Podcasts about Parched

04. s l y t h e r i n. Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I stil don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or m addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer while the poorer suffer longer No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded paper No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've be ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's so sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like “Help me.” I'm like Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provences. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r ( I love when i get off the train and that happens) What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you jo now pull you don't a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance because racism in New York can be so violent That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind it seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror" "Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms." The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual. As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.

s u c k e r p u n c h. The kid will never go to sleep, You know The boy will never rest He'll never do his best, you know He'll never do his best She'll never be the best you know She's never out of bed She'll never see the sun you know ‘It's only in your head' The boy will never drown, you know You know the boy's so cold You might go out for now, you know But you'll go home alone He'll never hit the ground, you know The boy will never rest The boy will just go down, You know As history at best (The girl is staring out the window as the frost comes out their mouths) Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I still don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked for an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer – while the poorer suffer longer. No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded wager No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've been ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's some sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like, “Help me.” I'm like, Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provinces. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you up now pull you down a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance m because the whites in New York can be so violently racist m Their strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies their hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind Why existing in white neighborhoods in less than perfect black skin seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor What if covert racism doesn't hurt as much– (or never, ever-after) Mister Jimmy you're out of touch. Mr. Chaos you're out of God. Ms. Divine, you're not enough Ms. Monroe, you're out of love A dozen is a dozen Hallmark roses I still love my ‘ol Miss Molly I still love my golden trophy Mr. Trump, You're out of touch Mr. Moore, You're out of line Ms. Monroe, you're not enough Mr. God, you're out of love But I still love my ol' Miss Molly I still love my golden trophy I still love my Hollywood, Golden boys I still love my silver screen And golden eras, I still love my world before love I still like my alma mater But i'll never ever love her I put out for dear Miss Molly I get up for four-door wallets I belong to none or nothing I should die, I don't belong here I still call her over after Don't belong here under, over I still love my golden boys though I still love my golden trophy Mister Jimmy, you're out of touch. F I can very much count you out; E I can very much drift away G I can very well close my eyes. Am What do you want me to say? You want the whole thing? Well what a fun night. It was a hard roll; it was a good time It was a hard come down, though A hard fuck It was a hard laugh; I wrote a good book We took a long ride; Then smoked a long blunt Woah Hush now, good fan Come and take a hard roll A long stroll a hot dance I want to take a half more The comedown was hard, But i just got the honor roll Come down, good fan I want to hold your hand now I want to take a good pause I want to have a hard roll Calm down, good fan I'm headed for your heart now (i want to take a hard fall, I want to take a hard roll) Come on, good man I wanna get a hard on I wanna take a hard fan I want to have a hard fuck I'm going for your heart now I want to have a long roll I'm going for your heart now I want to take a good smoke Yeah, and it's something like that And i look both ways before I cross the Cut the road Yeah, i hate myself as well But i know you don' But you know, we're all getting older It just goes more post mortem To hold secrets inside Pass over regrets and don't touch em Like you don't want em But you don't want No one else And you don't wanna run So you either say hello to the dog Or bark, And then jump back I have you on speed dial But I misfire T total recall I don't call blocked numbers but still number one d-d-don't be a retard, Work harder Learn more than your other parts To control them supermanteras Entourage Tata- Ratata Don't be retarded Rat poison for supper Rat poison for supper And politics for something sweet afterward You heard of the knowledge? You heard of the good book Good one, Doctor I'll run harder next workhour Cause we're all undercooked And we're all overdone on the outside still half frozen in the gut though, You know You know? Enjoy your holiday supper Enjoy your apartment Enjoy your destruction I'm just getting started corrupting your disk drive Full system failure! Fill system failure! Full Jimmy Fallon! I mean– Redact that. Don't be retarded. Run out of water! We're all out of order! I might as well pull the plug Or just more fires. I got hard times under And hard times covered No hard times coming cause Look, I got smarter (don't be retarded) I got semi sweet chocolate And lessons And lovers And neighbors And demons and evil around I So who could have thought That the work of God was just [us, at it] At first, i thought nothing, and then all at once, All it was, as is. While I hope that one day for me, there's a me And a man in a meadow No time to decide however, how long I can act as irreverent, The single disciple, the limitless modem,, the signal to imminent the I took a misstep, I went the wrong way I thought I was done, but I should be on stage Just pretend It's imminent; My relapse, As a drug I take it in in increments Collapse; My photographic image memory Serves me perfectly A classical caricature And still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt (Still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt) I'm here in present tense An artifact and image Inside all the builds and relics Mr. Tim is here When Mr, Night Guy gets too perfect Ties it on a bit for treasure chests And pleasure's never where the head will reac, dear Here hearts Silk eyes Don't trust Tame scarves Legwaemwss Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Wedding bells And autocrats Grandfather clock and pendulum And scarities and garish art, And murderers upon the dusk The carriage sure to'ave spoken Crypt sinking, There faultlines, now quaking My hind legs are to shore And still my forelegs tip So why am I envious? It isn't athletics, I promise Its pages and pages Poems and proses Keep it together karassndra Why are you out all alone in a war zone without a gun? Why are you out with the bomb squad in a rainstorm Why are you known amongst all the lands? You won by a landslide but by a show of hands And a slight side of hands And a show to the world that you own what you're on, Let them come hold enough to hold you down with the motorcycles. No country for old nothing When the highlight of your whole life Is the subdural hematoma growing to the surface. And you were sure before you'd never have that part of your symmetry in tact again See how the devil surrounds us when we interact with God and pure genius Human will always kill God; He doesn't understand it The attacks and the tactical wall for sure come to a close; The whole empire is falling And Heaven is calling us home; This has been just a warning I'm still hiding j. The closet; I'm sure to fly your hawk back, homing, Nothing like a good pigeon, depending on the moment And deepening hour disinterest in anything? See how evil walks amongst us When you haven't come upon it in a moment Or have all your other targets lined up— Do remember dear ther it all comes back to haunt them When they're all younger And haven't been tortured yet The fun part first and the war part after; Sure to suffer if you're sure to hurt her Sure to muder for a quarter or a tucked shirt Sure to give a shit if just my mister in a basket Do you understand that? I won't Good good Goddamn I might have a heart attack I might have to kill myself I hate this place I'm tired now I dropped my hat . I'm an individual Stuck in a simulated and subject collective consciousness I'll tel you where the problem is I promise this It seemed more like a tactical marketing strategy than an actual accident, knowing the type of superstar Sonny had become. Yet, I couldn't help but give it a second thought, almost admiring it—whatever it was—as there is no such thing as bad press. As it all played out over social media—which I obstinately rejected, but however so embraced by those in what one used to call "the arts"—it felt undone; It was now strictly business within those very same markets. Here was this, an apparent plagiarism based on ‘outsourcing' a simple photo for a follow-up single to an album I knew I could not be moved to listen to, even after months. I had spent my own time, in a torturous chaos sense, researching these sorts of psychological tactics and strategies of such conglomerates. It seemed almost as if the negative and seemingly coincidental exposure was in congruency with the so very Skrillexian need to stay relevant to the newer age in changing times. He seemed to embrace some sort of artistic evolution, at least from what I could sense at a long and strong distance. However, my ability to understand the article I'd very much by accident stumbled upon—while overlooking my own dilapidated ticket stubs on Resident Advisor—cautioned at the kind of humbled and grown logic that had become what was left of my womanhood. I had in so many ways made a fool of myself, an embarrassment for what I thought of at the time in the name of love. Still, in all this time, I was so desolated and alone that it had become such an apparent and distraught sense of waking up to what formerly was. With this, I thought one of two things. I knew this Sonny, like most men of prestige, power, and great wealth, had devised his team of sharp-witted, intelligent, beautiful women. This apparent slip-up over the artwork for his latest endeavor—which I had, for every reason, protested in defense of my own dignity—was perhaps the result of a beautiful woman without creative ingenuity stealing the artwork in bad taste, as evidenced. Or—even more cunning—this was the wit of a trained and marginalized soldier in the art of programming. The apparent plagiarism was, in fact, another brutal and hollow Skrillefied market for attention. Over the last decade, he had no shortage of the ability to create and draw eyes to whatever art or concept was forced out of the mechanized monster. Still, there was a sharp growl. I knew I was meant to find this as a reminder of what I'd find if I looked any further or listened to his music anymore: a rise in sharp numbers, mass appeal tactics, and this-or-that shallow hogwash of distinctly skeletal bodies and avant-garde aesthetics. It pointed at the unachievable from my eyes and standpoint. It was the rockstar air and attire of everything I wasn't: strictly thin Hollywood or other ideals to which the construct was entitled, but I wasn't. I had to set out on my own way because what I had intended with music was jumbled into appearances, pornographic sexualities, and masculine dominance. It meant I had aged out of the desirability and affect these very same masses were being marketed from. Sure, I understood that the Skrillex project had established a sort of order for what the electronic festival industry wanted. But I also wanted something else accomplished in my time that wasn't just being some shallow, hot-girl, obscure go-after. The entire time, I had been under the impression of a duality of magnetism I often still had difficulty loosening myself from—that this illusion of an emotional tie or loveness, outside of what was a physical or illustrious concept, had no substance within the business at its core. It was, to say the least, a heartless world and a heartless business. Now that my own music was without purpose, I could forever distance myself from the other masses—the consumer-prosumer-commercialized "artists" that had sprung up out of access to the direct-to-streaming music market via technology and disposable funding. I had no way of embodying my mind to do away with the parts of me that needed to change to become one of them—in the sense that if my music looked and sounded alike, I would be embraced. But I was far from being the type of consciousness that had formed seemingly with the twist of a knob or an Ableton shortcut by one of electronic's founding fathers. In an unfortunate way, I had finally realized he was just that. — Death of A Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

s u c k e r p u n c h. The kid will never go to sleep, You know The boy will never rest He'll never do his best, you know He'll never do his best She'll never be the best you know She's never out of bed She'll never see the sun you know ‘It's only in your head' The boy will never drown, you know You know the boy's so cold You might go out for now, you know But you'll go home alone He'll never hit the ground, you know The boy will never rest The boy will just go down, You know As history at best (The girl is staring out the window as the frost comes out their mouths) Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I still don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked for an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer – while the poorer suffer longer. No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded wager No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've been ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's some sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like, “Help me.” I'm like, Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provinces. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you up now pull you down a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance m because the whites in New York can be so violently racist m Their strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies their hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind Why existing in white neighborhoods in less than perfect black skin seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor What if covert racism doesn't hurt as much– (or never, ever-after) Mister Jimmy you're out of touch. Mr. Chaos you're out of God. Ms. Divine, you're not enough Ms. Monroe, you're out of love A dozen is a dozen Hallmark roses I still love my ‘ol Miss Molly I still love my golden trophy Mr. Trump, You're out of touch Mr. Moore, You're out of line Ms. Monroe, you're not enough Mr. God, you're out of love But I still love my ol' Miss Molly I still love my golden trophy I still love my Hollywood, Golden boys I still love my silver screen And golden eras, I still love my world before love I still like my alma mater But i'll never ever love her I put out for dear Miss Molly I get up for four-door wallets I belong to none or nothing I should die, I don't belong here I still call her over after Don't belong here under, over I still love my golden boys though I still love my golden trophy Mister Jimmy, you're out of touch. F I can very much count you out; E I can very much drift away G I can very well close my eyes. Am What do you want me to say? You want the whole thing? Well what a fun night. It was a hard roll; it was a good time It was a hard come down, though A hard fuck It was a hard laugh; I wrote a good book We took a long ride; Then smoked a long blunt Woah Hush now, good fan Come and take a hard roll A long stroll a hot dance I want to take a half more The comedown was hard, But i just got the honor roll Come down, good fan I want to hold your hand now I want to take a good pause I want to have a hard roll Calm down, good fan I'm headed for your heart now (i want to take a hard fall, I want to take a hard roll) Come on, good man I wanna get a hard on I wanna take a hard fan I want to have a hard fuck I'm going for your heart now I want to have a long roll I'm going for your heart now I want to take a good smoke Yeah, and it's something like that And i look both ways before I cross the Cut the road Yeah, i hate myself as well But i know you don' But you know, we're all getting older It just goes more post mortem To hold secrets inside Pass over regrets and don't touch em Like you don't want em But you don't want No one else And you don't wanna run So you either say hello to the dog Or bark, And then jump back I have you on speed dial But I misfire T total recall I don't call blocked numbers but still number one d-d-don't be a retard, Work harder Learn more than your other parts To control them supermanteras Entourage Tata- Ratata Don't be retarded Rat poison for supper Rat poison for supper And politics for something sweet afterward You heard of the knowledge? You heard of the good book Good one, Doctor I'll run harder next workhour Cause we're all undercooked And we're all overdone on the outside still half frozen in the gut though, You know You know? Enjoy your holiday supper Enjoy your apartment Enjoy your destruction I'm just getting started corrupting your disk drive Full system failure! Fill system failure! Full Jimmy Fallon! I mean– Redact that. Don't be retarded. Run out of water! We're all out of order! I might as well pull the plug Or just more fires. I got hard times under And hard times covered No hard times coming cause Look, I got smarter (don't be retarded) I got semi sweet chocolate And lessons And lovers And neighbors And demons and evil around I So who could have thought That the work of God was just [us, at it] At first, i thought nothing, and then all at once, All it was, as is. While I hope that one day for me, there's a me And a man in a meadow No time to decide however, how long I can act as irreverent, The single disciple, the limitless modem,, the signal to imminent the I took a misstep, I went the wrong way I thought I was done, but I should be on stage Just pretend It's imminent; My relapse, As a drug I take it in in increments Collapse; My photographic image memory Serves me perfectly A classical caricature And still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt (Still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt) I'm here in present tense An artifact and image Inside all the builds and relics Mr. Tim is here When Mr, Night Guy gets too perfect Ties it on a bit for treasure chests And pleasure's never where the head will reac, dear Here hearts Silk eyes Don't trust Tame scarves Legwaemwss Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Wedding bells And autocrats Grandfather clock and pendulum And scarities and garish art, And murderers upon the dusk The carriage sure to'ave spoken Crypt sinking, There faultlines, now quaking My hind legs are to shore And still my forelegs tip So why am I envious? It isn't athletics, I promise Its pages and pages Poems and proses Keep it together karassndra Why are you out all alone in a war zone without a gun? Why are you out with the bomb squad in a rainstorm Why are you known amongst all the lands? You won by a landslide but by a show of hands And a slight side of hands And a show to the world that you own what you're on, Let them come hold enough to hold you down with the motorcycles. No country for old nothing When the highlight of your whole life Is the subdural hematoma growing to the surface. And you were sure before you'd never have that part of your symmetry in tact again See how the devil surrounds us when we interact with God and pure genius Human will always kill God; He doesn't understand it The attacks and the tactical wall for sure come to a close; The whole empire is falling And Heaven is calling us home; This has been just a warning I'm still hiding j. The closet; I'm sure to fly your hawk back, homing, Nothing like a good pigeon, depending on the moment And deepening hour disinterest in anything? See how evil walks amongst us When you haven't come upon it in a moment Or have all your other targets lined up— Do remember dear ther it all comes back to haunt them When they're all younger And haven't been tortured yet The fun part first and the war part after; Sure to suffer if you're sure to hurt her Sure to muder for a quarter or a tucked shirt Sure to give a shit if just my mister in a basket Do you understand that? I won't Good good Goddamn I might have a heart attack I might have to kill myself I hate this place I'm tired now I dropped my hat . I'm an individual Stuck in a simulated and subject collective consciousness I'll tel you where the problem is I promise this It seemed more like a tactical marketing strategy than an actual accident, knowing the type of superstar Sonny had become. Yet, I couldn't help but give it a second thought, almost admiring it—whatever it was—as there is no such thing as bad press. As it all played out over social media—which I obstinately rejected, but however so embraced by those in what one used to call "the arts"—it felt undone; It was now strictly business within those very same markets. Here was this, an apparent plagiarism based on ‘outsourcing' a simple photo for a follow-up single to an album I knew I could not be moved to listen to, even after months. I had spent my own time, in a torturous chaos sense, researching these sorts of psychological tactics and strategies of such conglomerates. It seemed almost as if the negative and seemingly coincidental exposure was in congruency with the so very Skrillexian need to stay relevant to the newer age in changing times. He seemed to embrace some sort of artistic evolution, at least from what I could sense at a long and strong distance. However, my ability to understand the article I'd very much by accident stumbled upon—while overlooking my own dilapidated ticket stubs on Resident Advisor—cautioned at the kind of humbled and grown logic that had become what was left of my womanhood. I had in so many ways made a fool of myself, an embarrassment for what I thought of at the time in the name of love. Still, in all this time, I was so desolated and alone that it had become such an apparent and distraught sense of waking up to what formerly was. With this, I thought one of two things. I knew this Sonny, like most men of prestige, power, and great wealth, had devised his team of sharp-witted, intelligent, beautiful women. This apparent slip-up over the artwork for his latest endeavor—which I had, for every reason, protested in defense of my own dignity—was perhaps the result of a beautiful woman without creative ingenuity stealing the artwork in bad taste, as evidenced. Or—even more cunning—this was the wit of a trained and marginalized soldier in the art of programming. The apparent plagiarism was, in fact, another brutal and hollow Skrillefied market for attention. Over the last decade, he had no shortage of the ability to create and draw eyes to whatever art or concept was forced out of the mechanized monster. Still, there was a sharp growl. I knew I was meant to find this as a reminder of what I'd find if I looked any further or listened to his music anymore: a rise in sharp numbers, mass appeal tactics, and this-or-that shallow hogwash of distinctly skeletal bodies and avant-garde aesthetics. It pointed at the unachievable from my eyes and standpoint. It was the rockstar air and attire of everything I wasn't: strictly thin Hollywood or other ideals to which the construct was entitled, but I wasn't. I had to set out on my own way because what I had intended with music was jumbled into appearances, pornographic sexualities, and masculine dominance. It meant I had aged out of the desirability and affect these very same masses were being marketed from. Sure, I understood that the Skrillex project had established a sort of order for what the electronic festival industry wanted. But I also wanted something else accomplished in my time that wasn't just being some shallow, hot-girl, obscure go-after. The entire time, I had been under the impression of a duality of magnetism I often still had difficulty loosening myself from—that this illusion of an emotional tie or loveness, outside of what was a physical or illustrious concept, had no substance within the business at its core. It was, to say the least, a heartless world and a heartless business. Now that my own music was without purpose, I could forever distance myself from the other masses—the consumer-prosumer-commercialized "artists" that had sprung up out of access to the direct-to-streaming music market via technology and disposable funding. I had no way of embodying my mind to do away with the parts of me that needed to change to become one of them—in the sense that if my music looked and sounded alike, I would be embraced. But I was far from being the type of consciousness that had formed seemingly with the twist of a knob or an Ableton shortcut by one of electronic's founding fathers. In an unfortunate way, I had finally realized he was just that. — Death of A Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

04. s l y t h e r i n. Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I stil don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or m addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer while the poorer suffer longer No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded paper No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've be ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's so sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like “Help me.” I'm like Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provences. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r ( I love when i get off the train and that happens) What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you jo now pull you don't a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance because racism in New York can be so violent That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind it seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror" "Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms." The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual. As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.

s u c k e r p u n c h. The kid will never go to sleep, You know The boy will never rest He'll never do his best, you know He'll never do his best She'll never be the best you know She's never out of bed She'll never see the sun you know ‘It's only in your head' The boy will never drown, you know You know the boy's so cold You might go out for now, you know But you'll go home alone He'll never hit the ground, you know The boy will never rest The boy will just go down, You know As history at best (The girl is staring out the window as the frost comes out their mouths) Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I still don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked for an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer – while the poorer suffer longer. No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded wager No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've been ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's some sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like, “Help me.” I'm like, Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provinces. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you up now pull you down a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance m because the whites in New York can be so violently racist m Their strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies their hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind Why existing in white neighborhoods in less than perfect black skin seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor What if covert racism doesn't hurt as much– (or never, ever-after) Mister Jimmy you're out of touch. Mr. Chaos you're out of God. Ms. Divine, you're not enough Ms. Monroe, you're out of love A dozen is a dozen Hallmark roses I still love my ‘ol Miss Molly I still love my golden trophy Mr. Trump, You're out of touch Mr. Moore, You're out of line Ms. Monroe, you're not enough Mr. God, you're out of love But I still love my ol' Miss Molly I still love my golden trophy I still love my Hollywood, Golden boys I still love my silver screen And golden eras, I still love my world before love I still like my alma mater But i'll never ever love her I put out for dear Miss Molly I get up for four-door wallets I belong to none or nothing I should die, I don't belong here I still call her over after Don't belong here under, over I still love my golden boys though I still love my golden trophy Mister Jimmy, you're out of touch. F I can very much count you out; E I can very much drift away G I can very well close my eyes. Am What do you want me to say? You want the whole thing? Well what a fun night. It was a hard roll; it was a good time It was a hard come down, though A hard fuck It was a hard laugh; I wrote a good book We took a long ride; Then smoked a long blunt Woah Hush now, good fan Come and take a hard roll A long stroll a hot dance I want to take a half more The comedown was hard, But i just got the honor roll Come down, good fan I want to hold your hand now I want to take a good pause I want to have a hard roll Calm down, good fan I'm headed for your heart now (i want to take a hard fall, I want to take a hard roll) Come on, good man I wanna get a hard on I wanna take a hard fan I want to have a hard fuck I'm going for your heart now I want to have a long roll I'm going for your heart now I want to take a good smoke Yeah, and it's something like that And i look both ways before I cross the Cut the road Yeah, i hate myself as well But i know you don' But you know, we're all getting older It just goes more post mortem To hold secrets inside Pass over regrets and don't touch em Like you don't want em But you don't want No one else And you don't wanna run So you either say hello to the dog Or bark, And then jump back I have you on speed dial But I misfire T total recall I don't call blocked numbers but still number one d-d-don't be a retard, Work harder Learn more than your other parts To control them supermanteras Entourage Tata- Ratata Don't be retarded Rat poison for supper Rat poison for supper And politics for something sweet afterward You heard of the knowledge? You heard of the good book Good one, Doctor I'll run harder next workhour Cause we're all undercooked And we're all overdone on the outside still half frozen in the gut though, You know You know? Enjoy your holiday supper Enjoy your apartment Enjoy your destruction I'm just getting started corrupting your disk drive Full system failure! Fill system failure! Full Jimmy Fallon! I mean– Redact that. Don't be retarded. Run out of water! We're all out of order! I might as well pull the plug Or just more fires. I got hard times under And hard times covered No hard times coming cause Look, I got smarter (don't be retarded) I got semi sweet chocolate And lessons And lovers And neighbors And demons and evil around I So who could have thought That the work of God was just [us, at it] At first, i thought nothing, and then all at once, All it was, as is. While I hope that one day for me, there's a me And a man in a meadow No time to decide however, how long I can act as irreverent, The single disciple, the limitless modem,, the signal to imminent the I took a misstep, I went the wrong way I thought I was done, but I should be on stage Just pretend It's imminent; My relapse, As a drug I take it in in increments Collapse; My photographic image memory Serves me perfectly A classical caricature And still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt (Still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt) I'm here in present tense An artifact and image Inside all the builds and relics Mr. Tim is here When Mr, Night Guy gets too perfect Ties it on a bit for treasure chests And pleasure's never where the head will reac, dear Here hearts Silk eyes Don't trust Tame scarves Legwaemwss Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Silk ties Autographs Wedding bells And autocrats Grandfather clock and pendulum And scarities and garish art, And murderers upon the dusk The carriage sure to'ave spoken Crypt sinking, There faultlines, now quaking My hind legs are to shore And still my forelegs tip So why am I envious? It isn't athletics, I promise Its pages and pages Poems and proses Keep it together karassndra Why are you out all alone in a war zone without a gun? Why are you out with the bomb squad in a rainstorm Why are you known amongst all the lands? You won by a landslide but by a show of hands And a slight side of hands And a show to the world that you own what you're on, Let them come hold enough to hold you down with the motorcycles. No country for old nothing When the highlight of your whole life Is the subdural hematoma growing to the surface. And you were sure before you'd never have that part of your symmetry in tact again See how the devil surrounds us when we interact with God and pure genius Human will always kill God; He doesn't understand it The attacks and the tactical wall for sure come to a close; The whole empire is falling And Heaven is calling us home; This has been just a warning I'm still hiding j. The closet; I'm sure to fly your hawk back, homing, Nothing like a good pigeon, depending on the moment And deepening hour disinterest in anything? See how evil walks amongst us When you haven't come upon it in a moment Or have all your other targets lined up— Do remember dear ther it all comes back to haunt them When they're all younger And haven't been tortured yet The fun part first and the war part after; Sure to suffer if you're sure to hurt her Sure to muder for a quarter or a tucked shirt Sure to give a shit if just my mister in a basket Do you understand that? I won't Good good Goddamn I might have a heart attack I might have to kill myself I hate this place I'm tired now I dropped my hat . I'm an individual Stuck in a simulated and subject collective consciousness I'll tel you where the problem is I promise this It seemed more like a tactical marketing strategy than an actual accident, knowing the type of superstar Sonny had become. Yet, I couldn't help but give it a second thought, almost admiring it—whatever it was—as there is no such thing as bad press. As it all played out over social media—which I obstinately rejected, but however so embraced by those in what one used to call "the arts"—it felt undone; It was now strictly business within those very same markets. Here was this, an apparent plagiarism based on ‘outsourcing' a simple photo for a follow-up single to an album I knew I could not be moved to listen to, even after months. I had spent my own time, in a torturous chaos sense, researching these sorts of psychological tactics and strategies of such conglomerates. It seemed almost as if the negative and seemingly coincidental exposure was in congruency with the so very Skrillexian need to stay relevant to the newer age in changing times. He seemed to embrace some sort of artistic evolution, at least from what I could sense at a long and strong distance. However, my ability to understand the article I'd very much by accident stumbled upon—while overlooking my own dilapidated ticket stubs on Resident Advisor—cautioned at the kind of humbled and grown logic that had become what was left of my womanhood. I had in so many ways made a fool of myself, an embarrassment for what I thought of at the time in the name of love. Still, in all this time, I was so desolated and alone that it had become such an apparent and distraught sense of waking up to what formerly was. With this, I thought one of two things. I knew this Sonny, like most men of prestige, power, and great wealth, had devised his team of sharp-witted, intelligent, beautiful women. This apparent slip-up over the artwork for his latest endeavor—which I had, for every reason, protested in defense of my own dignity—was perhaps the result of a beautiful woman without creative ingenuity stealing the artwork in bad taste, as evidenced. Or—even more cunning—this was the wit of a trained and marginalized soldier in the art of programming. The apparent plagiarism was, in fact, another brutal and hollow Skrillefied market for attention. Over the last decade, he had no shortage of the ability to create and draw eyes to whatever art or concept was forced out of the mechanized monster. Still, there was a sharp growl. I knew I was meant to find this as a reminder of what I'd find if I looked any further or listened to his music anymore: a rise in sharp numbers, mass appeal tactics, and this-or-that shallow hogwash of distinctly skeletal bodies and avant-garde aesthetics. It pointed at the unachievable from my eyes and standpoint. It was the rockstar air and attire of everything I wasn't: strictly thin Hollywood or other ideals to which the construct was entitled, but I wasn't. I had to set out on my own way because what I had intended with music was jumbled into appearances, pornographic sexualities, and masculine dominance. It meant I had aged out of the desirability and affect these very same masses were being marketed from. Sure, I understood that the Skrillex project had established a sort of order for what the electronic festival industry wanted. But I also wanted something else accomplished in my time that wasn't just being some shallow, hot-girl, obscure go-after. The entire time, I had been under the impression of a duality of magnetism I often still had difficulty loosening myself from—that this illusion of an emotional tie or loveness, outside of what was a physical or illustrious concept, had no substance within the business at its core. It was, to say the least, a heartless world and a heartless business. Now that my own music was without purpose, I could forever distance myself from the other masses—the consumer-prosumer-commercialized "artists" that had sprung up out of access to the direct-to-streaming music market via technology and disposable funding. I had no way of embodying my mind to do away with the parts of me that needed to change to become one of them—in the sense that if my music looked and sounded alike, I would be embraced. But I was far from being the type of consciousness that had formed seemingly with the twist of a knob or an Ableton shortcut by one of electronic's founding fathers. In an unfortunate way, I had finally realized he was just that. — Death of A Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

04. s l y t h e r i n. Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I stil don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or m addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer while the poorer suffer longer No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded paper No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've be ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's so sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like “Help me.” I'm like Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provences. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r ( I love when i get off the train and that happens) What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you jo now pull you don't a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance because racism in New York can be so violent That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind it seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror" "Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms." The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual. As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.

Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I stil don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or m addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer while the poorer suffer longer No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded paper No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've be ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's so sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like “Help me.” I'm like Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provences. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r ( I love when i get off the train and that happens) What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you jo now pull you don't a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance because racism in New York can be so violent That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind it seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

RANGER ​​Refinance the house Refinance the boat Refinance the— Doing the most Refinance the cat Refinance the dog Finance the—? Fuck it. Refinance the Ranger (I'm doing the most) How dare you? Bitch I said that shit just to scare you Bitch you a demon! I ate the peas out the can And I hope that you see this What in the fuck do you mean I see and hear things I sea and here that, I failed the test now But passed the bar Wow You're funny Refinance the payment to fuck me Over You don't even know her So the glove don't fit? You still killed that bitch, OJ! Okay That a big ball player I'm a big black finger up your ass; What's cracking? Doing the work of the crackers I screenshot and capture Refinance the black list You act on behalf of the TRAP Refinance the TAP Refinance the cap and gown Cause I'm already drowning Refinance the black and brown Cause you know that I'm proud But I'm sitting her pouting (Wut) Refinance the land Refinance the Indian reservation where my dad at Refinance the car Refinance the boat Ok, Fuckit Refinance the Ranger Refinance the house Refinance the boat Refinance the— Doing the most Refinance the cat Refinance the dog Finance the—? Fuck it. Refinance the Ranger (I'm doing the most) Refinance the Ranger Refinance the house Refinance the boat Refinance the— Doing the most Refinance the cat Refinance the dog Finance the—? Fuck it. Refinance the Ranger Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I stil don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or m addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer while the poorer suffer longer No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded paper No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've be ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's so sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like “Help me.” I'm like Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provences. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r ( I love when i get off the train and that happens) What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you jo now pull you don't a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance because racism in New York can be so violent That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind it seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

RANGER ​​Refinance the house Refinance the boat Refinance the— Doing the most Refinance the cat Refinance the dog Finance the—? Fuck it. Refinance the Ranger (I'm doing the most) How dare you? Bitch I said that shit just to scare you Bitch you a demon! I ate the peas out the can And I hope that you see this What in the fuck do you mean I see and hear things I sea and here that, I failed the test now But passed the bar Wow You're funny Refinance the payment to fuck me Over You don't even know her So the glove don't fit? You still killed that bitch, OJ! Okay That a big ball player I'm a big black finger up your ass; What's cracking? Doing the work of the crackers I screenshot and capture Refinance the black list You act on behalf of the TRAP Refinance the TAP Refinance the cap and gown Cause I'm already drowning Refinance the black and brown Cause you know that I'm proud But I'm sitting her pouting (Wut) Refinance the land Refinance the Indian reservation where my dad at Refinance the car Refinance the boat Ok, Fuckit Refinance the Ranger Refinance the house Refinance the boat Refinance the— Doing the most Refinance the cat Refinance the dog Finance the—? Fuck it. Refinance the Ranger (I'm doing the most) Refinance the Ranger Refinance the house Refinance the boat Refinance the— Doing the most Refinance the cat Refinance the dog Finance the—? Fuck it. Refinance the Ranger Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I stil don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or m addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer while the poorer suffer longer No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded paper No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've be ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's so sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like “Help me.” I'm like Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provences. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r ( I love when i get off the train and that happens) What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you jo now pull you don't a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance because racism in New York can be so violent That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind it seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

RANGER ​​Refinance the house Refinance the boat Refinance the— Doing the most Refinance the cat Refinance the dog Finance the—? Fuck it. Refinance the Ranger (I'm doing the most) How dare you? Bitch I said that shit just to scare you Bitch you a demon! I ate the peas out the can And I hope that you see this What in the fuck do you mean I see and hear things I sea and here that, I failed the test now But passed the bar Wow You're funny Refinance the payment to fuck me Over You don't even know her So the glove don't fit? You still killed that bitch, OJ! Okay That a big ball player I'm a big black finger up your ass; What's cracking? Doing the work of the crackers I screenshot and capture Refinance the black list You act on behalf of the TRAP Refinance the TAP Refinance the cap and gown Cause I'm already drowning Refinance the black and brown Cause you know that I'm proud But I'm sitting her pouting (Wut) Refinance the land Refinance the Indian reservation where my dad at Refinance the car Refinance the boat Ok, Fuckit Refinance the Ranger Refinance the house Refinance the boat Refinance the— Doing the most Refinance the cat Refinance the dog Finance the—? Fuck it. Refinance the Ranger (I'm doing the most) Refinance the Ranger Refinance the house Refinance the boat Refinance the— Doing the most Refinance the cat Refinance the dog Finance the—? Fuck it. Refinance the Ranger Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I stil don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or m addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer while the poorer suffer longer No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded paper No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've be ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's so sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like “Help me.” I'm like Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provences. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r ( I love when i get off the train and that happens) What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you jo now pull you don't a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance because racism in New York can be so violent That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind it seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Fresh from the land of a thousand suns And I stil don't know which stone to land on No random environment; I underwent the whole attorney And still met with resistance I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was A supplement to my existence In fact, it is, An edifice or m addition to my nutrition deficit And I says, For whatever's lost but goes on, Fight for rich or poorer while the poorer suffer longer No longer argue my agreements, Distance to whatever's after There I rest upon the sober throne, And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as as stones, For may as well without the water And also sure to rot, Or waste as rats, Computer paper, There again Recycling bins of compost Just for show, but not for shredded paper No, no longer or wonder my nonsense, In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here— And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered Torment your emotions, Also just to want but not to have As those that matter. So I've called in all the white clothes Now we represent with denim. And I'm stuck inside your television Stuck inside your television Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred, Separating yourselfs as the basis for this Depreciation? Wonder, again I wonder And still no sad trombones, Only stories, and somber surfers And solemn whores and silent wars with words And sundries From the land of one thousand suns And a thousand sons you've lost A thousand wars, A thousand girls who want you Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it Rare. But slightly often scored, Parched, And barely long forgotten, Tipping, And waiting only This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup. Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something, I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water. You know it? I also do that for the dozen, No trend follows, or feathered gathered, Hollow winds and tunnels Tunnels sent and shadows I hadn't been pin pricked I never been picked out Blow the candles for which wish? I've be ever been bound to love Or celebrated by another besides my mother But here's so sensory deprivation, Overstimulation lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend But she won't shut the fuck up He's just standing there like “Clearly I'm getting sex out of this” And she won't stop talking. I love that. I'm like “bitch, shut up.” He's like “Help me.” I'm like Not my problem, broskies, You better look interested instead of over here. Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me. Anyway, another son was born without my honor. Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor Before I realized it was gold, And I was slaughtered No use crying over spilled galaxies, Still you're trapped in I, And I'm found to want more than I decided If I'm divided and clustered up And yet I'm divine then, I should gather all I've had Combine it into one —and yet Another columbine has come As if they're all occurrences, Just set to Apple Watches And broadcast t'all the provences. In a cinch I've just realized I've the trench coat to match your jacket But no longer the converse all stars And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating, Crash the grate at all the hours, Never really gravitating for anything important, Only alt-right Can't afford that All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally. Who am I? That's right? I can't belay in body! Oh, I can't to grip the shadows Boxing with the cat for your night V.O We were friends with the humans— Most of our job is finding out what happened with them. Future people Vintage potluck All out time And all our hard work All our bad luck All our warns Fell on her shores as lodes for her Oh, How his legs fall so calmly one over the other Or, How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings Our melodies will walk in chords for all time For now if ta zzz A as te r ( I love when i get off the train and that happens) What a brilliant blue, Yea, in fact, its cerulean Yes, in fact, if you can Facts to rule them all, so If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry Here's your love; None For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone From the top Don't ever forget you're on watch I've got a whole heart full of freedom Just don't look up from your phone e They brought you jo now pull you don't a bit You're a clown, it seems But no activists They heil Hitler in central Bedford No articles of new clothing l, huh? They love to watch all your digging They call it hyper vigilance because racism in New York can be so violent That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers Which justifies hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world They see themselves as the controllers Still slave master but in such a context That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind it seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Send us a textaaahhhhhh!!!! The gang is heading MUCH too fast. Like, they could get hurt kind of fast. I mean, at least theyre away from that demon ship, but at what cost? What lies in store for them when they crash land? Probaby more adventure! Let's go join them in this new amazing episode of DUUNNGEEEOONNN RRRAAADDIIIOOO HHHHOOOUURRR!!:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::THIS SHOW IS NSFW AND NSFK (Not safe for kids. sorry kids!)Our DM is Dalton Rusher-RiddleOur Players are Andrew Gehrlein, Michael Adair & Alissa AdairTheme song by Dustin HookSound effects from Zapsplat and PixabayBackground music by Lexin_Music, DELOsound, JuliusH on PixabayPlease check out our Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, AND NOW PATREON on our Linktree to keep up with the latest DRH news!Bye for now~:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Support the show

A Parched Dry LandSupport the show: https://christianityworks.com/channels/adp/See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Erica can't survive without her water bottle!!!

Pastor Dan reads from Isaiah 55 and reflects on a season of spiritual drought and renewal during his leave. Using the image of rain on parched ground, he shares how preparing the soil of the soul—through prayer, repentance, and releasing long-held burdens—opens us to God's refreshing Word. The message emphasizes immediate response to the Spirit, forgiveness as freedom, and practical habits for receiving God's renewing grace so we can bear fruit and walk in new life.

Where we go to for our source of sustenance matters! This week, Ps Luke de Jong leads us through the story of Jesus encountering the woman at the well as he teaches on how we can go from parched to pouring. While the things of this world may quench our thirst for a day we ultimately become parched again, Jesus however, provides a way where we can be sustained for eternity.

Listen to a powerful message of hope from Ps Luke de Jong (Senior Leader), as we begin our Encounters With Jesus series. Reading from the story of the Woman at the Well (John 4), Ps Luke encourages us to truly seek Jesus, the refreshing source of life that doesn't just keep us alive, but overflows out of us to those around us._To find out more about LIFE, visit us at lifenz.org

Coming up on today's Local: the water is still shut off for people in Granada Hills & Porter Ranch ... thieves target popular dolls in La Puente ... and can LAUSD cafeteria food pass the Pete Demetriou taste test?

Parched and Dangerous - James 1

Thanks so much for listening to our podcast! This sermon is based on Psalm 42 and is part 2 of our "Summer of Psalms" series. Hope it will be a meaningful word to you this week.To find out more about our church, you can head on over to ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠www.williamsburgbaptist.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. If you have a moment, we'd also love for you to click over to follow us on ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ or ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Facebook⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.We are a small but vibrant and growing congregation, and there are lots of ways to connect. Please don't hesitate to reach out if we can help support you in any way! Thanks so much for tuning in!

Today's Word for the Day is "Parched." If you listen to Word for the Day on audio and have never checked out the video, you can do so on our YouTube channel at youtube.com/@fbmmediastudios. To receive your Word for the Day by e-mail, go to http://fbmaryville.org/wordfortheday to sign up.

In Parched PlacesIsaiah 58:11-12 “The Lord will guide you continually, and satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail. Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in."This scripture verse was given at a prayer group meeting recently. This morning, I was looking through my prayer group notes since we have finished the Be Bold Series, and I thought I would get back to using those verses for a bit. When I read today's verse, I knew it was perfect because I know so many people who are struggling right now. I know so many people who have been praying for relief from physical ailments and feel as though their prayers have not been heard. Or maybe they have been heard, but they are not sure they have the strength to wait for God's timing.This scripture verse tells us that God is continually guiding us and that He will satisfy our needs in parched places. How many of us feel like we are in parched places? How many of us feel as though we are in a desert and relief is nowhere around? We look out as far as we can see in all directions, and there is nothing. We are all alone with no end in sight. Sometimes we feel as though there is no hope in sight either. We want to be hopeful, we want to believe that God is going to heal us, and yet each day that goes by, we struggle more and more to believe it might happen.I have a friend who has a son who lost his job. We prayed for her son for a very long time. He struggled to pay his bills. He had to move out of his home. He had to give his dogs away because he had to move in with a friend and sleep on their couch. I am sure he struggled believing that a job was coming his way. I am sure he had moments when he doubted he would ever find a job again. I am sure he questioned where God was in all of this. He knows his mom was praying for him that whole time, so what was taking so long? Why wasn't God answering the prayers that he knew people were praying for him?He now has a job and things are going well. God did answer his prayers and those of all who were praying for him. The thing that is hard for us all to understand is why it took so long. I am sure you have your own version of this story, too. Maybe you have many versions of this story. Why did the adoption process take so long? Why did it take so long to get pregnant? Why did I have to struggle so long with cancer? Why did I have to suffer in pain for so many years? Why, Why, Why?If you are asking God why for something right now, I want you to know that it is ok, and that you are not alone. None of us understands God's ways. No one here on earth knows why He does what He does and why His timing is what it is. The one thing we do know is that he is all-knowing and all-powerful. We can be assured that He does have a plan. We don't understand the plan because we don't have all the facts. We don't know what is to come. We know our story, but we don't know anyone else's story. We don't know how God might use what we are going through to help someone else. We don't know how God will use what we are going through to help us become the person we need to become.When we are confused, when we feel lost, we can turn to Scripture to find answers, to find promises. If it is in scripture, then you know you can rely on it. You can stand on it as truth. Today's verse says that, “The Lord will guide you continually, and satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong.” How many of us needed to hear that today? How many of us needed to hear that even though we feel like we are in a desert, God is actually there with us, and we are not alone. God is not only there with us, but He is forever guiding us, and He will satisfy our needs. I know this verse was meant for me to use today, too, because the next line is oddly specific. He will make your bones strong. How many of us feel like that is exactly what we need today? I know several of you listening are struggling with your bodies. You are struggling with physical ailments, and you definitely need God to make your bones strong. Some of you feel you are fading fast and can't fight anymore. If that is you, I hope you hear God talking to you specifically today. I hope you hear Him telling you that He will give you the strength you need, the nutrients you need, the healing you need. He will make your bones strong so you can continue to stand and fight whatever it is you are fighting. HE IS THERE WITH YOU!!Then it says, “you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail.” I feel as though this is God reassuring us that even though we feel as though we have nothing left to give, we will never run out. He will give us exactly what we need for that one day, that one hour, that one minute. When you feel like you have nothing left to give, remember this promise from the Lord: “You will be like a spring of water, whose waters never fail.” The enemy will tell you that you have nothing left to give. He will tell you that your water has dried up and you are failing fast. He is a liar. The Lord only speaks the truth. So when He says that you are a spring of water, whose water never fails,” then you can take that to the bank. You can stand on that promise. You may feel empty, but God is there giving you whatever you need to keep moving forward, even if it is at a really slow pace.I almost didn't include the last verse, as I usually try to just focus on one verse at a time and go deep. However, I thought this last verse was something we all needed to hear. It says, “Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in.” I felt this was important to include because I didn't want to leave you with the thought that God meant for your story to end where you are. He is saying that He will give you what you need to get through the parched place you are in right now, but He doesn't leave you there. I feel as though if I ended with that last paragraph some of you might be thinking that although it is reassuring that God will give me what I need in this difficult time, I still don't want to be stuck in this time forever. I still need relief.This last verse shows us that God will not leave us here. He has a plan. Our ancient ruins will be rebuilt. The sense I got when I read this was that our lives would be rebuilt. We will not be the same person we were before we went through this. We will be stronger. We will be more resilient and persistent. We will be made new. This is how God always leaves us. He doesn't leave us broken and weak. We may feel weak, but when we are weak, God is strong. God can work through us powerfully when we admit our weakness and ask Him to step in and help us. We look at all we have lost and think it is lost forever. God can restore anything we have lost. He can give us back lost time, He can give us back lost loved ones, He can give us back everything. We see this when we look back at the story of Job. We often think of Job as the suffering servant. We think of all he had to go through and how he remained faithful. However, I don't think we spend enough time thinking about how God repaid him for his suffering. God restored all he had lost. He gave him back everything he had lost two times.Maybe in the really hard times. The times when it feels like you will never get better, you can think about how God will reward you for your suffering as well. What might He give you back? What might he bless you with that you didn't have before? How might God be using your suffering? My dad tends not to request prayers for himself because he knows that God is using his suffering to help others. He also knows God will give him what he needs to bear the suffering. I agree with both of these, although I do think we should always ask God to heal our suffering and have others pray over us. I am sure the thought of how God might be using his suffering brings comfort to my dad, and it can bring comfort to you, too.The very last line says, “You shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in.” You can repair the breach. You can restore the streets. Your story, your testimony, can bring someone back to the Lord. Your story of how you made it through the hard time by the grace of God can let someone else know that they can make it through, too. It might be just what someone needs to hear to return to the Lord and ask Him for help. God was with you in your parched places; others may need to know He will be there for them, too!Dear Heavenly Father, please bless everyone listening. Lord, we love you and we are sorry we get so frustrated waiting for your timing. We don't understand it, Lord, which is hard for us. We want to believe your plan is better than our plan, and yet our plan seems so great to us. Please help us see your plan more and more. Please help our will align with your will. Please fill us with the strength and patience to wait for your timing. We love you, Lord, and we ask all of this in accordance with your will and in Jesus's holy name, Amen!Thank you so much for joining me on this journey to walk boldly with Jesus. I pray you all had a great Easter weekend and a wonderful Easter Season to come. This morning, Pope Francis passed away. He got to go be with our Heavenly Father, which is wonderful for him and yet sad for us. I pray for the repose of his soul, and also for the selection of the new Pope. May the Holy Spirit lead that selection process, and may the perfect person be selected! I look forward to meeting you here again tomorrow. I pray you remember how much Jesus loves you just as you are, and so do I! Have a blessed day!Today's Word from the Lord was received in October 2024 by a member of my Catholic Charismatic Prayer Group. If you have any questions about the prayer group, these words, or how to join us for a meeting, please email CatholicCharismaticPrayerGroup@gmail.com. Today's Word from the Lord is, “My children, sometimes I ask you to step forward. Sometimes, I ask you to step back. Sometimes I want you to run. Sometimes I want you to walk. Sometimes I want you to sleep. What I want most is for you to be docile to whatever I ask.” www.findingtruenorthcoaching.comCLICK HERE TO DONATECLICK HERE to sign up for Mentoring CLICK HERE to sign up for Daily "Word from the Lord" emailsCLICK HERE to sign up for my newsletter & receive a free audio training about inviting Jesus into your daily lifeCLICK HERE to buy my book Total Trust in God's Safe Embrace

How do we extend grace in these parched times? How do we seek justice and forgiveness? How can we make God's dream for humanity a reality in our world?

Minni Jain and Philip Franses are co-founders of The Flow Partnership, and they are co-authors of the new book, The Language of Water: Ancient Techniques and Community Stories for a Water Secure Future. In this podcast they explore the process of helping communities around the world to restore streams and rivers, prevent flooding, and recover local water wisdom. For decades they have been working to help communities regenerate their landscapes, using traditional methods that can be implemented and maintained by the communities themselves. The book, recently published by by Synergetic Press, tells the stories of people around the world whose land and ways of life have been upended by colonialism and industrialization––and the processes by which they reclaim not only land health but also their own sense of agency, meaning, and story-telling about their place.

Recorded Sunday, February 16, 2025 at St. Paul's Ev. Lutheran Church in Bangor, Wisconsin. "Like" us on Facebook!!

In this episode of the "Swallow Your Pride" podcast, host Theresa Richard interviews Bennett Blakeman, co-founder of K Pharmaceuticals, about Aquoral, a product designed to alleviate dry mouth (xerostomia). Bennett explains how Aquoral differs from typical water-based products by creating a protective layer in the mouth, offering longer-lasting relief. They discuss the importance of patient education, access, and the cost of Aquoral, emphasizing its benefits for individuals undergoing cancer treatments or dealing with Sjögren's syndrome. The episode underscores the need for innovative, patient-centered solutions in the field of swallowing disorders. The post 362 – From Parched to Perfect: The Game-Changer for Dry Mouth Relief with Aquoral appeared first on Swallow Your Pride Podcast.

This week, Chris shifts focus to recommending several podcasts that align with the mission of desert protection and conservation. Marissa Ortega Welch’s “How Wild” challenges conventional perceptions of wilderness by exploring cultural narratives that shape our understanding of solitude in nature. With Emily Guerin’s investigative series, "California City," listeners uncover the tantalizing history and real estate tales of this less-known Mojave Desert town. Michael Elizabeth Sakas captivates audiences with "Parched," a series that unpacks the critical water shortages plaguing the Colorado River Basin. And Jennifer Errick from the National Parks Conservation Association's podcast The Secret Lives of Parks gets Chris and Luke Basulto out in the field to talk desert protection Highlighting gems from these productions, this episode celebrates the intricate beauty and significance of deserts in contemporary discourse. Key Takeaways: Discover various perspectives on wilderness concepts with Marissa Ortega Welch in "How Wild," which critiques the cultural narratives surrounding solitude and wilderness. Explore the thrilling investigative journey of Emily Guerin's podcast "California City" to explore historical and ongoing real estate dynamics in the desert. Gain insights into the pressing water issues facing the Colorado River Basin with Michael Elizabeth Sakas' comprehensive series "Parched." Hear from Jennifer Errick and Luke Basulto on the newly designated Chuckwalla National Monument and the importance of connecting desert landscapes for better ecological health. Resources: How Wild with Marissa Ortega Welch https://www.howwild.org/ California City by Emily Guerin https://laist.com/podcasts/california-city Parched, Hosted by Michael Elizabeth Sakas https://www.cpr.org/podcast/parched/ The Secret Lives of Parks, with Jennifer Errick https://thesecretlivesofparks.org/ The Border Chronicle https:/theborderchronicle.com Desert Oracle https://www.desertoracle.com/radio/ Desert Advocacy Media Network https://thedamn.org Become a desert defender!: https://90milesfromneedles.com/donateSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This week Gaz & Jordan are joined by former Rangers, Blackpool, Liverpool, Stoke, Reading & Dundee Midfielder...Charlie Adam!Charlie sits down with the boys to discuss all things football from THAT Blackpool season to transitioning into football management.The lads then chat about Charlie's early life in football with Rangers, playing against that iconic Barcelona team & learning from the legendary Walter Smith.Charlie and the boys then speak about how moving to Blackpool really kick started his career, Ian Holloway's incredible man management skills as well as achieving the impossible and winning promotion to the Premier League.Charlie then talks in depth about how his dream move to Liverpool came about, meeting Sir Kenny Dalglish & why Steven Gerrard was the perfect captain.The trio then discuss Charlie's move to Stoke City where he spent 7 years, losing card roulette with Peter Crouch & how he gained his 'Parched' nickname.Finally they discuss Charlie's time with the Scottish national team before chatting about life after playing football and stepping into coaching.Support the show

With so much water in the eastern U.S., why can't the region pipe some of it to its drought-prone neighbors in the West? This perennial question nags climate journalists and western water managers alike. We break down why building a pipeline is unrealistic right now for the Colorado River. Related episodes:How Colorado towns are trying to get some water certainty The trouble with water discounts For sponsor-free episodes of The Indicator from Planet Money, subscribe to Planet Money+ via Apple Podcasts or at plus.npr.org. Music by Drop Electric. Find us: TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, Newsletter. Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

As the midway point of the season approaches, both Jacob and Jiayang find themselves in the rather strange position of still having their first Wildcard and yet lacking any desire to use it. We try to discuss the best options position-by-position, but are quickly faced with the slightly depressing truth that there simply aren't that many truly desirable players in the game right now. The situation is especially dire among the midfielders and forwards—so dire, in fact, that we even toy with the idea of playing four defenders plus six attackers (instead of the typical seven). The dryness of the current state of the game dovetails nicely with a brief discussion about Jacob's generally conservative style of playing FPL—is such a philosophy overly lenient towards middling performers, letting them linger in one's team far beyond their welcome? Follow us on Twitter: @FplFortress

While the prospect of rain across parts of the Midwest and Ohio Valley is appealing for many residents, AccuWeather forecasters warn that the risk for severe weather may accompany the beneficial rainfall; Temperature swings will keep people on their toes, while the mainly dry conditions will be good for outdoor plans and pose some risk for brush fires Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Your soul is designed to be satisfied in one thing, and one thing only: the Lord God. All other earthly pursuits to quench your soul-thirst do just the opposite in comparison with God. -------- Thank you for listening! Your support of Joni and Friends helps make this show possible.   Joni and Friends envisions a world where every person with a disability finds hope, dignity, and their place in the body of Christ. Become part of the global movement today at www.joniandfriends.org.   Find more encouragement on Instagram, TikTok, Facebook, and YouTube.

As a stretch of a dry weather and summer-like warmth grips the Central states over the upcoming week, AccuWeather forecasters warn that there may be ramifications downstream as the lack of rain continues. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Parched Skin? Find Out What Your Routine Might Be Missing | Let's GLOW Podcast Welcome back, beautiful glow getters! In this episode of Let's GLOW, Jamie dives into the essential but often overlooked topic of hydration. Water is not just a basic necessity; it's the key to glowing, healthy skin. Jamie shares her insights on how much water you really need, the benefits of proper hydration, and creative tips to keep your skin and body well-hydrated. Plus, discover how hydration is a simple yet powerful act of self-care that can transform your skincare routine.

Rainfall map of India from 1 June to 29 August is largely blue & green—a sign of either excess or normal rainfall. ThePrint looks at rainfall data and analyses the overall impact.  

Heavenly Father, rain down over my parched faith, splashing out over those I love too. Scripture: Isaiah 44:3Best of, Summer.

PEPSI, the exclusive beverage provider of the Liberty Bowl! What's your soft drink of choice?  Ron Hart joins the Nation of Jake to discuss everything from EVs to the DNC.  Max the Producer gives a heated history of the burger!  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Big Up Goes To "To Catch A Predator: Rap Edition" There is a new trend where rappers have gone from singing about crime to preventing it. The Game, Akon, and Sway Lee are out here putting the fear of rap gods into child predators everywhere.    Let Down Goes To Diva Hydration The good people of Sacramento were hyped to see the R&B icon, who turned 80 this year, headlining the Toyota Concert Series at the California State Fair on July 20. But despite all the promotion and marketing efforts, no one thought to check the weather app.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

What do you expect to find in the desert? Parched? Cracked soil? Heat, no water? Sand and rocks? A barren, dry, and desolate place.No one anticipates life or growth in the desert. However what happens an unlikely person in an unlikely person encounters God? Join us this Sunday as we learn what God Does in our Desert Seasons. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

You know, it's so strange. For the past week, if you would have heard me, you'd have thought that I was coughing up a lung. I can't talk; I can hardly breathe. But I am getting better. Nevertheless, I decided on the day before yesterday that since I could not record a new podcast, I would publish this specific one as an encore podcast. As I said, day before yesterday. Then yesterday happened, and I realized how much more needed this message is for us than it has ever been. Enjoy, and be encouraged. God bless you richly as you listen.

Summer has arrived at the KNFW studio in Philadelphia and the gals are PARCHED!!! A lemonade man is not what he seems, an ad for an ancient phenomena comes through, and some beloved East Coast characters stop by...but will they leave?

This week I pop in for a little mini episode and talk about what shows I AM enjoying and what I'm NOT enjoying, thirsty bitches, someone that's trying to ruin reality tv for me, Summer House, Martha's House, Vanderpump Rules and more!Follow me on InstagramFollow me on Twitter

Discover how Jesus' gift of living water promises us a bond with God that satisfies our souls beyond earthly desires, guiding us to a life marked by unshakeable peace and connection.

Okay, what exactly is composite teeth bonding and why is everyone talking about it? Today we share our best and worst experiences (of the teeth variety!)  And, our summer skin is PARCHED. So we put together a list of our favourite budget moisturisers to give your skin the drink of water it deserves.  Plus, Kee is rolling a volcanic stone on her face in a last-ditch effort to avoid being a greasy girl and hey, it actually works! LINKS TO EVERYTHING MENTIONED:  Redwin Sorbolene Moisturiser $11 Qv Cream $18 Qv Ceramides Moisturising Cream $26 Dove Body Love Rich Nourishing Face & Body Cream $8.40 Nivea Rich Nourishing Body Lotion $4.70 Kester Black Miracle Treatment Base Coat $32 BOUJEE:  K18 Molecular Repair Hair Oil $95 The Daily Brush - Single $40 BUDGET:  Revlon Volcanic Stone Roller $20 Essie Nail Color Ballet Slippers $15 SUBSCRIBE:  Subscribe to Mamamia Vote in the 2024 You Beauty Awards Sign up for our free You Beauty weekly newsletter for our product recommendations, exclusive beauty news, reviews, articles, deals and much more! Want to try our new exercise app? Click here to start a seven-day free trial of MOVE by Mamamia  GET IN TOUCH: Got a beauty question you want answered?  Email us at youbeauty@mamamia.com.au or call the podphone on 02 8999 9386.  Join our You Beauty Facebook Group here. You Beauty is a podcast by Mamamia. Listen to more Mamamia podcasts here. CREDITS: Hosts: Kee Reece & Lucy Neville Producer: Cassie Merritt Audio Producer: Leah Porges Mamamia acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Land we have recorded this podcast on, the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. We pay our respects to their Elders past and present, and extend that respect to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultures.Become a Mamamia subscriber: https://www.mamamia.com.au/subscribeSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

During 21 Days Of Prayer, we will release a guided prayer meditation each morning. Set aside a few minutes every day to cultivate the discipline of prayer with us!

#PacificWatch: Sixty thousand disappointed and parched Ed Sheeran fans; delighted Lady Gaga fans. Vegas hopping. Jeff Bliss https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/ed-sheeran-postpones-las-vegas-show-technical-issues-1234821714/:  Photo: 1877 Puck, first issue

The Colorado River has more dams on it than any other river in the United States. They were built to harness water high in the mountains and across the arid desert so people could build cities, industries and farms. But the visionaries of the past didn't account for the kind of population growth the southwest has experienced, and they didn't make a plan for what to do if there wasn't enough water to go around. Now, as the region suffers through a second decade of a mega drought, residents are scrambling to find solutions that will preserve their way of life. Today on The Sunday Story from Up First, we head to Las Vegas, where water conservation has a new starring role. This episode comes from a new podcast from Colorado Public Radio and reporter Michael Elizabeth Sakas. It's called Parched.