Podcasts about superstar dj

He is a genius who makes decisive action. There is no way on just some fluke that this man can fly off the handle with no purpose. Human, sure— and famous, yes— but in what world does this just happen. It seemed a cry for help. I was upset, but I didn't know why. I am upset. I stayed throughout the day deep cleaning and heavy thinking. I thought Joel was sober— but before long, this shock sent me into a panic of deep chaos. Was my son okay? Was his father drinking again. I wasn't thinning clearly or on any level really, besides just upset. I scrubbed everything from the walls to the baseboards, every reach of every corner, every windowsill… still upset. I sent out texts checking on my boy. It had been months since I had spoken with him— and because I had chosen to dissapear, things were somewhat calm. For once, the world hadn't always felt like something was trying to kill me; maybe his father already thought I was dead. The longer I laid low, the better things got; I couldn't let myself cry over Joel— but I could cry over that, right? I needed to cry about that, apparently. I missed my son. Something needed to be done. I needed a job. But reentering the workforce at entry level? No amount of things I could do in New York City ever seemed enough, and as far as actual deadmau5 was concerned, my music was just not adding up. I was not on par. But what the fuck was going on!! Perhaps I had just been Google alerted to my doom in just the way I was supposed to have gone in the weeks before in the wake of things. But instead this hurt in a way that was not supposed to feel the way it did. Deadmau5 was my friend, and so Joel was something attached to it. Perhaps it had just been dragged out of proportion. Perhaps it had just been publicity. Was there another album. I separated the deadmau5 from the Joel momentarily— typically he was precise and in control. Drunk and stumbling around at Coachella wasn't his forte. Joel Zimmerman was a top-notch, class act. Period. There wasn't much to do or say about deadmau5 besides that it was my next to near favorite thing— as a DJ— which made Joel one of my next to near favorite people. Without looking too closely, I began to wonder whether just having a good time could have been made to look like something else, however— last I understood, Joel was comfortable in his sobriety. 'Jesus Christ,' then. ‘What happened!‘ Tales of a Superstar DJ. Let me mask that pain Let me watch and feed you Let me die again Let me let you live a little Let me lie let me lie Let me— lie inside you Let me be your flame Let me— walk behind you Let me die, die, die Let me— rot in chorus Watch me lie lie lie Watch me harpsichord (this) I'm in so much pain Pick me up, And throw me overboard I shooted you a solution for your Writer's block on the plaza Watch me talk talk talk Now let me lie a little Watch me cry cry cry Now let me die a little Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ | Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019 ™ All Rights Reserved. C'cxell Soleïl

He is a genius who makes decisive action. There is no way on just some fluke that this man can fly off the handle with no purpose. Human, sure— and famous, yes— but in what world does this just happen. It seemed a cry for help. I was upset, but I didn't know why. I am upset. I stayed throughout the day deep cleaning and heavy thinking. I thought Joel was sober— but before long, this shock sent me into a panic of deep chaos. Was my son okay? Was his father drinking again. I wasn't thinning clearly or on any level really, besides just upset. I scrubbed everything from the walls to the baseboards, every reach of every corner, every windowsill… still upset. I sent out texts checking on my boy. It had been months since I had spoken with him— and because I had chosen to dissapear, things were somewhat calm. For once, the world hadn't always felt like something was trying to kill me; maybe his father already thought I was dead. The longer I laid low, the better things got; I couldn't let myself cry over Joel— but I could cry over that, right? I needed to cry about that, apparently. I missed my son. Something needed to be done. I needed a job. But reentering the workforce at entry level? No amount of things I could do in New York City ever seemed enough, and as far as actual deadmau5 was concerned, my music was just not adding up. I was not on par. But what the fuck was going on!! Perhaps I had just been Google alerted to my doom in just the way I was supposed to have gone in the weeks before in the wake of things. But instead this hurt in a way that was not supposed to feel the way it did. Deadmau5 was my friend, and so Joel was something attached to it. Perhaps it had just been dragged out of proportion. Perhaps it had just been publicity. Was there another album. I separated the deadmau5 from the Joel momentarily— typically he was precise and in control. Drunk and stumbling around at Coachella wasn't his forte. Joel Zimmerman was a top-notch, class act. Period. There wasn't much to do or say about deadmau5 besides that it was my next to near favorite thing— as a DJ— which made Joel one of my next to near favorite people. Without looking too closely, I began to wonder whether just having a good time could have been made to look like something else, however— last I understood, Joel was comfortable in his sobriety. 'Jesus Christ,' then. ‘What happened!‘ Tales of a Superstar DJ. Let me mask that pain Let me watch and feed you Let me die again Let me let you live a little Let me lie let me lie Let me— lie inside you Let me be your flame Let me— walk behind you Let me die, die, die Let me— rot in chorus Watch me lie lie lie Watch me harpsichord (this) I'm in so much pain Pick me up, And throw me overboard I shooted you a solution for your Writer's block on the plaza Watch me talk talk talk Now let me lie a little Watch me cry cry cry Now let me die a little Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ | Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019 ™ All Rights Reserved. C'cxell Soleïl

He is a genius who makes decisive action. There is no way on just some fluke that this man can fly off the handle with no purpose. Human, sure— and famous, yes— but in what world does this just happen. It seemed a cry for help. I was upset, but I didn't know why. I am upset. I stayed throughout the day deep cleaning and heavy thinking. I thought Joel was sober— but before long, this shock sent me into a panic of deep chaos. Was my son okay? Was his father drinking again. I wasn't thinning clearly or on any level really, besides just upset. I scrubbed everything from the walls to the baseboards, every reach of every corner, every windowsill… still upset. I sent out texts checking on my boy. It had been months since I had spoken with him— and because I had chosen to dissapear, things were somewhat calm. For once, the world hadn't always felt like something was trying to kill me; maybe his father already thought I was dead. The longer I laid low, the better things got; I couldn't let myself cry over Joel— but I could cry over that, right? I needed to cry about that, apparently. I missed my son. Something needed to be done. I needed a job. But reentering the workforce at entry level? No amount of things I could do in New York City ever seemed enough, and as far as actual deadmau5 was concerned, my music was just not adding up. I was not on par. But what the fuck was going on!! Perhaps I had just been Google alerted to my doom in just the way I was supposed to have gone in the weeks before in the wake of things. But instead this hurt in a way that was not supposed to feel the way it did. Deadmau5 was my friend, and so Joel was something attached to it. Perhaps it had just been dragged out of proportion. Perhaps it had just been publicity. Was there another album. I separated the deadmau5 from the Joel momentarily— typically he was precise and in control. Drunk and stumbling around at Coachella wasn't his forte. Joel Zimmerman was a top-notch, class act. Period. There wasn't much to do or say about deadmau5 besides that it was my next to near favorite thing— as a DJ— which made Joel one of my next to near favorite people. Without looking too closely, I began to wonder whether just having a good time could have been made to look like something else, however— last I understood, Joel was comfortable in his sobriety. 'Jesus Christ,' then. ‘What happened!‘ Tales of a Superstar DJ. Let me mask that pain Let me watch and feed you Let me die again Let me let you live a little Let me lie let me lie Let me— lie inside you Let me be your flame Let me— walk behind you Let me die, die, die Let me— rot in chorus Watch me lie lie lie Watch me harpsichord (this) I'm in so much pain Pick me up, And throw me overboard I shooted you a solution for your Writer's block on the plaza Watch me talk talk talk Now let me lie a little Watch me cry cry cry Now let me die a little Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ | Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019 ™ All Rights Reserved. C'cxell Soleïl

He dropped his album and made me feel as if everything I had done was absolutely nothing at all. It was nothing, actually— and that's when I realized I'd been in New York for two years with no actual progress. Sure, I had my own apartment and a makeshift studio that either was or wasn't suitable for making music on any given day or at any given time— But I was still broke, lugging around my groceries in a cheap backpack, and out of all the clothes in my closet, maybe 3 articles were wearable. I kept oversized t shirts in piles by the bed unwilling to sort through my laundry on most days; the closet was overstuffed with boxes— I was sure I would have to move. The traffic noise and motorcycles made me sick, a congested and irritating nausea and anxiety crawling in to my stomach in the waking daylight hours. There was only peace at night, and that was only lately. The last year had been a parade of politics and political stunts; I was caught in the gentrification process by far and not only I had suffered from it, but my music. I stopped singing— stopped talking, for long periods at a time, even, and stopped being human. Eventually, I started making music, but it was nothing. 20 listeners and an average of three streams a day would almost make me proud, until out of nowhere and thinking it was some kind of hoax, another Skrillex album appeared — just days or maybe even on the day I had turned the corner where I had first listened to the last Skrillex album— or, the last palpable one. The second one sounded like it was made for kids— and it wasn't hard at all to consider this was the kind of music he was making spending his time around rich brats and only fans girls— it sucked, but it didn't matter, because nothing sucked worse than being homeless in New York, which is how I spent the following year after the long awaited return of Skrillex just so happened to coincide with my arrival to a city I never wanted to live in, ever. A city I was stuck in, but almost with the false promise of becoming greater— finally proud of the fact I was making music and expecting whatever Skrillex was to dissappear into a lull of lollipop DJs and brainwashed fan culture— his music was good, if probably not the best and people loved him for whatever he did; as for the rest of us? It was a struggle to even be noticed. Tales of a Superstar DJ.

He dropped his album and made me feel as if everything I had done was absolutely nothing at all. It was nothing, actually— and that's when I realized I'd been in New York for two years with no actual progress. Sure, I had my own apartment and a makeshift studio that either was or wasn't suitable for making music on any given day or at any given time— But I was still broke, lugging around my groceries in a cheap backpack, and out of all the clothes in my closet, maybe 3 articles were wearable. I kept oversized t shirts in piles by the bed unwilling to sort through my laundry on most days; the closet was overstuffed with boxes— I was sure I would have to move. The traffic noise and motorcycles made me sick, a congested and irritating nausea and anxiety crawling in to my stomach in the waking daylight hours. There was only peace at night, and that was only lately. The last year had been a parade of politics and political stunts; I was caught in the gentrification process by far and not only I had suffered from it, but my music. I stopped singing— stopped talking, for long periods at a time, even, and stopped being human. Eventually, I started making music, but it was nothing. 20 listeners and an average of three streams a day would almost make me proud, until out of nowhere and thinking it was some kind of hoax, another Skrillex album appeared — just days or maybe even on the day I had turned the corner where I had first listened to the last Skrillex album— or, the last palpable one. The second one sounded like it was made for kids— and it wasn't hard at all to consider this was the kind of music he was making spending his time around rich brats and only fans girls— it sucked, but it didn't matter, because nothing sucked worse than being homeless in New York, which is how I spent the following year after the long awaited return of Skrillex just so happened to coincide with my arrival to a city I never wanted to live in, ever. A city I was stuck in, but almost with the false promise of becoming greater— finally proud of the fact I was making music and expecting whatever Skrillex was to dissappear into a lull of lollipop DJs and brainwashed fan culture— his music was good, if probably not the best and people loved him for whatever he did; as for the rest of us? It was a struggle to even be noticed. Tales of a Superstar DJ.

He dropped his album and made me feel as if everything I had done was absolutely nothing at all. It was nothing, actually— and that's when I realized I'd been in New York for two years with no actual progress. Sure, I had my own apartment and a makeshift studio that either was or wasn't suitable for making music on any given day or at any given time— But I was still broke, lugging around my groceries in a cheap backpack, and out of all the clothes in my closet, maybe 3 articles were wearable. I kept oversized t shirts in piles by the bed unwilling to sort through my laundry on most days; the closet was overstuffed with boxes— I was sure I would have to move. The traffic noise and motorcycles made me sick, a congested and irritating nausea and anxiety crawling in to my stomach in the waking daylight hours. There was only peace at night, and that was only lately. The last year had been a parade of politics and political stunts; I was caught in the gentrification process by far and not only I had suffered from it, but my music. I stopped singing— stopped talking, for long periods at a time, even, and stopped being human. Eventually, I started making music, but it was nothing. 20 listeners and an average of three streams a day would almost make me proud, until out of nowhere and thinking it was some kind of hoax, another Skrillex album appeared — just days or maybe even on the day I had turned the corner where I had first listened to the last Skrillex album— or, the last palpable one. The second one sounded like it was made for kids— and it wasn't hard at all to consider this was the kind of music he was making spending his time around rich brats and only fans girls— it sucked, but it didn't matter, because nothing sucked worse than being homeless in New York, which is how I spent the following year after the long awaited return of Skrillex just so happened to coincide with my arrival to a city I never wanted to live in, ever. A city I was stuck in, but almost with the false promise of becoming greater— finally proud of the fact I was making music and expecting whatever Skrillex was to dissappear into a lull of lollipop DJs and brainwashed fan culture— his music was good, if probably not the best and people loved him for whatever he did; as for the rest of us? It was a struggle to even be noticed. Tales of a Superstar DJ.

He dropped his album and made me feel as if everything I had done was absolutely nothing at all. It was nothing, actually— and that's when I realized I'd been in New York for two years with no actual progress. Sure, I had my own apartment and a makeshift studio that either was or wasn't suitable for making music on any given day or at any given time— But I was still broke, lugging around my groceries in a cheap backpack, and out of all the clothes in my closet, maybe 3 articles were wearable. I kept oversized t shirts in piles by the bed unwilling to sort through my laundry on most days; the closet was overstuffed with boxes— I was sure I would have to move. The traffic noise and motorcycles made me sick, a congested and irritating nausea and anxiety crawling in to my stomach in the waking daylight hours. There was only peace at night, and that was only lately. The last year had been a parade of politics and political stunts; I was caught in the gentrification process by far and not only I had suffered from it, but my music. I stopped singing— stopped talking, for long periods at a time, even, and stopped being human. Eventually, I started making music, but it was nothing. 20 listeners and an average of three streams a day would almost make me proud, until out of nowhere and thinking it was some kind of hoax, another Skrillex album appeared — just days or maybe even on the day I had turned the corner where I had first listened to the last Skrillex album— or, the last palpable one. The second one sounded like it was made for kids— and it wasn't hard at all to consider this was the kind of music he was making spending his time around rich brats and only fans girls— it sucked, but it didn't matter, because nothing sucked worse than being homeless in New York, which is how I spent the following year after the long awaited return of Skrillex just so happened to coincide with my arrival to a city I never wanted to live in, ever. A city I was stuck in, but almost with the false promise of becoming greater— finally proud of the fact I was making music and expecting whatever Skrillex was to dissappear into a lull of lollipop DJs and brainwashed fan culture— his music was good, if probably not the best and people loved him for whatever he did; as for the rest of us? It was a struggle to even be noticed. Tales of a Superstar DJ.

He dropped his album and made me feel as if everything I had done was absolutely nothing at all. It was nothing, actually— and that's when I realized I'd been in New York for two years with no actual progress. Sure, I had my own apartment and a makeshift studio that either was or wasn't suitable for making music on any given day or at any given time— But I was still broke, lugging around my groceries in a cheap backpack, and out of all the clothes in my closet, maybe 3 articles were wearable. I kept oversized t shirts in piles by the bed unwilling to sort through my laundry on most days; the closet was overstuffed with boxes— I was sure I would have to move. The traffic noise and motorcycles made me sick, a congested and irritating nausea and anxiety crawling in to my stomach in the waking daylight hours. There was only peace at night, and that was only lately. The last year had been a parade of politics and political stunts; I was caught in the gentrification process by far and not only I had suffered from it, but my music. I stopped singing— stopped talking, for long periods at a time, even, and stopped being human. Eventually, I started making music, but it was nothing. 20 listeners and an average of three streams a day would almost make me proud, until out of nowhere and thinking it was some kind of hoax, another Skrillex album appeared — just days or maybe even on the day I had turned the corner where I had first listened to the last Skrillex album— or, the last palpable one. The second one sounded like it was made for kids— and it wasn't hard at all to consider this was the kind of music he was making spending his time around rich brats and only fans girls— it sucked, but it didn't matter, because nothing sucked worse than being homeless in New York, which is how I spent the following year after the long awaited return of Skrillex just so happened to coincide with my arrival to a city I never wanted to live in, ever. A city I was stuck in, but almost with the false promise of becoming greater— finally proud of the fact I was making music and expecting whatever Skrillex was to dissappear into a lull of lollipop DJs and brainwashed fan culture— his music was good, if probably not the best and people loved him for whatever he did; as for the rest of us? It was a struggle to even be noticed. Tales of a Superstar DJ.

There was no cake under the candles— and I wasn't going to blow them out. If I took the moment to really think about my placement in the world, I was a mess— I aimed for perfect and wasn't— I had been exhausted the night before, not just tired, but exhausted. Maybe this isn't the birthday I should be celebrating. I was up early, but left late enough to be late. Why? Well, it just seemed nothing at all was going right. I sang happy birthday to myself— but I didn't have a name to call her anymore. I was no longer supacree— but it I wasn't really— well, it was blu'sn birthday. I just usually celebrated it in August— but now I didn't celebrate it at all. I didn't celebrate anything. All I did was work— and not get paid for it. Either way, my idea of a good birthday wasn't l. Sitting in my apartment listening to my neighbors slam the doors under a blanket of motorcycles roaring. Besides that, I owed in three competition mixes — three mixes I had no means of doing without going somewhere else to do them, because my decks were still in the pawn shop. Fuck making the bed. I put in nearly two hours in the gym and put on a full face of makeup and fresh hair under my lucky hat. Fuck the Monday morning grind. The subway car I entered smelled like hobos. I looked sharp, but for what? I wasn't sure what to expect. I had put off showing up at the sound collective for the inside of a year. I skipped the Q& A with some fake model girl called LaLa who I was sure was meant to just look exactly like iwas intended to. But I handnt quite made it to beautiful or perfect, which is probably why I shouldn't celebrate the day, let alone try to use the astrological energy for competitive mixes— it was Supacree's birthday, and so Supacree's friends and family would be thinking about her… and we shared the same tattoos, the same love for music, the same talent and drive:.. And oh, The same birthday. It was my birthday. It seemed more important this year than any other so far, and I wasn't sure why. I had told myself 32 was too old to have kids, because my mother had been 32 when she had me— “too old” for a restricted and highly spirited child— however, now looking back, she had done well enough, I was glad to have her as a mother…lucky even. I had good morals, good habits, and good taste. I was a fashion rebel, a free thinking individual all together— not the same as anyone I knew or had ever met— ever met, that is. In my own mind I was closer to a celebrity in the way that I acted, dressed and thought… more like the music makers, movers and shakers, l and doers in the world than the people who I was surrounded by. But I was supposed to love them anyway— Love them, without being like them— not trying not y, but just being myself, which automatically meant I was typically void of the lackluster energies that depressed me, filled me with anxiety, and fear that I would be trapped in a realm lost amongst them forever. ..: Almost a complete disaster, but not— there was always something special about the day after my birthday, especially since that time I floated after ultra Miami. Apparently, normal people don't just float. Maybe I wasn't a normal person. I laughed and I laughed and I laughed until I orgasmed— not quite levitation, but an equally pleasant enough experience to have marked the day in my mind as one to be considered as somewhat special. Maybe my birth time in actuality had warranted that the day after as part of the day… but I had been born in this lifetime at least twice. Still, whatever energy was looming from my first step into this incarnation was heavy— so heavy that it brought me into a mind state that drew to the art that was familiar. The art that made me grateful for my life, and my upbringing— and all the things I loved. Apparently I had created this world and this life all in my mind— I had somehow crafted this intricate art piece as such that it could call me to remember the very origins of my being. The very essence of my life as art. Just as I reminisce the artwork I had found in the museam, my father called to wish me a happy birthday, and though I disdained my birth name for so many years, it for the first time in a long time was music to my ears. Beautiful , sweet music to be called by the name I had been born as. Tales of a Superstar DJ.

Prod. by Blū Tha Gürū There was no cake under the candles— and I wasn't going to blow them out. If I took the moment to really think about my placement in the world, I was a mess— I aimed for perfect and wasn't— I had been exhausted the night before, not just tired, but exhausted. Maybe this isn't the birthday I should be celebrating. I was up early, but left late enough to be late. Why? Well, it just seemed nothing at all was going right. I sang happy birthday to myself— but I didn't have a name to call her anymore. I was no longer supacree— but it I wasn't really— well, it was blu'sn birthday. I just usually celebrated it in August— but now I didn't celebrate it at all. I didn't celebrate anything. All I did was work— and not get paid for it. Either way, my idea of a good birthday wasn't l. Sitting in my apartment listening to my neighbors slam the doors under a blanket of motorcycles roaring. Besides that, I owed in three competition mixes — three mixes I had no means of doing without going somewhere else to do them, because my decks were still in the pawn shop. Fuck making the bed. I put in nearly two hours in the gym and put on a full face of makeup and fresh hair under my lucky hat. Fuck the Monday morning grind. The subway car I entered smelled like hobos. I looked sharp, but for what? I wasn't sure what to expect. I had put off showing up at the sound collective for the inside of a year. I skipped the Q& A with some fake model girl called LaLa who I was sure was meant to just look exactly like iwas intended to. But I handnt quite made it to beautiful or perfect, which is probably why I shouldn't celebrate the day, let alone try to use the astrological energy for competitive mixes— it was Supacree's birthday, and so Supacree's friends and family would be thinking about her… and we shared the same tattoos, the same love for music, the same talent and drive:.. And oh, The same birthday. It was my birthday. It seemed more important this year than any other so far, and I wasn't sure why. I had told myself 32 was too old to have kids, because my mother had been 32 when she had me— “too old” for a restricted and highly spirited child— however, now looking back, she had done well enough, I was glad to have her as a mother…lucky even. I had good morals, good habits, and good taste. I was a fashion rebel, a free thinking individual all together— not the same as anyone I knew or had ever met— ever met, that is. In my own mind I was closer to a celebrity in the way that I acted, dressed and thought… more like the music makers, movers and shakers, l and doers in the world than the people who I was surrounded by. But I was supposed to love them anyway— Love them, without being like them— not trying not y, but just being myself, which automatically meant I was typically void of the lackluster energies that depressed me, filled me with anxiety, and fear that I would be trapped in a realm lost amongst them forever. ..: Almost a complete disaster, but not— there was always something special about the day after my birthday, especially since that time I floated after ultra Miami. Apparently, normal people don't just float. Maybe I wasn't a normal person. I laughed and I laughed and I laughed until I orgasmed— not quite levitation, but an equally pleasant enough experience to have marked the day in my mind as one to be considered as somewhat special. Maybe my birth time in actuality had warranted that the day after as part of the day… but I had been born in this lifetime at least twice. Still, whatever energy was looming from my first step into this incarnation was heavy— so heavy that it brought me into a mind state that drew to the art that was familiar. The art that made me grateful for my life, and my upbringing— and all the things I loved. Apparently I had created this world and this life all in my mind— I had somehow crafted this intricate art piece as such that it could call me to remember the very origins of my being. The very essence of my life as art. Just as I reminisce the artwork I had found in the museam, my father called to wish me a happy birthday, and though I disdained my birth name for so many years, it for the first time in a long time was music to my ears. Beautiful , sweet music to be called by the name I had been born as. Tales of a Superstar DJ.

There was no cake under the candles— and I wasn't going to blow them out. If I took the moment to really think about my placement in the world, I was a mess— I aimed for perfect and wasn't— I had been exhausted the night before, not just tired, but exhausted. Maybe this isn't the birthday I should be celebrating. I was up early, but left late enough to be late. Why? Well, it just seemed nothing at all was going right. I sang happy birthday to myself— but I didn't have a name to call her anymore. I was no longer supacree— but it I wasn't really— well, it was blu'sn birthday. I just usually celebrated it in August— but now I didn't celebrate it at all. I didn't celebrate anything. All I did was work— and not get paid for it. Either way, my idea of a good birthday wasn't l. Sitting in my apartment listening to my neighbors slam the doors under a blanket of motorcycles roaring. Besides that, I owed in three competition mixes — three mixes I had no means of doing without going somewhere else to do them, because my decks were still in the pawn shop. Fuck making the bed. I put in nearly two hours in the gym and put on a full face of makeup and fresh hair under my lucky hat. Fuck the Monday morning grind. The subway car I entered smelled like hobos. I looked sharp, but for what? I wasn't sure what to expect. I had put off showing up at the sound collective for the inside of a year. I skipped the Q& A with some fake model girl called LaLa who I was sure was meant to just look exactly like iwas intended to. But I handnt quite made it to beautiful or perfect, which is probably why I shouldn't celebrate the day, let alone try to use the astrological energy for competitive mixes— it was Supacree's birthday, and so Supacree's friends and family would be thinking about her… and we shared the same tattoos, the same love for music, the same talent and drive:.. And oh, The same birthday. It was my birthday. It seemed more important this year than any other so far, and I wasn't sure why. I had told myself 32 was too old to have kids, because my mother had been 32 when she had me— “too old” for a restricted and highly spirited child— however, now looking back, she had done well enough, I was glad to have her as a mother…lucky even. I had good morals, good habits, and good taste. I was a fashion rebel, a free thinking individual all together— not the same as anyone I knew or had ever met— ever met, that is. In my own mind I was closer to a celebrity in the way that I acted, dressed and thought… more like the music makers, movers and shakers, l and doers in the world than the people who I was surrounded by. But I was supposed to love them anyway— Love them, without being like them— not trying not y, but just being myself, which automatically meant I was typically void of the lackluster energies that depressed me, filled me with anxiety, and fear that I would be trapped in a realm lost amongst them forever. ..: Almost a complete disaster, but not— there was always something special about the day after my birthday, especially since that time I floated after ultra Miami. Apparently, normal people don't just float. Maybe I wasn't a normal person. I laughed and I laughed and I laughed until I orgasmed— not quite levitation, but an equally pleasant enough experience to have marked the day in my mind as one to be considered as somewhat special. Maybe my birth time in actuality had warranted that the day after as part of the day… but I had been born in this lifetime at least twice. Still, whatever energy was looming from my first step into this incarnation was heavy— so heavy that it brought me into a mind state that drew to the art that was familiar. The art that made me grateful for my life, and my upbringing— and all the things I loved. Apparently I had created this world and this life all in my mind— I had somehow crafted this intricate art piece as such that it could call me to remember the very origins of my being. The very essence of my life as art. Just as I reminisce the artwork I had found in the museam, my father called to wish me a happy birthday, and though I disdained my birth name for so many years, it for the first time in a long time was music to my ears. Beautiful , sweet music to be called by the name I had been born as. Tales of a Superstar DJ.

TITUS Come, now— As the king does sit upon my throne, Though not a King myself as I, Still cherished among men and many Who are in thine favor, As you seek truth to bear, my King And not your but also yours, Does partake thy bethrotjen nature, To swallow whole a seed a assumption as To vanish by trace, The rather and tide to bond, For truth you seek, And truth I bear, As fruit does grow, By force of not God, But nature, And to thine, the faring way The truth does seek you, too Thus, my God and Queen— But also King, Ruler never captured And gained wisdom by time, Which— None does have, but thyself. And now, Titus. To know,node bearing fruit are I And bearing truth shall you, A lesson gathered, as you as one And I as other— under the assumption of Love What is love? God, this is a sausage feat in here. Let's get some women in this bitch. Oh, there are women— They just don't speak much— Especially in this series Ascension. Because they're perfect. Archaic is this, A truce for the truth I seek. A wage for the war I've bargeouned. Listen now. You tell me. I tell you all that I know, For nothing now, And in nothing's sake, The shared alter. I, too, you. And you to I— Have we parted but some to forge But others? No others remain. And still I gather. With flower. And grow thy seed. The fruit, or truth? No difference. A tree, I am born. To wake. A shadow in the summer's night where autumn azure sun does beem, The wicked truth you lie to pardon Stands in its own awakening; Shallow moon tide's at dawn, And so, you kind folk of Kingdom there And Kingdom come, The truth is said as this, The seed the fruit— The love was born in ritual, And only then, The dance was made, For the song to have been sung as such. Dear Queen, my heart. For never better none has taken guilt in wavering the time has come; Never now but always forward And never there but always bound, To love itself, And so I am. Again. Trust me. I have. The King is slain. —but also lives. As haunted and as haunting no doubt, But to gain is this, my trust And in your waiver— the vow My honor, and sacntity so. The swine. Not of this realm, but others seek. And in this realm and others so The truth of fruit shall parish, Ignored and never eaten Never to have grown from seed, And then, of course, No tree shall I shadow In midnight summer's truth, The blue azure light, Of seeking sun, Soon to align, By midnight dawn, And waking tide— The moon you say. A sworn disaster. And so, I pray. All's fair. And you. [TITUS with a heavy heart exits the corridor.] {Enter The Multiverse} The Strine Force Five assembles in the basement before supper is called SETH, a peckish boy, almost goilish looking, maybe 11 or so steals cookies from OLIVER, who might be about 9, who speaks with a heavy and very proper English accent— Stop stealing my biscuits! Why bring them if you're not going to share? I did share. You lot had the box! You know these are cookies, right? They're my special biscuits. UPSTAIRS, MOM and DAD, very much the classic stereotypical suburban and American everywoman and Everyman prepare for supper. DAD, who resembles almost too much the LATE JOHNNY CARSON, peers into his newspaper conspicuously— Who does mom resemble? Let me — LATER, at the DINNER TABLE. Boys, Say hello to your uncle Steve. [The man heavily resembles Steve Allen] OLIVER Hello, Uncle Steve! UNCLE STEVE …I'm not your uncle. LIL JIMMY (Mumbling) I don't like uncle Steve… BIG JIMMY elbows him. Hard. LIL JIMMY Ow! BIG JIMMY smacks him upside the head, however without harming his very neatly done swooping hair. LIL JIMMY Where's uncle Jack? UNCLE STEVE He's on his way. DAD (Grumbles) …always late. LIL JIMMY (also grumbling, almost mimicking) —that's what I'm saying. BIG JIMMY shoves LIL JIMMY into his seat Also meanwhile, in another alternate dimension. So you're real name is JIMMY WANG. I fucking guess. That's nuts! —it's..:whatever. No, that's nuts— No, it's balls, homie, Your actual name is actually “Dick” twice. Hehehehe. Stop it. Did you have a middle name. No! Let me see. NO. Stop— let me— NO! [he grabs the birth certificate from Jimmy's grip] Let's see. —Jimmy— UGH, Oh, that's interesting, Jimmy and not James, how endearing—let's see— Jimmy—Ah, RICHARD— Wang. Oh my God. Your whole name is just— STOP IT. —it's just dicks. Just—penis words. Tripe dicks. AH! [nearly in tears, JIMMY runs to sulk into the washroom while his buddies continue making dick jokes; it's almost to much to bear—having learned so much about his true identity, most recently, that he was adopted at a very young age from a very nice Asian couple.] SUNNI BLU (Reading newspaper, breaking fourth wall) I told you he was Asian bro. SUDDENLY, Deadpool crashes through the door. SUNNI BLU tosses the super hot model in their lap across the room. YO. DEADPOOL. DEADPOOL YO. SUNNI BLU NOT COOL, BRO. DEADPOOL —what was your name again? SUNNI BLU Ya mutha! DEADPOOL NOT COOL. SUNNI BLU Whateva. {Enter The Multiverse} “Tools of the Trade” Welcome to Hollywood. Who are you? That's not important. It seems important. Now—lessonsz Ok. Tools of the trade: Uh huh. My dick. [he insinuates his crotch] Package. My dyke. [A very pretty lesbian appears out of nowhere.] Hello. My Dick Van Dyke. DICK VAN DYKE also appears out of nowhere. Woah, dude! Careful, he's priceless. I know dude. I can hear you, you know. I hear you too, Dick. Woah! How old are you, dude? Old! Get out of here; Go lay down; Take a nap! They said the gig was till 3. You're off early. Or late. [DICK VAN DYKE turns to leave.] I can still hear you. sweet yellow pinapple and coconut curry over brown rice and lentils sounded like a good Christmas Eve In— “Wait? It is Christmas Eve, isn't it?” I checked the date and time as my phone connected to the wifi. “Yep.” I concurred, slurping the last of the curry broth from my dinner bowl— my second, but most likely out of three. I'd made enough to last however two or three days, and though I had been offline for throught most of now what seemed the entire month, letting my bills lapse over to make nonexistent room in the budget for the peloton, which seemed fair, considering how small I was getting, even cooking and eating myself into the non complacent waking coma that was the vivid and apt focus needed to create music for hours on end—something I had never quite done before in a certain way, and it seemed as though working in this fashion seemed somehow to have moved me solidly forward and sideways through time a bit—some sort of diagonal. I had rested the Sabbath and in the midst of it fallen behind by two days, but making up for it and catching up speed, I had submitted two releases in the early morning on the same day, now coming to an end—and somewhere in the middle, waking up after the fact to a fresh blanket of snow and the whimsy that came with it. A white Christmas afterall, perhaps, if it didn't melt by the following morning, which, judging by the fact that the coffee in the tumbler was still piping hot and not just like warm—I.e., fresh—that I might the same be up early into Christmas morning, also the first day of Hanukkah, and although I had forgone getting a menorah, after the attempt to pick up a free one I had found online over the summer in search of a cat, it didn't seem worth the cost to buy one; I was saving for too many things at once, which meant also nothing, but I couldn't be happier to spend the holidays alone and quietly— I couldn't be with the one person I wanted most, anyway, and so being alone was the next best thing. I almost wished I had've found the cat by now, but it was probably better that I was for the most part, unanchored, and could travel at will if needed. I thought to submit some of my new songs as demos to labels or into contests to try to find a job, but either way I knew in the moment that I would be playing live again by spring, even if it was just barmitsvahe and weddings, the latter of which I actually hoped to avoid, besides the Jewish ones—and my affinity for Jews had become remarkably trademark; as if I had some sort of reason to like them more over time, but I hadn't one—not that I actually knew of, anyway. I had forgotten why I had been checking my email incessantly anyway, besides the new sound packs that seemed to have been magically pouring in, which i became excited to use when the right time struck to dive back into aboleton, learning in broad lessons in how there was a grace period between finishing and submitting tracks and starting again, and being careful not to sink into monotony—until I finally remembered, checking my email—that I had been nervous about samples from one of the latest releases clearing—however—a miracle indeed, it had been approved, and the message sit atop a pile of nonsense in the rest of my email with the news that it had been delivered to stores— I had put out about 15 singles since the beginning of the month and had a week's time more in my subscription to the distribution service—and I planned not to waste any time before my account being terminated— not that eventually I wouldn't renew the subscription, however— it would be at least a few months and probably into the early spring. I had, after all, purchased the subscription around the same time a year sooner, which allowed me to purchase the service at half price— a luxury which no doubt would end before my next payday, and after the payment for my Peloton—however— I thoroughly enjoyed keeping my energy well to myself, and it seemed I was recovering well from having been followed to the gym and harassed, however, now the annoyance was— my neighbor wouldn't leave me alone. She was high maintenance, full of drama, probably a little bit toxic— And now, she wanted to be friends. I thought it best to stay on her good side, and had politely declined the invitation to Christmas at her apartment with her mother, but knew that until one of us moved, I would have to safely navigate the trenches of neighborly rapport; though something told me to be careful with the valitile fragility of the entire thing, it seemed almost the same with anyone, even old friends, that trust itself was rare to have in others, and so my holiday wishes had been simple and humble in truth; it had snowed, and I was alone, and making music— the home gym set-up, complete with yoga mat, Peleton and pink treadmill were simply a bonus. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. [The Festival Project ™] Seven wooky dudes stand candy coated in the VIP section at a major music festival. Who brought them!? U did. Now I wonder ‘What's the difference' Same profession, So much distance I misjudged this; Thought I had it all Wedged behind one ear, Forlorn, (For Lorne) And one finger to the socket Sock puppet watching porn of Elmer Fudd Now, knock it off— I wanna know why god chose the number one, Folders up dollar bill Back of the collections call The corner, a sharp deposit Sure, For figure, full figured dolphins Sawed it all off— A saw tooth lecture; So fire sure a God, But then, A one lost walkie talkie And the other is, of course Without a battery For famine, is it? I also starve. (It's good curry, though.) No more batting practice And no more favors, I'm sure I won't bring it up I've got some kind of trauma In the wallet full of cards I dropped No messages (Still don't know what Ivermectin is.) Refuse to google such an awkward juncture. Sure, the junk worked— Sure the cops called After supper, On you go: The father's Carson. Uncle Parr is at the door. UNCLE JACK I'm back! DAD Sure, you are. [The Man resembles the late Jack Parr.] Here comes old wheats his name, The cousin, tagging alongside big brother A Jon with no H, the cousin— But I just can't call it [A strange looking boy resembling JON STEWART enters alongside his cousin, an even stranger looking whom resembles DAVID LETTERMAN— between the two of them, they are the oldest of the boys, about high school aged—dressed fashionably but odd and both dawning suspenders with their strange and quite ill fitting pants. This is weird. What is this—what is this? What is this here for! Why does this exist at all? What are you doing this for? Skipping suicide another night? Beats the knife in my back. —because, I just don't care anymore. L E G E N D S In an ‘imaginary‘ parallel dimension, the world is torn when the workforce—not just of one Union or another, but the workforce of the entire country goes on strike as a protest against high costs of living in demand of a living wage; a nightly entertainment program is interrupted with a news broadcast which declares a state of emergency—the economy itself on the verge of collapse. Oh. That's what I'm writing. You know, they're gonna kill me for this. —that's why you need therapy! Look, all I want to do is make dance music. Why bother. Why bother at all When big brother is watching, And long gone is Jack Parr, It's all done and divorced, But all sausage party, The festival project. Numb3rs Digital Liquid {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. The Complex Collective ©

TITUS Come, now— As the king does sit upon my throne, Though not a King myself as I, Still cherished among men and many Who are in thine favor, As you seek truth to bear, my King And not your but also yours, Does partake thy bethrotjen nature, To swallow whole a seed a assumption as To vanish by trace, The rather and tide to bond, For truth you seek, And truth I bear, As fruit does grow, By force of not God, But nature, And to thine, the faring way The truth does seek you, too Thus, my God and Queen— But also King, Ruler never captured And gained wisdom by time, Which— None does have, but thyself. And now, Titus. To know,node bearing fruit are I And bearing truth shall you, A lesson gathered, as you as one And I as other— under the assumption of Love What is love? God, this is a sausage feat in here. Let's get some women in this bitch. Oh, there are women— They just don't speak much— Especially in this series Ascension. Because they're perfect. Archaic is this, A truce for the truth I seek. A wage for the war I've bargeouned. Listen now. You tell me. I tell you all that I know, For nothing now, And in nothing's sake, The shared alter. I, too, you. And you to I— Have we parted but some to forge But others? No others remain. And still I gather. With flower. And grow thy seed. The fruit, or truth? No difference. A tree, I am born. To wake. A shadow in the summer's night where autumn azure sun does beem, The wicked truth you lie to pardon Stands in its own awakening; Shallow moon tide's at dawn, And so, you kind folk of Kingdom there And Kingdom come, The truth is said as this, The seed the fruit— The love was born in ritual, And only then, The dance was made, For the song to have been sung as such. Dear Queen, my heart. For never better none has taken guilt in wavering the time has come; Never now but always forward And never there but always bound, To love itself, And so I am. Again. Trust me. I have. The King is slain. —but also lives. As haunted and as haunting no doubt, But to gain is this, my trust And in your waiver— the vow My honor, and sacntity so. The swine. Not of this realm, but others seek. And in this realm and others so The truth of fruit shall parish, Ignored and never eaten Never to have grown from seed, And then, of course, No tree shall I shadow In midnight summer's truth, The blue azure light, Of seeking sun, Soon to align, By midnight dawn, And waking tide— The moon you say. A sworn disaster. And so, I pray. All's fair. And you. [TITUS with a heavy heart exits the corridor.] {Enter The Multiverse} The Strine Force Five assembles in the basement before supper is called SETH, a peckish boy, almost goilish looking, maybe 11 or so steals cookies from OLIVER, who might be about 9, who speaks with a heavy and very proper English accent— Stop stealing my biscuits! Why bring them if you're not going to share? I did share. You lot had the box! You know these are cookies, right? They're my special biscuits. UPSTAIRS, MOM and DAD, very much the classic stereotypical suburban and American everywoman and Everyman prepare for supper. DAD, who resembles almost too much the LATE JOHNNY CARSON, peers into his newspaper conspicuously— Who does mom resemble? Let me — LATER, at the DINNER TABLE. Boys, Say hello to your uncle Steve. [The man heavily resembles Steve Allen] OLIVER Hello, Uncle Steve! UNCLE STEVE …I'm not your uncle. LIL JIMMY (Mumbling) I don't like uncle Steve… BIG JIMMY elbows him. Hard. LIL JIMMY Ow! BIG JIMMY smacks him upside the head, however without harming his very neatly done swooping hair. LIL JIMMY Where's uncle Jack? UNCLE STEVE He's on his way. DAD (Grumbles) …always late. LIL JIMMY (also grumbling, almost mimicking) —that's what I'm saying. BIG JIMMY shoves LIL JIMMY into his seat Also meanwhile, in another alternate dimension. So you're real name is JIMMY WANG. I fucking guess. That's nuts! —it's..:whatever. No, that's nuts— No, it's balls, homie, Your actual name is actually “Dick” twice. Hehehehe. Stop it. Did you have a middle name. No! Let me see. NO. Stop— let me— NO! [he grabs the birth certificate from Jimmy's grip] Let's see. —Jimmy— UGH, Oh, that's interesting, Jimmy and not James, how endearing—let's see— Jimmy—Ah, RICHARD— Wang. Oh my God. Your whole name is just— STOP IT. —it's just dicks. Just—penis words. Tripe dicks. AH! [nearly in tears, JIMMY runs to sulk into the washroom while his buddies continue making dick jokes; it's almost to much to bear—having learned so much about his true identity, most recently, that he was adopted at a very young age from a very nice Asian couple.] SUNNI BLU (Reading newspaper, breaking fourth wall) I told you he was Asian bro. SUDDENLY, Deadpool crashes through the door. SUNNI BLU tosses the super hot model in their lap across the room. YO. DEADPOOL. DEADPOOL YO. SUNNI BLU NOT COOL, BRO. DEADPOOL —what was your name again? SUNNI BLU Ya mutha! DEADPOOL NOT COOL. SUNNI BLU Whateva. {Enter The Multiverse} “Tools of the Trade” Welcome to Hollywood. Who are you? That's not important. It seems important. Now—lessonsz Ok. Tools of the trade: Uh huh. My dick. [he insinuates his crotch] Package. My dyke. [A very pretty lesbian appears out of nowhere.] Hello. My Dick Van Dyke. DICK VAN DYKE also appears out of nowhere. Woah, dude! Careful, he's priceless. I know dude. I can hear you, you know. I hear you too, Dick. Woah! How old are you, dude? Old! Get out of here; Go lay down; Take a nap! They said the gig was till 3. You're off early. Or late. [DICK VAN DYKE turns to leave.] I can still hear you. sweet yellow pinapple and coconut curry over brown rice and lentils sounded like a good Christmas Eve In— “Wait? It is Christmas Eve, isn't it?” I checked the date and time as my phone connected to the wifi. “Yep.” I concurred, slurping the last of the curry broth from my dinner bowl— my second, but most likely out of three. I'd made enough to last however two or three days, and though I had been offline for throught most of now what seemed the entire month, letting my bills lapse over to make nonexistent room in the budget for the peloton, which seemed fair, considering how small I was getting, even cooking and eating myself into the non complacent waking coma that was the vivid and apt focus needed to create music for hours on end—something I had never quite done before in a certain way, and it seemed as though working in this fashion seemed somehow to have moved me solidly forward and sideways through time a bit—some sort of diagonal. I had rested the Sabbath and in the midst of it fallen behind by two days, but making up for it and catching up speed, I had submitted two releases in the early morning on the same day, now coming to an end—and somewhere in the middle, waking up after the fact to a fresh blanket of snow and the whimsy that came with it. A white Christmas afterall, perhaps, if it didn't melt by the following morning, which, judging by the fact that the coffee in the tumbler was still piping hot and not just like warm—I.e., fresh—that I might the same be up early into Christmas morning, also the first day of Hanukkah, and although I had forgone getting a menorah, after the attempt to pick up a free one I had found online over the summer in search of a cat, it didn't seem worth the cost to buy one; I was saving for too many things at once, which meant also nothing, but I couldn't be happier to spend the holidays alone and quietly— I couldn't be with the one person I wanted most, anyway, and so being alone was the next best thing. I almost wished I had've found the cat by now, but it was probably better that I was for the most part, unanchored, and could travel at will if needed. I thought to submit some of my new songs as demos to labels or into contests to try to find a job, but either way I knew in the moment that I would be playing live again by spring, even if it was just barmitsvahe and weddings, the latter of which I actually hoped to avoid, besides the Jewish ones—and my affinity for Jews had become remarkably trademark; as if I had some sort of reason to like them more over time, but I hadn't one—not that I actually knew of, anyway. I had forgotten why I had been checking my email incessantly anyway, besides the new sound packs that seemed to have been magically pouring in, which i became excited to use when the right time struck to dive back into aboleton, learning in broad lessons in how there was a grace period between finishing and submitting tracks and starting again, and being careful not to sink into monotony—until I finally remembered, checking my email—that I had been nervous about samples from one of the latest releases clearing—however—a miracle indeed, it had been approved, and the message sit atop a pile of nonsense in the rest of my email with the news that it had been delivered to stores— I had put out about 15 singles since the beginning of the month and had a week's time more in my subscription to the distribution service—and I planned not to waste any time before my account being terminated— not that eventually I wouldn't renew the subscription, however— it would be at least a few months and probably into the early spring. I had, after all, purchased the subscription around the same time a year sooner, which allowed me to purchase the service at half price— a luxury which no doubt would end before my next payday, and after the payment for my Peloton—however— I thoroughly enjoyed keeping my energy well to myself, and it seemed I was recovering well from having been followed to the gym and harassed, however, now the annoyance was— my neighbor wouldn't leave me alone. She was high maintenance, full of drama, probably a little bit toxic— And now, she wanted to be friends. I thought it best to stay on her good side, and had politely declined the invitation to Christmas at her apartment with her mother, but knew that until one of us moved, I would have to safely navigate the trenches of neighborly rapport; though something told me to be careful with the valitile fragility of the entire thing, it seemed almost the same with anyone, even old friends, that trust itself was rare to have in others, and so my holiday wishes had been simple and humble in truth; it had snowed, and I was alone, and making music— the home gym set-up, complete with yoga mat, Peleton and pink treadmill were simply a bonus. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. [The Festival Project ™] Seven wooky dudes stand candy coated in the VIP section at a major music festival. Who brought them!? U did. Now I wonder ‘What's the difference' Same profession, So much distance I misjudged this; Thought I had it all Wedged behind one ear, Forlorn, (For Lorne) And one finger to the socket Sock puppet watching porn of Elmer Fudd Now, knock it off— I wanna know why god chose the number one, Folders up dollar bill Back of the collections call The corner, a sharp deposit Sure, For figure, full figured dolphins Sawed it all off— A saw tooth lecture; So fire sure a God, But then, A one lost walkie talkie And the other is, of course Without a battery For famine, is it? I also starve. (It's good curry, though.) No more batting practice And no more favors, I'm sure I won't bring it up I've got some kind of trauma In the wallet full of cards I dropped No messages (Still don't know what Ivermectin is.) Refuse to google such an awkward juncture. Sure, the junk worked— Sure the cops called After supper, On you go: The father's Carson. Uncle Parr is at the door. UNCLE JACK I'm back! DAD Sure, you are. [The Man resembles the late Jack Parr.] Here comes old wheats his name, The cousin, tagging alongside big brother A Jon with no H, the cousin— But I just can't call it [A strange looking boy resembling JON STEWART enters alongside his cousin, an even stranger looking whom resembles DAVID LETTERMAN— between the two of them, they are the oldest of the boys, about high school aged—dressed fashionably but odd and both dawning suspenders with their strange and quite ill fitting pants. This is weird. What is this—what is this? What is this here for! Why does this exist at all? What are you doing this for? Skipping suicide another night? Beats the knife in my back. —because, I just don't care anymore. L E G E N D S In an ‘imaginary‘ parallel dimension, the world is torn when the workforce—not just of one Union or another, but the workforce of the entire country goes on strike as a protest against high costs of living in demand of a living wage; a nightly entertainment program is interrupted with a news broadcast which declares a state of emergency—the economy itself on the verge of collapse. Oh. That's what I'm writing. You know, they're gonna kill me for this. —that's why you need therapy! Look, all I want to do is make dance music. Why bother. Why bother at all When big brother is watching, And long gone is Jack Parr, It's all done and divorced, But all sausage party, The festival project. Numb3rs Digital Liquid {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. The Complex Collective ©

TITUS Come, now— As the king does sit upon my throne, Though not a King myself as I, Still cherished among men and many Who are in thine favor, As you seek truth to bear, my King And not your but also yours, Does partake thy bethrotjen nature, To swallow whole a seed a assumption as To vanish by trace, The rather and tide to bond, For truth you seek, And truth I bear, As fruit does grow, By force of not God, But nature, And to thine, the faring way The truth does seek you, too Thus, my God and Queen— But also King, Ruler never captured And gained wisdom by time, Which— None does have, but thyself. And now, Titus. To know,node bearing fruit are I And bearing truth shall you, A lesson gathered, as you as one And I as other— under the assumption of Love What is love? God, this is a sausage feat in here. Let's get some women in this bitch. Oh, there are women— They just don't speak much— Especially in this series Ascension. Because they're perfect. Archaic is this, A truce for the truth I seek. A wage for the war I've bargeouned. Listen now. You tell me. I tell you all that I know, For nothing now, And in nothing's sake, The shared alter. I, too, you. And you to I— Have we parted but some to forge But others? No others remain. And still I gather. With flower. And grow thy seed. The fruit, or truth? No difference. A tree, I am born. To wake. A shadow in the summer's night where autumn azure sun does beem, The wicked truth you lie to pardon Stands in its own awakening; Shallow moon tide's at dawn, And so, you kind folk of Kingdom there And Kingdom come, The truth is said as this, The seed the fruit— The love was born in ritual, And only then, The dance was made, For the song to have been sung as such. Dear Queen, my heart. For never better none has taken guilt in wavering the time has come; Never now but always forward And never there but always bound, To love itself, And so I am. Again. Trust me. I have. The King is slain. —but also lives. As haunted and as haunting no doubt, But to gain is this, my trust And in your waiver— the vow My honor, and sacntity so. The swine. Not of this realm, but others seek. And in this realm and others so The truth of fruit shall parish, Ignored and never eaten Never to have grown from seed, And then, of course, No tree shall I shadow In midnight summer's truth, The blue azure light, Of seeking sun, Soon to align, By midnight dawn, And waking tide— The moon you say. A sworn disaster. And so, I pray. All's fair. And you. [TITUS with a heavy heart exits the corridor.] {Enter The Multiverse} The Strine Force Five assembles in the basement before supper is called SETH, a peckish boy, almost goilish looking, maybe 11 or so steals cookies from OLIVER, who might be about 9, who speaks with a heavy and very proper English accent— Stop stealing my biscuits! Why bring them if you're not going to share? I did share. You lot had the box! You know these are cookies, right? They're my special biscuits. UPSTAIRS, MOM and DAD, very much the classic stereotypical suburban and American everywoman and Everyman prepare for supper. DAD, who resembles almost too much the LATE JOHNNY CARSON, peers into his newspaper conspicuously— Who does mom resemble? Let me — LATER, at the DINNER TABLE. Boys, Say hello to your uncle Steve. [The man heavily resembles Steve Allen] OLIVER Hello, Uncle Steve! UNCLE STEVE …I'm not your uncle. LIL JIMMY (Mumbling) I don't like uncle Steve… BIG JIMMY elbows him. Hard. LIL JIMMY Ow! BIG JIMMY smacks him upside the head, however without harming his very neatly done swooping hair. LIL JIMMY Where's uncle Jack? UNCLE STEVE He's on his way. DAD (Grumbles) …always late. LIL JIMMY (also grumbling, almost mimicking) —that's what I'm saying. BIG JIMMY shoves LIL JIMMY into his seat Also meanwhile, in another alternate dimension. So you're real name is JIMMY WANG. I fucking guess. That's nuts! —it's..:whatever. No, that's nuts— No, it's balls, homie, Your actual name is actually “Dick” twice. Hehehehe. Stop it. Did you have a middle name. No! Let me see. NO. Stop— let me— NO! [he grabs the birth certificate from Jimmy's grip] Let's see. —Jimmy— UGH, Oh, that's interesting, Jimmy and not James, how endearing—let's see— Jimmy—Ah, RICHARD— Wang. Oh my God. Your whole name is just— STOP IT. —it's just dicks. Just—penis words. Tripe dicks. AH! [nearly in tears, JIMMY runs to sulk into the washroom while his buddies continue making dick jokes; it's almost to much to bear—having learned so much about his true identity, most recently, that he was adopted at a very young age from a very nice Asian couple.] SUNNI BLU (Reading newspaper, breaking fourth wall) I told you he was Asian bro. SUDDENLY, Deadpool crashes through the door. SUNNI BLU tosses the super hot model in their lap across the room. YO. DEADPOOL. DEADPOOL YO. SUNNI BLU NOT COOL, BRO. DEADPOOL —what was your name again? SUNNI BLU Ya mutha! DEADPOOL NOT COOL. SUNNI BLU Whateva. {Enter The Multiverse} “Tools of the Trade” Welcome to Hollywood. Who are you? That's not important. It seems important. Now—lessonsz Ok. Tools of the trade: Uh huh. My dick. [he insinuates his crotch] Package. My dyke. [A very pretty lesbian appears out of nowhere.] Hello. My Dick Van Dyke. DICK VAN DYKE also appears out of nowhere. Woah, dude! Careful, he's priceless. I know dude. I can hear you, you know. I hear you too, Dick. Woah! How old are you, dude? Old! Get out of here; Go lay down; Take a nap! They said the gig was till 3. You're off early. Or late. [DICK VAN DYKE turns to leave.] I can still hear you. sweet yellow pinapple and coconut curry over brown rice and lentils sounded like a good Christmas Eve In— “Wait? It is Christmas Eve, isn't it?” I checked the date and time as my phone connected to the wifi. “Yep.” I concurred, slurping the last of the curry broth from my dinner bowl— my second, but most likely out of three. I'd made enough to last however two or three days, and though I had been offline for throught most of now what seemed the entire month, letting my bills lapse over to make nonexistent room in the budget for the peloton, which seemed fair, considering how small I was getting, even cooking and eating myself into the non complacent waking coma that was the vivid and apt focus needed to create music for hours on end—something I had never quite done before in a certain way, and it seemed as though working in this fashion seemed somehow to have moved me solidly forward and sideways through time a bit—some sort of diagonal. I had rested the Sabbath and in the midst of it fallen behind by two days, but making up for it and catching up speed, I had submitted two releases in the early morning on the same day, now coming to an end—and somewhere in the middle, waking up after the fact to a fresh blanket of snow and the whimsy that came with it. A white Christmas afterall, perhaps, if it didn't melt by the following morning, which, judging by the fact that the coffee in the tumbler was still piping hot and not just like warm—I.e., fresh—that I might the same be up early into Christmas morning, also the first day of Hanukkah, and although I had forgone getting a menorah, after the attempt to pick up a free one I had found online over the summer in search of a cat, it didn't seem worth the cost to buy one; I was saving for too many things at once, which meant also nothing, but I couldn't be happier to spend the holidays alone and quietly— I couldn't be with the one person I wanted most, anyway, and so being alone was the next best thing. I almost wished I had've found the cat by now, but it was probably better that I was for the most part, unanchored, and could travel at will if needed. I thought to submit some of my new songs as demos to labels or into contests to try to find a job, but either way I knew in the moment that I would be playing live again by spring, even if it was just barmitsvahe and weddings, the latter of which I actually hoped to avoid, besides the Jewish ones—and my affinity for Jews had become remarkably trademark; as if I had some sort of reason to like them more over time, but I hadn't one—not that I actually knew of, anyway. I had forgotten why I had been checking my email incessantly anyway, besides the new sound packs that seemed to have been magically pouring in, which i became excited to use when the right time struck to dive back into aboleton, learning in broad lessons in how there was a grace period between finishing and submitting tracks and starting again, and being careful not to sink into monotony—until I finally remembered, checking my email—that I had been nervous about samples from one of the latest releases clearing—however—a miracle indeed, it had been approved, and the message sit atop a pile of nonsense in the rest of my email with the news that it had been delivered to stores— I had put out about 15 singles since the beginning of the month and had a week's time more in my subscription to the distribution service—and I planned not to waste any time before my account being terminated— not that eventually I wouldn't renew the subscription, however— it would be at least a few months and probably into the early spring. I had, after all, purchased the subscription around the same time a year sooner, which allowed me to purchase the service at half price— a luxury which no doubt would end before my next payday, and after the payment for my Peloton—however— I thoroughly enjoyed keeping my energy well to myself, and it seemed I was recovering well from having been followed to the gym and harassed, however, now the annoyance was— my neighbor wouldn't leave me alone. She was high maintenance, full of drama, probably a little bit toxic— And now, she wanted to be friends. I thought it best to stay on her good side, and had politely declined the invitation to Christmas at her apartment with her mother, but knew that until one of us moved, I would have to safely navigate the trenches of neighborly rapport; though something told me to be careful with the valitile fragility of the entire thing, it seemed almost the same with anyone, even old friends, that trust itself was rare to have in others, and so my holiday wishes had been simple and humble in truth; it had snowed, and I was alone, and making music— the home gym set-up, complete with yoga mat, Peleton and pink treadmill were simply a bonus. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. [The Festival Project ™] Seven wooky dudes stand candy coated in the VIP section at a major music festival. Who brought them!? U did. Now I wonder ‘What's the difference' Same profession, So much distance I misjudged this; Thought I had it all Wedged behind one ear, Forlorn, (For Lorne) And one finger to the socket Sock puppet watching porn of Elmer Fudd Now, knock it off— I wanna know why god chose the number one, Folders up dollar bill Back of the collections call The corner, a sharp deposit Sure, For figure, full figured dolphins Sawed it all off— A saw tooth lecture; So fire sure a God, But then, A one lost walkie talkie And the other is, of course Without a battery For famine, is it? I also starve. (It's good curry, though.) No more batting practice And no more favors, I'm sure I won't bring it up I've got some kind of trauma In the wallet full of cards I dropped No messages (Still don't know what Ivermectin is.) Refuse to google such an awkward juncture. Sure, the junk worked— Sure the cops called After supper, On you go: The father's Carson. Uncle Parr is at the door. UNCLE JACK I'm back! DAD Sure, you are. [The Man resembles the late Jack Parr.] Here comes old wheats his name, The cousin, tagging alongside big brother A Jon with no H, the cousin— But I just can't call it [A strange looking boy resembling JON STEWART enters alongside his cousin, an even stranger looking whom resembles DAVID LETTERMAN— between the two of them, they are the oldest of the boys, about high school aged—dressed fashionably but odd and both dawning suspenders with their strange and quite ill fitting pants. This is weird. What is this—what is this? What is this here for! Why does this exist at all? What are you doing this for? Skipping suicide another night? Beats the knife in my back. —because, I just don't care anymore. L E G E N D S In an ‘imaginary‘ parallel dimension, the world is torn when the workforce—not just of one Union or another, but the workforce of the entire country goes on strike as a protest against high costs of living in demand of a living wage; a nightly entertainment program is interrupted with a news broadcast which declares a state of emergency—the economy itself on the verge of collapse. Oh. That's what I'm writing. You know, they're gonna kill me for this. —that's why you need therapy! Look, all I want to do is make dance music. Why bother. Why bother at all When big brother is watching, And long gone is Jack Parr, It's all done and divorced, But all sausage party, The festival project. Numb3rs Digital Liquid {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. The Complex Collective ©

KEENAN is the head of the league's research and development team. KEENAN WELL, Ya'll sho' chose the wrong girl to fuck wit! Why do you say that? KEENAN Well, i'mon just let ya'll figure that out on ya own. [KEENEN exits shaking his head solemnly, and begins singing ‘Amazing Grace' , first humming.] Hmmmmm—hmmm—how sweet the sound— Wait! Keenan! Who is this girl?! Who is she?! —hmmm—hmmm—hmmm—hmmmmmmmm LIKE MEEEEEEE! What are we up against Oh. you'll see. I woooonceeee was lost— Wait! SEEYA! [out of nowhere he has pulled out an old style stick bundle and throws it over his shoulder, continuing to hum while chewing on a long stick of straw.] —-hmmmm—-hmmmm. …where is he going!? (Meta) Seems like he's going somewhere with that thing hanging over his back! What are those things even called, anyway? Who knows? I think I know, but it might be racist. [suddenly, offstage/camera a bell begins to ring— One— Two— Three chimes.] That seems odd. Yes, very strange. [Suddenly, all the NBC pages at once upend their nests,] what the— Why are there so many of them. I don't know. Did their skirts get shorter? Hush. So many pages. MEANWHILR, unst 30 Rock. Hold on, pause. These weirdo cops have reverb on their whoop whoops. Facts. Are you sure this is still the 10th dimension. I'm positive. Really! You're sure! Couldn't possibly be lower. Maybe. What about higher. Higher!? Since when. WHAT'S YOUR NAME. Uh-FRANKLIN. Don't lie to me. How would you pronounce this name? I wouldn't. Hm. Excuse me. What. How would you say this? Like, out loud— Uh huh. Pass. Dammit! Hey—uh— RACHEL DRATCH What, dammit; what?! I just sat down with my bagel! I know but— I need your help— interpreting something? What is it? Gibberish? Not really, it's— I'm an expert in Gibberish— I know; but— Classical and neo-modern. Yeah, it's not that. What is it. Alien, I think. Which species. Species. WHICH— ugh— give me that! [she snatches the paper and produces a monocle for further inspection.] Since when did you get a monacle? since when changed insurance companies which supplies said ‘monocologists' and covers such expenses sans-coh-pay. You mean copay? Shut up. Hm. Looks to be Unrealian in orgim but I could be mistaking this dialect. What. Could also possibly be AAHHMEK. Ahmek? Ano, AAAAH— nevermind. Is this an actual apostrophe? Beg your pardon. The apostrophe— is it human derived, or the human pseudo translation replacement for a afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh? Say again. Is it an actual apostrophe, or is the mark mean to insinuate the commonly used extraterrestrial character afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh? …I don't know. WELL, then—I'm afraid I can't help you until you forgive that out— What. Depending on what the mark is, those could be two veerrrrry different things. Would you just, Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to presume the consumption of my RAISINBagel. You know what. -_- -_- -_- …fine. [he snatches the paper and walks away angry—RATCHEL DRATCH begins to shmear her bagel, mumbling] —wants me to translate, but doesn't know the difference between an apostrophe, and a afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh. Please! {Enter The Multiverse} Unlike the girl next door, my lawsuit was legitimate. I strolled passed the usual subjects on my way back to the apartment from my begrudged outings; I had left with the intention of putting my money into a cheap record player, but had after all decided against it—I was saving for a new computer so that I could actually record vocals for my music, which would deplete my budget after living expenses for the month into nothing, and though I knew it would be something like next-to-nothing for the next little while anyway, it wouldn't matter. Now that I knew I was right, I continued compiling the evidence against these motorized terrorists—I didn't actually want to sue, but at this point it seemed it was my only choice— my lowly “status” should not mean that I was allowed to be tortured continually—and, unlike the girl next door, I was not seeking damages for something I had asked for, or brought onto myself; the horrendous sound in the apartment seemed as if it was aimed directly toward me with my synesthesia in mind, and with some amount of pride I refused outright to go the way I was expected to and file a disability claim. I wasn't disabled— I was, however, unable to preform my full work duties as a recording artist without being interrupted by motorcycles, project cars, and otherwise, all of which I suspected were operated by the same group of people— some ugly little brown lackeys who felt entitled in one way or another, and paraded around as if they owned the neighborhood. Benefiting from American business, but anti-American; the opposite of peaceful and respectful—not that America had made its name on the basis of respect, and so it seemed that something, out of balance and off kilter for hundreds of years iknretropect, was bound to change. They were rude, arrogant, and loud—bringing al of the 3rd-world mindset and none of the humility or charm of the actual 3rd world with them; as arrogant as one might think, a gross reflection of the toxic masculine as a whole. They might not have been ugly at all if they were respectful or decent—but they ran about acting like terrorists, revving their engines, and banging, and clashing, and being ugly—employing young boys to stand on the corner and sell their off market drugs after having one of their smoke shops closed down. The more time I spent outside dealing with people at all, the more ill I felt. I craved more time offline and off the grid, and though the general disenchantment of New York would continue pouring through the cheaply made windows, I realized that I would be more well-to-do with a typewriter (so that I could continue to write for long periods of time offline and without my phone) and a record player (to drown out the noise and play along to on my drum machine, and still— there were more things to do, always drowning in bills and often wondering how long I'd have to forfeight health in exchange for the decency of what some might cal luxury, but others foundational. As for myself, these things, simple staples to health and wellness, were beginning to be foundational. {Enter The Multiverse} “As Seen on TV” She doesn't even have a name My pussy is cleaner than a motherfucker This ain't no community like Donald Glover Ya'll niggas actin childish, Gambino— If you wanna turn it on, Then send a c-note (I'm in south side) What she want Peloton What she on peloton What she got peloton What she on Peloton I FOUND KIT! I found KIT. Great, now did you burn that letter? What. Burn it. [does] Oh, that is such a relief. Jesus. Okay. This shit does get weird and deep. —so that's why we're going offline… You wouldn't believe this, I found the kid swinging from a tree. Ridiculous. And if you tie it like this— Ah. Look, it won't slip. So…this is your hobby, huh. One of many. They don't call you the Ace for nothin, do they. (Innocently, with curiosity) “Of Granduer” —Do they? The sound of a chandelier sparkles as the giant lamp swings back and forth, as if an earthquake has just happened. You wouldn't believe this. What. On the television. Okay, so I found this “Kit” guy— Twice. Twice you asked, and twice I told you. Well, I didn't think to look directly at Johnny Carson, exactly. But here— And this: You actually were. Tell me again what your name is. Just sign me an autograph: What. Me? Sure, why not? I want your autograph! Do people still ask for autographs? Often enough. Remarkably, even, at airports, and of course, unexpectedly at— GODDAMMIT, we're back at the rock! GODDAMMIT. Well. Well what! Somebody check what year it is. FUCK. [super long censored beep.] [The Festival Project ™] It was the first time since my childhood I felt like something was too long away—but finally, I was in the final stretch. The Peloton would be delivered sometime in the morning, and now that my internet had shut itself off— I'd refused to pay the bill and opted for getting a new computer so that I could record, rather it— Give me a second, I'm fucking obsessed with these curtains. Bro but second to the curtains is the fucking grass. No, its—tuft. Turf, huh? Interesting… I told you she was some sort of a spy. Whatever. I had long considered turning my living room into a media center, and had thought to reinvent my entire space in fungshuei, but now more than anything I just wanted it to look like that. {Enter The Multiverse} Something is wrong with her . She sits by her door ALL DAY and just fucking talks. And I know she's by her door Because she's RIGHT AT THE DOOR I hear this crystal clear Anytime I go near my door And she's like BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH BITCH GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE DOOR somewhere in a parallel of time Your ancestors Are beating the hell Out of my ancestors And your other ancestors Are stealing my other ancestors land You're on borrowed time And in borrowed space GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE DOOR. Man, Living sandwhiched between two Karen's Is like the equivalent Of having two demon fucking little sisters That hate you And tell on your for everything. Slamming doors and shit just to fuckin Throwing shit around Bitch. You are crazy. And that's the thing about white girls Their crazy is socially acceptable As normal behavior I guess when you just have the best things in life thrown at you forever— When things the rest of us consider luxury and opulence is just “regular” to you, You get a little set in your ways. My neighbor is infuriating. I'm like WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS BY THE DOOR SHES LIKE SNARFSNRFSNARF I'm like goddamn, Somebody send like a Camden or a fuckin “Chase” Over this way. Somebody take this bitch on a date And away from the door. Whole two bedroom apartment This bitch is glued to her door. She a robot. The door is metal. She just enters the apartment and gets glued stuck to the door “I guess I will have to snarf snarf from here. “She's a smart one” I don't believe in smart white girls. There's regular white girls And fucking serial killers. The serial killers are considered “the smart ones” I guess it does take a considerable amount of intelligence to just exist to catch bodies That's what they call the smart ones The ones who level up by just Mowing everyone else down. Gotta give them that. White girls will ruin your whole life Blink two little blue-green eyes twice— And if they're big and round enough The brown eyed white girls can get away with the shit, too— But they're fucking murderers. It's okay. I lived with white people long enough in my life to love them. But in living with and around them— I notice they all say the same thing which indicates to me that racial injustice might not actually be their fault— They might be killing niggas on accident. Just complete accidents White people say shit like “I can't feel” What. “How does it feel—to feel.” WHAT?! “Explain to me the concept of ‘emotions'” Ah hell nah— And these people have all the disposable income? It's not their fault. They just— are like that. They're wired different. They can't feel, And their first instinct is to kill everything different or perceivably deadly. It's not their fault It's intrinsically They have extremely fragile genes Very weak gene pools. Have you ever noticed how white people are always sick? Always?! Weak gene pools. Years of breeding narcisistically. Traits that are reminders of themselves, or people they grew up around. This is not racism, it's just science. “Oh, I love blue eyes because my grandmother has blue eyes” White men commonly marry women who remind them of their mothers and sisters. If that's not fucked up, I don't know what is. Then I realized that incest porn and teeny porn are amongst the highest watched types of porn. Hmm. Gee. I wonder why. Men are gross. But white moms need to start being more like black and Hispanic moms if they want to ensure the continuance of their genetics into evolution. You need to give your kids some mommy issues. That way, when they grow up, they feel the need to add variation to the gene pool in order to strengthen it, and move towards evolution. It's true. I lived with maybe the whitest man I ever knew for almost 6 months; I don't think he was specifically intentionally trying to kill me— But everything he did— And I mean everything, up to a certain point was like …I don't know, man. It really seems like this dude is trying to like exterminate me in some sort of way. It was bad. The energy was weird. He was like dirty, Fucking lazy, He was a lot. I was like, “Damn what the fuck it's like the longer I stay around the worse it is” But the weirdest part, was that he didn't seem to be aware that he was doing it Either that or he was a really good actor… “What do you mean?” Had me confused. But that's the thing about the whites. They do the whole thing with mind games They fuck with your mind. It's the most powerful weapon, actually— Because if you continually attack a person's mind, The rest crumbles around them without you even touching them. I'm sure this is what my neighbor is trying to do. It's a mind thing I get near the door, she just hurries up and opens her door, opens the door real wide, big apartment, everything's white, big ass fucking place But she's always by the door; Mind games. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. I wasn't really interesting in meeting someone seriously— in fact. As it turned out, I still had a little more muse to milk out of the last one, but even the tarot was being a stickler— I could risk ending it all and putting a nail in the coffin by actually watching The Tonight Show—but there would be a possibility it all would backfire and it would just reignite that spark, or worse—I'd become fully engulfed in flames by whatever it was that seemed to appear—and it seemed to appear so vividly and with rapid strength that it couldn't be stopped or controlled. A serious amount of money had to have been implemented to my paying attention to this, and beyond that— it all had to have been carefully premeditated. While at least now at the bookshop I was drawn to books from Oprah's book club, what had occurred couldn't possibly be ignored—actually, it couldn't be, at all— but instead of eating at me in its usual way, I had more just began to realize that there must have been in play some purpose. Feeling faraway from my actual creative self, there seemed to be something missing at all generating even a general sense of understanding of what normalcy was— when had actually been the last time I had been touched at all in a way that might make me feel as if I was still human— as if I was normal— but I knew I wasn't. It's time for a change. The thought of being with someone, especially just anyone, was bizzare. I gave up on love a lot of times; But this is when it became official. I was listening to a rap album I had never heard before And in this rap song, he said “This hoe got a 7 year degree and still selling pussy” What in the fuck. One way one way ticket Why bother getting a 7 year degree If your value as a black woman Is so low You can get a 7 year degree And still have to be a prostitute? What the fuck is the point. It goes the other way, too. What is the point of selling pussy without a 7 year degree!? She's gonna make more than me in ALL the professions. I gave up on love at all. That right there is how low value we are, not just to the black man, but any man. 7 year degree and you can charge more an hour, but you're still a technical hoe. I want to fucking die. When I married my ex I was pregnant with twins; When i got pregnant with the twins I was about 350 pounds. So by the time we got married, I was 6 months pregnant with twins. He had a right to cheat! I forgave him. But the first time he hit me Like really hit me Not just like A heavy shoving or ike A lil— You know Choke out– Like the real deal Like knocked me the fuck Almost all the way out Saw the white light and everything By the time that all went down I'm like 170-180 He's still, mind you, like 300 I lost weight He lost his mind; so i'm— — lets round up— Like 180 pounds But in my mind i must be thinking somewhere i'm still 300 He came at me with a running start, I put my hands up like: I must have thought i actually had a chance I took a fighting stance like: He said Fphew! PULL A RABBIT OUT A HAT damn . what year is this really? You just got sampled . Say, what's his job? Well, that's an informer. Chris Rock forsure some kind of genius I saw him do GIlbert Godfried And Sam Kinison In the same show. The show was dated, though; He literally said, “I'm married: I don't cheat.” I knew it must have been a joke. I knew it had to be a joke, or it had to be dated, Cause being real, I listen to too much kanye To even believe that Or even laugh at that: Not “too much” kanye— 'Just enough' Kanye, He said, “If I pull up with Kerri washington, That's gon' be an enormous scandal” I might have Niomi Campbell, Still might want me a stormy daniels And ya'll tried to get trumps supporters to turn against him By exposing that he fucked this bitch? That's like an achivement. That's like a status symbol. I'm sure these idiots praise him for that. He might have even gotten more popular! That's not a scandal That's PR. On that note, I think Chris Rock was the very guy Who made me decide to stay single forever: He talked about the way, apparently, men want to kill their wives; The way they fantasise killing us When we're in the relationship: Now, ill say— I never once thought about killing my ex husband During the relationship Even after he hit me. Never once. The only time i started wishing a karmic death upon this person was when I left the relationship And he stopped fantasizing about it And actually tried to fucking kill me. Once I realized this was happening Only then did I start to think “Oh damn, i hope that motherfucker just drops the fuck dead.” This motherfucker beat me, AND tried to kill me, Only then was i like, damn “Return to sender” I hope you die too, You fat piece of shit wifebeater motherfucker I hope you die too. Only after he tried to kill me. After I left. Had to hire a fucking voodoo fucking sorceress and shit “yo , take this curse off me, This motherfucker tried to kill me” Fuck that motherfucker. Apparently though they fantasisze it all the time, I'm thinking about all the times he would play this song iroinically enough, By kanye west So maybe too much Kanye West Or just enough, Kanye said “I thought about killing you today.” He used to play this song, And beat my ass, And I never once thought “I hope he dies” Shit, After the first time he really beat my ass, He ran away. He got scared; He had to run. My face was all hanging off my head and shit Blood all over the place My lip is disconnected from my whole jaw and shit He ran away; He darted out the front door He said “I'm gonna kill myself!” And he rain away– Even then even just after he beat my ass I never thought about killing him Or wanting him to die He just fresh beat my ass; He just straight up finished whooping my whole ass and he said “I'm gonna kill myself” He realized what he did “I'm gonna kill myself”, he said And he ran out the door And here I am With my lip hanging off my whole face Blood all on the walls Pool of blood on the floor, the whole thing babies crying; The whole The whole fucking HBO special The whole nine yards And he said “I'm gonna kill myself” And my dumb ass said “NO! Don't!” He ran out the door, I'm freaking out Blood everywhere Babies crying and shit “Come back! Think about the kids! Don't kill yourself” Like a dumbass. Turns out that was just a tactic, He broke me down good, I was like “Don't kill yourself” He said “...you gonna call the cops.” He said “...alright, I won't kill myself.” Boom. That's a real killer. Looking back on all this, I can't help but think to myself, What i would have done differently Not the whole “I should have left before any of that happened” I was the mother of two young children; I wanted to try after the cheating to make things work, Fast forward after that Turns out he was fantasizing about killing me the whole time He beat mya ass, ran away, Left me in a pool of blood with my two kids He said I'm gonna kill myself Looking back at that momet, The thing I wish I could change is this If i had to do it over again And he beat me like that In front of my kids And then said “I'm gonna kill myself” I would have said “do that shit.” Lock the door behind his ass, Change the lock, Pick my face up off the floor, call an ambulance And the polce, change names Pick up my life And leave forever. “Nigga–who?” “Momma who was our daddy? What was he like?” “Ya'll ain't got a daddy. I made ya'll myself” End of story. Whatever. Everything happens for a reason though. I learned my lesson. Now i don't argue with anyone at all Men, women–nobody If i even sense that same shit That psycho killer shit– I become as silent and invisible as possible And simply Disappear. “Disappear.” I had a migraine and I knew it was from pressure buildup and stress, so I thought to get rid of it I ought to make one of those hot-compresses with rice. But the only rice I had was jambalaya flavored— But the headache was obviously really bad, So I was like, “fuck it.” Poured it into a gym sock And popped it in the microwave, Put it on my neck— My neck smelled like a pot roast, But it worked. {Enter The Multiverse} There was something in my lungs, forcing me to breathe deeply, with a raspy wheezing wind out of my lungs, and with a steady cough, I was able to offload whatever it was waiting in my chest to be released, along with it, at least part of the pressure that was making even just sitting and reading nearly unbearable, collecting into a harsh migraine paralyzing each and every other breath with a sharp pain underneath the back of what seemed to be somewhere below my ear canal and somehow, a pressure somewhere behind my eye, probably a result of the excruciating process of shoving earplugs into my ears in order to drown out the outside noise, which paired with that of my seemingly devoid neighbors, often became wildly unsettling, and while lately the clamoring had created not only an uneasy tremor in my left hand, but also apparently a sudden onset of occasional vruxism, the anxiety overall seemed to be surmounting into what could only be described as something trying to kill me, for which I could no longer ignore not as delusions or paranoia, but absolute fact. As I had learned, modern psychology might have been the equivalent of what one could even be certain to be the devil itself, unable to distinguish patterns often associated with creative genius, self manifestation, and psychic abilities and intuition, as delusions of grandeur, paranoid thinking, or worse— diagnoses as psychotic. However, my grandiosity was neither imagined nor delusional—my podcast series alone had been read and listened to all over the world, translated into foreign languages and transcribed, and had been downloaded hundreds of thousands of times since its publishing; though not a technically recognizable figure, I had realized that I had in my own right become somewhat famous, if even off of the back or even under the umbrella of another famous individual, to whom the series itself had been entrusted. Receiving though not by mainstream media standards upwards of at least 10 downloads per episode, the series had no actual gauge or marker for its actual success and polularity—without being able to see information from a major streaming platform—Spotify, and without being able to measure the amount of downloads which had then been duplicated and shared otherwise, I started to recognize with a certain understanding what a cult following was, and the minimal phenomenon that even at this level, fame started to become apparent. It had also become apparent that science itself had yet to truly understand the phenomenon of creative energy as a whole, and that many with these capabilities and gifts were considered to have a plethora of mental health disorders and medicated with what one would consider targeted attacks on the psyche, the illusion of mental illness often standing as the actual delusion in itself! Creating, and then medicating these intrinsic abilities ass illnesses whereby the “neurotypical” individual might only be considered as such due to ability to adapt, confirm, or follow diections in a systematic manner, and furthermore, that the misdiagnoses of such misunderstoodconditions often even relied on bias, poor judgement, racism, social class, and economics had certainly deconstructed any faith or belief formerly held in the modern state of psychology, and most of the articles or public medical journals read more like science fiction and fantasy rather than cold hard facts; indicating a moral and ethical flaw within the entirety of the human species—man's own inability to understand God, and therefore himself, in any creative process. Diety and creativity combined were simply a mystery, and had plagued entire generations of the human spieces as a whole. Blū runs at top speed through the streets of Brooklyn New York on a cold and windy October night. V.O. The ironic thing is, I'm running to go get ice cream. I hate my life, I hate this place, I hate my life— I fucking hate this shit. I'm trying really hard not to kill myself. Like really, really hard. Sudden onset bruxism and hand tremors and I can't help but wonder if it has anything to do with the constant mottoeycle traffic or sleeping in a sea of vehicles which at any given moment could sound off, start up or honk the horn alarm over the last 9 months. I'm fucking exhausted all the time and everything around me just fucking draining. Just fucking draining. https://www.tracklib.com/pricing Yo, you know how I know I'm aging? I hated Dora The Explora when I was a kid— You know why? “That's for babies!” I was too old for Dora the explorer. Mi was a tv snob. I'm like “I hate Dora!” No teletubbies for me. No sir. I'm distinguished now. But get this, As I get older, different renditions of Dora Have grown on me To the point where I actually like the bitch I got older, And there was this girl, Who would show up at raves Dressed like Dora And shuffle, And dance around— Looking like Dora The Explorer Kind of creepy, now that I think about it As an actual adult, Like this, Fully grown woman, Dressed as a fucking 5 year old Dancing around at raves Being Dora. Weird. But I liked it. I loved it. She was a hit; Everybody was like “RAVE DORA! RAVE DORA!” She blew up on Instagram, She had a following— It was like Where will she be next?! RAVE DORA! Had the backpack and everything— Everything! Rave Dora! But now I know I'm getting old, Because I'm fuckin around online, And I see in the advertising little sidebar video Like, a new version of Dora The Explorer, And I'm like “DORAAAAAAAA!!!” —the fuck! I just realized my best friend from 3rd and 7th grade looked just like Dora the explorer. Facts. She became literally the most successful stripper I've ever met. Ahem. Dancer. Right. Dancer. Ahem. Dudes are gross. Doods r gross. Welcome to Doods R Gross; What can I help you find today? Uh, hi. I'm looking for a guy— Uh huh— Possibly one who looks like this: Ah shit, this is how I got playing the Wikipedia game and went on a tirade Facts. Ended up here Unicameralism (from uni- "one" + Latin camera "chamber") is a type of legislatureconsisting of one house or assembly that legislates and votes as one.[1] Unicameralism has become an increasingly common type of legislature, making up nearly 60% of all national legislatures[2] and an even greater share of subnational legislatures. Interesting Started Here: The Fallen Angel (French: L'Ange déchu) is a painting by French artist Alexandre Cabanel. You were saying? Preferably this. Ah huh. Not the face, but— the body— you know. Like this. Okay. Who will let me do everything. Everything as in? Everything. Well, as you know, dudes are gross… Hence the name of this store, good sir. I am in no way good, nor am I a “sir”, and for all intensive purposes, my employment at this store signals my deep indirection in life and may also be an indication of more serious issues. Maintained. Alright, so I'll show you what we got. No promises; The type of model you want is popular, Might be out of stock. Considerable. What's your price range? This credit card has no limit. Credit, or debit? My debit card is also linked to a plethora of infinite wealth. Right this way. Do you think I deserved for him to hit me like that? I don't know. Maybe. I mean—the cheating is a given; I was really really fat..:but do you think like, him getting violent was some kind of karma for something? Maybe. Like maybe I had it coming for whatever reason— and just didn't know it. Maybe. Suddenly I was in the residual memory of a dream. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

KEENAN is the head of the league's research and development team. KEENAN WELL, Ya'll sho' chose the wrong girl to fuck wit! Why do you say that? KEENAN Well, i'mon just let ya'll figure that out on ya own. [KEENEN exits shaking his head solemnly, and begins singing ‘Amazing Grace' , first humming.] Hmmmmm—hmmm—how sweet the sound— Wait! Keenan! Who is this girl?! Who is she?! —hmmm—hmmm—hmmm—hmmmmmmmm LIKE MEEEEEEE! What are we up against Oh. you'll see. I woooonceeee was lost— Wait! SEEYA! [out of nowhere he has pulled out an old style stick bundle and throws it over his shoulder, continuing to hum while chewing on a long stick of straw.] —-hmmmm—-hmmmm. …where is he going!? (Meta) Seems like he's going somewhere with that thing hanging over his back! What are those things even called, anyway? Who knows? I think I know, but it might be racist. [suddenly, offstage/camera a bell begins to ring— One— Two— Three chimes.] That seems odd. Yes, very strange. [Suddenly, all the NBC pages at once upend their nests,] what the— Why are there so many of them. I don't know. Did their skirts get shorter? Hush. So many pages. MEANWHILR, unst 30 Rock. Hold on, pause. These weirdo cops have reverb on their whoop whoops. Facts. Are you sure this is still the 10th dimension. I'm positive. Really! You're sure! Couldn't possibly be lower. Maybe. What about higher. Higher!? Since when. WHAT'S YOUR NAME. Uh-FRANKLIN. Don't lie to me. How would you pronounce this name? I wouldn't. Hm. Excuse me. What. How would you say this? Like, out loud— Uh huh. Pass. Dammit! Hey—uh— RACHEL DRATCH What, dammit; what?! I just sat down with my bagel! I know but— I need your help— interpreting something? What is it? Gibberish? Not really, it's— I'm an expert in Gibberish— I know; but— Classical and neo-modern. Yeah, it's not that. What is it. Alien, I think. Which species. Species. WHICH— ugh— give me that! [she snatches the paper and produces a monocle for further inspection.] Since when did you get a monacle? since when changed insurance companies which supplies said ‘monocologists' and covers such expenses sans-coh-pay. You mean copay? Shut up. Hm. Looks to be Unrealian in orgim but I could be mistaking this dialect. What. Could also possibly be AAHHMEK. Ahmek? Ano, AAAAH— nevermind. Is this an actual apostrophe? Beg your pardon. The apostrophe— is it human derived, or the human pseudo translation replacement for a afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh? Say again. Is it an actual apostrophe, or is the mark mean to insinuate the commonly used extraterrestrial character afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh? …I don't know. WELL, then—I'm afraid I can't help you until you forgive that out— What. Depending on what the mark is, those could be two veerrrrry different things. Would you just, Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to presume the consumption of my RAISINBagel. You know what. -_- -_- -_- …fine. [he snatches the paper and walks away angry—RATCHEL DRATCH begins to shmear her bagel, mumbling] —wants me to translate, but doesn't know the difference between an apostrophe, and a afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh. Please! {Enter The Multiverse} Unlike the girl next door, my lawsuit was legitimate. I strolled passed the usual subjects on my way back to the apartment from my begrudged outings; I had left with the intention of putting my money into a cheap record player, but had after all decided against it—I was saving for a new computer so that I could actually record vocals for my music, which would deplete my budget after living expenses for the month into nothing, and though I knew it would be something like next-to-nothing for the next little while anyway, it wouldn't matter. Now that I knew I was right, I continued compiling the evidence against these motorized terrorists—I didn't actually want to sue, but at this point it seemed it was my only choice— my lowly “status” should not mean that I was allowed to be tortured continually—and, unlike the girl next door, I was not seeking damages for something I had asked for, or brought onto myself; the horrendous sound in the apartment seemed as if it was aimed directly toward me with my synesthesia in mind, and with some amount of pride I refused outright to go the way I was expected to and file a disability claim. I wasn't disabled— I was, however, unable to preform my full work duties as a recording artist without being interrupted by motorcycles, project cars, and otherwise, all of which I suspected were operated by the same group of people— some ugly little brown lackeys who felt entitled in one way or another, and paraded around as if they owned the neighborhood. Benefiting from American business, but anti-American; the opposite of peaceful and respectful—not that America had made its name on the basis of respect, and so it seemed that something, out of balance and off kilter for hundreds of years iknretropect, was bound to change. They were rude, arrogant, and loud—bringing al of the 3rd-world mindset and none of the humility or charm of the actual 3rd world with them; as arrogant as one might think, a gross reflection of the toxic masculine as a whole. They might not have been ugly at all if they were respectful or decent—but they ran about acting like terrorists, revving their engines, and banging, and clashing, and being ugly—employing young boys to stand on the corner and sell their off market drugs after having one of their smoke shops closed down. The more time I spent outside dealing with people at all, the more ill I felt. I craved more time offline and off the grid, and though the general disenchantment of New York would continue pouring through the cheaply made windows, I realized that I would be more well-to-do with a typewriter (so that I could continue to write for long periods of time offline and without my phone) and a record player (to drown out the noise and play along to on my drum machine, and still— there were more things to do, always drowning in bills and often wondering how long I'd have to forfeight health in exchange for the decency of what some might cal luxury, but others foundational. As for myself, these things, simple staples to health and wellness, were beginning to be foundational. {Enter The Multiverse} “As Seen on TV” She doesn't even have a name My pussy is cleaner than a motherfucker This ain't no community like Donald Glover Ya'll niggas actin childish, Gambino— If you wanna turn it on, Then send a c-note (I'm in south side) What she want Peloton What she on peloton What she got peloton What she on Peloton I FOUND KIT! I found KIT. Great, now did you burn that letter? What. Burn it. [does] Oh, that is such a relief. Jesus. Okay. This shit does get weird and deep. —so that's why we're going offline… You wouldn't believe this, I found the kid swinging from a tree. Ridiculous. And if you tie it like this— Ah. Look, it won't slip. So…this is your hobby, huh. One of many. They don't call you the Ace for nothin, do they. (Innocently, with curiosity) “Of Granduer” —Do they? The sound of a chandelier sparkles as the giant lamp swings back and forth, as if an earthquake has just happened. You wouldn't believe this. What. On the television. Okay, so I found this “Kit” guy— Twice. Twice you asked, and twice I told you. Well, I didn't think to look directly at Johnny Carson, exactly. But here— And this: You actually were. Tell me again what your name is. Just sign me an autograph: What. Me? Sure, why not? I want your autograph! Do people still ask for autographs? Often enough. Remarkably, even, at airports, and of course, unexpectedly at— GODDAMMIT, we're back at the rock! GODDAMMIT. Well. Well what! Somebody check what year it is. FUCK. [super long censored beep.] [The Festival Project ™] It was the first time since my childhood I felt like something was too long away—but finally, I was in the final stretch. The Peloton would be delivered sometime in the morning, and now that my internet had shut itself off— I'd refused to pay the bill and opted for getting a new computer so that I could record, rather it— Give me a second, I'm fucking obsessed with these curtains. Bro but second to the curtains is the fucking grass. No, its—tuft. Turf, huh? Interesting… I told you she was some sort of a spy. Whatever. I had long considered turning my living room into a media center, and had thought to reinvent my entire space in fungshuei, but now more than anything I just wanted it to look like that. {Enter The Multiverse} Something is wrong with her . She sits by her door ALL DAY and just fucking talks. And I know she's by her door Because she's RIGHT AT THE DOOR I hear this crystal clear Anytime I go near my door And she's like BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH BITCH GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE DOOR somewhere in a parallel of time Your ancestors Are beating the hell Out of my ancestors And your other ancestors Are stealing my other ancestors land You're on borrowed time And in borrowed space GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE DOOR. Man, Living sandwhiched between two Karen's Is like the equivalent Of having two demon fucking little sisters That hate you And tell on your for everything. Slamming doors and shit just to fuckin Throwing shit around Bitch. You are crazy. And that's the thing about white girls Their crazy is socially acceptable As normal behavior I guess when you just have the best things in life thrown at you forever— When things the rest of us consider luxury and opulence is just “regular” to you, You get a little set in your ways. My neighbor is infuriating. I'm like WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS BY THE DOOR SHES LIKE SNARFSNRFSNARF I'm like goddamn, Somebody send like a Camden or a fuckin “Chase” Over this way. Somebody take this bitch on a date And away from the door. Whole two bedroom apartment This bitch is glued to her door. She a robot. The door is metal. She just enters the apartment and gets glued stuck to the door “I guess I will have to snarf snarf from here. “She's a smart one” I don't believe in smart white girls. There's regular white girls And fucking serial killers. The serial killers are considered “the smart ones” I guess it does take a considerable amount of intelligence to just exist to catch bodies That's what they call the smart ones The ones who level up by just Mowing everyone else down. Gotta give them that. White girls will ruin your whole life Blink two little blue-green eyes twice— And if they're big and round enough The brown eyed white girls can get away with the shit, too— But they're fucking murderers. It's okay. I lived with white people long enough in my life to love them. But in living with and around them— I notice they all say the same thing which indicates to me that racial injustice might not actually be their fault— They might be killing niggas on accident. Just complete accidents White people say shit like “I can't feel” What. “How does it feel—to feel.” WHAT?! “Explain to me the concept of ‘emotions'” Ah hell nah— And these people have all the disposable income? It's not their fault. They just— are like that. They're wired different. They can't feel, And their first instinct is to kill everything different or perceivably deadly. It's not their fault It's intrinsically They have extremely fragile genes Very weak gene pools. Have you ever noticed how white people are always sick? Always?! Weak gene pools. Years of breeding narcisistically. Traits that are reminders of themselves, or people they grew up around. This is not racism, it's just science. “Oh, I love blue eyes because my grandmother has blue eyes” White men commonly marry women who remind them of their mothers and sisters. If that's not fucked up, I don't know what is. Then I realized that incest porn and teeny porn are amongst the highest watched types of porn. Hmm. Gee. I wonder why. Men are gross. But white moms need to start being more like black and Hispanic moms if they want to ensure the continuance of their genetics into evolution. You need to give your kids some mommy issues. That way, when they grow up, they feel the need to add variation to the gene pool in order to strengthen it, and move towards evolution. It's true. I lived with maybe the whitest man I ever knew for almost 6 months; I don't think he was specifically intentionally trying to kill me— But everything he did— And I mean everything, up to a certain point was like …I don't know, man. It really seems like this dude is trying to like exterminate me in some sort of way. It was bad. The energy was weird. He was like dirty, Fucking lazy, He was a lot. I was like, “Damn what the fuck it's like the longer I stay around the worse it is” But the weirdest part, was that he didn't seem to be aware that he was doing it Either that or he was a really good actor… “What do you mean?” Had me confused. But that's the thing about the whites. They do the whole thing with mind games They fuck with your mind. It's the most powerful weapon, actually— Because if you continually attack a person's mind, The rest crumbles around them without you even touching them. I'm sure this is what my neighbor is trying to do. It's a mind thing I get near the door, she just hurries up and opens her door, opens the door real wide, big apartment, everything's white, big ass fucking place But she's always by the door; Mind games. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. I wasn't really interesting in meeting someone seriously— in fact. As it turned out, I still had a little more muse to milk out of the last one, but even the tarot was being a stickler— I could risk ending it all and putting a nail in the coffin by actually watching The Tonight Show—but there would be a possibility it all would backfire and it would just reignite that spark, or worse—I'd become fully engulfed in flames by whatever it was that seemed to appear—and it seemed to appear so vividly and with rapid strength that it couldn't be stopped or controlled. A serious amount of money had to have been implemented to my paying attention to this, and beyond that— it all had to have been carefully premeditated. While at least now at the bookshop I was drawn to books from Oprah's book club, what had occurred couldn't possibly be ignored—actually, it couldn't be, at all— but instead of eating at me in its usual way, I had more just began to realize that there must have been in play some purpose. Feeling faraway from my actual creative self, there seemed to be something missing at all generating even a general sense of understanding of what normalcy was— when had actually been the last time I had been touched at all in a way that might make me feel as if I was still human— as if I was normal— but I knew I wasn't. It's time for a change. The thought of being with someone, especially just anyone, was bizzare. I gave up on love a lot of times; But this is when it became official. I was listening to a rap album I had never heard before And in this rap song, he said “This hoe got a 7 year degree and still selling pussy” What in the fuck. One way one way ticket Why bother getting a 7 year degree If your value as a black woman Is so low You can get a 7 year degree And still have to be a prostitute? What the fuck is the point. It goes the other way, too. What is the point of selling pussy without a 7 year degree!? She's gonna make more than me in ALL the professions. I gave up on love at all. That right there is how low value we are, not just to the black man, but any man. 7 year degree and you can charge more an hour, but you're still a technical hoe. I want to fucking die. When I married my ex I was pregnant with twins; When i got pregnant with the twins I was about 350 pounds. So by the time we got married, I was 6 months pregnant with twins. He had a right to cheat! I forgave him. But the first time he hit me Like really hit me Not just like A heavy shoving or ike A lil— You know Choke out– Like the real deal Like knocked me the fuck Almost all the way out Saw the white light and everything By the time that all went down I'm like 170-180 He's still, mind you, like 300 I lost weight He lost his mind; so i'm— — lets round up— Like 180 pounds But in my mind i must be thinking somewhere i'm still 300 He came at me with a running start, I put my hands up like: I must have thought i actually had a chance I took a fighting stance like: He said Fphew! PULL A RABBIT OUT A HAT damn . what year is this really? You just got sampled . Say, what's his job? Well, that's an informer. Chris Rock forsure some kind of genius I saw him do GIlbert Godfried And Sam Kinison In the same show. The show was dated, though; He literally said, “I'm married: I don't cheat.” I knew it must have been a joke. I knew it had to be a joke, or it had to be dated, Cause being real, I listen to too much kanye To even believe that Or even laugh at that: Not “too much” kanye— 'Just enough' Kanye, He said, “If I pull up with Kerri washington, That's gon' be an enormous scandal” I might have Niomi Campbell, Still might want me a stormy daniels And ya'll tried to get trumps supporters to turn against him By exposing that he fucked this bitch? That's like an achivement. That's like a status symbol. I'm sure these idiots praise him for that. He might have even gotten more popular! That's not a scandal That's PR. On that note, I think Chris Rock was the very guy Who made me decide to stay single forever: He talked about the way, apparently, men want to kill their wives; The way they fantasise killing us When we're in the relationship: Now, ill say— I never once thought about killing my ex husband During the relationship Even after he hit me. Never once. The only time i started wishing a karmic death upon this person was when I left the relationship And he stopped fantasizing about it And actually tried to fucking kill me. Once I realized this was happening Only then did I start to think “Oh damn, i hope that motherfucker just drops the fuck dead.” This motherfucker beat me, AND tried to kill me, Only then was i like, damn “Return to sender” I hope you die too, You fat piece of shit wifebeater motherfucker I hope you die too. Only after he tried to kill me. After I left. Had to hire a fucking voodoo fucking sorceress and shit “yo , take this curse off me, This motherfucker tried to kill me” Fuck that motherfucker. Apparently though they fantasisze it all the time, I'm thinking about all the times he would play this song iroinically enough, By kanye west So maybe too much Kanye West Or just enough, Kanye said “I thought about killing you today.” He used to play this song, And beat my ass, And I never once thought “I hope he dies” Shit, After the first time he really beat my ass, He ran away. He got scared; He had to run. My face was all hanging off my head and shit Blood all over the place My lip is disconnected from my whole jaw and shit He ran away; He darted out the front door He said “I'm gonna kill myself!” And he rain away– Even then even just after he beat my ass I never thought about killing him Or wanting him to die He just fresh beat my ass; He just straight up finished whooping my whole ass and he said “I'm gonna kill myself” He realized what he did “I'm gonna kill myself”, he said And he ran out the door And here I am With my lip hanging off my whole face Blood all on the walls Pool of blood on the floor, the whole thing babies crying; The whole The whole fucking HBO special The whole nine yards And he said “I'm gonna kill myself” And my dumb ass said “NO! Don't!” He ran out the door, I'm freaking out Blood everywhere Babies crying and shit “Come back! Think about the kids! Don't kill yourself” Like a dumbass. Turns out that was just a tactic, He broke me down good, I was like “Don't kill yourself” He said “...you gonna call the cops.” He said “...alright, I won't kill myself.” Boom. That's a real killer. Looking back on all this, I can't help but think to myself, What i would have done differently Not the whole “I should have left before any of that happened” I was the mother of two young children; I wanted to try after the cheating to make things work, Fast forward after that Turns out he was fantasizing about killing me the whole time He beat mya ass, ran away, Left me in a pool of blood with my two kids He said I'm gonna kill myself Looking back at that momet, The thing I wish I could change is this If i had to do it over again And he beat me like that In front of my kids And then said “I'm gonna kill myself” I would have said “do that shit.” Lock the door behind his ass, Change the lock, Pick my face up off the floor, call an ambulance And the polce, change names Pick up my life And leave forever. “Nigga–who?” “Momma who was our daddy? What was he like?” “Ya'll ain't got a daddy. I made ya'll myself” End of story. Whatever. Everything happens for a reason though. I learned my lesson. Now i don't argue with anyone at all Men, women–nobody If i even sense that same shit That psycho killer shit– I become as silent and invisible as possible And simply Disappear. “Disappear.” I had a migraine and I knew it was from pressure buildup and stress, so I thought to get rid of it I ought to make one of those hot-compresses with rice. But the only rice I had was jambalaya flavored— But the headache was obviously really bad, So I was like, “fuck it.” Poured it into a gym sock And popped it in the microwave, Put it on my neck— My neck smelled like a pot roast, But it worked. {Enter The Multiverse} There was something in my lungs, forcing me to breathe deeply, with a raspy wheezing wind out of my lungs, and with a steady cough, I was able to offload whatever it was waiting in my chest to be released, along with it, at least part of the pressure that was making even just sitting and reading nearly unbearable, collecting into a harsh migraine paralyzing each and every other breath with a sharp pain underneath the back of what seemed to be somewhere below my ear canal and somehow, a pressure somewhere behind my eye, probably a result of the excruciating process of shoving earplugs into my ears in order to drown out the outside noise, which paired with that of my seemingly devoid neighbors, often became wildly unsettling, and while lately the clamoring had created not only an uneasy tremor in my left hand, but also apparently a sudden onset of occasional vruxism, the anxiety overall seemed to be surmounting into what could only be described as something trying to kill me, for which I could no longer ignore not as delusions or paranoia, but absolute fact. As I had learned, modern psychology might have been the equivalent of what one could even be certain to be the devil itself, unable to distinguish patterns often associated with creative genius, self manifestation, and psychic abilities and intuition, as delusions of grandeur, paranoid thinking, or worse— diagnoses as psychotic. However, my grandiosity was neither imagined nor delusional—my podcast series alone had been read and listened to all over the world, translated into foreign languages and transcribed, and had been downloaded hundreds of thousands of times since its publishing; though not a technically recognizable figure, I had realized that I had in my own right become somewhat famous, if even off of the back or even under the umbrella of another famous individual, to whom the series itself had been entrusted. Receiving though not by mainstream media standards upwards of at least 10 downloads per episode, the series had no actual gauge or marker for its actual success and polularity—without being able to see information from a major streaming platform—Spotify, and without being able to measure the amount of downloads which had then been duplicated and shared otherwise, I started to recognize with a certain understanding what a cult following was, and the minimal phenomenon that even at this level, fame started to become apparent. It had also become apparent that science itself had yet to truly understand the phenomenon of creative energy as a whole, and that many with these capabilities and gifts were considered to have a plethora of mental health disorders and medicated with what one would consider targeted attacks on the psyche, the illusion of mental illness often standing as the actual delusion in itself! Creating, and then medicating these intrinsic abilities ass illnesses whereby the “neurotypical” individual might only be considered as such due to ability to adapt, confirm, or follow diections in a systematic manner, and furthermore, that the misdiagnoses of such misunderstoodconditions often even relied on bias, poor judgement, racism, social class, and economics had certainly deconstructed any faith or belief formerly held in the modern state of psychology, and most of the articles or public medical journals read more like science fiction and fantasy rather than cold hard facts; indicating a moral and ethical flaw within the entirety of the human species—man's own inability to understand God, and therefore himself, in any creative process. Diety and creativity combined were simply a mystery, and had plagued entire generations of the human spieces as a whole. Blū runs at top speed through the streets of Brooklyn New York on a cold and windy October night. V.O. The ironic thing is, I'm running to go get ice cream. I hate my life, I hate this place, I hate my life— I fucking hate this shit. I'm trying really hard not to kill myself. Like really, really hard. Sudden onset bruxism and hand tremors and I can't help but wonder if it has anything to do with the constant mottoeycle traffic or sleeping in a sea of vehicles which at any given moment could sound off, start up or honk the horn alarm over the last 9 months. I'm fucking exhausted all the time and everything around me just fucking draining. Just fucking draining. https://www.tracklib.com/pricing Yo, you know how I know I'm aging? I hated Dora The Explora when I was a kid— You know why? “That's for babies!” I was too old for Dora the explorer. Mi was a tv snob. I'm like “I hate Dora!” No teletubbies for me. No sir. I'm distinguished now. But get this, As I get older, different renditions of Dora Have grown on me To the point where I actually like the bitch I got older, And there was this girl, Who would show up at raves Dressed like Dora And shuffle, And dance around— Looking like Dora The Explorer Kind of creepy, now that I think about it As an actual adult, Like this, Fully grown woman, Dressed as a fucking 5 year old Dancing around at raves Being Dora. Weird. But I liked it. I loved it. She was a hit; Everybody was like “RAVE DORA! RAVE DORA!” She blew up on Instagram, She had a following— It was like Where will she be next?! RAVE DORA! Had the backpack and everything— Everything! Rave Dora! But now I know I'm getting old, Because I'm fuckin around online, And I see in the advertising little sidebar video Like, a new version of Dora The Explorer, And I'm like “DORAAAAAAAA!!!” —the fuck! I just realized my best friend from 3rd and 7th grade looked just like Dora the explorer. Facts. She became literally the most successful stripper I've ever met. Ahem. Dancer. Right. Dancer. Ahem. Dudes are gross. Doods r gross. Welcome to Doods R Gross; What can I help you find today? Uh, hi. I'm looking for a guy— Uh huh— Possibly one who looks like this: Ah shit, this is how I got playing the Wikipedia game and went on a tirade Facts. Ended up here Unicameralism (from uni- "one" + Latin camera "chamber") is a type of legislatureconsisting of one house or assembly that legislates and votes as one.[1] Unicameralism has become an increasingly common type of legislature, making up nearly 60% of all national legislatures[2] and an even greater share of subnational legislatures. Interesting Started Here: The Fallen Angel (French: L'Ange déchu) is a painting by French artist Alexandre Cabanel. You were saying? Preferably this. Ah huh. Not the face, but— the body— you know. Like this. Okay. Who will let me do everything. Everything as in? Everything. Well, as you know, dudes are gross… Hence the name of this store, good sir. I am in no way good, nor am I a “sir”, and for all intensive purposes, my employment at this store signals my deep indirection in life and may also be an indication of more serious issues. Maintained. Alright, so I'll show you what we got. No promises; The type of model you want is popular, Might be out of stock. Considerable. What's your price range? This credit card has no limit. Credit, or debit? My debit card is also linked to a plethora of infinite wealth. Right this way. Do you think I deserved for him to hit me like that? I don't know. Maybe. I mean—the cheating is a given; I was really really fat..:but do you think like, him getting violent was some kind of karma for something? Maybe. Like maybe I had it coming for whatever reason— and just didn't know it. Maybe. Suddenly I was in the residual memory of a dream. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

Oh no, he's Skrillex. [Skrirrex] run awaaaayyyyyyyy! {Entet The Multiverse} Well, that was fun. Here's the deal, we're gonna give you a whole new look— a whole new Waaahh. Everything. I've been in new york two years and still haven't been to the brooklyn bridge ‘cause I don't want to fight the sudden urge to impulsively throw myself off of it. Notes: My first sketch: buffering. But I don't know how to pull off that little round thing in sketch form. I'm sure it can be done…somehow. Why are we writing sketches? Just trying something… different Two Pilot Scripts peloton arrival My general obsession with these curtains I am obsessed with these curtains George Carlin's magnificent body lol now when they slam the door there's a comforter under it so the mad stays outside. Dumb fucks. Whatever I lose respect at home wrecker. She seemed nice tho. That's how they operate. Man this judge gon forreal give this lil white girl 3 million dollars for doing some only fans shit for her boss— for free. I'm sorry ya'll, white folks really are lazy. They went and invented work from home, but you ever realize that was really only for the white people— all the white peoples have cushy stay at home jobs where all they do is zoom all day and they got all the ugly brown motherfuckers out here on mopeds delivering groceries and shit? You ever notice that? Please. You had better hope the judge in this case is not me, if you actually want to win this motherfucker. I would look at this case and go “Married man.. uh huh…two kids… uh huh— you thought you were in love—huh. Gave you a promotion. Uh huh. Screenshots. I see— and then you did what for him on a zoom call? Oh no, honey, huh uh. Case dismissed. You did wrong. You went and prayed on a married man, child! You know they are weak! You know this! How does that make the company owe you $3 million? HOW IS IT THE COMPANY'S FAULT THAT YOURE A HOE!? Huh uh. Take your dirty tennis shoe lazy instacarttttttt orderin ass eating-out-every-night BACK TO WORK!! And GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR. Slam that shit one more time, hoe! She's taking this homewrecker thing too seriously. When I said “you're a homewrecker” I didn't mean “Slam the door until It falls off”, I more meant How does being a hoe deserve you $3 million?! IT DONT. That's some shit! Can't trust these niggas— But you fo sho can't trust these hoes. I'm just sayin. We get the whole negro spiritual? The whooooole negro spiritual. Cause all this #metoo bullshit . You know any white judge in they white mind is gonna be all “This poor little victim.” Whatever! She ferocious! Got a snake and everything! Can't trust noooooobody. Nobody. NOBODY. My lawsuit legitimate. I got motorcycles all up and down the block all day and all night to the point where I'm starting to be just as ugly on the inside, as these motorcycle motherfuckers are on the outside— I got a twitch now— Pisses me off. I developed a tremor. It was just mind games at first, but now my body in jeopardy!? Kill yo self. Karma gon whoop yo ass now it's icy and shit. SSSSSTTTTH, That's the back of a truck on yo' engine revving weak dick ass. ——sssssssss—CUH. Outta here. Fucktards. And you know what!? I'm black. I'mma go to the judge with all these recordings And all these reports, And all these statements— And he's gonna look me up and down and go— “You know a lot of people would be lucky to have what you have.” That's what they say. That this bullshit is a stroke of “luck”. And it is. When it's quiet. But for the time being— When there's no motorcycles, There's a homewrecking Snake wrangling; Door slamming hoe next door— And she wants to be FRIENDS. So you know what: I'm a be her friend. For as long as I'm single. I fuck around and get a man? I'm ghost. I'm gone. Whatever. She finna get $3milliomnf For being a slimy old Snake ass Manipulative Husband stealing Hoe And move on up. Just as a reminder to us all That all you have to do to get away with murder Is be a little white girl. You take the high road, And I'll take the low road And I'll be a gettin there before yeeeeee. Ok. So the Irish weren't playing— The song literally say: You take the high road (The moral high ground) And I'll take the low road (The hoe road) Oh shit. I gotta keep reading this shit . I couldn't have made it up better myself. ANOTHER MAGICIAN! I told you magic had something to do with it. Oh, it's— Probably nothing; You know you don't like it When cold hard dependence Just knocks on your door When you're standing butt naked The front door was opened, You've been quite lethargic, And after all the trauma The Cold War is over It's dark, damp and crowded A laugh, not a gesture, A swallow, not a falcon A sparrow, not a letter A mistress?! Oh pardon, sire. A partridge, a harpist— A hard alcoholic, And no one knows what comes after. Ya are honest or what? What's up, faggots? I'm at church, for Christ sakes! It's my day off, and God Almighty and I are in a High stakes game, alright, Keep driving me crazy, keep driving the crime rate up, and in time you'll be behind bars, And out of my way. The Red Dawn has come upon And now the west has won, sequestered every equestrian Shit I lost it Just wait for it. Damn this blondie is awesome. Embezzeled every pedestrian? That might work… —that resembles It's so nice to meet you. I'll shoot you. What. Don't touch me, I'll shoot you. With what. Silver pistol, jacket pocket. Wow. It's nice to meet you, too. How did you get that in here? I walked in. Through security? I didn't go through security. The worst part about living in New York City, Is all the smartest people are concentrated— To the rich areas. The outskirts is just a bunch of dumb motherfuckers banging on shit, and in their small world, they're important. In their small world, they run shit. That's when I realized that in order to maintain a world where I'm important— And I run shit, I have to stay away, and above these dumb motherfuckers. I— —Ahem—whatever. It's time for some SMUT VEE.. That's a good nickname. Maaaan. How long's it gonna take me to write this show? Maybe forever. {Enter The Multiverse} Lil bitz Have you ever started watching a video and thought, “I don't know if I can watch this” Because of the narrator's voice? By the way, If you can listen to those tik tok videos with robot AI captions, you should get yourself checked for a micro chip. You might be a robot. Anyway, Have you ever decided, Like, three seconds into the video that the dude's voice is just—so shitty that it might make the video shitty? No? Just me? {Enter The Multiverse} I nearly cleaned out the little free library after discovering that on the top shelf there were a slew of cookbooks, and more additions to the bottom. I hadn't been out in three days, but it seemed there was still some high level effort to theorize on how to go about siphoning my personal energy from inside of the apartment— I was still being followed. As I cleared the little library, dividing the take between my three bags, a blur of an ingrate human being passed from my right, explicitly and with purpose letting out a loud and obnoxious open-mouth cough— immediately, I coughed back, knowing that in time, the things I had been subjected to by these people would come back at them with roaring force—why not help along that karmic justice by paying it forward now, besides of course, the fact that I had for two more days been silent. ‘Disgusting fucking creatures.' And just with that, the opened-mouth coughing of a low-level gangstalker, I was proud that I had considered my purchase both urgent and imminent; there was no certain way to go about shutting myself away from the world besides doing it, and now with winter's chill gripping at the nose and fingertips, a cold wind whipping about and ice afoot, all the more reason to step aside and inside to resume creation—and the less time I spent on the street level with the roach and rat like people — much too far from the glittering and glamour filled luxe of Manhattan to be refined, well behaved, or mild mannered, they much emulated a lesser species by their habits and limitations. it was a frequency I strayed far away from, however— I had made it easy for them to stalk me on this particular morning, while although leaving for groceries at close to five or something of the like, and still being followed even then by the strange and shadowy type that at least stayed silent and kept great enough distance that it didn't bother too much, (besides the knowing that it never seemed seemed what time it actually was), that if I left my apartment at all, I would be followed; But, I had doubled back for the books after just by habit, though with a heavy load of groceries—baking goods and other heavy things I normally didn't buy, plus breakfast foods for the long haul, a self-initiated lockdown— and I knew that the later into the day it got, the more ‘sims' (a term I had deemed the robotic gangstalkers sent about remote controlled by their devices, whether they were doing it with intention or by force, or not.) They seemed at the disposal of the controllers, and while some of the sims were just weird, robotic drone-like people, many of them seemed dangerous—their frequencies almost creating such a friction that it seemed a disease to be in their presence. It had become clear that though docile and complacent, human beings had become weaponized by force, and the only thing keeping a revolution from emerging or a civil war from breaking out, was the intense divisiveness amongst people. People chose to remain as slaves, in utter complacency. I was skinnyish from running and awaiting the arrival of my Peloton, however. There was still 24 hours between now and then, the arrival of the beast and though I had spent the day before completely off grid, instead enjoying my now small library—though needing to be properly re-sorted, as collecting more literature had made a mess of things, (and though I had picked up a toy Hello Kitty Ukulele as wall decoration), I still somewhat refused to buy rugs or other practical decor or furniture, such as bookcases or even a bed. I was being stalked, followed and regularly tortured by sound and vibration interference— frequencies aimed directly into my abode, especially at times when I had wanted to rest, and though I could have avoided entirely at least some of these awful people by just leaving a little earlier, I then would have missed the all-too-beautiful reddened hues of the east coast sunrise; I had actually never seen such a ruby red light cast upon the Brooklyn brownstones, and although the people were sometimes ugly (the open-mouthed coughing ingrates, that is), the red and gold sunlight over the fallen leaves and east coast architecture almost made it worth it—and with any reckoning, my coughing back at the nasty little monster was a telltale sign that eventually, I'd either start beating the shit out of people when they coughed at me in public — or — I'd eventually craft a world without them in it by staking away from them, and taking long breaks from practicing behaviors and habits they exhibited. I no longer wanted to fit in, or become popular, or accepted, as I had finally realized that it was just as it always was, back in school: the popular people, even in music, “art”, and what was supposed to be “culture” weren't very bright—they were just brighter than enough of the people around them to get ahead by just enough whether by looks, money, or sometimes but rarely now, even, superior talent. They had been elected as representatives of the masses—the common man, the not-too-smart; the easily manipulated, and the docile. The superficial next generation was programmed to be limited to what had already happened; a stalemate in ingenuity, high art, and evolutionary consciousness in culture had been reached, as observed by dealings with the public world, as I studied their listening habits, social normalcies, and collective behaviors. The less time spent interacting with these ‘sims' and drones, the more in-depth my thoughts began to flourish—seeing in full color spectrums and patterns, acting and thinking in ways I was blessed to be abnormal in. I was no longer complacent in a world full of material greed and commercial competition, no longer feigning for mere objects that simply with decent credit anyone could go well into debt for—and most did. Instead, I would wear my same recycled clothes, keep to myself and my business, and craft from within some kind of masterpiece the world itself could no better inspire than I on my own. I was now the proud owner of a small library—and into my list of small but sacred prized possessions, two pilot television scripts from the era before which Television had deteriorated, in the onslaught of streaming culture; these two pilot scripts, neatly bracketed and crammed in between classic novels and cookbooks, were my happiest find since the treadmill, and of course— the Omega Juicer I still wasn't sure would ever work, but at least, watching the 11-year-old instruction video had given me a proper laugh, and besides not having the patience to further explore whether I had put it together incorrectly, or if it simply no longer operated, it was a device worth further considering spending time in order to try to make it work, before spending something awful on a machine of equal or lesser value. The treadmill had worked right away, and I was now clocking in segmented runs of about 4 miles a day— working my way up to seven, with the actual notion and belief that it was those Madonna-length runs which had manifested this apartment, and, that with the Peloton and those runs combined perhaps, if I were to stay in New York, an apartment in one of those tall shiny buildings in Manhattan would manifest itself—only second, of course, to a house in the Hollywood Hills. As for America, there was nowhere else I could I should be, I thought, and something strange had happened without my noticing—without any promotion whatsoever, I had garnered an unusually high amount of streams on I Love New York— surprisingly, with global response. I had gained followers and listeners in London, Germany, and Spain— top countries for dance music, and as I studied my metrics, I realized that the type of music I found easiest to make was performing the best; House and Techno snobs never changing, I had found a niché, and, another interesting point I had gathered was to find the Uptown A, without any promotion or live performance, was gaining traction and followers. Though minimal, without any effort, the numbers climbed all on their own. I found it astonishing that with no promotion at all, somehow, the album had circulated. Now I wished I had the focus and prayed for a way to finish the short film, or, collection or videos with a vague storyline which connected them together—however anyone wanted to see it, if they ever would. I was still largely out of storage space, and the phenomenon that the psychological terror attacks seemed to happen most frequently while online and even connected to my own private network, the more time I spent online the more time I spent under the blankets of honking horns, ravaged by motorcycles and modified engines, though—I found none of these people to be impressive or very powerful; their being counterproductive only alluded to the simple fact that it had become clear more people were born or made through neglect of some sort to be more useless than not— and so in effect, had to make use of themselves in other ways. I was almost trying to forge an alliance with the neighbor, but there was still some deepseated mistrust that probably had less to do with her race than her gender acclimations. I attempted not to judge, but it tormented me that anyone could knowingly sleep with a married man in exchange for a job and then expect 3 million for it was beyond me. Her unexpected visits and eagerness to see inside of my apartment was a discomfort, but to discover the likelihood of her induction to the wealthy— a millionaire status— angered me, but I was sure it was meant to, in that she herself was either some sort of plant, or a gangstalker who had been sent to gaslight in some sort of way— procuring information in one way or another or simply to plant seeds in my mind that hadn't needed to be there. It seemed she was in need of something—information, and that her motivations went beyond curiosity, however misjudged I might have been. Her actions seemed provocative and invasive, and however—the restlessness was already out of hand. I did my best to keep the peace, knowing all too well that a privalaged person made upset could be damaging and destructive. I had lived long enough to understand that, in fact, a cute little white girl could get her way with just about anything, using their ideal status and high regard as a tool of manipulation. I had no doubt that she would probably get her way— millions of dollars for doing nothing and being offended by it/- or even further, that it was all just an elaborate story crafted to further crank my brain, in addition to the motorcycles, the door slamming, and of course being followed to the gyms here-and-there and having had the entire year of living here being a nearly intolerably, noise filled nightmare. She had, after all, gone through wild and extraneous efforts to forage her way into being friends or something of the like, and, in my final attempt at being human, I thought to at the very least try to understand the idea of friendship, though probably having become forever unable to actually attain it. Friendship required trust, and, after hearing about her lawsuit, apparently for having had an extramarital affair with her married boss, with whom she “believed” was “in love with her”, it was perhaps the initial feeling of discomfort which had foundationally placed this person in the danger zone—that there was ‘just something' I couldn't trust about her—and I wondered as a future business owner how it might be the company's fault for her obvious moral defects. Further solidifying every reason to never pursue a married man, I pondered this; that in the modern practice of validating feminine toxicity and masquerading it as ‘justice' or ‘feminism' only further keeps women away as a whole from obtaining equality— on the moral high ground that one should not sleep with her boss, or should immediately report threatening behavior rather than to allow it in exchange for professional promotion, it only seems that the tactic of manipulation has to at some point come into play when indeed, over a period of time, one has gathered enough evidence to factor in a judgement that the company should compensate them. One should not be simply compensated for their willingness to display affection and exchanges of intimacy in a work environment if not reported at first concern; I was old enough to know better, so I figured certainly anyone given a few years in either direction should have a clear understanding of such. I had dealt numerouy with narcissists and manipulators all of my life, and it almost seemed an immediate red flag that she seemed to want so much to be friends, especially after having audibly reported me for various discrepancies—besides the obsurdity that she had decisively slammed doors as a means of getting attention. Perhaps it was some sort of sponsorship of sorts, indeed that she was a gangstalker herself and was being incentivized to act in such ways. For weeks, we had fallen into the habit of overendowment by way of gift exchange. Still, these were blurred lines; and I thought it best to be ‘friends' with a dangerous person rather than actual enemies. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, and of course—keep it light, and simple, and on the surface. She might have known my line of work, but nothing else, and it seemed that I might actually have the advantage here— besides her being Caucasian, obviously of privelege and wealth and my being multiracial. I knew more about her than she did about me, and, under the suspicion alone that she was a plant, and with the confirmation of my theory that she had also been burning sage, (now having done so admittedly knowing that the other neighbors would suspect and report me), and the apparent falling out with the other neighbors over something I had neither asked, nor was interested about— perhaps the simple fact was, I distrusted her immediately just with the intrinsic sense that she was untrustworthy; the type of woman who would knowingly sleep with a married man, and worse— with the intention of monetary gain in mind. The type of woman you don't want around your husband, period. In that way, perhaps it was simply that I was traumatized, once having been severely cheated on and lied to by a serial cheater and later wifebeater, that it was impossible to not see myself as ‘the wife'. Though now happily divorced and not quite straying from single, though planning to somehow be married again even if it was in the style of Elizabeth Taylor or, Richard Pryor—or even Marilyn Monroe, just repeating the process in insanity, I realized, however impractically, that I enjoyed being married, and monogamous—and even if this did make me a simple and easy target for infidelity, I had learned something very simple and wholesome about myself; I was a good woman. And I enjoyed that. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

Oh no, he's Skrillex. [Skrirrex] run awaaaayyyyyyyy! {Entet The Multiverse} Well, that was fun. Here's the deal, we're gonna give you a whole new look— a whole new Waaahh. Everything. I've been in new york two years and still haven't been to the brooklyn bridge ‘cause I don't want to fight the sudden urge to impulsively throw myself off of it. Notes: My first sketch: buffering. But I don't know how to pull off that little round thing in sketch form. I'm sure it can be done…somehow. Why are we writing sketches? Just trying something… different Two Pilot Scripts peloton arrival My general obsession with these curtains I am obsessed with these curtains George Carlin's magnificent body lol now when they slam the door there's a comforter under it so the mad stays outside. Dumb fucks. Whatever I lose respect at home wrecker. She seemed nice tho. That's how they operate. Man this judge gon forreal give this lil white girl 3 million dollars for doing some only fans shit for her boss— for free. I'm sorry ya'll, white folks really are lazy. They went and invented work from home, but you ever realize that was really only for the white people— all the white peoples have cushy stay at home jobs where all they do is zoom all day and they got all the ugly brown motherfuckers out here on mopeds delivering groceries and shit? You ever notice that? Please. You had better hope the judge in this case is not me, if you actually want to win this motherfucker. I would look at this case and go “Married man.. uh huh…two kids… uh huh— you thought you were in love—huh. Gave you a promotion. Uh huh. Screenshots. I see— and then you did what for him on a zoom call? Oh no, honey, huh uh. Case dismissed. You did wrong. You went and prayed on a married man, child! You know they are weak! You know this! How does that make the company owe you $3 million? HOW IS IT THE COMPANY'S FAULT THAT YOURE A HOE!? Huh uh. Take your dirty tennis shoe lazy instacarttttttt orderin ass eating-out-every-night BACK TO WORK!! And GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR. Slam that shit one more time, hoe! She's taking this homewrecker thing too seriously. When I said “you're a homewrecker” I didn't mean “Slam the door until It falls off”, I more meant How does being a hoe deserve you $3 million?! IT DONT. That's some shit! Can't trust these niggas— But you fo sho can't trust these hoes. I'm just sayin. We get the whole negro spiritual? The whooooole negro spiritual. Cause all this #metoo bullshit . You know any white judge in they white mind is gonna be all “This poor little victim.” Whatever! She ferocious! Got a snake and everything! Can't trust noooooobody. Nobody. NOBODY. My lawsuit legitimate. I got motorcycles all up and down the block all day and all night to the point where I'm starting to be just as ugly on the inside, as these motorcycle motherfuckers are on the outside— I got a twitch now— Pisses me off. I developed a tremor. It was just mind games at first, but now my body in jeopardy!? Kill yo self. Karma gon whoop yo ass now it's icy and shit. SSSSSTTTTH, That's the back of a truck on yo' engine revving weak dick ass. ——sssssssss—CUH. Outta here. Fucktards. And you know what!? I'm black. I'mma go to the judge with all these recordings And all these reports, And all these statements— And he's gonna look me up and down and go— “You know a lot of people would be lucky to have what you have.” That's what they say. That this bullshit is a stroke of “luck”. And it is. When it's quiet. But for the time being— When there's no motorcycles, There's a homewrecking Snake wrangling; Door slamming hoe next door— And she wants to be FRIENDS. So you know what: I'm a be her friend. For as long as I'm single. I fuck around and get a man? I'm ghost. I'm gone. Whatever. She finna get $3milliomnf For being a slimy old Snake ass Manipulative Husband stealing Hoe And move on up. Just as a reminder to us all That all you have to do to get away with murder Is be a little white girl. You take the high road, And I'll take the low road And I'll be a gettin there before yeeeeee. Ok. So the Irish weren't playing— The song literally say: You take the high road (The moral high ground) And I'll take the low road (The hoe road) Oh shit. I gotta keep reading this shit . I couldn't have made it up better myself. ANOTHER MAGICIAN! I told you magic had something to do with it. Oh, it's— Probably nothing; You know you don't like it When cold hard dependence Just knocks on your door When you're standing butt naked The front door was opened, You've been quite lethargic, And after all the trauma The Cold War is over It's dark, damp and crowded A laugh, not a gesture, A swallow, not a falcon A sparrow, not a letter A mistress?! Oh pardon, sire. A partridge, a harpist— A hard alcoholic, And no one knows what comes after. Ya are honest or what? What's up, faggots? I'm at church, for Christ sakes! It's my day off, and God Almighty and I are in a High stakes game, alright, Keep driving me crazy, keep driving the crime rate up, and in time you'll be behind bars, And out of my way. The Red Dawn has come upon And now the west has won, sequestered every equestrian Shit I lost it Just wait for it. Damn this blondie is awesome. Embezzeled every pedestrian? That might work… —that resembles It's so nice to meet you. I'll shoot you. What. Don't touch me, I'll shoot you. With what. Silver pistol, jacket pocket. Wow. It's nice to meet you, too. How did you get that in here? I walked in. Through security? I didn't go through security. The worst part about living in New York City, Is all the smartest people are concentrated— To the rich areas. The outskirts is just a bunch of dumb motherfuckers banging on shit, and in their small world, they're important. In their small world, they run shit. That's when I realized that in order to maintain a world where I'm important— And I run shit, I have to stay away, and above these dumb motherfuckers. I— —Ahem—whatever. It's time for some SMUT VEE.. That's a good nickname. Maaaan. How long's it gonna take me to write this show? Maybe forever. {Enter The Multiverse} Lil bitz Have you ever started watching a video and thought, “I don't know if I can watch this” Because of the narrator's voice? By the way, If you can listen to those tik tok videos with robot AI captions, you should get yourself checked for a micro chip. You might be a robot. Anyway, Have you ever decided, Like, three seconds into the video that the dude's voice is just—so shitty that it might make the video shitty? No? Just me? {Enter The Multiverse} I nearly cleaned out the little free library after discovering that on the top shelf there were a slew of cookbooks, and more additions to the bottom. I hadn't been out in three days, but it seemed there was still some high level effort to theorize on how to go about siphoning my personal energy from inside of the apartment— I was still being followed. As I cleared the little library, dividing the take between my three bags, a blur of an ingrate human being passed from my right, explicitly and with purpose letting out a loud and obnoxious open-mouth cough— immediately, I coughed back, knowing that in time, the things I had been subjected to by these people would come back at them with roaring force—why not help along that karmic justice by paying it forward now, besides of course, the fact that I had for two more days been silent. ‘Disgusting fucking creatures.' And just with that, the opened-mouth coughing of a low-level gangstalker, I was proud that I had considered my purchase both urgent and imminent; there was no certain way to go about shutting myself away from the world besides doing it, and now with winter's chill gripping at the nose and fingertips, a cold wind whipping about and ice afoot, all the more reason to step aside and inside to resume creation—and the less time I spent on the street level with the roach and rat like people — much too far from the glittering and glamour filled luxe of Manhattan to be refined, well behaved, or mild mannered, they much emulated a lesser species by their habits and limitations. it was a frequency I strayed far away from, however— I had made it easy for them to stalk me on this particular morning, while although leaving for groceries at close to five or something of the like, and still being followed even then by the strange and shadowy type that at least stayed silent and kept great enough distance that it didn't bother too much, (besides the knowing that it never seemed seemed what time it actually was), that if I left my apartment at all, I would be followed; But, I had doubled back for the books after just by habit, though with a heavy load of groceries—baking goods and other heavy things I normally didn't buy, plus breakfast foods for the long haul, a self-initiated lockdown— and I knew that the later into the day it got, the more ‘sims' (a term I had deemed the robotic gangstalkers sent about remote controlled by their devices, whether they were doing it with intention or by force, or not.) They seemed at the disposal of the controllers, and while some of the sims were just weird, robotic drone-like people, many of them seemed dangerous—their frequencies almost creating such a friction that it seemed a disease to be in their presence. It had become clear that though docile and complacent, human beings had become weaponized by force, and the only thing keeping a revolution from emerging or a civil war from breaking out, was the intense divisiveness amongst people. People chose to remain as slaves, in utter complacency. I was skinnyish from running and awaiting the arrival of my Peloton, however. There was still 24 hours between now and then, the arrival of the beast and though I had spent the day before completely off grid, instead enjoying my now small library—though needing to be properly re-sorted, as collecting more literature had made a mess of things, (and though I had picked up a toy Hello Kitty Ukulele as wall decoration), I still somewhat refused to buy rugs or other practical decor or furniture, such as bookcases or even a bed. I was being stalked, followed and regularly tortured by sound and vibration interference— frequencies aimed directly into my abode, especially at times when I had wanted to rest, and though I could have avoided entirely at least some of these awful people by just leaving a little earlier, I then would have missed the all-too-beautiful reddened hues of the east coast sunrise; I had actually never seen such a ruby red light cast upon the Brooklyn brownstones, and although the people were sometimes ugly (the open-mouthed coughing ingrates, that is), the red and gold sunlight over the fallen leaves and east coast architecture almost made it worth it—and with any reckoning, my coughing back at the nasty little monster was a telltale sign that eventually, I'd either start beating the shit out of people when they coughed at me in public — or — I'd eventually craft a world without them in it by staking away from them, and taking long breaks from practicing behaviors and habits they exhibited. I no longer wanted to fit in, or become popular, or accepted, as I had finally realized that it was just as it always was, back in school: the popular people, even in music, “art”, and what was supposed to be “culture” weren't very bright—they were just brighter than enough of the people around them to get ahead by just enough whether by looks, money, or sometimes but rarely now, even, superior talent. They had been elected as representatives of the masses—the common man, the not-too-smart; the easily manipulated, and the docile. The superficial next generation was programmed to be limited to what had already happened; a stalemate in ingenuity, high art, and evolutionary consciousness in culture had been reached, as observed by dealings with the public world, as I studied their listening habits, social normalcies, and collective behaviors. The less time spent interacting with these ‘sims' and drones, the more in-depth my thoughts began to flourish—seeing in full color spectrums and patterns, acting and thinking in ways I was blessed to be abnormal in. I was no longer complacent in a world full of material greed and commercial competition, no longer feigning for mere objects that simply with decent credit anyone could go well into debt for—and most did. Instead, I would wear my same recycled clothes, keep to myself and my business, and craft from within some kind of masterpiece the world itself could no better inspire than I on my own. I was now the proud owner of a small library—and into my list of small but sacred prized possessions, two pilot television scripts from the era before which Television had deteriorated, in the onslaught of streaming culture; these two pilot scripts, neatly bracketed and crammed in between classic novels and cookbooks, were my happiest find since the treadmill, and of course— the Omega Juicer I still wasn't sure would ever work, but at least, watching the 11-year-old instruction video had given me a proper laugh, and besides not having the patience to further explore whether I had put it together incorrectly, or if it simply no longer operated, it was a device worth further considering spending time in order to try to make it work, before spending something awful on a machine of equal or lesser value. The treadmill had worked right away, and I was now clocking in segmented runs of about 4 miles a day— working my way up to seven, with the actual notion and belief that it was those Madonna-length runs which had manifested this apartment, and, that with the Peloton and those runs combined perhaps, if I were to stay in New York, an apartment in one of those tall shiny buildings in Manhattan would manifest itself—only second, of course, to a house in the Hollywood Hills. As for America, there was nowhere else I could I should be, I thought, and something strange had happened without my noticing—without any promotion whatsoever, I had garnered an unusually high amount of streams on I Love New York— surprisingly, with global response. I had gained followers and listeners in London, Germany, and Spain— top countries for dance music, and as I studied my metrics, I realized that the type of music I found easiest to make was performing the best; House and Techno snobs never changing, I had found a niché, and, another interesting point I had gathered was to find the Uptown A, without any promotion or live performance, was gaining traction and followers. Though minimal, without any effort, the numbers climbed all on their own. I found it astonishing that with no promotion at all, somehow, the album had circulated. Now I wished I had the focus and prayed for a way to finish the short film, or, collection or videos with a vague storyline which connected them together—however anyone wanted to see it, if they ever would. I was still largely out of storage space, and the phenomenon that the psychological terror attacks seemed to happen most frequently while online and even connected to my own private network, the more time I spent online the more time I spent under the blankets of honking horns, ravaged by motorcycles and modified engines, though—I found none of these people to be impressive or very powerful; their being counterproductive only alluded to the simple fact that it had become clear more people were born or made through neglect of some sort to be more useless than not— and so in effect, had to make use of themselves in other ways. I was almost trying to forge an alliance with the neighbor, but there was still some deepseated mistrust that probably had less to do with her race than her gender acclimations. I attempted not to judge, but it tormented me that anyone could knowingly sleep with a married man in exchange for a job and then expect 3 million for it was beyond me. Her unexpected visits and eagerness to see inside of my apartment was a discomfort, but to discover the likelihood of her induction to the wealthy— a millionaire status— angered me, but I was sure it was meant to, in that she herself was either some sort of plant, or a gangstalker who had been sent to gaslight in some sort of way— procuring information in one way or another or simply to plant seeds in my mind that hadn't needed to be there. It seemed she was in need of something—information, and that her motivations went beyond curiosity, however misjudged I might have been. Her actions seemed provocative and invasive, and however—the restlessness was already out of hand. I did my best to keep the peace, knowing all too well that a privalaged person made upset could be damaging and destructive. I had lived long enough to understand that, in fact, a cute little white girl could get her way with just about anything, using their ideal status and high regard as a tool of manipulation. I had no doubt that she would probably get her way— millions of dollars for doing nothing and being offended by it/- or even further, that it was all just an elaborate story crafted to further crank my brain, in addition to the motorcycles, the door slamming, and of course being followed to the gyms here-and-there and having had the entire year of living here being a nearly intolerably, noise filled nightmare. She had, after all, gone through wild and extraneous efforts to forage her way into being friends or something of the like, and, in my final attempt at being human, I thought to at the very least try to understand the idea of friendship, though probably having become forever unable to actually attain it. Friendship required trust, and, after hearing about her lawsuit, apparently for having had an extramarital affair with her married boss, with whom she “believed” was “in love with her”, it was perhaps the initial feeling of discomfort which had foundationally placed this person in the danger zone—that there was ‘just something' I couldn't trust about her—and I wondered as a future business owner how it might be the company's fault for her obvious moral defects. Further solidifying every reason to never pursue a married man, I pondered this; that in the modern practice of validating feminine toxicity and masquerading it as ‘justice' or ‘feminism' only further keeps women away as a whole from obtaining equality— on the moral high ground that one should not sleep with her boss, or should immediately report threatening behavior rather than to allow it in exchange for professional promotion, it only seems that the tactic of manipulation has to at some point come into play when indeed, over a period of time, one has gathered enough evidence to factor in a judgement that the company should compensate them. One should not be simply compensated for their willingness to display affection and exchanges of intimacy in a work environment if not reported at first concern; I was old enough to know better, so I figured certainly anyone given a few years in either direction should have a clear understanding of such. I had dealt numerouy with narcissists and manipulators all of my life, and it almost seemed an immediate red flag that she seemed to want so much to be friends, especially after having audibly reported me for various discrepancies—besides the obsurdity that she had decisively slammed doors as a means of getting attention. Perhaps it was some sort of sponsorship of sorts, indeed that she was a gangstalker herself and was being incentivized to act in such ways. For weeks, we had fallen into the habit of overendowment by way of gift exchange. Still, these were blurred lines; and I thought it best to be ‘friends' with a dangerous person rather than actual enemies. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, and of course—keep it light, and simple, and on the surface. She might have known my line of work, but nothing else, and it seemed that I might actually have the advantage here— besides her being Caucasian, obviously of privelege and wealth and my being multiracial. I knew more about her than she did about me, and, under the suspicion alone that she was a plant, and with the confirmation of my theory that she had also been burning sage, (now having done so admittedly knowing that the other neighbors would suspect and report me), and the apparent falling out with the other neighbors over something I had neither asked, nor was interested about— perhaps the simple fact was, I distrusted her immediately just with the intrinsic sense that she was untrustworthy; the type of woman who would knowingly sleep with a married man, and worse— with the intention of monetary gain in mind. The type of woman you don't want around your husband, period. In that way, perhaps it was simply that I was traumatized, once having been severely cheated on and lied to by a serial cheater and later wifebeater, that it was impossible to not see myself as ‘the wife'. Though now happily divorced and not quite straying from single, though planning to somehow be married again even if it was in the style of Elizabeth Taylor or, Richard Pryor—or even Marilyn Monroe, just repeating the process in insanity, I realized, however impractically, that I enjoyed being married, and monogamous—and even if this did make me a simple and easy target for infidelity, I had learned something very simple and wholesome about myself; I was a good woman. And I enjoyed that. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

Oh no, he's Skrillex. [Skrirrex] run awaaaayyyyyyyy! {Entet The Multiverse} Well, that was fun. Here's the deal, we're gonna give you a whole new look— a whole new Waaahh. Everything. I've been in new york two years and still haven't been to the brooklyn bridge ‘cause I don't want to fight the sudden urge to impulsively throw myself off of it. Notes: My first sketch: buffering. But I don't know how to pull off that little round thing in sketch form. I'm sure it can be done…somehow. Why are we writing sketches? Just trying something… different Two Pilot Scripts peloton arrival My general obsession with these curtains I am obsessed with these curtains George Carlin's magnificent body lol now when they slam the door there's a comforter under it so the mad stays outside. Dumb fucks. Whatever I lose respect at home wrecker. She seemed nice tho. That's how they operate. Man this judge gon forreal give this lil white girl 3 million dollars for doing some only fans shit for her boss— for free. I'm sorry ya'll, white folks really are lazy. They went and invented work from home, but you ever realize that was really only for the white people— all the white peoples have cushy stay at home jobs where all they do is zoom all day and they got all the ugly brown motherfuckers out here on mopeds delivering groceries and shit? You ever notice that? Please. You had better hope the judge in this case is not me, if you actually want to win this motherfucker. I would look at this case and go “Married man.. uh huh…two kids… uh huh— you thought you were in love—huh. Gave you a promotion. Uh huh. Screenshots. I see— and then you did what for him on a zoom call? Oh no, honey, huh uh. Case dismissed. You did wrong. You went and prayed on a married man, child! You know they are weak! You know this! How does that make the company owe you $3 million? HOW IS IT THE COMPANY'S FAULT THAT YOURE A HOE!? Huh uh. Take your dirty tennis shoe lazy instacarttttttt orderin ass eating-out-every-night BACK TO WORK!! And GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR. Slam that shit one more time, hoe! She's taking this homewrecker thing too seriously. When I said “you're a homewrecker” I didn't mean “Slam the door until It falls off”, I more meant How does being a hoe deserve you $3 million?! IT DONT. That's some shit! Can't trust these niggas— But you fo sho can't trust these hoes. I'm just sayin. We get the whole negro spiritual? The whooooole negro spiritual. Cause all this #metoo bullshit . You know any white judge in they white mind is gonna be all “This poor little victim.” Whatever! She ferocious! Got a snake and everything! Can't trust noooooobody. Nobody. NOBODY. My lawsuit legitimate. I got motorcycles all up and down the block all day and all night to the point where I'm starting to be just as ugly on the inside, as these motorcycle motherfuckers are on the outside— I got a twitch now— Pisses me off. I developed a tremor. It was just mind games at first, but now my body in jeopardy!? Kill yo self. Karma gon whoop yo ass now it's icy and shit. SSSSSTTTTH, That's the back of a truck on yo' engine revving weak dick ass. ——sssssssss—CUH. Outta here. Fucktards. And you know what!? I'm black. I'mma go to the judge with all these recordings And all these reports, And all these statements— And he's gonna look me up and down and go— “You know a lot of people would be lucky to have what you have.” That's what they say. That this bullshit is a stroke of “luck”. And it is. When it's quiet. But for the time being— When there's no motorcycles, There's a homewrecking Snake wrangling; Door slamming hoe next door— And she wants to be FRIENDS. So you know what: I'm a be her friend. For as long as I'm single. I fuck around and get a man? I'm ghost. I'm gone. Whatever. She finna get $3milliomnf For being a slimy old Snake ass Manipulative Husband stealing Hoe And move on up. Just as a reminder to us all That all you have to do to get away with murder Is be a little white girl. You take the high road, And I'll take the low road And I'll be a gettin there before yeeeeee. Ok. So the Irish weren't playing— The song literally say: You take the high road (The moral high ground) And I'll take the low road (The hoe road) Oh shit. I gotta keep reading this shit . I couldn't have made it up better myself. ANOTHER MAGICIAN! I told you magic had something to do with it. Oh, it's— Probably nothing; You know you don't like it When cold hard dependence Just knocks on your door When you're standing butt naked The front door was opened, You've been quite lethargic, And after all the trauma The Cold War is over It's dark, damp and crowded A laugh, not a gesture, A swallow, not a falcon A sparrow, not a letter A mistress?! Oh pardon, sire. A partridge, a harpist— A hard alcoholic, And no one knows what comes after. Ya are honest or what? What's up, faggots? I'm at church, for Christ sakes! It's my day off, and God Almighty and I are in a High stakes game, alright, Keep driving me crazy, keep driving the crime rate up, and in time you'll be behind bars, And out of my way. The Red Dawn has come upon And now the west has won, sequestered every equestrian Shit I lost it Just wait for it. Damn this blondie is awesome. Embezzeled every pedestrian? That might work… —that resembles It's so nice to meet you. I'll shoot you. What. Don't touch me, I'll shoot you. With what. Silver pistol, jacket pocket. Wow. It's nice to meet you, too. How did you get that in here? I walked in. Through security? I didn't go through security. The worst part about living in New York City, Is all the smartest people are concentrated— To the rich areas. The outskirts is just a bunch of dumb motherfuckers banging on shit, and in their small world, they're important. In their small world, they run shit. That's when I realized that in order to maintain a world where I'm important— And I run shit, I have to stay away, and above these dumb motherfuckers. I— —Ahem—whatever. It's time for some SMUT VEE.. That's a good nickname. Maaaan. How long's it gonna take me to write this show? Maybe forever. {Enter The Multiverse} Lil bitz Have you ever started watching a video and thought, “I don't know if I can watch this” Because of the narrator's voice? By the way, If you can listen to those tik tok videos with robot AI captions, you should get yourself checked for a micro chip. You might be a robot. Anyway, Have you ever decided, Like, three seconds into the video that the dude's voice is just—so shitty that it might make the video shitty? No? Just me? {Enter The Multiverse} I nearly cleaned out the little free library after discovering that on the top shelf there were a slew of cookbooks, and more additions to the bottom. I hadn't been out in three days, but it seemed there was still some high level effort to theorize on how to go about siphoning my personal energy from inside of the apartment— I was still being followed. As I cleared the little library, dividing the take between my three bags, a blur of an ingrate human being passed from my right, explicitly and with purpose letting out a loud and obnoxious open-mouth cough— immediately, I coughed back, knowing that in time, the things I had been subjected to by these people would come back at them with roaring force—why not help along that karmic justice by paying it forward now, besides of course, the fact that I had for two more days been silent. ‘Disgusting fucking creatures.' And just with that, the opened-mouth coughing of a low-level gangstalker, I was proud that I had considered my purchase both urgent and imminent; there was no certain way to go about shutting myself away from the world besides doing it, and now with winter's chill gripping at the nose and fingertips, a cold wind whipping about and ice afoot, all the more reason to step aside and inside to resume creation—and the less time I spent on the street level with the roach and rat like people — much too far from the glittering and glamour filled luxe of Manhattan to be refined, well behaved, or mild mannered, they much emulated a lesser species by their habits and limitations. it was a frequency I strayed far away from, however— I had made it easy for them to stalk me on this particular morning, while although leaving for groceries at close to five or something of the like, and still being followed even then by the strange and shadowy type that at least stayed silent and kept great enough distance that it didn't bother too much, (besides the knowing that it never seemed seemed what time it actually was), that if I left my apartment at all, I would be followed; But, I had doubled back for the books after just by habit, though with a heavy load of groceries—baking goods and other heavy things I normally didn't buy, plus breakfast foods for the long haul, a self-initiated lockdown— and I knew that the later into the day it got, the more ‘sims' (a term I had deemed the robotic gangstalkers sent about remote controlled by their devices, whether they were doing it with intention or by force, or not.) They seemed at the disposal of the controllers, and while some of the sims were just weird, robotic drone-like people, many of them seemed dangerous—their frequencies almost creating such a friction that it seemed a disease to be in their presence. It had become clear that though docile and complacent, human beings had become weaponized by force, and the only thing keeping a revolution from emerging or a civil war from breaking out, was the intense divisiveness amongst people. People chose to remain as slaves, in utter complacency. I was skinnyish from running and awaiting the arrival of my Peloton, however. There was still 24 hours between now and then, the arrival of the beast and though I had spent the day before completely off grid, instead enjoying my now small library—though needing to be properly re-sorted, as collecting more literature had made a mess of things, (and though I had picked up a toy Hello Kitty Ukulele as wall decoration), I still somewhat refused to buy rugs or other practical decor or furniture, such as bookcases or even a bed. I was being stalked, followed and regularly tortured by sound and vibration interference— frequencies aimed directly into my abode, especially at times when I had wanted to rest, and though I could have avoided entirely at least some of these awful people by just leaving a little earlier, I then would have missed the all-too-beautiful reddened hues of the east coast sunrise; I had actually never seen such a ruby red light cast upon the Brooklyn brownstones, and although the people were sometimes ugly (the open-mouthed coughing ingrates, that is), the red and gold sunlight over the fallen leaves and east coast architecture almost made it worth it—and with any reckoning, my coughing back at the nasty little monster was a telltale sign that eventually, I'd either start beating the shit out of people when they coughed at me in public — or — I'd eventually craft a world without them in it by staking away from them, and taking long breaks from practicing behaviors and habits they exhibited. I no longer wanted to fit in, or become popular, or accepted, as I had finally realized that it was just as it always was, back in school: the popular people, even in music, “art”, and what was supposed to be “culture” weren't very bright—they were just brighter than enough of the people around them to get ahead by just enough whether by looks, money, or sometimes but rarely now, even, superior talent. They had been elected as representatives of the masses—the common man, the not-too-smart; the easily manipulated, and the docile. The superficial next generation was programmed to be limited to what had already happened; a stalemate in ingenuity, high art, and evolutionary consciousness in culture had been reached, as observed by dealings with the public world, as I studied their listening habits, social normalcies, and collective behaviors. The less time spent interacting with these ‘sims' and drones, the more in-depth my thoughts began to flourish—seeing in full color spectrums and patterns, acting and thinking in ways I was blessed to be abnormal in. I was no longer complacent in a world full of material greed and commercial competition, no longer feigning for mere objects that simply with decent credit anyone could go well into debt for—and most did. Instead, I would wear my same recycled clothes, keep to myself and my business, and craft from within some kind of masterpiece the world itself could no better inspire than I on my own. I was now the proud owner of a small library—and into my list of small but sacred prized possessions, two pilot television scripts from the era before which Television had deteriorated, in the onslaught of streaming culture; these two pilot scripts, neatly bracketed and crammed in between classic novels and cookbooks, were my happiest find since the treadmill, and of course— the Omega Juicer I still wasn't sure would ever work, but at least, watching the 11-year-old instruction video had given me a proper laugh, and besides not having the patience to further explore whether I had put it together incorrectly, or if it simply no longer operated, it was a device worth further considering spending time in order to try to make it work, before spending something awful on a machine of equal or lesser value. The treadmill had worked right away, and I was now clocking in segmented runs of about 4 miles a day— working my way up to seven, with the actual notion and belief that it was those Madonna-length runs which had manifested this apartment, and, that with the Peloton and those runs combined perhaps, if I were to stay in New York, an apartment in one of those tall shiny buildings in Manhattan would manifest itself—only second, of course, to a house in the Hollywood Hills. As for America, there was nowhere else I could I should be, I thought, and something strange had happened without my noticing—without any promotion whatsoever, I had garnered an unusually high amount of streams on I Love New York— surprisingly, with global response. I had gained followers and listeners in London, Germany, and Spain— top countries for dance music, and as I studied my metrics, I realized that the type of music I found easiest to make was performing the best; House and Techno snobs never changing, I had found a niché, and, another interesting point I had gathered was to find the Uptown A, without any promotion or live performance, was gaining traction and followers. Though minimal, without any effort, the numbers climbed all on their own. I found it astonishing that with no promotion at all, somehow, the album had circulated. Now I wished I had the focus and prayed for a way to finish the short film, or, collection or videos with a vague storyline which connected them together—however anyone wanted to see it, if they ever would. I was still largely out of storage space, and the phenomenon that the psychological terror attacks seemed to happen most frequently while online and even connected to my own private network, the more time I spent online the more time I spent under the blankets of honking horns, ravaged by motorcycles and modified engines, though—I found none of these people to be impressive or very powerful; their being counterproductive only alluded to the simple fact that it had become clear more people were born or made through neglect of some sort to be more useless than not— and so in effect, had to make use of themselves in other ways. I was almost trying to forge an alliance with the neighbor, but there was still some deepseated mistrust that probably had less to do with her race than her gender acclimations. I attempted not to judge, but it tormented me that anyone could knowingly sleep with a married man in exchange for a job and then expect 3 million for it was beyond me. Her unexpected visits and eagerness to see inside of my apartment was a discomfort, but to discover the likelihood of her induction to the wealthy— a millionaire status— angered me, but I was sure it was meant to, in that she herself was either some sort of plant, or a gangstalker who had been sent to gaslight in some sort of way— procuring information in one way or another or simply to plant seeds in my mind that hadn't needed to be there. It seemed she was in need of something—information, and that her motivations went beyond curiosity, however misjudged I might have been. Her actions seemed provocative and invasive, and however—the restlessness was already out of hand. I did my best to keep the peace, knowing all too well that a privalaged person made upset could be damaging and destructive. I had lived long enough to understand that, in fact, a cute little white girl could get her way with just about anything, using their ideal status and high regard as a tool of manipulation. I had no doubt that she would probably get her way— millions of dollars for doing nothing and being offended by it/- or even further, that it was all just an elaborate story crafted to further crank my brain, in addition to the motorcycles, the door slamming, and of course being followed to the gyms here-and-there and having had the entire year of living here being a nearly intolerably, noise filled nightmare. She had, after all, gone through wild and extraneous efforts to forage her way into being friends or something of the like, and, in my final attempt at being human, I thought to at the very least try to understand the idea of friendship, though probably having become forever unable to actually attain it. Friendship required trust, and, after hearing about her lawsuit, apparently for having had an extramarital affair with her married boss, with whom she “believed” was “in love with her”, it was perhaps the initial feeling of discomfort which had foundationally placed this person in the danger zone—that there was ‘just something' I couldn't trust about her—and I wondered as a future business owner how it might be the company's fault for her obvious moral defects. Further solidifying every reason to never pursue a married man, I pondered this; that in the modern practice of validating feminine toxicity and masquerading it as ‘justice' or ‘feminism' only further keeps women away as a whole from obtaining equality— on the moral high ground that one should not sleep with her boss, or should immediately report threatening behavior rather than to allow it in exchange for professional promotion, it only seems that the tactic of manipulation has to at some point come into play when indeed, over a period of time, one has gathered enough evidence to factor in a judgement that the company should compensate them. One should not be simply compensated for their willingness to display affection and exchanges of intimacy in a work environment if not reported at first concern; I was old enough to know better, so I figured certainly anyone given a few years in either direction should have a clear understanding of such. I had dealt numerouy with narcissists and manipulators all of my life, and it almost seemed an immediate red flag that she seemed to want so much to be friends, especially after having audibly reported me for various discrepancies—besides the obsurdity that she had decisively slammed doors as a means of getting attention. Perhaps it was some sort of sponsorship of sorts, indeed that she was a gangstalker herself and was being incentivized to act in such ways. For weeks, we had fallen into the habit of overendowment by way of gift exchange. Still, these were blurred lines; and I thought it best to be ‘friends' with a dangerous person rather than actual enemies. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, and of course—keep it light, and simple, and on the surface. She might have known my line of work, but nothing else, and it seemed that I might actually have the advantage here— besides her being Caucasian, obviously of privelege and wealth and my being multiracial. I knew more about her than she did about me, and, under the suspicion alone that she was a plant, and with the confirmation of my theory that she had also been burning sage, (now having done so admittedly knowing that the other neighbors would suspect and report me), and the apparent falling out with the other neighbors over something I had neither asked, nor was interested about— perhaps the simple fact was, I distrusted her immediately just with the intrinsic sense that she was untrustworthy; the type of woman who would knowingly sleep with a married man, and worse— with the intention of monetary gain in mind. The type of woman you don't want around your husband, period. In that way, perhaps it was simply that I was traumatized, once having been severely cheated on and lied to by a serial cheater and later wifebeater, that it was impossible to not see myself as ‘the wife'. Though now happily divorced and not quite straying from single, though planning to somehow be married again even if it was in the style of Elizabeth Taylor or, Richard Pryor—or even Marilyn Monroe, just repeating the process in insanity, I realized, however impractically, that I enjoyed being married, and monogamous—and even if this did make me a simple and easy target for infidelity, I had learned something very simple and wholesome about myself; I was a good woman. And I enjoyed that. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

KEENAN is the head of the league's research and development team. KEENAN WELL, Ya'll sho' chose the wrong girl to fuck wit! Why do you say that? KEENAN Well, i'mon just let ya'll figure that out on ya own. [KEENEN exits shaking his head solemnly, and begins singing ‘Amazing Grace' , first humming.] Hmmmmm—hmmm—how sweet the sound— Wait! Keenan! Who is this girl?! Who is she?! —hmmm—hmmm—hmmm—hmmmmmmmm LIKE MEEEEEEE! What are we up against Oh. you'll see. I woooonceeee was lost— Wait! SEEYA! [out of nowhere he has pulled out an old style stick bundle and throws it over his shoulder, continuing to hum while chewing on a long stick of straw.] —-hmmmm—-hmmmm. …where is he going!? (Meta) Seems like he's going somewhere with that thing hanging over his back! What are those things even called, anyway? Who knows? I think I know, but it might be racist. [suddenly, offstage/camera a bell begins to ring— One— Two— Three chimes.] That seems odd. Yes, very strange. [Suddenly, all the NBC pages at once upend their nests,] what the— Why are there so many of them. I don't know. Did their skirts get shorter? Hush. So many pages. MEANWHILR, unst 30 Rock. Hold on, pause. These weirdo cops have reverb on their whoop whoops. Facts. Are you sure this is still the 10th dimension. I'm positive. Really! You're sure! Couldn't possibly be lower. Maybe. What about higher. Higher!? Since when. WHAT'S YOUR NAME. Uh-FRANKLIN. Don't lie to me. How would you pronounce this name? I wouldn't. Hm. Excuse me. What. How would you say this? Like, out loud— Uh huh. Pass. Dammit! Hey—uh— RACHEL DRATCH What, dammit; what?! I just sat down with my bagel! I know but— I need your help— interpreting something? What is it? Gibberish? Not really, it's— I'm an expert in Gibberish— I know; but— Classical and neo-modern. Yeah, it's not that. What is it. Alien, I think. Which species. Species. WHICH— ugh— give me that! [she snatches the paper and produces a monocle for further inspection.] Since when did you get a monacle? since when changed insurance companies which supplies said ‘monocologists' and covers such expenses sans-coh-pay. You mean copay? Shut up. Hm. Looks to be Unrealian in orgim but I could be mistaking this dialect. What. Could also possibly be AAHHMEK. Ahmek? Ano, AAAAH— nevermind. Is this an actual apostrophe? Beg your pardon. The apostrophe— is it human derived, or the human pseudo translation replacement for a afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh? Say again. Is it an actual apostrophe, or is the mark mean to insinuate the commonly used extraterrestrial character afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh? …I don't know. WELL, then—I'm afraid I can't help you until you forgive that out— What. Depending on what the mark is, those could be two veerrrrry different things. Would you just, Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to presume the consumption of my RAISINBagel. You know what. -_- -_- -_- …fine. [he snatches the paper and walks away angry—RATCHEL DRATCH begins to shmear her bagel, mumbling] —wants me to translate, but doesn't know the difference between an apostrophe, and a afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh. Please! {Enter The Multiverse} Unlike the girl next door, my lawsuit was legitimate. I strolled passed the usual subjects on my way back to the apartment from my begrudged outings; I had left with the intention of putting my money into a cheap record player, but had after all decided against it—I was saving for a new computer so that I could actually record vocals for my music, which would deplete my budget after living expenses for the month into nothing, and though I knew it would be something like next-to-nothing for the next little while anyway, it wouldn't matter. Now that I knew I was right, I continued compiling the evidence against these motorized terrorists—I didn't actually want to sue, but at this point it seemed it was my only choice— my lowly “status” should not mean that I was allowed to be tortured continually—and, unlike the girl next door, I was not seeking damages for something I had asked for, or brought onto myself; the horrendous sound in the apartment seemed as if it was aimed directly toward me with my synesthesia in mind, and with some amount of pride I refused outright to go the way I was expected to and file a disability claim. I wasn't disabled— I was, however, unable to preform my full work duties as a recording artist without being interrupted by motorcycles, project cars, and otherwise, all of which I suspected were operated by the same group of people— some ugly little brown lackeys who felt entitled in one way or another, and paraded around as if they owned the neighborhood. Benefiting from American business, but anti-American; the opposite of peaceful and respectful—not that America had made its name on the basis of respect, and so it seemed that something, out of balance and off kilter for hundreds of years iknretropect, was bound to change. They were rude, arrogant, and loud—bringing al of the 3rd-world mindset and none of the humility or charm of the actual 3rd world with them; as arrogant as one might think, a gross reflection of the toxic masculine as a whole. They might not have been ugly at all if they were respectful or decent—but they ran about acting like terrorists, revving their engines, and banging, and clashing, and being ugly—employing young boys to stand on the corner and sell their off market drugs after having one of their smoke shops closed down. The more time I spent outside dealing with people at all, the more ill I felt. I craved more time offline and off the grid, and though the general disenchantment of New York would continue pouring through the cheaply made windows, I realized that I would be more well-to-do with a typewriter (so that I could continue to write for long periods of time offline and without my phone) and a record player (to drown out the noise and play along to on my drum machine, and still— there were more things to do, always drowning in bills and often wondering how long I'd have to forfeight health in exchange for the decency of what some might cal luxury, but others foundational. As for myself, these things, simple staples to health and wellness, were beginning to be foundational. {Enter The Multiverse} “As Seen on TV” She doesn't even have a name My pussy is cleaner than a motherfucker This ain't no community like Donald Glover Ya'll niggas actin childish, Gambino— If you wanna turn it on, Then send a c-note (I'm in south side) What she want Peloton What she on peloton What she got peloton What she on Peloton I FOUND KIT! I found KIT. Great, now did you burn that letter? What. Burn it. [does] Oh, that is such a relief. Jesus. Okay. This shit does get weird and deep. —so that's why we're going offline… You wouldn't believe this, I found the kid swinging from a tree. Ridiculous. And if you tie it like this— Ah. Look, it won't slip. So…this is your hobby, huh. One of many. They don't call you the Ace for nothin, do they. (Innocently, with curiosity) “Of Granduer” —Do they? The sound of a chandelier sparkles as the giant lamp swings back and forth, as if an earthquake has just happened. You wouldn't believe this. What. On the television. Okay, so I found this “Kit” guy— Twice. Twice you asked, and twice I told you. Well, I didn't think to look directly at Johnny Carson, exactly. But here— And this: You actually were. Tell me again what your name is. Just sign me an autograph: What. Me? Sure, why not? I want your autograph! Do people still ask for autographs? Often enough. Remarkably, even, at airports, and of course, unexpectedly at— GODDAMMIT, we're back at the rock! GODDAMMIT. Well. Well what! Somebody check what year it is. FUCK. [super long censored beep.] [The Festival Project ™] It was the first time since my childhood I felt like something was too long away—but finally, I was in the final stretch. The Peloton would be delivered sometime in the morning, and now that my internet had shut itself off— I'd refused to pay the bill and opted for getting a new computer so that I could record, rather it— Give me a second, I'm fucking obsessed with these curtains. Bro but second to the curtains is the fucking grass. No, its—tuft. Turf, huh? Interesting… I told you she was some sort of a spy. Whatever. I had long considered turning my living room into a media center, and had thought to reinvent my entire space in fungshuei, but now more than anything I just wanted it to look like that. {Enter The Multiverse} Something is wrong with her . She sits by her door ALL DAY and just fucking talks. And I know she's by her door Because she's RIGHT AT THE DOOR I hear this crystal clear Anytime I go near my door And she's like BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH BITCH GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE DOOR somewhere in a parallel of time Your ancestors Are beating the hell Out of my ancestors And your other ancestors Are stealing my other ancestors land You're on borrowed time And in borrowed space GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE DOOR. Man, Living sandwhiched between two Karen's Is like the equivalent Of having two demon fucking little sisters That hate you And tell on your for everything. Slamming doors and shit just to fuckin Throwing shit around Bitch. You are crazy. And that's the thing about white girls Their crazy is socially acceptable As normal behavior I guess when you just have the best things in life thrown at you forever— When things the rest of us consider luxury and opulence is just “regular” to you, You get a little set in your ways. My neighbor is infuriating. I'm like WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS BY THE DOOR SHES LIKE SNARFSNRFSNARF I'm like goddamn, Somebody send like a Camden or a fuckin “Chase” Over this way. Somebody take this bitch on a date And away from the door. Whole two bedroom apartment This bitch is glued to her door. She a robot. The door is metal. She just enters the apartment and gets glued stuck to the door “I guess I will have to snarf snarf from here. “She's a smart one” I don't believe in smart white girls. There's regular white girls And fucking serial killers. The serial killers are considered “the smart ones” I guess it does take a considerable amount of intelligence to just exist to catch bodies That's what they call the smart ones The ones who level up by just Mowing everyone else down. Gotta give them that. White girls will ruin your whole life Blink two little blue-green eyes twice— And if they're big and round enough The brown eyed white girls can get away with the shit, too— But they're fucking murderers. It's okay. I lived with white people long enough in my life to love them. But in living with and around them— I notice they all say the same thing which indicates to me that racial injustice might not actually be their fault— They might be killing niggas on accident. Just complete accidents White people say shit like “I can't feel” What. “How does it feel—to feel.” WHAT?! “Explain to me the concept of ‘emotions'” Ah hell nah— And these people have all the disposable income? It's not their fault. They just— are like that. They're wired different. They can't feel, And their first instinct is to kill everything different or perceivably deadly. It's not their fault It's intrinsically They have extremely fragile genes Very weak gene pools. Have you ever noticed how white people are always sick? Always?! Weak gene pools. Years of breeding narcisistically. Traits that are reminders of themselves, or people they grew up around. This is not racism, it's just science. “Oh, I love blue eyes because my grandmother has blue eyes” White men commonly marry women who remind them of their mothers and sisters. If that's not fucked up, I don't know what is. Then I realized that incest porn and teeny porn are amongst the highest watched types of porn. Hmm. Gee. I wonder why. Men are gross. But white moms need to start being more like black and Hispanic moms if they want to ensure the continuance of their genetics into evolution. You need to give your kids some mommy issues. That way, when they grow up, they feel the need to add variation to the gene pool in order to strengthen it, and move towards evolution. It's true. I lived with maybe the whitest man I ever knew for almost 6 months; I don't think he was specifically intentionally trying to kill me— But everything he did— And I mean everything, up to a certain point was like …I don't know, man. It really seems like this dude is trying to like exterminate me in some sort of way. It was bad. The energy was weird. He was like dirty, Fucking lazy, He was a lot. I was like, “Damn what the fuck it's like the longer I stay around the worse it is” But the weirdest part, was that he didn't seem to be aware that he was doing it Either that or he was a really good actor… “What do you mean?” Had me confused. But that's the thing about the whites. They do the whole thing with mind games They fuck with your mind. It's the most powerful weapon, actually— Because if you continually attack a person's mind, The rest crumbles around them without you even touching them. I'm sure this is what my neighbor is trying to do. It's a mind thing I get near the door, she just hurries up and opens her door, opens the door real wide, big apartment, everything's white, big ass fucking place But she's always by the door; Mind games. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. I wasn't really interesting in meeting someone seriously— in fact. As it turned out, I still had a little more muse to milk out of the last one, but even the tarot was being a stickler— I could risk ending it all and putting a nail in the coffin by actually watching The Tonight Show—but there would be a possibility it all would backfire and it would just reignite that spark, or worse—I'd become fully engulfed in flames by whatever it was that seemed to appear—and it seemed to appear so vividly and with rapid strength that it couldn't be stopped or controlled. A serious amount of money had to have been implemented to my paying attention to this, and beyond that— it all had to have been carefully premeditated. While at least now at the bookshop I was drawn to books from Oprah's book club, what had occurred couldn't possibly be ignored—actually, it couldn't be, at all— but instead of eating at me in its usual way, I had more just began to realize that there must have been in play some purpose. Feeling faraway from my actual creative self, there seemed to be something missing at all generating even a general sense of understanding of what normalcy was— when had actually been the last time I had been touched at all in a way that might make me feel as if I was still human— as if I was normal— but I knew I wasn't. It's time for a change. The thought of being with someone, especially just anyone, was bizzare. I gave up on love a lot of times; But this is when it became official. I was listening to a rap album I had never heard before And in this rap song, he said “This hoe got a 7 year degree and still selling pussy” What in the fuck. One way one way ticket Why bother getting a 7 year degree If your value as a black woman Is so low You can get a 7 year degree And still have to be a prostitute? What the fuck is the point. It goes the other way, too. What is the point of selling pussy without a 7 year degree!? She's gonna make more than me in ALL the professions. I gave up on love at all. That right there is how low value we are, not just to the black man, but any man. 7 year degree and you can charge more an hour, but you're still a technical hoe. I want to fucking die. When I married my ex I was pregnant with twins; When i got pregnant with the twins I was about 350 pounds. So by the time we got married, I was 6 months pregnant with twins. He had a right to cheat! I forgave him. But the first time he hit me Like really hit me Not just like A heavy shoving or ike A lil— You know Choke out– Like the real deal Like knocked me the fuck Almost all the way out Saw the white light and everything By the time that all went down I'm like 170-180 He's still, mind you, like 300 I lost weight He lost his mind; so i'm— — lets round up— Like 180 pounds But in my mind i must be thinking somewhere i'm still 300 He came at me with a running start, I put my hands up like: I must have thought i actually had a chance I took a fighting stance like: He said Fphew! PULL A RABBIT OUT A HAT damn . what year is this really? You just got sampled . Say, what's his job? Well, that's an informer. Chris Rock forsure some kind of genius I saw him do GIlbert Godfried And Sam Kinison In the same show. The show was dated, though; He literally said, “I'm married: I don't cheat.” I knew it must have been a joke. I knew it had to be a joke, or it had to be dated, Cause being real, I listen to too much kanye To even believe that Or even laugh at that: Not “too much” kanye— 'Just enough' Kanye, He said, “If I pull up with Kerri washington, That's gon' be an enormous scandal” I might have Niomi Campbell, Still might want me a stormy daniels And ya'll tried to get trumps supporters to turn against him By exposing that he fucked this bitch? That's like an achivement. That's like a status symbol. I'm sure these idiots praise him for that. He might have even gotten more popular! That's not a scandal That's PR. On that note, I think Chris Rock was the very guy Who made me decide to stay single forever: He talked about the way, apparently, men want to kill their wives; The way they fantasise killing us When we're in the relationship: Now, ill say— I never once thought about killing my ex husband During the relationship Even after he hit me. Never once. The only time i started wishing a karmic death upon this person was when I left the relationship And he stopped fantasizing about it And actually tried to fucking kill me. Once I realized this was happening Only then did I start to think “Oh damn, i hope that motherfucker just drops the fuck dead.” This motherfucker beat me, AND tried to kill me, Only then was i like, damn “Return to sender” I hope you die too, You fat piece of shit wifebeater motherfucker I hope you die too. Only after he tried to kill me. After I left. Had to hire a fucking voodoo fucking sorceress and shit “yo , take this curse off me, This motherfucker tried to kill me” Fuck that motherfucker. Apparently though they fantasisze it all the time, I'm thinking about all the times he would play this song iroinically enough, By kanye west So maybe too much Kanye West Or just enough, Kanye said “I thought about killing you today.” He used to play this song, And beat my ass, And I never once thought “I hope he dies” Shit, After the first time he really beat my ass, He ran away. He got scared; He had to run. My face was all hanging off my head and shit Blood all over the place My lip is disconnected from my whole jaw and shit He ran away; He darted out the front door He said “I'm gonna kill myself!” And he rain away– Even then even just after he beat my ass I never thought about killing him Or wanting him to die He just fresh beat my ass; He just straight up finished whooping my whole ass and he said “I'm gonna kill myself” He realized what he did “I'm gonna kill myself”, he said And he ran out the door And here I am With my lip hanging off my whole face Blood all on the walls Pool of blood on the floor, the whole thing babies crying; The whole The whole fucking HBO special The whole nine yards And he said “I'm gonna kill myself” And my dumb ass said “NO! Don't!” He ran out the door, I'm freaking out Blood everywhere Babies crying and shit “Come back! Think about the kids! Don't kill yourself” Like a dumbass. Turns out that was just a tactic, He broke me down good, I was like “Don't kill yourself” He said “...you gonna call the cops.” He said “...alright, I won't kill myself.” Boom. That's a real killer. Looking back on all this, I can't help but think to myself, What i would have done differently Not the whole “I should have left before any of that happened” I was the mother of two young children; I wanted to try after the cheating to make things work, Fast forward after that Turns out he was fantasizing about killing me the whole time He beat mya ass, ran away, Left me in a pool of blood with my two kids He said I'm gonna kill myself Looking back at that momet, The thing I wish I could change is this If i had to do it over again And he beat me like that In front of my kids And then said “I'm gonna kill myself” I would have said “do that shit.” Lock the door behind his ass, Change the lock, Pick my face up off the floor, call an ambulance And the polce, change names Pick up my life And leave forever. “Nigga–who?” “Momma who was our daddy? What was he like?” “Ya'll ain't got a daddy. I made ya'll myself” End of story. Whatever. Everything happens for a reason though. I learned my lesson. Now i don't argue with anyone at all Men, women–nobody If i even sense that same shit That psycho killer shit– I become as silent and invisible as possible And simply Disappear. “Disappear.” I had a migraine and I knew it was from pressure buildup and stress, so I thought to get rid of it I ought to make one of those hot-compresses with rice. But the only rice I had was jambalaya flavored— But the headache was obviously really bad, So I was like, “fuck it.” Poured it into a gym sock And popped it in the microwave, Put it on my neck— My neck smelled like a pot roast, But it worked. {Enter The Multiverse} There was something in my lungs, forcing me to breathe deeply, with a raspy wheezing wind out of my lungs, and with a steady cough, I was able to offload whatever it was waiting in my chest to be released, along with it, at least part of the pressure that was making even just sitting and reading nearly unbearable, collecting into a harsh migraine paralyzing each and every other breath with a sharp pain underneath the back of what seemed to be somewhere below my ear canal and somehow, a pressure somewhere behind my eye, probably a result of the excruciating process of shoving earplugs into my ears in order to drown out the outside noise, which paired with that of my seemingly devoid neighbors, often became wildly unsettling, and while lately the clamoring had created not only an uneasy tremor in my left hand, but also apparently a sudden onset of occasional vruxism, the anxiety overall seemed to be surmounting into what could only be described as something trying to kill me, for which I could no longer ignore not as delusions or paranoia, but absolute fact. As I had learned, modern psychology might have been the equivalent of what one could even be certain to be the devil itself, unable to distinguish patterns often associated with creative genius, self manifestation, and psychic abilities and intuition, as delusions of grandeur, paranoid thinking, or worse— diagnoses as psychotic. However, my grandiosity was neither imagined nor delusional—my podcast series alone had been read and listened to all over the world, translated into foreign languages and transcribed, and had been downloaded hundreds of thousands of times since its publishing; though not a technically recognizable figure, I had realized that I had in my own right become somewhat famous, if even off of the back or even under the umbrella of another famous individual, to whom the series itself had been entrusted. Receiving though not by mainstream media standards upwards of at least 10 downloads per episode, the series had no actual gauge or marker for its actual success and polularity—without being able to see information from a major streaming platform—Spotify, and without being able to measure the amount of downloads which had then been duplicated and shared otherwise, I started to recognize with a certain understanding what a cult following was, and the minimal phenomenon that even at this level, fame started to become apparent. It had also become apparent that science itself had yet to truly understand the phenomenon of creative energy as a whole, and that many with these capabilities and gifts were considered to have a plethora of mental health disorders and medicated with what one would consider targeted attacks on the psyche, the illusion of mental illness often standing as the actual delusion in itself! Creating, and then medicating these intrinsic abilities ass illnesses whereby the “neurotypical” individual might only be considered as such due to ability to adapt, confirm, or follow diections in a systematic manner, and furthermore, that the misdiagnoses of such misunderstood cobditions often even relied on bias, poor judgement, racism, social class, and economics had certainly deconstructed any faith or belief formerly held in the modern state of psychology, and most of the articles or public medical journals read more like science fiction and fantasy rather than cold hard facts; indicating a moral and ethical flaw within the entirety of the human species—man's own inability to understand God, and therefore himself, in any creative process. Diety and creativity combined were simply a mystery, and had plagued entire generations of the human spieces as a whole. Blū runs at top speed through the streets of Brooklyn New York on a cold and windy October night. V.O. The ironic thing is, I'm running to go get ice cream. I hate my life, I hate this place, I hate my life— I fucking hate this shit. I'm trying really hard not to kill myself. Like really, really hard. Sudden onset bruxism and hand tremors and I can't help but wonder if it has anything to do with the constant mottoeycle traffic or sleeping in a sea of vehicles which at any given moment could sound off, start up or honk the horn alarm over the last 9 months. I'm fucking exhausted all the time and everything around me just fucking draining. Just fucking draining. https://www.tracklib.com/pricing Yo, you know how I know I'm aging? I hated Dora The Explora when I was a kid— You know why? “That's for babies!” I was too old for Dora the explorer. Mi was a tv snob. I'm like “I hate Dora!” No teletubbies for me. No sir. I'm distinguished now. But get this, As I get older, different renditions of Dora Have grown on me To the point where I actually like the bitch I got older, And there was this girl, Who would show up at raves Dressed like Dora And shuffle, And dance around— Looking like Dora The Explorer Kind of creepy, now that I think about it As an actual adult, Like this, Fully grown woman, Dressed as a fucking 5 year old Dancing around at raves Being Dora. Weird. But I liked it. I loved it. She was a hit; Everybody was like “RAVE DORA! RAVE DORA!” She blew up on Instagram, She had a following— It was like Where will she be next?! RAVE DORA! Had the backpack and everything— Everything! Rave Dora! But now I know I'm getting old, Because I'm fuckin around online, And I see in the advertising little sidebar video Like, a new version of Dora The Explorer, And I'm like “DORAAAAAAAA!!!” —the fuck! I just realized my best friend from 3rd and 7th grade looked just like Dora the explorer. Facts. She became literally the most successful stripper I've ever met. Ahem. Dancer. Right. Dancer. Ahem. Dudes are gross. Doods r gross. Welcome to Doods R Gross; What can I help you find today? Uh, hi. I'm looking for a guy— Uh huh— Possibly one who looks like this: Ah shit, this is how I got playing the Wikipedia game and went on a tirade Facts. Ended up here Unicameralism (from uni- "one" + Latin camera "chamber") is a type of legislatureconsisting of one house or assembly that legislates and votes as one.[1] Unicameralism has become an increasingly common type of legislature, making up nearly 60% of all national legislatures[2] and an even greater share of subnational legislatures. Interesting Started Here: The Fallen Angel (French: L'Ange déchu) is a painting by French artist Alexandre Cabanel. You were saying? Preferably this. Ah huh. Not the face, but— the body— you know. Like this. Okay. Who will let me do everything. Everything as in? Everything. Well, as you know, dudes are gross… Hence the name of this store, good sir. I am in no way good, nor am I a “sir”, and for all intensive purposes, my employment at this store signals my deep indirection in life and may also be an indication of more serious issues. Maintained. Alright, so I'll show you what we got. No promises; The type of model you want is popular, Might be out of stock. Considerable. What's your price range? This credit card has no limit. Credit, or debit? My debit card is also linked to a plethora of infinite wealth. Right this way. Do you think I deserved for him to hit me like that? I don't know. Maybe. I mean—the cheating is a given; I was really really fat..:but do you think like, him getting violent was some kind of karma for something? Maybe. Like maybe I had it coming for whatever reason— and just didn't know it. Maybe. Suddenly I was in the residual memory of a dream. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

KEENAN is the head of the league's research and development team. KEENAN WELL, Ya'll sho' chose the wrong girl to fuck wit! Why do you say that? KEENAN Well, i'mon just let ya'll figure that out on ya own. [KEENEN exits shaking his head solemnly, and begins singing ‘Amazing Grace' , first humming.] Hmmmmm—hmmm—how sweet the sound— Wait! Keenan! Who is this girl?! Who is she?! —hmmm—hmmm—hmmm—hmmmmmmmm LIKE MEEEEEEE! What are we up against Oh. you'll see. I woooonceeee was lost— Wait! SEEYA! [out of nowhere he has pulled out an old style stick bundle and throws it over his shoulder, continuing to hum while chewing on a long stick of straw.] —-hmmmm—-hmmmm. …where is he going!? (Meta) Seems like he's going somewhere with that thing hanging over his back! What are those things even called, anyway? Who knows? I think I know, but it might be racist. [suddenly, offstage/camera a bell begins to ring— One— Two— Three chimes.] That seems odd. Yes, very strange. [Suddenly, all the NBC pages at once upend their nests,] what the— Why are there so many of them. I don't know. Did their skirts get shorter? Hush. So many pages. MEANWHILR, unst 30 Rock. Hold on, pause. These weirdo cops have reverb on their whoop whoops. Facts. Are you sure this is still the 10th dimension. I'm positive. Really! You're sure! Couldn't possibly be lower. Maybe. What about higher. Higher!? Since when. WHAT'S YOUR NAME. Uh-FRANKLIN. Don't lie to me. How would you pronounce this name? I wouldn't. Hm. Excuse me. What. How would you say this? Like, out loud— Uh huh. Pass. Dammit! Hey—uh— RACHEL DRATCH What, dammit; what?! I just sat down with my bagel! I know but— I need your help— interpreting something? What is it? Gibberish? Not really, it's— I'm an expert in Gibberish— I know; but— Classical and neo-modern. Yeah, it's not that. What is it. Alien, I think. Which species. Species. WHICH— ugh— give me that! [she snatches the paper and produces a monocle for further inspection.] Since when did you get a monacle? since when changed insurance companies which supplies said ‘monocologists' and covers such expenses sans-coh-pay. You mean copay? Shut up. Hm. Looks to be Unrealian in orgim but I could be mistaking this dialect. What. Could also possibly be AAHHMEK. Ahmek? Ano, AAAAH— nevermind. Is this an actual apostrophe? Beg your pardon. The apostrophe— is it human derived, or the human pseudo translation replacement for a afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh? Say again. Is it an actual apostrophe, or is the mark mean to insinuate the commonly used extraterrestrial character afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh? …I don't know. WELL, then—I'm afraid I can't help you until you forgive that out— What. Depending on what the mark is, those could be two veerrrrry different things. Would you just, Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to presume the consumption of my RAISINBagel. You know what. -_- -_- -_- …fine. [he snatches the paper and walks away angry—RATCHEL DRATCH begins to shmear her bagel, mumbling] —wants me to translate, but doesn't know the difference between an apostrophe, and a afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh. Please! {Enter The Multiverse} Unlike the girl next door, my lawsuit was legitimate. I strolled passed the usual subjects on my way back to the apartment from my begrudged outings; I had left with the intention of putting my money into a cheap record player, but had after all decided against it—I was saving for a new computer so that I could actually record vocals for my music, which would deplete my budget after living expenses for the month into nothing, and though I knew it would be something like next-to-nothing for the next little while anyway, it wouldn't matter. Now that I knew I was right, I continued compiling the evidence against these motorized terrorists—I didn't actually want to sue, but at this point it seemed it was my only choice— my lowly “status” should not mean that I was allowed to be tortured continually—and, unlike the girl next door, I was not seeking damages for something I had asked for, or brought onto myself; the horrendous sound in the apartment seemed as if it was aimed directly toward me with my synesthesia in mind, and with some amount of pride I refused outright to go the way I was expected to and file a disability claim. I wasn't disabled— I was, however, unable to preform my full work duties as a recording artist without being interrupted by motorcycles, project cars, and otherwise, all of which I suspected were operated by the same group of people— some ugly little brown lackeys who felt entitled in one way or another, and paraded around as if they owned the neighborhood. Benefiting from American business, but anti-American; the opposite of peaceful and respectful—not that America had made its name on the basis of respect, and so it seemed that something, out of balance and off kilter for hundreds of years iknretropect, was bound to change. They were rude, arrogant, and loud—bringing al of the 3rd-world mindset and none of the humility or charm of the actual 3rd world with them; as arrogant as one might think, a gross reflection of the toxic masculine as a whole. They might not have been ugly at all if they were respectful or decent—but they ran about acting like terrorists, revving their engines, and banging, and clashing, and being ugly—employing young boys to stand on the corner and sell their off market drugs after having one of their smoke shops closed down. The more time I spent outside dealing with people at all, the more ill I felt. I craved more time offline and off the grid, and though the general disenchantment of New York would continue pouring through the cheaply made windows, I realized that I would be more well-to-do with a typewriter (so that I could continue to write for long periods of time offline and without my phone) and a record player (to drown out the noise and play along to on my drum machine, and still— there were more things to do, always drowning in bills and often wondering how long I'd have to forfeight health in exchange for the decency of what some might cal luxury, but others foundational. As for myself, these things, simple staples to health and wellness, were beginning to be foundational. {Enter The Multiverse} “As Seen on TV” She doesn't even have a name My pussy is cleaner than a motherfucker This ain't no community like Donald Glover Ya'll niggas actin childish, Gambino— If you wanna turn it on, Then send a c-note (I'm in south side) What she want Peloton What she on peloton What she got peloton What she on Peloton I FOUND KIT! I found KIT. Great, now did you burn that letter? What. Burn it. [does] Oh, that is such a relief. Jesus. Okay. This shit does get weird and deep. —so that's why we're going offline… You wouldn't believe this, I found the kid swinging from a tree. Ridiculous. And if you tie it like this— Ah. Look, it won't slip. So…this is your hobby, huh. One of many. They don't call you the Ace for nothin, do they. (Innocently, with curiosity) “Of Granduer” —Do they? The sound of a chandelier sparkles as the giant lamp swings back and forth, as if an earthquake has just happened. You wouldn't believe this. What. On the television. Okay, so I found this “Kit” guy— Twice. Twice you asked, and twice I told you. Well, I didn't think to look directly at Johnny Carson, exactly. But here— And this: You actually were. Tell me again what your name is. Just sign me an autograph: What. Me? Sure, why not? I want your autograph! Do people still ask for autographs? Often enough. Remarkably, even, at airports, and of course, unexpectedly at— GODDAMMIT, we're back at the rock! GODDAMMIT. Well. Well what! Somebody check what year it is. FUCK. [super long censored beep.] [The Festival Project ™] It was the first time since my childhood I felt like something was too long away—but finally, I was in the final stretch. The Peloton would be delivered sometime in the morning, and now that my internet had shut itself off— I'd refused to pay the bill and opted for getting a new computer so that I could record, rather it— Give me a second, I'm fucking obsessed with these curtains. Bro but second to the curtains is the fucking grass. No, its—tuft. Turf, huh? Interesting… I told you she was some sort of a spy. Whatever. I had long considered turning my living room into a media center, and had thought to reinvent my entire space in fungshuei, but now more than anything I just wanted it to look like that. {Enter The Multiverse} Something is wrong with her . She sits by her door ALL DAY and just fucking talks. And I know she's by her door Because she's RIGHT AT THE DOOR I hear this crystal clear Anytime I go near my door And she's like BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH BITCH GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE DOOR somewhere in a parallel of time Your ancestors Are beating the hell Out of my ancestors And your other ancestors Are stealing my other ancestors land You're on borrowed time And in borrowed space GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE DOOR. Man, Living sandwhiched between two Karen's Is like the equivalent Of having two demon fucking little sisters That hate you And tell on your for everything. Slamming doors and shit just to fuckin Throwing shit around Bitch. You are crazy. And that's the thing about white girls Their crazy is socially acceptable As normal behavior I guess when you just have the best things in life thrown at you forever— When things the rest of us consider luxury and opulence is just “regular” to you, You get a little set in your ways. My neighbor is infuriating. I'm like WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS BY THE DOOR SHES LIKE SNARFSNRFSNARF I'm like goddamn, Somebody send like a Camden or a fuckin “Chase” Over this way. Somebody take this bitch on a date And away from the door. Whole two bedroom apartment This bitch is glued to her door. She a robot. The door is metal. She just enters the apartment and gets glued stuck to the door “I guess I will have to snarf snarf from here. “She's a smart one” I don't believe in smart white girls. There's regular white girls And fucking serial killers. The serial killers are considered “the smart ones” I guess it does take a considerable amount of intelligence to just exist to catch bodies That's what they call the smart ones The ones who level up by just Mowing everyone else down. Gotta give them that. White girls will ruin your whole life Blink two little blue-green eyes twice— And if they're big and round enough The brown eyed white girls can get away with the shit, too— But they're fucking murderers. It's okay. I lived with white people long enough in my life to love them. But in living with and around them— I notice they all say the same thing which indicates to me that racial injustice might not actually be their fault— They might be killing niggas on accident. Just complete accidents White people say shit like “I can't feel” What. “How does it feel—to feel.” WHAT?! “Explain to me the concept of ‘emotions'” Ah hell nah— And these people have all the disposable income? It's not their fault. They just— are like that. They're wired different. They can't feel, And their first instinct is to kill everything different or perceivably deadly. It's not their fault It's intrinsically They have extremely fragile genes Very weak gene pools. Have you ever noticed how white people are always sick? Always?! Weak gene pools. Years of breeding narcisistically. Traits that are reminders of themselves, or people they grew up around. This is not racism, it's just science. “Oh, I love blue eyes because my grandmother has blue eyes” White men commonly marry women who remind them of their mothers and sisters. If that's not fucked up, I don't know what is. Then I realized that incest porn and teeny porn are amongst the highest watched types of porn. Hmm. Gee. I wonder why. Men are gross. But white moms need to start being more like black and Hispanic moms if they want to ensure the continuance of their genetics into evolution. You need to give your kids some mommy issues. That way, when they grow up, they feel the need to add variation to the gene pool in order to strengthen it, and move towards evolution. It's true. I lived with maybe the whitest man I ever knew for almost 6 months; I don't think he was specifically intentionally trying to kill me— But everything he did— And I mean everything, up to a certain point was like …I don't know, man. It really seems like this dude is trying to like exterminate me in some sort of way. It was bad. The energy was weird. He was like dirty, Fucking lazy, He was a lot. I was like, “Damn what the fuck it's like the longer I stay around the worse it is” But the weirdest part, was that he didn't seem to be aware that he was doing it Either that or he was a really good actor… “What do you mean?” Had me confused. But that's the thing about the whites. They do the whole thing with mind games They fuck with your mind. It's the most powerful weapon, actually— Because if you continually attack a person's mind, The rest crumbles around them without you even touching them. I'm sure this is what my neighbor is trying to do. It's a mind thing I get near the door, she just hurries up and opens her door, opens the door real wide, big apartment, everything's white, big ass fucking place But she's always by the door; Mind games. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. I wasn't really interesting in meeting someone seriously— in fact. As it turned out, I still had a little more muse to milk out of the last one, but even the tarot was being a stickler— I could risk ending it all and putting a nail in the coffin by actually watching The Tonight Show—but there would be a possibility it all would backfire and it would just reignite that spark, or worse—I'd become fully engulfed in flames by whatever it was that seemed to appear—and it seemed to appear so vividly and with rapid strength that it couldn't be stopped or controlled. A serious amount of money had to have been implemented to my paying attention to this, and beyond that— it all had to have been carefully premeditated. While at least now at the bookshop I was drawn to books from Oprah's book club, what had occurred couldn't possibly be ignored—actually, it couldn't be, at all— but instead of eating at me in its usual way, I had more just began to realize that there must have been in play some purpose. Feeling faraway from my actual creative self, there seemed to be something missing at all generating even a general sense of understanding of what normalcy was— when had actually been the last time I had been touched at all in a way that might make me feel as if I was still human— as if I was normal— but I knew I wasn't. It's time for a change. The thought of being with someone, especially just anyone, was bizzare. I gave up on love a lot of times; But this is when it became official. I was listening to a rap album I had never heard before And in this rap song, he said “This hoe got a 7 year degree and still selling pussy” What in the fuck. One way one way ticket Why bother getting a 7 year degree If your value as a black woman Is so low You can get a 7 year degree And still have to be a prostitute? What the fuck is the point. It goes the other way, too. What is the point of selling pussy without a 7 year degree!? She's gonna make more than me in ALL the professions. I gave up on love at all. That right there is how low value we are, not just to the black man, but any man. 7 year degree and you can charge more an hour, but you're still a technical hoe. I want to fucking die. When I married my ex I was pregnant with twins; When i got pregnant with the twins I was about 350 pounds. So by the time we got married, I was 6 months pregnant with twins. He had a right to cheat! I forgave him. But the first time he hit me Like really hit me Not just like A heavy shoving or ike A lil— You know Choke out– Like the real deal Like knocked me the fuck Almost all the way out Saw the white light and everything By the time that all went down I'm like 170-180 He's still, mind you, like 300 I lost weight He lost his mind; so i'm— — lets round up— Like 180 pounds But in my mind i must be thinking somewhere i'm still 300 He came at me with a running start, I put my hands up like: I must have thought i actually had a chance I took a fighting stance like: He said Fphew! PULL A RABBIT OUT A HAT damn . what year is this really? You just got sampled . Say, what's his job? Well, that's an informer. Chris Rock forsure some kind of genius I saw him do GIlbert Godfried And Sam Kinison In the same show. The show was dated, though; He literally said, “I'm married: I don't cheat.” I knew it must have been a joke. I knew it had to be a joke, or it had to be dated, Cause being real, I listen to too much kanye To even believe that Or even laugh at that: Not “too much” kanye— 'Just enough' Kanye, He said, “If I pull up with Kerri washington, That's gon' be an enormous scandal” I might have Niomi Campbell, Still might want me a stormy daniels And ya'll tried to get trumps supporters to turn against him By exposing that he fucked this bitch? That's like an achivement. That's like a status symbol. I'm sure these idiots praise him for that. He might have even gotten more popular! That's not a scandal That's PR. On that note, I think Chris Rock was the very guy Who made me decide to stay single forever: He talked about the way, apparently, men want to kill their wives; The way they fantasise killing us When we're in the relationship: Now, ill say— I never once thought about killing my ex husband During the relationship Even after he hit me. Never once. The only time i started wishing a karmic death upon this person was when I left the relationship And he stopped fantasizing about it And actually tried to fucking kill me. Once I realized this was happening Only then did I start to think “Oh damn, i hope that motherfucker just drops the fuck dead.” This motherfucker beat me, AND tried to kill me, Only then was i like, damn “Return to sender” I hope you die too, You fat piece of shit wifebeater motherfucker I hope you die too. Only after he tried to kill me. After I left. Had to hire a fucking voodoo fucking sorceress and shit “yo , take this curse off me, This motherfucker tried to kill me” Fuck that motherfucker. Apparently though they fantasisze it all the time, I'm thinking about all the times he would play this song iroinically enough, By kanye west So maybe too much Kanye West Or just enough, Kanye said “I thought about killing you today.” He used to play this song, And beat my ass, And I never once thought “I hope he dies” Shit, After the first time he really beat my ass, He ran away. He got scared; He had to run. My face was all hanging off my head and shit Blood all over the place My lip is disconnected from my whole jaw and shit He ran away; He darted out the front door He said “I'm gonna kill myself!” And he rain away– Even then even just after he beat my ass I never thought about killing him Or wanting him to die He just fresh beat my ass; He just straight up finished whooping my whole ass and he said “I'm gonna kill myself” He realized what he did “I'm gonna kill myself”, he said And he ran out the door And here I am With my lip hanging off my whole face Blood all on the walls Pool of blood on the floor, the whole thing babies crying; The whole The whole fucking HBO special The whole nine yards And he said “I'm gonna kill myself” And my dumb ass said “NO! Don't!” He ran out the door, I'm freaking out Blood everywhere Babies crying and shit “Come back! Think about the kids! Don't kill yourself” Like a dumbass. Turns out that was just a tactic, He broke me down good, I was like “Don't kill yourself” He said “...you gonna call the cops.” He said “...alright, I won't kill myself.” Boom. That's a real killer. Looking back on all this, I can't help but think to myself, What i would have done differently Not the whole “I should have left before any of that happened” I was the mother of two young children; I wanted to try after the cheating to make things work, Fast forward after that Turns out he was fantasizing about killing me the whole time He beat mya ass, ran away, Left me in a pool of blood with my two kids He said I'm gonna kill myself Looking back at that momet, The thing I wish I could change is this If i had to do it over again And he beat me like that In front of my kids And then said “I'm gonna kill myself” I would have said “do that shit.” Lock the door behind his ass, Change the lock, Pick my face up off the floor, call an ambulance And the polce, change names Pick up my life And leave forever. “Nigga–who?” “Momma who was our daddy? What was he like?” “Ya'll ain't got a daddy. I made ya'll myself” End of story. Whatever. Everything happens for a reason though. I learned my lesson. Now i don't argue with anyone at all Men, women–nobody If i even sense that same shit That psycho killer shit– I become as silent and invisible as possible And simply Disappear. “Disappear.” I had a migraine and I knew it was from pressure buildup and stress, so I thought to get rid of it I ought to make one of those hot-compresses with rice. But the only rice I had was jambalaya flavored— But the headache was obviously really bad, So I was like, “fuck it.” Poured it into a gym sock And popped it in the microwave, Put it on my neck— My neck smelled like a pot roast, But it worked. {Enter The Multiverse} There was something in my lungs, forcing me to breathe deeply, with a raspy wheezing wind out of my lungs, and with a steady cough, I was able to offload whatever it was waiting in my chest to be released, along with it, at least part of the pressure that was making even just sitting and reading nearly unbearable, collecting into a harsh migraine paralyzing each and every other breath with a sharp pain underneath the back of what seemed to be somewhere below my ear canal and somehow, a pressure somewhere behind my eye, probably a result of the excruciating process of shoving earplugs into my ears in order to drown out the outside noise, which paired with that of my seemingly devoid neighbors, often became wildly unsettling, and while lately the clamoring had created not only an uneasy tremor in my left hand, but also apparently a sudden onset of occasional vruxism, the anxiety overall seemed to be surmounting into what could only be described as something trying to kill me, for which I could no longer ignore not as delusions or paranoia, but absolute fact. As I had learned, modern psychology might have been the equivalent of what one could even be certain to be the devil itself, unable to distinguish patterns often associated with creative genius, self manifestation, and psychic abilities and intuition, as delusions of grandeur, paranoid thinking, or worse— diagnoses as psychotic. However, my grandiosity was neither imagined nor delusional—my podcast series alone had been read and listened to all over the world, translated into foreign languages and transcribed, and had been downloaded hundreds of thousands of times since its publishing; though not a technically recognizable figure, I had realized that I had in my own right become somewhat famous, if even off of the back or even under the umbrella of another famous individual, to whom the series itself had been entrusted. Receiving though not by mainstream media standards upwards of at least 10 downloads per episode, the series had no actual gauge or marker for its actual success and polularity—without being able to see information from a major streaming platform—Spotify, and without being able to measure the amount of downloads which had then been duplicated and shared otherwise, I started to recognize with a certain understanding what a cult following was, and the minimal phenomenon that even at this level, fame started to become apparent. It had also become apparent that science itself had yet to truly understand the phenomenon of creative energy as a whole, and that many with these capabilities and gifts were considered to have a plethora of mental health disorders and medicated with what one would consider targeted attacks on the psyche, the illusion of mental illness often standing as the actual delusion in itself! Creating, and then medicating these intrinsic abilities ass illnesses whereby the “neurotypical” individual might only be considered as such due to ability to adapt, confirm, or follow diections in a systematic manner, and furthermore, that the misdiagnoses of such misunderstoodconditions often even relied on bias, poor judgement, racism, social class, and economics had certainly deconstructed any faith or belief formerly held in the modern state of psychology, and most of the articles or public medical journals read more like science fiction and fantasy rather than cold hard facts; indicating a moral and ethical flaw within the entirety of the human species—man's own inability to understand God, and therefore himself, in any creative process. Diety and creativity combined were simply a mystery, and had plagued entire generations of the human spieces as a whole. Blū runs at top speed through the streets of Brooklyn New York on a cold and windy October night. V.O. The ironic thing is, I'm running to go get ice cream. I hate my life, I hate this place, I hate my life— I fucking hate this shit. I'm trying really hard not to kill myself. Like really, really hard. Sudden onset bruxism and hand tremors and I can't help but wonder if it has anything to do with the constant mottoeycle traffic or sleeping in a sea of vehicles which at any given moment could sound off, start up or honk the horn alarm over the last 9 months. I'm fucking exhausted all the time and everything around me just fucking draining. Just fucking draining. https://www.tracklib.com/pricing Yo, you know how I know I'm aging? I hated Dora The Explora when I was a kid— You know why? “That's for babies!” I was too old for Dora the explorer. Mi was a tv snob. I'm like “I hate Dora!” No teletubbies for me. No sir. I'm distinguished now. But get this, As I get older, different renditions of Dora Have grown on me To the point where I actually like the bitch I got older, And there was this girl, Who would show up at raves Dressed like Dora And shuffle, And dance around— Looking like Dora The Explorer Kind of creepy, now that I think about it As an actual adult, Like this, Fully grown woman, Dressed as a fucking 5 year old Dancing around at raves Being Dora. Weird. But I liked it. I loved it. She was a hit; Everybody was like “RAVE DORA! RAVE DORA!” She blew up on Instagram, She had a following— It was like Where will she be next?! RAVE DORA! Had the backpack and everything— Everything! Rave Dora! But now I know I'm getting old, Because I'm fuckin around online, And I see in the advertising little sidebar video Like, a new version of Dora The Explorer, And I'm like “DORAAAAAAAA!!!” —the fuck! I just realized my best friend from 3rd and 7th grade looked just like Dora the explorer. Facts. She became literally the most successful stripper I've ever met. Ahem. Dancer. Right. Dancer. Ahem. Dudes are gross. Doods r gross. Welcome to Doods R Gross; What can I help you find today? Uh, hi. I'm looking for a guy— Uh huh— Possibly one who looks like this: Ah shit, this is how I got playing the Wikipedia game and went on a tirade Facts. Ended up here Unicameralism (from uni- "one" + Latin camera "chamber") is a type of legislatureconsisting of one house or assembly that legislates and votes as one.[1] Unicameralism has become an increasingly common type of legislature, making up nearly 60% of all national legislatures[2] and an even greater share of subnational legislatures. Interesting Started Here: The Fallen Angel (French: L'Ange déchu) is a painting by French artist Alexandre Cabanel. You were saying? Preferably this. Ah huh. Not the face, but— the body— you know. Like this. Okay. Who will let me do everything. Everything as in? Everything. Well, as you know, dudes are gross… Hence the name of this store, good sir. I am in no way good, nor am I a “sir”, and for all intensive purposes, my employment at this store signals my deep indirection in life and may also be an indication of more serious issues. Maintained. Alright, so I'll show you what we got. No promises; The type of model you want is popular, Might be out of stock. Considerable. What's your price range? This credit card has no limit. Credit, or debit? My debit card is also linked to a plethora of infinite wealth. Right this way. Do you think I deserved for him to hit me like that? I don't know. Maybe. I mean—the cheating is a given; I was really really fat..:but do you think like, him getting violent was some kind of karma for something? Maybe. Like maybe I had it coming for whatever reason— and just didn't know it. Maybe. Suddenly I was in the residual memory of a dream. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

The book was fictional, but a perfect reflection of the treatment I had received since arriving to New York City; nothing was free, and it was almost as if the incessant hazing, entrapment, harassment, and terrorism had been at the cost of my own clarity— no longer could I trust another human being, ever. if these fictional ballerinas could do such horrible things to one another, what could their equally as devious adult counterparts do in order to disarm a potential threat—and if this was the simple and evil way women dealt with one another on a competitive level, how much potentially deadlier could make adults be in targeting potential peers, especially of opposite genders, and particularly—of thr opposite race. I wished race had no impact on anything, but in the United States, as the underlying cause of all conflict, it actually seemed to be at the root of everything. Next was money, and it would be ignorant to say that the two hadn't become so drastically intermingled with each other, the least of it belonging to colored people, and the most of it belonging to the dominant source of global power, the whites. Still, the way that people seemed to move was almost a color coded system in itself, and it seemed as though the pawns most often moved around the map in certain ways were almost always one thing or another, and now, understanding the way that politics were more likely than not conducted in this same way— I had collected, by studying the personal-professional lives of fictional adolecent ballerinas, I kept my head down, and my nose out of it—with no intention at anything besides getting out of New York alive, and put together—knowing that the possibility of my making any real money at all might have been some sort of threat itself, to any opposing party. The whites, as it seemed, would only ever be comfortable in a world where they had more, and better—at all times, and always. Nothing any colored person could ever come close to what they had maintained as their own world; everything was a system kept intricately in place—movement outside of this grid of power was not only forbidden, but nearly impossible. Especially on the grid and especially above ground, which almost everything was. Death of A Superstar DJ. [Hanz brings Gretl into his lair, where he co ducts his experimentation in creating “Ze Deepest Bass” Zis makes ze vierd sounds, yes. Yas, Very vweaird. [He presses a button which activates the system to begin playing the severely awkward sound of a Dillon Francis bass drop; embarrassed, he immediately switches the power completely ‘off'.] Zis is stupid. I'm sorry. Vwat vwere you sthinking? I wvasn't. An entire laboratory of sythezizers, and you've wasted it on this abominable— {Enter The Multiverse} The terror tactics began to become next level; though certain sounds were inaduible by my phone recording, they could still be heard and sensed by vibration within my body; an engine had started and had yet to stop, positioned behind me—and though I knew already that the terrorists were more than likely Americans, the tasks themselves were carried out typically by the black and brown underlings, almost with the intention to hide the fact that these commands were coming from a higher source of power; the illusion however could not be made that these kinds of terror campaigns were of course only carried out by the military itself, or another organization; that the men driving the cars and sent about on motorcycles were following orders and being paid by the military themselves. It was psychological terrorism, but because of its being carried out in New York City, it was almost the easiest thing to hide, masquerading the terrorism as the normal sounds of an only partially gentrified busy intersection—but I knew better. I knew that my phone and documents had been compromised long ago, along with my emails and messages— and I knew that, depending on what I was doing, where I was placed in my apartment, or even what I was writing, the incessant engine reving, the motorcycles racing up and down the block or otherwise just in circles, the cars honking and other sounds made with the direct intention of intercepting my personal frequency—was tactical warfare. Once the recording of these events became frequent enough, the sounds had moved only just further away as to be still audible and to disturb my peace, but just out of the range that my iPhone could continue to gather evidence to take to court against the owners of the garages, the city, or even the property management, for having not maintained the peace in the area surrounding their buildings. Still, it was of no coincidence quite obviously that I had been placed here purposely, and that the carlot, the motorcycle garages, the car garages and their respective car clubs, and the auto repair shops all adjacent and within dysfunctional earshot had been created after the year in the homeless shelter where it had been gathered, my sensitivity to sound and synesthesia could be used as weapons in order to dismantle and disable me. The moral reprocussions of these ugly little men on bikes or the even uglier ones in cars were none more then the soldiers that were just as often placed on the front lines of any war— a tactical betrayal of peace and freedom, I could only gather that this operation perhaps intended to pursuade that I should abandon my creativity and instead pursue with passion the humanitarian interests I was capable of, or maybe even political, however—because these things were being carried out in such an in humanitarian way, I became less interested in anything having to do with it, and it only made them more stupid and dirty, lowly and evil like the snakes they were, now that I had rearranged my furniture to always have my backs facing them. Now, not only were they below me, but behind me; once and for all positioned in such a way of knowing that everything they did on the outside of this apartment was underhanded, cold and treacherous, and against the forces of God and of nature. My right to peace and privacy has been violated, and now, worse, my body had been attacked. They were no better, no smarter, and no more powerful than the weakest men on earth—men who could do nothing themselves, but be made to do by others, subsisting entirely by consumption— the product of the light and enchantment had had been wasted with the minimal effort of having created such as these, otherwise useless creatures. The less I chose to interact with people on this level, the less opportunity it gave them to attempt to penetrate my mind or dismantle it am any way, psychological or otherwise. I had become seemingly erratix and unpredictable, moving about at times and in directions that couldn't necessarily be pinpointed— but the more time I spent away from these hostiles, the less erratic I actually was, able to think with clarity and move with stealth, only appearing at the surface for air every once and awhile, and realizing how remarkably desperate the groups that had been stalking and harassing me for to get my attention. It must have been military, and being stalked particularly by men not just simply smoking cigarettes, but intentionally going out of their way to smoke them and blow the smoke into my face— people almost needing to catch up with me or end up in my line of sight and however, it had become easy to avoid them, finally having realized that at this point, most of the time— even I didn't know where I was going. My dismissiveness made me harder to track, and my indecision had suddenly become an asset. I was always ahead of the people who were sent after me in one way or another, and besides the plants in my own building, making themselves obvious as gangstalkers by their particular way of dress and behavior— it was impossible for anyone to understand my way of thinking anymore, because it wasn't in a straight line, nor was it on any grid of systematic standard. I was almost always offline, and off grid, which meant that the people who were online and on grid were of greater number, and more predictable — instead of being moved around, I was the one moving things. I knew that anybody with a cellphone—almost everybody— had to have been connected to something—something that I wasn't connected to, especially moving about, and so the movement and frequency of these beings differed so greatly from my own it was as if playing a two player game in which the other player is simply a computer. The algorithmic nature of things just as often caused me to think about Joel Zimmerman as it did anything in life, and it was just as likely that the more time I spent thinking of anyone or anything fondly enough, then would appear in public anyone that looked just enough like them to momentarily trick my brain out of reason, and typically even more a tiny blonde girl just beside them to remind me of the pecking order of the evil world. The lightheartedness of being ideal in any must be so attractive to the male psyche that its dominance over the structure of the human species will forever stay unmoving. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. MOOOOOOOAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! NOW THAT I HAVE THE PELOTON BIKE AND THIS JUICER, THE ENTIRE WORLD WILL BE MINE! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!! You are psychotic. You think I'm psychotic now—just you WAIT. (I also have a pink treadmill) AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—MOOAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!! Dang girl, chill. I WILL NOT CHILL. YOU CHILL. I'm going to be so devastatingly effing RIIIIIIPED! Srsly. Some.. uh.. Houseplants… Like, a shag rug, Some blackout curtains— Minimal effort here. Uhhhhh. What are you doing? I'm fung shueing. L E G E N D S Last night I slept totally in the nude; Of course, leave it to good old fashioned good timing-/— The return of the hellicoopyer, and whatever's at stake with it No time to breathe, I'm having a spiritual experience on the cycle bike No time to lose— That's right. About face Walk away It's central intelligence Too much sweat in my palms To use my palm pillow? Hi god I love you God knows my timing, Lord know me well Don't tell me it's a writing assignment Really, yo I'm just here to spectate LETS GO! LETS GO!!! If you're not early, you're LATE! Okay, okay. Make my bed, wash the dishes. 2X202-ST5, Aphex Twin Either way, it's a pit of snakes Either way it's a den of wolves Either way it's a rat race, on my way somewhere else, I don't know how to go under the radar. You look ridiculous. Good. Are you sure this is the right place and time. I'm pretty sure that's my eye, up there. CBS Television Studios( New York City. Jesus, oh, Jesus Christ— Just for the ride; I asked nicely— …are the police here. No. Okay. Thx. Terminate, terminate— Hesitate a little. Turn your head around, a mate A million, a mile a minute Temper, temper Remember your severance Remember you made it Remember the parade and what day it's on Who makes up holidays anyway? Banks. Cool it, on your woodwind, would you Smells like barbeque, And I called it Forget to light a candle Summer winds, summer winds With your blood on the ceiling Remember who it is when you get there Hit me one more time Like the nightmare— Way up high I guess; Way less impressive, your crucifix I don't trust nobody with two first names, son So let's try the one With a traditionally masculine. So let's, So let's. Let's try the brown eyes on next, shall we. I like these. Same as. Wonderful, really. What's next. Hands, I think. Eyes, and then hands Ryes, and then hands, Eyes, and then hands Would you get the fuck off of me? I'm. Going to pay my tithes early Get the fuck away from me, you absolutely inferior rodent. At least I'm cognoscenti. I'll actually fucking kill you, And if you come back, I'll kill you again. Damn, I almost wish I was a lesbian. Nothing? Nothing yet. GODDAMIT. What. What do you actually want from me? I told you don't be late. What the fuck are you wearing!? Progress. Ough! —and jewel tones. The fact that I'm not wearing makeup, Could easily be hidden, With larger frames, And a little less giving a fuck About fashion instinct, And intensity The ce el.followed me all the way to the L train; Don't bother me none; She needs somebody, And all I need is a one hour slot, On Comedy Central. Somebody get this robot out of my peripheral. Somebody get the paramedic stat! What happened!? He thought it was payday and it's actually next week! 911– what's your emergency! Quit playing with me. Always look at the way it matters less When you lay attention to the face, and the stance— And it matters why she's mad at me, when after all these years, after all The veil has been lifted, but the mask hasn't And I just happened to make way to the goddamned Goddammit The mansion. So they said they'd give you a million dollars, just to— Yeah. What'd you— No. You didn't. No. You thought I would? Are you ready for wisdom and witches And wishes galore? Not yet. I asked for a prayer and “You're pitiful” —proud as pitaya, But I prefer Açaí, And after all Either one or the other is better than pina colada But of course, I'll take it If the other refreshments Are unavailable What the fuck is that in reference to? Nothing, probably Let's just be honest, I'm not getting In anywhere dressed like this in LA; Which is why I did it— And brought an extra set of clothes just in case Click my heels, two times Who farted. It's the subway; Pick any three people, and you'd probably be right This is hilarious. I ride the subway to Manhattan around lunch time, and it was mostly just— White people on vacation. lol lol Here's the trumpeter counting his money; Here's hoping he plays something Conveniently losing my cash . Means he's missing a dollar The way to the market makes subway trains unbearable, Which could only mean one thing l— Getawayfromme. Sing it! I'm intolerably horny most the time, And that counts anytime between now and forever So the Jptown a it is. As the train rolled slowly into Columbus circle, I started to get that feeling again— the same feeling I had the other night on the way to the comedy club, as if I was about to go on stage. I wasn't, and this, if anything was more of a consumer experience mainly meant for my entertainment, but still, I had butterflies— and there was no reason for them besides not having had any water— I wanted to make sure I had no need to run off to the restroom, either on the way, or during the taping , and— If anything. SOME BACKGROUND MUSIC!! Congratulations, you actually made it somewhere— Anywhere in New York City, On time. ..:I was on time to my stand up show. Exactly. MWAHAHAHHA!!!!! At least you laugh like a real villain, bro. I don't know what what's in reference to— Me neither. Now where was I…? Thank you. Everywhere in New York City is exactly one hour away. Even in midtown— Even in midtown. I told you they're all the devil. That's kind of incredible. Or god Liz Or, it's one in the same l. I might not ever make it on television— Even the assistant is gorgeous, (And majors in engineering) Somebody tell me why it's 100 degrees in fucking October! Global warming! I told you already l! What about the ice caps?! I TOLD YOU THEY MELTED!!!! Then again, Really kid— five o clock shadow at 1:48 in the afternoon. This is Telivision. It's a little ridiculous— Whose kid is this? If nobody claims him, I'll take that instead of lunch. How were you planning on lunch with it your wallet? I wasn't— But suddenly i'm hungry… Shut up! I used to get paid for this. I still do; watch this. I just realized, that I'm not having a good time I am method, so just— try to remember that. Where did the husbands come from? I was just in a room full of women— Now where am I? Remember the portals, and remember the Tenements, tenements— Tenements, tenements!? Old New York. What the fuck ever. Omg is the lady behind me possibly pregnant— And if she is she's keeping it— But she doesn't see herself being with the guy— “He's kind of affermenante” What? “He doesn't have that like, Charisma” I told you I still can get paid for this. Appearances, appearances, Charisma, Charisma So— its voice activated— And then once so many cell phones like, Detect my voice, a small signal is sent to that phone To make them start coughing. We can only assume that what is happening? Almost no one was coughing Until the banter in the bathroom I love this demographic of demigogs And badic bitches And tenements And tenements In intimate settings— OLD NEW YORK. How old Well, there are the tenements. We never really grow up, so we? We never really show out— Goes to show for sure I am indeed a God; For as soon as I walk in— They all start coughing. Where did the husbands come from?! This was, I promise you, an entire room full of women. THERE HE IS. GET HIM. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY KITCHEN! But—I didn't do anything! GO! Multiple steps in the directions of the Gods; Nothing to lose, but getting lost In the buildings and the tabletops The shadows of the others; Supposedly blocked into our time Blacklisted in hesitation that I could One day Very nearly and dearly Wish for something other than the best for Everyone involved, However I say no, For one million dollars only is a very small sum In accordance to the torture and disorder in the chaos I've come on here And here it is ; Again, Something to live for Something to love by Something it get into go for it, There was nothing other than the storm to come And yet A pool of course, You wanted full force for under The wind blows south And gone so deep under the water, There's no terror system! Here it is! All are actors, The world is a stage and yet, You fear it There's no conforming, Just admittance I came to get the app with the DJ's jumping off boats That's it. That's it. That's what I came for. Move still! Be you mad! I am mad, and envious of thee here, knowing not what I know and— Doing nothing in the midsts of my heartache, None glory being this, knoelege and yet Without wisdom The feeling of teeth sinking in, Hind legs ready to run, Water under no northern skies, But droughted— And mine, the thought of l weary skin The keeping of Times Times Times Tenements Times, Times, times- a Tenements Times, times times Percius, be you still? Still I wait. No honor. No judgement, mine is. There was no gain; There was no wise knowledge There was no wise for wisdom The times here The times here And even when you want to stop recording Turn your phones off— Even when you want to stop You keep rolling until the very last The very last The very last minute. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

The book was fictional, but a perfect reflection of the treatment I had received since arriving to New York City; nothing was free, and it was almost as if the incessant hazing, entrapment, harassment, and terrorism had been at the cost of my own clarity— no longer could I trust another human being, ever. if these fictional ballerinas could do such horrible things to one another, what could their equally as devious adult counterparts do in order to disarm a potential threat—and if this was the simple and evil way women dealt with one another on a competitive level, how much potentially deadlier could make adults be in targeting potential peers, especially of opposite genders, and particularly—of thr opposite race. I wished race had no impact on anything, but in the United States, as the underlying cause of all conflict, it actually seemed to be at the root of everything. Next was money, and it would be ignorant to say that the two hadn't become so drastically intermingled with each other, the least of it belonging to colored people, and the most of it belonging to the dominant source of global power, the whites. Still, the way that people seemed to move was almost a color coded system in itself, and it seemed as though the pawns most often moved around the map in certain ways were almost always one thing or another, and now, understanding the way that politics were more likely than not conducted in this same way— I had collected, by studying the personal-professional lives of fictional adolecent ballerinas, I kept my head down, and my nose out of it—with no intention at anything besides getting out of New York alive, and put together—knowing that the possibility of my making any real money at all might have been some sort of threat itself, to any opposing party. The whites, as it seemed, would only ever be comfortable in a world where they had more, and better—at all times, and always. Nothing any colored person could ever come close to what they had maintained as their own world; everything was a system kept intricately in place—movement outside of this grid of power was not only forbidden, but nearly impossible. Especially on the grid and especially above ground, which almost everything was. Death of A Superstar DJ. [Hanz brings Gretl into his lair, where he co ducts his experimentation in creating “Ze Deepest Bass” Zis makes ze vierd sounds, yes. Yas, Very vweaird. [He presses a button which activates the system to begin playing the severely awkward sound of a Dillon Francis bass drop; embarrassed, he immediately switches the power completely ‘off'.] Zis is stupid. I'm sorry. Vwat vwere you sthinking? I wvasn't. An entire laboratory of sythezizers, and you've wasted it on this abominable— {Enter The Multiverse} The terror tactics began to become next level; though certain sounds were inaduible by my phone recording, they could still be heard and sensed by vibration within my body; an engine had started and had yet to stop, positioned behind me—and though I knew already that the terrorists were more than likely Americans, the tasks themselves were carried out typically by the black and brown underlings, almost with the intention to hide the fact that these commands were coming from a higher source of power; the illusion however could not be made that these kinds of terror campaigns were of course only carried out by the military itself, or another organization; that the men driving the cars and sent about on motorcycles were following orders and being paid by the military themselves. It was psychological terrorism, but because of its being carried out in New York City, it was almost the easiest thing to hide, masquerading the terrorism as the normal sounds of an only partially gentrified busy intersection—but I knew better. I knew that my phone and documents had been compromised long ago, along with my emails and messages— and I knew that, depending on what I was doing, where I was placed in my apartment, or even what I was writing, the incessant engine reving, the motorcycles racing up and down the block or otherwise just in circles, the cars honking and other sounds made with the direct intention of intercepting my personal frequency—was tactical warfare. Once the recording of these events became frequent enough, the sounds had moved only just further away as to be still audible and to disturb my peace, but just out of the range that my iPhone could continue to gather evidence to take to court against the owners of the garages, the city, or even the property management, for having not maintained the peace in the area surrounding their buildings. Still, it was of no coincidence quite obviously that I had been placed here purposely, and that the carlot, the motorcycle garages, the car garages and their respective car clubs, and the auto repair shops all adjacent and within dysfunctional earshot had been created after the year in the homeless shelter where it had been gathered, my sensitivity to sound and synesthesia could be used as weapons in order to dismantle and disable me. The moral reprocussions of these ugly little men on bikes or the even uglier ones in cars were none more then the soldiers that were just as often placed on the front lines of any war— a tactical betrayal of peace and freedom, I could only gather that this operation perhaps intended to pursuade that I should abandon my creativity and instead pursue with passion the humanitarian interests I was capable of, or maybe even political, however—because these things were being carried out in such an in humanitarian way, I became less interested in anything having to do with it, and it only made them more stupid and dirty, lowly and evil like the snakes they were, now that I had rearranged my furniture to always have my backs facing them. Now, not only were they below me, but behind me; once and for all positioned in such a way of knowing that everything they did on the outside of this apartment was underhanded, cold and treacherous, and against the forces of God and of nature. My right to peace and privacy has been violated, and now, worse, my body had been attacked. They were no better, no smarter, and no more powerful than the weakest men on earth—men who could do nothing themselves, but be made to do by others, subsisting entirely by consumption— the product of the light and enchantment had had been wasted with the minimal effort of having created such as these, otherwise useless creatures. The less I chose to interact with people on this level, the less opportunity it gave them to attempt to penetrate my mind or dismantle it am any way, psychological or otherwise. I had become seemingly erratix and unpredictable, moving about at times and in directions that couldn't necessarily be pinpointed— but the more time I spent away from these hostiles, the less erratic I actually was, able to think with clarity and move with stealth, only appearing at the surface for air every once and awhile, and realizing how remarkably desperate the groups that had been stalking and harassing me for to get my attention. It must have been military, and being stalked particularly by men not just simply smoking cigarettes, but intentionally going out of their way to smoke them and blow the smoke into my face— people almost needing to catch up with me or end up in my line of sight and however, it had become easy to avoid them, finally having realized that at this point, most of the time— even I didn't know where I was going. My dismissiveness made me harder to track, and my indecision had suddenly become an asset. I was always ahead of the people who were sent after me in one way or another, and besides the plants in my own building, making themselves obvious as gangstalkers by their particular way of dress and behavior— it was impossible for anyone to understand my way of thinking anymore, because it wasn't in a straight line, nor was it on any grid of systematic standard. I was almost always offline, and off grid, which meant that the people who were online and on grid were of greater number, and more predictable — instead of being moved around, I was the one moving things. I knew that anybody with a cellphone—almost everybody— had to have been connected to something—something that I wasn't connected to, especially moving about, and so the movement and frequency of these beings differed so greatly from my own it was as if playing a two player game in which the other player is simply a computer. The algorithmic nature of things just as often caused me to think about Joel Zimmerman as it did anything in life, and it was just as likely that the more time I spent thinking of anyone or anything fondly enough, then would appear in public anyone that looked just enough like them to momentarily trick my brain out of reason, and typically even more a tiny blonde girl just beside them to remind me of the pecking order of the evil world. The lightheartedness of being ideal in any must be so attractive to the male psyche that its dominance over the structure of the human species will forever stay unmoving. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. MOOOOOOOAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! NOW THAT I HAVE THE PELOTON BIKE AND THIS JUICER, THE ENTIRE WORLD WILL BE MINE! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!! You are psychotic. You think I'm psychotic now—just you WAIT. (I also have a pink treadmill) AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—MOOAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!! Dang girl, chill. I WILL NOT CHILL. YOU CHILL. I'm going to be so devastatingly effing RIIIIIIPED! Srsly. Some.. uh.. Houseplants… Like, a shag rug, Some blackout curtains— Minimal effort here. Uhhhhh. What are you doing? I'm fung shueing. L E G E N D S Last night I slept totally in the nude; Of course, leave it to good old fashioned good timing-/— The return of the hellicoopyer, and whatever's at stake with it No time to breathe, I'm having a spiritual experience on the cycle bike No time to lose— That's right. About face Walk away It's central intelligence Too much sweat in my palms To use my palm pillow? Hi god I love you God knows my timing, Lord know me well Don't tell me it's a writing assignment Really, yo I'm just here to spectate LETS GO! LETS GO!!! If you're not early, you're LATE! Okay, okay. Make my bed, wash the dishes. 2X202-ST5, Aphex Twin Either way, it's a pit of snakes Either way it's a den of wolves Either way it's a rat race, on my way somewhere else, I don't know how to go under the radar. You look ridiculous. Good. Are you sure this is the right place and time. I'm pretty sure that's my eye, up there. CBS Television Studios( New York City. Jesus, oh, Jesus Christ— Just for the ride; I asked nicely— …are the police here. No. Okay. Thx. Terminate, terminate— Hesitate a little. Turn your head around, a mate A million, a mile a minute Temper, temper Remember your severance Remember you made it Remember the parade and what day it's on Who makes up holidays anyway? Banks. Cool it, on your woodwind, would you Smells like barbeque, And I called it Forget to light a candle Summer winds, summer winds With your blood on the ceiling Remember who it is when you get there Hit me one more time Like the nightmare— Way up high I guess; Way less impressive, your crucifix I don't trust nobody with two first names, son So let's try the one With a traditionally masculine. So let's, So let's. Let's try the brown eyes on next, shall we. I like these. Same as. Wonderful, really. What's next. Hands, I think. Eyes, and then hands Ryes, and then hands, Eyes, and then hands Would you get the fuck off of me? I'm. Going to pay my tithes early Get the fuck away from me, you absolutely inferior rodent. At least I'm cognoscenti. I'll actually fucking kill you, And if you come back, I'll kill you again. Damn, I almost wish I was a lesbian. Nothing? Nothing yet. GODDAMIT. What. What do you actually want from me? I told you don't be late. What the fuck are you wearing!? Progress. Ough! —and jewel tones. The fact that I'm not wearing makeup, Could easily be hidden, With larger frames, And a little less giving a fuck About fashion instinct, And intensity The ce el.followed me all the way to the L train; Don't bother me none; She needs somebody, And all I need is a one hour slot, On Comedy Central. Somebody get this robot out of my peripheral. Somebody get the paramedic stat! What happened!? He thought it was payday and it's actually next week! 911– what's your emergency! Quit playing with me. Always look at the way it matters less When you lay attention to the face, and the stance— And it matters why she's mad at me, when after all these years, after all The veil has been lifted, but the mask hasn't And I just happened to make way to the goddamned Goddammit The mansion. So they said they'd give you a million dollars, just to— Yeah. What'd you— No. You didn't. No. You thought I would? Are you ready for wisdom and witches And wishes galore? Not yet. I asked for a prayer and “You're pitiful” —proud as pitaya, But I prefer Açaí, And after all Either one or the other is better than pina colada But of course, I'll take it If the other refreshments Are unavailable What the fuck is that in reference to? Nothing, probably Let's just be honest, I'm not getting In anywhere dressed like this in LA; Which is why I did it— And brought an extra set of clothes just in case Click my heels, two times Who farted. It's the subway; Pick any three people, and you'd probably be right This is hilarious. I ride the subway to Manhattan around lunch time, and it was mostly just— White people on vacation. lol lol Here's the trumpeter counting his money; Here's hoping he plays something Conveniently losing my cash . Means he's missing a dollar The way to the market makes subway trains unbearable, Which could only mean one thing l— Getawayfromme. Sing it! I'm intolerably horny most the time, And that counts anytime between now and forever So the Jptown a it is. As the train rolled slowly into Columbus circle, I started to get that feeling again— the same feeling I had the other night on the way to the comedy club, as if I was about to go on stage. I wasn't, and this, if anything was more of a consumer experience mainly meant for my entertainment, but still, I had butterflies— and there was no reason for them besides not having had any water— I wanted to make sure I had no need to run off to the restroom, either on the way, or during the taping , and— If anything. SOME BACKGROUND MUSIC!! Congratulations, you actually made it somewhere— Anywhere in New York City, On time. ..:I was on time to my stand up show. Exactly. MWAHAHAHHA!!!!! At least you laugh like a real villain, bro. I don't know what what's in reference to— Me neither. Now where was I…? Thank you. Everywhere in New York City is exactly one hour away. Even in midtown— Even in midtown. I told you they're all the devil. That's kind of incredible. Or god Liz Or, it's one in the same l. I might not ever make it on television— Even the assistant is gorgeous, (And majors in engineering) Somebody tell me why it's 100 degrees in fucking October! Global warming! I told you already l! What about the ice caps?! I TOLD YOU THEY MELTED!!!! Then again, Really kid— five o clock shadow at 1:48 in the afternoon. This is Telivision. It's a little ridiculous— Whose kid is this? If nobody claims him, I'll take that instead of lunch. How were you planning on lunch with it your wallet? I wasn't— But suddenly i'm hungry… Shut up! I used to get paid for this. I still do; watch this. I just realized, that I'm not having a good time I am method, so just— try to remember that. Where did the husbands come from? I was just in a room full of women— Now where am I? Remember the portals, and remember the Tenements, tenements— Tenements, tenements!? Old New York. What the fuck ever. Omg is the lady behind me possibly pregnant— And if she is she's keeping it— But she doesn't see herself being with the guy— “He's kind of affermenante” What? “He doesn't have that like, Charisma” I told you I still can get paid for this. Appearances, appearances, Charisma, Charisma So— its voice activated— And then once so many cell phones like, Detect my voice, a small signal is sent to that phone To make them start coughing. We can only assume that what is happening? Almost no one was coughing Until the banter in the bathroom I love this demographic of demigogs And badic bitches And tenements And tenements In intimate settings— OLD NEW YORK. How old Well, there are the tenements. We never really grow up, so we? We never really show out— Goes to show for sure I am indeed a God; For as soon as I walk in— They all start coughing. Where did the husbands come from?! This was, I promise you, an entire room full of women. THERE HE IS. GET HIM. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY KITCHEN! But—I didn't do anything! GO! Multiple steps in the directions of the Gods; Nothing to lose, but getting lost In the buildings and the tabletops The shadows of the others; Supposedly blocked into our time Blacklisted in hesitation that I could One day Very nearly and dearly Wish for something other than the best for Everyone involved, However I say no, For one million dollars only is a very small sum In accordance to the torture and disorder in the chaos I've come on here And here it is ; Again, Something to live for Something to love by Something it get into go for it, There was nothing other than the storm to come And yet A pool of course, You wanted full force for under The wind blows south And gone so deep under the water, There's no terror system! Here it is! All are actors, The world is a stage and yet, You fear it There's no conforming, Just admittance I came to get the app with the DJ's jumping off boats That's it. That's it. That's what I came for. Move still! Be you mad! I am mad, and envious of thee here, knowing not what I know and— Doing nothing in the midsts of my heartache, None glory being this, knoelege and yet Without wisdom The feeling of teeth sinking in, Hind legs ready to run, Water under no northern skies, But droughted— And mine, the thought of l weary skin The keeping of Times Times Times Tenements Times, Times, times- a Tenements Times, times times Percius, be you still? Still I wait. No honor. No judgement, mine is. There was no gain; There was no wise knowledge There was no wise for wisdom The times here The times here And even when you want to stop recording Turn your phones off— Even when you want to stop You keep rolling until the very last The very last The very last minute. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Find Me On Broadway 001: {VEEP} (AN OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL EXCLUSIVE} FROM GOOGLE “Veep” 2012 ‧ Sitcom ‧ 7 seasons "Politics is about people," former Sen. Selina Meyer is fond of saying. Unfortunately, the people Meyer, a charismatic leader and rising star in her party, meets after becoming vice president are nothing like she expected, but everything she was warned about. "Veep" follows the VP as she puts out political fires, juggles her public schedule and private life, and does everything within her limited powers to improve her dysfunctional relationship with the chief executive. Meyer's trusted -- and some not-so-trusted -- sidekicks include chief of staff Amy, one-time spokesperson Mike, and right-hand man Gary. “The New Adventures of Old Supacree” This is not what I intentioned. Well, what had you intentioned, dammit , how do you spell her name? Spell it? I can barely say it! “C'cx– WRONG. How would you say this name. Axel? Thas' a stupid name Not for a Rockstar. That's already a rockstar Is it? Whatever, man. The Rock must have been buzzing in some sort of special way on this day; because for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I had finally rearranged the remainder of my seemingly new surroundings— the miniature Keurig— a status symbol, of course— looked handsome on the work desk— the cat tree seemed to match, though with no actual feesible monetary income,, no actual cat, and no end in sight— the tree itself would have to be enough to lift my spirits. It was a nice cat tree, almost untouched and looking very brand new— though the couch had a few scratches, though easily hidden with the decorative use of a couple throws—at least I had a couch, and all that was left to accomplish before fully enjoying was to arrange an order of Febreeze to rid it of its previous owner's dandruff smell, and general mismanagement—besides that, it was itself almost brand new as well, and it seemed a strange new world to wake up in, after sleeping in a nearly empty apartment for 6 months; there was 6 months left in my lease, and I was getting nervous that they would try to push me out—hopefully I would find someplace better, or at the very least higher up—with the same amenities intact. Still, I was working as diligently as in could on organizing—at least the recordings, to put together the next group of projects as quickly as I could— nevermind the writing—and there was so, so much of it, I hadn't a clue what to do. I had been avoiding Rockefeller Plaza like the plague for quite sometime—it always made me nervous in a sort of way I didn't understand, in that I would pulsate and vibrate differently, and more often times than not, was upset and concerned that I had yet to go to the top—a costly feat—nor could I afford to entertain or enjoy any of the amusements at the bottom—not that I wanted to, as the older I got, and especially the longer time spent in New York, the more off putting the public and large crowds were—particularly after a remarkably disgusting respiratory infection I caught on new years, battling a crowd which became impossible to move through at all—let alone see the ball drop—and I had learned my lesson, especially after The Macy's Day parade; the crowds in New York were disgustingly unbearable, and in order to get a good view of anything, you would have to arrive nearly a full day early, and simply camp—now I knew why people packed around collapsible lawn chairs on holiday weekends. I had been blindsided by Fallon towards the end of the Macy's day parade—I hadn't any clue at all that he apparentlyboarticipated annually, as it had been years since I had watched the parade myself with my parents—and still, it was iconic—I always wanted to go. Still, and even though I had only written very little of him up to that point, I found it disasterous that as his name was announced and the float which carried him and The Roots, the best late night band on Television, not by opinion, but by fact—as I had most recently been studying and researching as thoroughly as I could all of the late night hosts since the dawning of Television in preparation to write this pilot, The TV People, short handed to TVP—and just then I recalled a dream from the night before, about Pat Kirkpatrick—for the first time in the dream world, it wasn't Fallon at all, but Pat Kirkpatrick. I couldn't remember the dream, nor could I seemingly work myself out of the rut that had been the plateau in writing the show—the show itself was heavy, with so many characters, all of which each had been given detailed and specific personalities, livelihoods, and backgrounds—in fact, I hadn't written anything in such a way since college, with detail—actually, I had never written anything so detailed at all, so character oriented that the character analyses filled entire pages of documents with excruciating vividness, as if these people were real. Well, now they were—and Fallon was neither Patrick as I was Esha, and the story has taken its own form, still however birthing an incredibly awkward and romanticized fascination and near obsession with the TV people themselves—not that I would feed it to be so. I blocked out the news outlets, the media, the alrogithm's suggestions to watch bits and pieces of Fallon, though, however, I refused, and somehow, I didn't need it. Fearfully so, he was somewhere lodged deep somewhere inside of me—and I was even sort of embarrassed to have written some of the things I had of his essence, however prophetic it seemed to be, that for about a three week period between April and May, I seemed to have gone off into a trance of sorts, writing for hours and experiencing vivid visions of this show, The TV Prople, alongside writing The Festival Project ™ And all of its markers—there were so many worlds, so many ways throughout them—and now as I had realized, I had actually been writing about Fallon nearly as long as I had been writing about Sonny, but differently. I had never of course come face to face with Fallon as I had the latter—and still—found it somewhat nessecary to hide my face beneath a mask as his float passed my viewing spaf , an elevated view from the staircase of some church, which had happened to be perfect—and although I was certain it's not as if he was looking for or at me—I had just then been writing of this Cosmic Avenger, and hadn't any idea at the time of Fallon in reality having been an actual magician, and still— with cameras everywhere, and knowing even what I had written—I didn't want to be caught by any passing cameras with any sort of blush or worse—a smile on my face as the float passed— a smile which would flash my atrocious gap-tooth and crooked smile I was sure was permanent, by then having been in the homeless shelter nearly a year. As soon as his name was announced, I promptly pulled up my mask, hiding under my sunglasses. I had already been caught on camera earlier in the parade gawking at some float—now was not the time to be caught gawking again. He, like Rob Lowe seemed impeccably professional and well-rehearsed, like a cartoon character— he was, after all, kind of a cartoon character, however now, even if it was partly due to my own writing, I took him more seriously. There was a darkness about him— a sometimes glassy-eyed, almost scary darkness that told me, even a world away, not to fuck with this dude—some kind of animal or monster I was sure we both shared, however mine more the type and category of insatable and undernourished and his more peaking its head out in the form of a multi-millionaire network puppet, which housed an untamable powerhouse of musicianship, manhood, and wit— it's true, I was finally scared of him, knowing after all what the true tears of a clown could be, a dangerous man in a uniformed suit, the Everyman for the programmed masses, and the funny man with a jig to dance, a story to tell, and an indoor life— secret realm within I was sure no one knew. I fed the monster with respect to the home, happy wife, and children— I, after all, loved love, and only wanted it for myself, leaving alone the parts of a man I had found and was sure was broken enough to have left me puzzled and star studded rather than struck as I always was, tears welling up at the thought of it that something should be mended neither I or anything I was could not fix—I continued to write, however, knowing I was walking on glass barefoot and tiptoeing on eggshells around the mass media conglomerate of the network that stood between my feeble world and his, the higher ups— and beyond: it was, after all, a level system— and now with a beautifully decorated and fully apartment, besides my mattress on the floor instead of the space saving loft bed I had wanted—though it looked just right with the piano bench as a headboard, housing my crystals and new globe, plus a colorful collection of books I could crack open as I awoke to the morning light, no longer so early but increasingly later, as I shifted into the insomniatic habits of a true DJ and music producer, still writing and reading in the mornings, however— I had to wonder what level I was truly on. My apartment looked like a home. The decor was better than I could have imagined myself even, the tasteful furnishings and modern elegance shifting my reality— no longer an empty apartment, now a fashionable hub for art and creation. I assumed the cat would come along in the winter, with any hopes that I would finish my albums by then—and also looming over me— my last life, and the people in it struggling to call up to me in this very ascended realm, which I was lucky to inhabit. ‘Thank you God for your many blessings' My wishes it seemed, had been granted— magic did indeed seem real, and though I had an Amazon return packages and ready to go— there wasn't a time and place I could see myself as ready to even be near The Rock, some festering bulletwound in my heart, all that I had written, not just of Fallon, but of the rest of the people I had honored by word mark but had not yet the status or wealth to have ever known as human at all, but more products of the program; with intention, however, it was the path I had followed to be destined here somehow though small codes and doorways, signals and symbols which called to me and seemed only I could see—but were there in plain sight, and with the right eyes, had meant more than I ever dreamed anything could— open doors to a world I had indeed created myself, and in turn, the world in which I lived had also been created around me. I had to, in my mind, find the light inside all of whom I studied, to humanize myself—nurturing some fascination of fame and celebrity inside which still stood unanswered, the question of why and how one becomes so high up that without trying, that I might continue to find them in my mind's eye and in my world, on the outside, time after time. —tales of a superstar DJ. The men with the littlest dicks Drive the loudest bikes And they talk too much About nothing To no one The men with the littlest dicks Do the littlest things I call it niggardly Dispite the color Follow the leader To instill fear Within earshot The men with the littlest dicks Want the skinniest women The chicks who remind them of Innocence lost A childhood spent Getting boredom for freedom And allowences for doing nothing The men with the littlest dicks Do the littlest shit Like make everyone miserable Yes, it is a miserable existence, Never being wanted, however I should know better than this TINA FEY SON OF A BITCH. (Everyone's still drunk) What. Why, what happened? He got here before us. What?! How do you know? [pause] Okay. This weird detour is paying off in some kind of way— I'm still heavily obsessed with the fact that Johnny Carson referred to his weird drunken jacking off as “cranking it” ON TV. On something close to live television in like— The 80's Was it the 80's? I don't know, And apparently even Johnny Carson doesn't know, because he was “sauced”, So let's just go ahead and add that to the list of ghosts I have to track down for making me squeal like a little fucking schoolgirl. However, I'm half convinced, He's still around— Oh yes. I do believe these— THIS MAN— Oh, holy shit here it goes. HERE'S JOHNNY! Aw, fuck. I told you not do. What was I supposed to do—?! Not do it It was a blood oath— I told you— Mi had to do it. *shrugs* Well, now, you're fucked. STAY DOWN, MOTHERFUCKER. Ooh. This is gonna hurt. I swear to god, Every day of my life: I will KILL YOU YOU CANT KILL ME. AND EVERY DAY THAT YOU DO NOT DIE; I WILL JUST STAY DOWN, MOTHERFUCKER— DIE, MOTHERFUCKER— GO. TO. SLEEP. aaaaaGGGGHhHHHHHHHHHHHH. —I WILL KILL YOU . Don't give up! Seriously! Seriously, I got money on this.z Really? What. How much. Just $10. Oh. That's good Yeah, but it's the only cash I've had in months! I forgot what it was. I'm rich, Everything's cashless. Tickets! Get your tickets! Ze are cheaper here on ze black market. “The Black Market” How much for this one? $9 I'll take three. What the fuck is wrong with you? I WILL KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP. I'M A DJ, BITCH. I DONT SLEEP. Have you ever thought about . What you're gonna be— When you die? Yeah. I've been thinking about it a lot. Okay, what is it. I get three right? Right, yeah. A Superstar DJ. Okay, that's good. What else? A rockstar Okay, what else? A mom. That's it? Yeah, man. I die and gone to heaven, right? Right. So that's it. What's the wager? Four horses. Got it. What exactly brings you here to bargain? My fat and heavy nuts. No questions asked. —tales of a Supersrar DJ VO I didn't know he called back. I didn't even see the message. I feel like such a piece of shit. I am a piece of shit. Worthless. My eyes itch, My nose bleeds My heart hurts now, I'm all gone Dark on Mondays All gone Gone till Sunday All done I was never an good mother No Just a ghost with a gun I was never on top of the world, son Just under it Now I'm all out of something I can't put my hand on And I'm all out of love, No one wants me Imm washed up One hand on the guitar One foot in the door And one head in the oven I'm all done I'm all done My eye itches My nose bleeds The noose loosens, I fall down I'm so stuck on an old number I'm so lost that I'm found now. —I'm so sorry But no one else is Tie me to the bed And watch me bleed So full of disinterest and vinegar Remember to tie me to the crossword In the times tomorrow Four rainbows for your dumb luck A forced fuck from one goat The other still doesn't row well It's a long boat It's a long story It goes untold They all turn to the one who wants to hurt me In the long run Nobody will ever love me again So I'm told Might as well find a bottle of ferment To grow up in Swallow bottles of old wine With a sour tongue Unremarkable SHOUT! Defamed you, Heroism in the— Never hatred, but indifference, Circumstances. Circumcisions Misdirection, Big decisions Defense strategy? To exit— Just as quickly as it all begins to fade away Nearly as quickly as it started, Newfound freedom near the exit, After happenstance, Never afraid to admit to neglect Selected supplies, For fear of the eye Goddammit it, late night people Of course; when was it last you saw letterman on a surfboard? Almost never? Forget to fear them, The men in mirrors, The sharks in surfboards, The writer's block, over The rockstar on opioids Does it hurt anybody else this much to just stand here If Tweety's the Canarybird, When who am I to call myself a cat, Sylvester! The silver streaks in his hair, The glaze in his eyes The break in his heart The health of the hoax FUCK YOU FALLON I hope your ratings went up Just a bit Just a bit I hope you CRANK THIS Up in your car While I forgot about you I hope the peanut butter goes with the jelly The couch fits with the vision covers The cookies go with the coffee haven't mopped the floor yet, of course All out of Pablo santo For your information I just didn't make the grade Cause teacher hates me I still haven't found a mate With every amen I hate me Almost as much as I hate myself And I So I can't be God itself Cause I love that thing Alright? Amen! Can I have a can opener or three to set the record straight Can I scratch as fast as I sniff up every tear Every line of cocaine Every autograph? No you can't. Just know that my landlord has a thougsand bathrooms I can't find my hat, my gun— And where the fuck are the bananas CONAN O BRIEN EXCUSE MY FRENCH, BUT FUCK YOU, WOAAAAAH, CONAN! WOAH! WHAT DID I DO?! You— You fucked up the entire fucking ecosystem With CUMSLUTS! WHAT THE FUCK, BRO! Can you even SAY any of that?! I just did! Which network do you work for?! Where's Fallon at?! he's dead, bro! He's dead?! Yeah! For what?! I don't know. I just found out. Well. What happened. Someone shot him. Again?! Yeah, but like, way worse this time. So they finally got him, ah? No, he died of a heart attack. What! Then they shot him. What. That doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. This scene is running long. I thought so. DIRECTOR CUT. That was great. Thanks. Except—Conan. Yes? You're too tall. What? Next. Take I want you to try it— Like— Just the way you just did it— Uh huh But smaller: What do you mean? Like, less tall. Oh. Alright. BREAK FOR LUNCH. “The Everymans” 01 I'll know why soon I'm sure It hurts with every word You're sleeping on my floor I'm fuming in the north My foot goes through the door Where were you then, When the mystery ends When the miser's the minister, Mistral and instrumentalist Ah Magic; illusion Illustrious industry Interdependent television Radio signals, Satelites Entropy Trophy wives, Fight clubs Back at nine Nick at night Every time is every time Time is all you need, and Time is on your side, if You just follow me Reader's remorse Writer's digest Try to sit still for a moment, Take a lesson From your friends here So when, then should I trade my Brand new pants in for a suit The bird said The cat damaged (I can't yet) Can of soup to open, Oh yes Cambells is it? Warhol knows best 02 I thought I told you I don't want to Owe you Are you Over it Somebody once told me You were holy Somebody once told me To hold onto Somebody once said Turn the light off But I've been trying To buy fire Someone's in the box, God Someone once told me Someone let me out—God? Someone once told me Fuck it, I just want to hold you I don't want to own you I just want to Someone once told me Beware of you Someone else told me Be there for you Someone once told me The hair of dog Ought to get you along I got handfuls of songs With no worlds yet Someone once told me Someone once told me Someone once told me Someone once told me. Someone's in the box, God Someone once told me Someone let me out—God? Someone once told me Somebody once told me You were holy Somebody once told me To hold onto I thought I told you I don't want to Owe you Are you Over it 03 I'm a multidimensional wordsmith Sike! I'm a psychopath wrecking your whole home Won't you wound my womb? (I won't go ) Won't you hold onto my world? (Why won't you?) Sorry, I slipped on the mat this morning Stumbling over you Thought it was afternoon Don't want to give you The news, cause you wrote it all Causes for dollars Indifference, disasters, sons Why won't you hold me like you used to? Why don't I know the answers to the crosswords? Why don't you meet me at the crossroads with your— No, no, Don't do that Don't call it home To be continued Where were you this morning, When I stumbled in To love you? She said At the forefront of your honor's worth If all you are's a wordsmith, m god unlock you Pen and paper Gun in holster Officer, Pull down the trigger Don't want to give you The news, cause you wrote it all Causes for dollars Indifference, disasters, sons No, no, Don't do that Don't call it home To be continued Once upon a time, All my eyes were brown (The money, the power, the respect) Now those days are gone The world is still round (At least I thought) The misery set in again They said the lows would come I did hate Mondays, after all With no sun to come up And look forward to Fast forward— Did you ever see that? Well, that is technically the back door. I almost forgot about that place. That's because it doesn't exist. It had to exist. Now I've seen it at least twice Hey! How'd you do that. Christ, he is a magician Oh yeah, Cosmos factory. They said the lows were coming. Maybe I needed them to finish that thing— I swear I missed Something The ghost (The other one, anyway) Dillon was a ghost, once No, ghost was the ghost, but we were —close. Good friends. Imaginary friends. Anyway. Fuck this nonsense. Nonsense, is it Just— Don't make me slit my wrists again. I remembered this day for something Wonder what. Maybe nothing I hate Mondays Guess this is the job, This is the job, I was wondering about the suit. So, are you a parrot, a puppet, or a mimick. I swear to god that's him. Good, Now I don't ever have to watch him. Oh shit, Fuck this playlist Are you sure “saved by the cowbell” God, I feel like shit, And I shouldn't be hungry But I'm starving inside For some loving Someone help me Somebody, something I'm suffering, suffocating Need him, Reeling, Reading Sinking, Feeling —but shouldn't be crying. I digress, however It was an interesting Day to digest God, I forgot about this— A whole soundtrack Jesus Christ, Bring it back; I like who your wife is —would you write that? Would you admit to dying on the cross once? Would you admit to admiring Ms, Robinson Would you wash out the Robin in Williams Look at Carson I defect to default Cracked asfault, to decadence Desire or what have you I haven't, I promise I would not admit to wanting, Something like a cupcake Something else is in there Figure it out Danger The five pointer approaches With heroic intolerance Suddenly, it's gone, God Mustn't be the Republicans, For the most part, I would want that For fear of the liberals, And my rent controlled apartment I've got two thumbs, too, You know I've got Jews up my ass for the asking I've got mom up my spine for the others Fucking assholes —so this is what it means to be married to the music, huh No one to really hold you, But I told you, I've got golden globes and Oscars Every morning Motorcycles for the morons I've got daughters for your doorknobs —Know you're sorry now Catch the drum pattern Your heart should stop fluttering With butter on it Weren't we all once prostitutes In foster care The others wouldn't dare To call a fountain out For the fountains— Busy training you Safe to say a savior says I do, And then doesn't For the most part I'm a woman With the wants And the body of a God FUCKING WATCH IT, CARSON but you got that all on a card, love. All on a card, fuck. What was your wish, You dumb motherfucker? Look what I got the other ones. Hi Cosmo. Hi Wanda. Awww. I love them. Dead drunk by tomorrow I hope, I choke on sunsets. He keeps taking you away someplace, Where is it? Does nobody else know this place? No. Nobody else can see this! Well, that's fucked up. I had a dream I was at your wake. That would be great. I wrote a scene where your obituary just said “lol” “lol” What! That's it?! Yeah. And It's not even capitalized! That's it, I've had enough. Throw the whole world away. What. just throw it away. Damn dog, You okay? No. I'm homeless. That's okay. You smell like a whole ass alien. What? Come to my place. I figured this would have more depth. I— Nevermind. It is, like torture, you know— this thing. I didn't do it on purpose. get oFF of me. getawayfromme. Okay, I'm taking my bread out of the freezer. You sure are eating a lot today . You sure are sounding like a pain in my big, fat, ass. I— That ought to shut you up. Look! CUMSLUTS! NICE. Get off of my boat. What. Aye-aye, captain. (Duck dives) Wait. What just happened? Mi think I might have— Great, Now there are things about this— I can't even write. This secret dies with me. Kill that bitch. Fucking great. So, Where were you on 9/11 again? I'll deal with this later. I gotta go. Wait, where are you going? Fuck you, that's where. Wait! If you saw me hanging from the rafters Would you ahoot to kill Or come to shoot me down? At long last, Disaster Are there tears in your denial As the memorandum sets in? Neither there or neither farther am I Father, Can you call again? I haven't heard you yet Besides the heart drops When the beat falls out If I hang myself Like pendulum From the old bank walls Would you watch me swing Or come to cut me down Don't doubt the alter If it were the birds Coming for the crumbs Would you ponder any longer Whether they were all of one feather Come now Don't doubt the alter Don't fear the weapons Don't worry, mother I'm coming to kill you Uh, I'm gonna wait on dinner. FUCK, What the fuck was I saying? FUCK. I hate this dude. FUCK. Come on, you stupid —biiitch! I hate this dragon. Almost as much as I hate— You know what? What? Forget it. I'm not doing this. What why not!? I'm gonna get killed for this. You're in the Illuminati; you're gonna get killed anyway. Yeah, but not for this! Let's hope! Who know, though! UGH; SHUT UP. GET IN HERE. I hate the sound of your name Like an unheard whisper Unanswered I could never call to A cavern Righteous, Unwanted What was is, though. Something about a wheelbarrow' I just went surfing Hit the surface from underwater Shook out the slumber What was it worth, God? What were the words for? Fuck, A shapeshifter and a telepath? How many people have that? Not that many. How many people know about this? Enough. FUCK. Oh, look whose swearing. I solemnly swear— Don't tell NOBODY. I ain't telling nobody about this. Good. Now get out. I'm gonna kill this sonofabitch. SON OF A—BITCH. That's it. Kill him. Where's my gun? Did you check the fridge? No. [THE IMPENETRABLE TEN ENTER the KITCHEN] What?! All ten of them?! I fucking guess. —but DANE COOK *kicking down door* FUCK! Goddammit it We missed her. OR—him. Her? Him? I don't know. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST What is it? It's a pilot! Oh shit, should I shoot him? Not a helicopter pilot! A TV pilot, For what?! Tv is dead. Streaming is where its out, It's for me! I'm in it! Oh! What! Let me see. (In the fridge) …what is this? [from the bedroom/studio] Hey you guys! What. What happened? What's up! YOU SHOULD SEE THIS. Love is not blind, And neither am I It's like that sometimes, always Tip of the tongue, The art of the lie, It's like that sometimes, Always A tale of all tales A sign of the times It's like that always, sometimes I forgot to forget I saw you; I forgot to forget I know you I forgot to forget I love you I forgot to forgive, I want you Shut the door, Let the lights turn off Turn the page —till the sun comes up Something real Something wrong I forgot Something strange Something weird I'm in love Write the song Love is not blind, And neither am I It's like that sometimes, always Tip of the tongue, The art of the lie, It's like that sometimes, Always A tale of all tales A sign of the times It's like that always, sometimes I forgot to forget I saw you; I forgot to forget I know you I forgot to forget I love you I forgot to forgive, I want you Shut the door, Let the lights turn off Turn the page —till the sun comes up Something real Something wrong I forgot Up is up Down is down Right is right Wrong is wrong Black is white Dark is light Right is wrong I love you My house is normal now, With a table and chairs But I don't call it home Cause I know They'll throw me to the curb Leave in in the road Like the animal I am You don't know what the world does When she's off work You don't know how the world acts When she's off her axis It's okay to take hiatus Instead of medication It's okay to call the cops on motorcycle It's okay to die Before you see your son When Sunday comes Just call your mom on Monday Doctor visits EMTs and emergencies Epics and Epochs Long lost love songs to god And Cardinal Directions Reflections in mirrors Table toppers for all the dramas All the months you lost On muttered mantras {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Not so all of a sudden, he was gone—just as I had thought and hoped, publishing a small portion of The Files had sent the strange ghost somewhere far away—almost gladly so. It could never be a good thing to feel for something like that—not the man, the one who was called [Redacted] himself, but rather his essence. He was a good boy—almost too good, kept it clean, and always hit his mark—I, on the other hand, had work to do, and the only commonality we shared seemed to be some kind of darkness— a twisted monster of some depravity, always unspoken, and yet, somehow forever bound between our humanities as bodies— man, and woman. Whatever it was, I missed it—it was nice having an imaginary friend—a muse, a blank canvas—and more importantly, a smile or a laugh here and there. But alas, the emotional ties had come on too strong, a s all safe bets were off— there was nothing that could be said or done at all, and so as a means of protection, I chose to bury it. Still, something like tears sat in the space between my heart and my soul for him—to have never been dumb enough to love so wholly enough to trust that I had not in some way been provoked or altered to such a state like something like this might happen—a sign of the times. A beautiful man, talented and having danced with my mismanaged Sapio-self in such a way that it at the be try least had been— a learning experience. I was still only beginning to understand what the cosmos had intended here, and still—such a mess it was, now needing the body of a real man more than ever, and fiending for something more than a friend, something more than the fantasy which I had dreamt into, and scurried out of—now knowing at the very least, I was, too, a good woman. “I miss him', I silently sighed into a wandering whisper in my mind, filling the space where his voice—his essence once had been, now just a ghost in my mind, a quick light in all the darkness that had been Kayla Lauren, Dillon's awful blue eyed girlfriend, and whatever it had been about Joel that had left me wondering why I had been born into such a hell in the first place—a married muse was the safest bet, for the shortest time, with the strongest strings attached—and now that I had cut them myself—the strings, that is, I was left to drift alone. Now I really did have something interesting to write--how I had fallen in and almost never out of love enough to have written an infinite wisdom of divinity and circumstance which might even last forever. Without finding a love that was reciprocated, I would surely die—already rotting in the hell of my own body as a tomb, and yet, here they were—all the words of all my loved, cast upon the pages of my thoughts, looming over me like clouds—heavy enough to rain, but without doing so; the bluest sky there ever was beyond them, and I just beneath, crying—looking for a sign that soon a true love would come. One I could touch and feel and hold and kiss—but only God could know—and God was quiet as of late, hiding from the evils of man just outside the window, keeping love and peace just out of reach at almost all times. Trust me I'd rather die than not Either way, I'll love you all the same It's unfortunate The wicked ones Atop us, with the fortunes With no one to love But piles of bodies, Power plays and flaccid phalic Valid fantasies and tragic Dissatisfaction All those bottles And all those bodies And all those models You still can't mount a horse. All that power And all that money And you don't want me But she doesn't do much But want to love Pity no one up there seems to know what is does Love, is for us The ugly under you Trust me, I'd rather die tonight Than wake up alone Foaming in the mouth With no one there to froth with Trust me I'd rather die than not Either way, I'll love you all the same I guess I'm slag bro Another attack It's fine; I'm just not attractive Not even fit for his Side piece of ass How's that go? What's that life Just take a knife to my back Cause I can't go back bro I went black bro Flatline He caught my eye, Then I went flat broke If I could draw a line up my spine And unwind the entire world I would, though If I could tie a knot to the knot in my back And then just jump rope Off a long rope From a strong pole Here's hoping I told you the devil would be at the Whole Foods market You're better as a headless body, I promise I'm better as a bodiless head Better off dead than undressed; You'll detest me; A festering betrayal of love A bodiless hell The void from which you all come But can't conform to I'm ugly Tales of a Superstar DJ As Seen on TV Death of a Superstar DJ (uh oh, idk what that one would even be about) Maybe they're backwards. Uh. Sure. Reorder them. Okay. Tales of a superstar DJ, Death of a Superstar DJ As Seen on TV - to be released with album Hm. I love new York wtf my brain is on fire right now Idk. Idk. Idk. wtf is this energy. I'm out of protein. That might be it. I have built the ultimate tolerance to coffee This coffee is weak. It's actually double strength. It's almost espresso. Hm. I see. Did you ever finish those Jimmy-isms? What?! What?! What? Something something something. FUCK. What. Portal World. Cool, let's— Let's go to there. No, Lez Limon. What. The lesbian Hispanic alternate reality version of Liz lemon. lol. Okay. What about that pilot I wrote for maya rudolph! Idk. Where is it. I'm MELTING. Humiliation is the most tyipical form of psychological terror and emotional abuse.. Really. Mom, don't do that. What, why not? 5)8/ 8 This is uncomfortable. Is it? Hm. I like it. Shut up, Gerald. Fuckin piñata. She got the silver chains, now Ain't no vampires, Aint no more games, She playing for fame, Baby she made it A punch to the face Can make you creative. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Loving you— Is easy cause you're beautiful And everything that you do..: Sorry I let you guys down. I didn't mean to abandon you. —lalalalala —-lalalalala ——lalalalala—- —-lalalalalala— Oh man. Here it goes. Dodododo-un Do-do— I love you. OH MY GOD. Happy Birthday, Kid. You earned it. DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO V.o. I didn't “forget” to finish the Minnie Riopperton storyline; I just didn't. It got emotional. Okay, okay, okay. This is weird. It is weird, Why are you wearing that? Why are you wearing that? I'm in costume. As WHAT. —as my mother. Oh: awww that's cute: Yeah: What's your excuse? I'm also in costume. As what. As my mother. *squints* {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

“The Legend of Supacree” L E G E N D S “Tales of A Superstar DJ” My body is my hell My body is my hell My body is my hell My body is myhel Now i do't wanna live no more My body is my hell My body is my hell My body is my hell Now I don't wanna love no more i don't wanna live no more I don't wanna love no more I don't wanna live no more I don't wanna love no more I don't wanna live no more I don't wanna live no more I don't wanna live no more I don't wanna– Boy gets the girl– but in the end, i'm not either, I Still have to wonder why The nanny How I met yurr' Mother I'm neve gonna get all that God magic I need if I don't stop working. This isn't “work” Oh, yes it is. Deadmau5, a canadian DJ also known as Joel Zimmerman, hosts an anti-superbowl Star Wars Party, which turns unexpect— Look at me, feeling me, feeling you Now look at you, feeling you feeling me Feeling you feeling me Feeling me feeling you Feeling me feeling you Feeling you feeling Feeling you feeling –sorry. —Unexpectedly into the “superbowl party of the century”, when hundreds (eventually thousands) of “invitees” I've never been a man before, (that I know of) But ive got my hand over your heart , And it sure seems hard It sure seems hard -AHEM. Sorry. Receive an invitation via [SUPER JEW RABBI] AHEM What?! –Email, which was actually AHEM. WHAT! Oh My GoD! [Looks at clock] Oh. sorry Rabbi. When did you get to be such a Jew FLASHBACK Age: 12 Mom. I want a dreidel. …What's a dreidel? –And A Menorah! CUT BACK TO But honestly more recently, it was– [Stops traffic in Midtown Manhattan Rushour to pick up a penny.] [Jewish woman] Woooow. [JEWLUMINATTI] You see! I told you! Oh my God, why are the Jews in this series so stereotypically jewish? Because Jews are stereotypically Jewish. FLASHBACK: But what am I really saving here. Gevault! CUT BACK TO: YOU'RE A PEANUT BUTTER JELLy SaNDWHICH WITH NO PEANUT BUTTER AND NO JELLY. So just bread? –yes. But–[Anime sword swish] I don't eat bread. [Anymore] [FIGHT] Dang what DJ battle is THIS. The One You've Been Waiting For Mad men avatar the last air bender Grounded for life So how long's this whole thing supposed to take. –as long as it takes. What kind of answer is that. It's an answer. Don't be so sure of yourself. I am sure of myself; Just because it's not the answer you wanted doesnt make it any less of an answer. Now, sit down Watch out, and watch this: Too many apps on my phone I'm better off alone I'd better kill myself Nobody will ever love me Nobody will ever love me Watch out, watch this: My iPhone is trying to kill me, For real? See; It's natural selection I'm trying to unselect me Caviar, a delicacy How delishish The devil in me says to keep digging my grave I was once at a rave, And he gave me a halo A lion, I'm brave— I once said Spin it, Spin back the record again If it's all in my head Then I'm better off dead I'm better off dead Watch this! @Dillon Francis I'm stuck in a trance— Hanzel was lighting the candle And summoned me, Out of a dead sleep, With no pants on— It was a tech house set But I'm on acid Spinning an axis And stuck in a state of trance —i thought it was armin van buren at one point I have to give up at some point, writing, right? Now this is just point in history Point me away from the misery Mystery flavor is like Fruit punch, Or raspberry— Something like that, If you ask me; But white as the rabbit I pulled out the hat In the back seat I'm hatching a plan to go mad, But I need the recepits from Pasqualle for my taxes What the Fuck does that mean? I don't know; I'll read this In a year, When I unbury it Maybe I married my best friend, Deserved to get hit So I'm just going back to him Scratch that, he's mad at me I have no family Reckless abandonment God I'm attracted to everything Except for that See? She's racist. No, it's my ovaries! The lighter you are, the less the adversity I see you eyes turned to grey; Don't abandon me Yes, I wear contacts I'm faking attractive I laughed at him, had to He actually had magic @Dillon Francis How many hats to you have? Thanks to Hanzel, I'm back on this planet Why light a candle, when you know I haven't an answer; What did you ask? No, i haven't had breakfast yet — Thanks for reminding me I'm in a casket Goddamnit @Dillon Francis What are you? I'm an adversary GOOGLE: adversary ..??? ad·ver·sar·y /ˈadvərˌserē/ noun one's opponent in a contest, conflict, or dispute. Hmm. Oh. Opponent to what?! Could be anything, really. I don't like him… 2 for $ MIX AND MATCH INCLUDES BIG KING REALLY. Which one's the Big King? The little one, I think. He's not little In fact: LOOK AT EM. Dawh. Look at Skrillex. Dawg. Look at Skrillex. He bossed up. He was already boss. Well. He Sauced up, then. What kind of sauce is that?! I don't know, but looks like Dillon Francis is eating it. DILLON FRANCIS IS EATING IT pause. How am I still writing this show. She doesn't eat? She hasn't eaten. She doesn't eat. I haven't ate yet! BET. BET. OK—Bet. Nice. Sick. What are we betting. … … … WAIT. ,,, josh pan? … … Did you unpause? Unpause what? Uh. The game. This is the game. No, the game. This is the game! What are you talking about?!! Now I'm famous> This is The Game. sup. This is Sunni Blū Sup. It is?! Yea it is. Wait, it is?! I thought you were the kidd?? I am the kidd. Then, why is The Game meeting Sunnï Blu? For a collab. Duh. Wait. Pause. QUIT PRESSING PAUSE. Wait. Go back. I didn't get that last part. WE WATCHED IT A HUNDRED TIMES ALREADY. Screw you. We're watching it again. Ugh! I hate this! Dude. I hate watching this with you. It takes 3 hours to watch an episode! You guys are talking over all the good parts! It's all the good parts! This shit's exciting. I'm defaulting. What? This isn't—this isn't fair. I'm not doing this. What?! It isn't safe anymore. It was never “safe” SAFE! Oh nice. Baseball. It is baseball. Who's playing? All the DJs. What. For what?! It's the DJ GAMES. THE DJ GAMESsssssssss ITS THE DJ GAMES! OH FUCK YEAH. I fuck this. I quit. what. You can't quit. I can quit. I just did. You can't quit the DJ games. I just did. But you can't. I just did. Hey. Hey, what's up. I'm gonna be late. What's going on? My bus driver's drunk. Are you sure? CITY BUS DRIFTING IN SLOW MOTION /Hans Zimmer Music Yes. Welhp. What. That's it. I'm just gonna have to kill myself. Why, what happened? I'm pretty sure that's the only way to beat this level. What, really? Nah. I'm pretty sure Let me see. *SUPACREE jumps into oncoming traffic* YOU DIED. Aww. I died. WHAT THE FUCK. Well, you said. GAME OVER [fade to black] I HAD NO LIVES LEFT. WELL, YOU SAID! THATS'S NOT THE WAY TO— [fade to white] NEW LEVEL UNLOCKED: GOD MODE OOOHHHHHHHH. WHAT?! LVL i - DREAMSTATE What is this. SUPACREE. I— what? Hello? Follow me. Who is this? I know you. Oh. The above and beyond part. That's funny. I was just— So wait. If the end of this episode, is the end of that movie, then… I guess whatever's happening about now is whatever happened before that part. What part? I, having run off from I, runs into a forest alongside The Endless River, which opens out into a beautiful meadow, the micolored cosmic sky twinkling sweetly above, strange auroras dancing in the skies; a field of glowing and stardusted singing wishflowers at her feet, she frustratingly falls into them, soft grass puffing with the twinkling sounds of fairy dust and sprites (a homage to the lion king) the wishflowers softly sing her to sleep with the subtle and sweet frequencies of Skrillex. (A homage to the wizard of Oz) From Above & Beyond, a flock of Cosmic Creatures in flight spot a golden glimmer from afar; they descend dimensions-- to get a closer look; Closing in on the universe within the confines of a massive structure, which propels itself seamlessly through galaxies faster than the speed of light and sound, though she appears as a large golden space station, slowly drifting through the atmosphere. Manned by yet unseen beings, the golden ship descends upon Skrillex, almost silentl— a swishing whir as the ship, more similar to a futuristic building, an ovaline rounded structure seemingly structured in brass, gold, and silver as it docks to the soft soil of planetary terrain. The landing is soft enough not to have awaken Ū, still sleeping; but an immense light pours from the openings of the ship, waking her--and blinding Sonny as he finally approaches from behind, having been searching for her. She is drawn into the light; he shields his eyes as the beings emerge from their massive station. Monologue/Montage I fell in love with you...it was an accident. I fell in love with you, because I had to; I hadn't thought about it before, but i've been thinking about it ever since. Had I succeeded in my attempted suicide, we wouldn't have come face-to-face… Had I succeeded in my attempted suicide, I'd have no reason to write something so pathetic as this, pititul letter, which you will probably never read. Probably, anyway. I've spent a majority of my lifetime very deeply troubled, yearning for all the attention one could ever crave--until suddenly, I no longer craved any at all. Solitude, rather than isolation, became sacred, and safe to me; It was in the solace and quiet of my very own world, that you entered my kingdom...and it became ‘ours'. Silence. Nature. Astrology. My greatest found pleasures, in a cavalcade of endless self-doubt, self-loathing...a tiresome collection of all the hatred I've harbored for myself in my twenty-something years. I fell in love with you...I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to do anything, except be. Another festival, another escapade...another chance to dance, in the sunlight--the moonlight, under stars… And under the stars, is where I was forced to find you. Now, it seems, can't escape your presence--or lack-thereof. Unrequited? Perhaps. But, not unprovoked. I love you because it is in me to do so. I will always love you, always. There is a world where you're in love with me, as I am you; All I can do now, is hope that this is that same very world, and that as days go by, we draw closer to one-another, rather than further apart. In truth, friendship, in the very least, would serve as a worthy reward...for all the worry, all the wonder, and all the willing I've done for you; in honesty...I'm ashamed in my inability to let go--yet also proud, that I am able to love this much, this hard. To see you with someone else, now, would be a gentle relief; to know that you are kept in love, with graciousness...a subtle gift, an answer to a prayer I asked. Loneliness, I wouldn't wish upon you for anything--love is, in fact, my whole wish for you--be it mine, or not. While I can wish that it will be mine, I've also wished for you, the very best--I would want not for my flaws to burden you. Flaws are what create our perfection; God is, as I am. Losing you, the flame of fear that set my heart and soul to fire; Cancerous, weakened, plagued--premonitions impolitely penetrated my fragile, eggshell mind… the death of a friend, fast-forwarded and reflected into my mind's-eye; How could I forget a face like yours--eyes like those? How could I not know you, as I have? Tears bearing your name roll over my nose, like the rain on a rose...the burden of belonging to one, rather than some; To all, rather than none. So now, I keep my favorite photo of you in my phone...a comfort, to the weary and wounded heart I carry. I can pretend that your sweet voice accompanies mine, as I sing to soothe myself, as I sway in solitude; A gentle kiss, I imagine to give, if ever the chance. I love you, without reason to--and with every reason to, I love you. Find me, again As the ship departs, charging to go into warp speed, Sonny is left alone on his own planet; as a slight panic falls over him, A key-like object falls from the ship as it dissappars at warp speed into a portal. As his hands clap together, catching the object, the sound rings outward--this clapping pages The Skrillex, which lands promptly beside him, exclaiming-- "I AM SKRILLEX"; he has never seen this ship before, however proceeds onto the ship as though familiar with extra terrestrial phenomena all together. We only see him enter the ship; we do not follow him inside, but instead cut to Ū on the Interdimensional SpaceTime Station. Ah wait. So Skrillex is a planet? Skrillex is a lot of things SKRILLEX is a planet . That explains it. No it doesn't. I mean, it might. No it doesn't! I mean, it kindof does, if you think about it. BleepBleepBloop bleeepbleepbloopBloop bleepBleepBleeppBoopBoop bloopbloopBloopBloop. bleepBleep. bloop. Bleep? … This is a disaster! Don't look at ME. I'm not looking at anything! I can't stand it. __ This is the best thing on TV. Damn right it is. What channel is it, anyway? On Channel 43. What! I thought it was on Insomniac TV. They keep fucking with me. The Lord giveth, and taketh away— I thought you were Jewish. I want a sandwich. You're so useless. __ Who's this bitch? I won her in a bet. No you didn't. Royal Flush, bitch. What'd you get? It's a secret. __ My Lord. (Petrutheio Humphs) You look awful. I've been—working. Working on what, your majesty. Just—working, is all. Very well, then. Theodore— My leige? MEANWHILE, IN SEASON 4 [ When the 4th Wall Actually Broke] GO! I found this gym because of Dillon Francis— I found Dillon Francis because of my evil ex husband; I think the lesson here, or at least one of hundreds— Is to trust no one, And love unconditionally, No matter what. — 02-12-2022 Well, there's a conundrum. KEY/BPM: Slip, deadmau5 Conundrum. LEGENDS: ENTER THE MULTIVERSE Fuck. What was it? It was a p— Well it was a *PR Lol. *PT cruiser Yeah, but it was— It was purple. It was a purple PT. Cruiser It was—but what else was it? Ugh. I forgot. Yeah, I bet. GOOGLE SEARCH shades of purple. Ooooh. PERIWINKLE. You fucking dumb ass. I mean, Jesus. How long has it been? At least a lifetime. No, past that. It was a perfect periwinkle PT cruiser. So, start there. ‘Start there' what? Everything since then, till now— For what? Enter The Multiverse. That show is still on?! YES. What day is it? Fuxk. What time is it? What—the fuck. What?! CUPCAKES AND A MUFFIN?! I don't care how fat I am. You're not fat. QUASIMOTO Can I just say, your ass is like —woah. CC/SUPACREE Oh, thank you. QUASIMOTO I mean like—DAAAAAAMN. CC/ SUPACREE OK. QUASIMOTO i mean like—what the FAAACK. CC/SUPACREE Yeah. thanks, bro. [an awkward silence] QUASIMOTO …Good job, though. [light fist bump] EARLIER: MORE CUPCAKES. NAH. OHH, OREOS?! Oreos are the G.O.A.T. I WANTED CUPCAKES. SHUT THE FUCK UP— Before that, at the gym: —do the butt machine again. Again?! Get the glutes. But I'm tired— GET THE GLUUUUUUUUTES. SONNY/SKRILLEX Where am I? Ū Hell. ANGEL 1 In bed. ANGEL 2 In mexico. CUT TO: SUPACREE finally gets to Heaven, looking for SKRILLEX. SUPACREE So, where is he? JESUS Somewhere else. ANGEL 1 At home. ANGEL 2 In mexico. JESUS Who knows? CHAK CHEL Someone must... DILLON FRANCIS I'm someone. JESUS But I don't. ME I don't know anything. MYSELF I don't need to. I I just wanna go home. SUPACREE Can I come home now? JESUSYou always could. SUPACREE But really, I mean-- CHAK CHEL Really's all it really takes. ANGEL 1 You have to know, ANGEL 2 You have to mean it; Don't look both ways before you cross, if you honestly want off the cross Christ, for your sake Honestly It's probably wise to admit that you've tried For the third time; Mankind's just not worth it. Mankind, maybe; But humanity's my baby And this earth is definitely worth something I love it-- Her. And the rest of the planets, but Look how she spins, It's magnificent, Look at the way the ocean's Make this mist; And the wind-- If i sing loudly enough I might Vibrate the trees, How they love dancing and laughing for me; And I just can't help but to laugh at her inhabitants; They dance oh-so rhythmically They're very creative-- and grateful, they always give thanks to me It's no need, but the Earth, she keeps feeding them She makes these beautiful things, So sweet; Mangoes, I think. Greed; The Parable of the Mango Tree Mango VIP. In the pre-existence, a young God prepares for her journey through the Land of The Living; Her older brothers taunt and tease, as she shuffles through notes and index cards, studying her predetermined fate on Earth. I That's easy. The cover art's just got a Mango On it, White Backdrop; It looks super juicy; with a green leaf, I think. E Who made it? I Uhhhhh. ^> Uhhhhh... O You forgot! I No! I know, I know. It was.... A Who? U She forgot again. I I did NOT. E Did too. Who made it? I It was...it was...Herobust! Y Herobust? I Wasn't it? E Wrong! A Loser. I I am not a Loser. It was…Was it Ganja White Night? E I don't know, was it? A Was it? I I don't know! Just tell me. E I can't. I Yes you can! E I can't. Your rules-- I Exactly, it's my rules! Just gimmie the answer! E I think you're going to have to GOOGLE it. I Ugh, no way. E So is Liquid Stranger your final answer? Y Liquid Stranger?! I I never said Liquid Stranger. A Idiot. O Now she's never gonna get it. U What did you say before? I It was...oh... A See dude. I Shut up, I had it-FUCK. A Damn dude, you broke her. I I'm not broken, I just forgot - E Liquid Stranger, going once-- I I never said Liquid Stranger! I know it wasn't Liquid Stranger; Why would it ever be Liquid Stranger? CUT TO: A pair of mysterious dudes Suits in Sunglasses are collecting famous DJs. SUIT Martin Stääf? LIQUID STRANGER ...Yes... SUIT. Come with me. ___ CUT TO: Two fans are watching interdimensional cable. SUPACREE It's a practical-- FAN 1 WHAT HAPPENED? FAN 2 IT JUST CUT-- __ Aliens in an Ascended dimension of hyper-intelligence are studying our three-dimensional existence from an unknown cosmic world. BRAMF Remember that planet I showed you--the-- ARLA Yeah, with the Axis? BRAMF Yeah. ARLA Yeah? BRAMF Something happened to it, ARLA Like what? BRAMF It's flat now. ARLA WHAT? BOTH Woah. >^ Sometimes, even i'm surprised by the things I've written. ME I didn't see that one coming! MYSELF Neither did I: I was gonaa say it was off it's axis. I Flat's funnier. ME Yeah, and probably not as tragic. MYSELF I mean...that would be pretty tragic. I Probably easier to manage. ME Perhaps…But I mean, if you have a whole planet, and then it just collapses-- MYSELF It's just flattened; nobody said it collapses. MEANWHILE The planet collapses. __________ CUT TO: SUPACREE is now a full-blown superpowered vigilante; She seeks revenge for GETTER sending her through the interdimensions at AUDIOTISTIC. SUPACREE Getter, we meet again. GETTER I've never met you before; what are you doing in my dressing room? SUPACREE Why does a DJ have a dressing room? GETTER I don't know; get out. [She swiftly leaves; as she exits, THE SUITS approach the dressing room door.] SUIT 1 Tanner Petulla? GETTER Yeah? SUIT 2 Come with us. GETTER Fuck that! [He doesn't have a choice.] Oh shit, the next scene is already written, I remember this. Oh, okay! I get it! Yeah. She's still at-- She's still on the-- ____ JUST KILL YOURSELF ALREADY. For what? You're suck in this until it's done. What's done? It'll never be over, it's just infinite. ENTER THE MULTIVERSE ^ UNTITLED DOCUMENT >< >< >< ANGEL 1 YOU'RE GONNA LISTEN TO SKRILLEX ON YOUTUBE? ANGEL 2 DON'T. JESUS I mean... ANGEL 1 DON'T you dare. SUPACREE I might as well, by the time I finish downloading it I probably won't even be able to listen to it. ANGEL 2 You shouldn't. SUPACREE I shouldn't, but I know i have to. ANGEL 1 In PUBLIC? JESUS Could go Incognito... ANGEL 2 INCOGNITO; The “oh please don't look at this:” easy algorithm engine for “LOOK AT ME, I'M HIDING SOMETHING.” MEANWHILE...IN DEEP MEDITATION…(IE OMNIPOTENCE) SUPACREE So... if a song is... nothing but question and answer, what's a song which references another in an attempt to address the question which was asked? ME A conversation between one song and another? MYSELF I guess, yes; I Well, that would be a symphony, I would suppose. SUPACREE It would, wouldn't it. ME That is, if the songs were in sync. MYSELF They could be made to be. I Every song is made to be in sync; ME I mean, two songs, made to be in sync with each other. _______ SUPACREE is on the floor at a rave. BASSGOD WAKE UP. SUPACREE This isn't funny anymore. ANGEL It was never funny. You have to get up. SUPACREE I'm up. BASSGOD You're NOT UP. ANGEL Come on, you have to do this. SUPACREE I'm doin it. GOD NO. ANGEL It's no use. She's so, so under there. It would take all of us to try to pull her out--that is without... [The darkening sky crumbles, as the thunderous storm rages, the battle between worlds expands throughout the outer galaxies.] ____ You're not skinny enough You're not pretty enough You're too dark, And you don't work quickly enough Much younger girls are putting in such Efforts, just to be, the perfect little beauty queen You wish you were, But couldn't be and kids these days are Everything that means anything Sometimes I Don't Wanna Be Happy… It was bad, But better than I'll ever be A basic remix, For the basic bitch that sings it And, I'm basically a Dillon Francis fiend, Have you seen this? Now it's getting serious, I seriously doubt there's anything I can do about it It's in God's hands and, I live in Satan's house How did he do this? How did this happen? The sad result of the damage, Cause i'm pretty sure The very last time my ex ever hit me Something got stuck on repeat; It's just eating me up. ___ [Untitled Document] What did we call that place, between “The Blackout” and waking up. Hazy. I thought it was something more clever. Maybe, but i'll never find it if i'm just scrolling through these documents. Write ”Untitled Document” That's all I've got, I guess. _____ [A DJ] Can be played by literally any DJ. A wild, wild party has happened. A DJ wakes up, previously having been sprawled out across the floor. A DJ Whose house is this…? Ugh. [Looks in mirror.] A DJ ughhh. [S/he gets up and stumbles groggily, stepping over bodies hunched and perched, slung about sleeping. Peacefully. The sun is bright, a curse to the eyes of the clearly hungover, and likely still quite inebriated DJ. ] CONCURRENTLY: >>> SUPACREE awakens from a ‘stupor' herself, displeased. She looks in the mirror, at first disgruntled, then “picks up her face” adjusts her perception, and decides, SUPACREE (“I'm good.”) Yep. [And she keeps it steppin, still asking aloud, as she ponders to herself;] SUPACREE Whose house is this? [And makes her way into the kitchen, where she (probably in a montage) cleans around the many bodies of hot people and rave babies still smudged and dripping in everything glittery; she appears to have ‘frozen time', as she vacuums faces and erases permanent marker penises drawn onto the foreheads and other exposed body parts of those who have fallen asleep with no shoes on. She cooks breakfast and straightens the entirety of what is now more recognizable as someone's home, though the owner still remains unknown. She sips coffee and reads the newspaper, as she steps behind the freshly detailed decks; and prepares a set through the headphones shes hung happily around her neck.] PAUSE ME See! THIS IS RIDICULOUS. MYSELF It is. Ridiculous. You can't vacuum someone's face! I Not that part-- MYSELF --Especially white people! ME You never said they were all white people. I I mean, predominantly; it said hot people and rave babies. MYSELF That's racist! ME It isn't. This whole scene would be entirely different, if it had nothing but black people in it. ALTERNATELY: She wakes up in the same house, but it's clean. SUPACREE ...Whose house is this? BEYONCE It's my house. SUPACREE It's... nice. BEYONCE Yes it is. ______ DILLON FRANCIS has the master plan. SUPACREE Ugh, he knows everything. GOD Not everything, dear, believe me. SUPACREE Everything that matters. GOD There's no such thing as everything that doesn't matter. SUPACREE ...What?! __ Don't look in there! You won't find anything in there. I hate these things. ____ It doesn't work if you don't practice. How do I practice without decks? You don't. How do I Dj without practicing? You don't. So DJing is just for rich people? I mean, primarily, or just...anyone with money, if you have it. Fuck this, I quit. You can't quit. If you quit we forfeit the game. No... You idiot. What game? I thought she knew about the game. What. game. Well, it's not just a game, it's a language. WHAT GAME. She's about to be so angry, dude, just--- Just run. ___ 8 Dimensional--wait, what? Oh, she finally made it. I never thought she'd get to this part. Well, she stopped eating meat and cooks asian food-- ---yeah, but that's like 6 different places-- She's not listening to Skrillex. --She's not skipping it-- --yeah, but she isn't listening to it actively.-- Josh Pan. Yeah. I am. Why. I thought we were past “why” We were, we were WAY past “why” It wasn't really a question, guys, don't worry about it. “Don't worry about it” Tsh. Tsh. ___ It's just an expression. “expression” yes. I get it-- ___ He named it “Kliptown Empyrean” What. What's “Empyrean”? I'd love to know, but I don't. Don't google it. I won't, I just. __ GO KARTS. With A K. __ Where's Kliptown? South of Capetown? South? South Afri-- Stop. HE”S AFRICAN? Stop. What's more offensive; Being called an African, or an Alien? ___ One off...hmmm… Always one off. ___ Get out of my house! This is your house? Thank God, I was starting to worry the owner like wandered off and got lost; or, you know (makes slitting throat) I... no, this is my--wait. Who are you? Me? I'm S U P A C R E E “S U P A C R E E”? [having been yet unrecognized, shes is used to having to spell it] Yeah; ___ Key of Cringe: I'm in a box with all my thoughts, And I am not on top of the world Or taking shots, I'm just rocking back and forth Like broken record, Repeating sequences, a robot A beat box of kittens Nobody wants I'm lost (if rock and roll will take me I wonder how much it costs) ____ What did this kid do? Nobody knows _Oh, shit, it's the Jews again. I love the Jews. We know. I keep telling you, you're jewish I'm not jewish my mom's… That's not your mom. Of course that's my mom. It's not, I already told you what planet you're on? __ Now, tell us why we wear our masks! Oh, there are lots of reasons for that. Tell us about the Sauce! All the sauce? Yeah!!! That would be a long story. __ Oh, the Google kids are cute, too. I especially love that little chunky one. He is cute, he's probably my favorite, actually ____ PIERCE? Who the fuck is PIERCE? Google it. I like this, this is- It's different, isn't it? Yeah, and then it __ Sunni—are you Jewish? I...identify as “Jewish” You can't just identify as Jewish. Well, I do. No, you can't just “identify” as Jewish; your mother has to be Jewish. Okay; my mother is Jewish. Sunni—you don't talk much about your family; who's your mother? Who's your mother?! Oh! Okay, we're done. See you next time, bye! What are you doing? What? “Identify as Jewish”?! WHAT?! I do! No I don't! You don't know me! Maybe not! But I know TMZ. I'm not on TMZ Sunni Blu is on TMZ What did I do?! YOu know what you did. ∆ Well, alright then. ∆ Must be something. ∆ I got it. . Don't look at me;; I'm a catastrophe, I'm just waking up now Don't look at me, I got so high i think I might not come down It's not a bad thing But I'm a bad guy, i promise It's not a bad thing, Don't look in my eyes; Especially if I like you Especially if you have other plans tonight, Or this morning That's right Time flies when you're (dynomite) Time flies when your mind right I didn't mean to stay here It's been nearly half a year, you know It's nearly half a year It's nearly half a y AHEM ALRIGHT. JESUS CHRIST. No, not that! [sighs heavily, frustrated] Enjoy Your Day. FARRO nobly sacrifices his own life during The Lovers Quarrel, as PETRUTHEIO attempts a final and fatall blow unwittingly against ‘CESMET' A saturn of satirical Return of reverb Expanding explosions of Outward and unearthly Worlds within words Or words within Worlds on the Curve of the Unwritten overtures of -Mother wow . I guess. Do you want a cup of coffee? I want you to shut the fuck up. What if Jimmy Fallon had a diary as a kid. And I found it when i shapeshifted into his body. Yeah, what if. What if this is it? [SUPER HUGE GASP] Oh, AHEM- No, i Gotta write this. AHH– Oh, the things i would do to you Oh, woah, The things you would do to me Oh, no, no, woah The things i would do AHHH– Don't be mad I'm a writer I'm like this Hi kids wanna see how sharp my knife is yikes Sigh, bitch, ive been sitting in silece With the lights off cause i like it Ilike it a lot, but uhm Ahem, The rabbi's mad cause that i'd write this And it's shabbat This is why i don't listen to deadmau5 anymore. What are you talking about *listenining to* GODDAMIT. what The invisible man, in Manhattan The sunglasses matches her madness The cloud cover looks just like Texas The suns going down And it's getting colder As the winds blows… 03. JIMMY FALLON All ya'll are all worth bout a dollar; I am a cyclone, watch me holler I lived my whole life underwater I got a dollar; Jimmy Fallon All ya'll are only bout a dollar I work so hard, I guess for nothin I am not worried bout a dollar I got a dollar; Jimmy Fallon I guess I'll do it on my own I had to do it all alone I made some soup, all out of stones I am the only one I know I am not worried bout the sauce I am so famous, got a stalker I am so famous Can't go no where I got a dollar, Jimmy Fallon I'm at the office, Not my home No collab I work alone Opened a business, got a loan I got a hundred of them passwords I went frontwards —1I went backwards Went to Manhattan, took a walk Went to the rock and dropped a rock Now put your money where your mouth is I got a thousand Jimmy Fallons (What's that) (I'm the host) What's that, what's that I work alone What's that what's that I dropped a rock into the rock What's that what's that I'm the host, I'm Jimmy {enter the multiverse/ as seen on tv} Story/ music video Moderately famous household television Jimmy Fallon suddenly begins appearing everywhere—that is—on every possible TV screen imaginable— The Protagonist, in confusion, can't seem to escape, and also amusingly begins finding Pennies in very strange and seemingly random places—these Pennies then begin opening up portals, breaking the fourth wall and opening worlds to other dimensions— Have you seen this? Uhh, hmwhat is it? Mits m “Two dumb Jews, starring Seth Rogen, and some other dude— Who's the other dude— some Jew,but it's got Adam Sandler in it. Oh, so three dumb Jews. So, no, then? I'd watch the shit out of that, though, tvh. Why's the synopsis? Uhh. Two Jewish musicians struggling to make it in new York's congested underground music scene hit it off in comedy by complete accident, after being booked as a duo for a comedy club they mistook for a bar. Heh. Okay, who does Adam Sandler play? “The Bookkeeper” What. Who the fuck is “the book keeper?” We'll see, I guess. “Two Broke hoes@ It's like two broke girls, but actually funny. What, be nice . Okay. Two Broke Ghosts That's better— — And marketable. Are you pale, or just— No, I'm dead. I'm dead. X.X Be NICE. Now our musical guests, SWAGGARBOMB. What in the fuck kind of music is that It's called “Dorkstep” [the doorbell rings] Great, who the fuck is I got a train car of your body count I got way far out to far rock away, way out Stop to talk to me, or don't, Kill your culture You need some? I got u— Probiotics, yo The truth hurts Your shit stinks Must be a mirror over herer Cause that's me I m your hero. Esha I think McGuiennes? Or McGrefor, after Ewab, maybe New York wants me to kill myself Maybe eventually New York if full of the devil The devil is money And everyone wants it The root of all evil, Is getting even The root of all evil Is people Beside myself, But besides that The ones hurting me, are soon to be where I am That's just karma The gangstalkers are soon to be stalked Coughed, and shot at The neighbors are soon to be eaten by their own demons When I don't clean them The root of all evil is evil, And that's all I see here White power wants me to kill my self The Caucasians get crazy when the race war is waging The elections are coming up And they see us coming up on conciousness They don't want us Just being honest They're hateful, They washed all the love out Thanks Karen But she don't care White firms just wanna have fun And they get to Meanwhile, me and I Eat shit( bro, And die Why's it nice to be white Even when you're wrong, you're right All you gotta do is lie, Open up your big blue eyes real wide and Decide what you want, Put us under your foot, And make us pay for it Thanks Karen Caucasians are terrorists I think it's McGuennes or however you spell it, cause half the names are like plays on Okay, I lie: You made a world where I have to Okay, I steal You took everything that I'm after already Or your ancestors did Call the luxury apartment reparations But ain't got no privacy, and hells angels and the kkk Ride motorcycles every time I get my eye on the prize So what's the price for being indegenous, black, and a genius White supremacy finds sneakier ways to kill you ESHA MCGUENNES (I thought figure out how to spell that. My left side's off I guess I got Stuck in the love of the art I was writing that part When the life of my love Fell over me A lover huh I'm so confused. I'm sorry bro, But if you're morbidly obese, But your feet are like a size 6– You are not BIG BONED. My doctor said I have a small frame, my feet are size 9, I went from a 10 to an 8.5 after losing 200 hundred pounds, I'm like “goddamn! Even my feet were fat! Fuck” But if you're fat like I was and your feet are size 6, your feet might be like a si3 4! You're a fat fucking pixie that fucked around and can't do little pixie shit now, cause you like pixie sticks Too much I'm just the rat in the dumpster I made this whole world up I swallowed the doctor I hearted the surgeon I locked up the dog catcher; I cauldron'd the Mormons I called it a sermon, but He called them all — Wait, who is Herman?! I don't know! Some black guy on that show I'm writing! what. I don't know. You're writing a show?! I'm on it! Ugh, I don't know. No fair, You really know how to make me cry When you give me those ocean eyes Those ocean eyes Good looking people In good looking places Doing good things; I just want to be Good today Good looking people Good looking people Bye, bye little bird, Think of the dreams we made Think of the drummer boy, Your lover boy, Then, the other boy There we go again, With the drums we played And the love we made It just won't make it Oh I Just Can't take it Can I come back yet? SHUT UP, GAYBRAHAM LINCOLN. I'm having breakfast at 10 am Thinking damn this depression is just setting in There's a chest on my elephant Chester drawer with hand carved elements Elephant ok my chest, Clisets with hangers and button ups I haven't won't yet What FOR WHAT FOR. MY EYES. For the sake of the art, I heart ya. For perhaps if I love, That's how I lost ya. So I keep all my love close, The brothers have found the fountain How many dollars do tootsie pops cost For one Jimmy Fallon? return to the blacklist. Great. Now I'm Jimmy Fallon. Well what's fucked up! What happened! FUCK! I hate being Jimmy Fallon! Whose dick swings to the right like that. Ow. FUCK. Fuck this guy. GODDAMMIT. -_- Let me in. Or I could just leave you out. No, don't do that. WHY. Ahh. Shhhhhh!!! What if someone sees me. Hmm, let's see. [rings neighbors dooorvelk, shuts door] No! The neighbor opens the door; now gifted with the ability to see demons, after merging with Fast forward Oh no, when did that thing come into play (When this happened) Liz lemon lives on the ground floor It don't matter cause she ain't never home l She's at the rock That's all the way up Good talk, Donaguey, Good, Good Talk Good people Good show Good good times It's good to be long gone from home Go to work at the plaza That ones Conan. Oh, Why?! Why not, though. OH, you mean— Katt. What up Snoop . Ahh, Look what the pimp limped in. You think you're clever. You think you're at least 5 foot—but you're 4 foot 9 I'm STILL WINNING CHARLIE SHEEN relapses on the dance floor Oh shit. Relapses to which habit? All of them! 10-4 CALL RUSSEL BRAND. Csnt. Why not. He's blacked out. What? Another relapse?! No, he just— passed out KABLAM. “The Cockney Thug” He's just like that now. God What is it. Can I have ham in my spam samwhiches. —you want ham in your spam sandwhich. Yes. Roasted cantaloupe with Put your notebook On my throat-Scrotum I like your poems So I wrote you this one Oh. That's. Welcome—to the' creepy shit fans have done for u's backlogs. “Backlogs” Well, I have millions of fans, It would take me years to look at all this. [the festival project] Woah. Woah. Ok. Yo. Have you seen this. What is it. I don't know. Hm. Look. Woah: Yeah, it's— Wow Ok. It just goes on like this— For how long— For like GOH GOH l GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO CUT TO: Latest — 1:04 WHAT? MEANWHILE ….IS THAT A JIMMY FALLON? LOOKS LIKE ONE. SHOOT THAT MOTHERFUCKER. ok , boss. I told you, He would play The Devil's Advocate, If need be [JIMMY FALLON is shot mercilessly in the shoulder in broad daylight.] YO. THEY SHOT ME. He'll be okay. He's Jimmy Fallon. [LIKE 90,000 Ambulances and a SWAT team roll up.] See. DEADMAU5 charges himself in a high speed chamber—a tech-driven coffin via a USB port in his neck. Lol. Ok. (PDA) Public Displays of Affliction I've never even see. A. Aston Martin Sometimes it's worth it, Getting lost in Manhattan I just saw the sign I wouldn't dare entering, anyhow Not in this outfit Not in this predicament (I just left the Whole Foods market) I got lost and god was happy Motor cars for music Force a figure ibto music Forgive Annie, Run a mile what's a california smile In New York What a garden Oh, what a garden Double back. For a second glance Oh, don't we all want second chances Now I've been an Aston Martin Motorists dot muses now u want her What a party I just saw the sign Now I've been an Aston Martin All by design Companion passing through KAWS I just bought a Ferrari I said, Where the roof is?! Where the roof is?! Blū electrico Roof finished in Nero Just a hit of magic A menacing, incredibly ambedextrous submissive One time I played God, I was hanging as the sun in Toronto In my third eye was a camera lense; My baby daddy, Lover and my best friend My husband My lover and My best friend My brother And my father Were my best friends Once upon a time I never had friends Now I remember sitting in the backseat, Has been I remember when I never had ribs I remember when I never had meat Nice to meet you I already had a coffee I remember sitting in the front seat Once upon a time I was anno one Once upon a dollar, Jimmy Fallon Once upon a dollar, Jimmy Fallon Once a bunch of Pennies, lady Gaga I'm a baby, haha Once upon a time, I was a no one A nobody Once upon a dollar, Jimmy Fallon I remember penny was a virgin I remember when you were the third one, l Once upon a time I was the first one Once upon a time, I thirst my quench with Coffee Body guard! I remember going on a long run I remember once there was a Knock on my door Now I quench my thirst with smart water With a hard on Never was a smart one Just an artist I was no one Once upon a dollar Jimmy Fallon Once upon a nothing, there was no one Now I take my coffee on a long ride No fun Once upon a dollar, Jimmy Fallon Amen I wish for every dollar I ever had, back Jimmy Fallon I wish it was 11:11, every Dillon Francis I wish for sandwhiches on leavened bread at Passover I wish this whole world would Passover, With the the stories in my home And in my notebook I wish for the fame and wealth with it, Jimmy Fallon I wish I never laughed at Dillon Francis I wish Skrillex was never a demon, I take it back I want the wealth And not the fame Just the freedom, Jimmy Fallon What do you mean by that? A dad, an actor An attack, The press is back and asking questions I can't handle that I can't. I just can't with that Abandon the matrix Go back to What's his name But I can't Cause I made him up Call my mother begging to drop the charges Called my God Just asking what the pocket watch does What's an engagement ring like that coat How much to rug the cameras up Inside my home So I don't know about em That shit's priceless Like the 9 Dollar's I've got Marked up, but not to spend them at the Market Jimmy Fallon I pray for your family But not as hard as I pray For my son Or God To take this fat off So I can look like Jennifer Aniston Cause that's God to em, 22 year old Adam Sandler At a brunch A talk show with my Least favorite host of all time Jimmy Fallon But I love to laugh, huh I just got back, God My house is a mess I want meth like AshGod If Method man was drinking up the water Would there be backwash It's a horrible, windfall This awesome art project My broken heart The coughing stalkers Whatever the fuck is going on in New York I love New York But not New Yorkers It hurts to be the worst person The first person to put reverse curses On shamans from the 3rd world And I'm living in the first world, But I just learned that Underneath the surface Is the fourth world That's some dichotomy Huh That's some diabolical plot The cosmic avenger is stuck in a dimension Of white pocket tenses And white bitches who get offended With this scripture But listen I just got up And I've been privy to Never sleeping again Norman Needs you, Mrs. Hotch But I was never Mrs. Roberts With all of the hearts and crosses , stars I give up on love Where's DimlonnFrancis at That's a man without a mask, That's a mannequin m. Just got up And I still want breakfast All I got is Stuff that's leavening A hand in my pocket Just for God to show me Nobody I want wants me Jimmy Fallon has a family That's a tragedy, that But I laughed so hard in the bathtub I still haven't come back from that I feel bad for em, actually All the husbands Cause I was the wife that sucks And he hated me so much I got punched in the— Doesn't matter Stuck in the telling it over and over Nobody loves me My new password is Fuckit I'm gone galloping horses, And hornets, I'm just a furniture Probably should have aborted me, mother Just like you wanted to But I'm still in the hospital On the honor roll Cause I had them all lined up The prophets of the “Impossible, could not be my God!” That's what they all said, But they dressed me up like Some sort of messiah, So I was, then It wasn't right, no That was malpractice But now I've got Camping in Malibu Crossed off my list forever Shit It's some dichotomy Just hold onto me I'm the rock, You're the kite now, Jimmy Fallon I was just better off dead, You know Better off stuck in my head, you know. I read your messages, every one of them Every one of the drugs in my bucket I threw up from the fan club Impossible, Could not have been at that clown JIMMY FALLON - THE COSMIC AVENGER JIMMY FALLON THE COSMIC AVENGER is levitating in a hyper-meditative state. UH – “hehe” …I beg your pardon. “Hehe” Um… Fuck. Or “haha” “haha” … Just admit it. … Admit it already! –haha. Admit WHAT. This gets Levels. Nobody thought Patrice O Neal was a woman! I thought Patrice O Neal Was a Woman. Ah, fuck, I'm nobody. “Nobody” Is that Bob Saget? I swiped right on this dude, just cause he looked exactly like Bob Saget. Omg. Bob Saget! Fuck, that's right. EXT. THE W HOTEL, BEVERLY HILLS, DAY/ EXT . PODSHARE WESTWOOD ROOFTOP, DAY OH MY GOD, GUYS, LOOK: IT'S BOB SAGET. No it's not! Oh My God! Yeah IT IS! Fuck, really?! Bob Saget?! BOB SAGET! YO GUYS, IT'S BOB SAGET. It was, in fact, Bob Saget. Bob Saget's dead, right? Oh yeah, bud. That's it guys! No more dead celebrities! I'm coming with you! NO MORE GHOSTS. Look, I have something to tell you. UGH. COME ON. This is a weird superpower. EXT. GRAVEYARD, QUEENS, NY. DAY … … … Having fun yet? Alright! I have a question! What? When do I get to– Get to what? You know. Luckily, I die long beore Jimmy Fallon, and as my time approached, I took all i could absorb from the world within, and without, almost as if any and all of my deathwish had been satiated with the gentle ease, the notion of knowing my imminent death would come long before what those surrounding me would consider my time, and therefore would not be made to lose anymore than I already had–but at least, I did have th strength in knowing, not only would i never grow so old as to see for show most of what I had done, but that I had done most of what I would have at all, and not much longer than my words would form into all that would come to be known as my full body of work, I would perish, even before–long before– those I had studied, admired, and known to love–if only through the fourth wall, at all. The invisible man, in Manhattan The sunglasses matches her madness The cloud cover looks just like Texas The suns going down And it's getting colder As the winds blows… THAT was a HARD left turn. So, what time can we listen to Excision? Sometime after intermission. How many acts is this again? ___ I told you, IN-FIN-ITE. Okay… I just wanted to know how long it would take? ___ I know someone that cold get us in _____ (Sitting on a speaker in the BassPod) What is she doing? What are you doing? Charging. __________ I think I found that girl you were looking for. Where is she? I said I found her: I didn't say you could have her. She's not a possession, I'm just trying to talk to her. You didn't mention that she was-- Be careful with your words. Oh, I think it's you that ought to be careful. You're losing your power over her and it shows. Mm. And what about your ‘power', hm? I haven't any power over her-- Oh, but you do-- Will Power at best, That would only be half of it. That would be all I had anything to do with; she was given free agency. HA. “Given”? ____ awww look at that bass face. Well, that's one reason... __ Ah what! you can change your entire frequency? No Fair, I can't do that You can, it just takes practice. What kind of practice-- ___ Oh shit, this hits different with two headphones. It all hits different with headphones. Calorie Deficit Calculator: -3423 Oh shit. Well how many calories did I eat? BEFORE: …chocolate chip cookies? NO— —CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIESzzxz— [CC/SUPACREE robotically and autonomously ditches her bicycle outside of sprouts, not giving a Fuck.] —s—noh! stop it! Stop controlling me! THEY ARE VEGAN. SO? STOP IT. Ooh, what's this. I don't know— get it. CC/SUPACREE stands awkwardly at the checkout with a varied selection of vegan baked goods. *beep* Yeaaaahh. So wait. SUPACREE is controlled by aliens? WE ARE GODS. Knock it OFF! [NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: SUPASTRENTH ] Nice. Yeah dude. Watch this. The Legend of Supacree is the #1 MMORPG in the world; it is also happening in real-time, in multiple worlds within the multiversial construct of the actual Omniverse. AGHHHHH In fact, nobody even plays GTA or call of duty anymore. YAH! [Random objects falling from the sky. ] SUPACREE Oh, nice. INSTANT MANIFESTATION. JUST POST THE FUCKING EPISODE ALRIGHT?! this bitch is fucking crazy. Watch this. Watch what? SHIA LABEOUF discovers The Legend Of Supacree franchise and becomes villainously obsessed with It, hatching a heinous and maniacal plan to hunt her down and capture her—tracking her every move and learning everything about her he can. Wtf. I don't know. Is he a villain? I don't know. I guess. I'M A SUPERVILLAIN. …He's a supervillain. I guess. Why?! I don't know. This is creeps. It is creeps. [lifts one eyebrow.] SUPACREEps. Scary monsters and supacreeps. Heh. NO, NO MUSICIANS. Heh. SHIA LABEOUF is a straight up gangster. HE'S CRAZY! [SHIA LAUGHING MANIACALLY.] Oh, wow– That dude is a straight up psychopath. You're a straight up psychopath. I'm not arguing. What is THIS part of the story? Well, son, you made it through. WOODY HARRELSON? WHAT. Woody Harrelson?! WHY? I don't know. He just fit the part. WHAT PART?! WHAT/! Nobody quite understands what's happening in ENTER THE MULTIVERSE, however, THE LEGEND OF SUPACREE has taken an incredible turning point, intersecting with the world of LEGENDS and THE SECRET LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ/ THE SUITE LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ. IT HAS? YES? WHERE? I WANNA DIE. OH! That's not SUPACREE! [CC HULK SMASHES her bike onto the rack on the bus. THE HULK, sitting just in front stares at her wide-eyed as she boards the bus over the rim of his sunglasses.] Oh, maybe, nevermind. Wait! Is it THE HULK, or MARK RUFFALO? I don't know! I don't give a shit! Why are you even writing this? Uhhhhhhhh. [CC's brain is slowly melting as she rides the bus to work. THE HULK– OR IS IT MARK FUCKING RUFFALO!? I DON”T FUCKING CARE– THERE'S A DIFFERENCE WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE IT – DOESN'T– MATTER! ‘It doesn't matter.' Chal's words echoed in my head almost too loudly–as boldly blind and sometimes even dumb as he was, he was also wise, and as it turned out, right–it really didn't matter. Nothing mattered at all. I had gone through the motions of reaching out to him, to of course as expected learn that he and whatever her name was had gone their separate ways; I understood that would be the case nearly immediately back in Mazunte, but as he was insistent he would woo her–and persistent in doing so, that I thought maybe after all love– or what really turned out to be his obstinate lust would win the day–and yet, it hadn't; he was again single and on the prowl– and although at one point I had even lusted after him briefly, trailing behind him in nonchalant platonic carelessness as he obsessively followed another woman, had allowed me to become comfortable enough in the friendzone that i could just simply exist next to him; Now, again faced with homelessness and factoring in my inability to travel much further than south of the border, especially now knowing well how to travel throughout mexico and into Guatemala, I wondered truly if my own self-worth had really been lowered to the point of allowing myself to meet Chal in Guatemala–even full well knowing that he, too, preferred perfect and illy white to my dark skin and quite seemingly matronly features, and, knowing for myself that I wasn't his first choice– as he and I had of course met in Mazunte around the same time he had met whom he considered to be ‘his Goddess'-- albeit while on a topless beach and thus hynotized by her breasts. Men were hopeless. Then, here I was, waking up every other sleep cycle in the cold sweat of a wet dream, the subject of which I typically at least tried to keep deeply hidden in my subconscious psyche as secrets, although by now it seemed there really were none, and all that I knew and that I thought were known and seen by some other than myself–though somehow still holding true to my belief that there really was none other than myself–in my own broken and twisted world, alone and punished in the depths of mediocrity and shame. Woah. Riding the bus. There's nothing lower. There's walking. To the bus. Yah. And all the sick people. And all the crackheads. And all the–what are those? Demons [demon hacks.] Ugh, fucking–ugh. SHIA LABOUFF'S obsession with SUPACREE is helga petaki-meets Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah's couch. Oh, wait, we're back on that storyline? I mean– I don't know how to write this. Just write it. he's a villain, right? I mean, that suit. SHIA LA– FUCK. WHAT?! Worst last name EVER. Well, not ever– Wait, is he black?! –It sounds french. GOOGLE SEARCH: ‘How Jewish is Shia LaBeouf? ‘ –no, he's Cajun – That's french-black–wait— –what? Cajun AND Jewish? –Yeah– Jesus! JESUS What? (raises one eyebrow) SUPACREE strategizes a plan of attack. Attack for what? {ATTACK} YOUUUU INCEPTED ME!!! AGH! {COUNTER ATTACK} NOT ME! DISNEY! {DODGING COUNTER ATTACK} Yeah, Blame “Disney!” I JUST DID. Oh, yeah, right!! RAVEN SYMONÉ It was Disney. THEY OK'D THIS?! They bought Marvel! THEY OK'D EVERYTHING. —Even the SKRILLEX? Especially the Skrillex —Especially the Skrillex. AGHHHHHHHH—— ———-AAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!! SHIA LABEOUF VS SUPACREE: FIGHT!!!! Everything looks good— —everything looks good. Everything looks fine— —Everything looks fine. But wait— What? What about that guy? Oh My— —oh my… Is he gonna be alright? Is that guy —gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright? Is—that guy gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright Is that guy— Gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright?? Is that guy gonna be alright?! Is that guy gonna be alright m? Everything looks good— —everything looks fine Looks good— But what about that guy? …I don't know about that guy. Is he alright? Yo. Yooo. Stop writing songs about Skrillex. ((I literally can't.)) What?! It doesn't have to be about Skrillex! It could be about anybody! Here, they call with disco balls Stars in my eyes, but stars do fall First true love dies hard after all, No star shines bright as morning comes —(for) Sonny …I didn't write that. CUT TO: CC writes automagically between sets of heavy lifting. IMAGINARY FRIENDS, PART III DEADMAU5!!!! okay—one more—then cupcakes— Cupcakes? No cupcakes! I WANT CUPCAKES. Uh—No way! YES WAY. Mmm—no I'm sick of this diet! I'm not on a diet! I eat! You eat GRASS. I'm a vegan. This shit sucks. I told you, grass tastes bad. RICK?! (I also want cupcakes. ) Mmkay—ohh. You said that was the last one. No, more more. NO “one more” But I like this one—and it has the right amount of weights on it already—see? Jesús Christ He's not here. (Yes I am). Why the Fuxk. I also want cupcakes Okay, one more No “one more” The power of Christ compels ye! … Is that how that works? No. Maybe. (((Yes.))) AGHHH. The celebrities of Hollywood are gang stalking SUPACREE Can we— No. But I didn't even get to ask the question. The answer is no. THE CELEBRITIES OF HOLLYWOOD, after assembling with the Bampheramphs and Morherfuckers, have formed a supergroup tasked with bringing SUPACREE to THE HOLLYWOOD PEOPLE—so far, they have cunningly out-bested and outwitted THE US GOVERNMENT, including but not limited to THE FEDS, THE CIA, THE FBI and THE SECRET SERVICE. REALLY? I GUESS. HOW?! — DRAKE snoops on SUPACREE as she writes working half heartedly at THE NECK MACHINE with peaking curiosity, peaking over the time of his sunglasses. Whats it called. “Nautilus 4 way neck “ BPM: you're a jerk Do the Drake Do the Drake Do the Drake Work that neck Work that— Neck, Becky Work that neck, Work that neck Do the— “new note: Purchase ‘Honestly, nevermind' I had worked an entre month at LVAC before the circus went underway; Not a single drop of Skrillex had ever been played over the loudspeakers at any moment, for any of the time I had been employed there, nor had it burdened me any of the other time I had spent bettering myself within what I once cherished as sacred walls–now the illusion shattered, as nowhere I could seem to run – even the rural coastal jungle of Mexico-was far enough to escape the clammerings of something I quite honestly very much still loved, but wouldn't allow myself to enjoy— Or maybe, now, couldn't. BANGARANG. ‘Fuck this shit.' I wanted to move, but didn't—I wanted to leave, and probably should have, but wouldn't. I just sat there through it as my coworker, standing at about 5'4 ½ in a pair of tight black skinny jeans sang along and bounced rhymically. What the fuck. Then, as it had just been earlier that I was thinking of Sonny himself, and how, be it that any of my premonitions were actually accurate and true as I had once thought them to be, there would perhaps come a day that I regretted not listening to his works, just as one regrets not spending time with a loved one before their passing not giving enough attention to the little things, the tiny details, the time they had missed, but never missed without missing their loved one until it was too late. Then again, for me, any time in the then- present was too late, as I had only been followed, taunted, and ridiculed, openly humiliated and embarrassed, and never really paid directly for anything I had done, whether it did have to do with Skrillex or otherwise –and so I had made it more than a point to distance myself from it, anything having to do with it, or him, or anything really, music related—of course besides relying heavily on deadmau5 just for my own existence–that is, willingness wake up, move about the world and its endless, pointless constructs, and even so, completing a worthwhile workout with enough satisfaction that I could allow myself to leave the building–and now, with my commute taking up a grand total of 4 hours of my entire day—I didn't have the time or the energy to stay late into the days and even afternoons as I had before, or to arrive early as I had in the days and weeks before; Now this job was amounting to nothing at all, and I was surely less than breaking even. Whats the worry? You've got 20 minutes to write a story! Don't be sorry Mind your orders. You're a war chief Marry me, Oh pretty please— I plead to you, just sing for me Just think of me as a Never ending fantasy, At the very least When you bury me —and you buried me alive, Just for the look of things What makes us even Slitting wrists Or splitting things unevenly (Either thing benefits me, And my penis, I think.) Make me famous— She said Hate me or debate me, I have everything I need And I have everything you have, But I can leave, All with my dreams intact I do believe You think I'm evil Either way, unnecessary Why would I sit down and write a story— When you just did it for me? Why would I pledge allegiance to old glory She's ignoring me; Why would I change my name to satisfy your needs When mine sit idly by waiting Why would I dream of you, When you dream of me I have all I need, You have all of me in the other room While you watch cartoons with your lady I hate anime and now I hate you too, But I'm so stupid, Nothing soothes my moods, Except playing your tunes, Or music Whoop De Fucking do Would you Marry Me? He said (He never did, he just let her—) She said, I do And now they're doomed I built a tomb for two The bride and groom In music Two by two And used by Tuesday Music I presume To the beautiful Music I presume For the usual Music I presume For those who —- SHIA LABEOUF JUST DO IT. That is not how the end of the song goes. No, but this is how the end of the episode goes. Really!? How? [CC stares lifelessly forward out of the front window of the double decker bus; a man dressed in all blue catches her attention—another telepathic shapeshifter.] You brought…an umbrella? I told you there was a shit storm coming. Oh, nooh. Where's yours? I— don't care? That's right you don't. I don't. That's good you don't. I really don't. You don't give a Fuck, or a shit. I—don't give a fuck or a sh—wait— DILLON FRANCIS? I'm good at what I do. What do you DO? THIS. “A Silent Partner” Oh. I like that. That has all kinds of insinuations. Doesn't it? Hermph. You're a creep. A Supacreep. PAUSE ITS MISTER MAGOOoOOOOOOOooO0oO. No, it's the IRS. Fuck. HOLY SHIT SUNNI. WHAT. HOW DO YOU OWE 100,000 IN BACK TAXES?! Student loan debt. WHAT. THAT DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE. Yes it does. HOW. Calm down Marci —MY ÑAME IS— [Sunnī Blū subdues her instantly with one if Supacree's mysterious rave weapons] Sit down, please. …what is that? You like it? Yeah. [she gives her another dose of strange vapor, she relaxes even further.] See. Yeah. Now that you're happy— —am i “happy” ? [she gives her another relaxing dose] —are you Happy? Yeah. Ok. So. I never filed my taxes because I had so muc

She get mad when I around— Buried these things like seeds; They put us in the ground, They didn't know we were trees; She sees me, retreats m She sees me, retreats Kaleena time he bc what was over there; They love us when we're big, ugly, ghetto and funny But Nothing But Nothing Your kind forces us to lie, I guess He wants me, but likes your eyes, I guess At least I tried, I guess At least you tried I guess This is not my violence This is not my war, I'm just fighting it Don't know what you did this for; Listen in to send the enemy I envy them They envy me But I'll do this thing independently I don't need your white supremacy Was thinking you could be a friend of me, But ended in a tantrum, Guess she's scared to see me elevated —still cant fuckin hater White girls are fuckin haters —but I can't fuckin hate em That's the mirror-mirror— She was hating so bad, She took her man with her I got bad manners around her She gets mad when I dance And this is how I found her In a trance: Now the iPhone tells her when to attack, I'll be right back to happy, But unfortunately for insomniac, I'm still black. How white woman's intolerance and fragility l have yet to mix well with black excellence. It was the second time the same woman—or at least the same type of woman had shown herself to be quite put off by just my mere presence—then again( it seemed like all of them were beginning to look and act the same, as they supposed they all saw us, anyway—but perhaps it was with the changing of the times that it was beginning to tire them; now we had become as a whole, at least into the medi, which if anything would only seek to divide us further—and it had. I could never trust these types of girls anymore to be friendly without the salt of distaste upon her brow, or a disdain entirely — Fuck it, I'm sick of this skin. I miss you all , at the Rock, you know Broadcast to the top of my eye, Through my heart and my lungs, But I'm too far from God, now, you know (I still can't turn it off, Now I have to wake up and get going, You know You're not always God, You become One You're not always lost, When in love You're just not home This was never my home, But an office I should owe deposits and faucets, But honest to awful, I want to stop talking, And fall into nothing From comas, Come up then From commas to sorries I'm not even colored! I'm borderline In black and white As seen on The Office As seen on Cops as seen on Is this a rock album, or what?! As seen on The screen Don't look at me Don't look at me It really keeps me safe and simple No one save me, Just let me lie naked and rot With my thoughts, And my Something Something Something Wishing Someone else would love me Pick another lover Throw a rock, And climb the mountain Let it roll, and He's really pissed about this little list I'm still glitching and flinching Over Kayla Lauren And “the girl who sung the water song” Is what they'll call her two years from now Why would Del Beatty pick me to compete Against his daughter— For diversity, Or just to push me to the end of extinction? The one who sings Adele will win this one, Just suffer longer, Soak a little Choke on your own thoughts Broadcast from the Rock, It's only Tuesday Just rehearsal Just a writing room, with no one in it But my homelessness Just another box With too much stuff inside to sort through Just another martyr in my eyes Who wants to leave this world behind By suicide Has anyone else noticed The motorcycle causes more disturbances, But only when I rub my pussy Or my tired eyes? Must be the feds, Cause the cops can't do shit Why call the cops, When they're not yet polished enough To detect a terrorist Who uses a Kawasaki To make sure my ex Continues to punch me Over and over And over and over Till I lose the words to my songs In the holes in my stomach This is fucked up I just wanna go surfing, And come home I can't go back, you know This attack on the blackness is facts, you know Likeness is what it attracts, you know You going to EDC? No! They don't want me there It's just now okay To stare in the mirror She can't hear us anymore, that's it. That's a wrap, I guess. “I guess” She knows We were all theatre fiends And weirdos, She knows We l all could have been friends, In another world And she knows Nobody knows where she goes When one show is over, Another just closed, And it's up close and personal Up close and personal It's a Rock Opera, a musical I suppose She knows Someone must have bugged her phone The whole house is bugged! Hidden cameras all over the place, And she knows, She'll never be safe And she'll never be home And no one can save her From Satan, Who takes over Everything And every body And all she knows; Until she just Where'd she go?! I don't know! Are you SERIOUS?! Earlier I had Kenan and Kel here, But it's been hell here— Between capital one and Amazon Someone loves the one who punched me More in than anyone could ever love me. Why would Jan make me a crying shame, If she thought we were all the same? She hated me. Just a tough grader, Hacked to her google, And back to the drawing bored— Story lord! Story lord! Glorified whore of the horror show, No Rocky Mountains, though a So far from the west coast, Cast out of shadows From the past From everlasting tragedy To ever after Have Jan and Andy accept my Grammy; And the Tony for Iambic Cause I just can't Goddamn stand it Being this black at all Or, Not black at all I guess that's my power I'm an actor, On behalf of The Blackness You're right, that was tragic. I have a sense of energy about these things. I have this— Elephant on my chest, And I just need to rest a bit more, Before I fast again, Because honestly, all of a sudden It hurts a lot more for digestion Than focus and concentration, Lately, I just can't fake it I love New York, But I hate the fame Without the money Every projects on a budget And everyone who sits below me looks like roaches And I'm hopeless, just hoping Thomas Edison and his little friends Don't shut the lights off Before I can book my show, But you know— This is getting really strange, cause Every day I'm more obsessed with Tina Fey And I can't even really say her name, Or the game we're playing I don't want to hurt nobody's family; It must have been grounds for damnation to say Anything, To say anything To say anything —and actually mean it (But for three days, She didn't say shit!) As was written This fame thing is getting legit, As was scripted, But being honest, I'm just breaking from the pressure of unknowingness What to do with this What to do with this That's a secret, you know! You just keep speaking in tongues, And leaving doors open behind you, when you should be closing them! You keep abandoning projects, And that album couldn't get done Without doing some Salt, What. She's cutting up salt. REALLY?! I don't want to talk about the hard stuff, no! I don't want to talk about passwords, Surfboards, flagships, Jo/hns, or bananas— I'd never talk again, If I didn't have to! Suddenly, the light got brighter; I like this album, I look just like that —he looks just like me, Or used to I don't want nobody no more I just want to Nothing. If Qualudes were standard in the 80's Why persecute a Namesake who shouldn't be Shrouded in shame As I am the same As I ever was, As we all are As he was And she was Was I there? A dark thought, then. Pause. Why isn't poverty listed as The main reason we can't see Or achieve world peace Why can't she see That I see her man staring back at me And I would be mad, too I might even be tantruming If that thing came in With an ass twice my size And starts dancing, Or, You know, just Working it out Cause these racists are trying to kill me With Satan— And he's even using babies I light candles She smokes newports He hires whores and consorts These people make me sick— But I just keep Writing them into my project Pretending that Maybe if I keep changing enough Something won't hate me enough to keep making me Suffer longer Surfs up in california, so You're going back to the homeless shelter! You're going back to the place where the niggers and immigrants fight over nothing Or California, where the weather is warm But you could be camping, so Best find a job, For the lights turn off Or you turn yourself out for Some business cards “And this is WHY she doesn't DESERVE her son!” It's like some telephonic interception The definition of intrusion and terrorism But who is there to call When there's no one at all And they're targeting all of the dark skinned Smart ones At least the ones that aren't fucking for stardom! Fucking cunts and fucking hypocrites Fucking shut the door Fuckig shut your mouth kid I ran down the mountain, Never to find my way back But I'm still in a blue eyed Trash can All the people are trash now! Tell me, What would you do, Tel was cute, But his wife was stupid— Why would he choose her? (Cause you're just a kid!) Here you are, just a ghost In one of the most racist, hateful places America hated you since grade school Suffer harder, suffer longer. Tell me what would you do, If the man who made your husband's mother Kill herself By the kiss of his fist, To the barrel of her gun Asked for the strands of your dead son's hair? tell me, What would you do If this wifebeater Asked for locks of your dead sons's hair?! TELL ME WHAT YOU DID WITH HIS HAIR! Now they're all acting strange like Satan But I'd rather eat a train to my face Than ever go back to Or even hear his voice again— If I'm behing honest It wasn't the cheating— It was the beating me —It runs in his family The malpractitioner of what should be Healer's Magic Shamanism Hypnotism It's a cynavle trick of hypocrisy He wants me dead and gone for walking off But all the monsters and skeletons in my closet Came from the Punch the clock Clocked in the Punch the clock Clocked in the Punch the clock (That's the ensemble, with the chorus ) At least I ran the mile I was going the distance (The ensemble and solo part switches, so I put them in different dimensions.) As least I ran the mile I was laughing and smiling —till I saw the sign on my arm Had forgotten me Once again That's why you don't date fans And you can't make friends In fame school You can make all you want But you just can't take it with you Nobody will sign you! Especially insomniac! Not cause you're black— You just can't get past this I just can't get past this. They're racists No, here's some black kids— But they're actors Attractions, For ticket sales Attractions, And ticket sales Attractions And ticket sales I hate competition, But I love Beyonce The pain in her voice on lemonade, it took me down a— Black, black holes Super nova, super nova I was Ivy, once, you know But now I'm Blū, too That's what the truth is Yesterday was good, But today, I just hate myself Yesterday was good, But today I just hate myself Yesterday was good, But I just hate the sound of raging neighbors Motorcycles, And fireworks— I'd rather hear gunshots At least that means Somebody's problems got solved, Of course, It also means A mother lost a sun And I missed another sunset Jacking off, Without a someone to Love me I saw my insignia Inside of your eye And collided here I guess I was a weaponized assassin Every lie I told, an act, Disguised as a question Designed for the highest power The man of the hour I guess I was just made to suffer, Everything I stole, Pots of gold at the end of the rainbow, Things they had stolen from us Food, clothes, jewlery, fruit and water Peace of mind and Justice, order, Education— Closing borders Now places the border collie above us, Dogs are so much more important than The star search is over The man of the year has been hired The president has been fired Discovered a liar, A thief And the world that collapsed behind her As she tried to Fall back onto All the impossible thoughts That were caught at the rock's antenna Caught on the rock's antenna We lost one Caught on the rock's antenna We lost another Caught on the rock's antenna We caught a story I was just thinking, How everything I did back in school— The actions for the words I never had before All the rejections, and reflections of the Repellant that my ugliness was Just a joke With my arms wide open You wouldn't even know this kid, if you saw her And you wouldn't even know this woman, if you met her You could never say her name, Because she hasn't one Ah, jeez, I really do like his swing —I really do love his wife, She's nice No wiki leaks For the children of celebrities Or their families With respect to privacy Which I already haven't Just for writing this I'm being honest Every time I lie It's cause the truth would just hurt harder What's the worst one ever? What was worse than to Put scars on her arms For the marks of the stars For the blood was just cursed For the curve on the pavement Did remind me We were driving Our bodies around the speedway Like race cars We race cars In race wars We raise stars Up from nothing We race cars In race wars We raise stars Up from nothing Come to EDC, with me. I wish, She says But that could never be —that could never be me. We race cars In race wars We raise scars Upon the lips, We left scars Upon the knuckles Sick of always watching Something just short of disturbing —always ever attracted to These things, which to me look like children —and with him, I had Nothing . Sploosh. What. That's what's happening now: SPLOOCH. You cannot DO this. I mean, I already did, technically. Well, it— Ajax Flac THIS CANNOT HAPPEN: What the fuck. Idk. I can't go back there. What happened. Nothing! Had it ever occurred that The soaks in saltwater Are taking her back to the ocean Where she belongs, But can't afford to go to Had it ever occurred to you that a quarter per word on this project Would have earned you Exactly enough To keep going. What it boils down to was, The news today is Cloudy with a chance of That dance was awesome That wasn't a dance, It was a brutal attack On Jimmy Fallon. Finally. Thank you, No pictures, please god BLESS the paparazzi! Now that's the positivity We called for in the first place She slated and named it But that was before the first take The cut takes The cut takes Thank you, No pictures please God DAMN this paparazzi That's how they caught me Holding hands In the back was The white rabbit In his arms was Alice in Wonderland And I'm still jealous, And a little mad It's just a metaphor For the equator SOUTH. Than you, No pictures please Fuck the paparazzi Fuck the paparazzi Fuck, Nobody loves me anymore I gottta make some more Art Some more love Some more movies GOD BLESS THE PAPPARAZZI (It's still a rock opera) I gotta make some more Soup Some more food for these people More shoes for the children More monies to burn No more time at the Grammy awards It was always postmortem Cause I just don't When she grows up, She'll realize How wrong this all was… In the hallways, It was awkward In the walkways It was all over the news When she gets older She'll realize how much wrongness was Put onto her STOP SUPPORTING A WIFEBEATER he used me to get to Nevada To drink and buy whores with the money We were supposed to pay bills with I was his alarm clock He kicked my dog And OH YEAH HE PUNCHED ME so shut up, Federal government Get out of my google documents If you want me to kill myself, Send some more coughers You just gotta love these robot— Ok, That crechedo was awesome. Fuck this nigga, though I took nothing from him, But he wants me to end in the “She struggled with mental illness” Haven't you realized, in this country Being black is a synonym for Mental illness Cause something was always wrong with us Cause we can't belong with them So fuck off Get the fuck out of my head Get the fuck out of my google documents So fuck oft Stop bringing up my husband Stop sponsoring a wifebeater and pedophile Stop believing HIS story Cause if anything History shows us that HIS side of the story was WRONG. The eye knows All I know And all I know is The eye is the eye And I just want to die Cause I can't get the guys I like The eye knows All I know And all I know is The eye is inside me And I just want to die Rather than fight this They eye knows All I know And all I know is All there is to know, Until there's more to know And there's always more to know, More than to meets the eye And the eye is the eye ️ Even if it was unintentional, there was something so sinister and evil about her that no trust could be formed, try as I might, to cease the war of worlds between us. Something so evil and so dark that, for the life of me I could not forage a single tear more, as I wept only moments before in fear of her and her cruel clansmen— a brotherhood—or rather even—sisterhood of outright selfish power, greed, and hostility; It was around midnight, as I soaked peacefully in the tub—peacefully—being the key word; the first relax in the chaotic uprising of the Equinox day—her spirit was evil as could be, two empty blue eyes like the nothingness that loomed, sitting in the corner of the hallway, ready only to be filled with nothing. The white women had made it to a world where the love had been bred out of them, in the sheer and unwitting hierarchy of white power which was set to foil itself in its own nation; a race which had gone nearly extinct, by sheer racism and hatred alone. Fuck this dumb fucking bitch. ‘You wanted the psychological terrorism, right? Now you've got it. ‘ You've got another thing coming if you want to ride on the coattails of dead children to bring about the secrets of an unknown world, lost to you in the weakening of your gene pool amidst the servitude of all who have known less, but now know more of a Kingdom which it will be many many times before you will ever see. What a wicked, wicked race. If you think there's such a thing. Only currency has made it so that you and me are so unlike that one in the same remains as such an atrocity; but you see— before we go making mistakes, we take names, and numbers; I was done with you before even your time was up, and that's how much worse is coming for her. For a girl who hardly cooks or ever cleans, midnight is an odd hour to run the vacuum cleaner, and as much as a white woman may forage the ugly wrinkles to sink into her eyes around the age of 24 or 25 by using her beady little bird brained blue eyes to twist and bend the will of those around her, those wonderful, gorgeous, hazardous, toxic little blue things would never again work on me. It seemed the blue eyed devil was real indeed, no matter how hard I had intentionally originally suspended my disbelief. ‘What an ugly little thing.' I shrugged. I guess they wanted the Phoenixx However, Fuck that alias, And any of his namesakes, Back to hell from whence it came, The demon which has conquered My dear next door neighbor Adriene Heal her from these afflictions, Fix the blindness from her eyes that she may see truth, and give light; Rather than to just take it Amen I used to like people— It didn't matter what color they are But once you start acting like That Fuck these assholes. They started it THE RACE WAR but I'm sure goddamn gonna finish it. Fuck this place. IF YOU DONT LIKE IT, THEN LEAVE. MAKE SOME MONEY. Fuck your fucking minimum wage— JUST SHOOT ME. What. [A POLICE STANDOFF] Oh please. This could never happen in New York City. Why not I don't got time for this. *blat-blat* Ok, it's done. Did you finish that script yet? Jesus, you're drunk at four in the morning. Is it four? Do I care? You said you liked his eyes— —and his smile. Which John is this again? The one who paid more than the rest of them. Who said there's a charge for this. There's a charge for this. Look, I'm desperate. Sir, I'm gonna need you to say your lines a little more convincingly. Whatever I did. I hate her. I hate him. Just—fuck it. Pray for them. Are you serious? Idk wtf is in this bitch but– Scariest fast ever. Nah, I need to get away from … That was super demonic, I'm not gonna lie No shit. I still have all this paperwork, with his name and birthday all the fuck over it. So get rid of it. Seems to have affected my entire nervous system. Look, every time I try to do this, something really bad and miserable happens and I get extremely sick. I will kill you with every possible weapon that I have. Just create something and make all this anxiety worth it. I'm going to bed. I'm going to kill you in your sleep. I'm glad you heard that. No arguments, I'm glad I said it. Now I know too well, The well of tears on my guitar She's got a body like one Oh her curves But I just wonder what it like to be loved By stars Socialites and superstars They're Gods, you know How high up they are Above us And he lives in an ascended dimension, But he insists, he says Her transcendence is upon us He said Your transcendence is upon us He says these things, And then just vanishes So she gets up promptly Warms up yesterday's coffee Looks around in her coffin And wonders What for I just Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars Without double r's, you know I've got scars But it's mostly just Teardrops, and soft kisses On my guitar Cause, oh, Oli, I ain't got nobody— And nobody holds me Like I hold Oli (Could have been Ali, But of course— I had already lost that one A whole well of tears, I lost At his departure And a whole well more When I actually lost him I almost miss Having someone to talk to About anything and everything But I've got Oli And God now I've got Oli And Oli (oli) Is all that I've got Besides God That's the only contact In my Phone book No more double Ls And double entendres; No more double rs At all Just scars now No more metaphors. Honest is radical I like them cynical I should have clinical insanity by now But I'm only just an artist You can't help But can only harm that And if it hurts hard enough I'll put art on my walls Become permanent Storybooks all over my arms now My coat of arms now I've run Ten point 5 miles In the last 3 days; But if I rest today Will a motorcycle gang Have a parade outside of my window, To drive me crazy? I hope it rains, So they can't play these games with my head And the seeds that I planted So deep become daisies I still don't remember The way he rearranged me But these days I make my name sound So the way He can never say it Just imitates The way I hate myself I should be dating But expressions are Atrocious If I fall asleep— Who knows I may get Stolen That tends to happen So I'm All the way up And I'm swollen in ways That I hate to say “I love you” Love me back Or say it harder That's my martyrdom Come off the cross, for a moment, Would you for us? And bend over Or bow, if you will? If I did, Would you still call me wicked Or just a Good witch Since I'm a woman, I just couldn't be Jesus, Who you asked for once And always Who you asked for some To save you from your Credit reports And consorts Or some sort of Nonsense [famous last words] God don't speak much English, She says God don't speak much these days We were Always Telepathic That was way back then When Oedipus Rex Was on the Guest list I was standing at the coat check, asking Why I must take off my hat When entering the service To the bouncer, he says “That's just politics” I said, That's just politics We both said, What's the difference Then we all laughed —then we all just laughed and laughed Exchange is my favorite exchange Where my favorite exchanges Have happened for centuries Of engagements Endeared species, And races pieces haven't tasted the same Since I haven't had them Animal products And animal planet I found this hat on Discovery channel Did you want it? I can't stand it So I had to have it back I just had to use the bathroom I just had to disconnect From [] See— I don't even have to put the words in Cause a name is just words When that's a man You just can't have And that's the worse When that's a man And you can't have him What a habit. Silky rabbit. Now he's the Ace. All In A Day's Work I've never died before. Oh… that is terrifying. It sounds terrible. It's really not that bad. Why are you not writing this down? I just need a moment… It's really not that bad… I die all the time. I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's Look at the colors The clothes, This sure isn't queensborough Escalators for shopping carts I get it Manhattan I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects Where my kind are I don't belong here , God you're intolerant I like this part of town But I'm way too brown And I dropped my crown at the market I should be jealous of everyone But I have learned my place I've been a slave since Hollywood I lost my son to the devil Now I pay child support And terrorist follow me coughing I'm wrong just for being born ! You could start a war from it If that's what you wanted I'm a people watcher people watcher About to board the people mover People mover Slip, Here's the tell Slip, here's the tell I should have a bell around my neck I think she wanted a picture with papa I'm playin my own paparazzi Look mom, I bought a sacafagus There go them niggas with coughs again I been watching em Got binoculars I got oculus, for my oculars Look how hot he is, make me ovulate Man I gotta love it, Cause they love to hate Fucking racist crazies Have it your way I paid for it with my soul You hate but I love to love Somebody just got me fuckes up I don't have a book to run off of Shut up, honey. Now we're all up here Monkey in the middle Cause the middle one is weaker It's getting deeper and deeper Like the sinkhole that my sink is Let it sink in I've been syncing my secrets with demons In dreams sequences It's just a reparative injustice Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff You can have it It's ruined anyway m Look at all this trash Look at all these classless classes Classwars, Racists. Everybody hates us The Asians, Latinx's The other niggas What being black is I'll write it in cursive It's just a curse, here So you can have it I'm moving to Heaven I'm packing my boxes I'm getting a cat, too! His name is Agustus He's a big one And I love him I just wanted a hug or a husband Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest And got for a bargain at target some coffee For being a targeted body All on an algorithm I guess I'm just useless. A dumb nigger demon Did I just offend you? Then you shouldn't be reading this either I wrote it for pleasure (Or pain) On the one Or the two Or the one Or the two I could do a lot with this $20. I could spend it all on Fuck all of you I'm moving to Heaven Where the heart it She's not harmless She's a terrorist— And I'll kill her, too Look how right she is Look how white she is, Huh Regardless of color It's a race war Lil biiiiitzzz Yooo, fuck New York. In every hole. In every crevice. Fuck this place. It's racist— Not just cause I'm black. Like statistically. It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out. I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan” Everyone was like “NOOOOOOOO—-“ Haha “Nooo, no.” I was like “Why not?” The blacks were like: HAHA The whites were like— *COUGHS OBNOXIOUSLY* New York is so racist. It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation At the same time. WHAT. How do you even DO that? But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here. And the rich whites are like YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE. Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto. It's some SHIT, It is NOT COOL. I finally got my ‘night card' back. Had it revoked in california . I was almost a whole valley girl. I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods. Trader Joe's. But NO. Now i live in the hood. It's fucking disgusting. I can say ‘nigga' again. Cause it's NIGGAS. Lots of niggas. I'm telling you. It's night and day! The white folks trains smell like bleach— Ammonia. The black folks train smell like a McDonald's. WHAT. Or just— Vomit. I can actually count the number of times just— Vomit—- On the train. Or. Dookie. Yes. Human feces. But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland. Families! People singing! Hey—cotton candy!! —and I didn't have to pick it! Haha! Fuck New York. Racist ass HOLE. I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all. At that party…or rather, kind of—after. That acid that never hit Beyoncé I don't feel it. Man, I'm a terrible influence(r) Just take it. Nah, I'm good— PUSSY. -_- Give me three. K. —suddenly hits BEYONCÉ. BEYONCÉ …I got this. [BEYONCE] however, does not Ohh, shit. — “got this.” A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z What's even after gen z? The fucking apocalypse. Anyway. The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely. Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong. Lol In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel. Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper conciousness, which I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around? I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw— These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific Fuck this is hard to explain Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation. Anyway, what else is happening Oh. All of the celebrities are stuck in— [the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which lol. That is never going to happen. Because. Let's face it. I'm scared of …rich people. Yeah, sure. Yeah. I'm scared of The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality. So why try “Trying Is Doing” -The Isms {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

A superstar DJ and a practicing music lawyer! It's an unlikely 2 hats to wear work wise, but that's the life of legendary deck spinner Judge Jules, as he travels around the world playing to huge crowds, and splitting his time between luxury homes in London and Mallorca. Added to the jet setter lifestyle are some pretty impressive cars, as Jules reminisces about his early days of motoring, and the cars that he now drives!

Canadian DJ Rezz is a star in the world of electronic music, racking up millions of streams and performing at festivals like Coachella and Lollapalooza. But her rise in EDM came at a steep cost to her physical and mental health. She spoke with Tom Power about finding a sustainable lifestyle in a profession that involves grueling tour schedules and performing all night into the early hours of the morning.

Superstar DJ, OC (Original Club Kid), and party promoter extraordinaire Larry Tee joins Randy, Fenton, and James to discuss working on his fashion label TZUJI in Berlin, dating an unknown Michael Stripe, and watching a young "RuPaul and the U-Hauls". Inspired by RuPaul's stardom, Larry Tee wrote RuPaul's song "Supermodel (You Better Work)" for him.