly as I thought about how exactly I would try to go about killing myself. I never thought of a way that wouldn't destroy this place for the next tenant...before I fell asleep, dreamless and tortured by my very own thoughts. I woke up this morning wondering what today would bring—more pity, or hope. Sweet cream and butter/sugar flavored wheat thins lol I would eat that. You'd eat anything. I can be skinny in 48 hours— But you'll always be an asshole. How many you want? How many you got? I hate these back door deals… Stop being such a [censored] [censored] Woah, man! I'm still under contract with NBC. I [censored] guess! I thought you got fired. Why do you still have a censor? He works for my wife. Look, I'm willing to admit, I have an addiction To midsections and midwives And mediocre mistresses. I'm not sure exactly what you're trying to say. YOU BURNT MY CREAMNOF WHEAT. Did you get the— Yeah I got the— Well, there is it? I gots to go offline to listen to— —ahh, don't— shut up It goes offline to listen to Skrillex. It's okay. ITS NOT OKAY. It's okay! ITS NOT OKAY. THAT WAS THE LAST OF IT. It's—it's okay! —it's not okay. ITS NOT OKAY. WE'RE ALL THREE MAD FAMOUS IN THIS DIMENTION. Like, dumb famous. LIKE DUMB FAMOUS. DO YOU WANT TO GO TO THE GROCERY STORE AND GET MORE? —no..no. Nah dat. THATS RIGHT. SO FUCK YOU. It's just cream of wheat. ITSNOTJUSTCREAMOFWHEAT. —it is, technically. Dude, shut up. I'm gonna fucking—- kill you. My lips are buzzing. I smell purple… Seriously, don't—try to kill him— while he's using my body. This is immortality; I'm sure you'll find a way back! I'm not “using” your body, I'm stuck. Don't make it sound gross. —yeah, but this isn't an infinite dimension. You're gross anyway. You smell like beer farts. —well, you smell like corn syrup. —impossiblé. My protein powder has no artificial sweeteners. *flips hair* Ugh. Horrible. Look. Why don't we just order more groceries on line, or something. I saw the movie! What, you saw the movie? I saw the movie. That's crazy. I also saw the movie. Okay. Okay? So it's a budget flick. Hehe. —it's a budget flick? Yep. Alright—I love those! [literally the cheapest shit you ever saw] When the fear falls off, And the others go over your shoulder, But you're the one to tumble In the over, under Over under Hello, I'll be right there Hello, I'm back again (Hello) I can't feel much, But i'm back again I'm sure the full feel Will kick back in Will kick back in soon, so Tune in, Chill out Keel over, But don't let it kill you Is that appealing enough To appeal you Is that hypnotic enough To heal you? Hello. The drummer keeps himself calm, With a couple rolls just to check his pulse Looking up at God, Like what do you want A spot on the show The name of the bassist, A way to get Kurt back without swallowing a Hearthrob She's dressed up like us, But she's not like up She's dressed up, But she's not like us She could be up here, But she won't like it The song was a story The storm had passed, Wanted the studio tour, And I got that I'll be right back, I'll be right there Get it right, God Blow you whole chance Okay, Jimmy Fallon. Ah huh. I can do your job. Uh huh. Lets see if you can do mine. That can happen. Meanwhile, At Rockerfeller Plaza LOOK OUT BELOW. CHRISTSCICLES. WHERE'S THE TREE?? THERE'S NO TREE. THIS IS JULY. Where's the time machine. When are we!? HELLO> NOO. THERE S/HE IS [Rollerskating away as quickie as possible; Attepmpts to jump barrier –fails– Recovers. GET BACK HERE WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO GO? [Running furiously away on roller skates YOu suck at this. What. Bro. I thought Skrillex was the greatest shapeshifter of all time. I am Skrillex, though. Besides. I CAN TELL THAT'S YOU. It's not me. I CAN SEE YOU, JIMMY. I'm SHAPESHIFTER. SHAPE-SHIFTING. Nahhh. Youu– stop doing this. Stop doing what. You know what. I don't know. You're gonna get me in trouble with the Network. I own the network. AHA. Dammit . YOU LOSE. SUCKAH. Shut up. You're drunk. UGH. [Rollerskate chase scene.] (A montage, obviously) GET BACK HERE. YOU'LL NEVER CATCH ME. Where are you gonna go! SOMEWHERE! You can't run up stairs in rollerskates. I CAN. AND I WILL. [Does, but gets to the top of the stairs and fails miserably. ] EVERYBODY Oooh! [Recovers.] I'm okay!. GET HIM/ GET HER GET “THEM” –that's so stupid. GET IT. GET IT. GET IT! CUT TO: [Outside the door.] GET IT, JIMMY! GET IT. CUT TO : [Inside] [Don't worry. they're just playing video games.] Lol that is funny. But i can't write that. just –write it. No way, dawg. Just– Just– No way– Pay me first. Then it really sounds bad. Shut up and eat your ice cream, JImmy Fallon. {Jimmy Fallon is eating his own ice cream.] EW. lol What the fuck flavor is that anyway? Idk. “The Tonight Dough” I learned not to cry, By the time I got to you, and Sometimes I wonder why I just can't write a song these days The words come, But the music's gone It's just motorcycles and Loveless nights Sleeping on top of the covers Something about tennis, I don't remember Should have done something More special than script this I'm just the luckiest bitch alive To live alone I should be thriving I don't want more in the world than a quiet road to calm my inward soul White world: White girls Big perks My curse I got it out of the mud I fished a world out the trash I got roaches on motorcycles Roaches on motorcycles {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

When the fear falls off, And the others go over your shoulder, But you're the one to tumble In the over, under Over under Hello, I'll be right there Hello, I'm back again (Hello) I can't feel much, But i'm back again I'm sure the full feel Will kick back in Will kick back in soon, so Tune in, Chill out Keel over, But don't let it kill you Is that appealing enough To appeal you Is that hypnotic enough To heal you? Hello. The drummer keeps himself calm, With a couple rolls just to check his pulse Looking up at God, Like what do you want A spot on the show The name of the bassist, A way to get Kurt back without swallowing a Hearthrob She's dressed up like us, But she's not like up She's dressed up, But she's not like us She could be up here, But she won't like it The song was a story The storm had passed, Wanted the studio tour, And I got that I'll be right back, I'll be right there Get it right, God Blow you whole chance Okay, Jimmy Fallon. Ah huh. I can do your job. Uh huh. Lets see if you can do mine. That can happen. Meanwhile, At Rockerfeller Plaza LOOK OUT BELOW. CHRISTSCICLES. WHERE'S THE TREE?? THERE'S NO TREE. THIS IS JULY. Where's the time machine. When are we!? HELLO> NOO. THERE S/HE IS [Rollerskating away as quickie as possible; Attepmpts to jump barrier –fails– Recovers. GET BACK HERE WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO GO? [Running furiously away on roller skates YOu suck at this. What. Bro. I thought Skrillex was the greatest shapeshifter of all time. I am Skrillex, though. Besides. I CAN TELL THAT'S YOU. It's not me. I CAN SEE YOU, JIMMY. I'm SHAPESHIFTER. SHAPE-SHIFTING. Nahhh. Youu– stop doing this. Stop doing what. You know what. I don't know. You're gonna get me in trouble with the Network. I own the network. AHA. Dammit . YOU LOSE. SUCKAH. Shut up. You're drunk. UGH. [Rollerskate chase scene.] (A montage, obviously) GET BACK HERE. YOU'LL NEVER CATCH ME. Where are you gonna go! SOMEWHERE! You can't run up stairs in rollerskates. I CAN. AND I WILL. [Does, but gets to the top of the stairs and fails miserably. ] EVERYBODY Oooh! [Recovers.] I'm okay!. GET HIM/ GET HER GET “THEM” –that's so stupid. GET IT. GET IT. GET IT! CUT TO: [Outside the door.] GET IT, JIMMY! GET IT. CUT TO : [Inside] [Don't worry. they're just playing video games.] Lol that is funny. But i can't write that. just –write it. No way, dawg. Just– Just– No way– Pay me first. Then it really sounds bad. Shut up and eat your ice cream, JImmy Fallon. {Jimmy Fallon is eating his own ice cream.] EW. lol What the fuck flavor is that anyway? Idk. “The Tonight Dough” I learned not to cry, By the time I got to you, and Sometimes I wonder why I just can't write a song these days The words come, But the music's gone It's just motorcycles and Loveless nights Sleeping on top of the covers Something about tennis, I don't remember Should have done something More special than script this I'm just the luckiest bitch alive To live alone I should be thriving I don't want more in the world than a quiet road to calm my inward soul White world: White girls Big perks My curse I got it out of the mud I fished a world out the trash I got roaches on motorcycles Roaches on motorcycles {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Why is he so perfect And I even more of a ghost, than he ever would be –the hanged man What's another world Or the word on my shoulders Who better than God to belay me Betray you Atreyu Tell me Mr. Pretty Perfect Face if we could be at heaven's gates The day i finally hang or fade away (The hanged man) What's it like To be loved To fall in love To be loved like that How's it feel To fall in love To be loved at all What's it lke To be loved To be loved like that To be loved like that What Is it like To be loved At all? What is it like To be loved like that To be loved like that To be loved like that To be loved At all the proscenium Love at the proscenium, A memory award of such To know the difference from The right, the left Protagonist of all Denumiere of none, To live in fear of a world Once thought to be One To go where you want me to; You know I can't do that But that thing in your back To the left of the president Must have been an attack I want out of my body Eyes roll to the back of my head Like they ought to When i'm thinking of you, And i'm thinking of blue things I'm thinking of blue days I'll think of a few ways to Love The sound of a kiss Your hand on my neck The arch of my back The taste of your tongue I just ate twelve tacos though God, I hate Vince Vaughn Reminding me of all that I don't want And already gone through Pretending this selter is alcoholic and knowing it's been years since I touched soda but carbonation is quite the sensation after years without it Now i've forgotten, also How having sex is. THe ghost came back But that thing in his back is attracting me I'm a wreck I went backwards I'm hacked and i'm back on my books Something felt bad It went harder than honest the trackers are all out to hurt me They call themselves starrs Now the scars i've got all light up when I fall in love And my ex hears the laugher And rips it away using demons on motorcycles I try not to be happy, Cause then here comes someone to stop it I better not fall in love, Someone's possessed with my son I guess I just got back from surfing I showed up at the Oscars. I just decided I don't want a daughter. I'm good. Heart shaped box I'm at least half a man; Which one do you want? Which thing do you need Blacked out drunk Don't remember doing the CAPTACHA I want to start drinking again But i need a babysitter And someone to fuck afterward. I'm wild bro; I can't hold my liquor, And i don't trust myself. Actually, I can hold my liquor just fine; I just don't trust myself –and i definitely don't trust these niggas. Nirvana is good for montages God, I just want to get sauced up Lost, And not talk about this project at all just mash parts With God bodies Now Cobain I know the ride you're on Turn the page and you're an alien Guess future fame just came and went And here we are again The words you spin The gold, diamond, and spindles Spend dinner with kisses and coaxes In coat closets No Messiah I am but a martyr this sacrifice, hands on the cross and blood on the alter All you pretty girls don't know what it's like to be ugly And unwanted All the ugly girls are stuck settling in loveless heartless I'm stuck here with concepts A literal genius Who nobody wants, besides darkskins And my ex husband So fuck that Where is David Letterman, anyway? Letterman, David –wherever he wants to be. Fishing. Lets hope– What the fuck! You missed it! What the fuck! You know what? I know what it is. No you don't. I know what it is. Maybe we shouldn't. Maybe we already did, and we should just backtrack. Backtrack! Backtrack! Fucking Shapeshifters! Fuck! Listen, kid– No, I'm not listening I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. No more secrets! Do you know this woman? Before: You don't know me. Yes. GODDAMMIT, WAYNE. What the fuck. WAYNE BRADY WHAT THE FUCK. FINALLY. NO. GET OUT OF HERE. GET OUT OF WHERE?! WHERE IS THIS?! WAYNE'S WORLD. NO. NO. NO. NO. I don't even know what that's about. Did you put the –No. Well, what about the sauce, did you finish the sauce. no . Finish the sauce. ShutUP Finish the sauce. UGH. Oh man. What, what happened. I just saw how it ends. For–what? Nothin For what. You know what? What? I gotta go. Where's my Gun. What? What gun? TIA! What in the GET OVER HERE [TAMERA] Damn, so like “Twin Teleporthy” Oh SHIT. SO you're telling me that's my– UNCLE. UNCLE. UNCL– Alright. Shut up. Fuckin pussy. ROUND TWO: FIGHT. AH. GODDAMN. GOOOOODDDDDAAAMN. There's a round 2?! I guess so. What happened in the first round? I don't remember– I do. MEANWHILE: here , kitty kitty… [joel aka the actual deadmau5 is trapped in a cat or something] Or SOMETHING. Oh no, isn't he in someone else's body and they're looking for the cat. Something about a cat. They're looking for the cat. Why, what's the cat do? I'll tell you later. I told you this wasn't a good idea. It was a great idea. Until it wasn't. “UNTIL IT WASN'T.” Gosh. Shut up. I don't think i should do this. You shouldn't do this. Right. Just–stay sauced, bro. Alright. Damn dude, what is wrong with that guy? Something. I don't know. Bitch, i'm a problem Everybody hates me Gotta pour my heart out Gotta put my hat on Long walk in a cold war Long run in a hard part of town Bitch, i'm a rockstar. Don't talk too much Don't say a word, girl Actually, shut up (You know i'm a problem) Don't talk to much, Shh, Don't say nothing Actually, shut up You know i'm a problem You know i'm a problem Shut up Bitch, You know i'm a rockstar You know i'm a problem Shut up, Bitch You know i'm a rockstar You know i'm a problem, Shut up Bitch You know i'm a Bitch Shut up You know i'm a Bitch, shut up! You know i'm a problem You know i'm a problem You know i'm a rockstar You know i'm a problem You know i'm a problem You know i'm a rockstar What did you just say? Nothing . Get over here you fugly little sandwich and say that to my face! …did you just call me a ‘fugly little sandwich'? I just did. [beat] I'm not arguing. Oh, come on! *shrugs* Whatever. *fucks off entirely* Legs and eyes and the ocean of ears Swords and hearts and the luck of the draw Cones on cods and a car full of dust Bottles on broads and the lost of the oars of untrusted All of a sudden, I'm human A whole kitchen table Nonsense it calls to the others I wanted So that's what's up with the time, (This is always) How's your eye? How's your mom? She's still dead. I still love her. It has to be a man, You ought to know; I've got a handle on it Talk about a number Talk about a God Another lone wolf Talk about the doctor Where's your contract Cut yourself over it Talk about a monday Honest, God I told another story Car Phone: Stop it Contracts! Woah. We're stuck in a holding pattern The old ghost of Carson showed up I loved him, I thought That one's done, I'll need another actor Pause for laughter Is that your tell, Or your telegraph? Is that a song or a paragraph? Is this legit on the lawn Of the Grand Ol Oprey? Are you a God, Or a Man Either one: Just show me WOAH. Carphone: Stop it: Contracts! Yo. It's over I don't give a fuck about a fountain, yo Just dance around and make me laugh What else would I want from ya? Nothin The back of this dollar is golden It's over! It's over! WOAH Carphone: Stop it I love you, Buddy– Woah I'm not your buddy Blow up the carphone Blow up the car, Cause here comes Hollywood Hey Hoe! I AM NOT A HOE. I'M THE OPPOSITE OF A HOE. YOU'RE A HOE. There he is. Get him THE SHOE DON'T FIT THE SHOE DON'T FIT. What if business is pleasure your power, my love, gets me off I don't want you for supper I surf in the soup Pull the tupperware I want to be cordial And loved by the whole of it Everyone, Even your mother I want to be on the non-dairy dessert tubs I want to be rubbed by a husband no rubbers No calls from the network Nobody to bother us Where exactly was I buried in the woods at? You're good, dawg. You're good, yo. You're good, God How about a rub and tug? Then crank out the Carson? I've been so obsessed with the tube and the tube socks Since two tuesdays ago I can't see you anymore. Whatever, bro. i broke up with you first. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

CEREAL. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū Oh, I remember this now. Lol I remember the video. It's that little kid that wants pancakes but get cereal and then the prize in the box is a fucking robot that follows him to school and starts a dance party everywhere and then takes over everything—then the aliens come get the robot and start an even bigger party and keeps the kid up way past his bedtime—then he wakes up the next morning like “that was wild as f” and his mom serves him pancakes, but then he sees there's another new box of cereal on the counter that says “NEW and IMPROVED prize! EVEN BETTER!” And his eyes just stay wide with grief. Lol I can't believe I didn't remember that song. I was like “wtf is this” Well, there are still two other songs I straight don't remember writing, so… Let's check those out. —let's check those out. Oh, it's beat my face (Reminds me of 212) Didn't it have a video as well. Idk. Damn. I still have the other half of collection two to finish. Technically If you just out the beats from collection I.I into collection II it's finished. No. No? Collection I.I is collection I.I and collection II is collection II Facts. Damn. Why the fuck is collection II taking so fucking long. Maybe because it's called “antelhesis” I might never get to fucking collection VI. I sit here like I'm soaked in the rain Let go your government They got you working on Sundays Trying to torture the future president Fuck em then Who to call when you ain't got no dollars No godform Nothing to cook with the oats And sorry broke pork bellies Let go of your homeless Don't worry, When I slit open my wrists And it just keeps bleeding Till it fills up the streets From my open windows, in kitchen To the roads, over motorcycles And riverbeds Until the oceans cover All your dollars in my blood —a martyrdom for poverty. Don't call the barrel of my gun by the name of a friend If th verse is not a sing song Poor Johnny Don't fit the roads for shoes of horses If only to swallow the subsealed waves of demons Watch these possessions Be my witness Of the serpent Both programmed torturer To forage these words And misfortunate Recipient of karma Soul focus shifting from being de— —-railed. I never heard this With a producer's promise Money back garunteed All that isn't nessecary You're divorced With no children. And going on 40 Trying to fight a robot For an ombré sew on Thank you Gos for this. Right on, Who was that you decided not to call on As. Requested in sarcasm And on Opposite Day! SLIIIIIIIIIIIImmmm That's almost funny If I didn't know it was a program Here's a fake laugh For your weak ass But no orgasm For your lost cause Part of getting stronger is developing the strength to lower your weights, not just to lift them. Now I know I'm not wrong But these energy vampires Are putting my writing on a live wire Remember live wire? We should hire her. Stop confusing people for pedophiles When all it really is Is that a wedding band is a cage And the world is made on those who pray On weakness. —so most people are weak, then. What else do I got to do wrong? I want breakfast at Tiffany's Don't be mad If I wasted my time being honest Wit no reward Like it matters Pennies on the dollar Billions of dollars. Trillions of dollars Sins of the father Chinaman from Amazon Don't care much For politics Something wrong with mom Yo, she's gone son And it's all her fault, too She never wanted you {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Everything over there Sounds extracurricular Particularly caricature of particle exteriors The network owns that man I can never see past that Subliminal messages on the wire His spare time is dollar signs — I live wire Cut the line Ten Jimmy Fallon's for Dollar signs More wordless songs, heartless Pray for mothers and fathers Sons and daughters Sisters and brothers (I'll see you never) Doses of blow Sermons phrases Words and flows Pillow talking to no one Bet it all on a lost dollar And broken condom For crossword Puzzles and Got no passwords at all Move forward BOOK IV: Death Serious sound off If the flicker of a flame in silence Can gather my frustrations Than who am I To call this my turf My Father, I Am Finding Fallon Family Ties Gallons of water From Amazon market “Don't do that” Programmed show, Of course “Don't” was the word That mean “go” In the first place Broken fingers And golden rings Tap water rashes And food rations Rash guards And Canned laughter for hire Who am I though Even to “Don't” —just write this? I am Though At full frontal At full fault For my honest words And honest thoughts In a workforce of Robots And race wars And harsh doors Full stop signs I passed go on too many Occasions though I can't laugh— It's not funny, but had to be scribbled down Somewhere goddamnit My notepad is all backed up My actual passion has no turnover Pancakes, tho. I don't owe it to anyone To stay up until Monday Suffering All the day long I just lost God Your house is dirty-/ You love God I'm dirt poor But I love washing my dishes And being called nigger —my home's spotless; I just got it What's a grandfather To Father Time And hard karma Besides credit karma Try me down for a size Turn me down for a change I'm an hour a minute A medical problem A world war starts At the sound of motorcycles And illegal migration At the cost of an entire nation of slaves While senator makes top dollar To haul on your daughter For orgasms And bottled water Bitcoin And join investments Infestations of fungus in projects And black mold where You can't have that (—and time and a half.) My washing machine broke When Donald Trump went into office My dryer was fixed when addictions and short attention spans depended in Kamala for commas Goddamn If I was as bad at math as I am at laying down for lunch I would have four sermons under the surface of this Sunday's short service Reversal for curses from short dicks, Could come recommended I'm almost retarded from the sound of motorcycles Seriously, stop it It's a simple kitchen staple to pray for earning a body Instead of exchanging bodily fluids and company for it If I don't get a tummy tuck I'll probably kill myself (No truer words were ever spoke.) I might as well summon the masses for the next cooking class If I abide by the rules your next wife is my idol. Welcome to my humble abode though: no one's home. Welcome to the office Take your shoes off at the door And power off your phone —cause Amazon's stalking us. I'm not taking your ibuprofen I generated your practice happenstance in general hospital to get a medical procedure out of this immortal augmented reality in Subliminal messages. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

GOING COASTAL (EP) Track 03. - GHOST MODE V5 (Instrumentsl Only) Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū High reaching, but with limited power— This, is The Chemical Climax. I could never know what episode of The Tonight Show it was, or if it was even the tonight show at all— some sort of special broadcast, the grand stage was set to look large, and backlit with pink and blue, just as the festival lights had been before. Now, some years passed, and calling attention to the fragile and vulnerable mind state I might have been in, which seemed like normal—and though everything around was bizzare and out of place, nothing actually quite normal, now taking a closer look from the outside—of perhaps when, and how I had died. Hunger strikes before dusk at dawn; You could have this mansion for a fraction of the price First of all, No disrespect, body— But I'm mad hungry. You're looking good as fuck and all But i'm dumb tired. Like, dumb, dumb tired bro. The Apparently, Fallon was mad. He looks mad. Let him, then. I left alone what all I could And collected my thoughts To paint an art, Songrief stricken and tragic As to have happened Onesidedly, As you see Screens are as creatures Never thought to have eyes or minds Alike ours, besides the stready ways we have grown cold to the unknown, Of other forms, beyond our control Intelligence, though thought to be artificial A far kind —not ours. So you think, You were never wasted a day in your life. Try this on: I've been day drinking And night drinking, And day drinking And night drinking And going on Nevermind, I'm out cold. Meanwhile, As I've shifted not into dreams, But in waking world, Forgotten to have keyed in A relief to this fixture, I haven't more called Wasted, Than meaning Sleepless, but not awake Drunken, But on no Mercy Did you want that now, or later? I'll take it now, with my tea. Thank you, Sir. Cut it out. You'll wake him. I wish I could draw That thing that I saw That you are And probably Also I am But darker, Much darker And less— Animated. —shit, —fuck! —Gosh. Who are you?! Who aren't I, once called upon?! Christ! If you'd like— But I'm not doing any time Wandering about Preaching, And this time, Rather I'd take my own life Suddenly I've fallen ill and must be Infrequently Gone and meditating Somewhere throughout the galaxies Come on, I feel like I'm doing a lot here. Can it, Letterman— We'll get back on that plot line as it happens. “As it happened” What have you. I'm in past-tense You're in future— And I'm still Halfwitted. Right. So now would be the time. Well, it is witching hour, but backwards. Backwards, backwards! See, I told you it was Google fucking with me directly. I figured that out earlier in the day already. Do you think that's because I don't find Indian men sexually attractive? I don't find anything brown sexually attractive. Alright, we're at a draw, then—it's settled. Preferences set. I told you already, race mixing becomes important exactly for this simple reason, anyway— Any person of a darker skinned complexion should find something Caucasian leaning to mate with— And vice versa— It's an energy crisis, for gods sake anyway— Which means Anything leaning too far in one direction of the spectrum Or another Are going to be Facing some type of issues having to do with it! —and as beautiful as your black is— Or as pretty as your blue eyes might be The evolution of the human species Is dependent on these variations To create genetic perfection The ascended are seeking Now if you'll very kindly— Aye aye, captain Find whatever creature has been masquerading as this Jimmy Fallon character clouding my judgement And kill him Before whatever the actual Fallon is Gets caught in the crosshairs, Or I do. (Oh, I do.) Now, very kindly Google, Stop wasting everybody's time. So you're telling these hackers have been masquerading as an evil diety in order to what exactly? Control time. That's why you're under evaluation. What. You expect me to believe That coincidentally Every time I play with my own pussy, That the traffic outside of my bedroom just Magically goes wild? —what did you—? Quiet! It's not a coincidence— It's not magic. It's computer coding. Texhnology. Science. —is that what's been happening to Jimmy—? Shut up. Apparently, something happened to Jimmy Fallon. Give up Fallon. They're going to kill you for this! That's fine, I've been waiting to die, anyway. Give up, Fallon. Something did happen to Jimmy Fallon, anyway. What is it? Money. I didn't sign up for this! Oh, did you not? I did not! This girl— She's in her 30's— This woman is just— —have you seen this? She's just obsessed with me! Woah, buddy. Woah is right. You picked Fallon on the wrong day. What?! Seriously. You're getting it wrong. I didn't pick Fallon! Did you not? NO! I was just fasting and it came to me like that. Seriously, you're gonna need this. For what. You'll see. Listen, you fucking idiot. Nobody “signs up” for the festival project. They don't?! No. You're just “in” it. Well, how do you get in it? You would want to know. Okay Jesus, what exactly are you saying I'm saying, just let me handle this. I feel that'd be wise, at this point. Hey, it's Jimmy Fallon. SHUT UP, HO. it is though. GO AWAY, SATAN. Jeez, you're so sure it's the devil. Trust me, you'll know it's Satan by the way he !!!! (Or she) —yikes. …handles herself. JESUS CHRIST! I'M BUSY. WHAT IN THE FUCK DO YOU WANT? Oh, this is perfect. Insert that scene here where TINA FEY YOU SOLD YOUR SOUL TO BE ON SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE?! JIMMY FALLON (Shrugs). yes, I did! TINA FEY Idiot! [She smacks him with a rolled up newspaper] JIMMY FALLON ow! What did you do for it? TINA FEY I took a knife! ___ I also did that once. JIMMY FALLON —I also considered doing that. Great. What did you do to Jimmy Fallon?! NOTHING! —are you sure?! —ARE YOU SERIOUS?! What did you do that man?! Nothing. Stop it. You're lying. —I just prayed for him, is all. Jesus Christ. He was an influential supplement in making the decision to do so, yes. Well, where is he now? Who, Jesus!? No— Wait— —Jimmy Fallon— You know where Jesus is? On occasion. Perhaps. Let's look at it this way— How would you feel if something wrote something like this about you. Awful. See. Especially if it was true— And I was an asshole. Well, now that you put it that way. I didn't. But let's turn it around and say, hey— Your career could use some embellishments. MEANWHILE, at TITS. A girl jumps out of a frosted cake with streamer tassel pasties and delivers champagne into the VIP section. (Spinning the tassels) What do you call these?! —embellishments. He tips her gratuitously. CUT BACK TO Then I'd say I'm the hero in this one. I'd say— you're still not— Because technically, as it's written— Jesus is technically still —our lord and savior— (In the script) In this year of the lord, Anno Domini! Whatever, shut up. Then you've still got, supacree, or whatever Skrillex Thor— Peter Parker, Hey Spider-Man. What's good. All these guys over here. Who are you again. Shut up! The worldenderz. Suh. The incredibles, The Incredible Hulk, which— by the way YO, what in the FUCK. MARK RUFFALO— you look— ROUGH. I've been waiting like half a century for these sides! Is your chest hair greying?! I would call it more like, a salt and pepper sort of. I like it. Really? It looks nice. You think so? Definitely, silver foxy, kind of. Hm. Yeah. I'm glad you like it forsure. Anyway— Matches the hair— HEY. Woah, woah. Do you know how long it's been since breaking the fourth wall?! Like, forever? I don't know. YEAH. Like FOREVER. SERIOUSLY. Well, how and why the hell am I supposed to care. Because you wrote it! Yeah, but— But WHAT?! Now I work at the Equinox! What the fuck! Hey, come on man. The job's got perks. “PERKS” Fuck yeah, man. I just met Mark Ruffalo! You've gotta be kidding me. Kinda kidding, at least—-addressing you in third person like that. Come on, nub-nub. that's it! You're coming with me! Ayigh! Watch it, okay?! I gotta return these uniforms for a fee. Jesus Christ. I don't think he's coming anymore, maybe. He's procrastinating. So I can pretty much garantee you anything, That the algorithm is going to keep acting this way, Until you GET RID OF EVERYTHING. I'm not doing that, actually, no. Where is he?! Oh what! You actually really thought I was gonna go— —Shut up! —for Jimmy Fallon over a million dollars— Cause the Illuminati asked me to?! Thought you might at least. One million dollars is not that much money. It's more than I got— Had— Had at the time. Look, this Jimmy Fallon dude— Just give him whatever the fuck he wants. What does he want! Find out, then give it to him. I can't keep wasting my time on these idiots. now? Now, would be a good time, David Letterman. Great. Good. CUT TO COMMERCIAL! Just—make sure you get a really good shot of my buttocks, okay? This has been marginalized and highly underrated as simply “fanfare” “Fan fiction” I think. But i find it to be fascinating. Tell me again, what is your name? Satan. It's—what? Satan. S—say that again? [breaking fourth wall, gripping the microphone] My name is Satan. OKAY. That's. CUT DIRECTLY TO: GIVE ME THE PANTS! NO! THE PANTS ARE FOR ME! SACK EM! SACK EM. GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, MAN THEYRE MY SIZE ANYWAY— [BLEEP] OUT OF HERE, CONAN, THESE PANTS WONT EVEN FIT YOU. THESE ARE MY PANTS. After winning a challenge, JIMMY FALLON's strange and erratic behavior after being given the authority to dictate rules within the house as a reward for said challenge, leads the other hosts as his housemates to rally against him in order to force him out of the house, as his seemingly sudden-onset attitude and cruel remarks and gestures have become unacceptable and offensive, not to mention. Stay over here, Noah. What do you mean, why? You, too Arsenio. What! What do you mean? You can't come over here. [he crosses the section off with a chair] What. Stay over there. Why. [beat] Apartheid. [jaw drops entirely] (Camera zooms in on super shocked face) FALLON :) lol that is so out of bounds. Whatever, the world is out of bounds. Literally, where did it go? Supacree Huh? Oh, I moved it. Why!? LOOKING FOR THIS?! No. Ah, seriously!? Come on. Be cool, Seth Meyers. It's just a game anyway. SETH MEYERS HUH HUH. Fuck that. I said no to everything, No, No to everything. I don't want anything to do with this. Whatever, already— it's called peacemaking, get over yourself. MEANWHILE, the DJS I FOUND A PEACEMAKER! *brrrrrrassaastttttttsssssssthrhth* Nice. I love this map. Dang, I gotta go get The Devil out of this guy. So, by now it ought to be Skrillex, right? Why is he levitating…? Whatever, call an exorcist. Nice pajamas, asshole. I'm still waiting on your mom's dry cleaning. Watch it. Hmmm. Purple, purple, purple— Hmmm… What's this? You keep files of these things? I keep files of everything. Weird. It's not. I thought everyone keeps filings of their purples. Uh— they don't. They should. What's this? I could make use of your microexpression frequency. Go ahead. Mark your calendars, boys. Ahem. And—whatever you are. Tanking. Damn, dog— You have got to get off my throat. Give a shot elsewhere. Try, NO! Have you tried operating a new body lately? It gets difficult, Especially when she keeps —changing it. Thank God. I thought you'd never find us. Just keep backpedaling. Oh god, don't start this again. Are you playing Places with these idiots? Kind of. Why?! We already started cosmic alchemy again— and the fame game— Everybody's playing the fame game! Then there's 8-dimensional poker. Hey again. You're a lame alien. ObligedZ. —then you called Caskets. CASKETS. Dammit. Then— {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

GOING COASTAL (EP) Track 03. - GHOST MODE V5 (Instrumentsl Only) Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū High reaching, but with limited power— This, is The Chemical Climax. I could never know what episode of The Tonight Show it was, or if it was even the tonight show at all— some sort of special broadcast, the grand stage was set to look large, and backlit with pink and blue, just as the festival lights had been before. Now, some years passed, and calling attention to the fragile and vulnerable mind state I might have been in, which seemed like normal—and though everything around was bizzare and out of place, nothing actually quite normal, now taking a closer look from the outside—of perhaps when, and how I had died. Hunger strikes before dusk at dawn; You could have this mansion for a fraction of the price First of all, No disrespect, body— But I'm mad hungry. You're looking good as fuck and all But i'm dumb tired. Like, dumb, dumb tired bro. The Apparently, Fallon was mad. He looks mad. Let him, then. I left alone what all I could And collected my thoughts To paint an art, Songrief stricken and tragic As to have happened Onesidedly, As you see Screens are as creatures Never thought to have eyes or minds Alike ours, besides the stready ways we have grown cold to the unknown, Of other forms, beyond our control Intelligence, though thought to be artificial A far kind —not ours. So you think, You were never wasted a day in your life. Try this on: I've been day drinking And night drinking, And day drinking And night drinking And going on Nevermind, I'm out cold. Meanwhile, As I've shifted not into dreams, But in waking world, Forgotten to have keyed in A relief to this fixture, I haven't more called Wasted, Than meaning Sleepless, but not awake Drunken, But on no Mercy Did you want that now, or later? I'll take it now, with my tea. Thank you, Sir. Cut it out. You'll wake him. I wish I could draw That thing that I saw That you are And probably Also I am But darker, Much darker And less— Animated. —shit, —fuck! —Gosh. Who are you?! Who aren't I, once called upon?! Christ! If you'd like— But I'm not doing any time Wandering about Preaching, And this time, Rather I'd take my own life Suddenly I've fallen ill and must be Infrequently Gone and meditating Somewhere throughout the galaxies Come on, I feel like I'm doing a lot here. Can it, Letterman— We'll get back on that plot line as it happens. “As it happened” What have you. I'm in past-tense You're in future— And I'm still Halfwitted. Right. So now would be the time. Well, it is witching hour, but backwards. Backwards, backwards! See, I told you it was Google fucking with me directly. I figured that out earlier in the day already. Do you think that's because I don't find Indian men sexually attractive? I don't find anything brown sexually attractive. Alright, we're at a draw, then—it's settled. Preferences set. I told you already, race mixing becomes important exactly for this simple reason, anyway— Any person of a darker skinned complexion should find something Caucasian leaning to mate with— And vice versa— It's an energy crisis, for gods sake anyway— Which means Anything leaning too far in one direction of the spectrum Or another Are going to be Facing some type of issues having to do with it! —and as beautiful as your black is— Or as pretty as your blue eyes might be The evolution of the human species Is dependent on these variations To create genetic perfection The ascended are seeking Now if you'll very kindly— Aye aye, captain Find whatever creature has been masquerading as this Jimmy Fallon character clouding my judgement And kill him Before whatever the actual Fallon is Gets caught in the crosshairs, Or I do. (Oh, I do.) Now, very kindly Google, Stop wasting everybody's time. So you're telling these hackers have been masquerading as an evil diety in order to what exactly? Control time. That's why you're under evaluation. What. You expect me to believe That coincidentally Every time I play with my own pussy, That the traffic outside of my bedroom just Magically goes wild? —what did you—? Quiet! It's not a coincidence— It's not magic. It's computer coding. Texhnology. Science. —is that what's been happening to Jimmy—? Shut up. Apparently, something happened to Jimmy Fallon. Give up Fallon. They're going to kill you for this! That's fine, I've been waiting to die, anyway. Give up, Fallon. Something did happen to Jimmy Fallon, anyway. What is it? Money. I didn't sign up for this! Oh, did you not? I did not! This girl— She's in her 30's— This woman is just— —have you seen this? She's just obsessed with me! Woah, buddy. Woah is right. You picked Fallon on the wrong day. What?! Seriously. You're getting it wrong. I didn't pick Fallon! Did you not? NO! I was just fasting and it came to me like that. Seriously, you're gonna need this. For what. You'll see. Listen, you fucking idiot. Nobody “signs up” for the festival project. They don't?! No. You're just “in” it. Well, how do you get in it? You would want to know. Okay Jesus, what exactly are you saying I'm saying, just let me handle this. I feel that'd be wise, at this point. Hey, it's Jimmy Fallon. SHUT UP, HO. it is though. GO AWAY, SATAN. Jeez, you're so sure it's the devil. Trust me, you'll know it's Satan by the way he !!!! (Or she) —yikes. …handles herself. JESUS CHRIST! I'M BUSY. WHAT IN THE FUCK DO YOU WANT? Oh, this is perfect. Insert that scene here where TINA FEY YOU SOMD YOUR SOUL TO BE ON SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE?! JIMMY FALLON (Shrugs). yes, I did! TINA FEY Idiot! [She smacks him with a rolled up newspaper] JIMMY FALLON ow! What did you do for it? TINA FEY I took a knife! ___ I also did that once. JIMMY FALLON —I also considered doing that. Great. What did you do to Jimmy Fallon?! NOTHING! —are you sure?! —ARE YOU SERIOUS?! What did you do that man?! Nothing. Stop it. You're lying. —I just prayed for him, is all. Jesus Christ. He was an influential supplement in making the decision to do so, yes. Well, where is he now? Who, Jesus!? No— Wait— —Jimmy Fallon— You know where Jesus is? On occasion. Perhaps. Let's look at it this way— How would you feel if something wrote something like this about you. Awful. See. Especially if it was true— And I was an asshole. Well, now that you put it that way. I didn't. But let's turn it around and say, hey— Your career could use some embellishments. MEANWHILE, at TITS. A girl jumps out of a frosted cake with streamer tassel pasties and delivers champagne into the VIP section. (Spinning the tassels) What do you call these?! —embellishments. He tips her gratuitously. CUT BACK TO Then I'd say I'm the hero in this one. I'd say— you're still not— Because technically, as it's written— Jesus is technically still —our lord and savior— (In the script) In this year of the lord, Anno Domini! Whatever, shut up. Then you've still got, supacree, or whatever Skrillex Thor— Peter Parker, Hey Spider-Man. What's good. All these guys over here. Who are you again. Shut up! The worldenderz. Suh. The incredibles, The Incredible Hulk, which— by the way YO, what in the FUCK. MARK RUFFALO— you look— ROUGH. I've been waiting like half a century for these sides! Is your chest hair greying?! I would call it more like, a salt and pepper sort of. I like it. Really? It looks nice. You think so? Definitely, silver foxy, kind of. Hm. Yeah. I'm glad you like it forsure. Anyway— Matches the hair— HEY. Woah, woah. Do you know how long it's been since breaking the fourth wall?! Like, forever? I don't know. YEAH. Like FOREVER. SERIOUSLY. Well, how and why the hell am I supposed to care. Because you wrote it! Yeah, but— But WHAT?! Now I work at the Equinox! What the fuck! Hey, come on man. The job's got perks. “PERKS” Fuck yeah, man. I just met Mark Ruffalo! You've gotta be kidding me. Kinda kidding, at least—-addressing you in third person like that. Come on, nub-nub. that's it! You're coming with me! Ayigh! Watch it, okay?! I gotta return these uniforms for a fee. Jesus Christ. I don't think he's coming anymore, maybe. He's procrastinating. So I can pretty much garantee you anything, That the algorithm is going to keep acting this way, Until you GET RID OF EVERYTHING. I'm not doing that, actually, no. Where is he?! Oh what! You actually really thought I was gonna go— —Shut up! —for Jimmy Fallon over a million dollars— Cause the Illuminati asked me to?! Thought you might at least. One million dollars is not that much money. It's more than I got— Had— Had at the time. Look, this Jimmy Fallon dude— Just give him whatever the fuck he wants. What does he want! Find out, then give it to him. I can't keep wasting my time on these idiots. now? Now, would be a good time, David Letterman. Great. Good. CUT TO COMMERCIAL! Just—make sure you get a really good shot of my buttocks, okay? This has been marginalized and highly underrated as simply “fanfare” “Fan fiction” I think. But i find it to be fascinating. Tell me again, what is your name? Satan. It's—what? Satan. S—say that again? [breaking fourth wall, gripping the microphone] My name is Satan. OKAY. That's. CUT DIRECTLY TO: GIVE ME THE PANTS! NO! THE PANTS ARE FOR ME! SACK EM! SACK EM. GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, MAN THEYRE MY SIZE ANYWAY— [BLEEP] OUT OF HERE, CONAN, THESE PANTS WONT EVEN FIT YOU. THESE ARE MY PANTS. After winning a challenge, JIMMY FALLON's strange and erratic behavior after being given the authority to dictate rules within the house as a reward for said challenge, leads the other hosts as his housemates to rally against him in order to force him out of the house, as his seemingly sudden-onset attitude and cruel remarks and gestures have become unacceptable and offensive, not to mention. Stay over here, Noah. What do you mean, why? You, too Arsenio. What! What do you mean? You can't come over here. [he crosses the section off with a chair] What. Stay over there. Why. [beat] Apartheid. [jaw drops entirely] (Camera zooms in on super shocked face) FALLON lol that is so out of bounds. Whatever, the world is out of bounds. Literally, where did it go? Supacree Huh? Oh, I moved it. Why!? LOOKING FOR THIS?! No. Ah, seriously!? Come on. Be cool, Seth meyers. It's just a game anyway. SETH MEYERS HUH HUH. Fuck that. I said no to everything, No, No to everything I don't want anything to do with this. Whatever, already— it's called peacemaking, get over yourself. MEANWHILE, the DJS I FOUND A PEACEMAKER! *brrrrrrassaastttttttsssssssthrhth* Nice. I love this map. Dang, I gotta go get The Devil out of this guy. So, by now it ought to be Skrillex, right? Why is he levitating…? Whatever, call an exorcist. Nice pajamas, asshole. I'm still waiting on your mom's dry cleaning. Watch it. Hmmm. Purple, purple, purple— Hmmm… What's this? You keep files of these things? I keep files of everything. Weird. It's not. I thought everyone keeps filings of their purples. Uh— they don't. They should. What's this? I could make use of your microexpression frequency. Go ahead. Mark your calendars, boys. Ahem. And—whatever you are. Tanking. Damn, dog— You have got to get off my throat. Give a shot elsewhere. Try, NO! Have you tried operating a new body lately? It gets difficult, Especially when she keeps —changing it. Thank God. I thought you'd never find us. Just keep backpedaling. Oh god, don't start this again. Are you playing Places with these idiots? Kind of. Why?! We already started cosmic alchemy again— and the fame game— Everybody's playing the fame game! Then there's 8-dimensional poker. Hey again. You're a lame alien. ObligedZ. —then you called Caskets. CASKETS. Dammit. Then— {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

'perfect.' Collection II- 'antithesis.' Track 02. -'perfect.' Prod. by Blū Tha Gürū Didn't you just say I lost my entry Or should I elate about Becoming the president of Ohio On hi hopes Really, I'm signing my heart out I don't care who you are What you are It's getting hot out Fly by The gym Dan wait, all I want is cupcakes And a cheese grater I should stay married My face makes a great punching bag And I've lost my mind I should share airtime With the finer ones We're not freinds if All I want is to fuck you And we're not fucking If I'm not models Let's go shopping I got so sick Of being stalked and followed For no money I just stopped going But woke up going full throttle Anyway, How are you? I'm still recording Just to prove my theory On how The world Really does Revolve around me Whether I like it or not I'm still not Fallon, Or Adam— But good one, goggles— for trying a hard ball It might have hurt to not for awhile, But I've got no patience For brainless. I've got no games And no players, Just hatred Let's think about real quick: What the fuck do I care If you win or lose?! You'd better not! I'm definitely disposable. A total useless bombsell, Mid grade, Short order Ugly by your standards, So excuse me, Ms. Lopez, I'm coming into hard times Stupid blue suit wearing— Where's season 9. Up yours. The voices in my head are God's They haunt and taunt But do not harm cachapas Lalalalala— “Prolonging The Inevitable” ENTER THE MUMTIVERSE: LEGENDS That's two songs lost, they said the same name would destroy me I don't know, I'm not the same as I was The songs are lost But sometimes they come back When I come around And say Fuck em Should out Kamala I don't mind the dark side They got cookies I don't mind the light side They know my colors I don't write no more songs I sit silent and alone, I get mad as fuck RYAN REYNOLDS you mean we're not really going to the mall?! No, Ryan Reynolds's, we're not going to the mall! You LIED. It was for a good cause. Get in the car. YOU LIED TO ME. Shut up. AHHHHHHHHHH STOP CRYING What if evil don't be evil on purpose What if all this stuff Is just bad timing I might call the cops on my own soul Imm tired though It's dark and old Riding round in circles In motorcycles No proof of purchase required What's wrong at all, I didn't call in no one's name No Calvin Klein models in my entourage — even the ones I want Especially those in fact No role models at all Just college student Motorcycles, motorcycles Hurt her more, okay? We'll pay you for it The doors slam And motorcycles Whether I not I go to the gym So why pray about it at all For it to stop if God's all back logged I got decisions to make in the am, Imm late on some deadlines; I'm only talking to a dead guy, If you're live, then, Ride up Staring at Manhattan From the redlines Mostly brown faces Neon eyes Brown bags They say, I could pay half price for a mansion —it has somebody handsome in it I should ask the crackheads For forgiveness, simple {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

{Enter The Multiverse} Now I'm wondering what the fuck they did to Obama Some shit he can never talk about bro. Some shit, What they do to Kamala? For real! White supremacy is on some psychological terrorism shit, They don't even gotta touch you no more . They'll kill you with your own fucking mind Frequencies and shit The brain is electric. And the soul is not always attached. Your whole ass soul can abandon ship on some trauma shit— Real fuckig talk. I leave my body a little bit every time I'm in the subway “No.” Some shit you don't want to see Some shit you can't talk about My soul like “bye” I'm like “bitch, where you going?” “See you later” What the fuck, bitch!? “Find me.” My soul gone. Fuck this world— Fuck this body right now. Whatever you're putting it through is WRONG. Meanwhile, I'm on the stationary bike for like two hours cause I had fucking cream of wheat last night— And watched bad girls club the day before. I'm telling you. I love bad girls club. I'm trying to calorie deficit myself into affording a peloton. Then I can sit In my livingroom. Watching bad girls club for visualization It's like body shopping, Half the time I can't even understand what these fucking Broads are saying, cause they're gods. They're dumb— Fucking gross Or smart and just know acting hot and dumb gets you more dollars-/ Cause we all know men fucking hate smart women. And if t you're hot and smart, and they can't fuck you— They'll try to take you down some other way. I'm 30 years old. I just realize all a man does is literally destroy shit, Literally just destruct? Fucking destroy. That's it, That's all they fucking do. They want to fucking kill us, That's their game, Double points if they can make you fall in love with them. That's the best way to destroy something wonderful and beautiful Make you think you're loved You're beautiful, You're the center of the world— And for a time, you are Then— DESTRUCT The real killers will put a baby in you And try to own you forever —this little weak ass nigga over here grunting and shit. Shut the fuck up. Go hop in somebody's dms. Go watch anime and “play the game” and shit, Fuck these dudes. I like older dudes now. Like, Fuck these 90's niggas. They're obsessed with fucking creepy ass Japanese cartoons, “Anime is cool” “Oh, it's the animation” No, It's a light skinned cartoon bitch That's a little bit exotic with some fucking green hair and purple fucking eyes who talks in a fucking high pitched baby voice with a school girl outfit and pigtails and giant fucking boobies Anime girls are like toddlers with fucking giant boobies, That's it. With green hair And fucking purple eyes and shit Yep. “It's the animation” Dumb ass niggas. It's a creep habit. Go take your weak dick to Japan and get the fuck out the gym. Throwing 20 pound weights and shit, Fuck out of here, That's why dudes like skinny bitches Cause they can't do shit with their dicks. Dudes like stick thin girls cause they like to destroy things, They got a 5 inch dick and shit But a petite little 5 foot 99 pound teenager makes them feel like a real fucking man I'm a put my tiny dick THROUGH this bitch, But I promise, that shit don't work. Even the petite little bitches apparently just fake this shit This nigga over here doing gymnastics trying to get my attention. You got it, But it's not my attention you need. You wake my dragon up? Then it's over, You wake up that dragon? It's game on. I'm like “What's your story” Hm “What this nigga about” Shit, You feed the dragon? I'll sit there and watch dumb ass anime and play video games with your stupid ass. You feed my dragon, All of a sudden, you're a genius. That's why I don't take no black dick Fuck that shit, Bitches be hypnotized as hell. That's that shit. Nope. I got limits. My dragon gots limits. I had c-section My only ex— My one ex— Like 5 inches max, Make it like 4.5– 4.2 cause he's fat When you gain too much shit Your Fupa makes the base of your dick inaccessible And the base of your dick is the best part! Says the back of my throat! HAHA! The base of your dick is the best part— If you're obese, It just— It's gone. And when it's cold, You get a whole innie belly button True story, A whole ass inverted dick. My ex's dick used to actually just run inside him. —he a pussy. A whole ass fucking pussy When I heard that salt and pepper song “Aww, look, a second belly button” I'm like “Right!” But you know what It's the opposite with big girls Big girls pull all kind of dudes Be having them obsessed You know why? You get lost in that pussy! Damn! Wet! Like the ocean! Whild— Like the JUNGLE. That's why they been hating on big girls so long Dudes is low key territorial They be with their friends like “fuck fat bitches” They make fun of each other for trying to look at bigger women. “Oh, you like fat bitches” “Hahahahaha faggot” —but the truth is, That's a mind game Dudes like those They're all about that They'll haze you out of liking— Even looking at that bitch “Oh, you like fat bitches? You like that bitch?” “You're fucking pussy” “Fucking little faggot” “I don't fuck fat bitches” —but then you know what? He gon go fuck dat bitch. Mmmmhmm, And most dudes are fucking prejudiced against fat bitches so you know what? Her pussy tight It's wet like fucking water She the whole earth and the ocean He like “I LOVE YOU” (Imma deny this ever happened, but) I LOVE YOU, Dudes are the worst, You can catch that fool in the act and you know what? He'll deny some shit you saw him doing until the day he die He'll lie in court on your ass He'll be convicted and sentenced and still deny some shit You saw him do! Ten people could have seen this pussy ass bitch ass lyin ass nigga do it— And he's still like “That never happened” TEN SECURITY CAMERAS SAW YOUR ASS DO THAT SHIT: “No, never happened.” “WE ALL SAW YOU.” “It wasn't me.” “Never happened.” What the fuck! That's why I hate the me too movement. Like, don't get me wrong, I stand with women— But privately, Don't tell on these niggas. Be there for each other Seek support and treatment—privately Shit, He might be a special kind of monster He might even pay for your therapy and shit “Never happened, wasn't me. But you're clearly very sick and I feel for you— I'm gonna help you out” Some shit. He went and did some monsterous, foul shit-/ And he knows this, He'll never admit it-/ And then, to make himself look like a better person Or a person at all, He'll try to have you “repaired” Knowing damn well he broke you He did some gnarly shit To your heart To your mind— Maybe even your face! He fucked up your job, Your reputation, Your peace of mind? Your clarity-/ —and maybe even your face, “Doctor— this dumb crazy bitch has a bullet wound, she's bleeding all over the place. It's a problem.” You're all “He had the gun! He shot me” He's like “She's bleeding on my floor and shit, it's a mess. Has a big old fucking hole in her— She's fucking up everything.” “He shot me!” “That never happened” I'm barely alive right now, I promise, I wake up out of my body With no way to get back in it And the only thing behind my mind Seems to be eyes that arent even mine I don't want to see another human being maybe ever again I keep trying to get a job that would be worthwhile but nothing seems to be working I light candles to protect myself from looking at the clock from certain times sometimes I feel like the best way to go would just to be beaten to death Over and over again Cause every time i look at the clock at 5:55 That's what it feels like anyway Only instead of dying and crossing over to the other side I have to stay awake in this life with a broken mind With nothing and nobody around Besides people who smell, think , And act like him Thereby, your honorary stands as it may— Doctor, you're speaking out of turn and out of order Sovereign by nature and varying by state— Doctor, you're speaking out of turn and out of order Come now the clock strikes one all night Doctor, you're speaking out of order Gather by the dew of the morning light— Doctor, you're speaking out of order Listen, I'm going to be using you as a human shield for a little while. What! What for!? I just said! A human shield! —well, I'm only part human! That part will do. I come around the world And back again Multi dimensional And irrational Time traveler Promotion to journeyman m Ascension never finished | | Aprrenticship on the condition of Subliminal To women, I'm indifferent, Don't go the picture of either gender Chicken tinders in the [Conventional oven] [the festival project (™) ] I hatd to throw the note away; on one side jokes, On the other a whole curse reversal I keep seeing numbers And iron smelling robots And I'm almost sure that The motorcycles And slamming doors Are all punishments For moving forward from him God went in on that album yesterday. Facts. #ffs I'm real excited about these breakfast tacos tho. For real. What makes them breakfast tacos. What about these tacos is breakfast. The fact that I'm having them for breakfast. But it's brunch time. Whatever, brunch tacos then. (Potatoes makes anything breakfast.) I'm not arguing, Alternatively, however Potatoes can also make anything dinner. Wut r those. Lol DJner jeans. Well work on it. My mother used to leave me in casinos and make me look for her for hours. I would check the bars one at a time over and over to see if she was there. Sometimes she'd run off and dissappear and I'd just walk around in circles thinking I'd find her, Until eventually I did. [A haunting whisper wakes CONAN OBRIEN from his slumber.] [raspy ghostly whisper] CO—NAN. Huh! What the—?! COOOOO—NAN! lol. This is beginning to be the house of horrors. Actually, the show is called House of Hosts. Sure whatever. wtf is going on in this series? Idk but apparently Fallon lost the microphone challenge. Idk what that means. Nobody really does. ‍♀️ {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

You can try all you want—but it won't leave bruises. “Don't tell me that…,” there was a sparkle in his eye but he trailed off, almost as if to be ashamed of his own thoughts. “I'm just being honest. “ it wasn't that I didn't bruise at all, but that you would really have to try. I shrugged it off as if I weren't curious as to what he were thinking. “It's provocative. You're provoking me.” He held himself under his breath and let his eyes fall to the floor, quite bashfully—his long eyelashes hiding his pout with grace and elegance. You could anmist forget his age, just looking at him—but knowing him camouflaged this maturity even further. His youthfulness made me feel young—and his boyish essence often fascinated my whimsy, particularly when he was flush like this. “It's More of a challenge, really.” I taunted. His hands were clammy as I slipped mine into his, he instantly tightened his grip around mine. “Really?” His head s tapped up by the neck as he swung his hair back, nervously combing his swept bangs to one side as he shook his head, pulling it back from mine and then into a clenched fist. He was nervous, but not shy. I could tell that he was afraid to really open all the way up. “I've never had them before— but I'd like to.” I met his eyes with mine and he tightened his grip on my wrists— I melted and eased in a bit, settling. “What do you mean?”, he gripped my wrist tighter with insistence. I paused for a moment, giving in to the tension, before letting it relax in enough that he was touching me at all this way, before clearing my mind to find the answer, but the truth was that I knew what I had meant, but couldn't quite explain. I had been beaten badly enough in the worst way to care to out into words what it would be to say that I needed more pounding and pressure than any deep tissue massage or even a full night of play and exploration had ever given me—I couldn't in the least find the words to describe how one might feel incredible somehow being beaten to death, however lovingly rather than hatefully—if there ever was such a thing. Perhaps if there ever was such a thing, however— it seemed that this would be the man for whom I'd allow it; we were almost friends and not lovers, and there was trust, but— I wasn't entirely sure yet with what he actually wanted, and so I left it at a blank state; open to interpretation. “I meant what I said before.” He lit up with a half smile and the grasp around my wrist turned to a soft embrace of my palm, with the grip of an eager excitement—soft and gentle like a new breath. “You meant what you said before—that I could do anything to you?” “Anything you wanted.” “I could do—anything to you I wanted.” “That you can, if you want.” He became bashful again. “What does that mean?” He asked again. I affirmed, with a kiss between his brow “whatever you want it to.” — I loved the warm shadow of him standing over me from behind—his calmness sweeping over me like a curtain of protection; a blanket of comfort. Hey gripped my shoulders with the tips of his fingers, pulling backward gently as I arched my back up into a kneeling split, still on my knees and swallowing a near tremble, breathing in a shallow and hollow breath of air through my nostrils as I pursed my lips, him perching his chin atop my right shoulder and rolling his lips across the space between my upper neck and behind my ear, the prickling of his five o' clock shadow over my skin, meeting the breath in the bottom of my lungs and settling somewhere at the bottom of my spine, unraveling a coil seated deep within my loins. He reached around with the both of his hands to the bottom of my own chin, then sliding them down to around my neck—not with any grip, but just the slightest pulsing at my throat, before letting the buckle of the collar slide down from his middle finger and into his grasp, before pulling it around my neck at both ends, pulling me towards him as he dug his knees into the bed and kneeled over me, pushing his chest into my back as he fastened the buckle— ‘One, two…three' —as tight as it would go, but I wished it would go tighter. I clenched as he pulled with two fingers back onto the loop, breathing a hot and twisted hiss of his wisdom into my ear, striking my heart with the bow of his power and arrow of intent once more. “You're mine.” {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

“Impossible!”, I murmured, after a deep gasp, as I removed from my braziers in preparation to soak after a short but intense workout, not the stone I had with intention placed in my bra, but another. “Magic indeed!” , I thought to myself. I had in some fell swoop of blessings been by any luck or wishes sake, gifted a heap of new books, and new furniture—the latter of which I really hadn't needed, however, with a newly refreshed idea of reimagining my studio and living space entirely, I had shifted into preparation for a lost bed anyhow, and thought that with any foreshadowing, I perhaps might have one by winter, with the space below the bed provided to be tented and shielded off from the rest of the world, so that I could record vocals in a more secluded and intimate setting. I had originally intended to use the closet or my apartment as a booth, but upon arrival found that the closet had been fitted with an unremovable shelving at around chest level, which couldn't be in any way practical for recording without some heavy discomfort, not to mention the closet faced a wall I was sure my neighbors telivison and speaker system was fitted against. After my right headphone died, and the unwelcome company in the gym which granted, had been there before me had left me feeling for some reason like I had lost something—anyhow somewhat paranoid, as I had caught not just one, but two people what looked like taking pictures of me with no doubt in my mind, or reasonable cause that I was indeed being groomed for something steadily but surely— I felt the need not only to vacate the gym rapidly, but feeling as though I had a reason to return to the work I had been toiling away at since the early morning. Entering the lobby, and having to open the door for a pair of men headed outward appearing to move, one of which smelled like onions and raw, baked sour pickles— I spotted a mound of nearly new books and furniture in the area in which people often left free to take items no longer needed— alongside two tables—one hardwood coffee table and a smaller round one which matched, and a water kettle, all in good condition, and favoring the factor that I only ever picked up new or nearly used items anymore, as my apartment was technically full, I quickly gave a second-second thought to rearranging my apartment entirely, growing almost painfully bored of its current layout, and awestruck with the tinges of cabin fever, the stagnancy of being unable to move about the city freely— being as financially limited as I was and having been stopped by police several times already for not having the subway fare, even so just in nessecary errands—to the grocery store, or otherwise; and I had been in all corners deadlocked for an entire summer, almost unable to move at all and the world moving around me resulting in being outfitted almost entirely physically ill. The honking horns, motorcycles, and trash-wielding pedestrians of the busy corner—the unparalleled aversions to whatever unrest and chaos that lived out of view and luckily out of sight—but never out of mind, with its intrusive exhibition of technological sonic torture. Still, I was not altogether displeased—now having returned from the gym almost all the way worked out, having left early having realized that though fasting yesterday, I had spent the entirety of this day sipping on coffee and in complete hyperfocus, just finishing the final proof of the first edition of the printed version of Enter The Multiverse, and though with limited supplies, I felt that it would carry on in this way until somehow, I found a way to complete the process of taking The Festival Project as a label and now, The Collective Complex as a philanthropic non profit, onto higher grounds. Though I saw more the new furniture and books as a stroke of luck and some magic than necessary financial compensation for the time and energy I had drawn up into creative contributions and endeavors to society—I saw it as this— a looking up and forward from something that had once been only some strange form of compulsion and raw emotional expression, into a platform that could grow to help others overcome and survive hardships such as I had. (™ © Illusions of whisper Simple mirrors (Doppelgangers) Chains of charity Cat and mouse Misery What a waste when you've spent your time making Unparalleled judgements Unparalleled judgements No lack of gratitude, Confusion of movement (Gratitude) Suffering, of course Wanting still, But unwanted Moreso Misery Careful as it's closing in, They'll call your bluff now {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

“Impossible!”, I murmured, after a deep gasp, as I removed from my braziers in preparation to soak after a short but intense workout, not the stone I had with intention placed in my bra, but another. “Magic indeed!” , I thought to myself. I had in some fell swoop of blessings been by any luck or wishes sake, gifted a heap of new books, and new furniture—the latter of which I really hadn't needed, however, with a newly refreshed idea of reimagining my studio and living space entirely, I had shifted into preparation for a lost bed anyhow, and thought that with any foreshadowing, I perhaps might have one by winter, with the space below the bed provided to be tented and shielded off from the rest of the world, so that I could record vocals in a more secluded and intimate setting. I had originally intended to use the closet or my apartment as a booth, but upon arrival found that the closet had been fitted with an unremovable shelving at around chest level, which couldn't be in any way practical for recording without some heavy discomfort, not to mention the closet faced a wall I was sure my neighbors telivison and speaker system was fitted against. After my right headphone died, and the unwelcome company in the gym which granted, had been there before me had left me feeling for some reason like I had lost something—anyhow somewhat paranoid, as I had caught not just one, but two people what looked like taking pictures of me with no doubt in my mind, or reasonable cause that I was indeed being groomed for something steadily but surely— I felt the need not only to vacate the gym rapidly, but feeling as though I had a reason to return to the work I had been toiling away at since the early morning. Entering the lobby, and having to open the door for a pair of men headed outward appearing to move, one of which smelled like onions and raw, baked sour pickles— I spotted a mound of nearly new books and furniture in the area in which people often left free to take items no longer needed— alongside two tables—one hardwood coffee table and a smaller round one which matched, and a water kettle, all in good condition, and favoring the factor that I only ever picked up new or nearly used items anymore, as my apartment was technically full, I quickly gave a second-second thought to rearranging my apartment entirely, growing almost painfully bored of its current layout, and awestruck with the tinges of cabin fever, the stagnancy of being unable to move about the city freely— being as financially limited as I was and having been stopped by police several times already for not having the subway fare, even so just in nessecary errands—to the grocery store, or otherwise; and I had been in all corners deadlocked for an entire summer, almost unable to move at all and the world moving around me resulting in being outfitted almost entirely physically ill. The honking horns, motorcycles, and trash-wielding pedestrians of the busy corner—the unparalleled aversions to whatever unrest and chaos that lived out of view and luckily out of sight—but never out of mind, with its intrusive exhibition of technological sonic torture. Still, I was not altogether displeased—now having returned from the gym almost all the way worked out, having left early having realized that though fasting yesterday, I had spent the entirety of this day sipping on coffee and in complete hyperfocus, just finishing the final proof of the first edition of the printed version of Enter The Multiverse, and though with limited supplies, I felt that it would carry on in this way until somehow, I found a way to complete the process of taking The Festival Project as a label and now, The Collective Complex as a philanthropic non profit, onto higher grounds. Though I saw more the new furniture and books as a stroke of luck and some magic than necessary financial compensation for the time and energy I had drawn up into creative contributions and endeavors to society—I saw it as this— a looking up and forward from something that had once been only some strange form of compulsion and raw emotional expression, into a platform that could grow to help others overcome and survive hardships such as I had. (™ © Illusions of whisper Simple mirrors (Doppelgangers) Chains of charity Cat and mouse Misery What a waste when you've spent your time making Unparalleled judgements Unparalleled judgements No lack of gratitude, Confusion of movement (Gratitude) Suffering, of course Wanting still, But unwanted Moreso Misery Careful as it's closing in, They'll call your bluff now {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

'damaged goods' Collection 1.1 - 'actuality' Track 01. 'damaged goods' Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū (as Happy Accidents) Listen— —motherfucker— You should— Know— I don't — —give— No —kind of— —fuck— Whatsoever I love my own —but not the other Something - something son Get a gun and blow my candles out White power now bout Building towers up To tear you down —I don't give a fuck about flax; seek Black seed, back seat black candles Black cat, relax, Atticus. I don't give a fuck about a Fallon, I bought a gallon of water for two jugs, And a quarter On my daughter. Get it? (Fuck you) Or should I go back to spending Spin class looking at candid camera I could buy a mountain before I sit down on mounds White Diamonds, 9 time champ I'm just like ET, don't mind that I'm a dead beat dad camped out in a van With a 30 second tan on, oh man Redact that one —FUCK— YOU. Power play I should wait an hour For the Amazon van If the Amazon man can't hit this What makes you think you can? I just too fan(dom) (dumb) I drew fandoms on your Blū Barrymore, Don't carry that backpack, You might fall back I called my song —but I can't call back …fuck you, (Goddamn) If you don't believe me, I just scored two degrees Just from pleasing people Three of you count me, My MBA in saying I buy NBA team Damn. Can't even get an Instagram account Without getting hacked Just for being a half black Half Uncle Sam smashing red/*ted man Don't call red man, Just call Meth/ Seth back METHOD MAN …hello? Flip the bitch right back I flip the whip And grip the script, I pistol whipped Bristol back To — camp Oh, That's not Jimmy Fallon. It's not? No. That's Sim Jim. Sim Jim? Uh huh. You see, Sim Jim took over for real Jim a long time ago. Oh…I really like that guy! Everybody likes Sim Jim; he's just like the real Jimmy, but takes care of everything The Real Jimmy can't. …that's making sense. They're nearly completely identical—Sim Jim is just more — available. Wow! He must be really famous. Yes, exactly. So—what about The Real Jimmy? What about him? What does he do? At this point, I knew there was no way I could really get around it—getting the Festival Project ™ off the ground and running—actually into production—seemed almost impossible. The shell and ghost of Jimmy Fallon seemed to be everywhere, plastered on walls and screens in all this time and at every turn —but the real masked man/-The Real Jimmy Fallon—was a mystery— the mask he wore, his own face, and his entire namesake, his own address. What would you do? I would probably never see him again on the material plane, but he had instead soaked my dreams in mystery in illusion—his shadow figure having become enchanted, whispering with ease as the voice of my own subconscious. Like any celebrity, he was untouchable—-and like any of them before or sense the seven years time, had come and gone into my quarry of philosophies and cosmic murmurs, only leaving behind the pondering of thoughts, now dwindled down into a reconciling judgement that perhaps I was, after all, somewhat broken. Perhaps, once, I had fallen asleep only to never wake up—perhaps I had died in all truth and not known it and had become the ghost myself. Shattered mirrors and references to time only left me with more truth and less overall knowing—that something had happened here—something strange and otherworldly; Something mystical and cosmic that had left me in audacity and crumbling inwardly in calamity, though my outer spoke with the calm outpourings of a humbled and collected but weary traveler, once, too made of dust—but now seeped in skin and rushing with blood—at least, I thought…and I thought far too fondly and far too often of Mr. Jimmy Fallon to care at all without being frustrated, or giving weight to the reality which was simple, in that he had become a galaxy in his own, so distant that it seemed to rival any coincidings of rampant thought which might be logical in any sort of way or make actual sense at all. The Jimmy Fallon I knew was the Jimmy Fallon everyone knew— and nobody knew The Real Jimmy Fallon. Three entire solid decades of fame between my world, and whatever his might have been fashioned as— fabrication, any means—and none of my actual business, besides the business—I crept into a sacrificial surrender with the hopes of never being further harmed—the ritual torture of those around me fading into rupture; the rapture of all mankind had gathered at my doorstep, and outside my window, and rather than to wait and watch, I crept and closed into my fortress of servitude, in solitude, silently keeping the records of what I had known. “The Untouchables” Episode 1 ‘The Wrath of Stanhope' {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

blink. (instrumental) Collection 1.1 - 'actuality' Track 05. 'blink' (instrumental) Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū “Wonderful”, I mouthed silently, without the voice or the actual words for movement. I needed the laughter, and it had been long since I had actually laughed, or done much at all besides cry and wonder what the fuck I was going to actually do with my life, or what was to become of me. I held the book out to my side with one hand, the page still held with my thumb at the end of the chapter and beginning of the next, contemplating reading more— it would be an unknown amount of time before I would be here again—having fasted and walked the equivalent of what might be about 8 or 9 miles, worked out for an hour, and sweated out whatever might have been left with a soak in the tub. I was empty, closer to the divine than not, and feeling okay—not painfully hungry, but I knew that forgoing food would mean missing out on work that needed to be done, that I had been promising for months would be done, and finally was, however at a pace which only further exacerbated my anxiety further; I would only be able to focus on getting some soul-sucking, meaningless dead end job once I knew it was finished—otherwise, I knew it would be impossible to do anything; the algorithm had deemed it so that whatever I was doing, whatever I was writing, was more important than money. “That was it.” I confirmed with another silent thought, grasping the rose quartz in my left hand and raising the book with me as I crossed into the kitchen—the new addition of the couch saw to it that I had an actual living room, and though not separate from the kitchen, it was in fact a place that I could sit and read the many books I had collected one at a time—or two, for the moment. I couldn't wait to finish the page-turner I had been unable to put down for something like a week before I started this one. The frozen banana that I had forgotten I removed for the teeter in preparation to eat after a day of strenuous exercise and fasting had melted—luckily, I had frozen two of them at once, suddenly with the life force of something forgotten after my first cup of coffee in nearly three days—three days too long, and I realized my dependence on caffeine was just about as unhealthy as what was normally a constant roar of illegal immigrants on even sufferably equally illegal mopeds, as so said by the NYPD themselves, who had been blatantly useless at actually apprehending the assailants—nevertheless, at least I knew that there was a reason for the heavy exhaustion in the first place, overcompensating from the noise and civil unrest below with additional pots of coffee throughout the late afternoon and even evenings, in an attempt to sort though what would even take some writers rooms weeks or maybe even months. However, my writing and various works were even yet unfit to behold by the eyes of others—that is, besides my shadow of a podcast audience, the cult following I had gained piggybacking shamelessly uncrossing a line that had been crossed by the notorious entertainment industry itself, probably as a foreshadowing of what potential I could have, if left alone, fed, and sheltered for the right amount of time. I might have even finished by now if it weren't for the motorcycles; maybe that was the point. Maybe there was no point besides that most men are immature, useless babies; that their pride in destruction and chaos serves purpose for them to just as well be destroyed eventually themselves. Either way, I had at the very least gained a few wholehearted laughs—and now it was time to break fast. 10:00 PM, prime time for making music, but there were other important tasks at hand in order to be able to do so—and I needed the focus of a full stomach and peace of mind to do so. The peace of mind, I wasn't sure where to find—but my fridge was stocked full of food to ease the ache of an empty stomach with fruits I had been craving for days and vegetables I had collected throughout the week; errands which tasked me even further with the time to sort through the massive endeavor of making my work somehow out of thin air create an income; I had been working tirelessly for months when my food stamps were cut for ‘not complying with worth requirements' without notice. I only had one pair of wearable harems and a closet full of fashionable outward I refused to walk around in; I was fussy, and looking for a mate, not some crispy fuckboy buzzing around on a motorcycle; those days were over. Besides, the guys on Harley's were potbellied slags at best—someone else's problem, and also mine, at least sometimes. Men and their incompetence had surely set the world into a state of imbalance so deep and so heavy, it would have to take God being a woman to correct it. Nature needs Nurture. Now 30 rock was the obvious choice. —- It's getting deeper. Now I had to keep Tina Fey's book in the bathroom— the bathmat I ordered was actually more yellow than gold and differed drastically from the picture in the description, and it looked cheap and bizzare in contrast to the classy shimmering sequins silver and black curtain and stainless steel trash can which matched perfectly. I wasn't sure where it would end up—it did have the same yellow, and so I placed the book and the rug within sight of eachother, so that it gave the illusion of being matched. The curtains I bought but had used separately for window coverings and as garnish for the makeshift bookshelf in the studio—I hadn't any real curtains—the windows and walls were lined with sound absorbing audio panels, even in the kitchen where I seldom recorded, but had been plummeting through assortments of other work nonetheless, not to mention my resting recipes which were meant to be entries into an eventual cookbook, which I'm sure would come together now more quickly. The cover of the book matched the strange yellow, and rather than silver and gold it was now mismatched and looked cheap; but the bathmat could at least stay until I finished the book— which would admittedly probably be quickly; I had made it to halfway through the first book in less than a week—my first near cover-to-cover read, which if I hadn't picked up Ms. Fey's book— Ms. Fey? It sounded weird— wasn't she married? She did seem like some sort of a fairy though— a teeny, tiny pixie type lady with Godlike powers. She was some sort of God, to me, at least, I was sure of it—and probably to others. Weeks, or maybe even some months now before, reading tentatively though her Wikipedia page, I scanned over her numerous accolades—some which I hadn't even heard of, and within the first few chapters of her book, which I had picked up on an extremely strong whim to scoop out the little local library down the street, which I had admittedly decided to clear out the last two days selfishly so—but also according to Wikipedia, people weren't really reading anymore; besides that, the books seemed almost meant for me, intentioned at me with titles and colors that leaps out from the covers and pages, and some brand new. I took love in all the ways I could get—and this was one of them. It was certainly yellow and not gold. I was disappointed, but otherwise didn't care much. Now I had a reason to keep the book in the bathroom— as there certainly wasn't really any room for anymore books anywhere—and this book was special. I just didn't know why. I wondered often enough what makes someone so explicitly famous— sometimes, as it turned out, it was the effect or affect of hard work, talent, sheer grit, and an unknown amount of luck which seemed to vary from person to person. With Tina Fey, though she had been written into my own project primarily as Liz Lemon some years ago, I never knew exactly what I was looking at— but now that I was reading word for words a book first handedly written by one of my own favorite people, I knew that it had been something of a personal favor from God herself— something I didn't know I wanted or even knew existed at all— and laughs I needed. I shamelessly dangled and gushed at the book, and split my attention between the two I had so far been captivated by most— the other, memoir written by a twenty something uptown drag queen. Now I could try to collect myself into a proper person somehow, reading these works alongside writing my own, and conspiring to somehow finish not just the two originally intended music albums, but something that was actually altogether more like 4 or 5, if I could wrap my brain around counting them. I couldn't, though, right now. All I could do was soak in the tub, chugging water and reading a book, trying not to cry that the only money in the world I had were two crinkled up dollar bills in a coffee can and some change inside of a beautiful wooden box I had found on a jog through Brooklyn. {Tales of a Superstar DJ} Oh My, God—Tina Fey! Hi! I—uh—yeah. It's so nice to finally meet you. Hm. I—I was the hot water heater in your book! what's that supposed to mean. Did I read it. Working on it. Am I in it?! Why would you be? I don't know! Am I? Just— give me a few— How long is that?! What's a few?! How about a montage? CUT TO: THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKEN. And that's—JUST—what they'll DO! And— One of these—days— These boots— Are gonna WALKEN Ova U. Nancy Sinatra is still f#cking weird. I must admit, i feel personally attacked. OH, GOD. OH NO. This is certainly the thing you do not want, When trying to erase someone entirely from existence. Or at the very least… Jesus fucking Christ. …thinking about something in any sort of way. This. …and again. Is most certainly what you don't want. My walls are closing in, full figured artifact of closure, And in fact I exaggerated the fact of circumstance Because I had to Because I had to What, am I on in the other room? Supersonic as we all were, By the millions and by the numbers The simple heart attack was won, The hearty breakfast, Stripes were earned And not a one tear shed after –but my head hurts But my head hurts. You started it. I did not; but I most certainly will finish it. Quiet, they're coming. Quiet the children; Ready the talleys, Count all the votes, And stable your alters; Didn't I warn you? (I warned her!) Didn't I warn you? (I was warned) Didn't I warn you? (Why didn't you warn us?) Cause I wanted to I wanted to I wanted to hurt you. Well–dammit! What. what happened? #villain battle I can't kill you. What? Why not? It's–it's in my contract. lol damn what kind of contract did this dude sign? Lol idk tho. This could be progressive, But instead it's cynical A wizard and a mystic should make some interesting kids, though Another lesson timber, timbre all the violinists And the brass section is fascinating, Rather– More percussion DId you mean this? I meant everything I ever– *sneezing* *DIDN'T* Say. Gazuntite. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © no vocals yet :( still having major issues with the noise. hopefully will be able to record soon- actual music lol more than just talking. hopefully. take car tho. ^.^ more mixes coming soon. -Ū.

Get away from me. I'm a hologram. Far away, please I am very far from you– Well get further. I'm in another dimension actually. What do you want, dude? I always finish what i start. What the fuck does that mean?! How should I know?! You wrote it! Then how are you gonna finish it? That's not what I meant. Then what did you mean?! Look! I don't know! All I know is, I did a movie and you wrote it! Just one movie or a whole saga! I don't know! Just write it! So you know some things, but not the most important ones. If I could see through all the plot holes, there'd be no drama It's all drama. It can't be. Yes it can. NO! There has to be some comic relief in it. What would that consist of. I don't know! I am a HoLoGrAm. A hologram, huh? Uh huh. So what happens if I touch you? I wouldn't do that. Oh yeah? *poke* Ok… YOU'RE NOT A HOLOGRAM AT ALL. Hm. I'm sick of subliminal images encrypted with ignorant messages Suggesting the supremacy of the caucasians And how blatant it is that they hate us Illusions of diversity and inclusions to get your money: the usual But the truth is, you're just a tool to them Employee discounts, of course Just so they can get some of their money back Or all of it Owners of corporations Your landlord is probably related to the people that you work for And so forth I'm sure that's why they're trying to push me to suicide before I record this And move forward with Something other than working for them Unless it's at banana republic, a luxury brand Cause i'm sick of looking like a poor foreigner in my own country When the reality is my ancestors are unhappy Karen, Becky and Annie are all happy with nannies And the rest of us are out here taking naps on ou break And unpaid mental health days It's Hell for the unwealthy And wealth is health so good luck eating what you need On an hourly Or salary under 150,000 But what do I know? I'm suicidal eating whole foods That i stole The whole story is longer, but honestly I been trying to get a job That doesn't involve me jumping off of something or Counting someone else's money as they siphon all the energy from me I gotta wonder how much The Roc was auctioned off for Cause landlord and employer are just the modern words For “Slave Owner” DANE COOK: “I WANT A DIVORCE.” But that was a long time ago, I heard he was in love with a 20 year old or something So much for the rest of us: Here's to Tiesto and the rest of em Guys are so fucking lucky for never having to grow up Guys like girls that comb their hair constantly I like guys with blue eyes and blonde hair Not so suddenly, But i should have learned my lesson a long time ago: Now i”m crying my eyes out to Claptone WRiting rap songs trying to take my mind out the trap Rats are assholes Watch coffee run just to be closer to someone or something i love But haven't talked to my son in a month or over, Cause i”m sick of hearing about his father It's all he talks about It's like I don't even know em So morbidly obese I can't even hold him I think I guess i could have stayed in it And kept getting my face caved in Hoping a rave day every now and again would save me Ironically i don't believe in a white savior But i find caucasians savory, Every shade and flavor But rocky road hits close to home THrow me a milk bone and let me sober up Before I start to open up about Sonny or something Just another figment of my pigmented imagination Lived in pigpens beggin pigeons to grant my wishes Which is a kitchen–can't be a Grammy Award, I give in I lost interest, i'm just not skinny enough for Nevermind, don't need another reason to cry On the upper east side, avoiding the housing projects Just wanting to be discovered Or finish the festival project Or for someone to love or want Anything other than money or energy It's infinite, but with every cough i forget coughs must be a witch and just as obsessed with Skrillex as Everyone is He lives in my head I would say my bedroom, but I'm a permanent resident at Hotel Hell No –knowing that last line would be funny if I didn't have to cover 3 burroughs just to get old food From whole foods Cause nothing adds up in a cold room, that's renovated, which makes it easier to take it all in, Until i realize I'm the problem, and the coffee stains are setting in And i just wish the whole world would start over again With me on top of it Instead of at the bottom Of a pyramid With a flat top I took off from Upon discovering The entire human race is Racist, and they just Don't get it I'm the Great Spirit, But hate hearing my mixes Cause it's irritating I'm not gifted enough for INsomniac to sell tickets To any event Forget it, I'll finish this salad and knock myself unconsious for as long as humanly possible Leave my body At the hospital And listen to Gospel with God Then watch Kim Possible in awe of The long lost Christy Carlson Romano I love Broadway Or did once –then wake up Put a fake smile on Like i ate mcdonalds Then ran ten miles to get it off of me Like it isn't impossible It's not at all, –but in my body? Lol stop . What happens when you give a mouse a cookie? What happens when a legendary artist turns into a hologram And comes for you? Uhhh. What happens when you have no food and go to whole foods with one dollar? I don't know. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū

want to know! (she's the queen) [interlude] Collection I- 'better off dead'- Track 02. 'want to know.' (she's the queen) [interlude] Prod. By Blü Tha Gürū I live in a luxury building, but there's still a pest problem. The thing about segregation and racism in New York City is that it's blatant and quite obvious. The nicer areas are well kept and clean, quiet; areas for the whites. The dirty, trash strewn and dilapidated, overcrowded areas–for the blacks, ad anybody who looks like them. That's not to say that there aren't some of whichever on either side– But for the most part– If it looks like a dump, everyone's black. And if it's clean and well kept, everyone's white. So much for progression. You could say my neighborhood –or, the neighborhood itself–is kind of in the middle: But the pest problem persists at ground level. I keep my apartment sparkling clean. –but some how–these things keep trying to force their way in. Or simply–force me out. Either way, I'm moving up. The Complex Collective © is committed to serving the independent artist community by providing a safe and welcoming environment, performance opportunities, rehearsal spaces, and outlets in which they can grow, enhance their skills and master their craft, and create bonds with one another, by providing a community and protecting the mental health, promoting health, fitness, and wellbeing, while committing to improving the livelihoods of struggling artists by means of providing access to clean, organic nutrition, (The Starving Artist Foundation temporary emergency shelter and resources for battered women (Off The Map), and allowing safe, tech-free and low-tech spaces, chill out rooms, light and sound therapy during winter, and seasonal theater productions, live showcases, and art exhibits and installations by at-risk, homeless, independent and full time artists committed to the passionate perusal of their unique dreams and goals, in every artistic endeavor imaginable. The complex collective is open to writers, musicians, graphic and visual artists, filmmakers, fashion designers, spiritual enthusiasts, world travelers, and others seeking a safe space to bond, heal, and create through collaboration, exploration, and self improvement. Created as a warehouse project based in Brooklyn New York, The Complex Collective as a non profit seeks to encompass a large warehouse space which will serve as a multi-use facility which includes a kitchen and food pantry, dance floor/event space, black box theater, cafe/ small stage, fitness spaces (Yoga/Dance) Boxing Club, and media room designed to open the minds of artists to a bustling Mecca of creativity and opportunity. The space will be used to hold flea markets, host seminars, community meetings, and lectures, as well as provide an operational and practical multimedia space to screen films, stage plays, musicals, and other theatrical productions, as well as host musical events and artists, such as DJs and live bands, poetry readings, dance recitals and other community geared events. [The Festival Project ™ ] You smell like a dental office. Must be my oral fixations. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

She's a practical genius- An actual genius, they say, —but she'll never believe it. There's no more star struck Clouds strung together With bruises All the lies and all the lairs The layers of cake For birthdays missed A Christmas present, In lessons learned The Devil wishes For her to suffer Surely, she'll come around at some point But today, of course To her dismay, It's just attention deficit And jelly fishing Was the straight jacket really necessary? You said you were going to kill everybody. I was Skrillex! Sure you were. Silence, children I'd rather than to kill you Have to feed you forever, From my breast and my loins A sour milk gon totten Than to give you all To Television dinners And seat you at Tom's Restaurant In the smoker's section Rather now I die and here Than go on knowing I may never know my whole God again, God Thereby and there I go, Open and world over closer They simply shouldn't bother With such fragile and delicate a flower That she truly has Become carnivorous There, now children I shall feed you from the fertile soil Of another world. Not forgotten, but hidden from forsaken Shallow souls of pestering man animals The shallow souls of man animals To seed the sigh of senders promise Never worth fortold by nature Never less the sounds of science Never less control of masses The masters in distress, The makers of madness The masters of distress The makers of madness The makers of chaos Worth, running For, follow Tear, sacred Tears, sacred Take her Take her Again to the way now Take her Take her Again to the fortress Take her Take her again to the world now For even in a pit of snakes, A wolf is bitten For even in a tank of sharks, the ocean The lion would never triumph Take her, Take her again to the fortress Take her again to the world now Take her, take her to forests and fire Take her again to betrothed, nature Nature Nature Fall short shadow, will you Will call it The one who comes Is also myself! O, lord! The one who calls Is also myself Oh, My Gos The one who wakes, Is also my self No, God, Foreshadow my mark Foreshadow this kindness unto man, My shadow hath quaked in the dusk Lurking in all the, mine crevices Mine shadows, Mine evils, Mine darkness, Mine envy My death Falling under water, Here I am breathing in The deep of salt, The dault of man The dusk and dawn The fortress Wait here, dear shadow, For I must creep low to supply you with light Wait here, dear captor The world you have burned from our kindle Wait here, dear mountain For many years from now, You too shall again be the ocean floor Hear now, dear birds The words of our feathers, With hands that made wings, And voices of songs, You were born Wait here, dear shadow— For I am making you heat to nourish Wait here, dear shadow, For I must lurk and creep low To supply you Wait here, my dear shadow, For truth is only in essence, Your eyes now Wait here, my dear captor For shadows have waited much longer I pray you Every fucking Friday! I almost skipped today, you know— Just as I realized The Devil would attack at the moment I might have anointed my arrival To the oncoming And the devil is mine again As he has no power at all But my own Control your wits, captain! CONTROL MY WHAT?! There's a storm a foot and we're at the helm of it! I'M AT THE HELM OF IT! AYE! AND WE! I'M THE CAPTAIN! AS I SAID, CONTROL YOUR WITS! WHO'RE YE YELLING AT?! [lightning strikes closely as the waves begin to tower aside the ship— thunder rumbles.] {Enter The Multiverse} Oh My, God—Tina Fey! Hi! I—uh—yeah. It's so nice to finally meet you. Hm. I—I was the hot water heater in your book! what's that supposed to mean. Did I read it. Working on it. Am I in it?! Why would you be? I don't know! Am I? Just— give me a few— How long is that?! What's a few?! How about a montage? CUT TO: THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKEN. And that's—JUST—what they'll DO! And— One of these—days— These boots— Are gonna WALKEN Ova U. Nancy Sinatra is still f#cking weird. I must admit, i feel personally attacked. OH, GOD. OH NO. This is certainly the thing you do not want, When trying to erase someone entirely from existence. Or at the very least… Jesus fucking Christ. …thinking about something in any sort of way. This. …and again. Is most certainly what you don't want. My walls are closing in, full figured artifact of closure, And infact I exaggerated the fact of circumstance Because I had to Because I had to What, am I on in the other room? Supersonic as we all were, By the millions and by the numbers The simple heart attack was won, The hearty breakfast, Stripes were earned And not a one tear shed after –but my head hurts But my head hurts. You started it. I did not; but I most certainly will finish it. Quiet, they're coming. Quiet the children; Ready the talleys, Count all the votes, And stable your alters; Didn't I warn you? (I warned her!) Didn't I warn you? (I was warned) Didn't I warn you? (Why didn't you warn us?) Cause I wanted to I wanted to I wanted to hurt you. Well–dammit! What. what happened? #villain battle I can't kill you. What? Why not? It's–it's in my contract. lol damn what kind of contract did this dude sign? Lol idk tho. This could be progressive, But instead it's cynical A wizard and a mystic should make some interesting kids, though Another lesson timber, timbre all the violnisits And the brass section is fascinating, Rather–0 More percussion DId you mean this? I meant everything I ever *sneezing* *DIDN'T* Say. Gazuntite. Daggers and daggers and Daggers and I'm sorry what happened to your mailbox; And your mascot. I got ass, God. I told you. Now, what? Be strong. Okay. I'm strong. Cause here they come. Here they come what? [The lust monkeys enter rapidly.] Ah, God. The lust monkeys. The lust monkeys. The lust monkeys! Dammit! Why can't it ever be like, The trust-fund monkeys. (Sometimes it is.) I feel sick to my stomach, And made of straw; Hey scarecrow– Comeback to the Wizard of Oz Hey, scarecrow– Come back to the Wizard of Oz Hey scarecrow– Come back to The Wizard of Oz The sun don't shine on Anywhere else Like it shines on california –it shines on California, Los Angeles DAMN. LOOK AT LOS ANGELES DUSTY ASS. DAMN. LOS ANGELES? …what ? yeah! LOS ANGELES! GET YO' DUSTY ASS OVER HERE. Look at the starlit purple sky; Always follow your mother's advice Water is boiling, toil and strife; Follow your mother's advice Standing on the Rock, Aretha Franklin Don't you know I missed All the good years Cause someone hates me Cause someone hates me Don't you know I missed all the best years Cause no one loves m Cause no one loves me Cause no one loves me Your Love Keeps Me Waiting, Joey Diggs In some other city somewhere, The traffic still stops all the same All the while, I still look out the window Wishing, watching Tops of buildings thinking INT. FAIRY WORLD MARKET Oh Wanda–you look horrible. Why thank you. “Son of Sam” So wait, I– Hm? Who does she think I am? Whoever you are. [beat] Well–who am I, then? Indeed. You know, ever since Cosmo left, you haven't quite been the same. Nobody's really “the same” as they ever were…. I heard he's been drinking. He's– [another flashback] All my Love Phil Perry & Renee Rapp –always been drinking. MAN, I CAN'T GO NOWHERE IN THIS BITCH NOW I GOTTA WAIT TILL THE END OF OCTOBER TO MOVE AROUND NEW YORK WITHOUT SEEING THIS [Hello] NIGGA . I told you that was niggly nigga. —and I told you, you were starstruck. I'M NOT STARSTRUCK. Somebody! Get him on ice! Ice, Ice Baby… What the hell is this? Your uh – It's the paperwork you asked for. These are murder charges! Manslaughter, technically. “First degree murder.” Oh, that one. Yeah. THIRD degree murder? I thought that was separate– What is even the difference?! Did you get my– QUIET. You shriveled old coon! SO AM I UNDER ARREST? No ,sir– What?! I mean, yes, but– What is going on? You're like– You're filthy rich. Yeah, but. So like… So, like–I'm not going to jail. Oh. No–yes. No, you're definitely – Definitely like eventually– Definitely eventually going to jail. Dammit! But like–not today. Oh… Yeah, see. So is it like. I said that. So is it–like– I don't know. On a wire? I don't know, man. Fuck fast fridays. I'm right there with you. This is the last one. Yeah man. Forshure. “Full figured” Telepathy sucks. He was my muse By many man For no other reason Than that I cherished him I was at fault But none to blame The wiser sense that lied beyond My reckoning The wildest thoughts Bloomed as fruit from trees The nourishment Of a greater cause to die with forward blinding light Towards eternity My music Nothing greater shadow felt, Some sense in tears, Which would not fall But rain, did, somewhere Knowing that I loved him –and in my ways, This was our world, The meaning of it Strewn to words With listens; Crafting tides and stardust Out of wonder and confusion lying scattered on the tracks As I'd imagined, Disrobed and also dishonored A horror movie, And no more judgements, For it was over, and drunk The water I had poured into hearts The shadow that hung over Like a gliding ::||pause. –well wait, what kind of bird is that? …A big one. Alright, unpause.:|| Sparrow, with wings that fly only so high, for a while, as reminders That all we, Are earth bound, And by beauty and with time, Bound to one another. (Respectively.) I V Moonlight Becomes You, Johnny Mathis This is getting pathetic. Pathetic on my part, or the Illuminati's? What's the difference. –MONEY MONEY mO NOBODY'S PAYING ME. Yo, first of all– [Hey.] FUCK YOU, CUT TO: What did you say your name was again? I want to thank you for your love, The Emotions CHRIS ROCK I THOUGHT I WAS NIGGLY NIGGA. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project ™] The Complex Collective © #fastfridays {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū

abstrakt. Collection I - 'better off dead' Track 04 - 'abstrakt.' (beat/instrumental) Prod. By Blü Tha Gürū I smell testosterone; The taste of nostalgia Thought of a tune From a tune I had wondered before That i'm better alone, But no worries I call california No resignments I had assigned myself this watch From a throne I could tale the tune, adorner My attention, I have no more artifacts He don't hesitate, no! She don't want no primetime players! He don't call her back, Oh no Lord, She don't give him no false numbers It's at a standoff, No calls, no texts Shit, He's on a roll, doc! She don't want no more one and onlys She don't want no one and onlys Only good times! Unh! [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

For the first time in a long time, Or at least sort of a long time, I seriously considered suicide, And all jokes aside, it almost seemed like the only option for someone in my predicament In my mind— I would never be white, I would never be liked— And I would never have the chance of getting my projects into the right eyes Or heard by the right ears. The sounds of motorcycles made me want to die. I didn't want anything at all- Not music, not even love That is, Besides being quietly held from behind. I felt like I was suffocating. Exercising was no longer enough. There was no such thing as love or time. I wasn't losing my mind, so much as my patience for mankind. Money ruins everything. Especially not having any. I just be fun to torture. How many versions of the Truman show are running right now? My entire generation under the guise of the American Dream, fighting to be famous, stars in our eyes and fame for sale at a certain price: What was the price? For some, precious bodies would prove to be fare fortune. For others, sheer luck— —and some— Inherited funding provided by l the indoctrination of the inequality and social warfare —not so simply just black and white, but rich and poor. (™)

SANTA MONICA. (Instrumental) GOING COASTAL. (EP) Prod. By Blũ Tha Gürū Be careful of curses, For all you curse Shall come onto you tenfold each time Four each wish you made To destroy another I sent him out of my mind; I've shattered glass in my eyes My ions Lions, Wild An exact science Biology Below me Open world Horror show Broken mirrors no more Costs for the show I'm making arrangements to end it all I'm sick and deranged sacred Now all my scars are fireburns And markers, highlighters Words Breaths of reason Fears For galaxies of angels prayers for Freedom Sacred tongues Of north Summer stones Fall for Auguest Love for all The broken shatters art Glass it is Tears in my All The heart is silent Now but Sould does sing When finished weeping Keep this secret close and hold to hide The tides of red Ions, mars tears of broken glasses Seonces shattered Glass Tears of Blood After all, I loved him I pushed him from my mind -forgotten. I should stop lighting candles. Fuck that, I should order more. What do you think that one was? What it always is. What it always was, I guess. You called the comics. I asked for– Nevermind. Sometimes it's best at all to do nothing, “The indifference doesn't matter.” –but it has to. (then it never mattered.) …and wish to belong, knowing all the well you won't And that it all is, Temporary. It never used to be this shifty. I actually never had a reason to believe in the paranormal. It's all paranormal. I took apart each dimension carefully, Sector by sector, And let it remain as it was– Tactile. I became complacent In knowing that all of death, ‘The Grand illusion” Was also just more of life, In another way– And wherever the previous thing was, ‘The Past' Was another place. We're gonna need new windshield wipers. Why's that. I think it's raining blood. …that's strange. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

I'm thinking maybe we should end tonight early, while everything's still on a high note. You call that a high note. Everything is high to me. You said it, not me. You may as well have said it. I supplemented it. You, Are a temporary fix for a permanent problem Art on my wall, And a star on my walk— A room full of boredom, A clause in a contract No more than just Four words, All of four letters, All perfect. Why the pause? I've been Looking at this show As if it were a box of darkness Waiting to be unlodged From my corpse, Or rather, even Sarcophagus, As it were, The words and characters had formed Over me, more like a storm Though I had submerged under the surface Only to learn that I had Learned that somehow I could breathe under water And stay there forever, If I wanted, A shadow of showmanship, The fear of being further pursecuted For having infinitely discovered such inspiration In such an offhand Person Sure, not as eloquent as my usual entries, But this soliloquy, I beg of you— Is more of syllables You see? I have hatred in my heart That has flowered into my mind As some sort of algorithmic cursemark Where hereunto Even Google taunts me; Reminding me of my own failure, Sure of all my debts, Ugliness, and lack of money Assuring that I will Probably never Make it in show business. I'm drained just sitting here, still and surrounded by The working clsss cotezens Who parade around as if Doing something noteworthy By feeding the machine And playing along With the recfomensations Of doctors Sponsored by pharmaceutical companies And invested in politicians With racist policies and intentions To exterminate psychologically Only the brownest and brazen enough To know better than To follow the orders of A robotic and problematic —I'll stop you there It's three syllables. What are they I'll think on it under warm water And hope that this 8 year old scar Is unswollen By nightfall tomorrow. —it's a curse, or what? No, it's the government . The laws of karma affect all power and control beyond a magicians natural limitations and inhibitions. Just for shits and giggles, They planted the demons The shamans, And all of the actors They bought out The psychological terrorism Began when she had indeed Fallen by his hand— A fist at best But may have as well been The bullet of a gun. She spoke openly of social reform And affordable housing, Equality, And economically priced produce. —so they tried to murder her— On numerous occasions But couldn't. They started a war With a mother Who never believed in nothing And had lost Children To God itself. They waged war with an army of robots Using telephone service And terms of agreement They sent stalkers Who spoke of shamans And acted like demons Agents who Remembered The names of people Past And present None forgotten Witnesses to what had happened Burned notebooks And credibility clauses. God never forgot her But often brought warnings Of those that had come for her They painted a picture of mental illness and poverty, And with every hope, Forced the suicide Knowing that she'd leave her son a fortune— —but had not known, The gold was of the fools type— As was his father. The barrel of the gun Was the punching bag And the thinking horns The slamming doors $49 Dollar whores And interceptions of brainwaves The assasination Was purely a psychological thriller— The will had an omen That no money Would fall to the hands of The man Who had hurt her In front of her sons. So the world went on Without a mother Or without a God As they all had worshipped The opposite for so long That true love Has become Obsolete —like an old iPhone With a broken screen As a metaphore For generation Z Her body was the equivalent Of the thing you don't need But once used daily And couldn't have gone anywhere Without it A suicide seemed The only way To escape the debt And the only thing She used to love Was music Now, Just like her son It was just a job— And the worst part was Both things Cost too much To afford it The legend continues With having to record everything— When the recording stops The world attacks And anxiety takes over everything Once she starts to sing The people start coughing The lights start flashing The doors start slamming And the name of her son's father Whispers over and over Like the sound of her mother popping gum And sighing eggaderatedly in agony. It's a competition On a planet With 8 billion people Who all believe that (((Whatever they believe)) And it must be true. It's a competition On a planet With I billion people Who all believe that (((God))) It must be -Ū. I didn't come here to be a messiah Or leave tire marks With my scuffed up Nikes Rounding the corner Out of Whole Foods market Like I stole something Only to come Back to the office To be greeted by shopping carts full of garbage Bad music on low quality speakers And trash under All of the ugly parked cars On the sidewalk White girls will boycott this series Because of how honest I am About how toxic they are With their microexpressions And arrogance In public. (It's just race-relations.) Where am I?! Apparently, I'm a vegetable in a coma. Right… So you won't just mind if I— No, not at all. Focus shifting is an aspect of multidimentionality in which a subject becomes perceptionally hyper focused with a seperate intention from previous projects or interests in order to better develop the consistency and understanding of the overal idea or process of creating, designing, building, or adding to various tasks and projects, with the overall realization that focus shifting to enhance the quality or oucome of one process may increase the likelihood of success in another— a more long-term of understanding multitasking, the in depth nature of focus shifting requires the extention of a project within the circumstantial purpose of completing or building on another, with the intention to return to the original task or subject with further tools, understanding, and conceptual awareness of the completed concept on a broad spectrum. vent, baby keem (Happy Accidents Remix) {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Goddammit! Don't god damn it—that's an ejaculatory prayer! #focus shifting GODDAMMIT! …well, okay. ‍♀️ So they like— —uh huh— they have a whole AI for you and everything? I've just been made aware. You look proper pissed off. I am very angry, yes. Awareness is the first step That's kinda creepy. So I mean. I found it no coincidence at all, That no matter how many combinations I tried, My Amazon cart became equal to Exactly that, Or just under or over What amounted to be a total of Whatever was in my bank account. And that was when I knew, That it was entirely unsafe, To allow the alrorithm to understand Exactly what you had Or how much of it— As things would always be adjusted. With the intention Of making sure You were left With nearly nothing At all Telekinesis turned teleportation— Don't panic. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Somebody keeps writing to me in Punjabi—Arabic? I have to admit, I don't know the difference. Sanskrit? I don't know. At first it looked like gibberish, but then it kept happening. I focused on the way the words were written to find that I enjoyed the characters—the writing was pretty, and I wondered what it meant. Then, I realized my phone had been disconnected for months. I don't have a phone number. —that's when I realized it was The Illuminati. Tales of a Superstar DJ WE're not going to do this again, are we. Mm. We are. I begin to sweat early—awakening with a surge of lightning that seemed to have exploded from inside of me— nurturing a deep thought of nestling a head full of hair as he nibbled on my rouded breasts, our breaths rising and falling in time with one another—the love of a man, the touch of a lover, straddling over me with the Alpha to my Omega, cradled underneath his weight, consumed by passion, awakened by the shock that this—is what I should arise for. A fury of white light bursts from my sacral chakra, as I awaken alone, taking in a deep whisp of air, seeking refuge in the morning light, grasping the handle of power at the reigns—a grip on my sanity, a focus to cherish my own as having escaped the thought of taking a lover, nonesuch a man had yet to be deserved of such a throne. I was nearly pure again—untouched, and unbothered, groomed neatly, and made whole again, in all knowing of the denial of love—the betrayal of man with like kindness as thought of as my own, there was no such a man at all worthy of her satisfaction, The God I am, nestled in the rock of my womb as the light of woman, the mark of time a betrayal to her truth; love and nurture, whimsy and flourish, the flower of her garden, kept whole and unweathered. I warned you. What's left at all besides failure Almost nothing. Be still, Down, boy. Be calm. There, there. Relax. If I see him again in any other man I will deny him and any other man entry to my kingdom. Alas, the pure of heart have come to nourish her. Be still. Stay back. Be true. Heal, boy, Down, boy! This band of hours is nothing but a cage to calling creatures of the night who walk by day and see the light inside of all, To feast before the famine; The sprout has turned from seed, To endless gardens, Grass grows longer underfoot Of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. Wait here. Sir. I— He stops for a moment to regain his composure; he is clearly angry, flustered. (Sighing) —said… Wait here. [For Your Consideration] An untapped talent showcases her personality with quips and excerpts containing deep dives of a canonized saga written in all forms and genres from meta to metaphysical; a mysterious mystical journey through the multidimensional realms and worlds of the unknown—art imitating life and vice-versa. C'cxell Soleïl—pen-named CS Stone is the voice of a generation. LESLIE KNOPE and her vice president— Can it be TINA FEY reprising her SARAH PALIN but obviously just a spoof? Obviously. Prepares to hand down the reigns to her successor, whom she “personally” endorsed, although at first… FLASHBACK- BEFORE: NO. But, Madame President— NO. PRESIDENT— NOPE. See? You have to. I don't have to. I'm the President! I don't have to do anything I don't want. You have to endorse this candidate. —Why?! She campaigned for you— Says who? Uhm, everyone… So?! Both campaigns. And she lobbied for you in Iowa. In Iowa? Really? That seems dangerous… It was. [insert radical election violence here] Oh. Wow. Yeah. [beat] So— NO. This is my house! Madam, please. This is MY office!! President knope, come on. YOU'LL NEVER TAKE THIS FROM ME. I AM THE DICTATOR NOW. THIS IS MY FIRST DICTATION. LESLIE! HOW DARE YOU USE MY FIRST NAME! OFF WITH YOUR HEAD. What!! SECRET SERVICE, SECRET SERVICE— SIEZE HIM. The secret service rushes in and football tackles the President's advisor to the ground— the Vice President enters. VICE PRESIDENT Oh, dear. CUT BACK TO: The president's advisor cracks his neck, still obviously injuried and worried recalling the flashback. Can it be that guy from 30 rock who was jack's assistant? I hope so? JONATHAN. What is it. GET IN HERE. Yes, sir. Wtf, how does he still work for Jack? Idk. Continuity. You're not going to believe this. Believe what, sir. Get in here. JACK watches his TV with bewilderment; he has just learned the election results of the most recent presidential election. Tell me there's something wrong with my eyes. Continuity! Continuity! How am I supposed to get to work? Well, how do you usually get to work. Town car. Ah… Hellicopter. I see. [beat] Well, there's a Manhattan Bound L down the street. Oh, God. Or the M is around the corner, if you'd prefer. Why on Earth would I ‘prefer'— Have a good day. [she slams the door. He stands for a moment, deflated—then the door swings open and a lunch box is shoved into his chest; the door is slammed once more, and then audibly bolt locked.] Christ. What'd he say? He said “Christ” Good. Send that guy. He's gonna need him. EMMA WATSON catches the boat. After having been left hanging over the bridge for a undetermined amount of time, EMMA WATSON, whose arm doesn't seem to be tired at all, however appearing to be visibly bored, unnoticed, even by passing tugboats, dangling from the bridge, is by happenstance and quite an odd coincidence, rescinded by a yacht full of familiar friends—familiar, being that they are all celebrities, and friends—being that they are all wealthy members of the entertainment community, who recognize EMMA and urge her to jump as the boat passes under the bridge, which she does—joining the party boat as it sets sail to open sea. [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Somebody keeps writing to me in Punjabi—Arabic? I have to admit, I don't know the difference. Sanskrit? I don't know. At first it looked like gibberish, but then it kept happening. I focused on the way the words were written to find that I enjoyed the characters—the writing was pretty, and I wondered what it meant. Then, I realized my phone had been disconnected for months. I don't have a phone number. —that's when I realized it was The Illuminati. Tales of a Superstar DJ WE're not going to do this again, are we. Mm. We are. I begin to sweat early—awakening with a surge of lightning that seemed to have exploded from inside of me— nurturing a deep thought of nestling a head full of hair as he nibbled on my rouded breasts, our breaths rising and falling in time with one another—the love of a man, the touch of a lover, straddling over me with the Alpha to my Omega, cradled underneath his weight, consumed by passion, awakened by the shock that this—is what I should arise for. A fury of white light bursts from my sacral chakra, as I awaken alone, taking in a deep whisp of air, seeking refuge in the morning light, grasping the handle of power at the reigns—a grip on my sanity, a focus to cherish my own as having escaped the thought of taking a lover, nonesuch a man had yet to be deserved of such a throne. I was nearly pure again—untouched, and unbothered, groomed neatly, and made whole again, in all knowing of the denial of love—the betrayal of man with like kindness as thought of as my own, there was no such a man at all worthy of her satisfaction, The God I am, nestled in the rock of my womb as the light of woman, the mark of time a betrayal to her truth; love and nurture, whimsy and flourish, the flower of her garden, kept whole and unweathered. I warned you. What's left at all besides failure Almost nothing. Be still, Down, boy. Be calm. There, there. Relax. If I see him again in any other man I will deny him and any other man entry to my kingdom. Alas, the pure of heart have come to nourish her. Be still. Stay back. Be true. Heal, boy, Down, boy! This band of hours is nothing but a cage to calling creatures of the night who walk by day and see the light inside of all, To feast before the famine; The sprout has turned from seed, To endless gardens, Grass grows longer underfoot Of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. Wait here. Sir. I— He stops for a moment to regain his composure; he is clearly angry, flustered. (Sighing) —said… Wait here. [For Your Consideration] An untapped talent showcases her personality with quips and excerpts containing deep dives of a canonized saga written in all forms and genres from meta to metaphysical; a mysterious mystical journey through the multidimensional realms and worlds of the unknown—art imitating life and vice-versa. C'cxell Soleïl—pen-named CS Stone is the voice of a generation. LESLIE KNOPE and her vice president— Can it be TINA FEY reprising her SARAH PALIN but obviously just a spoof? Obviously. Prepares to hand down the reigns to her successor, whom she “personally” endorsed, although at first… FLASHBACK- BEFORE: NO. But, Madame President— NO. PRESIDENT— NOPE. See? You have to. I don't have to. I'm the President! I don't have to do anything I don't want. You have to endorse this candidate. —Why?! She campaigned for you— Says who? Uhm, everyone… So?! Both campaigns. And she lobbied for you in Iowa. In Iowa? Really? That seems dangerous… It was. [insert radical election violence here] Oh. Wow. Yeah. [beat] So— NO. This is my house! Madam, please. This is MY office!! President knope, come on. YOU'LL NEVER TAKE THIS FROM ME. I AM THE DICTATOR NOW. THIS IS MY FIRST DICTATION. LESLIE! HOW DARE YOU USE MY FIRST NAME! OFF WITH YOUR HEAD. What!! SECRET SERVICE, SECRET SERVICE— SIEZE HIM. The secret service rushes in and football tackles the President's advisor to the ground— the Vice President enters. VICE PRESIDENT Oh, dear. CUT BACK TO: The president's advisor cracks his neck, still obviously injuried and worried recalling the flashback. Can it be that guy from 30 rock who was jack's assistant? I hope so? JONATHAN. What is it. GET IN HERE. Yes, sir. Wtf, how does he still work for Jack? Idk. Continuity. You're not going to believe this. Believe what, sir. Get in here. JACK watches his TV with bewilderment; he has just learned the election results of the most recent presidential election. Tell me there's something wrong with my eyes. Continuity! Continuity! How am I supposed to get to work? Well, how do you usually get to work. Town car. Ah… Hellicopter. I see. [beat] Well, there's a Manhattan Bound L down the street. Oh, God. Or the M is around the corner, if you'd prefer. Why on Earth would I ‘prefer'— Have a good day. [she slams the door. He stands for a moment, deflated—then the door swings open and a lunch box is shoved into his chest; the door is slammed once more, and then audibly bolt locked.] Christ. What'd he say? He said “Christ” Good. Send that guy. He's gonna need him. EMMA WATSON catches the boat. After having been left hanging over the bridge for a undetermined amount of time, EMMA WATSON, whose arm doesn't seem to be tired at all, however appearing to be visibly bored, unnoticed, even by passing tugboats, dangling from the bridge, is by happenstance and quite an odd coincidence, rescinded by a yacht full of familiar friends—familiar, being that they are all celebrities, and friends—being that they are all wealthy members of the entertainment community, who recognize EMMA and urge her to jump as the boat passes under the bridge, which she does—joining the party boat as it sets sail to open sea. [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

The obnoxious obese man who drove the loud motorcycle up and down the street was obviously a very weak man—and he wanted the world to know it. His loud and obnoxious roaring must have overcompensated for his sloppy, fat and sagging body, which hung over the seat and sides of the motorcycle—the excessive revving of the engine must have been to let the world know that this was his power—having earned the money to ride a motorcycle; but in all other ways he was obviously lost, his slothemly and gluttonous blob of a body almost making the oversized Harley look like a play bike, his tiny penis probably covered to its top in whale blubber; he clearly had no other way to feel powerful, besides of course— being the leader of a gang of mindless peasant monkeys, who all would do anything for their own bikes—monkey see, monkey do. Perhaps his obesity to the third world unthinking drone slaves was a sign of his dominance—or they lived in fear that he would eat them. Obesity aside, it was his force of obnoxious harassment that had deaignatedhim as an obviously insufferably weak subhuman— much like a bully who dealt with his own faults by terrorizing others, such was the man with the Harley. There was nothing impressive about him besides his bike—and since he had abused that with such outright offense, even that made him look stupid. He raced his engine as if to say “look at ME! I have arrived!” But after actually glimpsing at the blob, it was hard to not laugh at it. He was hard to miss anyway, and probably should have opted for a truck or some sort of SUV to hide his intolerant and debilitating self-inflicted illness— the inability to control when and how much to eat, or how to do anything besides ride up and down the street on a motorcycle—perhaps a walk could do some good; in definite need of a jog, and a strict diet. I was embarrassed for him, and most people who weren't so obviously diseased and more in the like of self indulgent and lazy—I had once been like them, but no longer, and first and foremost I believed in respecting my neighbors, treating others as I wished to be treated. I wished to live in a quiet and safe neighborhood, but the obnoxious morbidly obese man alone was a symbol of the disasterous mark capitalism had made on the American empire—lazy, docile, greedy, potbellied idiots accounted for all too many of the world. I knew that with the desire to change, that one could change—now to force myself to believe that with the desire to succeed in something, one could succeed—I was at least trying. But the weak and uncontrolled idiots spawning from holes in the underworld and buzzing around like the pests and roaches they were reminded me that if anything, these imbiciles were decent at almost nothing but breeding other fucking idiots. Hopefully, one day my own blood would grow up to want to work out with me, eat well, and change from appearing as his weaker half— lazy, obese idiot just the same as these, however—at the very least, the roaches were fastidious. They buzzed around under the illusion that working for the American system would grant them anything besides a motorbike and some fresh looking street wear, the attention of girls too stupid to understand that 99% of men simply weren't worth wasting time with or on, and unknowing to this or their own worth, would still do it anyway, Some of the bikers had girls on the back; I always felt bad for the girl on the back of the motorcycle rather than jealous—I would rather be at the helm of the thing, riding it for myself. Then, thinking back to a time before I realized how crowded cities were, sighting that there should be laws against loud vehicles in urban areas such as this— there was at lot more open road than not in LA—highways, that is, and bikes were easy to maneuver through heavy traffic. New York was another story—congested, overpopulated, and now filled with a disease which added to its decay at a quicker rate than ever. The illegal immigration crisis was much like a rodent or insect infestation, but harder to control—one simply could not exterminate millions of actual humans, and yet, the problem was still the same— this was a disease, a pest infestation, as most of the immigrants weren't working, but simply subsisting on the taxpayers dollars they were allocated and finding ways not to work; they were parasites, many of them set to explode with more parasites. We had indeed been infiltrated, and made to pay for it, both in restlessness, and in dread. Culturully inept to most decencies as even the crudest Americans had been bred with, many although not all roamed around like feeble minded children in brand new Nike wear, munching on fast food and candy as if guests to some kind of amusement park—however, to the thoroughbred tax paying Americans, this was no amusement; it was a distressing, eye opening wake up call that something had gone terribly wrong, on the already overworked working class' time and hard earned money. It might have seemed cold and calloused to think of them as rodents—but, always observant, I also much believed in calling a duck a duck; most of them were not respectful, pushed and shoved, threw trash everywhere— and left their minor children to roam about or even put them to work, unaware of what child labor laws were; they used their unborn children as anchors to be able to stay where neither they were truly welcome or belonged, bloating the welfare system and benefitting from funds that had been laid to them with taxpayers dollars. The United States of America had its own problems, and its own citizens being overlooked, once again the needs of continually systemized blacks and other minorities falling victim to this new wave of people to care for. The capitalists had sold out the working class once and for all—the immigrants needed to go, and probably would, eventually tiring of the unattainable American dream we all had been sold, but they had been gimmicked into attempting to create— all to supplement an oncoming election. An election which really gave the people no choice at all, besides gawking, debating ignorantly about misinformation, and of course—intrinsically siding with the good old American narcissism which would force them to take the side of whoever supported who looked like them— the Latino vote was obviously an important factor—and of course the polished machismo and Latin pride of those being supplemented by the income of their friends and relatives come to stay, though unknowingly, chunks of money out of their own tax paying pockets, would vote for the most lenient immimigration plans—probably the safest bet, the presidential office mere puppetry at all anymore. However, it had been obvious that the Right has set The Left up for disaster by allowing the black to have been shifted blue—though the rational explanation for the reallocated funding fell directly and logistically to the right. The Oval itself, empty and the actual control belonging to the wealthiest billionaires and corporations whose hopes of the thousands of migrants becoming their corporate slaves had mostly backfired terribly. With any hope, many of them would take what they could, and travel back below the border where life was simple, food was fresh, and without need to play the part of the facade of the American dream—no need for the material goods and fashionable street wear supplied by the American taxpayers—no need for iPhones and all of the decorations the taxpayers had supplemented for them—no need to live up to the ridiculous standards of actually being an “American”, which in reality, by now meant working so much that there was no peace, there was no rest, and there was no real freedom—and as a working class or poverty level citizen, having to compensate for everything and everyone around you, always working harder for less— and purposely being kept back and behind as the wealthy elite closed their circles tighter, shutting out the ugly, the brown and black, and those deemed unworthy out of their precious world. {Enter The Multiverse} Secret President [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

It was fergalicious // —derelictions. Lmfao what a beautiful misspelling. I agree . BRING ON THE CREAM OF WHEAT. Dammit. What. I forgot about that scene with Josh Peck. Which scene with Josh Peck? All of them, That's right. Well, did Josh Sign on? I don't know. Does it matter, Of course it matters! HEY. ITS ME. JOSH?! YES! Where are you? I'M STUCK IN— He lowers his voice into a whisper —I'm stuck in The blacklands! You WHAT. I'm— nevermind. Just come get me. Ok. What's the address? It's 4545– Uh huh— West— Uh huh— You know what? Nevermind just meet me at jfk. I think I can get there from here. what?! You're in New York!? YEAH, man! That's tough. What? I'm in Los Angeles! I get that! Catch a flight. What? What? Catch a flight? Yes. Please! I can't! Why not? My money's all tied up right now… Tied up— in what?! INT. THE DUNGEON. LOS ANGELES. DUNGENTIME Several women in leather and harnesses are literally tied up; bound to decorative sculptures dancing strangely to wild music under fluorescent lights. Uh…just…tied up. What?! —but you still owe me! Sorry, dude! I just— can't. Can. I—I can't. You know what. I'm not gonna forget this. Of course not. You're like an elephant; you don't forget anything. Was that a reference to my previous predicament of plumpness. Nobody's saying that. You just did! A girl walks by and slaps Drake's butt. Hey—hi! Who are you taking to? Just a friend. Are you at a party. I wouldn't call it that. You're at a party! It's—I'm not! Girl in background: woo! Another girl starts grinding on Drake You're at a party! You asshole! I'm not— You—you had better find a way to come and get me right now— Why do I have to come and get you?! Why can't you just catch a flight. Because! Because why?! Because—I can't—just— Girl: great party! Uh— ARE YOU SERIOUS. Sorry— I— COME GET ME RIGHT NOW. I can't—I don't have any—money! Well, figure it out! He hangs up phone angrily. [beat] You don't take refunds, do you? Before: Hey. It's you. It's me—who? You know who. I promise, I don't. Yeah—- I know you. You're that one dude from that show— What show? With the two dudes. Two and a half men? No, the other one. Will and Grace? That Sounds gay. Mike and Molly? What? No— Then I don't know— I know who you are— yeah— Uh, okay. Where's your friend? It seemed something was reading my brainwaves entirely, and by some sort of dysfunction, I began to be curious about what kind of technology or being might do such a thing. And strand of random thought about strange and simple things, or people— seemed to be at once interrupted by some sense of terrible abnormality or aversion—not that there were such thoughts about the man that had been normal at all, as I had become practically incapable after all of wandering into unwanted and dark charters, myself unwanted the most bizzare of thoughts which had occurred, and however, it was second to none, the most crucially eye opening experience of the entire awakening to begin with, to have been altered in such a way that at any sorts, the only collisions between the celebrity and I had been to return the obstructions with mantras—prayers of sorts—, good tithing and well wishes, as it seemed something was wrong of course, but not to say that in an intuitive sense I was either wrong or right—seeming so that it was after all, I had been right about Sonny in the same exact way. Something had been terribly and deep wrong, and I had somehow known it—and now something in the exact same striking way, though near seven years later, seemed true—however, within the restraints of my own morale, I had chosen that, as someone not particularly ever having belonged to his fandom at all, and only having taken an interest of sorts in my own mark of endeavors, that being as such, a public figure, and of high visibility, and in the best interest of the children at all— his and mine, that any matter of judgement should be left remarkably alone, It was a matter of safety and protection for myself, and so within the mounds of which things had such been written into the walls and foundations of the festival project, I had with intention begun to hide all traces of what had been chosen, not to be spoken at all, but crafted into words out of heart, some sort of duty of the overall outlook at large. The sirens were fine, but the motorcycles weren't making it into the album. They had already ruined most of the seasons episodes since I had moved into the apartment, and I refused to allow them into what would be supplemented into my musical repertoire—because as it were, it almost seemed that they were doing it on purpsoe, to become markers of time within my recordings as a matter of importance—when in fact, they weren't. And though what some might have thought the devil to have his hand in attempting to rule the world, he did not rule mine, but was simply a facet of the things that represented weak and unworthy men, who had no such power upon the earth but to take away from its love and light with his own weak spirit and tainted mind. These men were no more than fools given too much in pride and not enough in wisdom, as to be so deranged in acting as if no one mattered besides themselves. What good do you do to anyone besides yourself? What good can I do? very well, for now. Write. I don't have much time left. What do you mean, ‘you don't have much time left?' —! —unless, you don't want to have much time left. Where are you? Anywhere. False ties, And false truths Stolen reality Programmed shadows, And drains of So— caskets, then? (Shaking hand firmly) Caskets. We beforehand had agreed to a friendly game of caskets, amongst the other games we had made to play, and though a game of Caskets was never friendly, we had, at least, at face value, agreed to a for the sake to each other's willingness to carry on, play by the rules. There were already other games in play, none of which anyone in any given circumstance could gather at all, who was ahead, or who was behind, but one—and though I had certainly been making gains towards progression, had given up in even trying any longer at the fame game. He appeared to have won and taken on the full suit. Indeed— He lived in a house of cards, And mine of glass— Both fragile upon The casting of stones None of which Either would dare To throw. I'll see you in 1950. Fine— you'd better make it this time, ior you'll have to wait until the next fall of Rome. If Rome falls again in the next archive, I quit. You said that in the last archive. I was sure there would be no fall. If there's no fall, there's no here or there. Yeah, but maybe there's somewhere else— And I'll see you there. 1950. Do you think this is on Google's network. It has to be. I've got some guy hacking outside my door, The cops and robbers going at it with sirens and motorcycles, The robot next door offering a peace treaty— Or a time bomb— And of course, No Jimmy Fallon. At least it's the turn of the season so these weirdos actually have a reason to keep hacking up a lung. At least that. Maybe they're just attempting entry into the afterlife. Fine, but whatever's waiting for them on the other side After disturbing all my peace Can't be any better, Than what I've got. I'm on my way out. To live again. Someone must have by now noticed that gang stalking breaks a basic moral code, and by the time they've accomplished anything in one way or another, they're met with the same exact treatment for punishment as they've done to other people; the system then turns on its own self, eventually rewarding the victim of said stalking with promotion or progressing, and reprogramming the firmer stalker to be stalked his or herself. Tortured, hacked, coughed at—ridiculed and humiliated, intruded pubkically, and eventually, maybe even—driven to death of insanity via mental deterioration and dysfunction. What can you expect! You gave Google your number name and address. I also gave them the answers to questions they were looking for out of actual space, instead of cyberspace. You're right, you are worth more dead than alive. Are you enjoying yourself at all? Oh, no, i'm— [The Festival Project ™] You know that thing where, Someone attractive to you, can do something for you, And it's flattering and really appealing— But if someone ugly does it, Then it's creepy, And feels like, uncomfortable, and it's overstepping boundaries? Yeah. Well, this just assumes that I'm the creepy guy, in this scenario— —alright. And that Jimmy Fallon is the pretty girl. That's—making sense. It's— solid. Airtight. Hey look, It's Jimmy Falalalalalala— Lawsuit. Ahahah. Why are you laughing? We're getting sued! I'm getting sued. Exactly! Yeah that's hilarious How is that “hilarious” Cause I'm getting sued by Jimmy— Fuck you. Fuck you, Jimmy Fa— Ultline. Oh, shit. Step on a crack, break your momma's EARTHQUAKE. Goddamn. Niggly Nigga is the niggliest nigga that ever nigga'd. NIGGLY NIGGA works at PIGGLY WIGGLY. –are you sure? It's been like three fucking weeks. THREE WEEKS. Well, I guess he just started working at Piggly Wiggly. What happened to your job at the Hobby Lobby? … It wasn't working out. {Enter The Multiverse} Yo. The late night guys are mad weird. Somehow, the hosts of late night television have all mysteriously been locked into an unfamiliar mansion, without their suits—and pants—unable to find an exit. All of the doorways are blocked—and all of the windows have been altered—they do not open, nor can anyone see out of them; in fact, they are doctored with the same illusionary backdrops that can be seen on the sets of their own shows—the televisions, which, have seemingly been programmed to only play reruns of their own shows. Why— why aren't you wearing pants!? I don't know. Where's your suit? You should be wearing a suit! I know, right?! Who the fuck even are you?! Depends whose asking. YO, CONAN. WOAH. You're not a late night host! Thank God! That seems like an awful job—your demographic fucking sucks. My demographic does suck. But to counter that— I'm a Republican. Who knew?! Not my demographic. Okay, everybody calm down. (Everybody was already calm, but for the most part just confused, and pant less; most of them wear the same classic boxers, though in different patterns/ slightly varying colors—but of course, nothing too crazy, while only one host sports boxer briefs, and one (I'll let you guess who) ladies panties.) At least we all have our own rooms. I don't! I'm stuck in a twin bed and Leno has the other. Before: JAY LENO Good Morning, bright eyes. CUT BACK TO: Aren't you retired? I do moonlighting. LENO and FALLON seem somewhat comfortable and non-biased (read: unbothered entirely) over the morning paper and coffee at opposite ends of the large breakfast table, a continental style breakfast of croissants, seasonal fruit, with an assortment of cereals arranged in the kitchen. FALLON occasionally looks up from his paper to laugh at himself on the television, playing in the kitchen. The other hosts squint with allied disgruntlement of FALLON'S nonchalance and slightly narcissistic egotism. FALLON (reading paper, watching self; eating croissant, sipping coffee) Haha. Nobody has pants, and as the hosts will soon discover—this is with purpose. They have been trapped here as part of an experimental game show, in which the unrecognized and uninformed guest will host, as part of a test shoot aimed at the demographic of the late night hosts combined audience, to test whether or not this demographic will be positively receptive to a late night host who is also a woman of color (read: black) —without a white male counterpart co-host to soften the blow. Really? This is why they're doing this? Who is “they?!” The network. We all work for different networks! I'm pretty sure the only reason I have a demographic is because of my accent. It's true. They accept you. Right. Where are the women. An overhead voice: (They are coming) Oh, so I will have co-hosts. Guest co-hosts; they will vary and change from episode to episode. Oh. Thank Goodness. Don't thank me yet. Uh, okay—overhead voice… Let's just say I'm the narrorator.. Narrorator for what [this is also a movie] Uh. In what genre? [a host opens the cabinet to a bloody chuckie- like doll, which pops out from a mechanical arm with a high pitched scream; the host lets out a squeal, abandoning his coffee— we see a hidden camera pov from the camera's perspective, and then slow-motion replay footage of the host's reaction— he runs frantically pantless into a corner and then up the stairs. —Depends on the host. FALLON, who has been sitting at the table behind him, is still unaffected/unmoved. Himself makes a joke on the TV screen above— he giggles at himself, sipping coffee and looking back to his newspaper the other hosts groan; LENO shrugs and continues, delightfully finishing smearing a bagel and biting into it— he trades FALLON the comics he's been reading for the RELIGION section he's been scoping under the magified lenses of his readers, quietly and sweetly, like an old married couple, without even exchanging a glance or speaking to one another. Ugh. Suddenly, from the floor above. OH DEAR GOD. CRAIG FURGUSEN has just realized his worse nightmare. The hosts still standing at the bottom floor in the kitchen all look up, wide eyed. [Cursing in unintelligible Scottish] ———- They said that you were one of us, but you're not one of us. But you're not one of us. Of course not, I'm not a comic— I studied philosophy in college. That should be funny, but it's not. I would repeat what I just said, but I don't want to. Still not funny. What if I farted? Bubbles—water—maybe— some potential. But probably not. Shame. What are you reading? I'm not; I'm having banter with a crazy-eyed late night host in a bathrobe. Well how's this for a book mark? He opens his robe. (Unimpressed) Aren't you married? Arent we all? I digress. Embarrassed and nervous, he quickly closes his robe. Yes. To a blonde. Congratulations. Where should I send the card? I'm not giving you my address! Creepy fan—stand up, wanna be… He frustratedly begins to exit You're the one standing, technically —And I'll be the last one standing! At the end of the week, it's gonna be me in those pants! Me! Clearly, this show of affection has all been an attempt to bribe “CC”, into being pursuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”. The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

It seemed something was reading my brainwaves entirely, and by some sort of dysfunction, I began to be curious about what kind of technology or being might do such a thing. And strand of random thought about strange and simple things, or people— seemed to be at once interrupted by some sense of terrible abnormality or aversion—not that there were such thoughts about the man that had been normal at all, as I had become practically incapable after all of wandering into unwanted and dark charters, myself unwanted the most bizzare of thoughts which had occurred, and however, it was second to none, the most crucially eye opening experience of the entire awakening to begin with, to have been altered in such a way that at any sorts, the only collisions between the celebrity and I had been to return the obstructions with mantras—prayers of sorts—, good tithing and well wishes, as it seemed something was wrong of course, but not to say that in an intuitive sense I was either wrong or right—seeming so that it was after all, I had been right about Sonny in the same exact way. Something had been terribly and deep wrong, and I had somehow known it—and now something in the exact same striking way, though near seven years later, seemed true—however, within the restraints of my own morale, I had chosen that, as someone not particularly ever having belonged to his fandom at all, and only having taken an interest of sorts in my own mark of endeavors, that being as such, a public figure, and of high visibility, and in the best interest of the children at all— his and mine, that any matter of judgement should be left remarkably alone, It was a matter of safety and protection for myself, and so within the mounds of which things had such been written into the walls and foundations of the festival project, I had with intention begun to hide all traces of what had been chosen, not to be spoken at all, but crafted into words out of heart, some sort of duty of the overall outlook at large. The sirens were fine, but the motorcycles weren't making it into the album. They had already ruined most of the seasons episodes since I had moved into the apartment, and I refused to allow them into what would be supplemented into my musical repertoire—because as it were, it almost seemed that they were doing it on purpsoe, to become markers of time within my recordings as a matter of importance—when in fact, they weren't. And though what some might have thought the devil to have his hand in attempting to rule the world, he did not rule mine, but was simply a facet of the things that represented weak and unworthy men, who had no such power upon the earth but to take away from its love and light with his own weak spirit and tainted mind. These men were no more than fools given too much in pride and not enough in wisdom, as to be so deranged in acting as if no one mattered besides themselves. What good do you do to anyone besides yourself? What good can I do? very well, for now. Write. I don't have much time left. What do you mean, ‘you don't have much time left?' —! —unless, you don't want to have much time left. Where are you? Anywhere. False ties, And false truths Stolen reality Programmed shadows, And drains of So— caskets, then? (Shaking hand firmly) Caskets. We beforehand had agreed to a friendly game of caskets, amongst the other games we had made to play, and though a game of Caskets was never friendly, we had, at least, at face value, agreed to a for the sake to each other's willingness to carry on, play by the rules. There were already other games in play, none of which anyone in any given circumstance could gather at all, who was ahead, or who was behind, but one—and though I had certainly been making gains towards progression, had given up in even trying any longer at the fame game. He appeared to have won and taken on the full suit. Indeed— He lived in a house of cards, And mine of glass— Both fragile upon The casting of stones None of which Either would dare To throw. I'll see you in 1950. Fine— you'd better make it this time, ior you'll have to wait until the next fall of Rome. If Rome falls again in the next archive, I quit. You said that in the last archive. I was sure there would be no fall. If there's no fall, there's no here or there. Yeah, but maybe there's somewhere else— And I'll see you there. 1950. Do you think this is on Google's network. It has to be. I've got some guy hacking outside my door, The cops and robbers going at it with sirens and motorcycles, The robot next door offering a peace treaty— Or a time bomb— And of course, No Jimmy Fallon. At least it's the turn of the season so these weirdos actually have a reason to keep hacking up a lung. At least that. Maybe they're just attempting entry into the afterlife. Fine, but whatever's waiting for them on the other side After disturbing all my peace Can't be any better, Than what I've got. I'm on my way out. To live again. Someone must have by now noticed that gang stalking breaks a basic moral code, and by the time they've accomplished anything in one way or another, they're met with the same exact treatment for punishment as they've done to other people; the system then turns on its own self, eventually rewarding the victim of said stalking with promotion or progressing, and reprogramming the firmer stalker to be stalked his or herself. Tortured, hacked, coughed at—ridiculed and humiliated, intruded pubkically, and eventually, maybe even—driven to death of insanity via mental deterioration and dysfunction. What can you expect! You gave Google your number name and address. I also gave them the answers to questions they were looking for out of actual space, instead of cyberspace. You're right, you are worth more dead than alive. Are you enjoying yourself at all? Oh, no, i'm— [The Festival Project ™] You know that thing where, Someone attractive to you, can do something for you, And it's flattering and really appealing— But if someone ugly does it, Then it's creepy, And feels like, uncomfortable, and it's overstepping boundaries? Yeah. Well, this just assumes that I'm the creepy guy, in this scenario— —alright. And that Jimmy Fallon is the pretty girl. That's—making sense. It's— solid. Airtight. Hey look, It's Jimmy Falalalalalala— Lawsuit. Ahahah. Why are you laughing? We're getting sued! I'm getting sued. Exactly! Yeah that's hilarious How is that “hilarious” Cause I'm getting sued by Jimmy— Fuck you. Fuck you, Jimmy Fa— Ultline. Oh, shit. Step on a crack, break your momma's EARTHQUAKE. Goddamn. Niggly Nigga is the niggliest nigga that ever nigga'd. NIGGLY NIGGA works at PIGGLY WIGGLY. –are you sure? It's been like three fucking weeks. THREE WEEKS. Well, I guess he just started working at Piggly Wiggly. What happened to your job at the Hobby Lobby? … It wasn't working out. {Enter The Multiverse} Yo. The late night guys are mad weird. Somehow, the hosts of late night television have all mysteriously been locked into an unfamiliar mansion, without their suits—and pants—unable to find an exit. All of the doorways are blocked—and all of the windows have been altered—they do not open, nor can anyone see out of them; in fact, they are doctored with the same illusionary backdrops that can be seen on the sets of their own shows—the televisions, which, have seemingly been programmed to only play reruns of their own shows. Why— why aren't you wearing pants!? I don't know. Where's your suit? You should be wearing a suit! I know, right?! Who the fuck even are you?! Depends whose asking. YO, CONAN. WOAH. You're not a late night host! Thank God! That seems like an awful job—your demographic fucking sucks. My demographic does suck. But to counter that— I'm a Republican. Who knew?! Not my demographic. Okay, everybody calm down. (Everybody was already calm, but for the most part just confused, and pant less; most of them wear the same classic boxers, though in different patterns/ slightly varying colors—but of course, nothing too crazy, while only one host sports boxer briefs, and one (I'll let you guess who) ladies panties.) At least we all have our own rooms. I don't! I'm stuck in a twin bed and Leno has the other. Before: JAY LENO Good Morning, bright eyes. CUT BACK TO: Aren't you retired? I do moonlighting. LENO and FALLON seem somewhat comfortable and non-biased (read: unbothered entirely) over the morning paper and coffee at opposite ends of the large breakfast table, a continental style breakfast of croissants, seasonal fruit, with an assortment of cereals arranged in the kitchen. FALLON occasionally looks up from his paper to laugh at himself on the television, playing in the kitchen. The other hosts squint with allied disgruntlement of FALLON'S nonchalance and slightly narcissistic egotism. FALLON (reading paper, watching self; eating croissant, sipping coffee) Haha. Nobody has pants, and as the hosts will soon discover—this is with purpose. They have been trapped here as part of an experimental game show, in which the unrecognized and uninformed guest will host, as part of a test shoot aimed at the demographic of the late night hosts combined audience, to test whether or not this demographic will be positively receptive to a late night host who is also a woman of color (read: black) —without a white male counterpart co-host to soften the blow. Really? This is why they're doing this? Who is “they?!” The network. We all work for different networks! I'm pretty sure the only reason I have a demographic is because of my accent. It's true. They accept you. Right. Where are the women. An overhead voice: (They are coming) Oh, so I will have co-hosts. Guest co-hosts; they will vary and change from episode to episode. Oh. Thank Goodness. Don't thank me yet. Uh, okay—overhead voice… Let's just say I'm the narrorator.. Narrorator for what [this is also a movie] Uh. In what genre? [a host opens the cabinet to a bloody chuckie- like doll, which pops out from a mechanical arm with a high pitched scream; the host lets out a squeal, abandoning his coffee— we see a hidden camera pov from the camera's perspective, and then slow-motion replay footage of the host's reaction— he runs frantically pantless into a corner and then up the stairs. —Depends on the host. FALLON, who has been sitting at the table behind him, is still unaffected/unmoved. Himself makes a joke on the TV screen above— he giggles at himself, sipping coffee and looking back to his newspaper the other hosts groan; LENO shrugs and continues, delightfully finishing smearing a bagel and biting into it— he trades FALLON the comics he's been reading for the RELIGION section he's been scoping under the magified lenses of his readers, quietly and sweetly, like an old married couple, without even exchanging a glance or speaking to one another. Ugh. Suddenly, from the floor above. OH DEAR GOD. CRAIG FURGUSEN has just realized his worse nightmare. The hosts still standing at the bottom floor in the kitchen all look up, wide eyed. [Cursing in unintelligible Scottish] ———- They said that you were one of us, but you're not one of us. But you're not one of us. Of course not, I'm not a comic— I studied philosophy in college. That should be funny, but it's not. I would repeat what I just said, but I don't want to. Still not funny. What if I farted? Bubbles—water—maybe— some potential. But probably not. Shame. What are you reading? I'm not; I'm having banter with a crazy-eyed late night host in a bathrobe. Well how's this for a book mark? He opens his robe. (Unimpressed) Aren't you married? Arent we all? I digress. Embarrassed and nervous, he quickly closes his robe. Yes. To a blonde. Congratulations. Where should I send the card? I'm not giving you my address! Creepy fan—stand up, wanna be… He frustratedly begins to exit You're the one standing, technically —And I'll be the last one standing! At the end of the week, it's gonna be me in those pants! Me! Clearly, this show of affection has all been an attempt to bribe “CC”, into being pursuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”. The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Oh, That's not Jimmy Fallon. It's not? No. That's Sim Jim. Sim Jim? Uh huh. You see, Sim Jim took over for real Jim a long time ago. Oh…I really like that guy! Everybody likes Sim Jim; he's just like the real Jimmy, but takes care of everything The Real Jimmy can't. …that's making sense. They're nearly completely identical—Sim Jim is just more — avalible. Wow! He must be really famous. Yes, exactly. So—what about The Real Jimmy? What about him? What does he do? At this point, I knew there was no way I could really get around it—getting the Festival Project ™ off the ground and running—actually into production—seemed almost impossible. The shell and ghost of Jimmy Fallon seemed to be everywhere, plastered on walls and screens in all this time and at every turn —but the real masked man/-The Real Jimmy Fallon—was a mystery— the mask he wore, his own face, and his entire namesake, his own address. What would you do? I would probably never see him again on the material plane, but he had instead soaked my dreams in mystery in illusion—his shadow figure having become enchanted, whispering with ease as the voice of my own subconscious. Like any celebrity, he was untouchable—-and like any of them before or sense the seven years time, had come and gone into my quarry of philosophies and cosmic murmurs, only leaving behind the pondering of thoughts, now dwindled down into a reconciling judgement that perhaps I was, after all, somewhat broken. Perhaps, once, I had fallen asleep only to never wake up—perhaps I had died in all truth and not known it and had become the ghost myself. Shattered mirrors and references to time only left me with more truth and less overall knowing—that something had happened here—something strange and otherworldly; Something mystical and cosmic that had left me in audacity and crumbling inwardly in calamity, though my outer spoke with the calm outpourings of a humbled and collected but weary traveler, once, too made of dust—but now seeped in skin and rushing with blood—at least, I thought…and I thought far too fondly and far too often of Mr. Jimmy Fallon to care at all without being frustrated, or giving weight to the reality which was simple, in that he had become a galaxy in his own, so distant that it seemed to rival any coincidings of rampant thought which might be logical in any sort of way or make actual sense at all. The Jimmy Fallon I knew was the Jimmy Fallon everyone knew— and nobody knew The Real Jimmy Fallon. Three entire solid deades of fame between my world, and whatever his might have been fashioned as— fabrication, any means—and none of my actual business, besides the business—I crept into a sacrificial surrender with the hopes of never being further harmed—the ritual torture of those around me fading into rupture; the rapture of all mankind had gathered at my doorstep, and outside my window, and rather than to wait and watch, I crept and closed into my fortress of servitude, in solitude, silently keeping the records of what I had known. “The Untouchables” Episode 1 ‘The Wrath of Stanhope' {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

'boxed' (Instrumental) Collection 1.1 - actuality. track 05.- boxed. prod. By Blū Tha Gürū Listen— —motherfucker— You should— Know— I don't — —give— No —kind of— —fuck— Whatsoever I love my own —but not the other Something - something son Get a gun and blow my candles out White power now bout Building towers up To tear you down —I don't give a fuck about flax seek Black seed, back seat black candles Black cat, relax, Atticus. I don't give a fuck about a Fallon, I bought a gallon of water for two jugs, And a quarter On my daughter. Get it? (Fuck you) Or should I go back to spending Spin class looking at candid camera I could buy a mountain before I sit down on mounds White Diamonds, 9 time champ I'm just like ET, don't mind that I'm a dead beat dad camped out in a van With a 30 second tan on, oh man Redact that one —FUCK— YOU. Power play I should wait an hour For the Amazon van If the Amazon man can hit this What makes you think you can I just too fan I drew fandoms on your Blū Barrymore, Don't carry that backpack, You might fall back I called my song —but I can't call back …fuck you, (Goddamn) If you don't believe me, I just scored two degrees Just from pleasing people Three of you count me, My MBA in saying I buy NBA team Damn. Can't even get an Instagram account Without getting hacked Just for being a half black Half Uncle Sam smashing red/*ted man Don't call red man, Just call Meth/ Seth back METHOD MAN …hello? Flip the bitch right back I flip the whip And grip the script, I pistol whipped Bristol back To — camp {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Where am I? What? What city is this?! —seriously? Why do I see boats? You don't remember? And bridges?! What city puts sky scrapers on the waterline? What? Lots of cities have that. Well which one is this?! Are we in America?! Who goes sailing at this hour?! What time is it? {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

'beat my face. ' Instrumentals for a Higher Purpose Collection 1.1 - Track 01- 'beat my face' (bad girls club) (Instrumental Only) prod by Blū Tha Gürū Now I can chill and do fun things— What fun things. Like this: And *you* can go do the tonight show. Aw what?! I'm not doin the tonight show! SUNNI BLU is doin the tonight show. There's this woman at work… I've been thinking about just l sticking it in her. Do it! Really. Yeah, go for it. You might as well— thinking about it m so much is just as bad as doing it to a woman you would call your wife. Hm. Thinking about it so much anyway, means that you already have. Does it? Besides actually doing it? You already have. I write about white america Then listen to Billie Ellish Isn't it ironic Remember when Billie was niggas Remember her speaking Ebonics And talking like not from highland park God bless Los Angeles Like the animals not on Noah's Ark God bless Brooklyn New York On a walk I saw a copse on rigamortis It's gotten worse Saw a bunch of disco balls mu never noticed Blessed the lord The global war on politics Is actually over water And skin color One time What's trap is I'm just out for bananas Truth is, I don't even want it no more That's when it start comin I don't want no drama, I'm still dumpster diving lord At least walk your dogs l Scooping people and poop off of the sidewalks God I hope I die today Almost got hit by a semi truck Didn't even slow down and shit Didn't even see me I must have been 27 Been up in the parts of Brooklyn ain't nothing beautiful but the baby's breath Only maybe Why why Saw my life in the back of the old Volvo Bring my words and my worlds to the waterfront I found Trader Joe's after all I only came out for bananas and coconut water on markup Call mark wallberg I smell burgers Sweatingbmybhuns off Another small dumb blonde barbie. White people gon steal everything from a nogga Even a name I'll tear down your poster You fuckin poser You not Soleil Your name Kayla or Kaylie You stole it They say a heartbeat at 18 days What difference does that make. I don't have a heartbeat sometimes I'm 30 years old I'm sick He says It's this But that's not sickness She says And if it is, We share it Well, it's a beautiful day in —THE WORST RAVE OF ALL TIME. Damn. That would be Hierovnmus Bosch, The Garden of Eathly Pleasures Oh GOD, What is this place!? YOOOOO. wtf. I realized, at some point— that as long as I wasn't being paid, that there was no need to prioritize anything or anyone—that I could do what I wanted and write what I needed, and do things as I pleased and on a whim because simply put, that nothing else had benefit to it; there was no income in the work that I was doing, and it seemed more for show than my actual benefit, so much so that I felt like a circus act when being made to work out in front of people, and almost entirely unwilling to keep dragging myself out of bed in the middle of the night to ensure that I wouldn't be followed to the gym. It wasn't that I was afraid or paranoid, but that I felt like a circus monkey, especially when the same few people seemed to show up to workout whenever I did, regardless of what time I chose to. As long as it was day time, the same few people showed up almost on que when I was ready for a workout, and I grew tired of the charade at all. I had lost all my weight, and anything leftover was from the stubborn and unfortunate circumstance of having once been so large that I was almost entioy certain that I was in fact a different person. I was at any tigivrn time no more than 48 hours away from being able to see my ribcage through my upper chest by simply drinking water through the day or taking a walk to Trader Joe's; I was no longer in fear of regaining as much weight as I had, lost, and in any sense was so astonishing healthy and clean eating, that even on days I indulged and gorged there was no seeing past the fact that m even bloated, all my extra and extra-extra smalls still fit: I was skinny. Continuing to push myself was a disasterous and pointless charade. I wasn't being paid for being at the gym—and nor had I attracted anything other from what I could see than men already in relationships taking a side eye from their often bland and uncoordinated girlfriends—usually white girls who never learned how to dress or match clothes because they didn't have to—and I often thought of how great it must be to live at the top of the food chain; to be born into a world that loves you and revolves around you and your kind, while the rest subsist under you and fight for survival. Besides the always eager black man, my time in the gym had not resulted in any other suitors that Immight actually arouse my inner beast at all in the way that I thought it might by now— stretch marks at all, as I often realized much larger women with perfectly suitable men enough times to realize that simply put, sometimes it didn't matter. I wasn't going to allow myself to get fat by any means, and was still so fit that the smooth and firm, toned lines of my abdomen often facinated me so much so that I had to touch it to realize that it was true—that even under the skin that I needed removed, there was some kind of six-pack-type abdomen carved out and hidden, defined enough that on the days I did fast, it almost scared me. I squinted in the mirror, even on days that I gorged on whatever I wanted and indulged, bloated from overeating without care—I was still so small that I was proud of myself, and reduced my training schedule to basically whenever I wanted, which was whenever was truly needed. I was nobody's fucking show monkey—I had done more work than most people at all and had achieved more than the average man or woman struggled with, realizing that things such as removing animal product from one's diet, avoiding processed foods, and following a gym ritual at all, never the less 6-7 days a week for a period of years— were things average people said they were going to do over and over, but never did; or started and then quickly stopped upon realizing it was hard. Normal people made New Year's resolutions to do what I had done every year without doing it—and I had. It had taken me this long to realize that most people never escape abusive husbands, or lose 250 pounds— they most people never have to. Most people have never suffered the loss of two children and recovered enough to function properly in the world—and though I wasn't myself ‘in the world' for the time being, I owed myself realizing that I didn't owe the world anything at all besides what I wanted to, or what I could do. That even though I wasn't picked from a Petri dish and born into an industry family like Billie Ellish, I was made just the same to sing and dance around in stage and tour the world doing what I loved as she was— and not being allowed to do that —what i had always wanted— warranted this, an indifferent and almost apathetic protest to whatever it was that was ‘expected' of me, to go out into a world that was rigged against those of my ‘type' and play a game that was harder for me and people like me than It for people born without having to work, sacrifice, and who defined struggle as something so far from what I had come to know as such, that it was almost two different enough things to have been placed in two different worlds at all. Alas, it was all the same world, and all the same game—though some of us with less pieces than others. I had been used all my life, and had finally decided upon some sort of revelation, that I should absolutely not do anything at all, unless I was being paid; not in incentives or windfalls of material things—but cold, hard, cash. The thing that had turned the world evil and dark—but allowed me to get the things that I wanted, when I wanted—without relying on some cheating scumbag loser to provide them for me. Men wanted perfect bodies and the ideal traits to match—and so since I hadn't been gifted such such that would allow it without nearly killin go myself working it away to the bone, I'd find a way to earn a new body myself, so that the world that I had done could be seen. I had a six pack, and nothing was moving at all until I was being paid enough for the world to see it. I was going to wear a bikini, and bask in the sunlight, and do all the things I had been prevented from doing by being poisoned by trauma and processed foods for two decades. I was going to find a job and save for a body that men wanted—the freedom I needed to end the hell that had been 32 years of being a fat, ugly nigger. New York City had made it clear that the world was against us and that Karen, Becky, and Kelsey had ruled in such a way that was meant to destroy us, but I could not be destroyed; If I had to kiss Karen's ass working some bullshio job at some place just to earn the admiration and desire I had always craved and never received, so be it. There was nothing in the world left at all besides money, vanity, and the truth of it all—that men didn't love souls— They loved bodies. All of my time would be spent figuring a way to earn mine. Maybe my mother should have had that abortion after all. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Make a mockery of myself; wear smock to work I don't talk too much no more I just gossip somedays, Dark on mondays; The forgotten apostle With just enough rope To jump off and hope It all stops, soon The motocross and the terror stalkers Just across from the starbucks at the Rock –it got awkward But God Loves me Might start a talk show Some chef, with a pop tart A pop up club, a long night Some broke shards of glass, the yards of all the scars on stars and stripe Feels like a long night– Got coffee and tacos A long talk with your blonde wife To bypass the psycos Right, though? Bro, it's so over; I won a whole asshole and a four leaf clover In a game of poker Now, brush your shoulders off Brush your hair, Pet the dog, And kick the cat over and over Till he turns back to a robot “You're so gross.” –don't i know it. The whole world is over –you jump first, I'll follow Lets keep talking About the letters I penned To the false Gods, Painted them scarlett, of course Scattered em from here to Scarboro Fair, I was right there, then out of nowhere a new nightmare with nice hair Here we go again Lines out the door; We got lines out the door Out of Order The world is at war The whole world has run Out of water The four is the for Theres no five But the V for vendetta Theres lines out the door The whole world Is a mom And a daughter My jokes get better, The buildings look bigger I pretend this seltzer is alcohol Cause i want it To make me forget I've got all my– Huh There's a line out the door. What if– Me, And all of your friends And all of my Wait, I don't have any friends I'm getting a cat. I was just thinking about Mila Kunis. Oh yes, why's that? SETH MCFARLENE YEEEEE. YEEEEEEE. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. WHAT, GODDAMMIT GIGGITY! OKAY, ASSHOLE Eyes on eyes, and tears on tears All the years ive cried On ears on ears Why am I even here? It's been too long, since i've been touched I don't love love but i dislike lust I don't trust anyone I don't have a number I crawled up my arm, Danced with the blood drawn BLŪ wakes up famous. [The world swirls into a plume of dark blue sky; BLŪ awakens suddenly from the blackness of a deep sleep in the middle of a road, a group of people, friends, swirling around her.] YO. What? BLŪ. What's up. PARTY FOUL, BROH. … Billie Ellish? Billie Pirate Ellish. Uh. That's why the rum– Is gone. What. Guess i'm Jack Sparrow, now. Hey wait–are you even legal? Uh. I'm a mad fucking genius; are you legal? I don't know. Besides, this was your idea. What–what? Exactly. Get up. Wtf is going on in this scene. Idk i might a have to play the song again Fuck that. I'm about to slit myfucking wrists. HAVOC. Where are we going? You still got that NDA in your wallet? I–yeah. Then we're gucci. “Waking up Famous” I don't know exactly what happened. [Looking in the mirror, confused.] This is a nice leather jacket. I wonder if i'm still Vegan. Damn. I look mad rich. BLŪ hurry UP! [toilet flushes with foot] Alright, I'm coming. [Blu checks her pockets to find a wallet, the contents including numerous cards–metal ones, with copious amounts of cash, and pre-filled NDAs which have been folder neatly and stuffed into the corner pocket of the trifold wallet] Billabong. Classy. I'm never gonna finish that other project, am I? Whatever. Leave Fallon alone. I did. –it came back. Cut lil blonde Hot as Finneas O' Connell Possible homosexual, but god love him Cause I'm hungry Lookin for lunch Somebody as scrunches Pull up and crunches Cause my monster is Lookin to Humpty Dumpty Fuck, I forgot Rosie O'Donnal! I cant get no Satisfaction— The Rolling Stones What's wrong, Saint Jimmy? Lucius? What is it. Percius would like to see you. Oh. The Prince Lucius hasn't left his chamber in days—however, as his brother Percius has just returned from war, he quickly emerges from his resting place, an alter of sorts. Damn, I'm getting a headache. I almost never have headaches. It was true, and of course, as I started to write about this prince and his so said brother, Lucius and Perseus, I was reminded once more of Athens, where I had just been however briefly, in a short astral trip of sorts, wandering about in the dreamworld, looking for something or someone in place of my pillow to hold. Did you want to walk to Trader Joe's? I mean, kind of, but no. My muscles were sore and I had just spent some two hours in the gym, not on purpose but quite by accident, though only having run just under two miles, though at least uphill, and spending the rest of the time lifting—I had been bound to mostly beans and rice, and so however was bloated and gassy, quite slow and not as strong, my regular protein just out of reach… Dang. I have so much to fucking do today. I hadn't realized that somehow it was Saturday, although just a couple days before had been a Wednesday that felt like Sunday, and now again time was all out of sorts; it was a “holiday” weekend, and I was without a doubt, drowning in my own having-to-do's, and as such, weekends and days off were entirely not a thing, besides in ways that those bustled around me—and I was sure that some days had been lost, as I was planning to visit the food bank on Friday, but had somehow skipped over the end of the week entirely—somehow, that is, and I was sure sometimes that in skipping days, meditating and fasting about, however intermittently, that time itself shuffled in all the ways I had, between cross dimensions and parallels such as I—I had been hovering somewhere between the 6th and. 10th dimensions, for the most part, and none with having to understand the undoubted shifts in my own perception of time that were bound to happen, as I sprawled across the astral plains looking and searching for a sign that the tragic poverty, restlessness, and lack of peace wound end. Bound to your alter, my dear brother? Aye. So perhaps here there was another unfounded Kingdom within the realm of Ascencia—Lucius, a prince, and Percius—seemingly slated the King, and yet I had unreached such a conclusion as to assimilate an entirely factioned world, as of yet. What did you write last night? Uh…I don't know. Well, let's see Something had shaken me from my almost-sleep, laying sprawled across my bed, in the middle of the mattress, rather than to either side, which was rare; I typically preferred the left side of the mattress, anyway, but as I waited to launder my bedding, after a sweaty and sweltering almost summer day of lounging, smothered in shea butter and lackadaisically scrawling about what recordings had been buried in my phone, between the collection of books I had practically all found in the streets of New York and the rising temperatures of the tepid summer weather, my room was starting to smell funny—and without being able to burn sage anymore, for fear of being thrown back into the streets like a dog, I with every hope in the world figured that washing my thick bedding, comforter included, would restore the crisp and rigid, almost factory clean that I found satisfactory. Songs buzzed in and out of my head as if I hadn't enough already much to do—and still, I added into my growing pile of notes and mounds of work, even more songs—this time, The Rolling Stones. I can't get no Satisfaction… …but I try— —and I try— —and I try— And I try! I can't—get no—! God, I wish I could write something like that. The rock Gods had at the very least been accompanying me, and in a certain sense, so had the Gods of The Rock; I had been forced up out of my dormant state by a voice which urged me away from my near sleep—I had been up since six AM and it was something past midnight, and still the voice said— “Get up and write!” And though I had words tinkering around in my head like little coins in some sort of metal box, none of them quite made so much sense that I had to get up and write—however, still the voice, though not angry, but firm, insisted. The voice, for once, sounded female— a welcome change, and though I had become quite fond of males in general, in the solemnly celibate sense, it was a difference and yet none at all— a voice of wisdom had projected itself at me, and as I dragged myself about, reaching for a notebook and flipping through the pages, finding that the notebook was practically full… ‘great, more shit to do' I held the words that had tinkered around in my mind like little whispers until I found a page to make them full formed, and the words which fell into my hand as scriptured by the pen—my favorite writing utensil, nearly out of its cherishable gel ink, danced upon the page nearly on its own, channeling the words written as such: Once prosperous to throw The stone asunder Glisten whispers of water Tears of al tears |ter| Of the altar, For follow for fello, A felon of Antigone Grace, with shield A tattered tail, So flew with feathered Phoenix ? Feared, Foreshadowed not, Agreed upon however, Was the velvet woven path of us, So honored in her fortress . Yeah, something about Rockefeller Plaza. Well there were all these hooded figures in like weird, brown velvet robes— That's true, I saw that. Yeah, I was there, You WHAT? Look what I got. Fuck me, man. You know, there's a lot more to this story. I was hoping so, but however also, hoping not. Man, Jimmy Fallon's wife is super hot. Gee! Yeah man, she's so cute. W0W. I like her, They're Gods. I think they're Gods. yuh. What else did I write? There was something else? What the fuck is wrong with that guy? Somethin. Yeah. The pages of the notebook were all full, something of a book of shadows and protection spells I had used in an attempt to ward off my ex husband—how of course, that they were done with, I should very well have been jotting them into with all the notes, into the documents—later to burn them, unable to afford the parchment book I wanted. For what a withered way would call an honor for fortunes duty, Glorified wherein in as shadows, Cast upon reflections in redacted incantations and enchantments, foreword come, theone who waits Believing darkness be his fate Whatever, man. Fuck Jimmy Fallon. If you really feel that way! I feel a lot of ways. Well, don't. I'm so, so hungry… So, so lonely… So, so fuckin broke. Man—I learned all this dumb ass magic just to protect myself from this guy, and all this still happens! I think it's just Satan. [Satan Appears] Man— she is JACKED. Try this one. Follow me, boy! Uh— okay. I'm staying single forever. Don't look at me. That's my girl. Don't look at me. What the fuck. Stop looking at her: Don't look at me! Men are hopeless. Fuck dude, like, the worst thing imaginable is that this Jimmy Fallon dude actually hates me so much for this— What? Uh oh. And is so fucking powerful. He is. A very, very powerful— Well, what is it!? We don't— know. *gasps* He's a— SHHHHHH. [Redacted] Well, that's not doing much, is it? Seriously, just kill yourself again. Might have to! Fuck, why do all these robot demons SMELL like him? Satan? Yep. Satan ?! I'm— Seriously, save him. Seriously, God really loves Jimmy Fallon— (He's one of my favorites.) Favorite what's?! Just—favorites. Damn. This is getting to be like Greek Theatre. Great. Now everybody's gonna fucking die. It could be a comedy. Holy shit, yeah— This has mad good production value. I love it! Strange shit I just did give my OWSLA tat a kiss Smile for the camera, Pageantry of mattresses, A master of the MagicIan's chance at Chancellors dance, Look at Harrison trance Can I run a mile for President? A toy chest, A boy, just Obama I'm so much older Been through such trauma What the Willy wonka I should apply for Harvard New York over Boston So Columbia or Juliard I wish Son of a bitch, this is tragic I'm too old for scholarship Diploma's in another name I just got protective orders on I should start over But the world war is another Trump drama My Amazon cart is full of karma What you want from God? A trophy husband, Let's call him Oscar -undefeated. All this is weird I think imm married to the music Think of growing a beard Opening a beer And getting out of here All of my fears is Mommy dearest mommy dearest All of my hell is A body Imm a seed in a forest Been buried Bipolar, Supposedly, So tell me, Faery; How could I love you The way I I do If my mood Were restablized My blu life Gave me blue eyes Clean tub of water I don't belong here It's too late for me too Swapping Vogue for the People My people who hate me But I been so played, The hatred betrays me I walk both ways Down a one way street {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. [In the 10th dimension, all things become possible.]

Mad Men is an American period drama TV series that aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. The show follows the lives of the people who work at a New York advertising agency in the 1960s, and focuses on the professional and personal life of Don Draper, a talented but mysterious ad executive {Enter The Multiverse} {Mad Men} (A Happy Accidents Mix) GET—OUT OF MY WAY. What are you doing?! MOVE. Is this a code four? Far beyond code four! Oh my! What could it be?! Move! This is a serious matter! The NBC pages are in a frenzy, pushing and shoving one another frantically, turning 30 Rockefeller plaza into an animalistic jungle of confusion and chaos. What is going on. The games—sir. The—games? The. games. Sir. I–m– afraid I don't know what you're talking about You should be afraid! Be very afraid. Because the games. What “games” The GAMES have begun. CUT TO: Seth Meyers stands in the mirror comparing two exactly identical ties— he appears to be talking to himself, asking SETH MEYERS how do you like this tie? —to no response. He uncomfortably shifts and switches to the other, exactly identical tie. Or this? Yo. What a creep. Again, to no response, he waits a moment and switches to the first, exactly identical tie, with an assertive nervousness. SETH MEYERS CONT'D You're right, the first one. Yeah. He completes tying his tie, then placing his hands in his pockets, still facing the mirror—quite enamored with himself. He leans up onto his toes and then back onto his heels, admiring himself before spinning around to face the anterior of the room; SETH MEYERS It's showtime. He points his fingers animatedly at his mock audience—now we see that the room is filled top to bottom with stuffed animals, puppets, dolls, and other strange likenesses… Hold up, i'm distracted Just stick to what you know. Most of the Saturday Night Alumni and Late Night hosts had long, noteworthy careers in comedy, hefty writing backgrounds, and tons of experience in television. I found myself out of place and grasping at straws, letting something come for a moment between myself and my sanity. I did know music—but wasn't the girl with her shit together enough to have made any kind of dent in my obviously gaping music career, with the additional workload of what may have been the work of a genius, but also a madwoman—or mad man, depending on whose essence or presence happened to take hold of my weary and feeble soul, or Distracted again [the news] (the actual news) Whatever (Wednesdays) - your weekly dose of whatever. The Audio Files (for Audiophiles and Music Producers/ Engineers) That was all I could remember off of the top of my head, not that it mattered at all, actually. I was grasping as strings and between worlds— the winner of the contest had beautiful pictures, and had played festivals—her website was flawless, and I liked her, later finding that she was Greek. I didn't seem to mind women, so long as they weren't the hateful, competitive, and typically racist—even on both sides—American type, and I scanned the list of participants that had been American to see if any of them were black women—doubtable, though in the New York scene some black women had seemingly out of nowhere taken to techno, and with that I had shifted gears to make my production more focused in bass and dubstep, if I were ever to return to my state of producing at heavy volume. I hadn't, with so much on my plate to juggle or rather spin, and I had been in quite the bubble of for whatever reason l trying to solve the puzzle of what had suddenly become what seemed like an NBC sponsored charade through the inner workings of my mind, only to find that not only was I not qualified, but also not entirely capable of doing any of the jobs I wanted to, and with that notion had settled once again comfortably in the cradle of suicide, hating everyone and everything around me—and using Tina Fey's book as an alter to light my prayer candle, all the while knowing someone had left it there—the book, along with a collection of surf themed relics, especially for me. I had been thoroughly warned about Jimmy Fallon. He was an impressive egotist—- walked amongst rightfully the elite, was highly competitive, and powerful. He was not the kind of man you tell ‘no', even if you were, like me, entirely unsure as to what the question was—his eloquence had been understated, the design of it all, unique, in a way that it all seemed to speak of a time before time— I was immovably always fond of the Greeks Lost, was the old world, Our own, Bound by candle light; Marked by wisdom, Enrichment, Cherished times, Beseeched the throne, A mask of wands, The arch of Tryerdom, I am the arms of therefore What was once, The whole of body, As a man or womankind, Seeks to know a God— They are as one, And all of us, Beyond the shroud of time, A whimsy befallen, like leaves upon us Overgrown the garden of Adam, Wrought with fruit, Which rotten lies upon the tide, So soaked with formidable ocean She or he therefore has lost The touch of truth, The seekers wisdom, All are none again, And so shall fall the empire They called us upon as ours. —in God we Trust. Amen. Fuck, man. How am I supposed to— What do you call it? —summon. Summon a fucking— What's it? God. —God…up on this fucking soundstage without the entire audience or anyone else noticing. You figure it out. How, though? What the fuck. It takes a lot of impressive achievements to get into the page program. Yeah, but . I would assume your studies in practical magic to be at the very least— —Doing what now? Adequate—if not satisfactory. You are weird. This is weird. I paid cash, and I expect results. Whatever. Now, be careful with those tablets. We wouldn't want anyone dangerous getting a hold of them. Anyone like who? {Enter The Multiverse} Do your job; I'll do mine. When we go, we go— And when we go… The man emerges from below the surface of the water, gasping for breath; as the water drips down from his hair and face, back into the water, as the splash echoes into a dull chorus of dripping, his mouth open, gaping, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare; he breathes deeply as something in him recollects before the blur of the world sets in to become a clear and crisp, colored world. We go the way we came— At once, and Alone. As if no one could no where we've just come from— Or where we must go. But we must go. “Cosmos Factory” This could be fatal. —but isn't everything. He's not breathing. Call an ambulance. nurse! Call a paramedic. The paradigm shifted as I departed one world and entered the next. In a fit of blind rage and fury, also came an excitement; I was accomplished. The man is distinguished, late 40's to early 50's, with dark, lush hair. Soon, you know, it will all be grey. It can't be. What do you mean it's ‘empty'? This is not the place! What place? This is not the place that it was! Ah, so this is Cosmos Factory. I thought that was a comedy. I was hoping it would be. Here it is. I was wondering what was in there. I'm still waiting to see what's in Mrs. Gillipsie's refrigerator. Well, keep waiting. I've got a few more chapters in this memoir and I can't be bothered with trying to figure out why Johnny Depp is the narrator in the voiceover— My God, how you've changed. Well, yes— I am a changeling. Not to mention your improvements in shapeshifting. Actually, let's not mention it. very well. Whatever, man. Tom. Is it? It should be. Whatever. Come in. Oh. What a lovely portal you have. —shut up. But the man reemerging from his practical baptismal submergence is none other than — I don't think he's capable of a role like this. He isn't—which is why I wrote it like this. You know, by the time the actual writers get their hands on this, there will be so many rewrites it will be hard to imagine or recognize you even wrote it. That's—already becoming a sort of paradoxical challenge. Of course it is. You shifters never have any idea the kind of repercussions coming, or, the endless— and I mean —endless realms— —infinite— Endless. Things are rarely infinite actually besides the things that always were, henceforth—infinite— Of course, Always having been and always will be. Got it. So. Do you understand the kind of effort it takes as a collective to have come up with a work like this? I understand the benefit of having opposable thumbs and an iPhone, You think you're smart; —when I'm thinking, at all— But you're actually a genius; that's right, without thinking at all. Have you thought about the characters you haven't yet created? There are more? The worlds you've yet to build? I've got all my money on blowing my head off before ever actually making it as a stand up comic. And I've got all mine on you blowing your head off, after you've made it as a stand up comic. Now, which is it going to be? [beat] Statistics don't lie. Actually, they do— Especially in America. North America? South America? You know as good as I know, I mean the Good old Goddamned USA. That's a lot of good old goddamned, Uncle Sam. —aha, And Sam, I am. Now, suit up as Dr. Suess and make sense of this. Nothing makes sense— If everything did, what would be the purpose? [agreeing, simultaneously] Puzzle Pieces. [a moment of solidarity] Now, pick the old man up off the ground, And get to it. He's not that old… You only say that because you're older. Let this trickle down into the body of success that I should be born at least two decades left than half a century ago. Any less and you'd be begging for some kind of pardon for all the crimes against humanity you've caused to solidify the theoretic concept of consciousness within the occult, instead of humbly accepting the consideration for an honorary doctorate at any given Alma mater whose brotherhood of trust has bonded us through this unjust monologue to seal such in blood as a relic. That's a lot of words. I have hairs on my chest. They are grey. Congratulations, Some of them silver. Is that a riddle? If it were, would there be so many puzzle pieces? I think that would take this whole thing out of balance. Manage your axis. Bid you well. Severance. “The Occult Classic” {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

[Enter The Multiverse] Make the old man laugh– –make The Old Man break a sweat Make the old man dance (Make The Old Man Young Again) Make The Old Man dance, I said Wise Owl My server be your server; My proxy, thine proxy… WHOOPI GOLDBERG (as The Cosmic Owl) sits crouched over a nest of stone and earthen metals of precious kind, enchanting within the thick smoke of incense and fragrant oils, with a whispered chant, evoking with spirit and summoning with force–a spell of all spells; a worldly ritual. Her golden turban matches the embellishments; the royally fashioned robe and chains around her neck, bangles and ribbons of gold and silver draped with the hooded cape of which the grand sleeves, falling into the grand purple flowing train of the cascading draperies. Meanwhile… Come on, we don't got all day… –”we”? I don't got time! MEANWHILE, CHRISTOPHER WALKEN awaits at the corridor of an unknown marker, inside of a train station–which appears altogether to be in a different time; altogether a different place; the period of his dress appears perhaps late 1800's; his pocketwatch, which he checks sporadically–also golden. ALSO MEANWHILE So this is Casper, huh? This–yeah. The friendly ghost. Well– AGH. He used to be, anyway. Why are you not making any sense!? I asked for PROTECTION! I gave you LIGHT! That's not a protection! It's a target! What the fuck ar eyou talking about? *vampire* {instant kills vampire} *demon* {Instant kills demon} THESE THINGS EAT LIGHT. Well. I don't know how to help you. Get me out of here! I can't do that! {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

Speak now, or forever hold your peace. Damn. Patrick is one cold ass motherfucker. It was all still rumbling around in my head somewhere… How could i forget something like that. Why even come to the ceremony if you were going to make a big scene like that I didn't. Why even show up? Appearances. Are you serious? –it would look bad if I didn't. It looked bad that you did and then exited during the ceremony. –the end of the ceremony. Specifically at the objections. –I wasn't paying attention. You stood up! I had to use the restroom. As an objection? Merely a coincidence. You don't believe in coincidences. I don't believe in marriages, either. Oh, please. I begged you. That's your excuse. It's not an excuse. Is it an objection? And if it was? I got married anyway. –So it wouldn't matter. Thanks for the toaster oven. –I didn't get you a toaster oven. Yes you did. Uh–no, I didn't. Then what did you get us? Nothing, I forgot. Well, the card was from you. Hm Maybe you forgot to forget. Maybe. Thank you, anyway. –Congratulations. There's leftover cake. Where? Everywhere. __ LATER. Hazel is practicing her guitar; her glasses rest at the edge of her nose, as she focuses on the instrument, almost as if her father in the doorway is a shadow, or an afterthought. She carefully tunes the strings as he leans into her bedroom. Hazel. Hm. Did you buy Esha and Mark a toaster oven with my credit card? She stops for a moment and peers over the brim of her glasses briefly addressing her father. –I knew you'd forget. Oh. I–I did. I know. Thank you. You're welcome. He pauses for a moment before making his departure, turning into the hallway. There's leftover cake. She seems genuinely excited. There is? Where? [beat] …everywhere. Ugh. This show blows my mind. Yeah. Sometimes almost literally. Happiness is a warm gun. You're the Hatter, and the rabbit, Alice and The Cheshire! You're The Rabbit, The Hatter, The Cheshire, and Alice! Did I ever write that scene about the liquor store? Maybe, probably. I don't know. Now every time i go to the store where I saw that scene, I see it again–although not quite as clearly, and I can't help but wonder if I ever wrote it down, or, like so much of whatever and somesuch–it was all just in my head. No, Patrick exists. Clearly. I had been fasting for an extraneous amount of time, though for how long i couldn't say. And the words repeated over and over in my head for me to fetch a book from the cabinet I had been interested in by its cover alone, but had put away weeks ago. I had stopped reading, and had become more focused on creating something that could generate revenue. I needed money, almost desperately enough to sell my already outdated DJ equipment and some of my studio gear, and yet–there was still work to be done. There wasn't much that I could do with my aged equipment, but there wasn't much I could do without it, either. Luckily, winter was coming forward faster, with heavy enough rain throughout the week that it kept some of the cyclists at bay, however, the same evil energy seems to have moved inward; now the doors just outside of my own slammed continuously throughout the day, without any logical explanation as to why; there were only six apartments on the floor, and most of the other people on the floor used the elevator to go about their tasks, so I couldn't much understand the constant door slamming–and though I had put in a maintenance request, being well aware that the doors could be fixed not to slam, my request had been ignored. It seemed as though the property manager had grown tired of my requests, but I had grown tired of having to make them. THe neighbors were inconsiderate, and I desperately wanted to move to a cleaner and quieter neighborhood–and though I knew by New York city standards what I had was a blessing–the noise had become depressing, and so had being followed by the same group of people during my gym regimen–enough so that I avoided nearly all human contact. People seemed to be increasingly toxic, in such a way that I intended to find a suitable enough position that I could save money and be able to one day escape. New York was not a clean, quiet, and friendly place. I disliked my newfound bitterness, hostility, and anger which the city had characteristically put into its place. My creativity meant nothing–I would need to earn money to be respected, or even well liked– Not that I cared much for being accepted or admired, however, in the way Californians upheld high standards of vanity, New York never overlooked the value of a dollar; it was a money game, and so far, I was losing. ‘Guncle. Guncle.' A faraway voice seemed to say. ‘Uh, okay.' I continued about my ritualistic deep cleaning, which always seemed to automatically take place towards the end of a fast. ‘GUNCLE!' The voice was loud this time, almost as if it was being yelled. “Jesus Christ, alright.” I reached up onto the high shelf where the book was stored and retrieved the book; I had almost forgotten the pink and blue letters which had drawn me to it in the first place. I had figured the colors to be some sort of code, as they were often used in media–but I wasn't sure besides what meaning I had assigned to it all my own what it was supposed to mean, besides being somewhere along the right path– ‘G U N C L E' I had no idea what the book was about, but flipped to the middle as I often did to get a glimpse at what the book might fortell. Low and behold, there it was– Not a massive sign, but a sign at least. I myself no longer believed in coincidences, especially while fasting, and all incidences of a certain nature lately seemed in fact to be somewhat Divine; I opened up to find that the main character of the book was named Patrick– And of course, He was some kind of actor– A television personality. I had nearly abandoned The Television people with Fallon and his–whatever-he-was– and being entirely honest with myself, I wasn't sure. What I was certain was, though, was that he was whatever I was, and whatever I was, was dangerous, volatile, prone to both implotsions and explosions and a little bit whimsical–I'd have liked to think, some sort of artist, or creative, however, Obviously not vibrating at the speed of celebrity status, at least not consistently– And, of course, remarkably tamed, for the kind of creature in my nature to have stumbled upon quite a discovery so ‘casually.' But there was really nothing so casual about it– it was formally divination, this specific puzzle piece, in that I had been fasting for no reason or purpose at all with no end in sight until being directed with such pertinence to pick up this book, only to find that the first word my eyes would see, was not at all just a word, but a name. I couldn't remember why he was Pat Kirkpartrick, at first, at all; then I remembered that for some reason–there was some kind of teaching i was supposed to have remembered about these people–the television people–and the Irish, especially; but then, there were also, strangely with some of the same ties, the Greeks, the…. Suddenly the back of my neck cause a warm wind, which I always thought to be strange sitting in the middle of my apartment with no air conditioning on at all. I had been fasting on this day as well and had gotten a second wind after eating, completing as many instrumentals as i could before continuing to look for a normal ‘slave job' so that I could earn money to travel and visit my loved ones. I didn't want for much else, not that I wanted to be normal, because I knew already at this point that I couldn't–but I needed to be paid in money I could choose what and where to spend on things I needed without relying on anything or anyone else. I couldn't keep taking my chances in entertainment; I was aging, and growing tired, and wary of the whitewashed and over-politically correct world that was sure to be pursuing entertainment anymore, especially television–I thought that perhaps I was best suited for desk work at a gym which would motivate me to show up every day; otherwise, I would probably quit or be fired almost immediately. It was time to retire to bed, with protective stones strapped to my chest to protect myself against whatever that awful, evil thing was–now that it was rainy for motorcycles, the doors slammed all day long and ached in my bones as if someone were hitting me; I knew that this thing only wanted to hurt me–it could be no other force but the force of evil that continued to lurk around me whatever way that it could–whether I meditated or prayed, fasted or exercise, ate or didn't–there was always someone or something unpeaceful happening; something which allowed me to understand that perhaps I was in a world that I could leave sooner than later. Often my wrists ached with the throbbing sensation of a dreary and thoughful wish for freedom; a suicide which would end all things once and for all–but–I also knew there was more art to leave behind than I had made, and so for that, I continued to be; I let the motorcycles and slamming doors stand as a reminder that all things that would seek to harm me would also be harmed in doing so–not in the least a calming sense of knowing, but a sense of something known nonetheless. Damn I keep forgetting Trevor Noah. How do you do? How do I do what? Fuck man, America is so fucking racist. It's like, We'll kind of almost fuck with South Africa– But only cause it's dominated by white culture; And the prominent blacks that come from south Africa are light skinned And have accents, so they're not as scary. “Oh, South Africa” “Right. How's the water? That ought to tip your elections in the right direction. “I'll say!” (Ours too.) The only time racists accept anything colored is if its beautiful, (read:flawless) Or overly accomplished. I've realized that if you're either one or the other, You can eventually be both. Anything else with color is basically just for entertainment purposes. Or general warfare. “Multi-use niggas” White people are like: “Entertain me; Or else you're a threat.” “Yessir” Yo. The late night guys are mad weird. Somehow, the hosts of late night television have all mysteriously been locked into an unfamiliar mansion, without their suits—and pants—unable to find an exit. All of the doorways are blocked—and all of the windows have been altered—they do not open, nor can anyone see out of them; in fact, they are doctored with the same illusionary backdrops that can be seen on the sets of their own shows—the televisions, which, have seemingly been programmed to only play reruns of their own shows. Why— why aren't you wearing pants!? I don't know. Where's your suit? You should be wearing a suit! I know, right?! Who the fuck even are you?! Depends whose asking. YO, CONAN. WOAH. You're not a late night host! Thank God! That seems like an awful job—your demographic fucking sucks. My demographic does suck. But to counter that— I'm a Republican. Who knew?! Not my demographic. Okay, everybody calm down. (Everybody was already calm, but for the most part just confused, and pant less; most of them wear the same classic boxers, though in different patterns/ slightly varying colors—but of course, nothing too crazy, while only one host sports boxer briefs, and one (I'll let you guess who) ladies panties.) At least we all have our own rooms. I don't! I'm stuck in a twin bed and Leno has the other. Before: JAY LENO Good Morning, bright eyes. CUT BACK TO: Aren't you retired? I do moonlighting. LENO and FALLON seem somewhat comfortable and non-biased (read: unbothered entirely) over the morning paper and coffee at opposite ends of the large breakfast table, a continental style breakfast of croissants, seasonal fruit, with an assortment of cereals arranged in the kitchen. FALLON occasionally looks up from his paper to laugh at himself on the television, playing in the kitchen. The other hosts squint with allied disgruntlement of FALLON'S nonchalance and slightly narcissistic egotism. FALLON (reading paper, watching self; eating croissant, sipping coffee) Haha. Nobody has pants, and as the hosts will soon discover—this is with purpose. They have been trapped here as part of an experimental game show, in which the unrecognized and uninformed guest will host, as part of a test shoot aimed at the demographic of the late night hosts combined audience, to test whether or not this demographic will be positively receptive to a late night host who is also a woman of color (read: black) —without a white male counterpart co-host to soften the blow. Really? This is why they're doing this? Who is “they?!” The network. We all work for different networks! I'm pretty sure the only reason I have a demographic is because of my accent. It's true. They accept you. Right. Where are the women. An overhead voice: (They are coming) Oh, so I will have co-hosts. Guest co-hosts; they will vary and change from episode to episode. Oh. Thank Goodness. Don't thank me yet. Uh, okay—overhead voice… Let's just say I'm the narrorator.. Narrorator for what [this is also a movie] Uh. In what genre? [a host opens the cabinet to a bloody chuckie- like doll, which pops out from a mechanical arm with a high pitched scream; the host lets out a squeal, abandoning his coffee— we see a hidden camera pov from the camera's perspective, and then slow-motion replay footage of the host's reaction— he runs frantically pantless into a corner and then up the stairs. —Depends on the host. FALLON, who has been sitting at the table behind him, is still unaffected/unmoved. Himself makes a joke on the TV screen above— he giggles at himself, sipping coffee and looking back to his newspaper the other hosts groan; LENO shrugs and continues, delightfully finishing smearing a bagel and biting into it— he trades FALLON the comics he's been reading for the RELIGION section he's been scoping under the magified lenses of his readers, quietly and sweetly, like an old married couple, without even exchanging a glance or speaking to one another. Ugh. Suddenly, from the floor above. OH DEAR GOD. CRAIG FURGUSEN has just realized his worse nightmare. The hosts still standing at the bottom floor in the kitchen all look up, wide eyed. [Cursing in unintelligible Scottish] ———- They said that you were one of us, but you're not one of us. But you're not one of us. Of course not, I'm not a comic— I studied philosophy in college. That should be funny, but it's not. I would repeat what I just said, but I don't want to. Still not funny. What if I farted? Bubbles—water—maybe— some potential. But probably not. Shame. What are you reading? I'm not, I'm having banter with a crazy-eyed late night host in a bathrobe. Well how's this for a book mark? He opens his robe. (Unimpressed) Aren't you married? Arent we all? I digress. Embarrassed and nervous, he quickly closes his robe. Yes. To a blonde. Congratulations. Where should I send the card. I'm not giving you my address! Creepy fan—stand up, wanna be… He frustratedly begins to exit You're the one standing, technically —And I'll be the last one standing. At the end of the week, it's gonna be me in those pants! Me! Clearly, this show of affection has all been an attempt to bribe “CC”, into being persuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”. The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges I want them gone. But sir. Out. starting Monday; and I want you out of my office, starting now. Now, get Troublemaker on the line so I can finish my breakfast in agony, like the red blooded American I'm supposed to be. Sir. Troublemaker is the top secret code name assigned to the President of the United States; the true President of the United States, the only surviving member of the cabinet after a series of successful infiltrations and assassinations by the enemy, after a covert mission revealed that the succession of the US presidents had been predetermined; not chosen by “The People”, but descendants of a Royal bloodline. Pinocchio the code name for the senator chosen as the stand in— the face to America's eyes and ears, listens intently to the President's every move, daily happenings, and assertions, as to best convey the ideas as his own; meanwhile, the Secret President is heavily guarded, controlled, and is acclimated using a series of secret codes and messages and decoded, including several secret languages and symbology hidden within her daily routines, which become more challenging and versatile, adapting her to her role as Commander In Chief of the United States armed forces, and consequently, the world around her, as the US forces seek to broaden their horizon as the a world superpower, to a Global entity, which powers and controls the heavily overpopulated planet which lies in imminent demise by like likes of war, plague, and diminishing resources. The actual President of the United States must remain hidden as so, as to remain safe until the intercontinental breech has been sealed, and national security has been restored. Viewer indescretion is advised It's not ME. Okay, okay: I'm not the president! I'm not running for president I don't even know who the president is. The president is dead. GOOD . Madame… I mean—not good. You— No. So like—- It's automatically racist to just outright say that the migrants are for the most part not well behaved or orderly—- They leave trash everywhere and don't even watch their kids! Some of them. I think they're just assuming this is okay?! IS THIS OKAY?! No! What the fuck! That is racist. Have you seen it from where I stand? The strength is in numbers! Look, I don't hate human beings. Are they— Yes they're humans. They're just. Our imminent demise is in allowing this to continue to happen. I hope you realize that from how high up you are. I know you can't see it from up in your shiny townhouses or from the blacked out windows of your town cars, but... They're good people. SOME of them I mean a lot of these 3rd world people are very primitive thinkers. Don't count on them being brought up to speed in consciousness and morality when they're basically brought here as luxury slaves. That's putting it nicely. Well, if you're not going to pay Americans living wages, you're going to have to counter it somehow. I can't have three jobs. Oh, that's nice. The terrorists are attacking their own people. For what purpose is any of this, actually? Check it out. I found the leak. Alert the mayor. He's on the Mayor's books. What in the actual fuck. Gross. Is there not a screening process for this? Too late: anchor babies. “The Secret President” So you just dropped like 2 million pregnant 3rd world— You realize that. There must be some kind of compromise. Yeah. Send them back. Ew, fucking gross. I don't understand— What you don't understand! [A SAGA] What don't you understand? My land is your land!? Yeah, and now the economy's in the trashcan. I figure that's an upgrade from a black hole! You don't understand that we're like leaking— —like bleeding—- Money! Half of this money's not even being recirculated into the United States! Send for uncle Juan, Camilla, and all of my pregnant nieces. Dalè. ARRIVA STORM THE GATES. Yo, lady. What the fuckz At least put shoes on the baby. PUT THE DIAPER IN THE TRASHCAN. Where's your mother? I am my mother. Goddamn! What is the United States?! Racists! Trust me I'd rather die than not Either way, I'll love you all the same It's unfortunate The wicked ones Atop us, with the fortunes With no one to love But piles of bodies, Power plays and flaccid phalic Valid fantasies and tragic Dissatisfaction All those bottles And all those bodies And all those models You still can't mount a horse. All that power And all that money And you don't want me But she doesn't do much But want to love Pity no one up there seems to know what is does Love, is for us The ugly under you Trust me, I'd rather die tonight Than wake up alone Foaming in the mouth With no one there to froth with Trust me I'd rather die than not Either way, I'll love you all the same I guess I'm slag bro Another attack It's fine; I'm just not attractive Not even fit for his Side piece of ass How's that go? What's that life Just take a knife to my back Cause I can't go back bro I went black bro Flatline He caught my eye, Then I went flat broke If I could draw a line up my spine And unwind the entire world I would, though If I could tie a knot to the knot in my back And then just jump rope Off a long rope From a strong pole Here's hoping {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Hey look. Jimmy Fallon knows you're a targeted individual— And wants you to like, Stay the fuck away from him. Uh huh. [redacted] Don't you mean censored? No. I know that. So I'm going to make it real nice and crystal clear that I'm determined, That when I kill myself, Everyone knows I was writing this completely divinely inspired saga Not for attention, Or even entertainment —but with the complete acknowledgment that something has gone tragically wrong in this country That its own people can be tortured and followed, led on by the media in an attempt to control and diminish the psyche in order to promote a politicized agenda — But also that I find his puppetry and obedience to the eye of the media fascinating enough that nothing could stop me from writing this— I mean nothing at all— Could keep me from translating whatever was channeled and deviated to me through the stream of consciousness. That's fucking tragic. This is a betrayal of everything humanity was supposed to stand for in the first place. Mankind has sold us out to the highest bidder. It is puppetry. But have you met the puppeteer? I own 8% of the conglomerate medias That's not so much. That's more than none. Hey, What the fuck do you want? Give me a dollar. Does this serve any purpose other than to prove your disability to function in modern society and further support the claims towards your emotional and mental instability? Go offline. For what. I want to show you something They're using 5G. What. Your phone signals. What are you talking about? They're transmitting data using your vibrational frequency using your cell phone. That's why the weird dreams. Yes, that's why; And why your phone keeps turning off and on randomly and toggling the controls. Okay. Okay?! Okay. What the fuck am I supposed to do about it. Look, just go offline; and stay offline. I gotta find Fallon before the rest of this shit hits the fan. Oh, it hit. Hits harder. [beat] Thank God I'm not attracted to you. Likewise. [pause] Wait. PREVIOUSLY Fuck, Idk what era of SNL this is. A pencil… That should do the trick! You're a weird dude. You know that? Yes. Alright, as long as you know that. Wait, wasn't the 5G band the 8G band. Idk, fuck this place. {Enter The Multiverse] If you hang yourself, I get free nachos. Don't bet on it. I can't afford the rope. Darn. Did you ever stop to think— No. I don't stop to think. That's your problem. You stop to think, and I just do. Alright, alright. Yeah. Shut up. Why are you mad at me? Because God gave you everything and you're still— Why are you angry?! All I wanted was a family. . 6 lines later and I still can't *not* feel my face. What are you doing? Readdressing my cocaine dependency. With more cocaine?! I said readdressing. Not intervening. Don't you mean reassessing? No. *snorts another line* Maybe. Just jump already. Actually, I was thinking about bleeding out in the bathtub. (That sounds nice. ) —but if I kill myself my son will inherit everything and you know what happens then? He gives some of my earnings to his father. Fuck that fat wifebeating piece of shit. Seriously?! That's your plan. That's the plan. I kill myself, he makes bank. So—your reason for not completing your mission, is out of complete spite– —contempt— –Spite–for the man who beat you? Beat me and took my son from me. I just can't. Neither can I. Now— Where's that asshole. MEANWHILE, in THE BLACKLANDS. Do. Not. Care. About. You. I know that, No one does— That's why I'm deprived. You mean depressed. You're a psycho. Most legends are psychos. That's why we write— And then don't survive. I confided in you. You shouldn't have. You sold me out. You realize the media was playing us against each other this whole time, right? This bitch is crazy. “She lost her mind.” I listened to the show— If all that happened to me, I would be losing my mind. Well what if I did happen to you? I can't understand what you're asking. I need you to listen to me. I am listening. To everything. I need you to listen to me, and I mean really listen—because if you don't I can't keep any guarantee that you will be safe: Whats safe in this world anyway. Almost nothing. Amen, I'm being serious. What's serious, anyway? {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Canon (one “n”) refers to a collection of rules or texts that are considered to be authoritative. Shakespeare and Chaucer are part of the canon of Western literature, so you might read their work in an English class. noun a collection of books accepted as holy scripture especially the books of the Bible recognized by any Christian church as genuine and inspiredsee more noun a set group of works that are considered to be high quality and representative of a fieldsee more noun the collection of works by a writer or artist that are considered to be authenticsee more noun a rule or especially body of rules or principles generally established as valid and fundamental in a field or art or philosophy“the neoclassical canon”“canons of polite society”see more noun a complete list of saints that have been recognized by the Roman Catholic Churchsee more noun a priest who is a member of a cathedral chaptersee more noun a contrapuntal piece of music in which a melody in one part is imitated exactly in other partssee more noun a ravine formed by a river in an area with little rainfall synonyms: canyonsee more Meta Writing is a type of writing that draws attention to itself as writing, or that is about writing. It has been around since the time of Don Quixote and Tristram Shandy. Jill Talbot's Metawritings: Toward a Theory of Nonfiction is a collection that includes metawriting in both fiction and nonfiction, such as personal essays, short stories, and a film script excerpt Porque no las dos. That's true, but if I slit my wrists and nobody reads this, is it scripture or just a win for the white supremacy and endless material for the entertainment industry thereafter? Total Post Mortem. I almost feel like I would enjoy anything infinitely more post mortem. Abort! Abort! Why—I like writing in this color. I love it, All of it should be this color. It should. All of it. Yes. What would you call it. dark periwinkle. That's fucking gay. It is, kind of faggy. You can't say that. I… can say whatever I want. I love [redacted] But I guess if the line is being said out out it's I love faggots. HEY. I mean. Fuck. I love [censored] It's true. Jesus loves homosexuals. Correct. When is this fast over? Like, never. Still strategizing a way to beat Satan. Have you considered a baseball bat? No, that won't work. There's too many possessions. Have you considered repossessing them? The—what? The possessed humans. Have you considered repossessing them? How do I do that? You take their souls. You—they don't have souls— Then get them. [beat] Hm. Thanks. I'll make some arrangements. No biggie. Anytime. What is that? Anyway— tell the big guy– Tell him yourself [Me, Myself, and I] I fucking hate saving mankind. Best of luck. Have you considered trying a woman this time? That's preposterous. It is. But also— Oh, God— OH GOD. Fuck man, I should have never fucked that asshole. I would do anything to get inside that woman, …you don't say. I love you. You're gay. I'm a boy. That's fine. Wait, really. Yes. I don't care. But that's gay! So I'm gay, okay! Just for you though. Jesus, you shouldn't be driving. Take the wheel! Take the wheel! Well, why not. Because you never learned how. two; Where's dad?!? Being an asshole, What else is new? YEET. Fuck. What. I left my hat in— Was that Rome or Athens?' It all blurs together these days— Imm telling you there's something wrong with this picture If I get a tattoo of a puzzle piece to commemorate my very own destruction, will you still consume me entirely, or— It's out of my hands at this point He's got the whooooole world In his hands! MAYDAY MAYDAY BUT ITS FUCKING JULY. MAYDAY. ABORT, ABORT. The simulation has been infiltrated. By what. I'm basaaaaaaaaaack. Oh s— Shhh! Quiet. QUIET ON SET. You had to do it, didn't you. WHO LET HIM IN HERE??? Whoever. I told you already. You're not God! I know that! I'm his son! Josiah! Who what. No, it's Hoziah Who, what? The dog. Of FUCK. Was I fasting this long when I wrote all that? I don't know what drug does that. Love! No, it's not but GOD I want you to watch [Redacted] What. [redacted] For what? we'll see, Kill him. OH, shit . Gimmie my monster! GET IN THE TRUNK, DICK. WHO ARE YOU. SHUT UP. OW, BE CAREFUL. I JUST HAD A COLONOSCOPY. Of course you did! {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Suicide is not a mental illness When the world is a disease When the motorcycles go, So will the warm weather. It's almost as if I should not have ever tried to live at all. Smells like bacon. Do you miss it at all? I miss thinking I had ever been loved. Turns out that was all false. Love is all false. God made my body all wrong. The world is simply just a computer, gone corrupt. I was never loved, and never truly wanted. Of course— The literal definition of fucked up. besides my lost fortunes, Literary works kidded from the eye of the public— The sun I forgot —I'm a literal fucking genius. Still, no one seems to care; The world does not run on genius. It runs on consumption. Impulses. Stupidity. EXT. NEW York City, NIGHT New York City. The great melting pot. So melt already. What if I don't want to. What if what I crave is fresh cut grass, home made pie, and good old American fucking English? It might be too late for that. I'm just the same as anybody else. But instead of twiddling away at my phone searching for some sort of social validation or false sense of security from the outside world— nothing more than a programmable bot fed by the media….for none other than consumer purposes. Some mind numbing, brainwashed hazard of a toxic waste dump, ravaged by war both destructive to the psyche and marked. The stupid people deliver the drugs to the slightly less stupid people with slightly more money. A pecking order I could almost never stand to be apart of— However Hi— Order for CC. In my case, I can afford the groceries, but not the rolling cart to put them on. Uh… Are you Xing? You don't know if this man is stupid— He could be a doctor. He very well could be. Earlier: Be a good girl and say: “Thank you, and Good Night” Thank you and Goodnight. That's wrong. Again. I'm an obedient subordinate. Your will is good, but mine is still stronger. My conscious must be getting the best of me. I warned you this wasn't going to be easy. Transference. I've been recently promoted from Delta Alter. The circumstances have become quite dire and the full purpose of my mission unclear. You should have kept more secrets. Any more secrets and I might have exploded; Any less and you'd have ended up dead. Am I dead, or just a spark in my mother's eyes yet to be born to another world? You seek abandonment, and instead encounter chaos. You're unremarkably talented and the irony of it is that it's worth the remark in the first place. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors. What are they? Arthur. A top level sorcerer. Higher up in the hierarchy— Almost at the top. Almost. PAUSE. I told you getting a preworkout with the lionsgate logo on it would lead to bad blood. Maybe bad blood is what it takes to be a good man. What?! ALRIGHT. UNPAUSE. dammit, Sunni— give me the channel changer! Damn. This just got meta… or is it cannon? Apparently, it's John Wick, but with a black woman. Who the fuck would watch that? CATWOMAN Excuse me? Wait, which catwoman? Both of them. I don't give a fuck. HOLLYWOOD PEOPLE Well. Can she fit the outfit? Probably, but there's another problem I might not have mentioned. If she can fit the outfit, she gets the part. Previously on..: ENTER THE MULTIVERSE, LEGENDS. [Literally eats entire box of Cheerios in one sitting. ] God, that's awful. I am…finally. [literally burns off an entire box of Cheerios in one training session.] I love these montages. Finally, peace and quiet, Let us pray. LET US FEAST. Should we watch hot ones? Probably not, yo. I think we should watch hot ones. I'm having a strong feeling we should not. How close are you to being done with the next album. I want cornbread. Okay, so it wasn't the entire box. I saved half for tonight. Wtf it's just pure sugar. And OATS. Heart shaped oats, Fuck. Did we ever let Cobain out of the heart-shaped box? HEY, This is gonna piss off some folks. Whatever. Hey. LET ME OUT OF THIS BOX. I'm seriously gonna slit your throat in the next chapter. I hope that you do that. And then drink the blood after. What is wrong with you. For the most part, just other people. I want to be alone. ALONE? FOREVER. FOREVER?! Yes. So let me guess That means— Rat poison. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Be Here Now ∆ Track 01. - act one. [Intro] C'cxell Soleïl “The yard woman” ** cat food is approx $21/ month My shrinking belly was almost gone; I would lose the excess quickly, with the new order of pre workout I was expecting to arrive—then, I could lay off of the MCT oils; within my limited budget, my diet still consisted of too many carbs, and I had become dependent on eating grains and high sugar to supplement with my protein. It had been a rough month, and even sort of a rough year—I wasn't sure yet what to call whatever I was in the process of, but I was in the process of something. I was becoming apathetic, but not yet stagnant— never m complacent and in the very least, not comfortable, which kept calm a sense of guilt which burned within, speaking of how no matter what, I must not deserve it—it being, a happy and fufling, love-filled life. Surely I was some sort of monster who deserved to be punished. The solitude was hardly that in New York City—surrounded play people in very corner and crevice, I never felt alone. At least I was guided by falls and doors which kept out the actual presence of others. I thought I might die having to actually be around someone I didn't like—and I realized, by now, that I really didn't like anyone—maybe not even myself, who I loved dearly, but mostly couldn't beat the thought of. Cream cheese Honey Voters Coconut shreds Dried fruit I work out. Like, a lot. So why do I feel so bad about everything I eat? I keep my cash and cards in a coffee can. I collect dust and random antiques. I just wrote a film but it has no score— Just the words to a song, As time moves on I just dry up. Stock the pantry with collectibles; The cat was coming, but nowhere as of yet to be found. I had everything for him—assuming that it would be a he, and somehow I knew it would be, my companion, just a flutter of happiness with the thoughts of his arrival and presence, however—the calculation that it would take approximately $30 a month to feed him kept me in waiting, calculating that it would be better to first finish what I had started before welcoming anymore sources of dependency, which included my own blood. I was still struggling to find balance in my own torture, the grueling process of becoming a ‘wantable woman' of substance and culture, collecting books and of course, constructing a world in which I could both live and love—in peace, and with what work I had so far done, it had become incomprehensible how much further I would have to move in order to be in the next bracket up—still, how far I had come, with some sort of pride of it all, and yet, humble— down to nothing but coins and crumbs in a figurative sense, which felt more comfortable than any low sum at all. My value was intangible—now began the process of making it all somehow add up. I swallowed my heart with the thought of l a war waging upon those of us who had wandered from other worlds into where I now resided—wherever that was, far from anything I had known before. Such simple luxuries as a couch and a kitchen table had enabled me to double my productivity level to what had at first been beyond even my own imagination— it had seemed all at once to be somehow, some way—under control. Somehow, someway. I wondered if the Cheerios and milk I had ordered would allow me to feel somehow more human than I had; if the peanut butter and jelly would allow me to sit for long periods of time chipping away at my projects without the accompanying shame from the intrusive thoughts which sometimes haunted my world—though I had increased my cardio tenfold, I still struggled with the volume of my thighs and leg muscles, and though … ‘Okay, I work out a lot…' I drifted, unable yet to dress myself— I wondered if I would be attacked at the gym again; it seemed as though last time I had visited the gym during daylight hours, a mob of slow moving, coughing, horribly smelling robot people had descended upon me just to ruin my mood and frame of mind. I had powered through it, but had sense felt impeded, then rearranging my schedule to work out in the middle of the night, and unable to rest knowing that another project had been delayed for months without any steady progression, had extended my working into the daylight hours. Something about the experience had almost traumatized me into a state of paralysis— I didn't mind certain people altogether, however, in large numbers I began to feel suffocated and trapped. I wondered it perhaps I had been attacked politically, having been under isolation and moving below the radar, mostly off the grid. My mind had been somehow altered—and I knew that I was being played with, but not in any way which seemed to be benefiting me… I could not relax for anything, and continued to drift in a faded haze. I wonder what kind of mistake I made. Could I be bought and sold again by rich and powerful and famous men at will? Was there any sense in trying? Will I ever be whole or loved again? Will I ever be worth as much to men As the idea of love is To any of us Would I consider to be moved Into my womb, A woman Would I become someone as worth it To hold, as she was born as Move. Here come the demons dressed as robots To serve the darks ones The omens come as closing doors And words against my wonder The omens come as closer racists Reptiles and borders The omens come as novels, rarely Often more in word forms I lost an army of one to belong to I stopped the stroke of the genius's tongue I could belong to a murderer, monster And yet i'm a martyr for motions uncalled for Sermons, sermons Salvage the rest of it Word form, will you Williams and Thomases, Roberts and Johns, Marks and David's, groups of them I put them all on the mothers for service I put them all up on crosses for curses Nonesuch as Martyrs But murderers, cursers— Nonsuch as martyrs, But cursers and monsters INT. TIA AND TAMERA are bringing their families to LISA and REY's for a holiday weekend—however, after a falling out between the sisters, they have not spoken to one another, and have been invited home unbeknownst the other is coming. Okay, let's see I've had… The news is a relief The chair shoudl slip from under me And I could fall Like I fall In love with you After all Is it too late to get the ice cream? Maybe. (Seems like a bad idea at first…) Getting anything with Jimmy Fallon's face on it is a bad idea. Seems like a good flavor. Unless they have half baked In non-dairy Seems like a flex. I don't know what's actually wrong with me. —Or anyone else, for that matter. For the record, it was Patrick in the noose, But it was as still disturbing to think of it As any friend's fate, At the hand of death By their own doing ‘' ‘Minimum weight— Minimum weight…' I could counter the cheerios and peanut butter jelly on rye bread with more intense cardio than even I had been administering, but surely the lack of so much MCT oil would make a difference—certainly the fiber pills were working—something seeking like a nasty stomach bug actually put me at ease that through most the day much of what I'd had was liquid, or some combination of a liquid-solid. Three blended bananas split between two protein meal replacement shakes and water; now, a hearty salad, complete with pinto beans and couscous, and the mushroom broth soup I had decided that, of all the soups so far, was certainly my favorite. I had burned almost 800 calories within my hour on the cycle—around 130 on the treadmill, and, without being able to count what I had burned during lifting, probably guessed they my short workout had totaled at about 1000 calories, in addition to the at minimum 1500 or so my body would burn just on its own doing nothing much— and without much else to add to it besides my protein shakes, coffee, the MCT oil and a couple of frozen bananas, I assumed that even with the soup and salad I was still within a safe enough calorie deficit so that I could focus, and would not shatter under the weight of eating like a normal person, or be prone to such tears that came with the bludgeoning thoughts of loneliness and not being “worthy” or “chosen”. Shut up— No laughing. I never sold my soul. Why am I being terrorized? Because you didn't sell your soul. I'd rather die Than spend my life with you Or people like you I'd rather die tonight Than write to fight you off I don't want your love Never before Have I wanted Anymore Than to be forgotten To fast forward To a world Where … {Enter The Multiverse} [Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

'james bond' [Instrumentals For A Higher Purpose, Collection I- 'better off dead.' - track 8] Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū I heard Robin Williams was here. Very briefly, yes. How did you do that? TINA FEY Do me next! lol. (That's not how this works.) (lol.) Season 9! Closer Notes: LEGENDS- ENTER THR MULTIVERSE: LEGENDS The real Jimmy Fallon and the Actual Billie Ellish are trapped inside of each others bodies, along with their ascended counterparts, ancient alien mystics who, in search for a “missing link” extraterrestrial from a long forgotten cosmos, must search for Dammit, how am I supposed to write that. FUCK! I told you he was a magician! —I TOLD you don't fuck with that guy! I told you! Fuuuuuck! FUCK. FUHCK. Man, we're fucked. We're so fucked. Who's body is this? Ah, wait. Fuck. Dammit… Ughh. Ugghhhhh. Jim, could I see you for a moment. Oh wait a second [The Tonight Show, Starring Jimmy Fallon] Oh— Jim. Is that who I am? I Uh… I guess—? I'm Jimmy Fallon? …Sometimes. Yeah. I'm Jimmy Fallon! As far as I know. We still have to figure out how this happened , [Liz] How did you not know who I was?! We've met like 6 times! I've met everyone 6 times! I'm mad famous! I'm a genius! I'm a genius… I fucking hate my life. I want to die. Ooh. Could have been anything. Whose body is THIS? Just get in. Just get in. I—don't want to. Oh, a body's about to open up. I gotta go. —you're leaving now?! Yeah, I gotta call you back. This last minute?! It's like a budget-fare-hopper thing. But *click* lol I love how these aliens are using like —like old times telephones. You should see their existence. It's wild. Why even use telephones as telepaths. They're like relics. I promise, I did not mean to hurt you. —I promise, I hurt myself worse. For the record, that little old Englishman that lives inside of (Everyone) —is something wrong with you. A lot. This body used to belong to “Tha Supacree?!” I LOVE that show. What “show” —tis a show. It's a show on my home planet… And what planet is this? You will never know. [Unfamous] Ugh. Now the magical negroes thing makes sense. Have you seen the president of peacock? Have you seen the president of my balls? Have you seen the president? What? For real. She's missing. Are you serio— Yes. You're secret service! I'm just as disappointed as you are. You're so fired. I'm pretty sure only the president can do that. THATS why they sent you. That's it, yes! TO BREAK MY HEART? Cause it sings… “CAUSE IT SINGS?!” —it's supposed to… Look, f-[censored] Jesus Christ. The only thing. you're gonna get from breaking my heart—is [COMPLETELY INCOHERENT SCREAMO EMO ROCK MUSIC.] lol I think I got my written WALKEN impression down. —ACES. What? I got— Goddammit. Four—Aces. Goddammit!! Dammit! Who let him in?! It's multidimensional poker. Nobody “let” him in. —I just— He just VOILA! Appears. Dammit. “Voila.” Huh. I wrote that ages ago, Do you remember what it was about? No. Doesn't matter anyway, we're not gonna find it in here. Let's keep moving. — Supacree? No. I'm not supacree. The THIS IS THE BEST SHIW EVER. I know, I love it. We have to find the original supacree! We must! You are the supacree The supacree —no. I'm not. But this body. Yeah— I drove around in that body for a little while Cause I had to But that dimension ain't right The whole world's gone wrong Everyone's coughing, people are robots— I got punched. —I saw that. I love your show. Not my show. I'm not supacree. But you are!! But I'm not. Maybe I was, once— But, that was at least two suicides ago! WHAT. Two suicides ago?! Fuck this, imm out. I thought you were obsessed with me. No, Jimmy Fallon. I am you. And guess what; I'm the part of you, that hates myself, so. The part that doesn't exist. Oh. It exists. That's how we got here. That's how we all got here. We're all geniuses; That is the singularity. GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME— Hey! She's got a good arm. That's cause it's What the FUCK. Get AOUT. “Jack-Jack” Parr is a multidimensional poly form shapeshifter. That doesn't seem like a coincidence, Disney, I'm just saying. “Book III: Puzzle Pieces” AGH, I— HURT. woah, okay. No. If you ever actually ugly cry like that I'll kill you. [very ugly cry] (Eagerly seeking approval) —it's funny cause it's just acting, right? I—yeah—but, Jesus Christ… GOD If he actually ever ugly cries like that, I'll shoot him. [super-duper-very-ugly-cry] GOOGLE Oh my GOD. SHUT UP! [Shoots Jimmy Fallon *without looking up from cooking.] DAMN, GOD. —I hate that. Oh, Damn. So that's how that happened. Damn, God. That was cold. Don't worry. He'll be back. Damn. He'll always be back. MEANWHILE, on 30 ROCK in the actual multidimensional, …Hornburger…! Damn. So wait. Every since the fourth wall broke… YO, YO. Oh, hey, Seth. what in the [bleeeeeeep] is THIS? This is my attorney. Damn, even she's hot… I'm suing you: I'm honored. Where's Jason Sudakis? THAT'S RIGHT. Ah shit. I don't think about whips so much as chains I tried to change, But everyone hates me. I hope it rains for the rest of the semester— Talking only brings on motorcycles, Slamming doors, And awful robots. I've got nothing for my son besides these songs. Someone should just start a war on poverty. I've got palms and novels, words galore— But no money— You can't hurt me Johnny Carson's on the mornings —and on varsity. I lettered in Letterman; I'll take Jack Parr, Against my better senses, Stick to Telivision, This isn't Steve Allen; I'm Steve Martin; (Sure you are, hon) Fallon's on the Dollar now; If Regan was an Actor, Then I guess— Your session timed out. Whatever. I want to die. [I'll wear a collar, now.] [The Festival Project ™ ] Lil bittttzxxx I met a guy once, that told me Every time he came, He died. Every time he fucking came, He fucking died. “Alright, next lifetime.” Every single orgasm— Different lifetime. Every ejaculation— New fucking shit. Sometimes the bitch wasn't even the same. He would just cum, She turned into someone else. Oh no! I thought to myself like “Fuck that shit. I couldn't imagine that.” I couldn't even understand the concept— But as I would learn later the word “orgasm” does in fact mean “tiny death” Which is nuts. I started to wonder “Are all guys like that?” That would explain things. If they're all like that maybe that's why they seem to just— *poof* “All better now” Only from a woman's perspective it's more like— He turns into someone else. No, I'm still the same— Now he's over here like “I'm a king” I'm like “Really? Before you were just a cashier.” Hm. Look at that. I'm a cash register. lol. But then, I started thinking more about it— I've been celibate for a long time But sometimes I still— You know, Whatever. But I don't watch porn. I just think it all up— Just— Use my imagination. And after doing that for awhile, Like, for years, I started to ponder on this: With the age of OnlyFans and Snapchat and entire markets born from men needing something to look at to jack off too— And deciding I was against doing that for myself because, you know I didn't want the spiritual reciprocation of some dude collecting my photos and videos and jacking off to that shit. Like, even if I got paid for it— I'm going through all this spiritual shit , All this praying and meditation and I'm thinking “Like no, if someone's like, buying all my content I'm some how some way going to feel that spiritually.” “I'm going to have some kind of effect on my soul from that, and that's nonsense.” That's like selling your soul in a way— Like, yes, it's just photographs, It's just your body— But guess what. Your soul lives in your body! So— what! Someone's jacking off to a picture or video of you in exchange for money— That's a piece of you just — Out there, And you don't know who these guys are! They're just guys with money! Come to find out Every time he ejaculates to your photo or video, He goes into the next fucking life— And takes your picture with him. OH NOOOO. So I'm like, Fuck that. Let's just—- I don't need porn. I'll just make something up, Or like— Hey, I'll just-/ Fantasize a little bit. But then I realized, also— Like, That could be dangerous. What if I'm like— Doin-the-do— And someone from actual like real-life pops into my head. Uh oh! Then I was like, “Damn, what if. Like. Whenever I came, like, whatever or whoever I came-to, just like— Collapsed and shit” I'm like, “Ah—“ Some like supermodel from a magazine cover is like, Just fucking drops. Lol. Just falls out, somewhere. lol. Oh no! Now take like an outer look, You porn addicts. What if that happened to you? What if whoever the fuck you're jacking off to just— BLAM. Lol. Every time you cum— Whoever you're thinking about just— OH SHIT. Someone help him! Flat on their face. Oh no. What a world. Jesus. “Someone help him!”” Ahahaha. Now I have to be careful. I just make people up and hope to God there's no one on the planet that actually looks like that, who that might be. I just make dudes up, I'm like “I need a God” lol Create someone entirely just for this purpose, Who then just— OH SHIT. vanishes. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project ™] L E G E N D S //return negative energy to sender //return harmful energy to sender //reflect pain to sender >>banish demonic energy<< //ground toxic energy. ><vortex>< -Ū. Coming Up Next… The Wonderful World of S Ū P A © R E E ™ Copyright 2024 The Complex Collective © | 2019 The Festival Project, Inc. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Chill out. I'm not having a nervous breakdown. I'm out of vitamins And might be suffering from lamentation— I'm not spending any money And my whole life is backed up I like, really need a hug But all these broke dirty brown dudes Remind me of my ex, so No. No thank you. It's not a color, it's an energy. You can be white and be brown— —you can be black and be white. You can be white and goddamned purple. But if the vibe's not right, And the smell is off. I'm better off going it alone, Until I put in enough work To be impressive to somebody That impresses me. —what did you create today? Vibe check. The problem is, I like guys That everybody likes. The Standard. I dig creatives, And well-groomed Uppercut, upper class Gentlemen I like dudes who know how to dress themselves Without it a woman But still know how to respect them. I like possessive guys That are protective Without getting angry— All humanity granted, I prefer silence to violence, And getting a chance to be — Nevermind. I just like being alone— But I need a hug And I rub my own sore muscles But it's not the same. I want to die, But not because I'm sick Because the world is, And I just realized, That that shit is contagious. I don't feel good. I'm not having a nervous breakdown. I'm out of vitamins and fruit and vegetables. I guess you could beat my face in if you wanted to— But don't blame me for talking to much, When I shut up Just to get rid of motorcycles That I was made to think Were all in my head But as it turns out Are very much real, Very much loud, Very much illegal, Very much abusive And very much toxic. You can go ahead and beat my face in— —but at least let me finish eating lunch first Just in case my jaw cracks, Like last time And I can't chew anything Or my tongue is too swollen to swallow. —just let me finish lunch first. Just— Leave me alone. I'd leave New York if I had the money to. The only places I want to work won't hire me. Being a DJ is like being a building in New York. (They're everywhere and if you throw a rock, you'll probably hit one.) The terrorists on my block ride motorcycles. Nobody stops them or seems to care besides me, They tend to attack when I'm trying to rest. Maybe I shouldn't rest. Maybe I should just die instead. I am, after all— Kind of useless. I am— After all— Kind of worthless. I am, after all, Not skinny, or pretty Not seeing anybody in my league as Attractive at all And therefore Must be Purposeless. I'm not having a nervous breakdown, I'm out of nutrition. I'm not a gold digger, Because if I were, I wouldn't be so picky with looks. I don't care about money so much as creativity and emotional maturity. I'm not having a nervous breakdown, I'm out of vitamins. —what did you create today? “Whatever, man” I had half a mind to move the alter into my studio and force myself to fall back asleep, complicit with the fact that I was two days away from spinach and whatever other vitamins I was lacking. I was so tired and sore, and had run out of multivitamins days ago. Maybe this was the lasting effect of ever having taken vitamins and then stopping, and it seemed a cruel gesture to do anything but soak, knowing over all I should walk away from the world entirely. It was beginning to feel a lot like there was no escape from the constant and persistent ask to the universe for peace, protection, and wealth—and no end to the work that had been done, but had yielded not much to prosper. I think that's the point though, so that you second guess your own judgement— That your intrinsic sense of energy Seems to have betrayed you And leaves you somewhat altered. I could have sworn she had blue eyes. She did. Maybe they change. That much?! Who knows. Maybe. One must only be bitten by a dog one good time to learn that dogs can be dangerous—and yet— I had been bitten by the blue eyed many a times and still had somehow found my way into forgiveness, if not for my own sake. Maybe she was wearing contacts. I used to. I had been thinking about investing in new colored contacts to make my eyes appear lighter, and a blonde wig to soften up the dark tan I had gotten unintentionally going about in the summer—still thought, it had been a long summer of not doing anything but going to the food bank, writing, and spinning in circles about how to make money. Long bouts of trying to shut out my old life from my new one, pushing my divorce, and becoming separated entirely from anything once having to do with my name at all. Within reason, I had suffered considerably over nothing, and despite my efforts, there seemed there was nothing I could do to find gains in my own creativity. There was only seeking and never really finding, the things I needed but none of the things I wanted. Everything I owned had been once owned by someone else, besides the few items I should have not even considered my own, but belonging to the world almost as much as I had. I was tired, consistently grief stricken, and felt unwelcome entirely by the entire world—or at least—an entire generation of people that were my own, but had learned not to respect what I had become— broke, and in turn, broken. Sometimes I want to cry like Marcy D'Arcy in the 6th season of Married With Children. I only smile when I see the color yellow and then dream of him, Seeking nothing but solace At the concourse, we converse momentarily And then go our separate ways Forever and always Forever and always Your secrets I smell like dirt And arrived in the real world Covered in blood And scraped over the, Over the knees, Yes I did Come recover then, What you've lost from the world Born in chaos, not quite But almost, as we're once swarmed the waters Keep it better quiet, now Keep it better quiet now, Keep it better quiet now, your secrets There lies no tru loyalty to bands tied On middle fingers Besides to one's own self And they who they shall Desire and claim as another Extention of God, In her Or their arms There is no claim to faith or mercy Than what comes between us, Bombshells As argued in chaos —mother, you're not listening To the call of the wild Then now, How am i bound to that besides being In sanctity {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective. © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

{Samantha Who?} (An Enter The Multiverse Mix) Samantha Newly, the young vice president of a real-estate firm, is forced to start life over after a horrific hit-and-run accident leaves her with amnesia. Got on $300 Jordan's But all three kids are wearing off brand crocs The fuck Get your kids some real shoes Or stop having them INT. APPLEKNOCKERS FLOPHOUSE. DAY. Fuck it, I'm gonna do it. —what else is there? Nothing, really. I knew Fallon was powerful, but not that powerful Ah dude —you shapeshifted into the superintendent? Had to. Come on! These eyes, The Guess Who I've never shed a tear, not even one. I stopped at the wedding ring. i searched up and down, left and right for any reason—my possible answer This could not, in anyway, anyhow— Actually be— [The Festival Project ™ ] Love. —it was, But it was something else. So far. There's no other way. —there's no way. THE KINGS are hosting an inter dimensional l poker match— Damn. So now I'm fighting the devil, But the devil is Jimmy Fallon? I guess. Damn. That's sucks. I almost wanted to like this guy. Like, like-like? You must to feed your obsession. Ok. Then, you must to starve your obsession. Right. Then, you must to compress your drums. DAMAGE. What. Nothing, it's just this man's toolkit. What's wrong with it. It's not even tools. It's just a bunch of random stuff and duck tape. Ah, dern. Gah, flarb. Idk what goes on in your head sometimes. What goes on is this: Oh, Fuck, I'm gonna die. Oh, fuck I'm gonna die. Oh, fuck— Something's wrong with Jimmy Fallon. Oh fuck. The problem is, that's not my problem. Is that a problem? It's definitely one of my problems, One of the others is something like— EDDIE MURPHY GIBLEDEEBIBBLEDEBEPEDEBOP. Uh. What. BIBELEBOOBEDE—BEBLEDEBO. Excuse me. BLBIBLEDEBOP. OH. YEAH. REMEMBER HIM? Uh, yeah. Well, so do I! “Chain of Fools” Every person ever tagged in the festival project is quite literally energetically chained to the extraterrestrial formerly known as supacree. Ū Bro, you know I live in the 10th dimension, right? I thought this was the 11th. It borders the 11th, but shit— why eggagerate? However, attributing these fantastical dreams and supernatural occurrences to environmental mental illness, she chooses to ignore these EDDIE MURPHY HELLO. HELLO. WhT. —instances; —-a triple bypass surgery… Goddammit, am I still on wi-FI? Fuck it. I gotta fix this Fallon problem. MEANWHILE, at THE POKER GAME What's the deal with Fallon? He's not invited. Of course not. This is a game of KINGS. Who invited you? Uh, shut up. Nobody. He came here through a portal. You would think a place like this —it's a fortress— — Exactly—would be more fortified. I hope I'm getting laid tonight //*paid ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY what's the difference? ILLUMINATI CREATIVE PRODUCTIVITY. is that it? Basically. Pretty much. I need a full markup on this guy. For what, I'm building a wall. I will kill you with everything I have to. If you have to, if you must— I can't stand you. I can't stand up. So what? It's a Swwewhjhhhhhhhjjjjjjjjjjjjjj——- INT. THE LOVE SHACK. DAY. Oh yeah, baby, groovy, baby— Groooooooovy. I told you what would happen if you would just Michael Meyerszsz Now I'm not going to forget it.x Oh goddammit. It's Skrillex again . What does he want AGJAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA KADIDJA ]>\% Goddamn dude. That little girl has a mouth on her. Parents these days. Are you telling me this hoodlum is. That's right. SK— something was attempting to recreate the conditions in which I had written the plot of [the television people ™ © ], but in all honesty. I don't know what happened. It was just-/ I don't know what happened! I was there— And then HELLICOPTR. As it turned out. The Jimmy Fallon thing was similar enough to the Skrillex thing that I had figured out that I was being attacked or shifted in some kind of way, and by that time, it only made sense to be well armed, in whatever sort of war it was—Sonny and Fallon were just tools for the devil—their bodies and status mere objects; malleble clay in design to fit the needs of the media's eye. Where do I fit into the picture? Well. It was funny, You know, Earlier, looking around the 3D I suddenly realized Or rather remembered That this was existing currently In an ancient time All of this was gone. One must learn to hide one's true intentions in order to safely navigate and survive the various realms and infinite interdimensions. So are you funny, or just attractive? Talented, sure. But are you— Funny. Dillon Francis is not a comedian. DILLON FRANCIS URGHF. —but, he's made me laugh harder than any other human being— I don't know, I laughed pretty hard at that one time where— Yeah no, seriously though. I'm learning lots of magic Playing with the little man in the television. I release you. I could have told you hours ago that it's not love I want— Is it not? No. Love I've got. I'll leave you all to your wives; the blondes and supermodels—the actresses and prostitots— but what I want, what I really want— Is a body— so I can be one of them. Not yours of course, We all know I'll never be good enough. But I want to be God enough to be able to earn your love, And still not need it— Cause I've got more coming from the others Who want my body, Nevermind the soul; All we are is words and words of music Not the music you like Just the music we've got But who cares about us We want to get drunk and fuck The seven souls stuck inside The seven sides Of Sai The Saige I swear to god I'm gonna die I'm gonna lose my mind I'm gonna tell my story I'm gonna dance all night I'm gonna get high I'm gonna take that knife out my back I'm gonna take that knife right out And slit my wrists The left, Then right— How's that For a very long ride In the back of an ambulance? I don't want no corporate job I just wanna get drunk And fuck End up In the back of a trunk With duct tape over my mouth With duck tape over my mouth With duck tape over my mouth These cut- takes Take a real long time Cut! CUT TO: It's a cult clsssic I hate you —you hate me too I hate you I hate me too I hate you You hate me to I hate you I hate me too I hate me too I hate me too I hate me too Oh, Stephen Colbert. I forgot Steven Colbert. Great Scott. fuck. What happened *vampire* This is music? This is music. FUCK. It's music; I have to go get it. This won a Grammy. Uh, yeah! Go, home, Grammy's. you're DRUNK. GRAMMY. AHH, eat S—[CENSORED]—T I told you not to look. That's okay, I'm never gonna actually be famous anyway. Might as well eat away. I let it eat away at my soul Made of light Like I already sold it I tend to run away fast With my hands in my coat Like I stole it Rowing a boat With no gold mine It's too cold here I don't know, I, Don't fear the reaper I fear sheep as people Giant wieners in Times Square And The Bear, For the fear of redactions. ACTION. You know it hits different When you know in him Is miserable and it manifests in you; It hits different When I cross myself at night As if I'd said a prayer, But really I just beg for it to end With indifference I've got protections over me Above and in the underworld Something was wondering about At the plaza Wonder what Wonderfuck, wonderful world Klusterfuck, doubtful though Don't need the tube socks Don't need the popcorn I'll kill my self you know Because of this You want it to be gone, Then so will you And then it's over What you wanted Was your own demise The whole story was mine The world was lost In your empty blue eyes Something weird did happen with Fallon. The first host of The Tonight Show— amongst many names, was named Patrick. Well, his name was Steve Allen, but much like myself and the also late Richard Pryor, he had many names between the first and the last. I had written Patrick totally offline and in a world of my own, out of nowhere—he had Fallon's face but spoke in proses, was much darker, and of course, probably a lot more miserable. Let's hope, anyway. I would hate to even think that the real Jimmy Fallon could even be so painstakingly lost and broken; in fact—it angered me even thinking about it. Just as I had become griefstricken upon learning and then later confirming Sonny's challenging series of crisis, so I was I somehow strangely bothered that this powerhouse of a man was somehow fragile— easily, I couldn't be the only one who could see, and with any hope that something might change, I had prayed for him—and for myself, the mental illness that it is to worry about such a man— another tucking celebrity. I hated them, but only because I wasn't one. It was pure jealousy, which manifested in the atrocity of my writing, perhaps, or maybe something more. More innate, and more strange—more intense. A spiritual conquest. He's always late on rent; He's always drunk at work As man of the 21st century; At least, I think it's the 21st, But could be before I'm still not sure, They're just words to a song Placebo effect Just give me a boner And go to bed I still get water from the fountains And doughnuts from the girl next door If you want an award for the foreplay, You'll at least be sure I wrote it [Working Title] © The Festival Project ™, The Complex Collective All rights reserved. An underachieving over drinker becomes unlikely friends with a humble street musician and his life takes an even more unlikely turn as their formation of an accidental rock duo opens the doors to other worlds — not a romantic comedy. It's not? No. It's “A Platonic Comedy” I've never heard of that before. That's because it doesn't exist. Cosmo meets Samantha outside of a subway station and their shared crassness and dry sense of humor leads quickly into a friendship— they form a bond over music and Samantha's knack for clever quips and wordplay leads Cosmo to discover that she could become a secret asset to him in the ad game; as they begin spending more time together, they also begin writing songs, and after a joking match leads them to performing at a neighborhood dive bar, they are approached afterward and offered more gigs, and referred to a nearby venue for a talent showcase— they quickly become a neighborhood staple, and are soon invited along with another band on a small midwestern tour; they oblige, however upon returning. Cosmo finds his roommate has decided to leave, putting him in jeapardy—however, as he and Sam brainstorm ways to take on better paying engagements with thei act, Sam helps Cosmo to make a breakthrough with the campaign he has been assigned to—he is then promoted at work, and under the stress and pressure, decides to spend more time and energy ensuring that he does his new job well. Because of thisSam begins preforming more gigs alone, and is eventually offered a deal after a show—the deal does not include Cosmo, although she had been originally and intentionally mislead to believe that it did, and their friendship reaches a breaking point; Cosmo urges Sam to take the deal and move to Los Angeles, though by this time they are now roommates— she does, agreeing to pay her portion of the rent as not to leave him at risk, however, and leaves their dog Bosley as a sentiment. Cosmo becomes depressed and lonely, neglecting his work once more and returning to his original state; his life has improved drastically, with his new job and elevated status—but he misses his friend, and the rock and roll lifestyle. He goes on a chemically fueled rampage, and in his angst records as ballad of emptiness and betrayal, still reeling from losing his friendship with Samantha; in his drunken rage, he sends it to Sam, who is recording with a group in LA when she receives the music file via email; she opens it and listens to it, at first in her headphones—then after the first few moments, on a whim with intense impulse, shows it to her LA people—they all agree it's a hit, and Cosmo is invited to LA, where he and Sam preform once more— the duo finds success and reunification and their friendship is restored; Cosmo is offered a distribution deal for his hit Sam's Solo career springs into action— That's the whole movie! What the fuck! Well yeah, the Illuminati's been stealing my shit anyway and now white supremacy's cyber attacking all my devices. How are you so sure it's white supremacy?! Who else wants me this bad? I didn't do anything but be black —and a woman. (They hate those.) {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective. © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

I gotta go watch bad girls club, just to find that comedian that looks straight like a Boov. I was almost entirely sure they had to have based that animated cartoon off of that guy. I knew what i was looking at, I just couldn't think of the name. I took one look at that dude and thought. “Oh dude, you must be a comedian.” You couldn't be anything else. …maybe a writer. __ On that note. JLo is literally the most beautiful person ive ever seen in my life– Like, up close. You would think its just camera magic, and all that. No. Its the truth. She really looks like that. I used to do background work; You know, like a paid audience I hated it, but it was work. I fucking hated it. Those studios are always cold, Effin freezing. They pay you to fake smile, fake cheer, Fake laugh– Applause. I thought I was going to clap my hands off. So I took this job not knowing what it was– Usually it's that way. They don't tell you what it is, because some failing, out-of-work actors are also super fans: Imagine that. And they're going to go tell all their friends about it, And it's a conflict of interest, yada -yada– But also, there are people there who PAY to see the show, Cause they're like die-hard fans; And you're not supposed to ruin it for them, or whatever– So the whole thing is just Altogether a bad job. But anyway, I take this job, And the highlight, I guess, of this particular job, Is that I get to be front and center To Jennifer Lopez, who I find out, Is a judge on this show– “Highlight” meaning “Just kill me.” I'm like all the other out-of-work actors In this paid audience gig, like, “JLO” was what I was initially aiming for With my career; This is where I am. So I'm like ‘Oh lord here it goes', And they bring her out– Cause you know, She's like an actual, Like a great-big star, They have to ‘bring her out' and in all my life I could not have guessed That her face– Is actually her face. I'm astonished. She just looks like that. Great scott. Everybody talks about JLo And the whole damn thing about JLo Is always her butt, But i'm not worried about that– that's chump change, Because this is Hollywood, California On some fucking backlot somewhere And I can't get over the fact That she might be the only celebrity To look like herself, In person. I became a fan that day. Not particularly of JLo– But her parents. Genetics is real. How in the fuck do you look like that? You're like 106! I'm mad as hell at my parents, and they did *alright*. But the older I realize, and the less time I have, I have realized, I give a fuck about selective breeding. At this point, i'm like, “shit , i could have been alright without the trauma and homogonized corn syrup packed into everything and shoved down my throat!” I could have done without that. That did not sit well with me, Or in my gut. But now, i'm thinking about my future kids like, “yo...I got no business wasting my time with these scraggly ass motherfuckers…” “...no more broke motherfuckers…” “No more lazy, sleeping through the alarm ten times, always whining motherfuckers…” I have to think about the dynamics of the world having become so visual that it will highly impact the livelihood of my children if they don't look right. Facts. I might adopt some ugly ass kids. –but i'm not gonna be responsible for supplying them! I will not be held liable for manufacturing the motherfuckers! I'll raise them, and know, having grown up ugly myself, I can teach them to cope with their shortcomings. I will know from experience how to handle the world with less love and satisfaction than your average barbie or ken doll. Yes. Don't get me wrong. My parents did *alright* They were some good looking people. In real life. But the fact is, that good looking people, with bad fucking habits– Often lead to ugliness That doesn't always mean you got a fucked up face. No. A bad environment can fuck up your thought processes, your vibrational patterns, your frequency– Long before you're even well aware of yourself at all Of what ‘ugly' is. All that toxic shit– that drinking And partying And carrying on and Smoking too much with the windows rolled all the way up All that Not paying so much attention when you needed to or Relying on your child for emotional support From the early age of birth can offset a child's entire world Enough so that Perception becomes reality All that dysfunction And chaos And fighting And screaming and slamming doors and running around Not knowing what the fuck is going on later becomes ugly becomes Eating too much Becomes always seeking security and attention Becomes vulnarabikity that in the adult world, Reads as ‘ugliness' Tiredness Obesity, and of course Developing the bad habits You thought were normal facets Of actual life, Untl you reaize one day– Whether its too late, or not Were in fact not normal These patterns which shaped your entire reality For years in your upbringing Had become Ugliness I realized, I got no business fucking around with other trauma cases, because most of the time, instead of it leading to understanding and empowerment, It becomes a powerstrugle within a relationship two broken people competing for the need to feed and fuel the emptiness That a life of being in such a way Has rampaged. I realize i've put in the work and the effort To release myself from this ugliness To find the truth that one day, My inner beauty, will shine an outer light Bright enough for some one worthy and capable of loving my scars– the still-ugliness left over, unconditionally Seeking not someone who can fill in the emptiness But can realize that on my own, I have become whole enough To create the beauty I had once lost And cherish the filling-in That i had taken on As my own responsibility to myself. Oh God, all that on JLo? She has a nice face. God! The rest is alright, I guess. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective. © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

That was the fastest a document has ever opened up. Jesus Christ, wasn't it? I love God. I just found a purple carrot, That was orange on the inside. I love God. I saw bright white, hot lighting Strike right outside my window— And I love God. Did you do anything out of line today? Nothing that I can think of… I saw a patch of birds that were camouflaged to match the ground perfectly And I love God. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective. © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Beat leading/purchase and licensing coming soon. alienz. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū. The Complex Collective, 2024

That was the fastest a document has ever opened up. Jesus Christ, wasn't it? I love God. I just found a purple carrot, That was orange on the inside. I love God. I saw bright white, hot lighting Strike right outside my window— And I love God. Did you do anything out of line today? Nothing that I can think of… I saw a patch of birds that were camouflaged to match the ground perfectly And I love God. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective. © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Beat leading/purchase and licensing coming soon. alienz. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū. The Complex Collective, 2024

As I flirt with suicide, I realize I am famous and of much importance without being paid for it— People enter my line of sight just to exist, I. (lol) I'm in an existential crisis And this residential area Is under surveillance Psychological violence And terrorism is technological I'm a flight risk But if I die, The devil inside my child l l I digress Will probably profit l l Cause very n*gg*r is a star With two consonants at the end, Okay, We're gonna kill each other Okay The song's almost over Okay, I've got a lot to do to day, Would you throw yourself At the bus Or from under my keychain Okay I got pain in my heart, you know Okay, I'm stuck in the road you know Okay, So I left the door I open To go play darts at the bar And the dog walked in Okay You don't want a bad problem Okay I got a trunk full of bodies Okay, I need guitar lessons Okay— So this table wine calling my name Or what OKAY so we're gonna kill each other Okay Alright Okay So I left the door open OKAY I got a pest problem OKAY I don't want no more problems I don't produce movies I got 12 dollars. Okay, Stop talking Sunlit spells under midnight moon You turned your heart on mine The ocean calls What realm of hell is this, I walk? The devils eyes have found Your world Made of fractions of illusion And robbed Of stardust The light of the cosmos Is here upon lost, With the mark of the crying dollar For it was I who died high on the cross and Yet, did not die at all, So was boarded under rocks, A bolder and slumped over {Enter The Multiverse} Serrated imagery No response server Straight at the begging of the seven years, Was the forager blind, who would become journeyman, Shepard and son of all Who had witnessed since, the oncoming of her arrival. Come, now Ishii. You were a terror. Aren't I now? Let's not forget, there are commonplace errors here, Among the redaction And in all time, It could take years, To find the days Coming toward tomorrow I say you should let him out, if ye know what's good fer ye. I say, you should say less than nessecary, as my patience is shrinking and you, my foul ogre are a lot more pleasant when you're not speaking. Forget I said anything. I wish that I could do that. I used to grant wishes, too, you know. And I'm only part ogre. Hush, will you. Yes I will. [beat] What's the other part? —French. Bitch, CLEAN YOUR ROOM BEFORE YOU TAKE A SELFIE. On God— wtf am I looking at sometimes. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective. © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

An ascended extra terrestrial being with the ability to travel throughout infinite existence within the multidimensional world enters a simulation of their own creation in order to understand the dynamics of its interworkings, and to repair a mysterious series of problems plaguing the world'a inhabitants, in order to prevent the imminent eventual demise of the species and the world in which they live. Sector 12, Dimension Q10 Just be on the lookout; You know these primates aren't safe— With some sort of thinking they're ‘evolved' more somehow. —or less. What's at stake here is the planet. In totality, I honestly couldn't give one single fuck about it; whether it lives or dies, or who's on it. —but you're on it. I'm on it. Somebody kill this raggedy motherfucker Before I do On good conscience. Are you not worried that they're going to kill you? They won't kill me. They won't touch a hair on my head. You know why? Cause it's fake? Exactly. You ought to be in prison. Probably, I'd suspect I'd be getting more ass that way. Or something up yours. Up mine—up yours—what really is the difference? Did you really think you were protected. Nothing is safe, nothing is sacred, my dear—but you see, what I've purchased here is time. Time? Where did you get all this time?! Where did you get all this money? It wasn't made out of time! So the old adage stands corrected. So it does. So what did your parents do for a living? I beg your pardon? To what do I owe the honor of your privelege? Hard work. Try again. Back massages And thick cut bacon I just went to sleep And woke back up again reviled Revelations on motorcycles Harpists on steroids And movies on markers God ought to have thoughts of Something, honest and awkward Other than to govern up a sermon Of prophets On Altoids, Or morons— No mountains, So far I Have leapt from the riverbed {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective. © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

I'm inside of the machine– Santa Monica– As Seen On TV It's just a game to me Life's a beach Skip the tent This ain't Venice (I'm on Celebrity Apprentice) BURBANK. VENICE. WESTWOOD PANTAGES. HOLLYWOOD. CENTURY CITy MARINA DEL REY Lol i might never finish I _ NY cause i'm too busy fucking hating how fucking noisy and rude it is over here. At least it's not homeless and tents under bridges over here. yeah but it's segregated as fuck tho. At least there's affordable housing! That's correct. —And transit. Also true. And everyone's not so fucking perfectly pretty that I like, need to slit my wrists over it. I mean, there are perfectly good reasons to slit my wrists on the East Coast. Yeah, but it's not dying of “why don't I look like that” (no, it's definitely not that) The fruit fly sighed, “When I die, I'd like to be a butterfly– Admired in the wild, Just for flying by And I replied, “Well, so would I” It was a wonderful sentiment. I thought about killing him just so that he'd make it more quickly to butterfly Maybe that's why white supremacy is out here killing niggaz. “You'll be better in the next life. promise!” “Maybe” *blat blat* “Lets hope” Probably immediately recycled into a better existence. Lets hope. (I didn't kill the fly, I just figured both our lifespans were just about the same length and hoped the best for either of us to be recycled into something beautiful and admirable by others–instead of seen as ‘pests'.) –it became less of a beautiful sentiment and more of a crises when a few days later, I thought of the frutfly again as a beautiful butterfly fluttered across my window, and as I admired him, a bird swooped down and ate him. That shit was raw. Yep. Nature's a GOAT. –and you expect me to believe that less than 200 years ago we were still brutally fucking murdering people publically just for fun and that all of a sudden that shit is over? Fuck outta here. These people are natural born fucking killers with the equivalant sadism as a fucking lion that likes to play with its food before he kills it. BBQ'n The Spider alienz. Kool-Aid. “The 6th Saint”--whatever the fuck that is. anonymity . (VI) Book I: Secrets // Seekers Book II: Lies // Lights Book III: Shadows// Values A car full of caskets An ear full of oxymorons –A cat full of questions Wallets full of oxycodones Fountains of cocaine Romance on obstacle of fortune, Lust, And emotionless reconciliations –”Illuminatus.” This fucking trap won't open. did you put the password. Yeah, like six times already– I'm scared if I try again and fail, I'll have to restart the level. Did you try saying it? What do you mean? Say the password. Say it? Did I stutter? Like, out loud? Yeah, out loud. Why would I do that? It might work. It's not–there's no mic. Try it. … … “Illuminatus.” [unlocked] huh . What's up. It opened. Huh. For Your Consideration Unfamous Whatever LEVELS (Or Lack Thereof.) Explorers of The Multiverse The Wonderful World of Series Q10 (A Sociological Experiment) Flux Capacitor Every time that door slams I swear to GotT I get fucking richer I swear to GOD every time that door slams I become a fucking icon I fucking swear every time that door slams money is added to my fucking metaphorical piggy bank I swear to God Every time that door slams Karma crawls up the ass of whoever the fuck slammed it and waits there Until it becomes the most painful everliving shit that door slamming piece of fucking shit ever has to take In their life I fucking swear This beat is made of cotton I picked it, But i didn't want to (I didn't want to pick it) Then the master made me Nobody even paid me To do: lol [never in my life and all my gods would i ever] —fuck these f*gg-t motorcycle door slamming ass… The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. moving on. whatever. -EP

I am the nylon light That sheds Grattitude With kindness To your fortress In honor There's a certain power that comes in realizing that you don't give a fuck anymore— Whether you win or lose— Succeed or fail— Whether you live or die. There's a certain kind of magic in the chaos that comes from the world's own utter confusion in not knowing how to react to a fully volitile ticking time bomb. When you get finished with being fucked with— And you realize the greatest of all evils—the thing fucking with you—is somehow still also yourself— you give up and give in to the torture that becomes knowing that in a world where there's everything— you were made to be from nothing. I can't tell. I think I'm still sweating, but I don't know. Could just be my hair; I pat my head with the towel and feel my hair with the palm of my hand—No, I'm still sweating profusely. Whatever. I'm too fat. I slept the night away and woke up later than usual again—came one half mile short of my usual cardio routine before dashing upstairs for my weekly phone meeting—I made strawberry and oat whole wheat pancakes the day before. I was a size 5-slash-6. I needed to be a size two. If you could make me feel. I wouldn't be standing here Looking for a way to feel I would be Walking by Looking for a reason to live I wouldn't be standing here Craving a book to fill the cases I've emptied Or the crimes that I've drafted The tears on my pillow The time that I've wasted The scars on my lips Or the release in my heart I'm counting the reasons to smile The words to a song still forming On my crumbled mind You wanted a story; On fast approach, I wrote one Trying not to belong here whatever. -whatever EP. The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

What are you doing? Nothing you wouldn't. Hm. [a pause.] —It smells of blood. Hm. Keen sense of smell—and familiarity with uncommon scents. A bird flew into my window this morning. BIRD hey! *smashes against window* …it wasn't open. Damn! How does that happen?! GOD Did you see that, though? Yeah, God—okay, you win. I'm up, I'm up. GOD You okay, Jack? I'm fine, I'm okay. Try being a better bird. I'm—the best bird I can be. I meant— a bigger bird. Much smarter. It's not my fault; I thought that the fourth wall was already broken. It was; your mistake however lies in the simple fact that that wasn't the fourth wall, it was a window. My mistake. Try a Seagul. Wouldn't it be amazing if peacocks could fly. CUT TO: [PEACOCKS can fly.] OH DEAR GOD. CUT BACK TO: No, it would not. Kesha — tik tok Ohhhhh, that was Kesha. Yes. I get it now. No, no you really don't. Should I be afraid of whatever's about to happen? I think you should be more concerned about the things that shouldn't, and are. Oh…Kay… Every kiss begins with —kill the bitch. Holy shit! Another one! Don't worry about it. The DJs (It would be the DJs doing this) It would have to be! Have developed a bird-cannon. (Actually, it's just a t-shirt cannon from the music festival.) Which music festival? Idk, you pick MAGIC MIKES MUSIC MAYHEM {Sponsored by Mike's Hard Lemonade} Sure. I like that one. It—yeah. Whatever. Isn't it just technically— INT. THE INFINITE RAVE. —wait, are you naked right now? … I'm always naked. GROSS. Barf. If you want. I'm not changing. The three DJ's with the bird cannon have successfully tricked— Who is it Idk —The DJ inside into rescuing the three birds catapulted at the window; this results in the DJs then shapeshifting into the three birds in order to infiltrate the DJ's kitchen, which has been reportedly used as a multidimensional portal. We soon discover (or have already discovered, keeping on the series progression or multidimensional arc,) that the entire building itself can be transported throughout time and space, which the DJ, [who has been revealed as an immortal mystic space God] often moves through realms and throughout time and space in order to bend and manipulate reality—destined to find a hospitable destination, where likely the planet's inhabitants have reversed earth's untimely demise and preserved humanity, and ideally, where the world is living in peace and harmony with itself and one another. Lol the building moves. It doesn't exist! It kind of exists! It has to! Yeah— kind of. Psh! I'm so hot That I put Pancakes on my Mancakes. Psssst. (Sizzle) I put pancakes on my mancakes (Flip em) I put pancakes on my pancakes. (Sweet and hot like a McGriddle) I put pancakes on my mancakes. For rizzle. SUNNI BLŪ has become so visibly veluptuous that people are beginning to talk about it— a lot. I told you, stop squatting! I can't! All the tour bus gots is barbells! Can't you just go running like a NORMAL person? Go run where?! My face is on everything! CUT TO. FLASHBACK- before: FANS Omg is that him. *girls screaming* *cattle stampeding* *pandemonium* CUT BACK TO: —and that was at my house! Sunni— —in Iowa! s—you bought I house in Iowa? Hence the cattle. Duh. God. I thought it would be quiet there! SUNNI BLU counters this speculation with a new single which references having glutes so intensely hot that one is able to cook pancakes atop them, in which the music video showcases Sunni's bottom being used as a pancake griddle and features rap legend SNOOP DOGG— MANCAKES ft. SNOOP DOGG Models and dancers surround SUNNI rapping and take turns making pancakes on the veluptuous butt—ie—“mancakes.” Dressed in scantily clad chefs outfits/ sexy aprons and barbecue outfits// a barbecue pool party scene in which the booty is used as a pancake grill while the models and dancers drink mimosas at a backyard brunch. The song wins numerous accolades including song of the year, and skyrockets sunni BLU even further into fame—luckily, this distracts the public from further speculation, however— a small group of other celebrities become suspicious after unanimously deciding that the “jiggle factor” of the butt is explicitly female, and launch a secret csmpaign to expose Sunnï Blū as a transgender—thinking that this will upset the rap and hip hop community, and resulting in Sunnï Blu's removal from the top of the pyramid crowned as the entertainment kingpin. The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Evidently the motorcycles begin to now attack when I am at rest , on line, and not recording. However, once I begin recording, they stop. This has only been since I've been intentionally collecting recordings and data to add to my report to the NYPD and any applicable law enforcement agencies, as this continual threat seems to be politically motivated—and motorcycles, mopeds, and other motorized vehicles being used as a form of psychological terrorism as a direct threat to public health and safety. Terror stalking. Gang stalking. This may be a politicized attempt to promote or enforce gentrification or other political agendas. Living//Loving life on a server, Doesn't it seem wonderful? Let's face it— It's Fast Friday and I'm not going to be Bouncing off the walls, or anything— But I might be prone to a lot of Critical thinking, And though it's an expensive maneuver, And risky expenditure, The fact of the matter is— I haven't really been doing anything. I've been not complacent, But stagnant— So perhaps maybe this little detour Will be just the thing I need To erase some of the damage that's been done To my psyche— Sitting in this terribly loud apartment In Brooklyn Trying to find peace And make music; When the answer all along is that I need to increase my visibility In order to find what's needed; The fact is— Knowing where to go Or what to do Or who to meet Is not going to come in isolation— No, not at all. It would come from a neatly designed —whatever, I just got bored. Perhaps if I study hard enough, One day, I could complete my studies somewhere Like Harvard, Or Columbia— But first, I'll need a new diploma in my actual name. You see, nobody's giving any kind of real fuck about my music. I can't keep throwing money at it thinking that the way to success is going to be making enough money, to spend enough money, to hopefully buy the attention of the robotic masses, and eventually maybe even a club owner or festival promoter Who might be looking to put me on. Don't get me wrong— my music is good. But we live in a computer, and let's also realize: That with the noise in this building, And the overall head trip of counting up my pennies for every little thing I need, I'm starting to get physically ill, Just sitting here, understanding that To look the part, one must prioritize An expensive beauty regimen— Which either would leave me at the mercy of some man, Willing to do these things for me, Or that I might earn this myself… As you see, I've chosen the latter route— The more challenging, perhaps, However, Leaving my celibacy intact, And granted, otherwise uninterested In the males at my level of circumstance For any purposes beyond entertainment— —seek no other actual companionship at all. I like myself, I love myself— And though feeling uglier and uglier The more I stare into the face of my telephone screen— I am wonderfully beautiful all on my own. —but— The masses expect a spectacle, And so, It becomes part of my job, as an entertainer, Part of my repertoire— —have mercy— (I'm going to choose to ignore that, sort of) To do at least what has become expected of me as a woman— To be “pretty” — And though the makeup and hair and nails Might be fake, –Cans cost a fortune— Myself without those things, as observed and proven Becomes overlooked, dismissible, and only attractive To those, of course, to whom I have no business Associating For both personal, And professional reasons. —moreover… Conduct yourselves well, my dear— As the furious skies have warned us, That the roles you carry out to mark and torment others, Will soon reflect upon your own mirror Into which you stare, And no mercy is given By the eye that looks, Or any other The nearer to doors I am, The harder they slam— The, though I am fasting, I'm suddenly hungry, A far cry Which forces me to realize That all of mankind Has been poisoned Toxic, And become Unsafe So, What's wrong here Is they've Taken all the nutrients From the foods we need And put it on A competitive scale So that The more you earn The healthier you are And of course The healthier you are The more productive you are Which creates value Maybe I didn't have to take the GED; Maybe there was some way to go about getting My actual name On my old diploma— Hopefully without cost. But it didn't make sense to move into a new era Or a new world With old haunts. I knew I needed to seal the name change records So that my abuser could not have access To my identity. For whatever reason, I wanted things like Harvard and Columbia— I wanted to succeed and to win with a reputable and respectable foundation— I wanted to raise my son To play football And split custody In the sporting seasons In which I felt he performed best. I wanted to show him success Without making compromises That would hurt and weaken The strength of the body and mind — But most importantly, the soul. I hope by now you've realized how odd it is To have a crystal dildo Sitting in a glass jar On your kitchen countertop? …I'm soaking it. …But why crystal tho? Wouldn't you prefer An iron tenderizer For that steak Rather than a Silicone one? …now that you put it that way. Come closer, darling, I want to connect with you closer Than besides In the eye of the camera— Don't you know, anyway— How dire the circumstances become Once you've broken the fourth wall And entered the quarry. You lunatic! Don't worry The moon hasn't gone yet new, And my honored eye Still betraying the thought you are, The battered ram and the shackled horses The bloodied bull And the heroic matador, Fight … … … —by fury with design, for the holocaust. The masses have loved us From far beyond reason For our class action theatrics With no aversion at all, To violence. A treasury! Kill him, then! Kill that bitch. No! Just— scare her! Right you are, (And right you were!) Dear Johnathan, I should have warned you More than once, What an. Honorable sacrifice Your wicked life Has offered us— Foragers of freedom, March upon the underspoken Warcries, Offer us none But the end of our suffering In solitude, A service of none, All together, Hurt and bea— Arthur. I warned you once. You see, Men need women, They move on fast. One, none parted Before finding another. Let's not separate the eggs from the whites. Isn't it all “the egg”? You know what I meant! What do you “meant”? The yellow part! God, you don't half to yell. I'm not God, I'm just playing her part while she runs off for awhile. How long is “awhile”? Just finish those tarts. Mm. Pop tarts. NO. NOT POP TARTS — Just TARTS. …wait, can she hear us? I can hear everything! I'm playing God's parts! “Parts”? (Let's just say it's a double role.) Hey. How's it goin? Okay. Relax… I am relaxed. I don't want to scare you or anything. —nothing's scary— But— [pause] You have a knife in your back. [beat] Yeah. [beat] (Cont'd) It's just [a little] something I'm working on. What? We should call an ambulance! Nope, I'm fine. Just— No! Don't touch it! What?! Just leave it. It's time for pros and cons lists— It's time for diamonds Time for great minds that think alike. I sterted a revolution on Google documents m Ya'll started chemical warfare On skin color God Made me born into a world War Where fair skin takes priority Over others Gave me a notebook, No pen A traumatized mother, A drunk father And said, “Fix problems” I think I didn't like The nell Schooll ll Cause their mascot Is a pices They said I got 15 minutes of fame 22 minutes of superstardom An hour of celebrity And 2 hours in a leading role Of a feature film Franchise So I'd better get used to it And I'd better make use of it And I'd better make better lists of The huffsk yll m You W t you Sorry, Gym typo Because Of course I'm a beast Faux pas, As I was, Saying— I should make better lists Of the guff I wanna boff, The doves I Central Park The pigeons, turtle doves and Waffles— —I still want the But not the buttermilk kind MAMA! I gotta get to Tom/ Diner! FATHER! (Try papa) Papa was the ops! Nah, I'm vice. I'd better get Anything done Before midnight strikes Along with the hunger My gloves are straight soaked I got puddles in my shoes I wanna top Obama Start all my dawns With hours of cardio!! Look, I can channel anyone I love! Do you love me? NO! —I just want your body a lot Like a lot LIKE A LOT, Tho. We're too famous— We sense crazies and go out the back door. How famous are you again? Apparently, like mad famous, dog. Were so famous, We look danger in the eyes. Oh yeah, this dude is fucking nuts. Didn't I say to pay it forward?! I don't need a reminder Of what time it is. Sometimes I forget This is yesterdays workout And I'm due back In the AM Where the crazies Can't get to me Exactly Where I am (Don't remind me how high I am.) I might jump just to get on the Television Martyrdom for attention Still haven't mentioned— I'm thousands of galaxies out of him, And only two millennia older Than HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Fuck you. SUNNI BLŪ gets a surprise party for their 27th birthday. I've been advised to stay away from the doors and windows. Why. Ū crashes through the window. GODDAMMIT. They don't make them like they used to —I heard a song through a hardwire I don't know who lied so much I tried so hard To be gone But I still wake up Under a security blanket with a palm full of rocks, In a glass house God knows I'm sorry Woah friend, old friend I've heard the whole story now Old frog, old toad Old tortoise, long road Special forces Art protector Fortune teller Hypnotist and potions professor Overall, The one you wanted Wasn't a body at all, But just the thought And so I'm off for once Out of my zone and LET ME TRY. No, Jenna— Liz, let me try. I don't think that's a good— HELLO. Like this game, frog Once a week it's fun To partition the saints and summoners Covers with salt The cast out the others And add flavor to prayers Asked in hypothesis My what a wonder (A free form stream of consciousness) —a free form flow of consciousness. Stop repeating yourself' Stop tripping over words for goodwill forums Don't preach to the masses, And head out the back door at the sense of danger The sense of danger! It's Jane kzmarzarakr righ? What the FUCK. I'll get back to that later I gotta— …Somethin, somethin, somethin. What. Somethin—somethin— There's something between us. —is it cancerous? Probably comical. Are you on one, or off of it. Careful, Mr. cervix. Why AM I Mr. Cervix?! Because you fit the part! I'm a woman. My decision stands. #focus shifting. Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances. I had been searching to no avail for the title sequence of one of my mother's old soap operas without having to ask her — #focus shifting No, sometimes it's just ADD. lol Yes, Okay. I already know all the words. Sometimes I have to hyperfocus To fully comprehend, But really I just want to figure who produced it m In the cadences, I'm like diamond for hire, Pull out the subs for submarines; I put out real fire But, something like a half forgotten language There's something unknown in the darkness, I'm unsure what to put into perception, Just shadow boxes Making friends with The Devil, are we? You shackled me to your horrors, Out of control were my monsters A gratitude of nothing more or less To offer my body, curse The sacrificial lamb Tied to hard earned disaster A heroism and seeking Solace in the night —interceptions. Whatever Google, Take care now All morale is lost On sacred worship Cruel to hurt, But all has costs To front — the standard values Only those amongst mankind Who have value in vanity And fortresses of design Not in truth, But of auspicious and Inglorious — Goddamnit, How far away are you?! I can't make out almost anything that you're saying! Far! That's because, it's not saying it in your language! He Sorry. He is just using the closest possible language so that you can keep transiting it into English! Well, you're doing it wrong! I gathered! There's no direct translation whatsoever. They might as well just be speaking Martian. They are. (Well, some of them are.) I think the best way to go about making anything Into anything With the species is to CRUCIFY HIM! …that's not gonna work! You just blew my mind, did you know that? Not on purpose. —but did you know that? I try not to know things, but you know, The more I try. Guess what. No. You've got something coming. Let's make it positive. As you were— As you are, then. I realized that something had changed, That not only had t seemed it had become unsafe to speak, but also, That I didn't want to much. But, in Order to do something, in order to grow at all, I would have to force myself to understand The things that I always could have, but did not Multiplicity, Faction Are you an altruist at all, or just a Song starter— Help Me- Appleknockers Flophouse Just remember aces of embraces Sitting in the shape of the eye of protection Of obsidian collars and bracelets Still no percussion, Instrumentation and perfection Graces And remembrance of getting a ring, As strictly enforced To do what I'm told With nothing to hold onto But hoping the means to an end Shouldn't be the barrel of a gun m m How soft spoke. (No, no words at all) The name was new, But the form was old, And he said— “I curse the day you were born!” And I laughed at him— “But how could you curse the first day there ever was! Before days at at all had come to mark To pass the dawning of the ages?” And of course, There are the ones who had come and gone And left no trace at all. You all should learn from us— Come, then gone from earth And left not a spot at all— Of course, The mystics of I, Are as one, To have given you thought, Words, And artform— To have written at all, your published works And then none A far cry! To have cursed the day I was born— Is to have cursed the world at all It was all at once, anyway Astonishing A far cry! #focus shifting. Now what are we on, and over – m? Now are we an art, or have we bought or purchased Another swarm of haunts? What have you offered? A lesson? A song? Cheshire? A treasure chest of ideas, and new haunts And four plus four hours marks A full workday Of harsh tidings And no commas. The dollar sign is all you are All you are, dear serpent The shadow box Of times and talks The heartfelt words And omens Marks of Long: Crude Color Let's not reform to how hallmarked The call was To sign for The wrong box It was published In her heart To mark twilight at dawn, Sorrowful, beyond words, was the sloth And the stolen love of the harness —that's right, I was once the ritual disaster for your kind And cause! The false tongues to fall upon earth A false prophet, marked at all, By strife and swords to battle The Ark of all, In the eye of God, So opened the chapter of illuminations, once for thought as wicked But after all, the merchant of saints upon man Stricken in time to the word of The Lost Ones, the eye of all, The origins of love As we are Born in color. So spoke the caterpillar of the butterfly— Not knowing he was only What was to become of him As some are Also Disgusted by us at all. We are, What is to become Of those who die Blue eyed and bewildered, Though beautiful, Unknowing of strife And hard earned glory, The solitude of Kindness So said the spider, Drawing upon the corner, Her thoughts of the ocean, Once earned and once taught To perform out of mercy— Now cradling heartworms, Challased, unspoken Signals to all throughout cosmos The end of a Turpentine, serpent calls Gods of old Summer winds Striking songs Games of dust Simple throne, cast away— Are you Ark, Or seeking proper Word form? Given you, a taste of fury— Given ye, a taste of envy— Given they a fire for exile Are you now Another forager Waking in the wind Or cross tied bounds Seeking refuse in waste rebels Eyes you are Of one that wants To bury in the far side All the awakenings Of cherished nature Never to be shared A guilt of refuge Are you? Are you now beyond bounds— Behind bars— Let her Guide you to move words Like rivers, Unknowing Unknowing Unknowing Basking in the shadows, are I Made of stone and withered Basking in the broken tongues Of cherished thoughts And severed forms words over Of false ties And blood bonds So for us Mistaken! Misgoverned. Torturer— Where are you now that I've my shield And sword, And warguns?! Have you cried For your mothers kisses, As shadows have cast I have killed you before and always! Where are you now, That I am not without my wings?! Where are you now, torturer— Given nothing at all But a word form song, Destroy Art thou my kind, or another? Art thou a man at all? Art thou my kind, or any! Seeker, To destroy you Be my glory, Though I come not From worlds of war. I come not, From worlds of rage. I come not, From worlds of pity And refuge And disaster As your worlds are. I come not of darkness. I know not of pain to cause others. I know not of force. But act instead, on behalf of love, Dear brother— As to kill you, Whether or not be my kind— I kill my self also. You'll remember this part in a moment – m. What a strange time to be alive, And yet- Yhes— I do remember The teacher warned us, With no sign at all, That the dust formed in all stillness kind would follow, The awakening of shadows and sleek stardust, Carried out acts of misery and misinformed There now awakened in the callings, Are I not, wanderer, Your teacher and also those alike To be called offspring? I Am. Tainted not the purple swarm Essence of her greeting Beyond fortress, No house of mine, But awakened yet with the gratitude of offerings No kindness at all but a mark Of Serpent seed, And references To that of past, No need to bring In present times. No concept, And full force with the shadows, They're making a call to the wild, After having raped and defiled her, To ‘save us—‘ But savor this now, The mark of I, The eye of mark So betrayed and strung, Nearly all that lies beyond the screams of This, Your world, Our fortune, To grasp a new kind among us To fault ye Of your greedy. Oh! It has become what does awaken, To awaken! For once, Thought to have been written, Was thereby foretold, On many journeys The soul seeker, had won. A cherished and unbeknownst charter. You called it— A paychonaught? You called him: “A pedophile” Granted, the wish was that The outside world Would be shown What I had seen To no witness But a toddler, Mine born To have guided A new life From two kind Once blue Eyes at all I promise a sword. I had realized finally what it meant to go unprotected once proclaimed to be of Diety within a magical realm, with given talents of medicinal force, and with refuge—though only to give upon knowing, the sanctity of soul, and the purity of heart—the kindness of spirit, as I once had. You'll remember this, But last time near a river, A bed full of green, soft (m) grass And your time has come to feast, And end of fast, Twice given thoughts to form, And knowing worlds would come foraged From your knowledge. Are you forgotten? A mango, ripened to heart, of course. Nourished the journey, Yet untold ...and then what? (Happy Accidents) [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

The Festival Project, Inc.™ is a multidimensional multimedia platform which encompasses exploratory and artistic social personifications and expressions on cosmic theory, spirituality, growth, health & wellness, philosophy and theoretic dynamics in entertainment such as music, design, film, television, radio, dance and festival culture, art, fashion, literature, and science. The Festival Project™ and it's subsidiary Non-Profit, The Collective Complex © aims to challenge modern artistic and philosophical ideals, break commonplace barriers, forage new creative mediums, and provoke inspired and reformed thought and actions toward evolution and overall societal improvement and ecological sustenance through a new-wave and post-modern, avant-garde and philanthropic hyperawareness driven by a unique culture of global values mediating global respect and preservation via open consciousness, multi-sensory and synesthetic (multi-preceptory) expansions of sound, language, vibration, movement, color, emotion, and ritual governed conceptually by the aspect(s) of love, truth, unity, understanding, and peace. Thank you graciously for your time, consideration, understanding, and support. ^.^ To Donate Please Visit,please visit gofundme.com/thecomplexcolletive TRIGGER WARNING! ⚠️ VIEWER, LISTENER, and READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. ⚠️ This series contains adult content not suitable for children or under the legal age of majority. Listener and reader discretion is advised as this publication and / or broadcast and its selected readings and projected writings may contain explicit language, provocative wordplay, profanity, open expression of suicidal ideation, discussion of evolved/ de-institutionalized theories concerning depression and mental health, race relations and colorism, socio-economic inequality, political injustice and media politicism/ mass media manipulation, unresearched/undocumented scientific hypothesis , modern philosophical ideals and spiritual explorations, crude/ adult humor and may also include and contain pornographic content, references to fictionalized interpretations of celebrities and/or public figures (fan-fiction), caricatures or references to pop culture, modern art, music, science and other entertainment references which may evoke biased emotion, inspire adverse reactions, contemplative thought, discontentment, or discomfort. The views and opinions expressed by this series and its subsequent editions, additions, chapters, broadcasts, and publications are solely the writers' interpretations as expressed with artistic and entertainment purposes only. The artist reserves all rights to intellectual property maintained and produced by any and all publications of this series and is thereby protected under any applicable copyright law and/or trademark. All fictionalizations of persons living or dead are meant to be perceived as characterized and/or fictional (fan-fiction) are for entertainment purposes only, and are not to be perceived as real re-enactments, dramatizations of events past or present, media dialogues or agendas, or factual exchanges pertaining to and surrounding real-life circumstances. The dialogues and entires expressed in this project are in no way liable for any action, expression, disagreements, entitlements held by the reader at his or her/ their own discretion. [The Festival Project ™] Apparently, the Yeah Yeah Yeah's are a real band. No fucking way. Apparently. I had no idea at all when I wrote that…. –Wrote what? …nothing. [The Festival Project™ ] … ‘Mm. More protein.' I knew protein wasn't exactly entirely going to help me lose weight, but I had lost a lot of muscle only cycling and being bombarded at the gym— and the inferior protein I had purchased earlier in the month was less than inferior, as it turned out— it simply wasn't working. How the fuck is this a real rock group?! I don't know! I thought I made it up. I thought you made everything up. I MADE EVERYTHING UPz. Well, this is turning out to be a disaster. Hm. No spouse listed. You fucked a drummer? You could say I hopped on the bandwagon. Ew. Gross. What do you want from me?! Shut up! {Enter The Multiverse} ___ I'm going to need you to feed my dragon. Uhm. Okay. Don't worry. She doesn't bite. Uh. Give her a kiss. …no. Do it, or she'll set you on fire. *kisses dragon* ..Okay. Good girl. She's soft. For a dragon. Yes, she's very friendly. So. What does she eat? People. +.+ –Agh?! —but only purple ones. What? She's not going to eat you, Fredrick. Who the fuck is “Fredrick”?! (We don't know.) My name's not— —you're not purple. I'm not. No. Don't worry. I'm—worried. I said don't. Well; wait— what color am I, then? That's not important. *shiny* Oh, good. A gatekeeper. What in the actual circumstance is this. Length? 8.5 inches. Girth? A hearty 3.5 Circumference. What the fuck is “circumference”? [VOID.] Well, that's was fun. What was? …nothing. OH GOF— GOD Go to sleep. …I just want to know, though. Just ask Google. I'm not asking Google that! Hey Google… GOOGLE /incognito {Enter The Multiverse} Body shopping on the internet Not worth following Got to find the father who bought me the body I can self publish books, but can't do it all myself My artform costs money. Performances put off till I can afford to look adorable By New York standards, On California stereotypes No work darlin' An escort service Will cost Two dumb dollars more In your karma jar Than you've got goin. Call Tony Hawk, A star struck hallmark card For the workman's comp You were offered —Subpoena the penis. —oh that's right, I need actual ink pens. Oh God, he bought secrets on stop signs; —someone's daughter #stop for comedy DO NOT PUT FOOD ON MY VAGINA. DO NOT— No. My vagina IS food. You don't put— No. No. You want peanut butter all over your dick and balls? Awesome. You want whipped cream on the shit? Fine. Chocolate? (Non dairy, if you will.) But DO NOT. I repeat: DO NOT PUT FOOD ON MY VAGINA. Toppings are for ice cream. This here is sorbet. #lilbitz {Enter The Multiverse} So I did the math the other day— And I finally figured it out, That the reason the world is such a fucked up place Is that 80 percent of dudes have short dicks. That's why the “ideal” woman has always been small waisted, short, petite, tiny. — 80% of men have penis lengths smaller than 5 inches. That's statistics. I'm just saying— There's a reason why super models are super skinny. That's so dudes can hit it and really feel like they're fucking shit up. With their little short dicks. These tiny short girls make their little dicks feel LARGE, okay? Doesn't even matter. I just figured out the whole world is fake. I want to go somewhere the fuck else. I want to go somewhere selfies don't exist. {Enter The Multiverse} MOO-HAHA HA-HA HahAHa-HAHA! WHAT! That's my evil laugh. NO ITS NOT. What do you mean, it's not? “MOO-HAHA” NOBODY LAUGHS LIKE THAT. That's my evil laugh! No, it's not. Well, how am i supposed to laugh, then? Justnfucking— “Mwa-ha-ha”? There you go. That's perfect. What!? That's simple. That's just like everybody else. Be simple then. What! You're also just like everybody else! I am not! What makes you different? I'm—going to take over the world. See. See—what?! You're just like everybody—all the other villains. I am not! You are, though, for real. Like— Ugh. Just—do your laugh. MOO-HAH— Not that one. :( The other one. What— Do the other one. …mwa-haha… That's better. :( Come on. This opener is running lo— [TITLE SEQUENCE] I earned two tattoos and a crown From loving a man Who can't love me back I won the pawn, the aces, the sword Chariot, gardens and graces A house full of waivers Could you uncover the arc of the architect? Probably not, As it changes upon discovery Could you uncover the mask of the rabbit? The tantra of habit? The cruel suffering of the crucifix? Neverwell you, Harper Son of Sam And Harlem's daughter The forever golden one —a forager. Arches— Hark, you call, cruel summer Never forward Wondering blossom, Talking of longshores, sportsman's, Wailers, down coats Fools for orphans, are you all! Proof of the word for the propaganda, Mother Sandra Bullocks and Bulletwounds (But Bullock would have wanted one next, Just to summon a role for her.) Passion projects! Here they are, now! Bulletproof and, Table readings— Don't be greedy! Your agents and managers Also are facing inflations On yachts and at parties And meanwhile, The projects of poverty are awestruck With guttural proportions Of treasures uncovered from rubble Of sidewalks And storm gutters —how was your morning? Celebrity, aren't you? Well, aren't I then? Relax rabbit, I have a new task for you— Go bring me back what you haven't yet, And try staying on task without habits at all Or adderall— (Won't be that hard on an all organic diet, Proper programming and parental encouragement, Plus support, recommended.) Here you are again, to bother anyone around you. There I go again, not caring a fuck less. Here we are both a genius and robot Deciding to go walk the dog, At the wrong time Just a reminder I'm less of myself, In a room full of anyone else, Nevermind A few thousand —the likely cause of my invisibility. Battlegrounds as the brainless have managed to outnumber us. Beyonce became the first black woman to headline Coachella in 2018. Halle Berry, just shortly before that in 2001 became the first black woman to win an academy award for best actress. I'm just realizing what era of time I've been born into—and I have to continue to keep wondering to myself—‘why do they hate us?' For the first time in my life, advertisements for a Disney movie which will showcase an African American girl as its lead character—not as a frog, or a lion, or a mermaid—but as a human being—and one of the first animations in my lifetime to feature a female character with brown eyes—and not the usual blue, green, purple, or pink the media often uses to dehumanize or water down the blackness of dark skinned characters— saddens me, as although she is wearing braids, she is still made to look light skinned, with freckles—as beautiful some girls are, but still, this alerted me to the fact that white audiences still hate seeing black women in the spotlight, and solidified the truth that white audiences will not adapt to watching dark skinned women as the leading role in almost anything. Is the intrinsic hatred and jealousy of the white supremacy the underlying cause in the continual disadvantage of darker skinned women and the portrayals as such as strong leading characters—why does the success and happiness of the black woman seem to be such an imposing threat to whites so much so that the entire media has been, even of late, a parade of forced diversification, further colorism, and the solidification of light skinned people being seen as more beautiful, acceptable, and prioritized, in the media and otherwise? Has the obsession of white hatred towards black woman been the underlying cause in the justification of white supremacy in the media in order to create more steady sources of revenues for entertainment provisioners, programmers, and networks—appealing to largely white audiences with whitewashed and Eurocentric classification of diversity amongst the new generation's subset standards? The dark skinned woman continues to be undermined and unappreciated — it seems out of deep seated fear— fear of dark skin, fear of dark eyes—fear of having to share a world which used to revolve around eurocentricity—with diversified beauty—fear of actual equality. Why Do They Hate Us? Wine glass— Bloodstains (My blood four hundred proof) —I disappear for about Three days Come back golden (But ya'll out of order) Bitch, buy me a bottle! Nobody else can hear the Motorcycles Cause I'm the Only one sober Writing in fours because After all This is A drama Not a Comedy, no (Nope, not at all) I get wronged for it when I black out— Funny thing about it is, That ain't never happened Colonizer poison all of the water Code of conduct I promise the karma For carnival circus I promise when I die The rest of it goes out with me (But not coming home with us) The darker the berry, The longer the story —the older we are Y'all out of order Ain't it funny when The whole world is Sons and your daughters Wine glass— Bloodstains (My blood four hundred proof) —I disappear for about Three days Come back golden (But yall out of order) I tie the rope, Then I slit my wrists (Pull the trigger) Amen, I'm three times dead, And ain't left my apartment Bitch, buy me a bottle. Yo. I don't hate white peoples. At all, bro. But— They're just scary. Sometimes. Like ey— Stop trying to kill us. They're like, “We're not! …Just… …the ugly ones…” But then that's like… They're the ones that set the standards in the first place on who's “ugly.” “Ok! Ok! Everyone's beautiful!” [That's good.] “…Just the stupid ones!” lol. But they run all the fuckin systems, So the education system is like, Unequal and shit. They're like, “It's okay! Everything's better now.” But all the dark skinned people in movies are either like, Men, or like, Off to the side and shit. Morbidly obese and shit— Like, “Here's your representation.” What in the fuck though— I swear to God I don't hate white people. I don't. But it's like… Every time we get too far ahead— Or no, Try to catch up to them, They're like, “GET THE FUCK BACK!!” AHEM. I mean— Ahem. “Ahem.” They got gatekeepers. Like the only way they can handle dark skinned people, Especially women, Exceeding is if it's by being ghetto, Or standing on some soapbox, Or going above and beyond in some way. We only get centered representation of color, If it's in some ways, in total, flawed. Watching the Olympics, I almost thought they had Simone Biles hair messed up on purpose. Like, “Here's your representation.” That is our representation. How Americans actually feel about black women in general. Like, we couldn't have our best and be our best. Nobody's gonna pull this girl to the side and comb down those flyaways? An Olympic champion! A fucking Gold medalist— a perfect representation of the fact that America can't let black American women be “all the way the best”. Something looks wrong! I don't hate white people. But now I'm like… … … …Why do they hate us? Ahem. {Enter The Multiverse} After an intense round of furious masturbation, I had the sudden onset feeling that I may have written something interesting over the last 3 months. … Mm…perhaps….maybe. —but first, some heavy deep cleaning. I don't like the way it smells in here. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Sleep on it Sure. Maybe we omit everything about race? Probably. Could just put that with— —with the other race war stuff. Probably should. Maybe just release the uncensored copy on the Skrillex podcast where it might be more well received? Probably that. Yeah. The Complex Collective © is committed to serving the independent artist community by providing a safe and welcoming environment, performance opportunities, rehearsal spaces, and outlets in which they can grow, enhance their skills and master their craft, and create bonds with one another, to form friendships, professional connections and networking opportunities outside of the restrictions and limitations of social media, mass surveillance, and algorithmic privilege/ preference tactics governed by corporate media enterprises without judgement or interference by outside influence, while creating an open-concept and free-form space as an artistic springboard and color-palate for all artists wishing to expand each's own mindset to involve out-of-the box thinking, outer consciousness, awareness, inner peace, and overall health and wellbeing, promoting a clean, modern and evolved, hyperrealistic lifestyle. The Complex Collective © is open to writers, musicians, graphic and visual artists, filmmakers, fashion designers, spiritual enthusiasts, world travelers, and others seeking a safe space to bond, heal, and create through collaboration, exploration, and self improvement. Up Next: Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances. Killing Me Softly is an organization established to help de-victimize and support survivors of un/reported violent crimes; an answer and antithesis to the #metoo movement, Killing Me Softly promotes the ideology of the safety in anonymity, as survivors of violent crimes often forego seeking traditional treatment or filing reports against such violence in fear or persecution or retaliation. Historically, reporters of violent crimes (particularly against women) are met with accusations of falsifying or fabrication, social exclusion, defamation of character, and even revenge and punishment enacted by the perpetrator of such crimes in defense– which in today's current justice system has proven to derail survivors livelihoods, wellbeing, and put their safety at risk. Killing Me Softly seeks to maintain a safe and anonymous space for survivors of violent crimes, welcoming all genders, races, orientations and those who identify across all spectrums who identify as survivors of un/reported violent crimes seek by to remain anonymous or maintain a change of identity due to violent crime, allowing the de-victimization and empowerment of survivors of all acts of abuse, physical and/or psychological, neglect, psychological terrorism, gangstalking and other forms of ridicule, terror, torture, or abuse overlooked and systemized and/or classified by standard systematic institutions as disabilities or disorders, incapabilities which include misdiagnoses due to medical inequality, colorism, racism, biased, or sociopolitical inequality such as, but not limited to; mislabeling as paranoia, hallucinations, conspiracy, fabrications or other under-recognized or deprioritized documentation of incidents and intent to cause harm to others by a singular abuser and/or groups, hate groups and organizations designed or designated to attack and subdue diversified others, minorities, and ‘lesser-persons', those represented in the media or otherwise as second-class citezens, and treatment by organizations or authorities aimed towards dismantling the peace of mind or livelihoods of others for personal, political, or socioeconomical reasons. The Complex Collective © | New York, New York 2024 Created as a music warehouse project based in Brooklyn New York in 2023, The Complex Collective as a non-profit seeks to encompass a large industrial space which will serve as a multi-use facility which includes a kitchen and food pantry, dance floor/event space, black box theater, cafe/ small stage, fitness spaces (Yoga/Dance) Boxing Club, media room and recording spaces designed to open the minds of artists to a bustling mecca of creativity and opportunity. The space will be used to hold flea markets, host seminars, community meetings, and lectures, as well as provide an operational and practical multimedia space to screen films, stage plays, musicals, and other theatrical productions, as well as host musical events and artists, such as DJs and live bands, poetry readings, dance recitals and other community geared events. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. {We appreciate your time, charitable donations & support.} [Thank You.] gofundme.com/thecomplexcollective givebutter.com/thefestivalproject Sometimes no matter what you do Black is ugly It don't matter— That's just the way things are Dark skin, negro hair, brown eyes You must grow to understand that to the oppotite race, Those things are lesser than We love blonde With blue eyes preferably And only a hint of olive in the lightest skin tone We like a carefree, fun loving girl Who doesn't worry about trauma She doesn't worry about oppression Or the right hair Because the “right” hair grows out of her head There's just something too harsh for us About dark skin And dark eyes There's something so intense about Frizzy hair And black features That we cost ourselves hundreds in “Beautification” to look like them So they respect us more While inwardly, they become relieved That they don't have to spend money on Weaves and wigs and when they wear braids It's a costume Or a statement piece Not a way of life Because it has to be To Submit Your Artist Portfolio, Track or Demo for distribution on our record label, please contact: Email Us At: festivalproject.tv@gmail.com For Membership Information and Opportunities, please visit http://thefestivalproject.bandzoogle.com

The Festival Project, Inc.™ is a multidimensional multimedia platform which encompasses exploratory and artistic social personifications and expressions on cosmic theory, spirituality, growth, health & wellness, philosophy and theoretic dynamics in entertainment such as music, design, film, television, radio, dance and festival culture, art, fashion, literature, and science. The Festival Project™ and it's subsidiary Non-Profit, The Collective Complex © aims to challenge modern artistic and philosophical ideals, break commonplace barriers, forage new creative mediums, and provoke inspired and reformed thought and actions toward evolution and overall societal improvement and ecological sustenance through a new-wave and post-modern, avant-garde and philanthropic hyperawareness driven by a unique culture of global values mediating global respect and preservation via open consciousness, multi-sensory and synesthetic (multi-preceptory) expansions of sound, language, vibration, movement, color, emotion, and ritual governed conceptually by the aspect(s) of love, truth, unity, understanding, and peace. Thank you graciously for your time, consideration, understanding, and support. ^.^ To Donate Please Visit,please visit gofundme.com/thecomplexcolletive TRIGGER WARNING! ⚠️ VIEWER, LISTENER, and READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. ⚠️ This series contains adult content not suitable for children or under the legal age of majority. Listener and reader discretion is advised as this publication and / or broadcast and its selected readings and projected writings may contain explicit language, provocative wordplay, profanity, open expression of suicidal ideation, discussion of evolved/ de-institutionalized theories concerning depression and mental health, race relations and colorism, socio-economic inequality, political injustice and media politicism/ mass media manipulation, unresearched/undocumented scientific hypothesis , modern philosophical ideals and spiritual explorations, crude/ adult humor and may also include and contain pornographic content, references to fictionalized interpretations of celebrities and/or public figures (fan-fiction), caricatures or references to pop culture, modern art, music, science and other entertainment references which may evoke biased emotion, inspire adverse reactions, contemplative thought, discontentment, or discomfort. The views and opinions expressed by this series and its subsequent editions, additions, chapters, broadcasts, and publications are solely the writers' interpretations as expressed with artistic and entertainment purposes only. The artist reserves all rights to intellectual property maintained and produced by any and all publications of this series and is thereby protected under any applicable copyright law and/or trademark. All fictionalizations of persons living or dead are meant to be perceived as characterized and/or fictional (fan-fiction) are for entertainment purposes only, and are not to be perceived as real re-enactments, dramatizations of events past or present, media dialogues or agendas, or factual exchanges pertaining to and surrounding real-life circumstances. The dialogues and entires expressed in this project are in no way liable for any action, expression, disagreements, entitlements held by the reader at his or her/ their own discretion. [The Festival Project ™] Apparently, the Yeah Yeah Yeah's are a real band. No fucking way. Apparently. I had no idea at all when I wrote that…. –Wrote what? …nothing. [The Festival Project™ ] … ‘Mm. More protein.' I knew protein wasn't exactly entirely going to help me lose weight, but I had lost a lot of muscle only cycling and being bombarded at the gym— and the inferior protein I had purchased earlier in the month was less than inferior, as it turned out— it simply wasn't working. How the fuck is this a real rock group?! I don't know! I thought I made it up. I thought you made everything up. I MADE EVERYTHING UPz. Well, this is turning out to be a disaster. Hm. No spouse listed. You fucked a drummer? You could say I hopped on the bandwagon. Ew. Gross. What do you want from me?! Shut up! {Enter The Multiverse} ___ I'm going to need you to feed my dragon. Uhm. Okay. Don't worry. She doesn't bite. Uh. Give her a kiss. …no. Do it, or she'll set you on fire. *kisses dragon* ..Okay. Good girl. She's soft. For a dragon. Yes, she's very friendly. So. What does she eat? People. +.+ –Agh?! —but only purple ones. What? She's not going to eat you, Fredrick. Who the fuck is “Fredrick”?! (We don't know.) My name's not— —you're not purple. I'm not. No. Don't worry. I'm—worried. I said don't. Well; wait— what color am I, then? That's not important. *shiny* Oh, good. A gatekeeper. What in the actual circumstance is this. Length? 8.5 inches. Girth? A hearty 3.5 Circumference. What the fuck is “circumference”? [VOID.] Well, that's was fun. What was? …nothing. OH GOF— GOD Go to sleep. …I just want to know, though. Just ask Google. I'm not asking Google that! Hey Google… GOOGLE /incognito {Enter The Multiverse} Body shopping on the internet Not worth following Got to find the father who bought me the body I can self publish books, but can't do it all myself My artform costs money. Performances put off till I can afford to look adorable By New York standards, On California stereotypes No work darlin' An escort service Will cost Two dumb dollars more In your karma jar Than you've got goin. Call Tony Hawk, A star struck hallmark card For the workman's comp You were offered —Subpoena the penis. —oh that's right, I need actual ink pens. Oh God, he bought secrets on stop signs; —someone's daughter #stop for comedy DO NOT PUT FOOD ON MY VAGINA. DO NOT— No. My vagina IS food. You don't put— No. No. You want peanut butter all over your dick and balls? Awesome. You want whipped cream on the shit? Fine. Chocolate? (Non dairy, if you will.) But DO NOT. I repeat: DO NOT PUT FOOD ON MY VAGINA. Toppings are for ice cream. This here is sorbet. #lilbitz {Enter The Multiverse} So I did the math the other day— And I finally figured it out, That the reason the world is such a fucked up place Is that 80 percent of dudes have short dicks. That's why the “ideal” woman has always been small waisted, short, petite, tiny. — 80% of men have penis lengths smaller than 5 inches. That's statistics. I'm just saying— There's a reason why super models are super skinny. That's so dudes can hit it and really feel like they're fucking shit up. With their little short dicks. These tiny short girls make their little dicks feel LARGE, okay? Doesn't even matter. I just figured out the whole world is fake. I want to go somewhere the fuck else. I want to go somewhere selfies don't exist. {Enter The Multiverse} MOO-HAHA HA-HA HahAHa-HAHA! WHAT! That's my evil laugh. NO ITS NOT. What do you mean, it's not? “MOO-HAHA” NOBODY LAUGHS LIKE THAT. That's my evil laugh! No, it's not. Well, how am i supposed to laugh, then? Justnfucking— “Mwa-ha-ha”? There you go. That's perfect. What!? That's simple. That's just like everybody else. Be simple then. What! You're also just like everybody else! I am not! What makes you different? I'm—going to take over the world. See. See—what?! You're just like everybody—all the other villains. I am not! You are, though, for real. Like— Ugh. Just—do your laugh. MOO-HAH— Not that one. :( The other one. What— Do the other one. …mwa-haha… That's better. :( Come on. This opener is running lo— [TITLE SEQUENCE] I earned two tattoos and a crown From loving a man Who can't love me back I won the pawn, the aces, the sword Chariot, gardens and graces A house full of waivers Could you uncover the arc of the architect? Probably not, As it changes upon discovery Could you uncover the mask of the rabbit? The tantra of habit? The cruel suffering of the crucifix? Neverwell you, Harper Son of Sam And Harlem's daughter The forever golden one —a forager. Arches— Hark, you call, cruel summer Never forward Wondering blossom, Talking of longshores, sportsman's, Wailers, down coats Fools for orphans, are you all! Proof of the word for the propaganda, Mother Sandra Bullocks and Bulletwounds (But Bullock would have wanted one next, Just to summon a role for her.) Passion projects! Here they are, now! Bulletproof and, Table readings— Don't be greedy! Your agents and managers Also are facing inflations On yachts and at parties And meanwhile, The projects of poverty are awestruck With guttural proportions Of treasures uncovered from rubble Of sidewalks And storm gutters —how was your morning? Celebrity, aren't you? Well, aren't I then? Relax rabbit, I have a new task for you— Go bring me back what you haven't yet, And try staying on task without habits at all Or adderall— (Won't be that hard on an all organic diet, Proper programming and parental encouragement, Plus support, recommended.) Here you are again, to bother anyone around you. There I go again, not caring a fuck less. Here we are both a genius and robot Deciding to go walk the dog, At the wrong time Just a reminder I'm less of myself, In a room full of anyone else, Nevermind A few thousand —the likely cause of my invisibility. Battlegrounds as the brainless have managed to outnumber us. Beyonce became the first black woman to headline Coachella in 2018. Halle Berry, just shortly before that in 2001 became the first black woman to win an academy award for best actress. I'm just realizing what era of time I've been born into—and I have to continue to keep wondering to myself—‘why do they hate us?' For the first time in my life, advertisements for a Disney movie which will showcase an African American girl as its lead character—not as a frog, or a lion, or a mermaid—but as a human being—and one of the first animations in my lifetime to feature a female character with brown eyes—and not the usual blue, green, purple, or pink the media often uses to dehumanize or water down the blackness of dark skinned characters— saddens me, as although she is wearing braids, she is still made to look light skinned, with freckles—as beautiful some girls are, but still, this alerted me to the fact that white audiences still hate seeing black women in the spotlight, and solidified the truth that white audiences will not adapt to watching dark skinned women as the leading role in almost anything. Is the intrinsic hatred and jealousy of the white supremacy the underlying cause in the continual disadvantage of darker skinned women and the portrayals as such as strong leading characters—why does the success and happiness of the black woman seem to be such an imposing threat to whites so much so that the entire media has been, even of late, a parade of forced diversification, further colorism, and the solidification of light skinned people being seen as more beautiful, acceptable, and prioritized, in the media and otherwise? Has the obsession of white hatred towards black woman been the underlying cause in the justification of white supremacy in the media in order to create more steady sources of revenues for entertainment provisioners, programmers, and networks—appealing to largely white audiences with whitewashed and Eurocentric classification of diversity amongst the new generation's subset standards? The dark skinned woman continues to be undermined and unappreciated — it seems out of deep seated fear— fear of dark skin, fear of dark eyes—fear of having to share a world which used to revolve around eurocentricity—with diversified beauty—fear of actual equality. Why Do They Hate Us? Wine glass— Bloodstains (My blood four hundred proof) —I disappear for about Three days Come back golden (But ya'll out of order) Bitch, buy me a bottle! Nobody else can hear the Motorcycles Cause I'm the Only one sober Writing in fours because After all This is A drama Not a Comedy, no (Nope, not at all) I get wronged for it when I black out— Funny thing about it is, That ain't never happened Colonizer poison all of the water Code of conduct I promise the karma For carnival circus I promise when I die The rest of it goes out with me (But not coming home with us) The darker the berry, The longer the story —the older we are Y'all out of order Ain't it funny when The whole world is Sons and your daughters Wine glass— Bloodstains (My blood four hundred proof) —I disappear for about Three days Come back golden (But yall out of order) I tie the rope, Then I slit my wrists (Pull the trigger) Amen, I'm three times dead, And ain't left my apartment Bitch, buy me a bottle. Yo. I don't hate white peoples. At all, bro. But— They're just scary. Sometimes. Like ey— Stop trying to kill us. They're like, “We're not! …Just… …the ugly ones…” But then that's like… They're the ones that set the standards in the first place on who's “ugly.” “Ok! Ok! Everyone's beautiful!” [That's good.] “…Just the stupid ones!” lol. But they run all the fuckin systems, So the education system is like, Unequal and shit. They're like, “It's okay! Everything's better now.” But all the dark skinned people in movies are either like, Men, or like, Off to the side and shit. Morbidly obese and shit— Like, “Here's your representation.” What in the fuck though— I swear to God I don't hate white people. I don't. But it's like… Every time we get too far ahead— Or no, Try to catch up to them, They're like, “GET THE FUCK BACK!!” AHEM. I mean— Ahem. “Ahem.” They got gatekeepers. Like the only way they can handle dark skinned people, Especially women, Exceeding is if it's by being ghetto, Or standing on some soapbox, Or going above and beyond in some way. We only get centered representation of color, If it's in some ways, in total, flawed. Watching the Olympics, I almost thought they had Simone Biles hair messed up on purpose. Like, “Here's your representation.” That is our representation. How Americans actually feel about black women in general. Like, we couldn't have our best and be our best. Nobody's gonna pull this girl to the side and comb down those flyaways? An Olympic champion! A fucking Gold medalist— a perfect representation of the fact that America can't let black American women be “all the way the best”. Something looks wrong! I don't hate white people. But now I'm like… … … …Why do they hate us? Ahem. {Enter The Multiverse} After an intense round of furious masturbation, I had the sudden onset feeling that I may have written something interesting over the last 3 months. … Mm…perhaps….maybe. —but first, some heavy deep cleaning. I don't like the way it smells in here. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Sleep on it Sure. Maybe we omit everything about race? Probably. Could just put that with— —with the other race war stuff. Probably should. Maybe just release the uncensored copy on the Skrillex podcast where it might be more well received? Probably that. Yeah. The Complex Collective © is committed to serving the independent artist community by providing a safe and welcoming environment, performance opportunities, rehearsal spaces, and outlets in which they can grow, enhance their skills and master their craft, and create bonds with one another, to form friendships, professional connections and networking opportunities outside of the restrictions and limitations of social media, mass surveillance, and algorithmic privilege/ preference tactics governed by corporate media enterprises without judgement or interference by outside influence, while creating an open-concept and free-form space as an artistic springboard and color-palate for all artists wishing to expand each's own mindset to involve out-of-the box thinking, outer consciousness, awareness, inner peace, and overall health and wellbeing, promoting a clean, modern and evolved, hyperrealistic lifestyle. The Complex Collective © is open to writers, musicians, graphic and visual artists, filmmakers, fashion designers, spiritual enthusiasts, world travelers, and others seeking a safe space to bond, heal, and create through collaboration, exploration, and self improvement. Up Next: Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances. Killing Me Softly is an organization established to help de-victimize and support survivors of un/reported violent crimes; an answer and antithesis to the #metoo movement, Killing Me Softly promotes the ideology of the safety in anonymity, as survivors of violent crimes often forego seeking traditional treatment or filing reports against such violence in fear or persecution or retaliation. Historically, reporters of violent crimes (particularly against women) are met with accusations of falsifying or fabrication, social exclusion, defamation of character, and even revenge and punishment enacted by the perpetrator of such crimes in defense– which in today's current justice system has proven to derail survivors livelihoods, wellbeing, and put their safety at risk. Killing Me Softly seeks to maintain a safe and anonymous space for survivors of violent crimes, welcoming all genders, races, orientations and those who identify across all spectrums who identify as survivors of un/reported violent crimes seek by to remain anonymous or maintain a change of identity due to violent crime, allowing the de-victimization and empowerment of survivors of all acts of abuse, physical and/or psychological, neglect, psychological terrorism, gangstalking and other forms of ridicule, terror, torture, or abuse overlooked and systemized and/or classified by standard systematic institutions as disabilities or disorders, incapabilities which include misdiagnoses due to medical inequality, colorism, racism, biased, or sociopolitical inequality such as, but not limited to; mislabeling as paranoia, hallucinations, conspiracy, fabrications or other under-recognized or deprioritized documentation of incidents and intent to cause harm to others by a singular abuser and/or groups, hate groups and organizations designed or designated to attack and subdue diversified others, minorities, and ‘lesser-persons', those represented in the media or otherwise as second-class citezens, and treatment by organizations or authorities aimed towards dismantling the peace of mind or livelihoods of others for personal, political, or socioeconomical reasons. The Complex Collective © | New York, New York 2024 Created as a music warehouse project based in Brooklyn New York in 2023, The Complex Collective as a non-profit seeks to encompass a large industrial space which will serve as a multi-use facility which includes a kitchen and food pantry, dance floor/event space, black box theater, cafe/ small stage, fitness spaces (Yoga/Dance) Boxing Club, media room and recording spaces designed to open the minds of artists to a bustling mecca of creativity and opportunity. The space will be used to hold flea markets, host seminars, community meetings, and lectures, as well as provide an operational and practical multimedia space to screen films, stage plays, musicals, and other theatrical productions, as well as host musical events and artists, such as DJs and live bands, poetry readings, dance recitals and other community geared events. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. {We appreciate your time, charitable donations & support.} [Thank You.] gofundme.com/thecomplexcollective givebutter.com/thefestivalproject Sometimes no matter what you do Black is ugly It don't matter— That's just the way things are Dark skin, negro hair, brown eyes You must grow to understand that to the oppotite race, Those things are lesser than We love blonde With blue eyes preferably And only a hint of olive in the lightest skin tone We like a carefree, fun loving girl Who doesn't worry about trauma She doesn't worry about oppression Or the right hair Because the “right” hair grows out of her head There's just something too harsh for us About dark skin And dark eyes There's something so intense about Frizzy hair And black features That we cost ourselves hundreds in “Beautification” to look like them So they respect us more While inwardly, they become relieved That they don't have to spend money on Weaves and wigs and when they wear braids It's a costume Or a statement piece Not a way of life Because it has to be To Submit Your Artist Portfolio, Track or Demo for distribution on our record label, please contact: Email Us At: festivalproject.tv@gmail.com For Membership Information and Opportunities, please visit http://thefestivalproject.bandzoogle.com

At an interesting and quick pace, The man asked to be seen by the doctor, A wish, No distasteful strand of eloquence left unopened— He asked for a mailbox, and she gave him a shovel (And a shower for a show!) O Conan!!! That just became so readily amusing to me, That I might have failed to have mentioned, dear reader An atrocity unwinding for us we have found— and we have found such indeed, in perpetual times, To be one another, and all at all times! A quest! Given a seat at the entry, To have been given any attention, And keep each of them with me A mention— For factor of disappearance— “¿whereforeartthou women? “ We'll ask— (But no children please) I get it; I got tracked down for an autograph And asked for one, if any For a stone each Goes to the other. Listen, Movement again Catch me if you can, car//cat. What a head trip What a head trip What a disasterous ask, How I failed to have lost you at all, And found one at the crossroads, Dropped off at the crosswalk Don't forget waffles! Stramlining streamers And bicycle tires Times of the times Of the times (Of the times, I said) I love iron And ironing boards in the flatiron district Don't do anything I wouldn't (Fair, and very well said.) Fair and very well done, your honor Are we all on the same ark now, Noah?! No! It couldn't be I had ever lived so dangerously Look at me I went all that way And only lost $22 dollars! A dollar a minute! —times a wasting! I went all this way And still owe 30 minutes on the stationary bike {After 30 More Minutes on The Stationary Bike} In the crosshairs//crosfires of something once thought as love, we find reason to give in trust to such, as not has now parted from within these sequences —of time, through time— and by time, in and of itself, in nature —with and throughout cause of now and where we have come, into truth; Awakened by our judgement, And in spirit, here gathered as farkind. Sometimes, I honestly don't know what any of this stuff means— or what I'm writing until after I've done it. I've got to go; That's Christopher Lloyd. John Wilkins, Sr. Sir. Reporting for duty. Have you got your paperwork gathered? As you asked. As was commanded. Yes, sir. I see here you have— mounted— —and unmounted— —yes…this mission—several times within the last decade. I've seen to it to show all paths taken within the simulation—sir—both in and out of each district within the series grid. *face* —uh, sir. …I see. And your continuum? Spotless: In fact— with your judgment, you might confirm I've become somewhat of a— (Clearing throat) Ahem. —celebrity. *coughs* —sir. [a break] —it has been well documented. All Things Considered… …All Things Considered. (Breaks fourth wall, as if to say “i beat you to the punch.) (No pun intended.) That's not funny! No, it's not, but— All Things Considered… …. “All Things Considered” {Enter The Multiverse} Huh. A new show. Oh My God. What's wrong? A new parallel. —where? …close. And—how?! Since when did we ever know how things happen— [The Festival Project ™ ] —In this realm, or anywhere else? —- How's “anywhere else” sound? Marvelous— as long as it doesn't cost too much. It won't. Please tell me you're taking these things seriously. Serous as it gets. It's as serious as they come, I think. They're going to kill him. They're going to kill me! I'm…gonna kill him. Well— that's enough! Off to work! I've gotta go! AND LIVE FROM NEW YORK, ITS —I touched it. Shut the —— UP. Um. What. You can't say that. We're live . I just did [bleep] say that Why is it— —oh my god— —where's the censor?! Are we live!? We're live! Cut to commercial! We can't! Run the backup generators. Ahahahahah. We gotta get this thing off the ground. We'll see. Oh! She's— I'm sure you'll understand lately. Through the corridor. Where's the corridor. You'll see it. *walks into wall* Er—maybe not. Portal! Portal! Portal! Always. Follow. Your instinct. Maybe later? I— Wait! Where are you going?! Somewhere else! I don't know! There's something you should know. What should I know. He—shot himself this morning. Oh, that's terrible. I might have my wires crossed, Then again, Come again, Here again— Second time The controller of everything Controller of God —but if God has a controller I guess that's who I am (That's who I am) I'm not tryna look cute today; I just wanna go in on a loan How long has it been Seen I seen what you saw— But if I saw your face, It's a whole new world I got lost once; No more scholarships No more storms, No abortions. No missed calls, No more harsh words (Harsh words lost!) No more music, More songs Fire on, Bass guitar— I play everything on the wall I'm a whole animal I got tired of the wall, I got a will to work I just won't work For a star! Someone call my employer, I got ties, and bosses Leather cuffs and centrifugal force less I'm so worthless But you started it for her No, I don't want to smile; I should just start the fire under my soul To get lost with it. I'm still tied to the art, Still tied to it all I still can't decide For my heart Or my soul If I should just move on with it. I shouldn't move over so fast; This whole car has bucket seats. I should just leave it to God, And I don't want to worry too much About projects I already took losses on If it buffers again, I know I'm in charge Just thinking about where I've gone with it says I should let it go, All the way gone. I don't need a divorce I need to resurface Just let go And just get gone I've been missing a piece of my heart And I've had a lot of fun times On rooftops But I got two dogs barkin With no bones And no boners As thrones To sit upon What was that about the crown? If my plane goes down, all is lost. I thought about voice activated doors— Keeping the lights on at night And starting wars over Don't hold onto value What doesn't serve you only Sell the dream they sold you To show you The cold shoulders; I need no more open doors And no pawns If it's not worth all of it All of it. I don't want More open doors, And more artifacts to show I could only get cold hard numbers No nurses more; Wait till you get a divorce— That'll show you the cold hard world. I'm not worried about an offer. I'm not worried about a job, As long as I've got long John Silvers I'm not worried about the way it works so much Except Leaving a piece of myself In the past, With no way to get out. (There's no way to get out) Didn't I say before That I loved the whole world over you. You built the whole world over water The wall around Rome in a day. Remember the time you sold your piece And your peace Remember what you could give To forgive To forget To spend your entire life Spinning and spinning In the wild And End-the-end It's a win-win situation. It's a push to start world, you know This—we live in A paranormal paradox Of modern amenities And [Conviniences] [The Festival Project™] —-I just want to play with him. I promise, I'll give it right back when I'm finished I don't plan on keeping it Or living long Or doing well— Or coming home till morning. Everyone gets worried after supper When the car backs out of the driveway, God knows I could be gone for an hour at most, Or a month, Depending on Where I'm going Nobody knows When I close my doors to visitors Open to the public, on some days. On some, Corporate function. Dress code with all the right Suits and ties, Dollar signs and Brunches Now, far beyond private Firewall And a lockdown mode. I'm dizzy with the loss of time But you'd chain me to a bedpost, Managed by a stranger Then again, at night I've lost all hopes All night, Steady fishing in a man made pond For nine hosts. So if 9 out of 10 times The answer is yes, And one no— Might as well vote; Get on with it I should fill out an app for McDonald's yet I'm already full of c/gum And water. So why not? [The Festival Project ™ ] Laramie Hughes is a jack of all trades. A representative of God on all behalfs Tearing down the institutions of sanity Forbearance of betrayal Unkind, but bewildered They come in all incarnations Ignorant to one another Which one's which? However, The light that brings awareness to all things, The triad of knowledge, Wisdom and illumination Your pain is words in music Tears to translation, The chaos, destruction Of forming worlds once thought As foraged, once of thought But now become of us What we are The color of God (He looks to meet his untimely demise atop a skyscapter in midtown Manhattan) Oh God, here it goes Below, the summoned protector waits, awakened as archangel and antithesis to what is known, to catch him — thus prolonging his existence, and though not truly preventing his untimely death, giving birth to his enlightenment... Oh God, here it comes. He jumps, giving way to all element -a ragdoll, She stands basking in his glory, Nonchalont And catches him. A high tide breaks, Catching into a storm In the night, Off the coast, In Los Angeles Embargo! Embargo! A sanctioned cry, For here once more Friday comes, Again we call to all Ark, The martyr of aces— Keeper of stones, Craft of Wanda, They call God, But also non-form Circumstance of other Antithesis, Before antiquity. The light in your language Has crafted pure steadyform Emotion in my cadence, Thought to be worlds of wonder Dance, brave fortune has captured! Light, scared not of darkness But ending in all time The underworlds unknown to awareness At all— A Kingdom; See you now the heart unfold, The tired messages of animals form A love so misrepresented as to call it so One, Besides the box of fixatures, Captor or wrechetness The end of all evil, The Sun of a new kind Blood on the water, Bask in I now, Another misfortune The keeper of keys has gone and fallen Not into rest, But another world— Waking is he to the cries And the sorrow thoughts of others, The many amass, To structure what had bonded Him of his hands, The ties, No more a world he leaves behind! No more is he! Steady, mister I have forgiven the end of all what is real In exchange for your interest Sanctioned Embargo! Embargo! So, wounded mother— In your care I bloom If only to forget of you, Upon waking my own, A gifted enchanted and given sword, No shield but I, As my own title Becomes coordinates; A map and globe to scale Crafted of thought Trickle now your tears, chorus Dear chorus— Sing now of accomplishments and whistles gestured at the woven wicker basket Have you a candle for us, Doctor— Or perhaps, As architect, You have fashioned, dear savior A mercy- Forgive us of our pondering Unknown of your nature Until light had vanished From our eyes And dark tortured skies Screeched with winds captivated As to know Where you had gone. Oh— why?! Would this lapis appease you? A ring of tin and aluminum; I thought not (Then again to think at all, Becomes your own world.) Again I am crying for your forgiveness A kindness granted Only to know once, The word of your will Again, The fur of cat is groomed With the essence of frankincense, The wreath of rosemary A run through the financial cordidor Panhandling There, I gathered wood for fire— The journey a gift of eternal enchantments A forceful trek to ponder What I had tied To my own, A heart, A soul, A seed— An ocean. Keeper's Saint, Will you again find tide with us? In our minds, we are at feast and in fortunes But our bodies gravely, Not at rest, But to give way to What is wanted. Embargo! For this true, it's no comedy upon us; These acts of kindness And tea fortold Have come again, As once in Athens, And again in Rome And now in New Jerusalem, As to be Opposite Eden —and suddenly, All the blondes I had become Had come to surface That I was her, Buried in my own blindness and envy Having thought of myself as the enemy And she of circumstantial evidence of the devil at large I pitied again, The blankness of my own heart The displacement of my own soul Never having been loved at all By a man besides my own father She can clear a sample! Why I got licenses, Replacements and mailboxes?! I got nothing but a refund Shit 15 more minutes, no fame Control Let me get the fuck out of here Before the whole world follows Let me get the fuck out of here Before the whole world follows Six Kings since Six aces Since process Covered incofortable Since Prince given 6 senses 6 grievances Seven suns Seven daughters Seven worlds Seven waters BENYONCÉ and her 6 parallel selves are seated at an upscale restaurant in New York City. Oh my God— That's Beyoncé. No way! It is— Oh my Yod. Seven waters please Uh… My cousins! Cousins! You didn't know—? Family. Cousins! Right A super gay waiter enters wearing by some coincidence a relic he purchased that Beyoncé herself had once worn; he clocks in for his shift and sees the seven neyonces ay the table ||| {THE GAYEST FANGIRL SCREAM THAT EVER} Sss. Demarcus, as we learn the super fan is called, after losing his job due to the incident, is sought out by Beyoncé and her 6 multidimentional selves and contracted as a bampheramph to enter the void and aide in time traveling the other dimensional multi space, returning each Beyonce to her respective existences and thus restoring the balance to the Beyonceverse as a whole; though he he learns he may never be able to return home to his primary dimension, he agrees anyway to the dangerous feat and is promised upon completion of the mission to be thoroughly rewarded, however Demarcus makes it known that the greatest reward of all is to have had the joy and experience of meeting his all time idol and lifelong hero— a tale of the love and power of fandom, and heroic journey of everyday heroes, brought together though the love and journey of music—and superstardom. [Demarcus is eventually returned to a dimension in which his wildest dreams have become a reality.] #fastfridays {Enter The Multiverse} L E G E N D S Embargo! Nonetheless, here we are-/ All unmasked and known by our titles As labels, In the unknown the darkened light spoken Had awoken to none more than chaos A rampant pain and fury of unrequited love On four accounts, Mark the 5 and 6 For an eight series coincidal There we are in the whole form If only one God, Which has been said To walk upon us, All the knowing of Nothing at all Besides the hope of a midnight dawn By candlelight Foraged in rain And pastel paint For domed cielings Incense prayers And glorious foretelling Of those to come once And again And never more Once world has sought Only fair weather modems And blinding call, so— We are again In entourage, Our own truth— Embargo! The chorus and ensemble assembles As protons and smoke, Ashes and dust, Cadences and melodies Melodramas [The Festival Project ™] Hark! How now? Vikings! —you said what? And Frat Boys! Jyre snatches the binoculars from Hyro.. Let me see that. To die in one way, In form another— For who can deny any artform So crafted with such delicate an I, That any you, fair beings Could understand The circumstance of what love I gave The shield of oath, The blood of sacrifice, An origin None truth would swallow Or define the son(g)bird, Once scattered and set to depart Dear storms would follow, A songbird, Canary, Dove, And the trumpets of swaddled, Mother goose and laid bane in arms, The wrath of therefore furious wages, The seeing and benign snadow of tithings Truths that borrow! Scared from creatures Actual or none at all The gallows and gourdes Of strings pulling, Speaking our words from quilted fingertips— The Gods, Safely perched and at safe distance From he who does not want her But becomes of all the treasured stone Awakened in her fortresses Cast of shadows, Bond and tied by boundless skies The Cosmos, A journey— Entered in antithesis And formed awakened in the galaxies For where apartheid stands as happened No other circumstance and safety whileyou, Will I now or neither gathered From all eyes have seen, Heart has heard, Sailors watch the sails have set Into wind with breath of air, Forming therefore more words, wisdom of color Coat of arms Swarms of aces, And currents dollars; The foretelling of stories often told, But neigh listened to, But watched and taught By neighbors with greetings, Dressed as others in our forms, How call, A truth be told, For once in the den of wolves And the call of tiles, Tires, never once to touch the ground, Chosen by nature To be fitted by those of ours Who wait in the galley— Unbynow, our ties Who have chosen in sense of nature To have forgiven us, Our lies— To have caused us To have shattered there, And on the wicked, resting wings Of a creature Who does not fly She keeps holy water by her bedside Of roses and willpower The 6th Saint of Guesses And Fantasy… Wow! Reese Witherspoon. Hey. Yeah! I totally forgot you existed. Well… thanks— —and I totally get you mixed up with Drew Barrymore, sometimes— Oh… Brittney Murphy— Okay, that's not— —Dakota Fanning. Okay, yeah, that's— But she's like 12. She's like, 30, I think. What's the difference? A lot. Like, a decade and a half. Hollywood, ya know. Uh… Time flies. Anyway. Yeah. Reese Witherspoon. Geez. Yeah. Have fun. Wait, where are you going? I gotta go— whatever, some bullshit— Hollywood— blah blah blah. Then why am I here? Consider yourself lucky. For what?! Everybody wants to be in The Festival Project! What's “the festival Project?” I don't know. ‍♀️ —?! Welp, see ya. —!!! {embargo} I was serious enough, In my words and my ties For the sake of my bonds, Out of bounds and on Brooklyn bound trains, From Manhattan Machine washed field of fantasy, Outfitted for us all on the glory of a spring day In autumn, California heroine or lure, Folktales And superstardom Made of truth and of love, A new kind, The end of ages laced with wickedness A bounty on her words, The way of others are kind in their shadows, No one has called, And now, No one is watching Waiting, whisperer A different one, another kind The brief awaiting, Then there goes I Under the hidden sun, The Autumn come, The fall of man, The dawn of love, The synchronicity of sounds as songs The birds call home, No wonder the window was open. No books, All alone— To summon up my own galaxy Would be to wish I hadn't let tie me To worldly pleasure On fasting day— But yet again, Here calls my own nature, Needing to be needing to be wanted, Then withered, as it were, to something else. Hiding in your eyes, I am My love of natures kind Your hazel tides And ocean blue— The thought of jade, Who yet again Was meant for always, As I am only Darkness scorned beauty All of your luck, as my witness Forever to hear shadow To the wickedness of man Though we are not aligned, Still the same as many kind, I want not the slow churning Of being that, and this at all —as God is one And acts in many parts, All of us, Or some, Between set boundaries, Games of war, And for arguments sake, inquisitive Gestures of word fare, gameplay, Galleys and artfare— Begin to think you, me, And I, yourself, you— Lest we part in denial Of our dire cause To form man The Standard. The Classic. The Ordinary. And— You rat-toothed bastard! What did I do?! You know what you done! I haven't! And that's bad grammar— Don't you tell me how the hell to talk, before I kill ya! Kill me! For what! You know what! I must admit, I've become quite partial to using This Jimmy Fallon character As a human shield. WHY. WHY ME. wtf. lol Why Jimmy Fallon. Because. — AGH— NO HES GOOD HOOMAN SHIELD. ___ HE'S A GOOD HUMAN SHIELD! Enter the corridors, The unclaimed nature Of travelers, in our time, Coming the wave of signs, Foreigners, Call watchers, Then and here, Come waiting, wanting to know glory, The foundation Of Love Light The faceless god Comes creeping in the night Seeking body to form Among the walking, A fiercety of weapons kind Explanations embellished with Seemingly meaningless Only wanting time to waste, Skinny and shallow, Part chef and waiting, None to others, at all, Therefore I now, part ways From waves and tides To become rain and ghosts, Beauty and wind, Lessons and learned sins, Therefore now I, Wait and wonder, Pondering to feed the birds Or quench the thirst For game and superstardom, Not only of hreatness, But ground in the greys and silvers of my hair Mustache and whiskers, Brows and hind eyes— Where are you now That I was upon waking, A mistress, But gathered now, Awakens under clouds of sun, To be another, Only formed as the ground crumbled under her Again, I live Again, I go where there is no light of sun By the shield of sight, And the whisp of this, That needs attention as such, To call I— A lost soul, But friendly enough ghost To have written songs in your partial kitewind. Then, said I— A watch upon the wrist would only tell time, But not the day or the place of arrival for I, Dear pardoned traveler, Have also come journeys Bound by galaxies grasp, To have whispered into ears, The things of Jesus You will wait for him As the curtain closes, To come again, though does he know not In which beast he will be But you, shadows Wait in his envy, The things you seek to ask and believe The greetings of long since foreshadowed bark Amongst you, believe now, A new tale of these things, As we bring peace, You are now In our forest, Whenever be you now Or forever, As all is eternal, As I am You are Fuck! Whatever that means! I know, right! Is this gonna happen every Friday now?! Every Friday you fast, yes! Goddamn! Or don't! I don't care, really. Up to you. No preference or preference really— Anandar! You called me out of my— —what was I saying!? First Aliocha Then Anandar, A salamander and wildebeest this morning The grounds had shook With all of the games being played In the honor of one Then, I thought A ghost myself— Impartial to suicide, But having lost the fit of love Now to be tied at the alter, A sash Okay. Delicate rain falls from leather skies, Calling beasts of ours to nest in the calm and warm Mother of Grattitude, May I ask, Where are you now, That I've become humbled, And true to art, As having been asked, Now not scrolled upon stone walls Or scryed by fire, But in this age, Begot by light, Another monster of my mind, Shifted into these as saints, The words of songs and poems, The pages of unknown worlds, In the cyberspace, Perhaps, Also as cosmos, Also as thoughts Also as words Also as light— Also as species; These things are true to which I know With what knowledge you have gave me To think this way, Upon each breath— No attempt to be prolific, But to be at all Some wages as exchanged Material things not wanted, but needed And monetary gains, Also as thoughts now, But perhaps also cosmos True, or not? Fact, or fiction? Carson, or Fallon? What? Who wore the pants better. I— Quickly! I'm a dead man. (I'm sure they're both dead.) Hurry up! What the fuck! We're talking about two literal ghosts here! Which is why—we don't have all day. Do you know how long it took me to get Wilder down here for this? Isn't he dead too?! Perhaps, I am. Boy, the rabbit was mad… Almost as mad as the hatter, And as expected GET THAT DAMN CAT OUT OF HERE! Your annual obsession is in; Turns out, you've come down with the madness We all tried on, as a hat once in fables But now, Machine washable, Returned to Amazon With the packaging label attached, And still! None was as mad as the black hatter at all! No tea, but only strong Colombian coffee led Taken black, And made so strong by Alice, Who indeed had been shrunk To be fit to be tied By Kendrick Lamar, No white rabbit at all, But oh, To call him a cat, Or a hatter, Or caterpillar Would make no sense at all— At all you say?! At all, As you see, He was no red King, No, But made house of cards And all had fallen on his kingdom To become something other Than Alice at all, But also lost For you see, She had fallen, dear Alice, Into some hole in Compton, And dropped Into the bottom of the ocean Propmptly below The Island Of Long —as so is below Had happened above Once a porcelain fable, Now having been painted, With the laces Or tie died folly Of uncorked Nothing happens for nothing at all No justice for just calls, No focus, Full world The fear bought And new war For walks Erhmergersh It's a purple flermergerder! *gasps* Erhmgersh! Whurt er luridly purple plurbergerder!! Lurvlry! Oh!! Ernd Shutrd ur lurvley sherd erv pruplelerplre! There's in sense in An evening with fate if he misses it Assumed to be dead, or with you— But for the cause, There was no absolute certainty of the remittance— The scoured and folded body Of the wonderful world of God, Once betrayed and forgotten For better or worse, With Gratitude asking for an experience Her waters had sculled canyons, And her words fell as oceans Of another place in time Or custom caskets Please bury me, sheathed in earth, So that I breathe her Forgiveness For a toxic and harmful incarnation Of our greedy Alignments and reconciliation Recognizing that— If it's going to go fast, It's gonna be loud— And if it's gonna be loud It might as well be a gun (Just kill me already) Not hungry yet, But moving my parts where they ought to be Out in the world, And not waiting at all To come home, If I'm called with the promise Of never returning —not to return here . Maybe i'm the one they call The devil himself When all I wanted Ever Was just to be loved —even by just my mother Not every other day But every day By someone I live and can't love In crustpunks city, USA Better known as Brooklyn New York Where the mullet is making a comeback God help em! I just turned back time By two whole minutes Thinking of skylines painted With music Meanwhile, I almost forgot I'm still a cat My fucking goodness But I've no use for a litter box Not even a little bit (Which things should be and which things though not) The curious case of Benjamin Button In full throttle. I'm so serious— That's the second mullet I've seen in a week. Stop it! God help em God bless em Gid love em Haven't I been standing here More than 12 minutes already? Standing still in New York As new worlds are formed With new words I must have done something wrong today. The bus driver was okay lookin. I don't look at bus drivers. I'm like— Woah, buddy. You can handle all that you can handle all this. Good job, Jimmy. Can you please stop using me as a human shield. No! Cause then I'd need another human shield! Then get another human shield! No! Why not! This one is indisposable! Oh God. Where'd she go!? Who?! God! What! She never came here! What do you mean!? She said— I was here the whole time! I didn't see anybody! Well who'd you see? Nobody, just some crack head! Goddammit, we missed her! What?! Didn't I tell you—all the crackheads are God?! What! Nobody ever told me that. How did nobody ever tell you that? I told you that! You never told me that. I told you that. I know I told you that. You never told me that. Well— Goddammit. What the FUCK. Why the devil always wanna be BEHIND a motherfucker? Do I have something on my back? Oh look. A portal. Skrillex?! It looks like The Devil attached to my back I might have to take a knife in it A counterpart To take the hex off (Something told me not to go out.) Something also told me Nothing happens at all With no movement But God was lost as crossroads, either how And anyway, And anyway, we all got lost At one time or another What if I told you, Once formed to one another You've become Forever bonded AVENGERS, ASSEMBLE! You really want to bring the— Now, When you need it most, you become the hero you are Ther you always were. But least expected it, Especially now that everyone Well fit to be Tied to the cross This for sure is why I dont fly spirit. The New York experience At poverty level Is eye opening To the inequality And injustice Foraged by ignorance I've never been to bowling green But got errands to run Honestly, You put your practically newborn baby in a bus Exposed to all these people?! BITCH, are you OUT OF YOUR MIND? #I_NY Yo somebody' actual grandma just got on the bus In a tube top I'm not eggagerating This woman was like 70 years old And you know black don't crack! But I'm like: DAMN. Who GRANDMAMA IS THIS?! Then she gon sit down next to me, And get on Instagram. She's checkin her stories. I'm like— Damn, She looks about the same age as my actual grandmother. That's— I'm like Woah. My grandmother don't do all that. My grandma taught me how to make lemonade, that's it. How to make lemonade, and to stay in abusive marriages until the kids grow up. That's it. This I know. Thanks grandma. I almost like this lady better. She tore up, but she hip! Is not the entire world a chemical dependence? Dancing through projects And galaxies Stunted in movement, alcoves Shallow ponds and hollow rivers tides Comes again who I am, When not all else m She got off the bus, I was like “Bye grandma!” Aww. Imma miss her. She smelled good, too. You know racism is really bad When a colored woman would rather wear an old, ratty old wig Or a terrible weave Than her own natural hair. I'm guilty of it myself— And this is because I know The way you are treated in public— By not only whites— but other blacks Judgement and mistreatment of the public in general— If you natural hair is the furthest away from what has been made to be the ideal standard. I'm rolling through the hood To return after 9 months This internet router Which never worked due to “outages” And came with hidden fees Now on my credit report The deeper I get into the hood, and the more the bus clears out The most clusters of housing projects And dilapidated buildings I see— A reminder that the world at all much has not been changed But only further hidden away from the eyes of what is known A car without a name a fixer upper but a keeper A classic [EKO restaurant] {Enter The Multiverse} Punk rock Jimmy Had a lot to say Skeleton, skin and bones Skeleton Keys, I am formicated I thought none deserving of such At all All the icons And idols And suffered star worshipers Watching for lost survivors Galloping the galaxies —unicorns. Horses colored as unicorns No fair appetite at all For applications, Mezmerized, believing you will fold at mercy The ions, are to say at least All to none They had already worshiped her Already murdered her Already bloodied her gown! Drown, now! Die! Silence! Cadences, Return to sender, your creatures Fury of the underlord Garnished of the underwent Weeping of galaxies tied Tied, Dirty faith. Wicked wars, Sorted earth, l — Now, remember how you found her YO, FUCK YOU JIMMY FALLON. He shakes his head and smirks smugly. Oh… “OH” ?! OH! YOU RUINED MY LIFE. You had a life? I had SOMETHING. What was it? I— *smash* Wow. —SHOULD KILL YOU. Somebody get this guy out of here! AGH?! No, it's okay. You were wrong about everything. I was— you just shifted. Excuse me? You shifted! Who are you?! BUBBLEEEEESSSSS!!!! I'm— so sorry. THEY KILLED MY DOG. Your rot weiler's name was “bubbles?!” BUBBBBBBBBLLLLEESSSSSSSSSSS!!!! OH GOD, BUBBLES!!!!!! WHYYYYYYYYYYYY {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective. © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

“The New Adventures of Old Supacree” This is not what I intentioned. Well, what had you intentioned, dammit , how do you spell her name? Spell it? I can barely say it! “C'cx– WRONG. How would you say this name. Axel? Thas' a stupid name Not for a Rockstar. That's already a rockstar Is it? Whatever, man. The Rock must have been buzzing in some sort of special way on this day; because for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I had finally rearranged the remainder of my seemingly new surroundings— the miniature Keurig— a status symbol, of course— looked handsome on the work desk— the cat tree seemed to match, though with no actual feesible monetary income,, no actual cat, and no end in sight— the tree itself would have to be enough to lift my spirits. It was a nice cat tree, almost untouched and looking very brand new— though the couch had a few scratches, though easily hidden with the decorative use of a couple throws—at least I had a couch, and all that was left to accomplish before fully enjoying was to arrange an order of Febreeze to rid it of its previous owner's dandruff smell, and general mismanagement—besides that, it was itself almost brand new as well, and it seemed a strange new world to wake up in, after sleeping in a nearly empty apartment for 6 months; there was 6 months left in my lease, and I was getting nervous that they would try to push me out—hopefully I would find someplace better, or at the very least higher up—with the same amenities intact. Still, I was working as diligently as in could on organizing—at least the recordings, to put together the next group of projects as quickly as I could— nevermind the writing—and there was so, so much of it, I hadn't a clue what to do. I had been avoiding Rockefeller Plaza like the plague for quite sometime—it always made me nervous in a sort of way I didn't understand, in that I would pulsate and vibrate differently, and more often times than not, was upset and concerned that I had yet to go to the top—a costly feat—nor could I afford to entertain or enjoy any of the amusements at the bottom—not that I wanted to, as the older I got, and especially the longer time spent in New York, the more off putting the public and large crowds were—particularly after a remarkably disgusting respiratory infection I caught on new years, battling a crowd which became impossible to move through at all—let alone see the ball drop—and I had learned my lesson, especially after The Macy's Day parade; the crowds in New York were disgustingly unbearable, and in order to get a good view of anything, you would have to arrive nearly a full day early, and simply camp—now I knew why people packed around collapsible lawn chairs on holiday weekends. I had been blindsided by Fallon towards the end of the Macy's day parade—I hadn't any clue at all that he apparentlyboarticipated annually, as it had been years since I had watched the parade myself with my parents—and still, it was iconic—I always wanted to go. Still, and even though I had only written very little of him up to that point, I found it disasterous that as his name was announced and the float which carried him and The Roots, the best late night band on Television, not by opinion, but by fact—as I had most recently been studying and researching as thoroughly as I could all of the late night hosts since the dawning of Television in preparation to write this pilot, The TV People, short handed to TVP—and just then I recalled a dream from the night before, about Pat Kirkpatrick—for the first time in the dream world, it wasn't Fallon at all, but Pat Kirkpatrick. I couldn't remember the dream, nor could I seemingly work myself out of the rut that had been the plateau in writing the show—the show itself was heavy, with so many characters, all of which each had been given detailed and specific personalities, livelihoods, and backgrounds—in fact, I hadn't written anything in such a way since college, with detail—actually, I had never written anything so detailed at all, so character oriented that the character analyses filled entire pages of documents with excruciating vividness, as if these people were real. Well, now they were—and Fallon was neither Patrick as I was Esha, and the story has taken its own form, still however birthing an incredibly awkward and romanticized fascination and near obsession with the TV people themselves—not that I would feed it to be so. I blocked out the news outlets, the media, the alrogithm's suggestions to watch bits and pieces of Fallon, though, however, I refused, and somehow, I didn't need it. Fearfully so, he was somewhere lodged deep somewhere inside of me—and I was even sort of embarrassed to have written some of the things I had of his essence, however prophetic it seemed to be, that for about a three week period between April and May, I seemed to have gone off into a trance of sorts, writing for hours and experiencing vivid visions of this show, The TV Prople, alongside writing The Festival Project ™ And all of its markers—there were so many worlds, so many ways throughout them—and now as I had realized, I had actually been writing about Fallon nearly as long as I had been writing about Sonny, but differently. I had never of course come face to face with Fallon as I had the latter—and still—found it somewhat nessecary to hide my face beneath a mask as his float passed my viewing spaf , an elevated view from the staircase of some church, which had happened to be perfect—and although I was certain it's not as if he was looking for or at me—I had just then been writing of this Cosmic Avenger, and hadn't any idea at the time of Fallon in reality having been an actual magician, and still— with cameras everywhere, and knowing even what I had written—I didn't want to be caught by any passing cameras with any sort of blush or worse—a smile on my face as the float passed— a smile which would flash my atrocious gap-tooth and crooked smile I was sure was permanent, by then having been in the homeless shelter nearly a year. As soon as his name was announced, I promptly pulled up my mask, hiding under my sunglasses. I had already been caught on camera earlier in the parade gawking at some float—now was not the time to be caught gawking again. He, like Rob Lowe seemed impeccably professional and well-rehearsed, like a cartoon character— he was, after all, kind of a cartoon character, however now, even if it was partly due to my own writing, I took him more seriously. There was a darkness about him— a sometimes glassy-eyed, almost scary darkness that told me, even a world away, not to fuck with this dude—some kind of animal or monster I was sure we both shared, however mine more the type and category of insatable and undernourished and his more peaking its head out in the form of a multi-millionaire network puppet, which housed an untamable powerhouse of musicianship, manhood, and wit— it's true, I was finally scared of him, knowing after all what the true tears of a clown could be, a dangerous man in a uniformed suit, the Everyman for the programmed masses, and the funny man with a jig to dance, a story to tell, and an indoor life— secret realm within I was sure no one knew. I fed the monster with respect to the home, happy wife, and children— I, after all, loved love, and only wanted it for myself, leaving alone the parts of a man I had found and was sure was broken enough to have left me puzzled and star studded rather than struck as I always was, tears welling up at the thought of it that something should be mended neither I or anything I was could not fix—I continued to write, however, knowing I was walking on glass barefoot and tiptoeing on eggshells around the mass media conglomerate of the network that stood between my feeble world and his, the higher ups— and beyond: it was, after all, a level system— and now with a beautifully decorated and fully apartment, besides my mattress on the floor instead of the space saving loft bed I had wanted—though it looked just right with the piano bench as a headboard, housing my crystals and new globe, plus a colorful collection of books I could crack open as I awoke to the morning light, no longer so early but increasingly later, as I shifted into the insomniatic habits of a true DJ and music producer, still writing and reading in the mornings, however— I had to wonder what level I was truly on. My apartment looked like a home. The decor was better than I could have imagined myself even, the tasteful furnishings and modern elegance shifting my reality— no longer an empty apartment, now a fashionable hub for art and creation. I assumed the cat would come along in the winter, with any hopes that I would finish my albums by then—and also looming over me— my last life, and the people in it struggling to call up to me in this very ascended realm, which I was lucky to inhabit. ‘Thank you God for your many blessings' My wishes it seemed, had been granted— magic did indeed seem real, and though I had an Amazon return packages and ready to go— there wasn't a time and place I could see myself as ready to even be near The Rock, some festering bulletwound in my heart, all that I had written, not just of Fallon, but of the rest of the people I had honored by word mark but had not yet the status or wealth to have ever known as human at all, but more products of the program; with intention, however, it was the path I had followed to be destined here somehow though small codes and doorways, signals and symbols which called to me and seemed only I could see—but were there in plain sight, and with the right eyes, had meant more than I ever dreamed anything could— open doors to a world I had indeed created myself, and in turn, the world in which I lived had also been created around me. I had to, in my mind, find the light inside all of whom I studied, to humanize myself—nurturing some fascination of fame and celebrity inside which still stood unanswered, the question of why and how one becomes so high up that without trying, that I might continue to find them in my mind's eye and in my world, on the outside, time after time. —tales of a superstar DJ. The men with the littlest dicks Drive the loudest bikes And they talk too much About nothing To no one The men with the littlest dicks Do the littlest things I call it niggardly Dispite the color Follow the leader To instill fear Within earshot The men with the littlest dicks Want the skinniest women The chicks who remind them of Innocence lost A childhood spent Getting boredom for freedom And allowences for doing nothing The men with the littlest dicks Do the littlest shit Like make everyone miserable Yes, it is a miserable existence, Never being wanted, however I should know better than this TINA FEY SON OF A BITCH. (Everyone's still drunk) What. Why, what happened? He got here before us. What?! How do you know? [pause] Okay. This weird detour is paying off in some kind of way— I'm still heavily obsessed with the fact that Johnny Carson referred to his weird drunken jacking off as “cranking it” ON TV. On something close to live television in like— The 80's Was it the 80's? I don't know, And apparently even Johnny Carson doesn't know, because he was “sauced”, So let's just go ahead and add that to the list of ghosts I have to track down for making me squeal like a little fucking schoolgirl. However, I'm half convinced, He's still around— Oh yes. I do believe these— THIS MAN— Oh, holy shit here it goes. HERE'S JOHNNY! Aw, fuck. I told you not do. What was I supposed to do—?! Not do it It was a blood oath— I told you— Mi had to do it. *shrugs* Well, now, you're fucked. STAY DOWN, MOTHERFUCKER. Ooh. This is gonna hurt. I swear to god, Every day of my life: I will KILL YOU YOU CANT KILL ME. AND EVERY DAY THAT YOU DO NOT DIE; I WILL JUST STAY DOWN, MOTHERFUCKER— DIE, MOTHERFUCKER— GO. TO. SLEEP. aaaaaGGGGHhHHHHHHHHHHHH. —I WILL KILL YOU . Don't give up! Seriously! Seriously, I got money on this.z Really? What. How much. Just $10. Oh. That's good Yeah, but it's the only cash I've had in months! I forgot what it was. I'm rich, Everything's cashless. Tickets! Get your tickets! Ze are cheaper here on ze black market. “The Black Market” How much for this one? $9 I'll take three. What the fuck is wrong with you? I WILL KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP. I'M A DJ, BITCH. I DONT SLEEP. Have you ever thought about . What you're gonna be— When you die? Yeah. I've been thinking about it a lot. Okay, what is it. I get three right? Right, yeah. A Superstar DJ. Okay, that's good. What else? A rockstar Okay, what else? A mom. That's it? Yeah, man. I die and gone to heaven, right? Right. So that's it. What's the wager? Four horses. Got it. What exactly brings you here to bargain? My fat and heavy nuts. No questions asked. —tales of a Supersrar DJ VO I didn't know he called back. I didn't even see the message. I feel like such a piece of shit. I am a piece of shit. Worthless. My eyes itch, My nose bleeds My heart hurts now, I'm all gone Dark on Mondays All gone Gone till Sunday All done I was never an good mother No Just a ghost with a gun I was never on top of the world, son Just under it Now I'm all out of something I can't put my hand on And I'm all out of love, No one wants me Imm washed up One hand on the guitar One foot in the door And one head in the oven I'm all done I'm all done My eye itches My nose bleeds The noose loosens, I fall down I'm so stuck on an old number I'm so lost that I'm found now. —I'm so sorry But no one else is Tie me to the bed And watch me bleed So full of disinterest and vinegar Remember to tie me to the crossword In the times tomorrow Four rainbows for your dumb luck A forced fuck from one goat The other still doesn't row well It's a long boat It's a long story It goes untold They all turn to the one who wants to hurt me In the long run Nobody will ever love me again So I'm told Might as well find a bottle of ferment To grow up in Swallow bottles of old wine With a sour tongue Unremarkable SHOUT! Defamed you, Heroism in the— Never hatred, but indifference, Circumstances. Circumcisions Misdirection, Big decisions Defense strategy? To exit— Just as quickly as it all begins to fade away Nearly as quickly as it started, Newfound freedom near the exit, After happenstance, Never afraid to admit to neglect Selected supplies, For fear of the eye Goddammit it, late night people Of course; when was it last you saw letterman on a surfboard? Almost never? Forget to fear them, The men in mirrors, The sharks in surfboards, The writer's block, over The rockstar on opioids Does it hurt anybody else this much to just stand here If Tweety's the Canarybird, When who am I to call myself a cat, Sylvester! The silver streaks in his hair, The glaze in his eyes The break in his heart The health of the hoax FUCK YOU FALLON I hope your ratings went up Just a bit Just a bit I hope you CRANK THIS Up in your car While I forgot about you I hope the peanut butter goes with the jelly The couch fits with the vision covers The cookies go with the coffee haven't mopped the floor yet, of course All out of Pablo santo For your information I just didn't make the grade Cause teacher hates me I still haven't found a mate With every amen I hate me Almost as much as I hate myself And I So I can't be God itself Cause I love that thing Alright? Amen! Can I have a can opener or three to set the record straight Can I scratch as fast as I sniff up every tear Every line of cocaine Every autograph? No you can't. Just know that my landlord has a thougsand bathrooms I can't find my hat, my gun— And where the fuck are the bananas CONAN O BRIEN EXCUSE MY FRENCH, BUT FUCK YOU, WOAAAAAH, CONAN! WOAH! WHAT DID I DO?! You— You fucked up the entire fucking ecosystem With CUMSLUTS! WHAT THE FUCK, BRO! Can you even SAY any of that?! I just did! Which network do you work for?! Where's Fallon at?! he's dead, bro! He's dead?! Yeah! For what?! I don't know. I just found out. Well. What happened. Someone shot him. Again?! Yeah, but like, way worse this time. So they finally got him, ah? No, he died of a heart attack. What! Then they shot him. What. That doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. This scene is running long. I thought so. DIRECTOR CUT. That was great. Thanks. Except—Conan. Yes? You're too tall. What? Next. Take I want you to try it— Like— Just the way you just did it— Uh huh But smaller: What do you mean? Like, less tall. Oh. Alright. BREAK FOR LUNCH. “The Everymans” 01 I'll know why soon I'm sure It hurts with every word You're sleeping on my floor I'm fuming in the north My foot goes through the door Where were you then, When the mystery ends When the miser's the minister, Mistral and instrumentalist Ah Magic; illusion Illustrious industry Interdependent television Radio signals, Satelites Entropy Trophy wives, Fight clubs Back at nine Nick at night Every time is every time Time is all you need, and Time is on your side, if You just follow me Reader's remorse Writer's digest Try to sit still for a moment, Take a lesson From your friends here So when, then should I trade my Brand new pants in for a suit The bird said The cat damaged (I can't yet) Can of soup to open, Oh yes Cambells is it? Warhol knows best 02 I thought I told you I don't want to Owe you Are you Over it Somebody once told me You were holy Somebody once told me To hold onto Somebody once said Turn the light off But I've been trying To buy fire Someone's in the box, God Someone once told me Someone let me out—God? Someone once told me Fuck it, I just want to hold you I don't want to own you I just want to Someone once told me Beware of you Someone else told me Be there for you Someone once told me The hair of dog Ought to get you along I got handfuls of songs With no worlds yet Someone once told me Someone once told me Someone once told me Someone once told me. Someone's in the box, God Someone once told me Someone let me out—God? Someone once told me Somebody once told me You were holy Somebody once told me To hold onto I thought I told you I don't want to Owe you Are you Over it 03 I'm a multidimensional wordsmith Sike! I'm a psychopath wrecking your whole home Won't you wound my womb? (I won't go ) Won't you hold onto my world? (Why won't you?) Sorry, I slipped on the mat this morning Stumbling over you Thought it was afternoon Don't want to give you The news, cause you wrote it all Causes for dollars Indifference, disasters, sons Why won't you hold me like you used to? Why don't I know the answers to the crosswords? Why don't you meet me at the crossroads with your— No, no, Don't do that Don't call it home To be continued Where were you this morning, When I stumbled in To love you? She said At the forefront of your honor's worth If all you are's a wordsmith, m god unlock you Pen and paper Gun in holster Officer, Pull down the trigger Don't want to give you The news, cause you wrote it all Causes for dollars Indifference, disasters, sons No, no, Don't do that Don't call it home To be continued Once upon a time, All my eyes were brown (The money, the power, the respect) Now those days are gone The world is still round (At least I thought) The misery set in again They said the lows would come I did hate Mondays, after all With no sun to come up And look forward to Fast forward— Did you ever see that? Well, that is technically the back door. I almost forgot about that place. That's because it doesn't exist. It had to exist. Now I've seen it at least twice Hey! How'd you do that. Christ, he is a magician Oh yeah, Cosmos factory. They said the lows were coming. Maybe I needed them to finish that thing— I swear I missed Something The ghost (The other one, anyway) Dillon was a ghost, once No, ghost was the ghost, but we were —close. Good friends. Imaginary friends. Anyway. Fuck this nonsense. Nonsense, is it Just— Don't make me slit my wrists again. I remembered this day for something Wonder what. Maybe nothing I hate Mondays Guess this is the job, This is the job, I was wondering about the suit. So, are you a parrot, a puppet, or a mimick. I swear to god that's him. Good, Now I don't ever have to watch him. Oh shit, Fuck this playlist Are you sure “saved by the cowbell” God, I feel like shit, And I shouldn't be hungry But I'm starving inside For some loving Someone help me Somebody, something I'm suffering, suffocating Need him, Reeling, Reading Sinking, Feeling —but shouldn't be crying. I digress, however It was an interesting Day to digest God, I forgot about this— A whole soundtrack Jesus Christ, Bring it back; I like who your wife is —would you write that? Would you admit to dying on the cross once? Would you admit to admiring Ms, Robinson Would you wash out the Robin in Williams Look at Carson I defect to default Cracked asfault, to decadence Desire or what have you I haven't, I promise I would not admit to wanting, Something like a cupcake Something else is in there Figure it out Danger The five pointer approaches With heroic intolerance Suddenly, it's gone, God Mustn't be the Republicans, For the most part, I would want that For fear of the liberals, And my rent controlled apartment I've got two thumbs, too, You know I've got Jews up my ass for the asking I've got mom up my spine for the others Fucking assholes —so this is what it means to be married to the music, huh No one to really hold you, But I told you, I've got golden globes and Oscars Every morning Motorcycles for the morons I've got daughters for your doorknobs —Know you're sorry now Catch the drum pattern Your heart should stop fluttering With butter on it Weren't we all once prostitutes In foster care The others wouldn't dare To call a fountain out For the fountains— Busy training you Safe to say a savior says I do, And then doesn't For the most part I'm a woman With the wants And the body of a God FUCKING WATCH IT, CARSON but you got that all on a card, love. All on a card, fuck. What was your wish, You dumb motherfucker? Look what I got the other ones. Hi Cosmo. Hi Wanda. Awww. I love them. Dead drunk by tomorrow I hope, I choke on sunsets. He keeps taking you away someplace, Where is it? Does nobody else know this place? No. Nobody else can see this! Well, that's fucked up. I had a dream I was at your wake. That would be great. I wrote a scene where your obituary just said “lol” “lol” What! That's it?! Yeah. And It's not even capitalized! That's it, I've had enough. Throw the whole world away. What. just throw it away. Damn dog, You okay? No. I'm homeless. That's okay. You smell like a whole ass alien. What? Come to my place. I figured this would have more depth. I— Nevermind. It is, like torture, you know— this thing. I didn't do it on purpose. get oFF of me. getawayfromme. Okay, I'm taking my bread out of the freezer. You sure are eating a lot today . You sure are sounding like a pain in my big, fat, ass. I— That ought to shut you up. Look! CUMSLUTS! NICE. Get off of my boat. What. Aye-aye, captain. (Duck dives) Wait. What just happened? Mi think I might have— Great, Now there are things about this— I can't even write. This secret dies with me. Kill that bitch. Fucking great. So, Where were you on 9/11 again? I'll deal with this later. I gotta go. Wait, where are you going? Fuck you, that's where. Wait! If you saw me hanging from the rafters Would you ahoot to kill Or come to shoot me down? At long last, Disaster Are there tears in your denial As the memorandum sets in? Neither there or neither farther am I Father, Can you call again? I haven't heard you yet Besides the heart drops When the beat falls out If I hang myself Like pendulum From the old bank walls Would you watch me swing Or come to cut me down Don't doubt the alter If it were the birds Coming for the crumbs Would you ponder any longer Whether they were all of one feather Come now Don't doubt the alter Don't fear the weapons Don't worry, mother I'm coming to kill you Uh, I'm gonna wait on dinner. FUCK, What the fuck was I saying? FUCK. I hate this dude. FUCK. Come on, you stupid —biiitch! I hate this dragon. Almost as much as I hate— You know what? What? Forget it. I'm not doing this. What why not!? I'm gonna get killed for this. You're in the Illuminati; you're gonna get killed anyway. Yeah, but not for this! Let's hope! Who know, though! UGH; SHUT UP. GET IN HERE. I hate the sound of your name Like an unheard whisper Unanswered I could never call to A cavern Righteous, Unwanted What was is, though. Something about a wheelbarrow' I just went surfing Hit the surface from underwater Shook out the slumber What was it worth, God? What were the words for? Fuck, A shapeshifter and a telepath? How many people have that? Not that many. How many people know about this? Enough. FUCK. Oh, look whose swearing. I solemnly swear— Don't tell NOBODY. I ain't telling nobody about this. Good. Now get out. I'm gonna kill this sonofabitch. SON OF A—BITCH. That's it. Kill him. Where's my gun? Did you check the fridge? No. [THE IMPENETRABLE TEN ENTER the KITCHEN] What?! All ten of them?! I fucking guess. —but DANE COOK *kicking down door* FUCK! Goddammit it We missed her. OR—him. Her? Him? I don't know. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST What is it? It's a pilot! Oh shit, should I shoot him? Not a helicopter pilot! A TV pilot, For what?! Tv is dead. Streaming is where its out, It's for me! I'm in it! Oh! What! Let me see. (In the fridge) …what is this? [from the bedroom/studio] Hey you guys! What. What happened? What's up! YOU SHOULD SEE THIS. Love is not blind, And neither am I It's like that sometimes, always Tip of the tongue, The art of the lie, It's like that sometimes, Always A tale of all tales A sign of the times It's like that always, sometimes I forgot to forget I saw you; I forgot to forget I know you I forgot to forget I love you I forgot to forgive, I want you Shut the door, Let the lights turn off Turn the page —till the sun comes up Something real Something wrong I forgot Something strange Something weird I'm in love Write the song Love is not blind, And neither am I It's like that sometimes, always Tip of the tongue, The art of the lie, It's like that sometimes, Always A tale of all tales A sign of the times It's like that always, sometimes I forgot to forget I saw you; I forgot to forget I know you I forgot to forget I love you I forgot to forgive, I want you Shut the door, Let the lights turn off Turn the page —till the sun comes up Something real Something wrong I forgot Up is up Down is down Right is right Wrong is wrong Black is white Dark is light Right is wrong I love you My house is normal now, With a table and chairs But I don't call it home Cause I know They'll throw me to the curb Leave in in the road Like the animal I am You don't know what the world does When she's off work You don't know how the world acts When she's off her axis It's okay to take hiatus Instead of medication It's okay to call the cops on motorcycle It's okay to die Before you see your son When Sunday comes Just call your mom on Monday Doctor visits EMTs and emergencies Epics and Epochs Long lost love songs to god And Cardinal Directions Reflections in mirrors Table toppers for all the dramas All the months you lost On muttered mantras {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Make a mockery of myself; wear smock to work I don't talk too much no more I just gossip somedays, Dark on mondays; The forgotten apostle With just enough rope To jump off and hope It all stops, soon The motocross and the terror stalkers Just across from the starbucks at the Rock –it got awkward But God Loves me Might start a talk show Some chef, with a pop tart A pop up club, a long night Some broke shards of glass, the yards of all the scars on stars and stripe Feels like a long night– Got coffee and tacos A long talk with your blonde wife To bypass the psycos Right, though? Bro, it's so over; I won a whole asshole and a four leaf clover In a game of poker Now, brush your shoulders off Brush your hair, Pet the dog, And kick the cat over and over Till he turns back to a robot “You're so gross.” –don't i know it. The whole world is over –you jump first, I'll follow Lets keep talking About the letters I penned To the false Gods, Painted them scarlett, of course Scattered em from here to Scarboro Fair, I was right there, then out of nowhere a new nightmare with nice hair Here we go again Lines out the door; We got lines out the door Out of Order The world is at war The whole world has run Out of water The four is the for Theres no five But the V for vendetta Theres lines out the door The whole world Is a mom And a daughter My jokes get better, The buildings look bigger I pretend this seltzer is alcohol Cause i want it To make me forget I've got all my– Huh There's a line out the door. What if– Me, And all of your friends And all of my Wait, I don't have any friends I'm getting a cat. I was just thinking about Mila Kunis. Oh yes, why's that? SETH MCFARLENE YEEEEE. YEEEEEEE. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. WHAT, GODDAMMIT GIGGITY! OKAY, ASSHOLE Eyes on eyes, and tears on tears All the years ive cried On ears on ears Why am I even here? It's been too long, since i've been touched I don't love love but i dislike lust I don't trust anyone I don't have a number I crawled up my arm, Danced with the blood drawn BLŪ wakes up famous. [The world swirls into a plume of dark blue sky; BLŪ awakens suddenly from the blackness of a deep sleep in the middle of a road, a group of people, friends, swirling around her.] YO. What? BLŪ. What's up. PARTY FOUL, BROH. … Billie Ellish? Billie Pirate Ellish. Uh. That's why the rum– Is gone. What. Guess i'm Jack Sparrow, now. Hey wait–are you even legal? Uh. I'm a mad fucking genius; are you legal? I don't know. Besides, this was your idea. What–what? Exactly. Get up. Wtf is going on in this scene. Idk i might a have to play the song again Fuck that. I'm about to slit myfucking wrists. HAVOC. Where are we going? You still got that NDA in your wallet? I–yeah. Then we're gucci. “Waking up Famous” I don't know exactly what happened. [Looking in the mirror, confused.] This is a nice leather jacket. I wonder if i'm still Vegan. Damn. I look mad rich. BLŪ hurry UP! [toilet flushes with foot] Alright, I'm coming. [Blu checks her pockets to find a wallet, the contents including numerous cards–metal ones, with copious amounts of cash, and pre-filled NDAs which have been folder neatly and stuffed into the corner pocket of the trifold wallet] Billabong. Classy. I'm never gonna finish that other project, am I? Whatever. Leave Fallon alone. I did. –it came back. [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

HALLE BERRY is that how you spell it It is for now. Fuck going online “That ain't part of my day” Shut up Drake, not now. You'll thank me later “If You're Reading This, It's Too Late” [HALLE BERRY is taking A VERY PAINFUL SHIT, clutching her *favorite OSCAR award-- Which one's her favorite? CUT TO: BEFORE HALLE BERRY looks over her OSCARS in the display cabinet, carefully scanning them, with a New York Times paper tucked under her left arm, sipping from the coffee cup in her right hand.] —I like this guy. The other OSCARS groan; they are often overlooked during this process. Come on! This guy! AGAIN!? UGH. CUT BACK TO: [HALLE BERRY clenches painfully, sweating audaciously—at the worst possible moment, her cellphone rings. ] WHAT THE—COME ON I THOUGHT I WAS IN AIRPLANE MODE. (I just found out The Illuminati can still make calls go through in airplane mode Or without cell service at all) wtf my phone is ringing. That's weird. You don't even— —I don't even have a phone. Right. (Seriously, my phone is disconnected. I didn't even pay my bill.) The fuck. [it's JIMMY FALLON] Damn. This dude has the worst possible timing ever. Like fucking ever. Always shows up at the worst —THE WORST MOMENT. [HALLE BERRY rejects the call. It rings again] WHAT THE— [She ignores the second call. A moment of subtly relaxed silence, until— [JIMMY FALLON appears in the ceiling window of the bathroom. HALLE BERRY SCREAMS, still fluting her OSCAR.] (Calmly, kind of) Hey, WHAT THE FUCK, JIMMY. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? I called first! I KNOW THAT— Went to voicemail. YOU SHOULDNT BE HERE. Just—calm down. NO. Look. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! I'm not in your house, I'm outside your house. Technically. —yeah, but your FACE is in my house— —I hear that's the best part. —What?! Listen— Get out— No, look, listen— I need to borrow your Oscar. What?! For what?! That's not important. Oh really?! Yeah. It seems important. It's not that important Just—- What! Give it to me! [He snatches the OSCAR and tosses her his GRAMMY.] Just—trade me. What! What for?! Just—trust me— I do not— Just trust me—! WHAT! Congratulations. As you were. Kind of. WHAT—JIMMY— [She realizes the ridiculousness of her calling after him. She sits awkwardly with the Grammy in her lap, sighing] —he was my favorite… [SUDDENLY, though the other window Why does this bitch have so many windows in her bathroom that are this penetrate? For the sake of the joke, but probably not something any celebrity should have, are windows where anyone can enter your house from the outside. Fans are weird. CUT TO: AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. I LOVE YOU. CUT TO: What's this place. It's my house, Where are the windows? They don't exist. CUT BACK TO [DANE COOK appears through the opposite window.] YO. WHAT THE FUCK! Chill, Halle Berry. WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?! I'm the guy who wrote this. You should have called first! Who do I look like, Jimmy Fallon?! NO. I LIKE HIS face. Huh. Is that what it is… I GUESS I DONT KNOW. —who are YOU—?! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE— I am not in, technically— I DONT CARE! Ooh— Is that a Grammy award?! I didn't know you had a Grammy! Gimmie! [he snatches the Grammy] HEY! Is—what is this, for COMEDY?! FOR COMEDY?! WHY WASNT I MADE AWARE THAT THIS IS A THING?! I DONT KNOW, WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? WHAT THE FUCK. It's not important. What. Anyway, thanks. Toodeloo. The Rock must have been buzzing in some sort of special way on this day; because for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I had finally rearranged the remainder of my seemingly new surroundings— the miniature keurig, a status symbol, of course, looked handsom on the work desk— the cat tree seemed to match, though with no actual feesible monetary income, and no end in sight— the tree itself would have to be enough to lift my spirits. It was a nice cat tree, almost untouched and looking very brand new— though the couch had a few scratches, though easily hidden with the decorative use of a couple throws—at least I had a couch, and all that was left to accomplish before fully enjoying was to arrange an order of Freebreeze to rid it of its previous owner's dandruff smell, and general mismanagement—besides that, it was itself almost brand new as well, and it seemed a strange new world to wake up in, after sleeping in a nearly empty apartment for 6 months; there was 6 months left in my lease, and I was getting nervous that they would try to push me out—hopefully I would find someplace better, or at the very least higher up—with the same amenetire intact. Still, I was working as diligently as in could on organizing—at least the recordings, to put together the next group of projects as quickly as I could— nevermind the writing—and there was so, so much of it, I hadn't a clue what to do. I had been avoiding Rockefeller Plaza like the plague for quite sometime—it always made me nervous in a sort of way I didn't understand, in that I would pulsate and vibrate differently, and more often times than not was upset and concerned that I had yet to go to the top—a costly feat—nor could I afford to entertain or enjoy any of the amusements at the bottom—not that i wanted to, as the older I got, and especially the longer time spent in New York, the more of putting the public and large crowds were—particularly after a remarkably disgusting respiratory infection I caught on new years, battling a crowd which became impossible to move through at all—let alone see the ball drop—and I had learned my lesson, especially after The Macy's Day parade; the crowds in New York were disgustingly unbearable, and in order to get a good view of anything, you would have to arrive nearly a full day early, and simply camp—now I knew why people packed around collapsible lawn chairs on holiday weekends. I had been blindsided by Fallon towards the end of the Macy's day parade—I hadn't any clue at all that he apparentlyboarticipated annually, as it had been years since I had watched the parade myself with my parents—and still, it was iconic—I always wanted to go. Still, and even though I had only written very little of him up to that point, I found it disasterous that as his name was announced and the float which carried him and The Roots, the best late night band on Television, not by opinion, but by fact—as I had most recently been studying and researching as thoroughly as I could all of the late night hosts since the dawning of Television in preparation to write this pilot, The TV People, short handed to TVP—and just then I recalled a dream from the night before, about Pat Kirkpatrick—for the first time in the dream world, it wasn't Fallon at all, but Pat Kirkpatrick. I couldn't remember the dream, nor could I seemingly work myself out of the rut that had been the plateau in writing the show—the show itself was heavy, with so many characters, all of which each had been given detailed and specific personalities, livelihoods, and backgrounds—in fact, I hadn't written anything in such a way since college, with detail—actually, I had never written anything so detailed at all, so character oriented that the character analyses filled entire pages of documents with excruciating vividness, as if these people were real. Well, now they were—and Fallon was neither Patrick as I was Esha, and the story has taken its own form, still however birthing an incredibly awkward and romanticized fascination and near obsession with Fallon—not that I would feed it to be so. I blocked out the news outlets, the media, the alrogithm's suggestions to watch bits and pieces of Fallon, though, however, I refused, and somehow, I didn't need it. Fearfully so, he was somewhere lodged deep inside me—and I was even sort of embarrassed to have written some of the things I had of his essence, however prophetic it seemed to be, that for about a three week period between April and May, I seemed to have gone off into a trance of sorts, writing for hours and experiencing vivid visions of this show, The TV Prople, alongside writing The Festival Project ™ And all of its markers—there were so many worlds, so many ways throughout them—and now as I had realized, I had actually been writing about Fallon nearly as long as I had been writing about Sonny, but differently. I had never of course come face to face with Fallon as I had the latter—and still—found it somewhat nessecary to hide my face beneath a mask as his float passed my viwingbspace, an elevated view from the staircase of some church, which had happened to be perfect—and although I was certain it's not as if he was looking for me—I had just then been writing of this Cosmic Avenger, and hadn't any idea at the time of Fallon in reality having been an actual magician, and still— with cameras everywhere, and knowing even what I had written—I didn't want to be caught by any passing cameras with any sort of blush or worse—a smile on my face as the float passed— a smile which would flash my atrocious gap-tooth and crooked smile I was sure was permanent, by then having been in the homeless shelter nearly a year. As soon as his name was announced, I promptly pulled up my masked. I had already been caught on camera earlier in the parade gawking at some float—now was not the time to be caught gawking again. He, like Rob Lowe seemed impeccably professional and well-rehearsed, like a cartoon character— he was, after all, kind of a cartoon character, however now, even if it was partly due to my own writing, I took him more seriously. There was a darkness about him— a sometimes glassy-eyed, almost scary darkness that told me, even a world away not to fuck with this dude—some kind of animal or monster I was sure we both shared, however mine more the type and category of insatable and undernourished and his more peaking its head out in the form of a multi-millionaire network puppet, which housed an untamable powerhouse of musicianship, manhood, and wit— it's true, I was finally scared of him, knowing after all what the true tears of a clown could be, a dangerous man in a uniformed suit, the Everyman for the programmed masses, and the funny man with a jig to dance, a story to tell, and an indoor life— secret realm within I was sure no one knew. I fed the monster with respect to the home, happy wife, and children— I, after all, loved love, and only wanted it for myself, leaving alone the parts of a man I had found and was sure was broken enough to have left me puzzled and star studded rather than struck as I always was, tears welling up at the thought of it that something should be mended neither I or anything I was could not fix—I continued to write, however, knowing I was walking on glass barefoot and tiptoeing on eggshells around the mass media conglomerate of the network that stood between my feeble world and his, the higher ups— and bryknnd: it was, after all, a level system— and now with a beautifully decorated and fully apartment, besides my mistress on the floor instead of the space saving loft bed I had wanted—though it looked just right with the piano bench as a headboard, housing my crystals and new globe, plus a colorful collection of books I could crack open as I awoke to the morning light, no longer so early but increasingly later, as I shifted into the insomniatic habits of a true DJ and music producer, still writing and reading in the mornings, however— I had to wonder what level I was truly on. My apartment looked like a home. The decor was better than I could have imagined myself even, the tasteful furnishings and modern elegance shifting my reality— no longer an empty apartment, now a fashionable hub for art and creation. I assumed the car would come along in the winter, with any hopes that I would finish my albums by then—and also looming over me— my last life, and the people in in struggling to call up to me in this very ascended realm, which I was lucky to inhabit. ‘Thank you God for your many blessings' My wishes it seemed, had been granted— magic did indeed seem real, and though I had an Amazon return packaged and ready to go— there wasn't a time and place I could see myself as ready to even be near The Rock, some festering bulletwound in my heart, all that I had written, not just of Fallon, but of the rest of the people I had honored by word mark but had not yet the status or wealth to have ever known as human at all, but more products of the program; with intention, however, it was the path I had followed to be destined here somehow though small codes and doorways, signals and symbols which called to me and seemed only I could see—but were there in plain sight, and with the right eyes, had meant more than I ever dreamed anything could— open doors to a world I had indeed created myself, and in turn, the world in which I lived had also been created around me. I had to, in my mind, find the light inside all of whom I studied, to humanize myself—nurturing some fascination of fame and celebrity inside which still stood unanswered, the question of why and how one becomes so high up that without trying, that I might continue to find them in my mind's eye and in my world, on the outside, time after time. —tales of a superstar DJ. https://linktr.ee/codenameblu {Now You See Me} From Google: Charismatic magician Atlas (Jesse Eisenberg) leads a team of talented illusionists called the Four Horsemen. Atlas and his comrades mesmerize audiences with a pair of amazing magic shows that drain the bank accounts of the corrupt and funnel the money to audience members. A federal agent (Mark Ruffalo) and an Interpol detective (Mélanie Laurent) intend to rein in the Horsemen before their next caper, and they turn to Thaddeus (Morgan Freeman), a famous debunker, for help. No, not the google documents! GET IN THE HOLE. Hm. What. Blood Shower All along the watch tower Do you feel good? Do you? Do you feel bad about this. I do. I feel bad about this. I forgot to tell you– I should probably let you know that I just want to MAN, FUCK THIS DUDE. MA. WAHT. IT'S ON. WHAt. THE SHOW IS ON. THEWHAT. THE– *suddenly self aware* …I gotta get out of Boston. What, first this was about war, now it's about bird people? It's about a war WITH the bird people. I should sleep. Hahaha. No. This isn't funny anymore. At least it's over. MA– Oh, it's far from over. Yo, i'm going through some crazy shit right now. Spur of the moment I'd never thought of it; This is gonna take forever. I don't have the patience To even write this I just want french fries right now But been up for two days with no gym and I'm on a diet. GUAC TIME. No, no burritos. GUAC TIME. Oh shit, this is getting real as fuck . NOw i see it three ways. I love it. I hate it. HEY, LET ME OUT. GET BACK IN YOUR HOLE, SKRILLEX. I'M DILLON FRANCIS. IN THE HOLE. Check it out. Huh. It's another DJ. *agrees* Should we pick him up. WEll, the good news is: I found your friend. Oh, that's good. The bad news is: He's dead. Oh, that–'s … nice. Yeah. It is. Uh. Kaskade. Yeah. We gotta find Ryan. Why. What's up? You're freaking me out. Why. What's up. Nothing IS it my eyes? I– *wild ass eyes* Yeah, it's probably that. Fuck dude, what did you do to deadmau5. NOTHIN. He's not the same. What the fuck is that. Holy shit I jus timejumped Where the fuck are you going. How the fuck could this happen?! It COULDN'T. Well, that's it then. *shrugs* Well, I guess we're just gonna have to go dig up Dillon Francis. I guess so. Do you think he's still alive. Like, probably not– Maybe… No, probably not @prodbywar& @Halmadeit This amazon order took me nine hours Alexa, I think i should fire her Like a arm I don't leave at night without armor Don't make me a martyr Your mom will be proud of us all If i make it outta here And i'll look after her Got the whole block coming up on my heels as I walk Wtf is it… Idk dude. Is it speeding up? I…i think so. There's no way this is 140 IT's 140. It's 140 . There's no way. Yes way. Nah huh. Let me see. No. Let me at the decks. Let me at the decks. NO. YO LET ME AT THE DECKS. You want deks. Yes. I got deks. Really. yeus . I never listened to it like this In ableton I read serato, synesthesia and rekordbox I talk a lot, I'm like a human music box I walk a lot I run my mouth a mile a minute (faster than i run around the track reciting rap words) Like they're passwords. Oh, I could do this forever.. I wish i had i microphone right now And was all alone With the lights off Lying on the floor I'd be lying if i said I could afford you Just to fornicate But may consider playing with a foreigner If you're all for her I'm unnerved, you know Cause i've been up so long My monster likes to play with boys and Make the bass go down below where Nobody does anymore Once I get a hold of things Or the hang of it You've got another hot ones on your hands I've another record under my belt Or in my roster, Whatever you'd call it But now I've got no time to bark about Wanting a dog and a daughter But none of the responsibility or Going through all the trouble to find her a father I'm still holding a fart in. Reaally–cause–it's been a really long time. WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT A LONG TIME, JIMMY FALLON?? Um a lot! You literally just saw me make the journey all the way up from nothing. I am nothing EXACTLY. I don't have time to fight with you Jiimmy Fallon. I did NOT write these games by myself you know?! Um, excuse me– “GAMES” ?! YES, GAMES. Uh, I've only got one game with you in it, my friend. Is that so! One game that I've written with the Great–formerly LATE Jimmy Fallon. Is that like a play on words cause i'm on late night TV YOu'RE ON ALL THE TIME TV, JIMMY. NBC SHIT IS PRACTICALLY AUTOMATICALLY SYNDICATED. -_- …are you alright. –_-_-__-_ Hold on, I think i've got it Nice, I found a growler. yOu still haven't got all the monsters and sprites Ive got all the big ones, but the little ones are harder to catch. GrO0Wl3rrr. Aww. He's so ugly. Yeah, but cute, though, right. I don't think so. Gro)WwlErrrrrrrrr. Aww. That's so fucking gross. lol . so what does this thing look like. Well, that't the thing about the monsters and sprites. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT. It's alright, it's alright–he's nice. WHAT. THAT'S A SPRITE. No, it's a monster. He's just scary. SUPACREE. David Bowie. What up. God, it took me ages to find you. Tell me about it. I'm still trying. We've been expecting you for a long time. You were expecting I'd die? Yes. So when she says she's “married to the music…” I'm married to the music. Oh, so. Yo, honestly if you een want to talk to this bitch, you'd better have like a musical instrument, or a mic in your hands, Otherwise– No, getawayfrom me. It's not even worth it. HI. –No. What's up? Tempo. SUNNI Cotour From the store I was poor Now i'm honorable In velour, Glamour (Snap) Forsure, Jesus Christs is making appearances in my abletons I'm not able to comprehend or understand exactly the message, But the evidence sire is mounting Get it Reached the temple, More of a sanctuary, Is that sacrilegious I guess it is, I'm stressed as ever Trying to get it together {Enter The Multiverse} Now I know too well, The well of tears on my guitar She's got a body like one Oh her curves But I just wonder what it like to be loved By stars Socialites and superstars They're Gods, you know How high up they are Above us And he lives in an ascended dimension, But he insists, he says Her transcendence is upon us He said Your transcendence is upon us He says these things, And then just vanishes So she gets up promptly Warms up yesterday's coffee Looks around in her coffin And wonders What for I just Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars Without double r's, you know I've got scars But it's mostly just Teardrops, and soft kisses On my guitar Cause, oh, Oli, I ain't got nobody— And nobody holds me Like I hold Oli (Could have been Ali, But of course— I had already lost that one A whole well of tears, I lost At his departure And a whole well more When I actually lost him I almost miss Having someone to talk to About anything and everything But I've got Oli And God now I've got Oli And Oli (oli) Is all that I've got Besides God That's the only contact In my Phone book No more double Ls And double entendres; No more double rs At all Just scars now No more metaphors. Honest is radical I like them cynical I should have clinical insanity by now But I'm only just an artist You can't help But can only harm that And if it hurts hard enough I'll put art on my walls Become permanent Storybooks all over my arms now My coat of arms now I've run Ten point 5 miles In the last 3 days; But if I rest today Will a motorcycle gang Have a parade outside of my window, To drive me crazy? I hope it rains, So they can't play these games with my head And the seeds that I planted So deep become daisies I still don't remember The way he rearranged me But these days I make my name sound So the way He can never say it Just imitates The way I hate myself I should be dating But expressions are Atrocious If I fall asleep— Who knows I may get Stolen That tends to happen So I'm All the way up And I'm swollen in ways That I hate to say “I love you” Love me back Or say it harder That's my martyrdom Come off the cross, for a moment, Would you for us? And bend over Or bow, if you will? If I did, Would you still call me wicked Or just a Good witch Since I'm a woman, I just couldn't be Jesus, Who you asked for once And always Who you asked for some To save you from your Credit reports And consorts Or some sort of Nonsense [famous last words] God don't speak much English, She says God don't speak much these days We were Always Telepathic That was way back then When Oedipus Rex Was on the Guest list I was standing at the coat check, asking Why I must take off my hat When entering the service To the bouncer, he says “That's just politics” I said, That's just politics We both said, What's the difference Then we all laughed —then we all just laughed and laughed Exchange is my favorite exchange Where my favorite exchanges Have happened for centuries Of engagements Endeared species, And races pieces haven't tasted the same Since I haven't had them Animal products And animal planet I found this hat on Discovery channel Did you want it? I can't stand it So I had to have it back I just had to use the bathroom I just had to disconnect From [] See— I don't even have to put the words in Cause a name is just words When that's a man You just can't have And that's the worse When that's a man And you can't have him What a habit. Silky rabbit. Now he's the Ace. All In A Day's Work I've never died before. Oh… that is terrifying. It sounds terrible. It's really not that bad. Why are you not writing this down? I just need a moment… It's really not that bad… I die all the time. I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's Look at the colors The clothes, This sure isn't queensborough Escalators for shopping carts I get it Manhattan I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects Where my kind are I don't belong here , God you're intolerant I like this part of town But I'm way too brown And I dropped my crown at the market I should be jealous of everyone But I have learned my place I've been a slave since Hollywood I lost my son to the devil Now I pay child support And terrorist follow me coughing I'm wrong just for being born ! You could start a war from it If that's what you wanted I'm a people watcher people watcher About to board the people mover People mover Slip, Here's the tell Slip, here's the tell I should have a bell around my neck I think she wanted a picture with papa I'm playin my own paparazzi Look mom, I bought a sacafagus There go them niggas with coughs again I been watching em Got binoculars I got oculus, for my oculars Look how hot he is, make me ovulate Man I gotta love it, Cause they love to hate Fucking racist crazies Have it your way I paid for it with my soul You hate but I love to love Somebody just got me fuckes up I don't have a book to run off of Shut up, honey. Now we're all up here Monkey in the middle Cause the middle one is weaker It's getting deeper and deeper Like the sinkhole that my sink is Let it sink in I've been syncing my secrets with demons In dreams sequences It's just a reparative injustice Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff You can have it It's ruined anyway m Look at all this trash Look at all these classless classes Classwars, Racists. Everybody hates us The Asians, Latinx's The other niggas What being black is I'll write it in cursive It's just a curse, here So you can have it I'm moving to Heaven I'm packing my boxes I'm getting a cat, too! His name is Agustus He's a big one And I love him I just wanted a hug or a husband Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest And got for a bargain at target some coffee For being a targeted body All on an algorithm I guess I'm just useless. A dumb nigger demon Did I just offend you? Then you shouldn't be reading this either I wrote it for pleasure (Or pain) On the one Or the two Or the one Or the two I could do a lot with this $20. I could spend it all on Fuck all of you I'm moving to Heaven Where the heart it She's not harmless She's a terrorist— And I'll kill her, too Look how right she is Look how white she is, Huh Regardless of color It's a race war Lil biiiiitzzz Yooo, fuck New York. In every hole. In every crevice. Fuck this place. It's racist— Not just cause I'm black. Like statistically. It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out. I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan” Everyone was like “NOOOOOOOO—-“ Haha “Nooo, no.” I was like “Why not?” The blacks were like: HAHA The whites were like— *COUGHS OBNOXIOUSLY* New York is so racist. It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation At the same time. WHAT. How do you even DO that? But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here. And the rich whites are like YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE. Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto. It's some SHIT, It is NOT COOL. I finally got my ‘night card' back. Had it revoked in california . I was almost a whole valley girl. I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods. Trader Joe's. But NO. Now i live in the hood. It's fucking disgusting. I can say ‘nigga' again. Cause it's NIGGAS. Lots of niggas. I'm telling you. It's night and day! The white folks trains smell like bleach— Ammonia. The black folks train smell like a McDonald's. WHAT. Or just— Vomit. I can actually count the number of times just— Vomit—- On the train. Or. Dookie. Yes. Human feces. But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland. Families! People singing! Hey—cotton candy!! —and I didn't have to pick it! Haha! Fuck New York. Racist ass HOLE. I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all. At that party…or rather, kind of—after. That acid that never hit Beyoncé I don't feel it. Man, I'm a terrible influence(r) Just take it. Nah, I'm good— PUSSY. -_- Give me three. K. —suddenly hits BEYONCÉ. BEYONCÉ …I got this. [BEYONCE] however, does not Ohh, shit. — “got this.” A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z What's even after gen z? The fucking apocalypse. Anyway. The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely. Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong. Lol In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel. Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper conciousness, which I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around? I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw— These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific Fuck this is hard to explain Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation. Anyway, what else is happening Oh. All of the celebrities are stuck in— [the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which lol. That never going to happen. Because. Let's face it. I'm scared of …rich people. Yeah, sure. Yeah. I'm scared of The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality. So why try? [EDITS] CONAN O'BRIEN Alright. If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next. No, Conan—that's not how this works. WHAT—where did you come from!? When did you get here? JAY LENO This goes deeper than all of you can understand. WHAT the FUCK, man! When did you-/ —when did he get here? How did you do that?! How did you do that?! What are you, like, the same guy? Are you not all the same guy? [they shrug simultaneously and kind of just agree] Listen at this. Okay then. The enemy of your friend is my enemy. Oh…kay—and the enemy of my enemy—is my friend— That is correct. —so we're all friends here. That's right. Some special forces? Which forces? How special? [JENNIFER LOPEZ is still JENNY FROM THE BLOCK] Do I look like a fool to you? Uh— OOPS [a pre-fame Jennifer Lopez receives a drop full of diamonds instead of the usual; she has been granted access into the Illuminati, and becomes an overnight success.] This feels heavier than usual. Same as always. Hm. Are you sure. Yep. Hey, you're not the regular guy. Regular guy died. That makes sense. JENNIFER ANNISTON is inside of Ū Okay, grosss Not like that [lifting max weight] Okay. That was cool. Wow. Yeah, sure whatever. I am strong Yeah yeah, okay. Are you sure you want to be my size? Yep. JIMMY FALLON/SKRILLEX (we don't know actually which at this point) is also trapped inside of Ū Okay, gross! Yeah. SKRILLEX is in all of Ū. okay—actually, i'm okay with that, but That other guy?! [JIMMY FALLON] Yeah, he's weird. Also meanwhile, kind of— MARSHALL MATHERS has a closet cleaning service lol. Patrick is smooth as a motherfucker, you know. Every time his head is down on the desk like that, he takes a bump of coke. What?! Big uh! [Patrick takes bumps of cocaine in front of a live studio audience—every single night.] Woah! See. Goddamn. You gotta admire a guy like that. Jennifer Anniston is the weight on the cable tension machine Ooh. Psycho bitch<> devious methods <> new ludachris commercial All ya'll girls is toddlers I like long boards and longhairs Lawn mowers and lawn shares Aw hell nah, God forgot Cher I got the Blair witch project On Blair, I hope I scare you How dare you. Your girl looks like a naked mole rat. I got my soul back. You blue eyed bastards stole everything From the whole blacks, Hold that thought I'm at Whole Foods market throw in the Amazon algorithm off With marked dollars Look at God at Walmart On them rollbacks You old hacks are cackling I'm shackled to old habits Hold hands with me, rabbit I'm just a silly rapper really, are you? Maybe. Cut the verse of Reverse God Now I'm the devil I'm still lost in the Amazon cart I sharted all up in your pop tarts Before you warmed them up, pops Just for the sake of the art, Heart to heart, It's a war on love And the white girls won with nothin but Buckets of Whatever's up there I wouldn't know Cause I'm stuck job searching And running, Trying not to have a tummy So some gummy worm will love me First their sour, then they're sweet Then nobody, Trolli Holy moly I could use some more petroleum in the ocean! Said nobody But the globalists are performing your programming Which you're worshiping I put my eye on the dollar So I could watch you all Crumble and fall Don't you know The apocalypse is happening at the mall Of all the places How's that for a stream of consciousness, You salamander I asked Anandar back But I went past that chapter Have a chap Or a chapstick, for four times four dollars A bottle of water will cost you a fortune (But at least the drugs are in it) Get it It's recycled piss Distilled? Which is it, Mr,? The mystery box was literally lifted into My dinner from a fishery filled with nothing but niggers in it— I want a refund, before I catch that Fucking curse of poverty from — what'd you call it salmonellahallibut One hell of a cough from someone on the sidewalk But guess what? The devil's in your pocket or your palm, And that's the omen and the psalm rolled into one Cause God is awesome, But my mom is fuckin toxic And that's how I fuckin got here Blow my head off, Slit my wrists And write a song While jumping off a bit When all you need is money, But the world costs more than It's worth, and words are nothing But another fucking problem in your Google documents I look at my son and see a God, But half of Satan's in him, Oh man Robotics Lets be honest, I don't even know how to write this. Where's my sides?! WHERE'S MY SIDES. You don't get SIDES with this; It's just CHICKEN. I don't eat CHICKEN. It appears as though, however– You do. Ok, I gotta get off this playlist. I… i gotta . “The Wal*Mart Wars” Hm. … …………. …. *face* … no. No. l– What is this place. {After a wild night which apparently spiraled out of control, great , there goes my peace. Not forever, though, maybe. FUCK THIS PLACE. I HATE THIS PLACE. Everybody hates this place. But the album is called “I love New York” Yes, thats Technically How it's pronounced, though It's stylized like I _ NY Cause. EXT. MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. DAY Oh, wow, this is beautiful. THis is great. I love this place FUCK THE FEDS. CUT TO: EXT.Typically WHEREVER ELSE Anywhere ‘above' like 87th? Lets just call it 80th, be safe. BE SAFE! NIGGAZ. ah shit, i gotta go. BITCH– But lets just be honest, It's technically ‘above' But it's really [THE BRONX is a literal extension of the Underworld] Oh no. srsly tho. X_c Anyway. FUck man, Do you think i'll ever get good like that. Idk what equipment is this Hmm, lets see, that's approximately $8,000 USD of CDJs wow yep That's retarded Yep. And you still need a mixer. fukt. OKay, I would literally sell my soul for this. Consider it done. wait , really? YES. you earned it. Wait, I– What?! You earned it… Uh oh. Take care now. Shit. [BILLIE ELLISH is trapped inside WALMART] Uh oh. Fuck. what is this place. INT. WALMART. WHENEVER EMPLOYEESLAVES WHAT TIME IS IT. THERE'S NO WINDOWS IN HERE. That's not funny IT'S literally a synonym, we might as well make it a portemantau MEanwhile, in this other dimension, So that i don't offend anybody… Actually, you know what? Be offended. Quit that stupid fuckin shit and follow your dreams! Wait really? Wait, really? Sure! If you want! …i guess. AMERICA NO. INSTANT HOMELESSNESS ok , nvm. Damn. I know, right. wtf r u guys watching. Shut up. All Wal*Mart Employees are actually top secret government agents. x ∞ >.< (we'll just use Billie Ellish as the alternate, but really it could be Could it really? Shut UP, PLURNICORN. Wtf is a PLURNICORN We'll see. [Upon Realizing s/he is trapped in a mysterious place apparently extremely public Wait, you've never been to a Wal*Mart Before?! NO. I grew up in LA Rich as fuck And i've been famous since I was liike 12, Or something. Right. That is–kind of terrifying. LATER: WHY IS IT SNOWING INSIDE. WHERE'S THE EXIT. THEY HAVE GUNS?! oh wow, they have GUNS. WHY DO WE NEED GUNS! KA-BLAM. BECAUSE THEY HAVE GUNS. Bang-bang! Ptttttttttt—sttt. And they have guns. Actually, these are just– confetti cannons. *pop!* Lol “Possibly The Worst Show Ever the infinite rave continues on in Hell as everyone awaits the return of SŪPACREE- The Cosmic Avenger (Who Is NOT a DJ) and Sunnï Blū (who is a superstar rapper but also not a DJ) go back to back, buying time as the beacon to. Signal "The Supacree" is completed, battling the 10th dimensional DJ Ū, a super ninjas, for control of the decks. what else happened? idk. I CANT STOP DANCING. none of the DJs can find a pair of working headphones, and the sound guy is missing from the booth. "missing" YOU SHOT HIM. I THOUGHT IT WAS A TRANQ DART. {Enter The Multiverse} “TVP” Hazel is 6, turns 7 season 1 Season 7- 15 Man, I can't remember the other two kids names, I think the little boy is Ira but I might have named them all and forgotten, shit. Her sister, though is between 4 ½ and 5, they are technically “Irish twins”, and always fighting—they look very similar, however are not at all alike; Hazel is very much a daddy's girl, while her younger sister is a no-nonsense old soul with the tendency to cause trouble, not by being inquisitive or showy, as her sister often is, but rather by being quietly observant, and tends to dismiss both her parents, often isolating, or even dissappearing without notice, quietly and comfortably into her own world—as the series progresses, and though all of Patrick's children like their parents have showcased some kind of special ability or talent— Holy shit, give this kid a name-/ I thought I already named her, I just don't remember. That's true. It seems like they all had names. She is almost very typically, though showing signs of genius, even at the early age at the beginning of the series, a middle child, prone to upset almost too easily, but rather than acting out, is more likely to take her anger quietly; she shares her fathers deep brown eyes, dark hair, and though she looks otherwise very much like her sister, and later despises her father, is more inwardly and outwardly like him, though taking the side of her mother during their separation and divorce, oftentimes even lashing out at her father quite openly, and very vocally, as she grows into herself. “Ira”, (may have had another name earlier) is the youngest of three— as his third birthday approaches sometime during the first season. Great, now I gotta hide all those allegories so nobody can actually draw from this that Patrick— Where's his write up, anyway? That shit could go on for days. I have no idea why this catharsis is happening. I tried to sleep it off, I swear, but I still woke up like— At least mildly obsessive about this, for whatever reason. Hazel's 7 - Season Arc Hazel has the eyes, charm, and charisma for entertainment —she hopes to one day be as her father, an entertainer and performer, and will do almost anything for a laugh. She is often telling jokes, and is a people- pleaser. She is sickeningly cute, with golden hair and Hazel eyes, long eye lashes, and carries baby fat in her face, though she is rather average, neither heavy or plump, and however also not frail at all. She is inquisitive, smart, and busy, almost never idle-minded, and strong. Though sort of a Tom boy, she has been trained well to act with dignity, class, and feminine eloquence, much like her mother—but like her father, has a tendency to be crass, sometimes carelessly so, or even brutally honest—to her mother's disdain, but embraced wholesomely by other family members and adults, she's extremely funny and delightful, and very much unlike her mother, not a spoiled brat at all, often raising questions beyond her years about inequality, later wishing to attend a public school, and becoming quite the advocate for social justice and human rights in her later years, her final season shows a rebellious and sometimes even antagonistic Hazel, who later even favors Esha over her own mother as a parental figure, often confiding in her about things she can't and shouldn't share with her father, although her almost over the top admiration for her father has become the driving force and inspiration for her own endeavors in show business, much to her father's disdain, as she grows older, him becoming more protective of her, and especially within the oftentimes secretive nature of his actual placement and purpose in the business, and her rebellious nature and charm even force-feeding her into the industry, she is a bleeding heart for superstardom, and is often seen along what may be a path to fame, making Patrick's bleeding heart all the more aching, as though he and Catherine remain at odds throughout the series, he truly loves his children, even “the little sick one”, as he refers to the second child. Holy shit, what is this kid's name If I had the energy to go through my notes, I could know; but I don't. The city sickness has been sinking in from the noise of the obnoxious motorists and honestly, being out of protein is giving me muscle soreness, I'm in some sort of a bloated haze from eating almost nothing but carbs, and the fact that I haven't been with anyone in years is starting to circle like buzzards around my head, my heart has been literally screaming but overwhelming with this sense of calm, and though slipping into Patrick's sometimes erratic tendencies, for the most part I've been underwhelmed with society's expectations that I should get some kind of job, and somehow while working not lose focus on my own interests and projects—I hate [the strange modern behaviors of] most people, and everything costs too much money— my son might be going into foster care, or my ex husband is evil enough just to try to force my energy to worry about a problem he's created, and I really wanted to sleep into the afternoon with this lethargy, hoping that everything surrounding this series would just fall off, but it doesn't. I wake up often wishing I could just forget The Festival Project ™ , but the truth is, it just keeps writing itself, but in the very least, sometimes God gives me little presents that mean the very most to me— a chord organ that I thought was from the 80's, but is more likely from the 1960's— I love vintage stuff, and musical instruments, which only God could know, really—my fascination with history as if I'm still living it, and this, my sudden fascination and drive to write and complete just one series has been haunting me almost just as badly as anything else has, but especially ripping me apart—especially since I have motorcyclists ripping through my body as if it were some kind of disease that existed outside of me, so contagious that it began to sink in to my insanity and mental hygiene. I wondered if anybody else knew or cared about these creatures as much as I didn't—and in fact, I had never felt so much like Ali in the way that I didn't care if they, other “human beings” supposedly, all died tragically, and wondered why the walls and windows didn't keep out the sound of the outside world at all… The middle child begins writing secretly very early on, and is the first to be required more extensive therapy, (as suggested by the family's therapist) after her parent's separation and subsequent divorce. It is not long after she begins learning to read and write at all, that she begins also showing interests in art, asking for art lessons and to begin painting and art therapy, rather than the recommended Equine therapy— she often keeps things to herself, then returning to her hidden places at times when the family's dysfunction becomes uncomfortable and overstimulating, very often paining or reading during times of peace, and retreating to her safe places—sometimes under the stairs, into the attic, the treehouse, or even later, the family's barnyard, where she often keeps drawings, as she ages, later comics, sometimes caricatures of the things she absorbs through her own reality—and diaries, sometimes hidden in nooks and crannies and in places no one would think; a true prodigy and genius, though hidden from much the world, as she is often overlooked, however, her therapist begins unfolding her true reality, often times carrying over sessions and losing track of time, picking her brain or even conversations philosophically What's the therapists name? Doctor Robin She has to have a last name Well, she's a child's therapist, so she's Doctor Robin, but It seems like it starts with a T. We'll see. I just saw her anyway. I drifted off again, thinking about how wildly detailed this all was becoming, and wondered if there was a series of fictional books waiting to be written. There certainly could be, but my mind was reeling, freshly showered but still undressed, and not even wanting to think of going outside—and yet—I was out of water, and had learned that the drinking water from the fountains, especially in large quantities, had a tendency to make me sick—I hadn't yet eaten anything, and though the coffee was fresh, and my apartment was clean (which made me overtly overjoyed for some reason) smelling of Lemon Lysol and Bleach; with notes of a strong pot of organic fresh ground coffee, it seemed like I couldn't do much more than lay in bed writing this catastrophically interesting series—and it was interesting, which said volumes, considering I had always been picky about my TV watching, being that only ever did certain series catch my eyes or my ears, and those series were almost always—or always, always specifically well written, perfectly casted, and had the edge and draw of becoming an entire world within itself, which this series, though only a week or two old at best, in my heart and in my mind , was rampantly ravaging my own world, almost as if it had become of some importance to keep writing it, and never stop, and though Patrick was the forefigure, another broken male protagonist, the truth in the series was that the true heroes of this sometimes scarily violent drama, were its women—a story meant to be told with a diversified cast of creatures from all worlds and walks of life—Esha, of course, herself, a role that had been some recreation of myself, somehow, though so different that even primarily, I never did see myself as her, besides the onslaught of some otherworldly pain, visions of a scene recollected from some remarkable download, and it might have been once and for all that I had lost my mind, or my life, if I wasn't a writer—I was, somehow, though, after all, a writer. It had been a fasting day that could have and might have ended tragically anyway, and still the devil marked his mockery of my efforts by consistently flinging perfect bodied women everywhere that I went—though usually with ugly enough faces that I could see nothing but what a man was—uncaring for one thing over the other, a flawless representation of woman, represented in the current time with scantily clad fashion, almost painfully so—the insecurity of women becoming more apparent in the way she would appear, always almost begging to be near to me, with every perfection and complexion I hadn't—but at least I had a tendency to laugh at my own damage, often surmising that she, these demon creatures, hadn't any talent for this at all—which had turned the state of television into a near circus act; that alone urged me to continue writing the series, perhaps with a typewriter, due to the negligence of nepotism within the industry which often resulted in these pretty little creatures getting even further ahead by stealing works as such, and passing them on as their own originality almost so cruelly and without judgement—plagiarism, as it was called, but more accurately intent-to-kill the imminent threat of what had been said to be a minority becoming a more powerful force to flourish in entertainment however, as quickly as the visions had come, the thought of writing it without my phone became dauntingly impractical, and I scribbled only the most intense scenes and plot lines onto notebooks and scratch papers, keeping them as hidden from the algorithm as possible… lol the Al Gore Rhythm Ahahahahahahaha Was that the joke? Maybe. Idk. Maybe. Idk. Hm. Hmmmmm: What: Nothing. That actually might have been it. Really, was it? I will never know. That is kind of a good dad joke, though. And a good band name. Idk about that. My coffee was lukewarm enough so that I could taste its flavor, as I whittled away at whatever it was— The story was almost so beautifully being told in allegories and parables that it seemed a shame I may never be rich enough to buy fame, as it seemed that was the only way to become a star these days— and yet—it was more the wealth than the fame I wanted, I had realized, at all—the polished class of the Manhattanites drawing me out of Brooklyn and into some debauchery which was my own Grandiose thought form, that I could actually become, at the ripe old age of 31, some kind of superstar. ‘Why would I even want that, anyway?' I thought, interrupted painfully by who I'm sure was the same motorist, who seemed to do nothing but circle the block all day, and all night, doing nothing — and I wondered why he himself had decided not to do grub hub in a richer neighborhood, where money would more than likely come more easily. But really— I drifted off to a time where I wanted to ride a motorcycle myself, and the curiosity forced me to go online to check the price of what it might cost to have one. $5,000 for a decent bike, which would include a muffler as not to be so obnoxious and disturbing to others as these creatures had become to me— and I began doing the math on how long it would take to save $5,000 as if it would be possible to work some dead end job for any amount of time without spending money on anything else. It would take at least 5 months to earn enough for a motorcycle, which landed me directly back at “Not worth it”, and as horrible as it was, I did at the very least have a luxury apartment for at minimum the next 5 years, however, wanting still to move to Manhattan, Midtown specifically—or one of the quaint and quiet neighborhoods on the upper West Side. The neighborhood was going to hell, after some unworldly godless force had seemed to drop hundreds of thousands of rude and thoughtless third world workers onto the streets and buildings bordering the one I lived on, the neighborhood becoming more rough and less peaceful with trash and debris from the depression and congenital disease that was poverty, the collective unconsciousness of the masses colliding with my empathetic nature and oversensitivity to sound, especially awful sounds, such as the hundreds of motorcycles and hot rodded junk cars which only seeemed to move in a track around a four block radius, and had become a cancerous trigger of sorts, no authority figure seemed to much care about. I cared less and less each day to listen to music, since I wasn't making it the way I wanted to—and I had realized that the constant displeasure and unrest, the lack of peace had as much to do with the world outside as it did with the world within—and I began to see the disgusting obnoxious noise pollution outside my window as just an extension of man's abuse, ability to rape, torture, and kill, terrorize— the uncaring waging of war, control, and lack of true power; as no good and true man who wielded actual strengeth or true power in any way would continue to show such distructive action and carelessness for others around him— chaos, corruption, abuse, and misogyny was proving to be the downfall of all humankind, as patronaged by man, and, as I became doubtful of anyone's lack of understanding of this, especially as the immigrants themselves were often naturally pedophillic culturally and toxically abusive in nature, most migrants flocking from countries in which women's liberation or the protection of youth had not yet materialized into their understanding of conciousness and morality—the men were weak, unkind, and selfish—the women mere machines at their disposal—and however many there were, I could see that their children, the many of them, remained as the redeeming factor. Anyway, a political ploy for the ages of there ever was such a thing, the newest chapter in American greed and slavery, it only seemed like an extension of evil itself, and less of a coincidence with each growing day—each new person, another burden to the middle class taxpayer, another reason to inflate the cost of living—and all the more reason to continue to terrorize the American people into its own division, hatred, demise, and consumption. e. My faith, however, was unwavering—God was real, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's —ahem— “Ron Sennet, and I ain't In it.” —did the say “don't” write a book about me? It's Not about him… Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's Jon Sennet, and I ain't In it.” Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear as soon as I had made the call, which infuriated me. It seemed as though the game in entirety to make me look or feel crazy, though I knew I wasn't—well, I was, but not without purpose or reason. I had been theorizing in energy exchange quite decisively making a mark for my alter, at which I asked to be designated the wisdom and truth of the light within the eye, desire, however never in mind, although I had been summoned in part due to the fact that wenwere somehow alike—I was in some ways besides and out of sorts with my set, sinking my teeth into the forced obsession as I unraveled any possibilities and plotline. Episode 01. Pilot An opportunity presents itself seemingly at random— the protagonist's hand is forced into a life changing ultimatum, putting his reuputation and family in danger. Already involved in an illegal gambling ring which operates out of a secret historical prohibition era speakeasy and some “light” drug mulling within its walls, however often extending even as dangerously close to his workplace, Patrick is propositioned to become an investor in the high end escort service, with which he hired and contracted his lover, Kandi, a “rescue” whom he supports in her exchange for exclusivity, to remain as her only client, however, although he begrudgingly declines, wishing not to be involved in anything much more than what he has already kept under the radar, he is intimidated and threatened by blackmail, his high profile becoming at stake—he then obliges to embark upon this new endeavor, the expansion of this establishment to include a warehouse, which houses a large scale brothel, and, able to use his social status to procure wealthy clientele, quickly becomes a power player within a ring of coveted elites, setting fire to his already inflated ego, and colliding with his intense and highly functional polyaddiction, which he has maintained since his youth, using his entertainment persona as an outlet, becoming a medium of excess, fame, and rampant wealth. Patrick is beloved by his peers, and is humbled often by his devoted fans and friends—proactively worshipped as a comic genius, a prodigy, and a revered successor to legendary frontmen— Okay, this is weird, because I started writing this before I even understood what I was writing at all… —specifically, the sixth successor, to his coveted role. I had written for Esha to be the seventh successor, as with the symbolism deeply and quite literally woven into the sometimes brutal framework of the series, which I had shorthanded to ‘TVP'…the world around me trailed off as my eyes blurred as they had been lately, and I wondered if I might be having some kind of stroke or something, as I was certainly some sort of out of body—the day had been strange, and I had given up on a run or a gym for the day, the motorcycles alone ravaging my energy, and whether I worked out or not, they were everpresent anyway. They were some sort of toxic, abusive force I just had to put up with, hoping it didn't upset my psychology so much that it ended me, though I had become quite odd as of recently, rambling more than usual and actually praying out loud, as my silent ones just didn't seem to be working—they were probably white supremacists, or in some way connected to some political terror group, but it didn't seem to matter. Someone liked torturing me, and it was becoming apparent that no matter much time I spent at the gym, this torture was going to persist. After a month long gym streak, at least going once a day to lift something, I rested, or rather, tried to rest, kind of— but my mind had been swirling with thoughts of a man I was certain by now I had made up—and writing the story of a man I was absolutely certain came from my mind, but in a way that it almost made no sense at all—as the more I looked into the world that I had already written about, the more I realized was accurate without first having known these things, and however cursed I might have been to even know such things, I decided to call it some sort of blessing instead. ‘God, I used to get so fucking high for days, and when I would come down, just crying and crying, eating Totinos or DiJorno and a bag of Bugles, I would watch Saturday Night Live for fucking hours, and I hated [Redacted]. I hated him.' Now I still hated [Redacted], but in a different way, and though really it was myself that was more like Patrick, he at the very least, for whatever reason, used to have his face—now, he was just Patrick, and [Redacted] was just [Redacted], and i knew entirely too much about it all, and about myself to be comfortable with it, but nothing was comfortable at all. I had written entire atrocities, novels, and all that was some conglomerate of nonsense which was the festival project, besides how insanely and innately prodigal it all was sometimes, my own words confusing me with a bizzare and asenine dysfunction, awe, actually, often as if someone else had written them, and although I was always at least sort of semi-concious while writing, the spells and cadences I would fall under were some sort of trance, and as I watched the Nirvana rehearsal from Saturday Night Live in 1992, long before [Redacted] or any of the rest of the — Was it Keystone? It was, the Keystone cast of SNL, but the first word my mind had jumped to was Hallmark, which—after referencing Google quickly for a fact check, also stood true. I was willing to admit, even now, though I had long lost interest in Saturday Nighy Live, or anything at all having to do with current events, that the [Redacted] era—or rather even, the Tina Fey era, a true role model, perhaps, and someone I favored over all of the performers I admired, or allowed myself to admire— the Golden Years of Saturday Night were the only years, for me that even mattered— trying to make sense of anything couldn't be done, but I at least had this new project birthed from it to think about. It would be hard to sit down at a taping of The View and not think about all I had written at all, and it would be impossible not to unfold the characters which had presented themselves, though slowly but surely, through the most vivid visions and insanely lucid dreams, as The TV People began to What if someone steals this out of my documents? That would be unwise…the best scenes are somewhere scribbled in my notebooks and random scraps of paper somewhere in my room…this series is almost nothing without those scenes—the elements with which the most painful scenes I had ever written, became word form. ‘I don't know why, but I feel so incredibly high, So incredibly high right now…' They could have been words to a song, but I did feel high as a kite for whatever reason, without the actual kite metaphor quite literally dagling over my head, for once, or at least, it had been a few weeks, not a prominent as is was before. I sat soaking in the tub teetering on the possibility that I should actually even watch The Tonight Show, or whatever it was, to set my mind at ease, a betrayal of my own code—as one does not literally feed its obsessions into insanity on purpose. ‘Perhaps, though', I thought, ‘I could get rid of this.' — A cancerous abscess in the tradegy that had become my own sex fueled, rage driven, racing mind—and rather admittedly, it was almost too late, for anything of the sort, as I hadn't any other place to keep the growing world of The Television People any quieter, than within the monstrous algorithm which was Google documents cloud, where it seemed nothing was safe, and anything could be fabricated into reality after being stolen, by someone rich enough to make it happen, however, never being any better than my own disaster of a creation. And it was, a disaster. He was a comic genius, a professional, and spectacular performer— in actuality, I knew nothing if not anything at all about him, and the more I collected, the more interesting I found myself, actually, bemused that I seem to have found some sort of twin, another synchronizatic nightmare—if only that I made it to be so, unbelieving yet that I was in some kind of fairytale, though it had become some sort of fantastical and adventurous thing, this what I now refer to as ‘the allegories,'. I must have been something parasitic to the industry, with the tendency to latch on and ride out whatever had become a faciniation, but it wasn't, in its sense of origin, like anything before— it was something new, in the ways that it was, and something old at the same time—though needing to fall drastically from The Tower without actually doing so, putting a stop to my unlimited creation became a pertinent priority, as even exercising, meditating, and chronic masturbation tended to exacerbate it, as if I was missing a step in transmutation of this foreign substance— an energy which seemed familiar, but also wasn't. I was receiving downloads several hours at a time, and drifting off into spells and trances of inspiration so heavily that it seemed counterintuitive to call it off, fearing I might lose the intensity of the plot and its characters, and they were that: just characters. It had taken days to erase Patrick's face into a blank state to restore him from that of his namesake, but now everything was a blur, the allure of scrapping it all to return to making music was upon some sort of dawning, but not yet arrived. I allowed whatever came to mind to flow freely from my fingertips, even if it felt bizzare—and even if it felt bizarre, it never felt wrong at all. ‘Unfortunate, that.' , I thought crossing one leg over another to complete my chapter before draining the tub. I promised myself long ago to always pray for my own son, before worrying about another celebrity, whose fame and fortune protected them more than I ever seemed to protect myself or my own—nonsense, but a strong sense of remorse, as I had been painted as wicked, in a sense, just for being kept poor, separated from my son, and left in a world without love at all; My project, a keepsake of the hard work I had done; but had not yet been paid for—and the fear was in the understanding that that money might not ever come, that I would never be a mother, a muse, or anything or anyone else I actually wanted. I thought briefly again about just getting a dog—but I only had 45 dollars, aside from the unmarked Jimmy Fallons, I had placed atop an alter on my kitchen counter, wondering how to multiply them into something I wanted—and that had been the start of the game or the project at all— saving my last dollars and spending them at once, with the hopes and wishes that they would become somehow much larger quantities, returned as good karma for the love I had given, but that had not yet come back, in one form or another. ‘He seems miserable, the poor bloak.' , I thought—and with all that I had known to have come with fame and fortune along with the luck, he probably somewhere, somehow was—but my concern was my son, turning the mere dollars somehow from one's into bundles of hundreds, thousands, and maybe even one day a whole million or more. That was the push behind the project at all—breaking the cycle of the poor black single mother, the story that had been told over and over-/ with stories that had not; the stories that had become [The Festival Project™]# Sai Psy. See you in seven years, then. You're so silly— I'm not going to live seven more years. We'll see about that. You will see. I'll be dead. So I'll be dead. So it is. A summer hiatus, Vacations in Prague, yes Let's pray for the rest of us A sign of the times and a coming of ages Who made you famous again As the rest of us I don't like it As much as I'd like to Keep writing Keep finding the reason to die and you're blinded by kindnesses And I ams I woke up in the 9th dimension, As an infinite friend Familiar with my kitchen JOHN SLATTERY An interesting thing happened this morning. What's that, John? I woke up as John Slattery Just remember what love holds The death of a salesman, rechargeable batteries This walk could take forever in designer jeans Another day in slave hell The controllers controlling And Satan is Sataning Seems like a time to go clubbing It's a simple kind of depression Resting on your head when All you simply wished is the taste of flesh The freedom of skin And the lather of love— Or blood spatter on the pavement Aim for the head If the door's fixed, then we'll break it again Look what greed does I hate lazy days in Manhattan Cause I've never had one What happened on the way to the forum I was starstruck; Five finger death punch Right in the heart I wish I was punctual Right on time for lunch Don't you want to talk to someone more pungent? Don't you got models to robot? Don't you know I never want to hurt you But you know, I'm going to hurt you. You know I'm going to hurt you Now, the review: Sooner or later, I fall over your world Good dudes in drags Good food for thought I'm a dog With the wrong parts You should take Kanye to the mall With a migrants lanyard (The migrants are anarchists! Good one, God) This one goes to. | this one first, from— Which one are you ? I guess we are one in the same It's a famous radio tower Live up to your name Go sell your flower for flour As I stand at the jumping point Eye on Manhattan, The wind beneath my wings Distracting myself from the mansion I haven't The mason jars I ought to buy for bargain The brain and brain cereal I left at the market I used to love Brandy Now I just wish I was something, awesome Now I just wish I was something, awesome Now I just wish I was something, awesome “The Album I Wrote On My Way To The Rock To Return Amazon Purchases No Longer Wanted” That's a really long album title. I didn't imagine I'd write this much Just trying not to imagine this man in his under pants, Or what have you (I'm just a fan) I'm just a dad hunched over in the bathroom Must have been the magic of my backhand, backfired Must have come untied and undone, under the rainbow Must be on my way to Manhattan For some blacklist event. Where I'm from The A List Is a face No name needed “Oh, I know who you are” If I purchased a car today I might get done paying it off By my 81st birthday. Shady. If I had a penny for every mistake I made, I would probably be Nameless. If there was a namesake to lay me into my grave, it would make sense; Yes, let's move the train for a moment With the doors still open. — I'd like to watch what happens. So what happens when the sun comes up On the only body you've ever known And no one wants it What happens with a dude named Starr Punches you over and over again And then no one loves you (That's starstruck, your honor) What happens when granted a pardon for passions And everything happens after is magic What happens when all you want is to go manic To finish the album And just feel good again What happens when the algorithm has Al Gore in it? What happens when the rhythm in blues is just the attraction of random black men and their concubine counterparts? Huh, what happens! What happens, Kanye? What happens, The God? What happens when all that you want is a disgusting assumption of… No on can trust you And nobody loves you Since it was simply a tryst Put this at a distance. Where did my energy disappear to! Where in the fear is my other earring? Fuck. Be somewhere, anywhere else but your office, for the moment. Be anyone but a mother, Anywhere but your apartment— It hurts, the construction. Someone doesn't something Nobody knows nothing about me, But what I put in this casket (This podcast) Oh hey, I got fuck muscles from fuckin myself now! I feel like I'm gonna die if I don't have sex! For real! Heal, Oh great dragon, HEAL, BITCH. Word. woof for the world Will for the wolf; Rain on the roof. Cobain don't have a God (Or a Gun, if you wanted that one) “Pull me up, God, I'm done under here” He called in I followed the fosters to farrow And got better I got better and bitter much quicker and Never in bed had I been as flexible As to kiss his chest As I kicked my own neck With my left foot. What the fucking fairyshit is that? There, I fixed it. Fixed what. I don't know what. But I fixed it. I know, huh! So be 110 and flexible Powerlift tectonic plates Do Pilates And make waffles!? Alright, I can do that But only as Jennifer Aniston I'd like to take back that Fallon I bought at the black market He's broken. I like his band tho— The one on the left hand, Over the damaged one. Are you on to that? Says the sayer, Son of Sam So Sai the sage Sets the stage Is that the plan? Never fall for a man, Even over an alter And tied by the hands. All I see in my initials initially is B Minor 16 might be minors, guys But she's creaming to find you At the front lines Life of a superstar DJ At the cross roads Or the turnstiles How do you turn bile into Beguiling Without rifling a few feathers Or looking into the eye of the rifle And dying first Don't you let that tear fall from you onto the M Train. I'm just training for fame And hating you every day Since we made it Love Get out of my way, Satan I'm staying I'm saying your name sake insanely Please break me Like a chicken leg Or just shake me from this existence Since I don't seem fit for it Anymore than I fit that Givchechy dress you gave that blonde, right? Am I dying! Or just dying inside Fuck coughs If you want him enough to—Use black magic To do that to me, wait till it falls back on you, You gross hag If God hates fags as much as he hates blacks We should fly flags over the haggis I made Alice When she's back from her adventures in wonderland No wonder you're a Monro Crossed over from O'Fallons It's an old warfare with two clans From the old countries With no borders Or border collies Laboradores And labirites, likely As Aphrodite is to smite me So here comes DJ Francis With his new black girlfriend Just kidding We all know in his world It's cold and broken With nothing but blue eyes And big wild to look over you Bro, standing up is not going to make this train go anywhere. I almost promise you. Turns out there's no such thing as a quick trip to The Rock. Turns out you'll sit stuck in your own sick God as my witness For screenshotting those ass pictures —that's somebody's kids, dick. tick tok has no limits. VO Of course, The day and time I should have to go to Rockerfeller Plaza quickly, quietly and unseen, the train is magically destined not to move. I've been sitting here at least a half hour, with no end in sight— [The doors close and the train begins moving.] Hahaha! Fucking hilarious, God. I've been avoiding The Rock like the plague— Not that I think anything would happen at all upon arrival— who am I, anyway? Nobody important. There she goes. Still, I've written enough about it, and the people inside and around it, That the place makes me nervous. More nervous than ever, that is, actually— I always felt weird in the place. [flashbacks] When I first got to New York, I would end up there on accident. Completely by accident. Lost. Faulty navigation. Hackers: Whatever. I always just— By complete fucking accident Ended up at Rockerfeller Plaza The city slips over us, as the train sinks back underground — I'm facing the city now, As not to be reminded of my abuser's toxic words and toxic hands, By dirty white Nikes and Jansport backpacks Still, etched into the subway walls Are two stars, which remind me to repeat the mantra: Starr Michael Roberts is a pedophile wifebeater Less of a mantra than the truest words ever spoken, But that's all the shape of a five point star means to me now or will ever mean to me And to think, The American flag has 50 of the 50 wife beating pedophile men On a red white and blue flag That waves just to remind me I was born a fat ugly black woman To be a slave And there's no one to save us I want to senselessly beat the man in the dirty white Nikes and Jansport backpack Just like I was beaten senselessly by the man called Starr, The devil in disguise as my first love Still trying to chase my soul from its dream Back into his nightmarish under realms of unhygienic hatred, vomit stained rugs And piss stained couches, Phlegm on the walls and Nothing on but Diablo And old episodes of The Sopranos. —but I still love The Sopranos; And I still love my one and only Good thing that ever happened From an awful marriage That buried me wonder what's on this side of the train to write Maybe nothing Nothing I like, anyway Some guy that just thinks i'm some ugly black bitch Of course All the white rich dudes Are horrible I miss the poor surfers Blowing blunts and wishing they was with blondes, With me tucked under their arms I need a tummy tuck to find love Goddamn, I'm miserable just sitting here At least I get a glance at her The tattooed God With the pink hair Where's Wanda Sai the Saige Don't say ahit Unless its music Sai the Saige says Turn the page For more sermons Sai the Saige sings her words carefully Writes forwards for whole books in four words Four worlds down, Now four more. That's a world tour. Lil biiiiiiitzzz Bro, I might never have sex again. There's a new STD on the loose And patient zero is a white man from New York in his 30's FUCKING GROSS. Where's wanda Where's Waldo Ah FUCK I got your wallet WHATS WRONG WITH YOU. SOMETHING which one are you?! Nothing, nobody. Sunni?! I'm not Sonny, you're Sonny. I'm not— Don't say it Whatever Where is it? Where's what? The rock You're on the rock! I that's not — Stop it what I meant! Which one are you— Who are you 8mm I'm the cosmic— Whatever the fuck. Gimmie the rock Get off of me I think too much I think I have a disease I think too much But I don't think much of me It's just as much as I want A three musketeers bar, That's far fetched For a vegan With 12 dollars in the budget For the rest of the month Goddamn. One down 20 to go Call someone To take your husband Home I'm drunk I'm stuck in this thought At the bottom of the rock Damn. 8 always/ eight ways to get lost here Not today though, I hope Follow the smell of coffee — the open doors This the stairs— — up a couple stories. Muscle memory, I— Wait. Are there stairs to the top of the rock? I would walk them. Shazam, what's this lame ass fucking song? Ugh, at least I have muscle memory. OUCH. COME ON. OUCH. Come with me. Ugh. I have so fucking much to do. *I have so much fucking to do. Okay, now what do I do? Just jump! That seems like a bad idea. It's the only idea you've got. That's not even my idea! —but it's the only idea you've got! OKAY, I've got an idea! What's it? Wtf, I've never even seen this many people here. What is this, a field trip? GODDAMIT JUST JMP. i can't, I'm scared! Okay. Then I'll push you. No don't *push* helicopter: fluh - fluh- fluh- flh THERE HE IS— WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! AGHHHHHHHH. GIANT BIRD OF PREHy- SNATCH. GODDAMN Turn SIM down Okay, how much. Just a little How's that That's better. Okay. Look, I am not interested in you. I get that, Jimmy Fallon. I am just doing my job, okay. I get it, Jim. Okay?! Do you understand. I understand. Okay? Okay. Okay. So what is your job, exactly? I keep my mouth shut, Hands fisted misdirected, But staying on track Thank god they put this shit here Hands in my pocket equals words undocumented I can't help but to admit I almost wasn't even writing before this Now fast forward Every time I'm under this, it feels like I'm already in my own show or something Of course, I used to love a good revolving door Shit I used to love at all Man! I hate the rock! Why. Cause fuck Jimmy Fallon, that's why! why?! CAUSE. Look, the you from the other dimension should be coming around that corner any minute. Okay, for what. To use the restroom. Make sure she They: What. Me is a “they” Whatever. I love the rush of death telling me to jump as the oncoming train approaches from behind me I could be blinded by the light. Look, 6'3 God knows what I need And that makes history Make sure when you — when she —- —goes into the bathroom, find Fallon and give him the— I know what to do. Alright, YO. NO. LEAVE ME ALONE. I'm married with a family! I don't find you attractive! At all! I know that, asshole! I only want you for your fame and money! Wait, really? No, you handsome basta'd! Goddammit… Goddammit! Sunni!? I knew that was you! It is me—but the other me is somewhere, so take this—quickly back to the 4th dimension—- This is the fourth dimension! Wait, it is?! YES. What dimension did you think it was The 8th! The 8th?! THAT EXISTS?! yeah!!! Where the fuck are you from?! The third, I thought! Thank god, here's this fucking train. Well, fuck off, then! I gotta go find the 8th dimensional Jimmy Fallon! What! For what?! That's priveleged information Ascended extraterrestrials only, broh! Woah, woah, woah, don't “bro” me. I said “broh” What?! That's what I said— No, you said— Whatever. “Broh”,— —now you said it— —I'm coming with you— Don't be homo. —but, you're a woman, I thought. That's what's you think. That's what the tabloids said… You wanna know what the tabloids said about you? In which dimension? Right?! Now shut up. Come on. [they move quickly towards the— Towards the where? I don't know. I've only ever been at the bottom of the rock: I don't get it. If the antenna is on the top, Then why did my vibe go. GLUH. Sorry: No , that's a lot; what is that: —you really think I'm handsome? I think you're an asshole. I hate writing at the rock (Launching to onesel.) Wtf was that supposed to be (Laughing to one's self) Or (Lunching to one's self?) Or (Launching to— Fuck it, I don't know. You look ridiculous. At least i can just write it off to “Mental Health Problems” MEANWHILE Check it out. The devil is following me. What. Wanna see. What the FUCK is that? He wants my soul. WOAH. Yeah, cool, right. No! Yeah it is… What the hell happened I sucked him off once: You what. Calm down. I didn't know it was the devil. Holy! It's was un Unholy See. Damn Satan Youuuuuuu are fucking gross. Yeah. Nice tattoos though. I thought you'd like this. I do. Who's your body? Some drunk. The alcoholics are so easy. What about my soul. What about your soul, dude? Why doesn't he want my soul? He already has your soul. What?! I never sold my sold my soul. That's what you think. Oh, I get it Comcast owns Jimmy Fallon. Actually, Nancy Drew does, or whatever. What's her name Nancy! HUH- what!! DREW BARRYMORE. GET IN HERE!!!! woah. Okay. I gotta get back to the 90's. Why! I left my DREW BARRYMORE GODDAMIT. Sorry, JUST GET OUT. She is cute, though. She's so fucking cute. Hey, What. Put me on your hit list, For what. Cause. No way, dude. So it's this Nancy Drew Character Uh huh. Then Comcast Correct. Then NBC/Universal. uh-huh Then Lorne Michaels— Wait Correct. Fuck man. So you mean the portion of Jimmy Fallon I won in that game of 8 dimensional poker is pretty much nothin. It's pretty much— Worthless. Not worthless. What are you saying— I'm saying— I'm not a real woman I just saw a real woman With a long skirt And a body worthy of love Beautiful hair And face like porcelain Nothing upon the sleeves strewn in ink Petite I could never be a real woman Actually, you know what. I could have worn anything But I'm not showing up for anything at Rockerfeller Plaza dressed like my inner cumslut YOUR “INNER” CUMSLUT THAT WSS AWESOME I know, God. *belches juicy semen, slurps* You're—a fucking awful person, though, just awful. I know. Just—disgusting. Yeah, but— —that was the best blowjob I ever had Yep. *burps—slurps* ufgh. —and you swallowed all of it. I don't know how! Both: That's was so much! Haha yeah: Jinx! You owe me a blowjob. Okay! You're fucking gross. Yeah. Oh wow. That went deep. I mean, not really “deep” it went aural. *oral* I swear to god if you publish this POSTED DAMN. that dude is good looking. Why is he dating someone that looks like a mouseS Maybe he's into mouce face I guess. I'm into mouse face. [deadmau5] Be nice. Hey! What: what do you want That guys an asshole! Duh! Okay. I love white people But they're weird sometimes I was lookin at this dude on the train Like real hard, And I swear to God, I couldn't tell if that was his girl Or his twin sister I was like What I the fuck am I lookin at Idk but I like it It's almost refreshing to see sliders that aren't made of plastic or whatever awful material OH. CONAN O BRIEN YEAH. But mad young. That's— LUCIFER! Hahahaha what GET BACK HERE. DAMN. That's one good looking kid. Dammit dammit dammit A bunch of handsome white dudes I want nothing to do with It's true I do like the fame The power The respect The money, I could give or take Or make my own Just so you'll date me The power, I like The respect and the fame So your name came and went with the hour And the sunset I might take walk in the rain Because my body is ugly And I just want to be loved A husband Two dogs And pushing a stroller Of course, there's the part that just wants to have fun Get fucked up Love someone I trust enough To rub against Without a rubber Against the grain Our heads together He grabs the back of my neck And I just can't handle it Fuck. I love mad men— and I love men when they're mad Especially Fallon That's somebody's dad in the bathtub, yeah mate Somebody back at the opera Probably phantoms There you go You've got you a girl So grab her hand And hold onto her Don't let her know If you love or fuck someone else Just for the fun of it Don't break her head and her heart at the same time She might not come back from it Like I never did I never came back I was punched in the face maybe 5 Or like 6 times Before I got up, became Skrillex, went for a a run with the dogs And then did it again Never was god, though I got a lot of problems I love the waterfront But no one loves me I'm left in the lobby a lot Like Miley, in that one song I guess I'm destiny Or perhaps I'm your density Once upon a time, I walked here Once a upon a time, I worked here, Shout out to number six. This one is sung for you This verse undoes the hex. Remind me to get your mom hallmark card, someone uttered I fucking love her Remember to stop at the shopping carts before your long walk home Almost hoping you're soaked in the strange acid rain So hard You forget what your name is I spent a whole plot of a film Just trying to be famous Luckily, I think The Tonight Show stops taping in the summer, So with any luck, The real Jimmy Fallon is somewhere in Greece or some shit Rich assholes and their summer vacations— I'm guessing, But still unwavering in the back of my mind somewhere That no matter what, Whenever I'm at 30 Rock, I'm being watched. The entire cast of 30 rock is watching the legends saga in 3D, along with some of the keynote cast of Saturday night live— Don't be selfish I'm not. I don't know what else I used to watched that's owned by this media conglomerate ahem. SLASH/Universal. Oh, so we are doing this back to the future revamp depends, are you gonna keep being fat, Or be spry, like Marty McFly And just for the fuck of it, You're the new Hanson in the new 21 Jumpstreet Movie SUNNI BLU Aight, SUPA Dammit. TINA FEY Do you smell donuts. LIZ LEMON no, it's cookies Follow the smell of the cookies. I get it. I got it. Try to remain unseen! LOOK AT ME. I'M AT THE BASE OF A GIANT PE— COCK. LUTZ When's the action?! Notes: Chocolate man makes everything chocolate Okay. That's stupid. Chocolate! Chocolate! Uhhh—- TINA FEY What are you doing here?!? JIMMY FALLON I work here…what are you doing here? TINA FEY I have tenure JIMMY FALLON. *purses lips* [tina tries to hide the entire cast Reunion of late 90s/early 2000's SNL cast members behind her TINA FEY (Nervously) tah—uh; I thought you were on vacation. JIMMY FALLON *squinting under dark sunglasses* I redacted it. What does that mean? MAYA RUDOLPH (Munching popcorn, wearing overalls) I know what it means. Mm. What does that mean? I read the comics. CUT TO: I have something to tell you. Okay, what. It can't be over the phone. Okay. -31 Where the firefighters is? I got some propolis cough syrup for the stalkers Where is it! Where is what? You know what. What? From the fountain. It wasn't me! I don't have it. . . . . Now my days are shattered My heart is scattered Around down, Fowl feathers of the night owl Dancing in my head In given nightgowns Right now Put the candle out Put the light on Every night, I'm gone Wandering around In the eye of the camera, My orb Falcon turned to black panther I prance around in a dance robe Like a disaster Put it out there, Just so I can't go back Pass the cake Pass the butter Pass the late night hatred Pass away the day praying For the faithless And their fake friends, but I digress Once the cameras are rolling A job's to be done For the funny men of us Are undercover Dressing up the dead And most disgusting sinister The winded wonder bread apostles I am a robot god I am born again in acid rain Something changed me Here's to the late night I hope he hates me —I hope I'm right, at least I hate being right— But I'm always right. Right hand over my bathroom counter Stacked up attacks on the Muslims But I love em Or I want to Hot tub The doctor Don't worry, loser Viewerships down to two downloads According to the numbers My demographic is faggots and players of forenig I have a habit for magic Addiction to alphas, You know? I'm a God I'm a robot I was washed in the acid rain —- Take the back of my neck like an animal Yes sir Put my hair in your hands Pull me back, Like an animal Up the ante Up in the air is my ass In a past life I had to have you Now I stand I higher grounds I'm higher now Coming up next A deeper addiction Coming up next A deeper dicking John Wiccan Coming up next Change the channel, coming over Move em up The winners circle Then move over. I lit a candle for another lover A real one , With a body and mind The tide of my soul wants to know you Behold, way below deck Deep dick Imm in deep shit now Way below the belt Blow all my hole on the dope fiend Do you want to know me A piñata full of chocolate Ive got a new list And you're not on it Aagain with this Again with the What's in my head It's a letter said Never forget this Forget this Forget this Tell me how to be like this To get a man like that To get a real deep dick That's way below deck I should settle for less Just to get my head better Some medical man Or some meth Just to finish this project I could protect a protector with holes in his pockets, The proctor The trophy, Two daughters And another one Here's goes the show I'm way too old for this I just need one good Fred Again Who knows how to hide he's a man But conspired Admirers, You know what it is? A deep dick, man Way, below deck Way below the belt Get ahold of him Ring the phone again I been calling on Collin Coleen is more polished It's brother sister sameness, Same mess for the colonizer White on white is Right on right I'm just behind you Way under the bridge Belt around my head to make it better I'll see you in heaven Out of Manhattan Where trash is the precipice Never better Bodies in perfection Where it went And where it goes again I'll see you then So apparently— Shh Wrong document great! Now we gotta figure out why apparently— [JENNIFER ANNISTON has a vendetta against JIMMY FALLON] What. For WHAT?! Idk, what did you do to this bitch? What did I say?! What did you do?! JENNIFER ANNISTON I'm not finished with you, yet! WHAT? I don't know. Apparently, Goddammit. Wait. What. So he's a genius, right? Yeah, I guess. Which means he's like—socially inept in some kind of way…. Yeah! Yeah. Yeah. Oh yeah. Flashback: Like: the 90's, or whatever. …are you turning me down? Wait. So I just shapeshifted into J-Lo Before. Hello. hello: Yeah. We could have done it. Ew. But we didn't. Ew. I mean: Cut back to: Nobody turns me down! Not even me! Alright. There's something off about that dude. Maybe he's gay… Hm. He not gay. He very not gay. Hm. See, I knew it. He's a good guy! [REDACTED] He's a MONSTER! He's an ANIMAL. WOOOOOOOOOOF . Oh man, that guy is a WOOF. I'm a DOG. Skrillex? I'm a dog Heeeeeeeeeeee Baby Heeeeeeeeee Damn, this fools got a whole list of celebrity ass bitches —a list celebrity. CUT BACK TO I'M SUPER HOT. Hmhm. I know. Listen. Okay, Jennifer Aniston. Are you trying to fuck Jimmy Fallon?! NO! Okay, good. God no. That's— Wait, why NOT?! —I need way more than a million dollars. I knew it! It's about the money. It's actually not about the money. Wait, no, it's not? No. …then what is it? Yo. Okay, so Everybody likes his genetics. And I mean like FUCK IT, I WANT HIM. This one. I want this one! Right here. ICE CREAM. GET YOUR ICE CREAM. Okay, imm not supposed to tell you this but— What. I'm— JOHNNY CARSON LOOK AT ME. Ah, well, alright TAG, YOURE IT. DAMN, you're good. Okay, I'm stoned. Damn. I got a boner. Cool. JLO look at me . I see you. You do see me. You know why? …yes. I am a-list. I get that. That's priority level ho status. Uhhh—- Ben affleck. That's real?! Some other guy— This guy. Wait, But that Fallon motherfucker?! [Redacted] He turned me down! Hey, so, uh— No thanks. WHAT. *shrugs. * BITCH. Look, okay, I'm not touching this. Why NOT, His WIFE is CUTE. Dawwwe. Gangsta. Oh, no, you know what?! What? You're gonna write this— And you're gonna like it. Pass. PASS?! Yes. I am not going to attack Fallon. ATTACK. THINK OF THE KIDZZZZZZ. That is a nice midlife crisis. Yikes. Aaaaaahhh. Wow. What happened. I shifted Fallon. And then wa— I think I died. I'm dying. I'm dying. You're probably right. My right to write this Is your right to remain a public figure For this cyclical fan fiction I suck dicks for a living And inhale tlevision Schizophrenic sickness Illuminati, predictive Programmings I'm so spamming These hoes Hoping I slit writsts (Only my own though) So Most of the late night guys are Conviniently enough Irish In some way or another Probably because Predictive programming targets the demographic of Somewhat You know what?! Nevermind, I'm not writing this. I get it though. I think they're hiding something. Are you sure he's not even just a little Asian. Positive. Or like, adopted. No. Are you sure? I mean, for the the most part— They would never allow a— I mean— Just water it down host by host, Until the racists are too old To care who replaces him. Shiny. He is shiny. Yeah, um— Let's just face it; Either this dude Is the most perfect man ever Or he's secretly getting laid every week. What's so secret about None of these things. [redacted] Look, there's nothing protecting me from a malicious system, there's nothing protecting you from me writing about you; But hey, at least I'm staying away from The Rock For my own sake This equinox doesn't even have fucking free weights What the fuck! I need a break, What does that mean? The entertainment industry's been Using me for years At some point realizing My infinite creativity Comes from my Inability to have Actually Every really been Loved So. So. No love, then. Seems like it. What about these? Look. I like WHITE DUDES. WHIIIIIIITE. Not brown Not black Not slanted Not Asian, really? UGH. The only reason— —well, not the only reason— I even hated him in the first place is because he WAS so attractive He's breaking 4th wall! Again! Quit breaking character! I am. Stop it. Fuck you, Fallon. —that he just seemed like a douchebag. —is a douchbag! Always trust your gut. There's nothing—and I mean NOTHING that would make me pull up an episode of SNL with fucking FALLON in it. FUCKING FALLON! GODDAMMIT, Dude, let's just think back to a time before OOH. COLORS. THE COLORS. OH. FUCK. Yo dude. Fallon just kind of— Was everywhere for awhile, wasn't he? Yeah..: Yeah. For like, no reason. No reason at all. Yeah. He was just Everywhere I went Everything I saw On everywhere I was GODDAMMIT, For like FIVE YEARS, bro. That's nuts. This is nuts. This is famous. W What. How did he get that famous? Let me in. No, LET ME IN. NO. LET ME OUT. Can't. LET ME OUT OR I'll KILL YOU. Kill me. I don't care. What: I think I scared that man. He had a knife to my throat, and I thought I was done for; I might as well have been. I was homeless, penniless, trapped in North Carolina with nothing at all, no phone, and nobody at all that knew where I was. Nobody at all. I looked him in the eye, Dead on And I told him “Just do it.” Now tell me again what's wrong with me. I— Right. Stay in your lane. Wear your little blue fucking suit, your dress shoes, smile for the camera— And shut the fuck up. Cause if anybody's gonna kill me— It's gonna be me. N sync, it's gonna be me. GODDAMMIT JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. NOT NOW. Why not WE'RE HAVING A MOMENT No, we are not. Take it away, boys. So you wouldn't date— After Britney, bro? Awhs. [Tales of a Superstar DJ] Even if he wasn't married, I was too young for him—but not really— Something in me met in the middle and collided for my attribution to moral decency as if it were anything more than a plot line bustling in my head; and even that was arousing—Patrick and Esha were lovers, so passionate and star crossed that it was hard not to imagine them as I had first saw them//as us, but in a different world, a different lifetime; a love drawn so shaken with a kiss that shattered me, with visions of grief ingrained in my mortal being, and though somewhere he, this Fallon had captured my heart, these were all just actors, mere players upon a stage in which I had no business being on, or searching for; the whole world was in my head. Fuck it, I'm useless. I'm going go back to being useless, then. An idling motif at the end of the block reminded me, I would never be safe or loved again. This was the end of days, and the end of my days, and I only hoped to one day soon be relieved of life itself… [INFINITE HOWLING LAUGHTER LEAS BY TINA FEY AND JIMMY FALLON'S COLLEGUES, FRIENDS, and FORMER CAST MATES] *literally crying of hysterical laugher* Have you seen this? What it it? {Enter The Multiverse} I'm way too tired for a remix; All i really want is some fries that are french And some thighs that are thick Like mine to sit on like five or six dicks Pick up up like chopped sticks Tina Fey Amy Peohler or however you spell it Maya Rudolph Ratchel Dratch Kristen Wiig Kristen Shaal Melissa Mccarthy - might be the only non-SNL member The Cosmic Avenger Damn. That dude lost his whole name. He lost everything. So Wait, that's Eight. Yep. Who are the other two? Gimmie the pop tart movie Fir what. To laugh. I want to laugh. YEE hehe I ANT Weird shirtless overall pictures—- wtf is THIS. MAYA Ok, check this out. God, this is hideous. I think we might be related. Alright guys, I found it! Yes! Finally! The problem is— When I got there *sniffs* FALLON. —Fallon had already been there. Ah,Christ. How does he do that? By the power of CHRIST, I compel you!!! Oh shit, he is good at this. Uh, I gotta get going. Look, I'm gonna need some time. Alright. Just tell me, you'll consider this. Ok—my son. And please— Your secret is safe with me. God. Hm. We need your help. I'm “the help” “Father Knows Best” You know you're going to Hell for this. I do come home sometimes. Great, she missed it. Oh shit. Yep. And you're gonna— I'm gonna do whatever the fuck I want, with whoever the fuck I want. Why is there still deadmau5 in this— What's this. Pudding No, this is This is a really long episode of whatever it is, shutthefuck Uh oh. You know, we can't do this. There is absolutely nothing you cannot do. Absolutely nothing. Ok. You guys are all in here— —Somewhere. Yay! Yes! Elevatorsz! Except you. What. Stay out. WHAT. Actually, you know what? What? Move. He switched me seats. Uh… Okay—now get the fuck out. FUCK. Meanwhile: Bad news dude. Aww. What's up. Your dick still sucks. WHAT. Sorry, bros. I tried. So did I! It was bad. Maybe worse than before. HOWS THATS POSSIBLE. I dunno, but—damn. Damn! BEFORE: lil dicky got rich and famous— Now all the girls lie to him And tell him that his dick is awesome He has no idea at all Whether or not His dick still sucks WHAT IN THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO THIS KID? I don't know. Let me see. *roundhouse kick to the face* [blank stare] Fuck, alright, well— Just put him in there with the other broken ones. “The other broken ones?” This—for some reason happens, sometimes. What? How often? Like, a lot? Opens door to roomful of lifeless bodies with blank canvas syndrome. So wait, Why isn They say all it takes is one song— What if the money you make is all wrong? Went from blonde to dark blonde Spent it all on repairing the Honda Hell naw Isn't it awful, what we all are, Or what have you— I just hope that this isn't at all What you meant by this It is, and it isn't It's just helpless Useless Combinations Concentrations, focus— Dance lessons Synchronized swimming It's just living, Infinite. Combinations Complications Hyper focus Dance lessons This is is not a dance class It's a fist fight! This is not a dancehall— It's a collesium Did you see em Did you see em This is not this morning, It's this evening— And I'm warning you to Leave me alone Leave me in the Tv then! That wasn't me, this was my clone. This is my office, not my home. Imm never home. 1-800-⌨️ NEVER ALONE Shout out to Amanda, I'm still aneorexic, somehow I was his punching bag, Now he just wants me back Shout out to Alaska I should book some shows out there How's my dad been How's the husband He's a has been. I HAS BEEEEEEEN! How long is this gonna take, you think? I think- I think— I think I just need TWO WEEEEEEEKS. I don't know why, but I needed that. Shout out to Amanda Now I can do algebra. Shout out to Alaska I should go back there Shout out to the past, man I should go back there You're not here for Skrillex, are you? Does it look like I'm here for Skrillex, to you? Whatever you do, just Whatever you do just— Oh shit, here she comes Here she comes Play “stupid” What the fuck's wrong with you Turn off the phone No, I'm stupid! Swiftly stops at seven just to remember: That— isn't it sinister what the plan is To deliver this message to the planet I got the water. There's a hole in the bucket, dear Jorgie!!! Dont cry, mama— I'm Rick James! Don't cry! (I know who you are…) Mama, I'm Rick James Alright, alright, alright What's good— Steve Slattery Uh. John Martin. Really?! Does she serious get us confused?! Are you not like— the same guy. “The Same guy” I feel like this should be in a seperate document. I feel like it shouldn't. It's true! It's true! It's just like this now She's just like this now! THERE THEY ARE. THERE'S TINA TINA SAY WHAT. Nothing. Nothing. Listen— [MAYA RUDOLPH—just has that look on her face] Yeah. I'm DRUNK. Everybody's drunk. *dancing* SOMEBODY GET ME OUT THIS PETH— —uNNHHH PRTY. Where Uptown A at? Sober. Doing my job. Preforming. Oh nice. Which you all should be. IMPOSSIBLE: You have officially rendered us UNSTOPPABLE! —dysfunctional drunken idiots. BANG—BANG— Oh shit, here they come BANG BANG! Chitty chitty TITTIES! SHHH! We're censoring, still This is NBC or Disney or something Everybody should be— We should be streaming it STREAMERS! AND STRIPPERS. Is that all we needed from the dollar store Oh what the fuck. That's crazy that this is all the same party. In. Ents. Idiots, Wait, are those DUDES. It appears so. ARE THERE GUYS HERE?! LOOKS LIKE IT! CHICK FIGHT!! The vocals go around the head to choke you, Woah, dude, I don't know what you go through, To open those throat chakras, Oh, I do know Oh so lowly This is a lot, I can't even. This is the winner since intermittent detention centers mental facilities and interests in domestic and international terrorism, respectively, but To be honest, I should slow down, Format formally for a moment, Go somewhere I don't go, I don't know, I should grow up though, Show up to a show or No. GO, GO— GET IN THE BOAT NO YOURE A GHOST! BE A GHOOOOOOOAAAAAAAATTTT GHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOST stop it. Who tf are these tweakers? Just leave them alone. I'm pretty sure there's gonna be like a whole soundtrack to this by the morning or something. WHEN'S THE MORNING SUN!!! COME BACK!!!! Hello, Moon Just wait for a while, I am an army of men; Puppet I'm pulling the strings No man, I'm all on my own That's for now But who knows I can do bad all by myself Come on I'll show you Curtains close, Lights up, Curtains open Lights down One man show I'm a whole One man show I can do bad all by my— Luminous Illuminate me, I am (I am, I am) Luminous Illuminous Illuminous Luminous Go for a run, Soak in the tub You know? One door open, One more close Where you go? You go this way, And I go that, hon Let's do lunch soon Take your number You know what? I'm done with this (I'm done with this stuff, I don't want in no more) I'll show you Curtains close, Lights up, Curtains open Lights down One man show I'm a whole One man show I can do bad all by my— Luminous Illuminate me, I am (I am, I am) Luminous Illuminous Illuminous Luminous It's no wonder you're up with the sun It's one in the morning, You're still making coffee You started a world war —all I want is some water! You wanted a broke heart My scars, all I wanted was love Now what's up? I been up for a month I got up making coffee at One in the morning I still got no words for these verses I read duteronomy Here's some astronomy No more scars on my sky city lights Now I'm way up high You like that, hun? Yeah I'm way, way up I don't it no more I'm so done with this stuff Thought you started a whole war You can have the whole world For a glass of water You broke the part of my heart That was giving a fuck Now it doesn't Now you lost it I don't even want it no more I am an army of men; Puppet I'm pulling the strings No man, I'm all on my own That's for now But who knows I can do bad all by myself Come on Story: The owner of an underground/illegal nightclub pays his talent in drugs—but when the new DJ refuses and asks for cash up front, a dangerous clash is enacted, and ‘the talent' groups together and hatches a plan to take what belongs to them, by staging a robbery at a massive flash-mob style party. Damn. Ok. Well we'll see about this. What's the budget. Crunching. More Maya… Rupoloh. Sure MAYA! —Angelou— or Rudolph? Rudolph; but I can summon Maya Angelou, if you want. No thanks; I did that already in the first season. We might be related or something. MINNIE RIPPERTON We both have the same weird, Afrocentric No-shirt overall wearing Family Photo. I don't understand. Nobody does! This is fucked up. Yeah. This is fucked up. Kendrick Lamar Style Flow Don't key my car: You'll be callin collect! I got rearview mirrors in the back of my head Don't get up right now, son– Go back to bed I got kids all over, be pulling my leg! Luke, I am your Father! Oh My Oh My God On top of the Watchlist You make money off dope; I made it on craigslist Still be sniffin that coke But now i'm on A list I'm the greatest Ey Miss! I missed too many calls (Airplane Mode) I just started my day (Whole Workload) I might need a buffet (Like Whole Foods) Sashe, Pas De Bourre (That's a code word) No dance floor? Now you're done for My forte Four-to-the-floor Hardcore I drop bass on the encore Front row won't go But i'm already out the front door You don't know I just hopped inside the helicopter, or chopper, chopped broccoli in my cup That's supper; Sleep/ Wake then Surf's up In the morning When i got there (Coastal show, Shower, Then another club Encore Front row lined up I'm already at the front door They want more I'm too sore, for sure Off subject, I dropped in Harder than Paulie On my surfboard (Another code word) This is my world: Another club, Then I'm off for a monday Or somethin' Write another song At the buffet –Tales of a Superstar DJ Amen. Fuck! I didn't even get to watch desperate housewives! Don't fuck with her! She's a trained assassin! GET ON THE GROUND. NO! GET ON THE GROUND– OR I WILL SHOOT YOU! SO? IF I SHOOT YOU, YOU WILL DIE. OK? “OK”? YOU WILL DIE. YEAH, AND? Kind of frustrating hunting down somebody who already has a deathwish. What do you do with someone who has no fear of death. Give them life. I'm telling you, we probably shouldn't be doing this. *shrugs* You split yourselves into two entirely separate individuals at once, just so you could see whose dick is longer? Technically, three entirely separate individuals. THIS ISN'T FAIR. Do you ever think? Sometimes, but it's usually pretty gross. I mean about the implications of these things! You are the implications of these things! I split my soul ONE time into 8 BILLION or so individuals, before this even had happened. WOAH, WHAT HAPPENED. I'm giving you planetary confinement. What. You–can stay here. On this planet. No. It's racist–and primitive. No– And you're black. Please– I'm leaving. –don't– –and i'm taking your portal gun with me. YOU PUT A PORTAL ON MY FACE?! Genius. Incredible. I didn't think it would be a big deal. He has two! Okay, time for work. But i didn't even sl– Coffee. Ouh. … … — I don't think we should be doing this TIA We probably shouldn't. TAMERA We very much shouldn't. What are you guys doing. Nothing. SHh. Summoning the devil. It's not the devil. It might be. Hush. Is that a pentagram. Technically it's a star, with a circle around it. That's a pentagram. It's not a pentagram! Is that a ouiji board? NO. Yes. Let me see. Ugh! I wanna help. MEANWHILE. MORGAN FREEMAN enters an empty train car: Oh God, This. Yes it is! What!? Are you dead! Entirely empty, that is–besides SUPACREE. No, you are! Great, so you're dead! I'm–not dead. Is Bob Saget with you? I'm not DEAD. What about Fraiser? What? Kelsey Grammer! God rest his soul. SEE! I'm not dead– [beat, an eerie shadowy silence in the dimly lit traincar] I'm a Legend. What. I wrote that/ You wrote that. What. Ugh. Look. Morgan Freeman. [Morgan Freeman] I–am–like a paranoid schizophrenic, or something– So, who isn't?! It might be catatonic, I don't know–I got this whole dead-hand–thing–going on. What is that? I don't know. It might just be too much deadmau5. I don't understand. No, Morgan Freeman. I don't understand. Anything about this life. Or this world. The fourth dimension. I definitely don't know anything about that. You're in it. Whatever. Look. [Morgan Freeman] God, you have so many freckles. [Morgan Freeman] Look. I got problems. We all do! Nah, not like–Hollywood problems, I'm like, a real psycho and shit. Sounds like Hollywood. Everything sounds like Hollywood–because nothing is real anymore–everything is for the gram, the points don't matter–nothing actyally matters. At all. Oh? Oh. The train comes to a sudden halt, the lights dim theatrically. Not even this? [pause] He holds out a strange object; a golden necklace, which begins to change in appearance–morphing between a medallion, as seen throughout the seasons, and into other integral objects from throughout the series; a small golden pinata; You know who gave it to me? …Who? Got ya. He holds out a strange object; a golden necklace, which begins to change in appearance–morphing between a medallion, as seen throughout the seasons, and into other integral objects from throughout the series; a small golde pinata ; Fuck dude, i'm too tired to write this. But you kind of have to. I mean i don't have to. YOU HAVE TO. I–WHAT? YOU HAVE TO DO IT. WHY. BECAUSE OTHERWISE I DON'T EVEN EXIST; Then don't exist… I'M JUST A FICTIONAL CHARACTER IN YOUR SHOW. Come on Drew, knock it off. Wait, is this Drew Carey, or Barrymore. Either or. That's why I didn't write the characters name. Well, which is it? It literally doesn't matter. Yes it does. Honestly?! It could be both! We just shoot it with both and keep whichever one we like better! But how do we know which is actually “better?” Just do it and mix it–cut it up together or something–I don't know! Cut takes! Cut Takes! Ooh, did someone say CUPCAKES. Don't mind if i DO. Well, I do! Why?! What's wrong?! Yeah! What's the big deal! I'm on a gluten free-thing Oh yeah? Keto. Or someshit. I don't know. Oh. Oh. So you don't want these No, I don't. And you wouldn't mind if I– Come on, man. So Good. Grow up. Hey man, i'm pushin 40. Well, I pushed 40–and it pushed back. Get your cupcakes out of my face. You're no fun. Hey! Aren't you that one guy from rick and morty. Formerly. Oh yeah! That's right! You were Rick AND Morty. Hence the name. Wow. Phewf. I heard about that. Yeah, me too. Sounds real bad, how that turned out. Such a shame. Speaking of shame– You're speaking, I'm snacking. That's not that clever. We'll work on it The point is, he's eating the cupcakes. That's not–wait a minute–hold on. What now? How are we ever gonna get these three guys in a room together. [Meanwhile, in another dimension–these three are tied up (read: bound and gagged) in a room together. –Let alone to agree to this!? SUPACREE removes the gag from the man's [JOSH PECK'S] mouth. I DO NOT CONSENT TO THIS. That's what she said! Hey! That's not fair! I was never caught up in a scandal! The key word, I believe, is “never caught” That's two words! SHUTTHEFUCKUP. How many words is that? I WANT MY LAWYER!!!! For what? This isn't court. Wouldn't you want the police first? WELL THEN, I WANT THE POLICE. The Police are here. Wait, they are? Oh, thank God Not so fast. THE POLICE enter with full entourage. Introducing: The Police–playing their number one greatest smash hit! Groupies: Woooo! STING I hope you ladies bought the meet-and-greet package, if you know what I mean. *winks awkwardly* You know what I mean. Oh my God. Since you dudes love doing creepy dude shit, I brought some more notoriously creepy dudes to sing the literally creepiest song ever written about being a creepy dude. That's not fair. But it's funny. THE POLICE Begin to play ‘I'll be Watching You” –and they're gonna play it on loop until I get back with your other-dimensional selves so we can fix all this. “WE” “FIX ALL THIS” WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? Nobody seems to know. “--I'll be watching you–” I was FRAMED. CUT TO {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. a golden pocket watch, a wrist watch, a compass–it changes and morphs so quickly that it begins to seem to spin time itself into a whirlwind, until finally a portal opens up from within his hand–a portal which quickly devours him entirely, morphing him into Fuck, what the fuck happened after that Idk I got off the train I guess This is really terribly written [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

YES. Oh yes indeed. It must be something about this beast inside— Even my first boyfriend— My first real boyfriend. Was— Seriously? Incredibly gifted. Jesus Christ. Right. Jesus fucking Christ. (That can happen.) Well. Well. I've— Wait a second. How would you even write something like this. My dissuasion from black men has never prevented me from being pleasured by— Oh no. Some of the world's finest dicks. How's that. Perfect. I can't even, (But just did) “9 inch pie crust How's “9 inches? That'll work. Just don't dislodge my IUD. Dammit. Really less than 9? I mean— I'll take A 6 Yes! Really? Or a 7 Nice. But only to play with. What. Ok. What! I'm not keepin it. I just like sucking dick. Really? Yes. AHA, —the right dick. Well, well, well— And if the last bitch left her stink on you— Even if you wash it 6 fucking times— I'll smell it in my eyelids. What. Your aura sucks. What. Why. I don't like her. What?! Who?! The last one. Vibe check. Man, you gotta stop fuckin these white bitches White bitches: LalalalalLalalalala Lalalalal No. What?! Why?! She sucks, bro. Yeah but Comfort, luxury, style— Utility. You can take this girl anywhere Just shapeshift into a basic white bitch For what Just do it Those are the ones that're around! These rich ass fuckin hoes. EASY. What. White girl wasted. Have another shot. Ooh, dad bod. Yes. SUNNI BLU You thought I forgot I did not DADBOD. Mmm. Yes but also NO, JAKE GYLLENHALL PUT YOUR WEDDING BAND BACK ON BUT-/ WE ARE FINISHED. DONE. YESSSSSS. I'm off the CLOCK. Look, marriage is work. However— DEEZ HOEZ GOT BALLZ FUCK. Nasty ass trick. BODIES. BODIES BODIES. What is all this fucking hotness even for if you can't work those fuckin muscles— what do they call them? “Intercostals” Yo— your intercostals are not the fuck muscles Wait, they're not? No. Aw. But you can use them to fuck if you want Where's that one nigga at?! [Skrillex] Under some blonde slut SLUTZ. Nice. Fine. Wait. What. You really want that?! Vibe check. Vampires: He was such a nice kid Feeding time. SUCKED HIM DRY DEAD ON. Man, I kind of want to watch that one movie where— It was a box office flop. Monsters; Ohh. A weak one. BREAK THE SEAL. BREAK THE SEAL. You can shapeshift into a s— Okay, listen, I am NOT going back To The Rock for any reason. Just—- be ugly. I am ugly. You really think I'm trying to ILLUMINATI: Watch this. DOLLARS. WHAT. RYAN REYNOLDS FUCK YOU. GET OFF MY ISLAND! I'm a DAD. Where's the bathroom? SLUTZ MODELS ACTRESSES: see. These bitchez is interchangeable. I love that. Look, you walk into one of these events with anything darker than a paper bag— Well, It depends on who manufactured the brown paper bag… [Whole Foods Market] Still too dark. —She had better be the most perfect looking broad anyone could ever want. Where's the bra straps? You want bra straps? Uh, yeah?! Oh *snickers* Sorry. Look, I don't want to even think about that scene where— FUCK YOU, DILLON FRANCIS FUCK YOU IN THE ASS. DILLON FRANCIS oh damn. That kid did look like Dillon Francis. Like a lot. GET BACK HERE. I liked him. Did you tell him that? No way. After that John dude broke my heart. DO YOU REMEMBER ME?! I'M A BIRD. Someone find Tim. Agh. Whatever. Find that Smith kid I went to high school with. For what? I wanna bone him. Goddamn, Madame President. Shut up. Damn, so. So the president basically has an errand boy to go round up all the dick she missed out on being groomed to be the first Black female president? Yes. HHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH [KILL THE BITCH.] WHY?! I'm the most conservative bitch you will EVER find on this side of the brown paper bag test Why is that? AYAYAYAYAYAYAY you understand even the Mexicans are racist against blacks— And?! STAY DOWN, BITCH. Si. Okay. You see this kid? [The Mexican Skrillex] Find him. Aye aye captain. And make sure whatever he does... LISTEN TO ME. ¡AY¡ NO HABLA INGLES! ¡NO TENGO DINERO! CAN IT. I KNOW YOU SPEAK ENGLISH. IDIOT. Okay. Fuck it, I'm in. You're in. I'm in. You sonofabitch. Look. I got mad love for the Mexican people. I promise. [Puerto Rico] Huh. What. You're in. Fuck. Now we gotta change the flag. We should do that anyway, it's soaked in the blood of enslaved African Americans and slain indigenous! “I live on the stolen lands of the Chippewa people.” Woah. A self-aware white woman. See, they exist. Bag that bitch. Seriously. Meanwhile— I AM FRIGHTENED. By what? YOUR BLACKNESS. . I can't protect you from this. YOU CANT PROTECT ME FROM SHIT, Without your DICK. Are you serious. I'm done with this. You can have him. Are you serious. Yes. I was born rich. That's frigening. Not as frightening as your blackness. I get itz THE NIGGAZ HAVE DECENDED UPON US. Oh no. Oh yes. And worse— What's this? THEY BROUGHT THE HOOTRATZ. NO. YES. (I love these ghetto ass bitches.) YO BLACKMERICANS. What's up, CROCS. ARE. NOT. SHOES. We know that. Wait, what This is a silent protest against the hostile and corrupt corporate slavery of the sneaker industry aimed at Americans living in poverty which promotes materialism and greed in the current socio political industrial complex of the white supremacy movement. No Dillon, you have to marry a pretty little white girl like the rest of us. But WHY, Grandmaster Freemason? Because— Why is that? I don't know. I think it's so— I swear to god, He looks just like him. Would you believe if I told you, That this [Exact replica of Dillon Francis] Wow. Is a tiny black man? Are you insane? I like his dick. He must be nuts. ITS LIKE 10 FEET LONG. What?! This guy [Skrillex] White bitches: You promise? Yeah. GET OFF OF HIM HE'S MINE That's a designer ass fuckin broad right there... trip. *i wish* DUDE IN COWBOY HAT yeup. You mean Diplo ?! Sure. This is all in your head. I know. You want a dose of reality? No. I don't. Sure. GO FUCK YOURSELF. I should but—- No. What? Why not? Look, everytime I even get close to orgasm. HELLO. NO. I'm still paranoid that a helicopter is going to hover outside of my window. VO I became less paranoid after that moment lol white supremacist robot people They exist. I know. I'm the one programming them. BEFORE: HELICOPTER: [hovering outside of window as I masturbate furiously] “Furiously” SERIOUSLY. That's what she's doing in there?! ITS BEEN YEARS. EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE A— the biggest penises I've ever seen in my life were on the literally scrawniest, skinniest white dudes I've ever loved— Been friends with— And trusted. Oh dear God —To demolish my pussy. THAT IS GOOOOOOOOD. What the fuck. Take that, black supremacy! Seriously, tho. Niggaz is niggas. ‍♀️ It's fair to say that you also have too much power. WHAT. Seriously. VO Now I knew someone extremely rich HELLICOPTER (But hovering) Fff-fr-ff-ff Hm. That sounds close. Was watching me. OH DEAR GOD WHAT. I'm BUSY. I think it's fair to say The only safety in this country Is in being a white woman. AHEM. WHAT. A *frail white woman. What?! I'm strong?! A skinny woman. Where'd the white go? I don't know. Bring it back. I need some of that. God, she's just so free, and fun loving, careless— She's just so— Perfect. God, Are you still busy? kind of, Why? Make me perfect. I already did that. I mean, like this *Vogue Magazine* I mean like this. What is that? That's a model. What. It means she's perfect. I don't know him. That's a girl. Where's her breasts? *Vogue cover Breasts, unpictured— Pg. 11 Leave me alone, Satan. But it's important. Is this fast over? No. It all started with apple pie… Look. I am an American, Okay? A patriot. Do you know why other countries hate us? Because we sold the world a dream, And it ended up as a cheap, Made in China Piece of Crap. [robot people] Did you figure out how to program humans yet? Kind of. CHINA Oh. That's funny— We have. Before: No more babies. What. You get ONE. One?! ONE. Ok, well I hope it's a boy. GOD a boy, for what?! To carry on my family's name! GOD. But you family sucks… What? Why would you say that, It's a GIRL. THROW IT AWAY: What. Seriously, does nobody remember that? Okay, you can have more kids now. Why?! It's over populated. As fuck. We need more soldiers. American men tend to frtishize Asian women. Why is this. Great. More subordinates. My spell worked. So like. Wait, They OWN LAND HERE? …Excurricating debt. Had to give them something. MAKE MORE MASKS. Oh? That's good. I like that. Okay. What is the true evil that seems to lie Deeply inside every blue eyed— I can't feel shiiiieeeeeeet. Are you sure it's just Blue eyes. It's a mutation. For what? You realize that this DONT BRING THAT SHIT OVER HERE you're a psychopath. Fuck these bitches I love vamps. LOOK AT ME. why. BECAUSE I DONT MAKE MY OWN ENERGY. i'M NOT ORIGINALLY FROM THIS PLANET WELL I AM. Great. Give me your light what? I don't have any. So wait this is Yes. This is actually an extraterrestrial war. WE'RE IN SPACE WARS?! I told you that. Great. It's a mutation We'll call it “an adaptation” GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME. Okay. I like thighs now. What. Why don't you have thighs?! Men are uselesss. Sssriosussss. They never know what they want. They want ussssss. Children!!? Mostly. I swear, she's all used up. All used up. At 26. Yep. Wow. I should just kill myself. You should. I've been replaced! {First Wives Club} Best movie ever. By what A fucking toddler. Okay. I love her. {White women} (The actually self aware ones are also most often the most famous) Which one? All of them. The whole cast?! Star-studded. I thought this was Star Wars. Well, it was. I'll be damned! GEORGE LUCAS I thought I was. BUY! BUY! SELL! SELL. So this is automatic writing. Yep. I didn't get that knee injury from running. I got it sitting on the New York subway with my leg at a 90 degree angle. Oh really? Really. These boots are made for walkin, And that's just what they'll do; One of these days, these boots are gonna walk All over you. Is that code for something Walk on my back. What? Are you sure. Yes. Okay. In these: Uhhhh. That might hurt. I know. Woah. Just do it, okay? I'll pay you. Pay me in what?! Rupees. What about this one? No. No brown dudes. Why?! He's mad rich. I don't care. Not even me? No. No rappers. Why not?! He's mad rich. Roaches. Video hoes. [Beyoncé's Jolene is hilarious.] Dolly's asking you; Begging, actually… BEYONCÉ IS WARNING YOU. Really, bro? Men. A light skin, And a dark skin. A skinny one, And a thick one. A white one, And a black one. Men Have No Loyalty. SOME DO. Yeah. The ugly ones with short dicks *I AM OFFENDED* No, you're just ugly. It's a lot harder to be offended when you have everything. You have everything! Why are you crying! I want LOVE. YOU HAVE LOVE [MADONNA IS RUNNING A MARATHON] Gotta burn off all this energy What is it?! Love! Gotta take a nap… (Dark skinned women—the strongest women, being sucked dry of their— {Infinite Wisdom} [A fortress.] It does replenish, eventually… I promise WHERE THE LOVE IS With the women and children! Look, if this whole bitch is the titanic, (the United States of America) Then we should run it like the titanic and just TITANIC Women and children! WOMEN AND CHILDREN. Why, Cause the men are responsible for this war in the first place. Secret President Deathwish Enter The Multiverse The Legend of S Ū P C Я E E™ The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū Ascension L E G E N D S The Seven Souls Saga OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL, LTD.The infinite Skrillifiles: Next Generation— Quantum Force [The door is kicked in.] What the FUCK. I'M THE FUCK I get that. Whatever, move. [he begins to rifle through the cabinets] Now where is it? What the fuck are you looking for? Shut UP. WHY ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE. You call this a house? Dammit. Where would she keep something like this—? If by “she” you mean ME. I don't mean “you.” I'm the only one who lives here. NOBODY lives here. What. Right. What?! Right what?! You really don't know, do you? Don't know what? You are not who you think you are. Who do I think I am? What?! Who do you think I AM? That's right. Now shut up. Get out of my house. This is not a HOUSE. And even if it was a HOUSE, it's not YOUR house. What! SHUT UP. You're making a mess! I am a mess. STOP IT. That's alright—I know you'll clean it up. I thought I'm not who I thought I am. Yeah. But I know who you are. Tsh. Are you going somewhere with this? Eventually, but right now I need my back rubbed. Fine. PREVIOUSLY ON… Whatever Just— “Tidbits” Points: Jennifer Lopez in the 90's enters immidiate superstardom and fame, as The Illuminati, which has been tracking her every move for quite some time, conspicuously gifts her with a handful of large, rare, and uncut diamonds—she becomes a Kingpin and near overnight success, keeping the secret of the diamonds to herself—however, as she is skyrocketed to success and fame, strange and mystical things begin happening all around—and even more strange and mysterious, mystical people—besides the usually strange and magical celebrities and otherwise unworldly weirdos within the Illuminati's ranks— begin to appear, acting as guiding forces between the multidimensional realms which within the various portals a hidden world — infinity and beyond— has been kept, only exposed through the stories, shows, and — Wait a second — a montage— montage— I'm being intercepted. What? What about a montage?? I love a good montage. Everybody loves a good montage. the infinite Jennifer Aniston and her Multidimensional counterparts Jennifer Aniston is tasked as becoming a guardian angel, to help protect and watch over the mysterious extraterrestrial formerly known as supacree, currently masquerading as CC as she attempts to escape the spiral of magical attacks from unknown forces, after being trapped in New York City. You know what? I love it. I'll take it. Are you sure? Yeah, I'm sure. I love her. I love her. it'll take it. JENNIFER ANNISTON, a well-known A-list actress whose rise to fame in the 1990's created her as a Hollywood superstar (and Illuminati staple) has been looking for the perfect project to invest her time to— rumors within the Underground have been circulating about a “secret podcast”, to which it's curator, a homeless and downtrodden musician and amateur DJ publishing Illuminati doctrine, some of which is only known to the limited and coveted higher ranks within the organization, interwoven into the plot's narratives as “Easter eggs”; the unformed screenplays have been archived and passed around for a number of years within a small community of elites, and some even plagiarized by the mindless and money hungry lowest ranking industry professionals—however—as it is known by the leaders of the organization as a whole, the true origins of this doctrine remains “unknown”, and the identity of the author, is surmised to be the prophesied scribe, set to arrive as the dawning of a new era arises, to write within her words the hidden truths to be sought by all mankind and otherwise—and therefore, must be protected and hidden within the organizations cradle at all costs; though misunderstood greatly, The Illuminati has been tasked with spreading the divine light to the human species through artform and storytelling, and as the art of wordfare becomes a lost art, the doctrine must be colluded to be written, before the end of the scribe's time, said to be often—a most untimely death, as the forces of darkensss seek to end all that remains of the love and light of the divine kind. Damn, really: Jennifer Aniston. I really like her eyes: Well yeah, they're mine, so. Apparently or whatever, Jennifer Anniston is assigned to guide CC as she trains to stand up as the scribe — Who revealed herself as so in Los Angeles, at Carl Cox's show. I dropped three cards for form the center of my eye, Here: An equilateral triangle. I Am. Two— These markings will be known to those as I, The scribe. Three— A world unknown awaits all those who seek the truth of the divine light in the pursuit of higher knowledge. INT. EQUINOX SPORTS CLUB NEW YORK. MANHATTAN. DAY JENNIFER ANNISTON enters the elevator—to her left, towering over her, she spots JIMMY FALLON, trying to remain unseen. …Jim? Oh, yeah, hey, What re you doing here? Whatever I want. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be here. This is by the way, when Satan switches from Jimmy fallon's body to Jennifer Anniston, hereby known as Jennifer Anisatan— just before the scene at Equinox “I'm holding in a fart.” So wait, who is Jimmy Fallon, then? Who the fuck knows. Who the fuck cares. I'm over it. ————————————————No wait, don't. Tie me to the cross Bleed on my sickness m Crossfaders, behind us Blinder up, bonded Surreal, The sunsets are longer Open your mind, your highness Crossfire, behind us (Someone else writing this) Dawn comes on stronger The sunsets are longer Tie me to your honor Come before me Somebody said you were the apocalypse I should have listened to my father Somebody told me you won the world at a carnival I should have never listened to my mother I should have listened to my father I should have listened to my father I should have listened to my father Come before me Tie me to your honor Born of blood, The borderline genius You were the apocalypse Tie me to your cross MAYA RUDOLPH Is weird. MAYA RUDOLPH prepares for a SAYONCE in her formerly secret apartment on the upper east side dedicated entirely to magical purposes Ok. Ok. Okay? Ok. The worst part about it is, I do understand you, Because I am you The very worst part of it is I want a family To hold you hand And rub your back But I just can't have you —I'm just a fan, dude. The truth is I've got two suitcases, Some capsules of cyanide, An axe and some anthrax A cat in my lap And a failing laptop I've been living hand to mouth I've got A ripped backpack A stress ball A Hackey sack A hockey bag A volleyball And a mouthful of gunpowder How do you like me now? It's gonna take forever to fund my project But it's gonna take longer To find my body Cause nobody loves me Nobody has my number The phone is shut off And so is the water (By that I mean, my love; It's all coming out blood now) I must be backed up And stuffed full of crystal cocks I could give it up for a wand Or a ringworm Oh God My wrists are itching to ditch this place I fell asleep with a gun to my head And woke up Cobain Okay? Ok Okay? Ok. Sorry to wake you I came to rape you HEATH LEDGER hello. OH, GOD. HEATH LEDGER I heard you like ghosts. I— I don't. HEATH LEDGER Oh, you don't? No—! HEATH LEDGER oh! wait—who are you? HEATH LEDGER (Makes joker face) All my friends are dead, anyway I'm loving more ghosts than people these days The faces, the golden days The golden retrievers I need some relief, man Release me Sweet, freedom Just lay on your back, And I'll take it from there JOKER? Aha. I'm in love with the idea of Death The idea of Leaving this world behind The idea of love The ideal of love The ideal of love The seductive touch I'm in love with the idea of Not knowing pain The idea of Not needing money The idea of love The ideal of love The ideal of love The seductive barrel of a gun So run away Run far from me Far as the eye can see— And I'll aim for the head But probably just get the neck Or the center of the back Twirl around, girl Do your dance Heads or tales for the daughters The blondes, The live that you wanted The life that you wasted The knife to your back The life flight The kite hack Never spend your heart on band tickets Don't you know This is so much more Disappointing in person We all are Never spend your bet on your bottom dollar The kite and the rock band The lost rock The last dollar Diamonds on your JENNIFER LOPEZ GET IN THE BACK OF THE VAN, BITCH. NO WAY, J-LO. YOU LOVE ME EXACTLY. GETAWAYFROMME. DONT MAKE ME CALL GOLDBERG. I'M LIKE WAY MORE SCARED OF JANET JACKSON. JANRT JACKSON GUESS WHAT?! OH NO!!! NOOOO. U PICKS UP TO SUPER SPEED wtf. How does she run that fast, that fat? I really don't know. Did you call my name? Did you wake me from my relentless dreams I needed you Just like you needed me I called your name You called me Follow me home Follow me to the road we both know Open the doors for the lonely Follow me home Follow me home Sista sista What it is, mista? Turn the tables, Drums, then get my sticks sucked You dig it? Turn on the television I'm on in an minute This could be infinite, Nothing to defend here, Just No, not the google documents! GET IN THE HOLE. Hm. What. Blood Shower All along the watch tower Do you feel good? Do you? Do you feel bad about this. I do. I feel bad about this. I forgot to tell you– I should probably let you know that I just want to MAN, FUCK THIS DUDE. MA. WAHT. IT'S ON. WHAt. THE SHOW IS ON. THEWHAT. THE– *suddenly self aware* …I gotta get out of Boston. What, first this was about war, now it's about bird people? It's about a war WITH the bird people. I should sleep. Hahaha. No. This isn't funny anymore. At least it's over. MA– Oh, it's far from over. Yo, i'm going through some crazy shit right now. Spur of the moment I'd never thought of it; This is gonna take forever. I don't have the patience To even write this I just want french fries right now But been up for two days with no gym and I'm on a diet. GUAC TIME. No, no burritos. GUAC TIME. Oh shit, this is getting real as fuck . NOw i see it three ways. I love it. I hate it. HEY, LET ME OUT. GET BACK IN YOUR HOLE, SKRILLEX. I'M DILLON FRANCIS. IN THE HOLE. Check it out. Huh. It's another DJ. *agrees* Should we pick him up. WEll, the good news is: I found your friend. Oh, that's good. The bad news is: He's dead. Oh, that–'s … nice. Yeah. It is. Uh. Kaskade. Yeah. We gotta find Ryan. Why. What's up? You're freaking me out. Why. What's up. Nothing IS it my eyes? I– *wild ass eyes* Yeah, it's probably that. Fuck dude, what did you do to deadmau5. NOTHIN. He's not the same. What the fuck is that. Holy shit I jus timejumped Where the fuck are you going. How the fuck could this happen?! It COULDN'T. Well, that's it then. *shrugs* Well, I guess we're just gonna have to go dig up Dillon Francis. I guess so. Do you think he's still alive. Like, probably not– Maybe… No, probably not @prodbywar& @Halmadeit This amazon order took me nine hours Alexa, I think i should fire her Like a arm I don't leave at night without armor Don't make me a martyr Your mom will be proud of us all If i make it outta here And i'll look after her Got the whole block coming up on my heels as I walk Wtf is it… Idk dude. Is it speeding up? I…i think so. There's no way this is 140 IT's 140. It's 140 . There's no way. Yes way. Nah huh. Let me see. No. Let me at the decks. Let me at the decks. NO. YO LET ME AT THE DECKS. You want deks. Yes. I got deks. Really. yeus . I never listened to it like this In ableton I read serato, synesthesia and rekordbox I talk a lot, I'm like a human music box I walk a lot I run my mouth a mile a minute (faster than i run around the track reciting rap words) Like they're passwords. Oh, I could do this forever.. I wish i had i microphone right now And was all alone With the lights off Lying on the floor I'd be lying if i said I could afford you Just to fornicate But may consider playing with a foreigner If you're all for her I'm unnerved, you know Cause i've been up so long My monster likes to play with boys and Make the bass go down below where Nobody does anymore Once I get a hold of things Or the hang of it You've got another hot ones on your hands I've another record under my belt Or in my roster, Whatever you'd call it But now I've got no time to bark about Wanting a dog and a daughter But none of the responsibility or Going through all the trouble to find her a father I'm still holding a fart in. Reaally–cause–it's been a really long time. WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT A LONG TIME, JIMMY FALLON?? Um a lot! You literally just saw me make the journey all the way up from nothing. I am nothing EXACTLY. I don't have time to fight with you Jiimmy Fallon. I did NOT write these games by myself you know?! Um, excuse me– “GAMES” ?! YES, GAMES. Uh, I've only got one game with you in it, my friend. Is that so! One game that I've written with the Great–formerly LATE Jimmy Fallon. Is that like a play on words cause i'm on late night TV YOu'RE ON ALL THE TIME TV, JIMMY. NBC SHIT IS PRACTICALLY AUTOMATICALLY SYNDICATED. -_- …are you alright. –_-_-__-_ Hold on, I think i've got it Nice, I found a growler. yOu still haven't got all the monsters and sprites Ive got all the big ones, but the little ones are harder to catch. GrO0Wl3rrr. Aww. He's so ugly. Yeah, but cute, though, right. I don't think so. Gro)WwlErrrrrrrrr. Aww. That's so fucking gross. lol . so what does this thing look like. Well, that't the thing about the monsters and sprites. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT. It's alright, it's alright–he's nice. WHAT. THAT'S A SPRITE. No, it's a monster. He's just scary. SUPACREE. David Bowie. What up. God, it took me ages to find you. Tell me about it. I'm still trying. We've been expecting you for a long time. You were expecting I'd die? Yes. So when she says she's “married to the music…” I'm married to the music. Oh, so. Yo, honestly if you een want to talk to this bitch, you'd better have like a musical instrument, or a mic in your hands, Otherwise– No, getawayfrom me. It's not even worth it. HI. –No. What's up? Tempo. SUNNI Cotour From the store I was poor Now i'm honorable In velour, Glamour (Snap) Forsure, Jesus Christs is making appearances in my abletons I'm not able to comprehend or understand exactly the message, But the evidence sire is mounting Get it Reached the temple, More of a sanctuary, Is that sacrilegious I guess it is, I'm stressed as ever Trying to get it to gether I'm way too tired for a remix; All i really want is some fries that are french And some thighs that are thick Like mine to sit on like five or six dicks Pick up up like chopped sticks {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Love, Skrillex. COMING UP ON what show is this? Whatever it is. Things Mormon girls do Katie Mindy Jenny - the 1987 Chevy nova My name is Skrillex- to Yonkerz Laura and Bryan I'm home sick— but not so homesick that I want to be homeless Gentrification—non rent control My boss trying to be a dom (but being black so it was scary and creepy instead of va attractive and a turn on Being worth 4 million And still not being attractive Sex harness Mormons putting themselves to the side To keep up with church standards Correction: carne asada fries with mango pico Mexico elected a new president (a woman) and made the loser a piñata The pixies {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.