I had plenty of moving boxes, just in case of whatever. I didn't feel like I was home–perhaps this was the cause of the depressive mess. I was working out okay, and eating…okay… kind of.

–besides being unable to actually tell if I was hungry or not unless the circumstances were extreme.

Lentils and pasta with garlic salt–cause I don't give any kind of fuck right now.

I knew something might be wrong when I was just eating raw cabbage with squirts of japanese barbeque sauce.

I'm enjoying myself thoroughly, but thinking–

“God, this just seems…this just feels wrong.”

It's just cabbage.

I'm like,

“Fuck it, this is good.”

It was as if somewhere in my mind if I cleaned up the mess to my standards, it would be too perfect–and that when things were perfect, it gave life an excuse to come crashing down.

One of the last thoughts I had just before my son died–the night before–was that things were perfect.

They weren't–obviously–but from where I had been, they were looking up. So far up, that they seemed perfect.

And as for perfect was concerned…I had never seen a more perfect human being in my life.

My son was gorgeous.

Of course, most mothers feel that way about their offspring, even when to say the least, it isn't entirely true–but to a mother, this is always true.

But this boy, everyone thought was absolutely perfect.

A beautiful boy.

He might have even been about 6 feet tall.

Might have been. But if things were perfect, and they weren't–but I had at least let myself think so–the universe might have worked itself around this tragedy. Instead in my mind, things were perfect, and so life came crashing down.

I thought things were perfect, the next day, my son drowned.

By the grace of God, I still had one son left. He was also perfect.

Now, apparently, [redacted]

Well, what do you expect? Maybe I was a little crazy.

I very rarely thought about my son, because if I spent time doing that, I might have been a wreck.

–more of a wreck.

Actually, I was increasingly put together–outstanding considering the previous circumstances.

But everyone has a story. None of this makes me special–

Especially in New York City, where almost everyone thinks they're special, and almost nobody is.

Almost Nobody.

And that might as well have been my name.

I wasn't nobody–

I was Almost Nobody.

An honest nobility.

But–

And I might have looked through Will Ferrell on any other day, because like most big time movie stars, he was invisible to me.

Once you're ‘this many' famous, it's almost like a reversal effect on my psyche.

I don't hate you.

I don't like you.

You're just–too famous.

I.e.--invisible.

–Besides this, however, was the fact that I was peeling my eyelids back with toothpicks from having them shut before what I considered as a full “work day” was over.

And on this day, in the documentary that I considered as “work…”

Actually, very hard work–

Very hard work–

He happened to have been wearing a shirt that reminded me of the shirt my son was wearing in one of the last ever photos I took of him.

—actually, both of them were wearing that shirt. We were all dressed alike. Family pictures.

Matching outfits.

You know–the kind of shit you do when you're happily married–

Or unhappily, but still married with children and making the best of it because you're married with children

That sort of shit.

And that day was probably the very best day because I took the very best pictures of the very best boys–

But of course, I didn't remember anything about that day besides taking those pictures.

So there, in my mind, it stood.

Now, what does this have to do with Will Ferrell's shirt?

Almost nothing, besides making a point of sense memory.

Anyway, isn't it obvious?

{Enter The Multiverse}

When something invisible becomes suddenly visible, you have no choice but to look at it as some sort of miracle.

An act of God.

What kind of miracle was this?

I didn't know.

The Complex Collective ©

Sure, let's just chalk up all this uncontrollable crying and depressive nonsense to that.

Under the circumstances–to chalk it up to anything else?

[The Festival Project ™ ]

[A MAN exits THE STUDIO in the shadow of night.]

V.O.

That could be devastating.

L E G E N D S –

The Return of S U P A[Redacted]™

[A MAN is tied to a chair in a dark and murky chamber; a spotlight shines onto him from above; the cheesecloth

Lol cheesecloth how fitting.

Classic.

–is removed from his mouth. Naturally, he immediately begins speaking.]

Why–am I sitting here–

In–a fuckin'--suit?!

That's your work uniform!

What the fuck!

You don't like it?

What the–

Haha.

[his arms are taped tightly to the armrest]

What–NO–i don't like it.

Well then, you don't know who you are.

[The man pauses, as a blank look falls over his face–suddenly this seems true, as if his mind been completely erased. As if–he's just realized–he bears absolutely no identity.]

Holy shit.

Jeezus.

That is terrifying.

INT. STAIRWELL. NIGHT

[The sound of the thunderous stormy rain batters the house almost hauntingly–the television sets all bear a static loss of signal–young STEPHEN runs in a panic up the stairs to the GALLEY, where his UNCLE JACK is often found]

UNCLE JACK! UNCLE JACK!

I buy things with pennies not worth picking up–

I live in a dumpster made of don't-wants.

Over a period of time it slowly began to occur to me that I had no idea what I had written–that is, what had been published, or who had read it. It was certain: someone had. However… to what limit was this exposure. And–was it dangerous?

Fuck.

I knew nothing entirely of the redactions, except that I'd redacted it.

But what about the text surrounding the redactions.

What the fuck exactly did I write about?

I forgot how high I was–or where i'd been.

Not literally high, of course, but….figuratively speaking.

Fuck.

Hurry, hurry along,

It's been a long time

I can't help you along,

Die alone, ride along

It's been a long time…

See, I told you the Upper West Side was the best side.

maybe it's just the least not-great side.

ehh , tomato-potato.

For the crust,

try flax seed meal

cinnamon

agave

Oil

What time is it on the West Coast?

The ghost of Conan arrived

Under a blanket of blue light, and sighed

“I've been wasting my time here”

I had to disagree, kind of.

What time is it here?

I'm locked in for one more day;

I'm locked in for one more hour

I'm wasting valuable dark time with my life shit

But I'm so tired my eyes are burning

And I'm so sore

My arms are stuck.

I should run for the coffee;

Or turn for the cornbread

They're all getting sick of us

They're all getting sicker

I decided to pack my life up

And hault all of it over

I woke up sore

But I wrote a song

On a four leaf clover

It was four in the morning

The ghost of Conan

Won me over

It was four in the morning

I'm locked in for one more hour

It was four in the morning

An hour ahead

A four leaf clover

It was four in the morning

I needed a water

It's one more hour

A four leaf clover

The ghost of Conan

I start recording

To cut the corner

Conan O'Brien

It's one in the morning—

You're one hundred years old;

You ought to be sleeping.

…

It's midnight.

I live in Hollywood.

And i'm a vampire.

Ah.

Sweet dreams.

//

Happy Trails.

L E G E N D S

Shapeshifting is simple— not the process or practice of changing one's form, but simply shifting one's consciousness into another vessel either partially, or entirely.

But—

Just because it's simple, doesn't mean it's also easy.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Often times in matters of consciousness, anything is dangerous.

I did have strange dreams—so, as to say instructed by ‘the ghost of Conan O'Brien', I was decent at following directions, being as his tone might have been dauntingly sarcastic, or sardonic—but I kept forgetting to look up what the latter meant, and so it was with heavy sarcasm after I awoke to transcribe whatever frequency waves I was being blugeoned with under the pure blue light of my otherwise darkened studio—as blue light always seem merciless to whatever was lurking in the corners of my deep subconscious, I wasn't altogether too suprised that this time it was Conan “Snowball” O'Brien, because I had been so recently impressed with his Oscar's performance—and before that, English tends with the type of comedy that had given him the nickname I had chosen for him—or codename, because, by now, the hosts had come one by one with a point to make and a line to put across, and though it had been at some kind of increased trajectory since He who might should probably not be named for fear the sudden and highly publicized combustion of the then currently raining Tonight show host— it was as if it had been raining everymans in blue suits and shined loafers for the inside of a year, however, it had indeed kind of presently enough started with my co-worker “Kimmel”, who was fascinated with the kind of Television that breeds a familiarity with these kinds of people— and Jay Leno was also sort of like some sort of fairy that just kind of occurred randomly at times, living back in LA.

I was sure it had been Jay Leno in LA traffic in some kind of a classic car— only later to find that he indeed was a collector and enthusiast of cars and motorcycles, and I tried not to hold the later against him.

My dreams had been odd at best and filled with people I very rarely thought about— the man in Los Angeles I once lived with who I was sure was a [redacted[, and also just happened to look the way Will Ferrell would age to eventually look.

This, I found fascinating.

Will Ferrell didn't look like that at the time,

But he did now— and even his style of comedy was growing on me, because I didn't find myself capable of it.

What kind of comedy was I capable of?

Right now, the invisible kind.

After a heavy breakfast, I had finally realized why ‘Tears of A Clown' was incomplete—

Apparently I had to include all of my performances—-

This would make the album hard to listen to, at least for me. But the concept was the concept. I had already hidden other comics amongst the tracks and probably without too much trouble— from recordings I had taken myself and were impossible to find elsewhere.

This side project was beginning to be a whole album project, and [rarity] was still just not even something I moderately even wanted to consider doing, however—

‘story.' had somehow come to the top of the page where my masters were kept, and it reminded me that perhaps I was in the same kind of pressure position now that I was then— and that in order for things to change— to get a new apartment or to visit with my son- I would have to medicate in order to write the kind of music i wasn't writing; the anxiety had finally collided with impatience, and lack of focus, and all the classic symptoms of ADHD's spiraling depression, but I was still glad I hadn't become dependent on the girl next door for her adderall prescription.

I wasn't gonna be her little bitch.

Especially not in that way.

It seemed a pattern amongst these people to create a need and dependency in order to gain power and control— and thusly, the dynamic had lost my trust and respect, and so I was just kind of… around— out there, and not caring really what it was or what it all meant.

I had woken up to immediate breakfast still early but late for me— a day off of the gym is what my muscles cried and ached for, and even the scrambled tofu rice breakfast like my dad used to make with tofu instead of scrambled eggs wasn't all the way satisfying or complete without the chocolate and banana malt shake— now I shouldn't be hungry, but it wasn't hunger that was doing me in— I almost refused coffee because I wanted to go back to sleep. I had slept early enough that it shouldn't have been an issue, but I was exhausted.

Come on, you defunct dinosaur motherfucker!

97! A baby!

The reptilian hides his true identity in order to conform.

[The Festival Peoject ™ Presents]

Will Ferrell

In

“The Guru”

Wait, I Gotta go write this other thing.

Wow, Tina Fey looks great.

Worth the new email address?

It was already said and done. I could eat this fucking documentary for lunch.

–yesss.

Stephen Colbert had the middle name of an equally middle aged black man. But this was besides the point.

I was already 30-and-a-half-seconds exactly into scooping up a new email addressed when I realized–

Oh no.

Emergency brakes initiated.

If this is a documentary about Saturday Night Live–

And its on Peacock–

(And it's on Peacock)

–then there's a pretty good chance–

–and Tina Fey's in it.

-she looks incredible.

Jesus!

–then.

Fuck.

Dammit.

There's a slight chance [redacted] might just–not–be in it.

Might not be.

Hm

Well, let's see.

Worth the risk?

Worth a shot.

To the face

(or of Tequila)

I hate Tequila.

It's not for you.

It's not–

Give me that.

Goddammit.

Fu–darnint.

Goddamit

I had avoided Jimmy Fallon's face for like a year straight at least–

Call it two if you count the moment exactly from the Thanksgiving Macy's Day Parade, that one year.

THE COSMIC AVENGER

SUPRISE.

NO.

GODDAMMIT.

Does it matter that the word “surprise” here is spelled wrong?

No. It's almost like–it should be.

THE COSMIC AVENGER

FANGIRLS!

That's worse than fiddlesticks!

Worth mentioning that.

Really. All from an ad?

Two ads, i caught a snippet of the Booking.com commercial

Apparently, you did this.

STEPHEN COLBERT

YOu did THIS.

Shut up, not now Tyrone.

So he's just

He's Tyrone now.

Obviously.

Look.

No

Look at –0

Noh.

[A group of surfers sit huddled beyond the break.]

Oh. No swell.

So…so flat.

Nah…There's a wave coming. Just wait for it.

This is pathetic, man.

No, there's something. I can feel it.

It's like a fishbowl man.

Nada.

Just–wait, sharkbait!

Forget it, I'm going home.

[two surfers paddle away reluctantly]

MEANWHILE

A storm spotted just off the coast of Los angeles california may bring the entire western coast Tsunami-like waves.

[read: Tsunami]

[the bottom of the screen is issuing an emergency evacuation silently over b-roll of the red carpet]

But first

WHAT THIS UP AND COMING STARLET WORE TO THE MET GALA

Lol

Classic

{As Seen On TV}

[Enter The Multiverse}

I had developed quite the fascination with Saturday Night Live;

Not because of Jimmy Fallon, of course,

who arguably ruined the show

by creating the trend of breaking character

On camera

With his world-class smile,

and entourage

plethora of adoring female fans.

Stay away from him

Not a problem.

He's venomous.

Alright. Noted.

Liz, I have some documents for you to sign.

Documents. What documents.

*squints really hard*

I'll be right back.

First of all,

Lets just get one thing straight:

I am not a fangirl of,

Nor am I obsessed with[redacted}

Right.

Ok.

And in case you need closure, here's what I am obsessed with, here.

[the 34,000 multidimensional and extraterrestrial life forces which use [The Host of The Tonight Show] as a portal and/or vessel.]

OH.

WOW. THAT'S–

Yeah.

WOW.

How–is that a regular blacklight?

Does it look like a regular blacklight?

Nothing is regular about this.

Jesus effing..

God!

Yeah.

Wow.

YEAH.

You don't want me to shine a real blacklight on this guy–

Trust me.

OK?

Gross.

HOST1

I don't know what you're insinuating.

[squints really super extra hard]

Nothing.

L E G E N D S

So…worth it?

Worth it…Tina Fey…worth it.

Alright. I win this one.

Win what? Are you playing this dumb game too?

The prize winnings are sustaining my lifestyle.

[Tina Fey eating corn chips sustaining her lifestyle.]

Luxe.

Isn't it?

It was like staring into the sun.

[The Festival Project ™ ]

Lil bitz

Man, I use my googles sparingly.

I really do.

If I google something that's kind of iffy–

even in incognito,

Or with a VPN

I hurry up and erase my history.

I erase everything

Shit.

I erase my history faster than the white power movement.

I'm serious.

I erase my history harder and faster than a white supremasist.

“that's in your mind!”

What's in my mind?

Nothing happened here!

THOSE DAYS ARE OVER.

Why is this all in one document?

idk i just kinda suddenly noticed how NBC is so left learning it's almost too forcibly progressive.

Look, this is all just–too much for me! Okay?

Too much for you?! Oh please!

If anybody asks me anything, I'm going to admit it!

Admit what?! You don't do that! You don't admit anything!

Admit what?!

Exactly! Jesus Christ.

It's all good in practice, but when it comes down to it, i'll break.

Don't let them break you!

I'll break.

Listen to me.

I'm being violated.

Listen to me.

This is offensive!

Shut the fuck up.

I can't believe you said that!

What did I say?!

[doe eyes]

You know what. Fine. Fuck it.

[super wide eyed blank stare]

You're right. If anyone comes for you, just–run, goddammit.

What.

Run at em, for christs sakes. You gargantuan motherfucker.

I'm–not that tall.

I meant your ego.

0.0

This is a calamity.

I'm astonished you think that.

Listen, Larry.

Larry. Right.

When we're finished playing Atari, I gotta have a real heart-to-heart with you.

Heart to heart what?

[Ron produces a bleeding, beating human heart, seemingly out of nowhere; ‘LARRY' jumps back and stutters in shock and confusion]

–WOAH.

[RON emotionlessly presses a combination into the controller.]

Oh look. I win.

I–WHAT?!

You dropped your controller.

WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?

Special combination: it's not a cheat code. People say it's a cheat code.

THAT'S A HUMAN HEART. YOU'RE A MURDERER.

I'm not a murderer; it's still beating, look:

That's–[crazy]--That's–put that back.

That's what I need your help for.

My help what?! With that?!

Don't be a sore loser.

[IMMORTAL COMBAT]

What?!

“Heart To Heart”

Tall tales,

and heads, then tails again

Trails and tears and trails of blood lead on thy stool

Thy path as wilted flower waits

And blue eyed gaze barely,

Hold tongues and does shatter glass hearts

and bare minds,

And bare breasts

And

peach flesh,

And

Bare bones

And

blank stares

and

Fair is fair

the frier the fire

The goal the goal

And the eye is the eye

And the eye is golden

I like fair shadows

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2018-2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.™