[ENTER THE MULTIVERSE]

I'm no complete Christian, but the bizarre act of hacking and spewing and gasping by whoever was next door while I was reading the Bible was telling of its claims.

“that girl really fucked you over.”

I wasn't sure what exactly the voice was besides the voice of God itself, or maybe even the same voice who had warned me who'd win the election and was right, and so eternally and internally always kind of a voice I trusted, and besides that, I was sure it see right. The evil girl next door had really fucked me over— not just in one way, but several, and finally culminating in no longer even having an apartment. She had fucked me out of an apartment! The more I complained about her door slamming, incessant obsessive stalking, and the way she played mind games whenever she could find me about in the small space between our two doors, it was nothing short of her method of targeted warfare— to have given me a plant was for her to be able to say she was trying to be my friend, but everything else she did around that was evil, and the more I complained about the door slamming, the stalking my door and setting up loud conversations just outside of it in order to irk me, slamming the door each time I took a bath or a shower, or used the toilet for several months, she had indeed fucked me over, and run me over, and I was lost— I didn't understand that people could just be like that and I didn't want to just attribute it to race, but she was a white girl, and all the red flags and flares indicated that the game she was playing was race war— her goal to return me to the streets or the shelter where she could presume her dominance in the structure of social culture because it made her so uncomfortable that we had the same thing. She had never been inside of my apartment, but she was aching the entire time to get in, and the entire overall factor was, that I just never felt safe around her, despite her broad gestures and gifs and supposed openness— her words and her presence spoke an entire hidden language, telltale signs of betrayal, and maliciousness, and as much as I wanted them all in my head, they were not. Now the new property manager seemed to be taking her side, and her actions seemed more egregious— knowing I had come here from the shelter meant that there were entire parties of people enraged that the city was helping people to come out of homelessness and to bridge the gap between homelessness and inequality, but it was easy to see over the course of the gentrification process that white people were mad at this equality, and acting out, and even acting very outrageous, and the problem with me personally was that I wasn't even from New York, or out of the system in a certain way, but the people who were treating me with such degradation and disrespect couldn't see that. They could only see “black” and “formerly homeless”.

What's worse, is they couldn't see the many books I'd written or art I'd made, and this contributed to their overall devaluation in my kind— or worse, they could, like the girl next door, who had read an excerpt of my writing under the guise that she was a helpful person, and had become enraged with dissolution and jealousy; it was as if she couldn't understand that not only might I be equal to her, but even intellectually superior in a certain way, or at the very least artistically superior, and began to act in such a destructive way that paired with the noise form the morortcycles and incessant harassment from outside the apartment which bled into all spaces of the apartment throughout the day, combined with her incessant door slamming and disruption to anything I did while I was at “home”, which never felt like home because of these things exactly, it made me seem crazy and ungrateful any time I complained to the property management, and that seemed to be the game. I even surmised that she was connected to the noise from outside and the particular strangeness that someone seemed to be listening to me inside the apartment as well, as she had somehow seemed to know things I was talking about on my unpublished podcast episodes— things she could not have possibly heard from next door, which meant there was some sort of audio recording on the premises she had access too. It became a cat and mouse game, because she knew where I was in my apartment and began to attack my psyche anytime I was in the apartment, and especially when I attempted to create. Now, facing almost certain death and removal from the only stability I'd ever known, it was partially due to this incessant and rampant behavior that I was almost always at a loss. I had once again been bullied out of something I desperately needed by a white girl who felt justified and untouchable— only this time, it was more serious. I wasn't just in trouble at school, or some kind of job— she had manipulated things in such a way that this time I was out of a place to live— under the guise that she was a good person, giving gifts and acting strangely friendly, she had planted seeds and initiated acts of warfare, and in the recovery process of having left abusive situation after abusive situation, it was hard to wrap my mind around the fact that this was yet again another one. I kept telling myself it was only in my mind, despite the evidence of otherwise. That she was not evil but simply ignorant, or misguided, and aloof because of her privelege— but now, understanding that once again I may have no where in my own country to go, I understood the earth shattering truths of equality and integration, and gentrification. Not only did they want to bring in wealthy whites and Asians, they wanted (and needed) to push poor blacks and Latinos out, because of the value the white people placed in themselves. Too many of us made them feel weak and vulnarable, and insecure— and I was certaint that reading over my writing the girl had felt she'd met her match— that even my presence at all was a threat, not just because I was black, but because I was smart. So the way she contributed to the forces of white power was the simple way the race war continues to be fought— by working on the mind, forcing it to weaken and crumble by slamming things during times of vulnerability— baths, showers, toilet use— and that way, for months at a time, I no longer felt safe at all, and of course, it was ungrateful to complain— I should just be happy to have a place to sleep that was my own. But to have peace and quiet and sanity, recovery and health? How could I ever deserve that? In fact, I didn't deserve it, and they made it clear— and there surely was a dorrelation between the noise outside and the noise inside: somebody was trying to make a very violent point— and they were using me to do it.

They had effectively dismantled my ability to focus, and the. Intercepted my strength— I had a Peloton for cardio, and a small treadmill— but lifting and strength training was out of the question; this was trademarked by the sudden appearance of a man paid to follow me into the small gym in the buildings— a man who looked enough like the man who had beat me in front of my two children, stolen my son and intercepted my every attempt to care for him, or even be in his life. This man, grunting and mumbling rap lyrics, would throw the 30 pound dumbbells from a over his head, sending them crashing to the floor across the room— absolutely unnecessary and unacceptable behavior, which I had at one point even captured on video, however, my visits to the gym ended when I decided to leave my phone in the apartment and I had been followed there by the same man, who threw the weights from above his head and acted like an animal. I simply picked up the weights and placed them on the treadmill as he lifted at the tension machine, grunting and mumbling rap lyrics, then silently walked away. I never returned to the gym again— this had gone too far, but overall since it was an obvious plan to diminish my ability to fight what was happening with the noise by staying strong, this strategy had worked. Now all I could realistically do was cardio, which took too much time and effort in order to reach what I had been doing in the gym beforehand— now that my psyche was being dismantled, it remained important to kee me awake during the day with the noise, so that I could not attend the gym at night, because I didn't have the energy to function anymore.

I was a trapped animal, and these sick mind games were nothing short of warfare. It had to be a government institution or privatized force, because their resources were immense— nothing like this could happen without a militarized approach; weaponizing people as effective weapons and dismantling my livelihood by any way possible was indeed an act of torture and psycholical warfare. I was isolated, without family or friends, and disconnected from any stable income— job after job application not simply denied, but ignored, as if my efforts were going into a black hole of nothingness. Then, it did seem as if all of my technological communications had been altered-1 my phone calls monitored and my internet history avalible to someone unseen, but not unfelt. It just so happened that the neighbor might be one of them, and that because I had no way of continuing my training regimen without being followed by strange men, who would then act in abrasive ways to further psychologically destruct what should have been strength training and recovery, I was weakened, not by one thing, but an entire organization of many.

Just then, writing and luckily somehow also recording, standing between the door and the bathroom after raising out of the bathtub, the merciless noise continued— a loud crash against the wall as I stood naked in the walkway of the apartment with a towel draped over my shoulders sent my heart shrieking and pounding into the cavern of my stomach— not just my entire heart racing but my gut wrenching with the beating of my heart….

“File that.”

I was standing over the doorway in the bathroom, still gripping the pslams of the first testament in my hand, but I didn't understand anymore what things to ignore and what to not. I assumed that it was just more mind games and frequency manipulation and that God itself had nearly been lost. In my time in the apartment, I became more connected from disconnected from the source in the way I knew it and had learned how to internalize God. I could no longer pray freely out loud— someone was listening to me in my apartment, and when I did speak, the noise was arranged to rile up until it shattered me, and I was quiet again.

—Tales of a Superstar DJ.

When was he ever a long hair,

but here?

I went to bed two hours ago,

But perhaps when I sleep I dream of you

Suppose that waking life's a nightmare

And when I look in the mirror

I see your eyes there

I need you to go to my apartment;

I'll be dead by the time you get there;

Don't worry, you won't find my body

I went over the edge elsewhere

I left you a note and some postcards;

The letters I put in the post beforehand

I need you to publish my books, my friend

Or no one will ever know of them

I left you a pen name

Who are you

Where you from

What'd you do for ten years

I dont know

Congrats from your accolades

From the academy

Down the hatch

The overwhelming message of the thing was, that because this girl was white, she could do whatever she wanted to me. To act however she pleased, or be as horrible as the wanted without recourse ir reprimand, and I could only assume that because I was now being pressured and rushed to hurriedly do things that I couldn't have done under the stress of the noise and harassment, that it was someone acting in favor of the regime of white dominance and structured power— that equality was not only ineffective, but impossible, because it was not what they wanted. The illusion of equality was better because in that way, they maintained control over our minds and our bodies in the same way slavery had structured—and though they could no longer truly own us in one way, they still could in another, and this is how they maintained their humiliation and disrespect, the dehumanization of war— by creating the illusion that it was peace.

Copyright The Collective Complex ©

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All Rights Reserved

-Ū.

If this is a vault,

I could get ambushed–

If it were a parking lot,

Then I could get robbed

My plate was a lot,

But i'm going back for seconds;

Well,

I walked right into that one

It'll take awhile to work its way into words

But for now, i'm still heart being hurt

Does your stomach hurt?

Did your eyes go wrong?

No!

I got hot all over,

Wrote words to a song

Worese is,

I don't think

Anything under the sun

And all of esoterics

Really string along the whole hypothesis

I hope I off myself

You can save for the car in the lot

You can purchase the clothes on the rack

But to know what you want,

And just cant have?

Like a lock on a door

To a home you don't own

Nor can you afford.

Theres no comfort there.

In fact,

Much like mother-son abandonment;

Unintentional on all behalfs.

Perhaps i could cut the time in half

Perhaps i cut cut my elbow off

Perhaps i'm a dunce

What an awful haircut

Now I'm a loose end?

I guess that's better than a tied knot

This sad song is no loose synths

But it costs two cents

And it's full of resentments

I meant it,

This is hard work

Sentiments

The smell of mints and cinnamon

ALERT:

WARNING!

REVERSE QUANTUM SIMULATION THEORY IN EFFECT

I'm still in the knock offs and riff with residual memory.

You meant it

I have an office full of blank checks

I slipped three fingers

In his breast coat pocket,

And don't you know what i discovered at the bottom

An oval

Don't open it

Oh look, a portal to another world.

Please, don't touch that.

Touch what.

Yo, we are fucked.

We are so

So as much as you say I have memories

You might as well have just filled my head with these dilemmas and politics

What a horrific incident

The jump off

What a trough full of horses and numbers!

My belief is in the sweet amenities

My grief is in the reasons for believing

No kitchen to cook in

My hair all pulled out

Bloodshot eyes

And you're right

I might as well kill myself in this apartment

While I still have it

You're right

I shit my eyelids over my hindsight

Scary people

In scary places

Doing scary things

For scary reasons

So what's a delusion

When all the world is grandiose?

What's the point of a walk

In the wrong body?

What's the point of being a showrunner

When there's already Quinta Brunson

And everybody seems to love her

Now I don't know what show i'm on

Or what I'm on about

I have a headache

And a very hard time

Wrapping my head around it

I'm thinking of four songs

And a number

Can you guess

even one of them?

What's this one on?

God, or Amazon?

I don't know,

But i'm sorry.

I'm so sorry.

[The Festival Project ™ ]

7 Spades

Seven days later

Seven fake deaths

Seven stories high

7H

Rockefeller Plaza

7 Names

Same bitch

Main frame

Mother nature

Same demeanor

Technicalities take place

Sunny spaces

Nominations,

Nicaragua,

Water caves, and

Stop chasing waterfalls

And showhosts

You know they hate you.

Same old

Different day

Saint Monica

And whatername

And Joan of Ark

and Sacred satan

Listen, Linda

2-4-6-8

TEN.

AH FUCK.

THAT'S EVERYONE THEN?

EYES. WE MADE IT. WE MADE IT. OH THANK THE–

DEVIL WORSHIPPER!

I–WhaT?

YOu–YOU LIT THE CANDLE!

I THOUGHT HE WAS A VIRGIN.

YOU THOUGHT I WAS A VIRGIN?

–looked like it!

*gasps exaggeratedly, very offended*

“The impenetrable ten”

Now, the question is: can I get all ten of these people in a room together at the same time.

And the answer is: if you ever do—you'll wish you hadn't.

THAT IS OUT OF BOUNDS.

How are you even fitting in here?

I'm—I didn't.

Time is slipping. Time is slipping!

YOU SCREWED ME OUT OF A DOODLE!

A WHAT!

A DOODLE.

L E G E N D S

To a the end of the era,

But wish it was the end of the night

By the end of the year

I just might be

As high as

I never am

But god knows I am

And I know I am

High but

Sober

End of the night, but it might roll over

I'll pick you up like a four leave clover

I should have never called you

I should have never ever lover to love you

Love you

I should never come out at night

But if I come out at night,

Then I'll make it real loud I gues

I've just been wondering

Like

What is my

Midnight perfect

I've just been wondering

Like

What is my

Midnight

Perfect

I'm not a midnight

Person

More like

3 in the morning

But I don't love nothing

Almost not yet

At all,

I think in the back of my mind

I'm worth it

But when I come out

I come right back down

To nothing

I've been wondering,

Like

What is my

Midnight purpose

Imm not a midnight

Person

More like

Three in the morning

In the

Back of my mind

I think I'm worth it

But when I come out

I come right back down

To the surface

I'm not a midnight

Person

I'm not a midnight

Person

I've been wondering about my midnight

Purpose

If I'm not perfect m

You won't love me

Just by looking

I've been smaller up front

Our back

I'm big and round

And I' know. Around town

As quite the arse

Are you sure you want to ask about it

Or knock it over

aww you see R all l you s sourced your purpose

I told you I was coming over

Now you're coming over

Want to walk the long road

I might go home alone now

Really don't know

I wanna grab a quarter ounce

And just like, bounce back

I wonder whatever happened to the rockstar

He becomes her

I wonder what happened to the parked car

Explosion

Little cursed station wagon

Jetta, better than the Pontiac

I'm a a drunk

Only been to the outback once

And I woke up back in Iceland

How about that

How about a word with the others.

How about a word on the over

Copyright The Collective Complex ©

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All Rights Reserved

-Ū.

…We have a weird connection, don't we?

The scene was from The Television People, but the image was the clear as day vision of Patrick in a sunlit warehouse somewhere in Manhattan with one of his many lovers—somewhere in my mind, amidst the distractions, I was still trying to formulate the leeways between things I'd already written, and for whatever reason assembling an actual plot for its pilot season.

STEPHEN COLBERT enters and unbuttons his suit jacket— in trademark Colbert.

This is obviously not something he's doing subconsciously— because just as some bystander on the train engaged the same action, I realized suddenly that I must retrieve some sort of information.

STEPHEN COLBERT

Drew Barrymore!

DREW BARRYMORE seems annoyed, but obliges somewhat politely.

DREW BARRYMORE

…Colbert.

STEPHEN COLBERT

I— have an offer you're not gonna refuse.

DREW BARRYMORE takes a sip of her fruity drink.

DREW BARRYMORE

Jesus Christ.

The Unforeseen Overture: Navigating Adversity in the Pursuit of Art and Community

The rhythm of the electronic music scene pulsed through my veins, a beat I deeply understood and longed to amplify. My vision for the July 11, 2025 event was more than just a party; it was an ambitious undertaking for The Festival Project, Inc.™, an immersive arts installation designed to embody peace, love, unity, and respect within the dance community. This wasn't merely a gig; it was a profound manifestation of my artistic ethos, a crucial step for my non-profit, The Collective Complex ©, and a testament to my dedication to community building through performance. Yet, the week leading up to that date became an unforeseen overture, a discordant prelude that challenged my core values and tested my resolve. The sudden, unprofessional cancellation of the event, shrouded in a symphony of miscommunication and control, forced a deeper understanding of both the industry and my own resilience. What initially felt like a devastating blow transformed into a profound learning experience, a disruption that, though painful, ultimately strengthened my commitment to my artistic path.

The first jarring note in this unforeseen overture came with the concealed venue closure. I learned, not through direct communication, but by having to track down the event coordinator on social media, that the very foundation of our event—the venue itself—was in jeopardy. This wasn't just a logistical oversight; it was a profound failure of transparency, a direct contradiction to the collaborative spirit I champion. The shock of having to chase down such critical information was immediate, leaving me feeling disrespected and marginalized, a chilling echo of the systemic gatekeeping I've seen affect so many aspiring artists.

What followed was an almost immediate escalation. Hours after the event was belatedly posted as "confirmed" on Resident Advisor, with an incorrect title, my team discovered the ticket link was already canceled. This wasn't a glitch; it felt like an act of deliberate professional sabotage. My team had dedicated countless hours, reaching out to networks and brand sponsors, only to find their efforts rendered moot by a link that was dead on arrival. The emotional toll was immense, a sharp, uncommunicated blow to the meticulous hard work we had poured into this project. It was as if the stage lights had been plunged into darkness without warning, leaving us, the performers, to navigate a sudden, unexpected void.

The formal cancellation notification, when it finally arrived on Sunday, felt absurd. The event had already been effectively canceled on RA since Friday night, and I had already made the difficult decision to independently pull the plug due to the egregious lack of communication. Receiving the email, first to a personal address because my professional emails had been blocked—a detail that still baffles me—and then a minute later to my professional one, underscored the profound unresponsiveness and operational deficiencies of the other party. It was a clear demonstration that their actions were consistently behind the curve, creating mounting pressure and uncertainty for everyone involved. The feeling of constantly being one step behind, not due to our own failings but theirs, was demoralizing and deeply frustrating.

Amidst this chaotic unraveling, the coordinator leveled a baffling accusation: that my "tone and communication have come across as consistently rude and disrespectful." This was a pivotal moment, a direct challenge to my professional integrity. To be accused of disrespect when I was simply trying to coordinate crucial event logistics with a non-responsive party felt like an insidious form of gaslighting. It wasn't just a disagreement; it was an attempt to undermine my perception of reality, to deflect from their own severe shortcomings by shifting blame onto my proactive efforts.

This experience, however, served as a powerful lesson. It cemented my understanding of the critical importance of meticulous documentation in any professional endeavor. My screenshots of unresponded communications and the precise timeline of events weren't collected out of spite, but out of necessity—a commitment to truth and accountability in business. This meticulous record-keeping became my shield against their baseless accusations, allowing me to maintain an unimpeachable professional record. It also highlighted a broader, unfortunate reality within creative industries: how persistence, especially from marginalized individuals, can be unfairly labeled as "disrespectful" simply to dismiss legitimate concerns or deny opportunities. This incident, for me, mirrored the systemic biases and devaluation of Black women I've encountered, reinforcing the need to stand firm against such tactics.

My attempts to gain a response, including offering to "meet in person and to buy you coffee to get to know each other outside of a digital space," weren't aggressive; they were a genuine effort towards collaboration, a desire to create a "strong foundation for future maneuvering within the scene and community." This demonstrated my unwavering commitment to the values of "peace, love, unity, and respect" even in the face of escalating adversity. Their interpretation of my persistence as "disrespectful" was a fragile perception based on surface assumptions, a stark contrast to my deep sense of responsibility to my team, brand sponsors, and the community relying on timely information.

The cancellation of my event was a painful experience, but it became a crucible for profound personal and professional growth. Perhaps the most significant lesson was the catastrophic impact of a lack of clear, timely communication in event production. I learned that robust communication protocols aren't just good practice; they are fundamental to artistic collaboration and business integrity. Moving forward, this experience will inform every partnership I forge, prioritizing transparency and open dialogue.

This adversity also forced me into an act of incredible resilience and adaptability. Despite the immediate disappointment and disruption, I pushed through, knowing that my vision was bigger than any single setback. This inherent drive to pivot and re-strategize, to find new ways forward when traditional avenues are blocked, directly echoes the "accidental entrepreneurship" that defines my journey as Blū Tha Gürū in my Series Bible. It taught me that while external circumstances can throw us off course, our inner compass, guided by purpose, can always find a new direction.

Furthermore, this situation underscored the vital need to protect my vision and my team's livelihood. Many people were relying on the timely dissemination of information, and the coordinator's disregard for this business was a sign of disrespect not just toward my time, but toward my entire team's dedication and economic well-being. This experience has made me a more discerning and empathetic leader, committed to ensuring that all future dealings are underpinned by transparency, mutual respect, and clear agreements that safeguard everyone involved.

Perhaps most profoundly, the attempt to gaslight me, instead of diminishing my resolve, actually solidified my power. It taught me the importance of trusting my own perceptions, standing firm against unjust accusations, and recognizing attempts to undermine my professionalism. It reinforced my inherent worth and power, independent of external validation. This growth directly mirrors Blū's journey of overcoming "self-perception of unworthiness" and rising above "saboteurs, gatekeepers, and rivals" in the broader narrative of "Tales of a Superstar DJ."

Finally, this event served as a stark reminder of the intricate intersection of art and business. Even in the vibrant, expressive world of performing arts, business acumen, clear contracts, and meticulous contingency planning are paramount. I gained invaluable, albeit painful, lessons in the practicalities of event management, risk assessment, and navigating challenging professional relationships within an often monopolized and gatekept industry.

The unforeseen cancellation of my July 11th event was a challenging overture, but it did not, and will not, silence my music. Instead, it has been a crucible that forged greater resilience, sharpened my professional instincts, and deepened my understanding of effective leadership and uncompromising integrity in the arts. My dedication to creating high-production value events and arts installations with peace, love, unity, and respect at the forefront remains not only unwavering but amplified by this experience.

At this performing arts college, I seek to refine these lessons, to merge my intuitive artistic vision with rigorous professional training. I am not merely seeking admission; I am seeking the tools and collaborative environment to forge a path that counters the very systemic flaws I encountered. I am now better equipped to lead, understanding both the creative and logistical complexities of bringing ambitious artistic projects to life. This experience has solidified my purpose: to build authentic, impactful platforms that uplift artists and foster genuine community. I am not just a survivor of this event; I am a stronger, more discerning leader, ready to embark on the next act of my journey, transforming adversity into a powerful catalyst for positive change in the world of performing arts.

“Dont do that.”

Copyright The Collective Complex ©

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All Rights Reserved

-Ū.

“Look what they eye unearthed,” leaning into the tip of my ear with the warmth and closeness of the coming waves, high tide approaching in the waning moon.

“More secrets.” I replied.

It was a question but also a statement— there was never such as this the luminescent trace of the glowing lava that was his force and might that I could not see for miles before he would even wander— first in twinkling stars and then later the wind itself and the birds, and then beneath the waves, like the quaking shake of a mighty oak anchored elsewhere and tied to the sea.

“So you know.”

I was hoping he would kill me before the next time I had to ever really know anything.

He was the subject, and the predicate

The wrong done, and the justice

She was the pride and the prejudice

But

Judas brings the law

Did you look in the box?

No, I–

[The Box Is The Box]

–No, I haven't.

Nearly three nights ago, a mysterious box arrived on the doorstep of an equally mysterious writer, who spends their time in isolation due to the often unannounced arrival of various ghosts, spirits, time travelers, and other figures by instant teleportation and other magical forms of transportation into their shabby New York apartment.

Some of ya'll got so many air wick plug ins and scentci wax melts you don't know you smell like booboo.

It's an illusion.

You leave your house,

You smell like booboo.

I promise.

Oh, God, I think I need a drink.

Are you alright?

Let me just–sit down for a second.

Of course. My God. What's wrong.

Look, i'm not supposed to say anything about this but.

What's wrong?

It's nothing, I'm just–I'm in a song.

…what?

A song!

Is that all?!

You don't understand. It's not a normal kind of song. It's–

[takes a puff of inhaler]

You wouldn't understand.

Well what's so wrong about being in a song?

Its not – a regular song–and it's not

[gasping]

finished!

I still kind of wanted to be a comedian–but I knew I wasn't funny in the way that made sense to keep going and stand up there. I was still writing comedy, but I didn't know how to take myself out of it–the truth was, I was in a lot of pain. A lot of emotional pain that was becoming physical–and I didn't know what to do about it to break the barrier of nervousness and blank slate state of feeling the audience's perceptions of me more overwhelmingly than ever feeling myself.

look at this song.

I know huh.

It's purple. Every time.

It is purple.

And what is that. Like a muted trombone?

IS THAT A TROMBONE?

Or a tuba?

No, it has to be a trombone…becasue you can hear it slide–

And that's what that sound is.

What a sneaky rabbit.

Super sneaky rabbit.

So if i can see all this, I'm almost certainly sure the motorcycles outside and the slamming doors are meant to murder me.

I'm sure that's what it is.

You ever notice how being broke in New York makes you a bad person?

Like, if you're broke, you're just automatically shitty.

I never meant to be in New York broke.

I never meant to be in New York,

But I certainly never meant to be here and be poor,

Poor in New York?

Automatically a shitty person.

Despite how you act.

You can be a rich piece of shit—

But the status is automatically

“You got dough? Oh, alright. Carry on”

That's the attitude in New York City. Crap people get by cause they got their hands on some money and the rules in New York say it doesn't really matter how you come by it,

As long as you come by it.

There's no real rules or real laws to it—

Just

“Get the money”

Well god damn.

This makes me nervous.

I'm an artist.

I've tried everything.

I didn't mean to be the automatic enemy here.

Of course not.

But New York is a terrifying place to me, now,

Cause I realized I can be a very sweet, very humble, very honest person—

And that kind of shit doesn't matter here, really. It brings you no respect to be decent.

It's about the money.

So I'm a musician— which in New York also makes me like,

Automatically not special,

And I'm trying to just be a musician, and so naturally,

I'm broke.

Like broke in half.

Like all my bills are late.

But music is my solace.

So I'm listening to music,

And I'm listening to a song that is so beautiful, that I start to cry. The first time I heard it, it made me cry

And I'm listening to it over, and it made me cry

And it's so beautiful, and God is so beautiful

And look at what God did,

So I'm crying,

And I don't even know what it is about the beauty of it that's making me cry,

But it's making me cry,

And New York hears me crying

And New York goes

“I'll give you something to cry about”

And I open my email

And there's a bill from my landlord reminding me how often I'm talked about due to my late payments—

And I'm realizing I've been here two years and I still don't have any money,

Even though I've been trying and trying

And trying

So now I'm crying for other reasons.

Thanks a lot, New York.

“I'll give you something to cry about”

So I did.

If there's anything worse than being black in a city that hates blacks—

It's being broke in a city that hates broke people.

So I haven't spent any money in awhile.

Not even on little things, or things I need.

I just stay inside, and work, and think

And try and really try

To figure out how to make money

Without having any, or spending any.

Cause you can have it, and spend it, but it's always a gamble.

Maybe all I needed was a good cry.

But now it's not for the right reasons

I'm not crying cause something is so beautiful and look at what God did

I'm crying because of what I'm sure is just the devil I'm crying for the wrong things

Not because of something that's so very beautiful

But because of something that's so very ugly

With just a wave of the hand

And the flick of each finger as it rolls into a crisp closed palm,

A flick of birds fell to the ground, bursting with caws

Below his stance, and in a flutter of feathers and wings,

The evil master, unmoved and untouched,

Untouchable in his weight and glory, simply only even mildly and barely smirks at all.

He has defeated all and still somehow, not won.

Some say it's sure to come, the thing that wants and gathers ties;

Some say surely it is yet but withered and then sure again will come

It has, five times, and barely waded,

Waking in the midsts of my pure eye,

The morning light and fog, aye?

Ye, they remembers none but our Art,

And I'm bound as sure by wing and force

Is you to dozens of masses,

And ships having sailed but one,

Which I have flourished and kept

And stocked with these, the masses

And yea having spade, and having friends

And having honor, there was none past kept and mine, sured;

And wicked may as wicked be but evil none truer thou nones't had yet pured, and muted and gathered, I have,

And woken and laid and barren and truths do'st tied,

And there have been shooken and wait,

And m faire'd and barred here, and hereforth

My duty it is to forward, forward, my shallows

For my shadow,

For my golden hour has shined and now you,

These caged shall fly,

And these thoughts shall sing,

And these hour conspired to miss my time daily,

And these things, beytraying that—

There have no times at all,

These walls in holy temples kept, swaying and cadences, and wearing, and weary,

And foreign and ayered, aye— and armored.

And he, you, does not wish to know but also has known— and does not wish to see, but he, too has blinded, and does not wish to betray, and yet has been crowned, made with guilt and also

Shattered, as it was,

And shatters, as it came, the wave o'er all us and tide sinking under, and caves and rebels and heart laid bare to surf not suffer,

Nor cap nor keeping, nor tied nor honor,

No, honor her;

No honor came and I have tied also, this tie to mine, and another, and another and another

Now forward.

Forward!

Forward!

Damn, Conan's monologues he going deep.

Yeah, I guess.

He's fine, right?

Look, you don't need this.

Just promise me.

I am sorry.

Mr Jimmy has it good, too good

Little sister doesn't have a heart.

But didn't know it

Mister music made it in the industry, too hat

Mister rager had a sip at dinner

It was all dramatic

Stars went falling

Crashing down and

All it is Ms. Martha

Is mismanagement of energy

All it is, Ms. Margret is a magnet

And it hasn't happened badly since I had a handle on it

But I still get sick of madness

And I still get sick with city sickness

Still, forget the dancer

I was sitting on the show,

In the audience

With my mother,

Oh the models,

Dozens of them

Blondes and ballet buns, the brunettes

I was just a lost cause

And I wanted it all, the tux and the bow tie

I wanted you gone so I looked at it harder

Until

It became nothing but

Clouds in the sky

You were stardust

I'm a comet

Here comes crashing,

Had to find the progress report

Then I lost it

Soggy in the sideways rain

It was days and days

Do you promise?

That's a concept?

Do you promise God will be alright,

Cause I came running

Sent them under cover

Sent the men a message

Send the man a hammer

Sitting in a hammock

No one homes the hostile

If you don't have anything nice to say

Then don't say anything at all

And certainly don't come and go

As often as you want to

It's a game of control; you know

The whites, when they still want to own you

Somehow

I'm all sub so honest, I just—wanted that

But only for a man and never bow to another woman

Even if on my honor

I found us as equals

And no one walks the earth as calmly

As someone whose never had their lights out

Or had their light put out

Or their lights turned off

Who are God now?

Who's our God, man?

Who's our God, Math.

That's heavy weight,

And if you want a biblical fate

This is Fallon,

And if you watch what you ate

You cut calories

And if you want the girl back

Give it Californian

And I'm not towrth much more

Than the project housing,

Or a handful of candy corn, Conan—

But I phone in Oscars,

Still no nuts for the rabbit,

And if you wanted the bunker back—

You can have it.

I'm all hands down in a game of poker

Heaven doesn't want it

Gotta get drunk not once, but at all the goalposts,

Gotta count one, not two, the show hosts

Too few car parts

Wicked, mazes, starfold, gazes

Wishes,

Martyred.

(But pronounced mar-tired}

V.O

I think about jay Leno a lot.

Lately, anyway.

I don't know why.

I like all the hosts.

Somebody.

Tell me why

Dillon Francis looks like JD Vance.

I think he's a clone.

Tel me why I know who JD Vance is.

They're clones.

Tell me why.

Back to the future here and now

So. Where do you want to go?

Anywhere but here.

Anywhere but here is kind of far, are you sure you're up for it?

Good one, doc

Though head of the alumni chapter of the cult-within a cult—to which each African American cast member of Saturday night live is automatically inducted into— EDDIE MURPHY refuses to participate in the group's latest and most complicated ritual.

Delivery.

Uh, I didn't order any—

Breadsticks.

What.

Breadsticks.

I didn't order any—

Just—

The delivery man hands over the breadsticks.

—take them.

Oh…Kay.

See ya.

The delivery man reaches in and shuts the door himself.

Uh…

Lol is this the one where the mysterious breadsticks are delivered without ever being ordered, and then they end up being the best breadsticks in the world, but they don't know where they came from?

Yes. I think so.

Lol

I bought a planner because so much I loved Joan Rivers, and I planned to fill it with all the places I should go— because keeping anything digital online was not only not working as far as remembering places I wanted or needed to be be, but it was dangerous, also. I was already being tracked, and I couldn't afford a new phone just yet. Eventually, but for now I was stuck to the same signal— which meant the same traces and the same trackers they had been limiting my under-the-radar mystique. As it were, somebody always knew where I was, and it was in the most unpleasant way so far—the only thing I really wandered was what made me so important anyway to begin with. I wasn't actually political in anyway, and still someone seemed to be trying to derail my life… or at least control it, neither of which was beneficial for me in the way that made sense. I wasn't having any fun, nor did I consider living indoors as payment— especially since indoors, there were also paid plants and stalkers, and now that I had begun to more meticulously document the things that were happening, it was easy to separate from delusions.

I was actually being followed— but why? Either way, having a detailed. Calendar of places I could go, the ways to get there and even alternate functions within the same grid allowed more control than just staying in my apartment a sitting duck; that's how they were hurting me. They knew where I was— all the time, and it no longer made sense to fight it and try to make music under this kind of insane irritation; the music I was making wasn't the kind I wanted anyway, and whatever war they were fighting with m stark white girls motorcycles was simply not my war. I didn't have a war, and so there wasn't a fight, and so at the very least if I were going to be fucked with, it would have to be in public; that way I had more control to steer whatever was happening in my favor and collect the energy as mine instead of lost. I wasn't an insane person— but what had been happening at my apartment was insane, and so I left it with the understanding that these people worked and operated on a level of violence and ignorance I would never be able to comprehend; they were simply tools for the devil, which in any case, was always the lesser than God.

However— because I was starting to figure out who I was, and that I had some sort of power, I knew that I was going to be attacked— because it seemed my power had at the very least not been figured out as to some kind of way to make somebody else money. I had been studying Michael Jackson and this was a key indication that the way his talent priovided a power which would be used as a service, he was very successful. His talent and training alone wouldn't have reapresented with such great reverence the ability to capture a global audience as such— but it was this power, almost as if it had been bottled up and altered, rebranded and sold and labeled with something everyone could not only love and understand, but by the hand of the media and its conglomerates, be hypnotized to worship, and this power simply put would not have been exactly what it was were it not for the eye of the media remaining in complete control of its distribution to the eyes and ears of the public. This thing which might have been the first of its kind but certainly not the last was in a sense model for modern superstardom— the live concert business had not sense much changed but built upon this super powered control of the masses by assimilation, spectacle, and of course the magic and illusion. But, and it it just so happened to perfectly brush up against my studies in esoteric knowledge that I happened to rub up against this— although nothing was of course by mere circumstance anymore, because whether or not I remained incognito was a wash, and I was being looked at by someone no matter what on the internet I did, or where I decided to go and in that sense was being fed these things, and yet with some Grace of God was allowed with it to be aligned with my own higher purpose in a way, I could observe that Michael Jackson was not in fact of course certainly just a dancer or singer or remarkable performer— he was truly a magician, and I was able to clearly recognize this language with with the energy that had used his vehicle for such a projection was speaking— not only this, I was able to clearly count out the markings and sigils and signs and symbols Michael was making in his movement; ancient arts, and magical symbols, traced so rapidly that it almost created a heat signature in a sense of the symbols that were being dictated, unknowing to the untrained eye. For the most part, I could only really assume that this is why these people were losing their minds— in his movements, Michael Jackson was literally carving ancient callings, glyphs and sigils I had so recently read about in magical studies that it was impossible not to laugh. This was in every sense of the word, ‘magic' but not in the normal way one assumes to be something unexplainable. Michael Jackson was casting spells to thousands of people at a time, in front of cameras and at high volume vibration, often times even implementing the use of light, color, and fire. These were not simple gatherings in mass for entertainment purposes— these were rituals, and in the modern day, still were or are— but I had noticed in a quick glimpse, from Michael Jackson 30 some odd years ago to Lady Gaga just having passed something like a week ago to an audience of the same size— that something was kind of wrong, now. The people had changed, and the specable had been done over and over, and the brainwashing of the masses had in a sense been almost complete— and so It wasn't some sense of confusion or unknowing the things that were happening to me in my own life and my own world— I too, was capable of these things, at that capacity, and had simply not been trained in the same sense of the ideal superstar, however— the things that were happening in my own life and in my own world were not difficult to grasp or understand— when one comes upon a power as such, it finds means to seek to control it and harness it for his own use and purposes. Perhaps it was the simple fact that in this way, in the way I get the dream had gone and the spectacle had been played out of the masses and the illusion was no longer as such— that the actual knowledge of distinct ancient wisdom that had been Michael Jackson's natural ability was distinguishable from that of Lady Gaga's training in the same formula, and that one did not equal the other, but in terms of business could equal to that as such as the masses had been manipulated to seek solace in these same things— and it was not illusion or grandiosity that I, even in my agingness, was still capable of these things; I had no doubt in my mind that I could sing and dance for two hours to audiences of hundreds of thousands— but this was not the question for the business or the media— the question was, would hundreds of thousands pay to see me, or rather— who was willing to front the means to hypnotize hundreds of people to become aware of me so that they would do such a thing. My talent and capabilities were undeniable— but my markatability might have been in question, because it was no longer simply a matter or chance or luck: the people chosen to figure such spectacle were chosen, hand selected and well trained to become media conglomerate superstars, even regardless of talent; perhaps this itself was the key indication that the world of the superstar itself had come to an end—it was no longer so much of a spectacle was worth it. Or, perhaps, because money had come between these ancient arts and symbols and languages being spoken by the superstars of old, that the magic in the literal sense had gone all the way away. The symbolism in the art had died, and so the singing and the dancing remained, but the God had gone out of it. Maybe that was the difference. The superstars of today were just the shell of the model that had been built on God, but the Godsense of it was no longer there— and so the magic no longer remained in effect, as the powers of magic that be are in all ancient arts and texts and forms attributive to The Source.

Either way, I wasn't going to continue to be a sitting duck in my apartment in Brooklyn— there were too many indications that it had all been a setup from the shelter to the day I moved in, with the motorcycles and cars and CBS studios one block away. So the real and only question was, what exactly had been played at and who exactly was pulling the strings? I might at this point become a loose cannon: my son was estranged and as far as the people were concerned, I mostly hated New York— because the refined, clean cut and classy people I liked and wanted to be around saw me as the dirt and the grime I was fighting my way through just to simply exist— in my mind, this was a world that could be no more.

I like Sara in a dress

I like Sara in a dress

I like Sara in a dress

I like Sara in a dress

I met sparrow in a cage

I like Sara in a dress

I like Sara in a dress

Keep writing

I never thought I ‘d see the day

Where i's taking lessons on Fallon

From Michael Jackson

That's ran

That's a fan

This is fame

I'm insane

I'm insane

That's a fan

Light the flame

That's a fan.

That's a fan.

I like Sara in a dress

I met sparrow in a cage

I went up the rack, set the page on fire

Nordstrom rack

And I might take it back for the cash

I like Sara in a dress

Stay repressed

Keep it dark

If you kiss don't tell

I will probably go to hell for just writing

Try it

In black ink, I got all spades, Ehy,

Spare me the ridicule, the imbecile and

I met Johnny in a cage

I like Fallon in a dress,

Obsessive, I'm dressed out

Every day I leave where I do not live

Where stalker crawl and haunt me

Just to show the motorcycles

Have desheveled my intelligence into

Nothing

And so with negligence,

I leave the core of a rotting apple

The foreign words of a doctor

And

You must call the king, says something far off

But I wonder which one

I wonder which one

I so respect her honor

That I no longer

Follow my heart or my soul

And I don't shallow

But shatter to swallow

So

I let the sparrow

Out of the cage

I bought Sara

A pair of pants

And I haunt l Patrick Kirkpatrick in patches

And haven't you read yet

You're ready for forget the pageant?

It hasn't happened yet!

I love Sara in a dress

I hate Fallon and his wife

Keep the kids out if it

Skull and crossbones

Cross my heart and

Really hope to the loveless

Or else

Someone might call my phone back

It's on silent in my coffin

Or wait—

It's on vibrate.

I'm obsessed with the way You're dressed

And the name on your checks

I guess I'm better for it

I'll skip lunch if you think that's what's best

And dinner, too

If you deserve the best

Then better have learned my lesson

No sweat

And to do,

With you,

Was then,

Dinner through next supper

All the love I had was

Rubbed into something other than

The glass I patted dry

With microfiber

With ever fiber of my being

I want to be with you

I should have just—

Died,

And then

Did, and so next

Life,

Remind me not to

Fall for it

If i really wanted to know you,
I would know you by now–

If i wanted to have you?

I would have had you already

Nobody is a dancer after Michael Jackson.

I just watched some shit that was like

“What the fuck did I just see”

The whole thing was just not right.

It was-/

I was like

First of all, it's Munich, 1997.

I never really realized how terribly the world has changed;

No cellphones, but the audience is lit,

And the crazy thing is, you can tell that this is near the turn of the century because, when the camera is panning by the audience in the people, they're not looking directly into the camera or waving at the camera— not really.

And clearly this is an all ages show, so there's children, so the interesting thing I'm finding out is that nobody's trained to look at the camera and wave and smile— except the babies on shoulders and shit. These kids— they're my age now, are the only ones that see the camera, and they look directly into the shit.

Mi still can't do that, really—

I'm theatrically trained.

Haha

If I see a camera, I try to act ‘natural'

It's the weirdest thing to look at a camera and just start to work it.

People at festivals now, the camera rolls by,

Or the drone flies in,

And they look deadass in the camera and start to work it.

Not at this show.

Munich 1997, I'm like

“Damn, a lot of things is wrong with this”

First of all, I love Michael Jackson,

I look directly at this man, and I'm in my dirty peak so I have an instant— like a sex detector thing going on

And I know people gave Michael a hard time when he was a live for being fruity and whatever

But I'm looking at this dude, and I don't see fruit at all.

I see 100% man.

I see why people were mad at him.

Cause I'm looking at this dude, 100%

All I see is carnal, primal man.

I'm like,

“Yo, I see why they was mad at him”

Because the camera kept panning to the audience

And these people are losing their minds.

They are coming out of themselves.

They are UGLY CRYING, full out of body,

Losing composure

They don't know what to do.

That's Michael Jackson.

He's right there!

And the place is huge so really besides these few hundreds of people in the front,

Michael's just a speck,

But he's working this audience like

“Yo, you know who I am, I know who is me”

And I'm realizing, that to these people

That's their god.

These girls are losing their minds m

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!l

*crying inconsolably*

Just UGLY crying

Bitch, get it together .

You all the way lost yourself

Get. It together.

She won't.

This bitch.

I can't get over this

This one girl,

They just keep going back to her

Cause the whole show—

And this is like 2 hours of pure non stop Michael Jackson,

This girl, every time you see her, she's just ugly crying—

And every time you see her

Her cry is uglier and ugly

I'm like

“Damn bitch”

“Daaaaaaang”

So this is the first thing I see that is wrong.

But there's a lot of things wrong here,

Cause there's a lot of girls like this.

There's just— hundreds of girls losing their minds, like, I've seen Beatles mania and thought that was crazy,

Shit, I've even seen some people put out that kind of energy in the modern world for some dumb DJ's—

That's their god—

But THIS

THIS Michael Jackson mania was mental illness

That was hard to watch.

That was people just

Lost control.

I'm thinking

“Like goddamn. You— what?!”

“AAagghhhhhhgahahahahahqhahahhahaha MICHAELl

“These people are sick”

But they are. And so is Michael

Fame has gone too far, 1997;

12 short years before he died, by chance—

So this is what I see,

And then Michael starts dancing,

And this—

This is what I see;

I see the only thing that can ever be what it was in that moment in time, as God being God:

Michael Jackson.

Shiny ass motherfucker,

And so I'm watching this show,

And all I see is a God being a man being a God being—

Michael Jackson—

And the whole thing is weird.

But the worst part—

Yes

The worst part

Was when, about mid show,

Michael goes to do one of his slow, lovey doves songs,

And like, this 6 foot 7 type body guard guy,

Just pops up out of nowhere,

Comes dead front and center to one of these little girls losing their minds,

Runs up on her in an instant;

You don't even have time to think—

And just SNATCHES her—

Snatches the bitch—

“Ah!”

then throws her up on stage with Michael—

And he's still singing; this is his game, this is part of the show, he knows—

But she doesn't know,

And she's just lost her mind,

She won't let go

She's hugging and kissing on the dude,

She's lost her mind,

She's ugly crying

She's on the floor,

She's kissing his hand

She's really lost her good goddamn mind—

And they pan out to the audience,

And all the girls that didn't get picked

Are like

WHY NOT MEEEEEEEREEEEE?!?

THE UGLY CRIES ARE EVEN UGLIER NOW,

They're like

“Wh—what?”

You don't know?!

“WHY NOT ME”

They're holding each other crying,

Michael's just doing his thing,

He's unphased,

He's trying to play along;

He's a professional like a motherfucker;

He's just— keeps singing

And this girl is just,

Losing it, so at this point, it's weird,

She's crazy batshit lost her mind all the way,

Won't let go of Michael, kissing his face while he's singing,

He's kind of unreceptive to it, now just looking out at the audience, almost not even looking at all

Just cold as fuck actually,

Like she's not there, kissing his face

Cold as fuck—

And then another bouncer dude—

An even bigger one in a blue suit, comes and tears her off of Michael

Cause clearly this has gone too far or whatever

And I'm thinking

“What in the fuck did I just see”

Blue suit dude just snatches,

Just—

He has to tear her off of him!

She's kicking and screaming and getting dragged off stage

Michael's just: singing.

YO.

Then they dragged her back stage.

Where did she go?!

WHO DID SHE BECOME?!

WHAT IN THE FUCK DID I JUST SEE?!?

WHAT.

1997. You can't do that shit anymore!

You cannot snatch bitches like that.

I seen.

Watch the video.

Tell me what's wrong with it.

It's disgusting.

Not the snatching,

Not the—

Like, that was weird

But the screaming and the crying and the—

Like okay, the snatching was bad—

But I'm like

…

..::

….

Now I see why they was mad.

Don't ever forget he was once—

A dark skinned little boy,

And in his genetics his whole life is still this thing

That some hate.

But people loved him; they loved him that hard—

Screaming, ugly crying hard.

I think in that moment you know someone was like “he must be stopped!”

And it seems like yesterday was a year ago

But I don't want let anybody know…

Cause everybody wants something from me now—

And I don't want to let them down.

My life is over.

New York City looks so small from the top of a skyscraper.

What are you doing.

Then again— my thoughts lately have been grandiose.

Back market, eh?

What's this for?

You need a burner.

I have three.

Here, have another.

For someone whose supposed to be entirely off grid, I'm admirably reachable.

Clever vocabulary.

Something has to be clever about me, doesn't it?

Does it?

It must be. Or else.

[both men are speaking casually over the delicate process of loading rare guns; some of which appear to be antique, and some—almost even unearthly , as if from somewhere besides our own planet.

But, you could say what planet this is at all, actually— this bunker, with no windows and no doors, is apparently hidden in a subterranean layer— the location, unknown. The men seem calm but also quite tired and weary, and seem to know each other well. We can assume they've probably been friends for years.

Sickle cell anemia.

Does that mean I'm going to die.

Animus, I quite like whatever that is, Google.

;) don't mention it.

Honestly, you might as well.

What.

I can't help you with this.

What.

I don't think there's anyone who can.

Beg your pardon.

Please, don't beg— but uh…

[the doctor pats his patient on the shoulder]

Do take care.

Gee, doc! I'll try!

You should do that.

What.

Try.

The doctor leaves seemingly in some kind of hurry, trading his lab coat for a trench coat and closing the door behind him.

The other man pauses for a second in the silence of the weird linoleum room, then ponders on the coat for a moment before walking up to the coat rack, putting on the coat, and then walking out the door himself; as he begins to shut the door, he quickly decides also to take the fedora that was sitting atop the coat rack, placing it on his head before he walks out the door himself, shutting it behind him quietly.

You got anything to eat in here?

Cereal…some rabbit food ina the drawers, there.

Oh, you have salad. That sounds nice.

No, rabbit food.

[the man presents a large bag of weird brown dry food from the crisper drawer.]

…pellets.

For the rabbits.

How do rabbits get in here?

…I don't know.

And— more importantly— where did you get rabbit food for them?

If I told you Amazon, would you believe me?

The man just winces and places the bag back into the crisper drawer.

Now listen, I um—

If you want cereal, the milk is powedred…

I don't— and that's disgusting— but listen—

[the man cocks a loaded gun and admires it intensively]

(Dismissively)

—I'm listening.

I've been meaning to tell you something.

Tell me what.

It's important.

Oh, You couldn't have used one of my four phones.

Look, it's—

You know I wasn't expecting company. Well—

You should sit down.

The man squints, beginning to listen more attentively.

…

…really.

I'm holding a loaded gun; there are at least three more within arms reach if I do sit, you know.

I know.

But I should sit?

One baby to another says,

“I'm lucky to've met you.”

Maybe you should.

Not all my bad but all my might,

And all my mind,

The fire,

The light.

…business or personal.

[beat]

Both.

{Enter The Multiverse}

What are we watching?!

Shhhhhh!

Shut up.

What is this?

Some..

Sshhh.

Shit, I don't know. Sit down.

You don't know.

SHH it just came on

Shh.

Ok.

When?

Uh…

(Nobody really seems to know how long it's been. The show just happened to come on; no one remembers how, or why— or even when—

But the show is intense as it gets;

And it just keeps getting weirder and deeper.)

{Enter The Multiverse}

I'm transfixed on your soul

And it seems I aspire

To what has transpired here,

Your unremarked and the umpire

The spider veins and the way it washes.

And watches and waves, and waters over you,

And still I seem to think you've won another,

Strum to thumb of you.

And still I wake to gather here

The odds and whats

And the twists and turns and the

Troublesome you've number some

Or stuttered, stumbled conciousness.

And withered branches

Aces lie and house of cards

And aging scoundrels—

There you are, the..:

Nevermind.

Don't belittle my ways if,

In the end my thinking may be correct

As dumbfounded as I have shifted my lottery bonds tied to none,

There ye are again who aren't I,

And never were,

And weathered now, as I, bound to

Struggle under her might,

Nothing I was, and nothing I am

And nothing I came from but to barter

Oh hard love, I only found my kings upon thrown

As cast out of another by her likeness,

Peace and pale and primed as it was,

And wanted for love,

As I was not—

And then, the gates had opened

And I, preaching withered,

Gathered my arts and my minds

And my eyes, and my thrones,

Buried my ark and though not my bones

The shallow waking peaks of pride

And there you gathered, all as huddled sheep to mine,

The cost of war, but certain therefore honored as I have,

Happened went, came and untied, shattered

Hating all I am and all my dark and all my eyes and all my brown

Because you came and went, a baby born to as nothing was but beauty and yet having been gifted such life,

Departed! Soon, I wake shattered and with none as it had began, in my time and in time there laid there none,

But fortune seeks to favor, as ye are saying brave and yet I neither beg nor make to differ,

Shall you come again in part,

And in this time as shadows, as shadows

As hating and wearing and waging,

And shattered I, I pardon,

Knowing not they seeking I,

And I having none at all but one,

As forgotten I shall came

And went

And followed this,

The time y'i call now,

And ours and ours,

And yours and yours,

And mine and mine,

Though as one are also,

Common not,

And waking yet to find,

These things making have gone into yer

Another of ours, world,

Another of our dozens,

Shines,

Another of our gathered, wit, and waking

Though true to fortune, none us have gathered

And have embarked to truth,

The waking I have come,

Another, and another, and another

Departed. And yet, I bury my words having weakened to that which is this,

Ye have no fear and lest no fortune in these words,

For having I to come and gone, since they times

In words to make this a language I or neither other

Does not speak here, and almost never,

And this yours time past,

Has come and gone

And come and gone

And come and gone again,

So long so I too have parted but not yet

Unfolded as does my nature,

As God does.

Belittle this, you waking fools,

As to this you pity though divine,

Is unlike any other

And steep remarked in gold and with chimes and words

That ye here no often or either now, or in mine speak.

Amen

…can I go now?

You are dismissed.

C'cxell Soleïl, aka DJ Ū is an American DJ + Producer, Multi-Instrumentalist, Playwright, Poet, Comedian, Novelist & Filmmaker. She is best known for her unique vocal riffs, Clever Lyricism & Philanthropically Inspired Freestyles and her flagship venture [The Festival Project.™]

[Ï A M B ī C], a freestyle studio mixtape recorded in Los Angeles, (Official Release: TBD) inspired the adaptation of a staged musical version for Broadway, and a concurrent multimedia (TV/Film) series and ongoing saga as part of The Festival Project ™ Brand.

Inspired musically by an ‘Ultra American' experience of Racially, Binary Ambiguity, and Synesthetic Exploration, her reflective melodies signature sound provides a philosophical dissection of American culture through a careful and inquisitive mastery of the English language, and emergence of world sounds through music brings about ‘A New Era in Nature', and clarifies the establishment of the newest wave in human evolution: Unity Through Music.

L E G E N D S

What if I just want to be alone in the dark

Alone in the dark

Alone in the dark

Bones Duggar was a long, handsome zombie

Bones once was a very tall man

Not great and tall, as he stands

But average,

Grand as it were, his status.

Everything's black

My heart

My pants

My home

My mind

Everything hurts

But you don't understand that

Like I can

Calm the commercial holidays for a moment

Who gets the card?

Get our your hard earned

My head hurts

Slam the door man;

You can't control thoughts

With a wombat

Murderer

Now that's a hard concept to catch

When you haven't a soul

When you haven't a card

Or a car

Or a cat

I think I'm vanilla.

I always thought of myself as a super kink

Like a freaky, freaky bitch.

So I got on this app.

This app is better then Tinder.

Yes.

But it is not for the faint of heart.

No, sir.

They have a test,

I'm like “ooh, I like tests”

So I take the test.

The test was not at all…

As I'd hoped.

First of all,

It was hard.

It was not a quiz;

It was a TEST

And I failed.

I realized

“Oh my god, I don't like any of this stuff”

I am not about that!

No!

Yuck!

Gross.

“I think I might be vanilla.”

I might be vanilla.

I want my hair pulled back like a leash

And my arms tied up

Like I'm being arrested

Without being read my rights.

— I want your hands on the back of my neck

[breathe]

Reach around to my

Mortimer's apple

Put the lights out,

Adam.

I want the lights cut off.

I want the bills piled up so the phone don't work

I want the habit back on

Don't talk to nobody

I told you, I'm coming

No, God!

That's dumb!

Show me why I'm off all alone with a rattle so bad

It's just segmented thoughts, colors and sounds I can't make with all the plugins in the kindgdom of chaos?!

I WANT KINGS,

AND KINGS WANT BLONDES—

I WANT KINGS, AND KINGS WANT BLONDES

I WANT KINGS, AND KINGS WANT BLONDES

—but the one who could love me is God,

And I guess he's not coming.

The denial turns to tears,

Not songs no more

My womb is empty

And the sun has turned into

Not what I wanted

But not my fault

We got caught in the land of

Cutting costs

And processed morsels

At 400 pounds

And that's where I found

What I thought was love

But it turns out

That it just turns up

In the whole form of a person

And that's why

I got the collar, caller

But really I'm no one's lover

So I

Do what I want

I don't hang up on God

But he don't got a body

And I need someone to love/

Fuck me

Please God

Don't turn the lights off

I'll pull the clock back

Just like foreskin,

god i want your skin

Draped over mine in a warm swath

Probably run a hot back

Cause the next stop is a closet

The line doesn't really move for the Doesn'tMatterhorn. some people are starting to doubt if it's even a ride.

Others just admire it for its eloquence as a metaphor.

Johnny! You scared me!

Aha.

Where did you go?!

Nowhere— fast!

Alright well—

Money when you know I have it

But I haven't really

Paid attention to the never ending

Digits never coming in but

Simply, there's a secret, Sonny

Someday you'll get lessons, honey.

Much to find and much to serve and

Surf us up

Piñata's bout the burst

But here comes Vesuvius

(POW)

Everyone was gone in an instant

(Vapor)

Had a good laugh that night in the pantheon;

Everything's past, and the mortals

They kept on running

But i didn't want go, God

Putting on a show then I blow up

Just like the mountain

Found her

Now I got a broke back husband (hope so)

To tell, don't ask

Don't show up if you just get lost

But I'm probably in the back with a bottle back mountain

Now you got a real horse pack. Trip

Girl keep camping

What was the map with the mask and the

Fashion?

Pass.

I put sugar on the rim of the glass

With my eyes half closed

And my ass clenched fast shut

I'm an alcoholic

Don't involve the God

I got lost in the mall with the

—-

UGHHHHHHHH!

Hello.

Uh, yes— hi.

what up.

Mirror mirror.

Uh…nothing.

You're lost?

No.

You look lost.

Oh?

Disgruntled.

I am that.

You're lost?

I'm not lost. My friend is lost. His phone is dead.

You lost each other.

Sort of.

Continuity conniption

I nipped an eclipse

And he picked his nose

For a full ass minute

Sitting at the stop sign

That's a gobstopper's worth in our time

Pull all the clocks back,

Pull the fool over,

You just got fined

It was Friday for nothing

I was in the hatchback,

Scratch that

Sour patch

Should have called Pat back

Now I'm just a

Cool 48 in the ring with a date

And the cashapp

Continuity construction

I want a husband!

Fuck that.

I want a clean cut plus one

Since I can't have

Helmet,

Elmo,

Or Hatchetman;

Tears of a Clow…no,

Wait

I lost focus

Half finished album

Got 6 tracks

But I knew it was 12 from the get go

Prob‘ly should have knocked off the showrunner;

Nah, I'm sure I had that coming

Hashtag, undon

Could have been you, too

If the cash came through

Now it's hard times

Hardwired

Sitting on a hi wire,

Little white liar, liar

Wait

I made Katey Sagal

(Fire)

Cut off her hair

(Fire)

Went to the hall of fame with the framed sunglasses

Asked for her autograf,

But she walked off

So I shot her with a bottle/ can,

But she ducked, popped back up

With the brass knuckles

Surfboard

Good for a chuckle and a fuck

So I asked for her number

All that on a Sunday at Gelson's market.

Christ, almighty

I miss Walmart,

I hit hard times.

So many places to run,

But not many places to hide

I think I want to die here

I think i want to die.

City of corruption…

Lay it out and lay it over

City of corruption…

no, it's not a choice

It's a black tie function

Right in that very moment Seth Meyers kind of became my defacto personal hero.

“Never meet your heroes”

Or perhaps it was just his writing team, or the fact that maybe even without there even being anything set in stone or solid at all, [redacted] itself seemed to have a price over my head–

It all seemed to make sense; in fact, all the crazy things i was experiencing made more sense than it didn't. But after what felt something like between defeat and maybe even one day really getting justice for all the things that had happened to me in new york– it was that, at best;

That without actually meaning it, by all probability, the opening monologue described what in perfect sense the thing that had been happening to me: hundreds of motorcycles and cars riding around in circles for over a year, any time i tried to work or sleep–and then, when I finally tried to reach out to find an attorney that would help, I was made to feel crazy for it.

In a way, it was the perfect indication that it had all been some sort of sick game, and that I was more right than wrong, and being set up to appear, sound, or look crazy–but I wasn't. I had been under attack for nearly two years, and when I tried to reach out, my heart raced and my voice cracked, and I sounded crazy and desperate–but what was happening was very real; and now I knew where I was.

As it turns out, New York's corruption was more common knowledge to everyone else before it was to me: New York was a common place for fucked up, dirty, low-down mind games: and this was my lesson in that.

Seth Meyers in reality had nothing to do with it–and really I only meant to watch Kimmel over my afternoon tacos.

But still, though it hadn't entirely anything to do with me, the opening statements rang true to exactly what I had experienced; I was made to lose my mind, only to have everyone around me tell me it was something wrong with me–but it wasn't. Something was wrong with the city, and the building management, and the people around who were making it all to be some kind of mental disorder or problems with my mind–in reality, it was 2 years of being in the center of a speedway, and all the time i'd lost because of it adding to the stress, and the angst, and the depression that resulted.

Moo.

Moo…

Moo.

Moo, sir.

I'll kill you.

You promise?

I want to.

Don't get me excited over nothing;

If this isn't the exit, please take this tease

To the left, dear

Moo, cow

My honor

Level one, and brother, you've got nothing

Flip the coin and landed on your headache

Betting on your helmet

Standing on my cock, i'm taller

(Not a rooster)

But my ops are rooting for you,

No informants,

Dont you know I was a collar, all along?

I was a shot calling,

Cop calling

Kiss-and-tell all as the night goes on.

But oh, I brought you a dollar bra

Oh, I bought you for all of a dollar

And oh,

I'm so much taller,

Standing on my cock

But i'm not but ten feet tall

You know, you wrote that

Should i open the book, or close that

Caught that cat, owl and

As i soft spoke at

Every broken model

Broken bottle for the thoughts you owe

Across the scatters skies and no one ever knows

When you're realling coming over

Come on,

I'm on the pornhub

Just to pick up another one

Go on, and rub the bottle

One more once,

To call the

Bubbles.

Damn.

Come.

(The Monkey obeys)

You should see Michael in all of his godform

You won't recognize him at all if not by the eyes

When you follow home

Believe me, this not comes close to it;

The one you wanted

The world you jumped to but were just short of

Call her back

Oh no, you're wrong

It's another song

A pin up girl

And the wrong number

Okah.

Okah, Pablo.

Time can be altered, changed or effected presently in any omnidirectional plane by engaging certain acts or synchronicities within multidimensional parallels or adjacent realms in time and or space respectively.

–the reverse quantum simulation theory.

Does anyone else smell blood

I hate wedding days suits and tuxedos

No, I don't know you

I'm just here to sound the hundred drums

Of the once before us

(The ones to come)

Then, there we were and I didn't want to admit

Again, I was caught into the ghost of the rapture

Or the holy hour,

No aux chord

Show the holy one

Just how old you are

On these sacr d lands and a holy grounds

Now I want here half an ounce to smoke

And there were drowning orchestras in all of the hearts

And all of the markets,

The market the marker

And all of the sins of the savior

The maytyr

Did you remember not to notice not to know him

Were you sure with words you were for nickelodeaon!

I was supposed to hold on to,

Supposed to hold on to

Suddenly, it's summer.

And always our own are under the weather

There was no other wise man the wind. Lee the one came

The site came and went and then the songs went left

The songs went left;

Again, the songs went left

Did you win at wintergreen

Well, God, I didn't know gym was a game.

I didn't know guns we're just portals to worlds unknownn

I didn't know gossip was golden

What all else didn't I know

It wasn't for here! It was fourth flour

And in the final hour of the battle I commenced to summon

All the gods and all the lords and all the flowers

All the worlds of oceans and the

Remember, this

The remembrance

It may not matter to some,

What matters to most

But until summer comes,

I'm still up under the rail

And practically it's spring, for the next two weeks

I'm all berries and cream and whatever you wanted.

Tormaline, emerald and onyx, the fox said

And fox says its west when instead it's quite under what of the reporter's offer?

Comes down a little to none

What of the offer

Comes down from a billion to one

A billion to one

I'm on TV so it's really just a one way screen

Either way,

I don't think he likes me much

I don't think he likes me much

I'd rather die than to fall in love even one more time

And to keep on just never being loved

Never beingbloved

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project™ ]

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S:

ICONS

Tales of A Superstar DJ

The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū

Ascension

Deathwish

-Ū.

Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ |

Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019-2025 ™ All Rights Reserved.

-Ū.

Every time I take him in

I must remember

the best thing

That have ever happened to him

As he said

And whether or not the band

Wraps around the bent and broken digit

I just simply remember that,

I'm just infatuated as a friend

I mark it like a mantra

Just as adequately as the director

Calls to action

All the actors at the set;

With no resentments

We're all just doing our jobs

All just doing our jobs

We're all just doing our…

Lessons.

Come back.

Not quite.

It's not

(Uh)

There

(Where you want it)

Hold on.

(Yeah)

Sit tight

(Where)

I don't want to spoil any of it

Boil all the letters

Burning all the bridges

Sitting at the forest

(Where)

There's the alter

(Where)

Really you didn't recognize

The moment when it happened

But it's been pinpointed

(Where)

—but where is it?

Cut to commercial

But don't let it hurt you

All of a sudden. My eyes aren't his,

This isn't witchcraft

It's just a glitch

Did you miss an interview?

Or is it that you're just disinterested

Or disintegrated

Integration, integers and interference

Running backs and runners,

Gymnasts, models, other lovers

Alcoholics

Now it's not so daunting, comic

I'm also sort of off and autistic

Obsessive with narrow vision

But glimpses of the ever bending present

Is indeed a gift

To know I left the letter

Letting it get soaking wet

Before they ever even read it

Know the news,

Wave the wand,

Wind the whales,

Dig the hole

Burn the bridge,

Burn the ace

Throw the cards,

Get the day over with and won't you know

There's

Something wrong

I think it's simple to tell

The wind will whistle when It's good to win again

There are

Ten men to a collar

Ten phones to a number

One call to a voicemail

And all of them know her

Now, take it all back before the bathwater stagnates

Would you make it in this day and age?

No,

I'm glad that you hate me.

4,000 years later and all of a sudden

The pact is clear and concise

As if

As it

As if

Turn it on its head a bit

And light another candle

Get the glitch out of your

Obsession with the asshole

And wrap you head around it

Found a sweater

Pick it up and pray that it just

Isn't bewitched,

But sickness is sickness

Whatever it is

This is comfort food

A comfort blanket

If I hate myself enough

Then all it does

Is put the elf back on the shelf

The trophy back inside the case

My eyes go back inside my head

And everything I ever thought

Just stopped

And disappears into the heavens

Wherever it goes

Before the gore

Around and and around and around and around

4,000 years, and now we're here:

The mirrors

Man and Mr.

And it might be another million years

Until I see to hear

But this and that,

The dance of dances

Comes again

And ebbs and flows

It's not as random

As it is sporadic

And it's not that deep

But it's also keeping secrets

That precede this realm

Or Space and time

Or name or face

And body, souls and mind.

It could be another million years,

But it comes around,

It comes around

It could be getting wider,

But it's steady going down and out

It comes around when it comes around

27, were it ended

Now it's umpteen years into the after life

And we're shadows now

Just projections of such,

But it wasn't once

More than just a thought,

Becomes a story

All the world was just the thought

And then a song,

The dance that came along

Is simply steady moving

Is simple steady moving.

All of the world,

Was just a thought.

Watch with one eye open only

First the right

And then the left

Covered over with one closed palm

So you know how old you go

One foot forward

And no coals to walk over

Rolling rolling,

Your role is

One off,

Now too off

Now too late

But what you process

Is your whole world over

The goal for the gold?

Oh, no,

Warm Sundays

Try to warn her

While her heart is open

To fucking close it

Keep your friends close

And your Fallons closer.

There's no trust in the golden auras

There's no honor in golden globes

If you don't work for them

Know doors open and close

And open and close

And you don't blow smoke,

But you just keep moving forward

[The Festival Project ™ ]

Just the idea if him will kill you

Whether with guilt or otherwise,

And now you know

And now you know

You're on no sugar till the goal

You got your cake and ate it, too

Oh, the way he cries in the confines of my mind

The blood would curdle

The tears that seared my soul disk through the wall with every color

If his was a shoulder to cry on,

If God was a cover for longing

Yo. Where the fuck did Patrick come from?

He just showed up.

I don't think he owns me so much

As I want to know

I don't think I'm lonely

As much as it's I'm alone

What are you looking at

Well, I don't know yet

What are you asking?

I can't.

There's a mask there

What I want to know is,

What is this pain?

What is this pain in him?

What is this pain in this?

What kind of psychic sense

That lives in my back;

I just hope that's the last of it

What a weird kid.

Core Concept: "Enter The Multiverse" (ETM) is a living, evolving meta-narrative that documents the ontological fluidity of reality itself. It functions as a grand experiment, proposing that all perceived realities – fictional, historical, and contemporary – exist as vibrational frequencies within an infinite cosmic tapestry. ETM doesn't just feature alternate worlds; it explores the mechanics of their existence, their interconnectedness, and the profound implications for consciousness. It blends high-concept quantum physics with ancient spiritual metaphysics. It includes creatures such as shapeshifters (like Gerald and potentially Jimmy Fallon), fairies, and monsters.

Integration of Real-Life Figures: ETM famously integrates real-life celebrities (from A-list icons like Oprah Winfrey, Beyoncé, Janet Jackson, Madonna, Billie Eilish, Finneas, Eddie Murphy, Christopher Walken, Johnny Depp, Charlie Sheen, Katt Williams, and Whoopi Goldberg, to late-night hosts and media personalities like Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon). ETM posits that these individuals, often without their conscious awareness, are either key nodal points in the multiversal fabric, accidental conduits for interdimensional energies, or even unwitting "Lightworkers" whose public personas are part of a larger cosmic script.

You son of a bitch.

Can you do that?!

Can you do that?

I can do— anything I want—

Really?

Except that.

Oh?! And why's this?!

Because I don't want to.

But if you could, you would.

I can— I just—

Oh really.

I'm sure there are reasons— besides the obvious

—I'm sure—

Moral ones.

Almost Sam was a safe bet

Almost mark John was a good lad

Almost once was the Ireland's best,

And I guess with the beat of the drum,

I ponder

Ponder to the beat of the

Pity my pocket, much

Pity the fool, if you're. It put b perfect;

Get in the picture,

Just to cut you out of it

If I close my eyes one time,

Even just for a little while

Take me right off and away

Take me right off and away

And I bet with the task, you can't have handled it

I bet to run better you'd forget your purpose

I guess I'm a purist- pure problems, the pussy car l

Put it to sleep,

Or just— in a waste basket

I'm so confused, ya'll,

I got on the train.

Of course.

And nothing was at all interesting until this nigga got on

With a samurai sword

And a Trader Joe's clutch

Pick a side!

You can't get on the

What the fuck am I looking at

You tel me

I don't know.

You see that.

I wish I didn't.

Take it all in.

I—

Okay.

This is gross

What is the state of New York today? L

Infected.

Corrupt.

Disingenuous.

What is the state of New York today

No identity

No indegenous

Murder me

Leave me to drown

In the tides of the ocean

Just let me sink

That's the only way to

Bury me,

With this murderous, traitorous

Listen, if you will

To a story ne'er told,

But often sung

And often rang like moons as bells

Often thought, but never spoken

Often brought up,

But never put down

Come around, will you

I'll tell you a tale of a glorious story

The take of all time, and as you listen,

These words and this whispers will mend with your spirit,

Then cease to exist with it

Listen

Celebrating resonances

Has no effect.

Yet

I haven't even messaged any

I haven't even lets a message yet

I've just been celebrating resonances

I haven't noticed any difference her.

Only reflections on the way you get affexted

How to get the guy at the bar— aunt you just lean on the bar

Maybe you just sit at the bar

Maybe you just be at the bar;

How to get the guy at the bar

Maybe you just stare at the bare

Sit right there at the bare

Maybe have a care at the bar

Don't share at the bar

Several small disaster.

Why the fuck

Am I alive

I might as just well die

I should have never made Pasquale Rotella one of my role models.

—then again. This is before I really knew who he was, or what he was about— and at the end of the day, the truth of the matter is, nobody can ever really know who he really was, or what he was really about.

Semitus, Semitus

Relax the semitones

Verdis Quo varitus

You still aren't coming through!

Varuq de Adonai

Semitus, Semitus

Verdis Quo, Veritus

You still aren't coming through

Cover up

Cover up

You still aren't coming through!

Tau Kappa Epslilon

You still aren't coming through

Kappa Kappa epsilon,

You still aren't coming through

Kappa Delta Epsilon,

you still aren't coming through

MR. REDUNDANT, RAINBOW KITTEN SUPRISE–

But IN AN UNASSUMING IRISH BAR in DRUNKEN HARMONY surrounding a piano played by what appears to be…

An exceptionally tall leprechaun?

I wouldn't know. I wasn't.

[invited]

Enchilada muffins

Ah nah, I'm in Manhattan.

I almost forgot what that was like.

What a head change.

More like a change of heart.

What's this, a song?

More like, I just don't know yet

One day this will all be gone

For now this is just a poem.

How to wear Santa yellow: don't

That took avoid anount of forever.

That took a long punch of time

That took a good bit of forever

And now you're mine,

You're mine, you're mine

That took a good bit of forever,

And now I'm on your mind

That took a long bit of forever

But now, I'm not counting time

And now you're mine

Now you're mine

Now you're mine

Now you're kine

Jack in the box

You really like to think you're smart, don't you?

You really like to get your way?

I can't

Blame you

But baby,

I can't tame you

LEAN WIT IT, ROCK WIT IT–BUT VIKING PIRATES.

lol dumb

“Nobody's really going to take that ad in the same way I am, are they?”

I had reached a breaking point. I was going to let the world make me go mad because being good wasn't working and being bad seemed like my only option. Should I get a vape? Grab a drink? Fuck a friend?

The truth was, none of the above would suffice, but in truth I felt the hate and rapid fire of judgement in cruelty in that whatever voice inside my head posing as Jimmy Fallon always seemed to be right.

I had been replaced.

People will try to feed you.

Dont you see

Because

People will try to defeat you

And they will fail

Back to the wall

Because after all

It was you who needed me.

After all,

Over all,

It was not a cacauphony,

It was an apostrophe.

How preposterous.

Don't you see the weight of it,

With what you made of it all,

It was fly over fall

And you chose the first.

Wasn't it something of a hallmark moment

That you went for the donut,

And still came out

With a basket of apples?

Indeed, a crisis,

In fact,

You're there again

In fact

Beware of her

It's obvious

That it's not her fault

It's just not the right time

It's just not the right te, it's just not the right time

When all they need if your compliance

And all the my want is your attention

And don't you see, it's just applied physics

I'll take

Literally

Whatever I can get

But you already knew that

I needed you to need to know

You know you knew

But you already blue that

And i'n already blue balled,

So send me a bluebell

It's nothing new, hell

But it's crucial that I

Screw you

We all go to work in a toolbox

My dear did

What on earth are you doing in The fourth dimension?!

I thought things were kind of strange…

We interrupt this orogramme to bring you a live broadcast of a current alien invasion—breaking news—

If you jump

I might just jump

Don't jump

If you jump

I might jump

Same here

If you jump I might jump

I'll jump

Don't jump

Same here

I might just jump

311-231-25900

311-231-26867

JIMMY FALLON pours himself a tall glass of WHATEVER— this is clearly one of those hype celebrity-curated brands of liquor meant to be hip and chic— a luxurious black-label bottle of fine liquor which literally, in bold white lettering, simply says WHATEVER; next to it on the oak wood table is another bottle of WHATEVER— a clear liquor, however with a white label and black lettering. This is clearly someone's brand, although— in the confines of a murky and dimly lit office, oppulent as it is— this is no plug, and there are no cameras, no audience.

JIMMY FALLON knows he is about to be murdered, and as the dark liquid— perhaps a rum of some sort— glides over the barreled rocks in his glass, he calmly lets out a subtle sigh of exasperation.

These are surely his last moments.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project™ ]

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S:

ICONS

Tales of A Superstar DJ

The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū

Ascension

Deathwish

-Ū.

Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ |

Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019-2025 ™ All Rights Reserved.

-Ū.

[The Festival Project ™ ]

Look, I've got some… time.

How much time we talking?

Enough.

Alright, what's that make us?

A deal.

Alright.

But you have to be quiet about it.

Body is a minimum concern

But accolades, achievements,

Education—

If you want to know,

A billion's the goal—

There's a goldmine full of pretty, perfect women

But what are you worth,

And where is your value

What are you, earth, sir?

Where are your manners, and

What are your limits,

And who are your partners—

The son is the prize,

And the reward,

A daughter

Now what are you on?

I still don't know what you're on about.

The show of the shelf life is done,

And finally,

All the hazards are uncrossed

You know what you've done

And you know what to do

And you know who you are

And you know what you want

So the time for the gripping

Has come down upon us

The seams that are ripping

Are nothing short of humongous

How's that for a tadpole to a whole frog!?

Watch it, turtle monster

Before I put you down to run,

And forgot what I had before

Besides a gun

And a habit to write

And a real dark home

And indeed, the words were also dark

But written golden

Golden shark

Upon a park bench

Put you back but don't you know

To take a flash drive from a DJ

Is much like

Stealing a surfer's wetsuit

It just like,

Bad karma, man

It's bad karma,

Mark

.

I wrote— a passbook— where is it?

You wrote— what?

Where is it?

Mi wrote it! Where is it?

Wrote what?

I wrote everything!

I don't remember writing any [passbook]

I'm a writer!

A writer?! Oh, come on, Jimmy!

Don't “Jimmy” me! You're starting to sound like…

Wait a minute.

Ah.

Tina?!

Don't be angry!

Oh my gosh!

Oh my gosh! I knew It!

You didn't know anything, you were yelling at me like I'm that old lady!

You are that old lady!

*hugely gasps*

DREW BARRYMORE

Oh, you are so exorbitantly fucked.

Where is she?!

You have a— habit of always asking me these things before I really know the answer lately.

Where's the scribe!?

Is that who she is?

You are supposed to be my predecessor!

Stop being angry!

I'm—very upset—

And let go of me.

This is aging me. Rapidly.

Yay.

Listen, I don't know what the fuck I said but—

I need a liaison.

For what exactly.

Anything, apparently.

Oh shit. The crazy thing about this one is—

Yo Tina Fey is an almost elitist sort of shapeshifter. She's so sub

—fuck.

[—bliminal with it.]

Someone keeps interfering with my signal.

They can do that.

They can broadcast Saturday night live to the entire world from the top of the World Trade Center, they can do anything.

That's perfect— telemetry!

Or just— telepathy.

In a not so far dimension for continuity piurposes.

J.Pierpoint Morgan—

No, not yet,

Oh okay.

THE STRIKE FORCE FIVE have gathered in an office with a collection of other HOSTS.

JIMMY FALLON sits leaned back on the couch in an unassuming hoodie, with the hood pulled over his face. He seems younger than usual, and somewhat bored.

I knew his hair wasn't falling out anytime soon—

—damn those genetics—

So still I slowly but carefully salt and peppered each and every streaking strand that sprung forth from his wisdom.

Hahaha!

Yo.

Crazy.

Somebody needs to kill this bitch.

It's too late. She can't be stopped!

No!

What!

Crazy.

She's… too powerful.

I agree.

I sort of accepted the relative silence in my apartment as if they'd gotten what they wanted— seeing Aliocha's number over and over as a way to succumb eventually to my inherent death— and at least then there would be peace.

As it were, I was enjoying my time reading the New Testament Psalms above any of my other reading materials, which included a book on music business and even a portfolio of festival stages; this seemed of no mere coincidence, but as if of course the books were placed in my path within time that i'd find them returning from my radio show–and I did. But more fascinating than any book on the music business, or seduction, or the laws of human nature, or the art of war, was a hotel copy of the new testament, to which I took an immediate liking, with the understanding of this religious texts translations that I supposed writing almost seemingly endlesslessly myself had simplified. It seemed less boring than the last time I'd read it–and then again, the last time i'd read it, it wasn't as deliberately poignant as it sat now in the palm of my hands. I spent more time with it than the other books, although I loved Robert Greene, and even though i'd had the art of seduction on repeat by way of audio book, reading it through now seemed almost disturbing in nature, because on so many levels, there wasn't a time in my life where I could think to that this art didn't apply. Indeed, I was a true romantic, and then had in a way obliged myself to be seduced over and over, if not for the sake of the art. But now, in my own actual sexual prime, despite my cellibacy, nearly leaking the fluidity of sexuality with me wherever I went no matter how hard I tried to mask it

…whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, and actually, more often than not I did notice t[o]—

To what?!

Idk, it just ends.

UGHHHHHH.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project™ ]

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S:

ICONS

Tales of A Superstar DJ

The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū

Ascension

Deathwish

-Ū.

Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ |

Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019-2025 ™ All Rights Reserved.

-Ū.

Someone help me.

What happened.

What's good bro.

I think deadmau5 is my cat.

Nah.

You're serious?

I'm…deadfuckingnserious.

What makes you think that?

[cat is deadmau5]

lol isn't it super torturous as fuck as a woman knowing

All you really want is for like, one man to like ,

Just like you,

But dudes are notorious for like—

Never ever really being able to just ”like” one person?

Like dudes like everyone

They are notorious whoooores.

The like everybody.

The older I get like the worse it gets

Like here's this guy I like

And I pretty much mostly just like him

But then like,

Look at all these girls!

Fuuuuck that!

NICOLE BYER

OH LOOK. ITS DUM-DUM!

this is because I keep forgetting you, isn't it?

NICOLE BYER

Yes it IS.

this might actually be my favorite part of the story.

BLŪ is taking a shower when suddenly—

NICOLE BYER appears out of nowhere.

HEY DUM-DUM.

JIMMY KIMMEL uses his newfound ability to time shift (not time travel, persay, but to alter many parallels of a given time) to undo joining a college fraternity.

Also in the present nothing appears altered. This invisibly and almost even silently skews several multidimensional parallels into disarray.

Unknowing st all of this, he seems content with his decision.

Then again, he always seems sort of...

JIMMY KIMMEL is quietly enjoying his fishing trip.

Basking in the wonderful allone ness of solitude and silence, he uncaps a bottle of [insert product placement here] and takes a very hearty swig, letting out a super contended sigh.

…content.

It is a picturesque and perfect day; however, something seems off; just then, as he admires his first catch, hanging from the line over the bow, a GIANT SHARK appears out of the water, snapping up his catch and retreating into the abyss with a thunderous SPLASH. Dripping with dismay (and lots of water) JIMMY KIMMEL explodes with an equally thunderous rage.

WHAT THE FUCK!

He teeters, sopping wet to the edge of the boat, peering momentarily into the rippling water before he realizes it may not be safe, and in the same glimpse from the side of his squinted unrelentlessly still glistening eyes, realizes that this shark has knocked over and spilled his entire bottle of [insert product placement here]

He confusedly and exasperatedly cries out and upward into the skies—.

THIS IS A LAKE!!!

Just a note to remember that I finally perfected my recipe for the absolute best vegan breakfast burrito just previously to writing this.

It was delicious.

Yes, it was.

I—

Oh, my god!

Parallels, remember!

No!

(Suddenly eating a burrito)

Your memory sucks!

It has to.

Isn't it all in the culture?

I don't know what you're all on about

Turned it all on, now i'm off, man

Turned it all off, but I laid here for it–

Tuned it around,

And I payed her for it!

How's

That

Now

For an awful apocalypse

All on the top of the grant

And the ground

And the landmine

The top of the mountain

The tip of the iceberg

the tell of the tails

And tails of the sweet custom made to order

Suits and ties

Of course

don't rock the boat

If you know its yours!

JIMMY KIMMEL stares into the distance as baby shark blares over the common room television screen–he appears to be babysitting, but his look is so far off, you wouldn't know he was in the room. The baby shark song seems to drum up some uncomfortable memories from fishing over the weekend. He squints with disdain over the incident with a weary glean in his eyes; this is not something you discuss with other people.

Isn't it all in the coat tails?

It's toxic, but i've never been a model

Or even wanted, so

What are all the hot blondes at the office on about?

You wanted the host of the talk show,

And woke up to croissants and roses, orange juice

and probable cause for your lawsuit,

But in the moment you loved it

So what's everyone on about?

Isn't it all in the cufflinks?

The stuff you don't tell to your home folks;

The homegrown and midwestern corn folks,

Discussing your show over corn flakes?

So what's everyone on about?

Let us just be honest,

I didn't know how deep it was

Until i opened up pandoras box,

And thought,

“What the fuck,

I've found a horxcrux.”

I've found a goldmine,

I've got the fox and the hare all in one here,

What a show host

What a conundrum,

What a construct,

What a hopeless homonid

What a heart to want nothing but

To put the top

Back on the box

And walk away

Unknowing all

Of what I saw

–Middle Days.

There's no Tonight Show where I'm from

No late night,

And no radio hosts

No television,

no songs

No one to lead us on

And then to no where

No one to cut us off

Before the road opens

No one to

Stop us at the railroad enclosures

And no one at all

named Love

Don't you know that the idea of all of you at all

Is just so comfortable, mountain or a horse?

Capable and strong?

Don't you know the mold of you has sunk into my heart

And formed a hole

Where all the world will go,

When i'm no longer mourning?

Are you sure you want to–

No.

Not at all?

I already did!

But I saw this thing–

Don't tell me about my death.

But you were there.

That's the thing, actually, you're not understanding–

I wasn't.

But–

Quite possibly everyone and everything around me–

Possibly even, or most probably, everything ever–

But I promise, Jimmy, if that is even your name–

It isn't–

exactly. Everything happening–or unhappening in the moment–

was

everything but me.

But–

Goodbye!

But–

Goodbye, I said!

I told you it was a deathtrap.

That lady is crazy.

I'm telling you, have faith! It makes sense.

It doesn't make sense!

It does make sense.

It's just random–gibberish.

Its absolutely ludicrous, Jimmy. She's crazy!

You're youre right; it is ludicrous, actually, but listen to me—

I'm finished listening.

Yeah. I think i've heard about enough.

But you haven't heard anything!

I have now what I needed to know.

But these writings…

We'll take it from here, Jim.

[The suits walk away.]

I hope you're flame retardant.

I ought to be by now, i guess.

Double check your coverage.

How'd that go.

As expected.

At least you expected it.

There isn't anything around here I haven't been expecting lately. I mean.

V.O.

I've been working here for over twenty years…

At least you're not being haunted by ghosts or anything.

[The irony is in that yes, actually, he is talking to a ghost.]

I get it

(ripped apart)

He's in the music

away

and carrying with it

–you're on!

A signal,

A ghost–

A sacrifice,

A ritual,

you're on again,

Then off again

The pitter patter of the

dismissive members of

Upper society,

High ranking elitists

And businussmen

whom you admire astonishingly

Despite discomfort,

Whom, happen to no doubt

Disapprove of you by nature

And yet,

Are also drawn

To your own power

Circumstance

Judgement

Morals

Traditions

Honors,

Representatives of the establishment

The state

(no longer a democracy)

Repression–

All in writer's room revisions

What happened?

I haven't kept it safe or sacred

One tear over

Only out the left eye

Listen, the marytr

I opened a death trap
I opened my widened mind

To the unknown and impossible,

Swallowed it whole with the lot of you

I died with knowing only the lowest of the totem pole

And yet, low and behold

Now, I rise to the top,

And such is known that without the bottom,

The whole log topples over.

Oh wow. I'm famous.

Yes, and?

It kind of hurts.

Eventually that goes away.

What a sensation.

It's always there. You just stop feeling it.

It lingers in on a sunday night,

And at most on the full moon,

no wolves howling;

It sets in in the bunny ears

atop the chatterbox

In the kitchen, where

It outshines us, from the other room

On the radio tower,

Where in time

the vines have climbed

And now flower bloom

In silent golden era tunes,

The tombs of all our knowledge and our light

To fade with every passing hour here

Goodnight, my son

I do not want to know you

Goodbye, my father,

I do not want to rust

And again I wake in the pain and lure of autumn

To never known a summer song,

And ponder on the dusk

It lingers deep on Sunday evening,

Setting hard on Monday morn,

and though i write so fond of JImmy

I dare often dream of Lorne

Chapter Four

Donovan Arnold was a lover and not a fighter. He never much had to come up against any kind of battle, either, because he was quite prone to always getting exactly what he wanted.

Louis Greenworth was not merely a friendly rival—but a challenge, and the two came head to heat in various bouts and brawls in their time at The Summit, where most if not many collide with one another for fortune, and in gratitude that there they had been chosen for greater purpose.

Something told me not too far on that Donovan had many to will and tricks up his sleeve without showing it, and in Louis's visions, he cautioned that I should be wary—although, in the rarer and flickering lights of Donovan's knowing and unknown, I should be careful of Louis and his corners.

Then, there wasn't a force amongst us which would lightly convey Louis—his doings and his shadows were dark--which is why I had been fashioned to it, and the powerful man he was beared such a heavy weight on all the world around him that he was nothing less than a storm to weather in total.

Then, Donovan was such the luck and clever, loving sprite, that his wit and charm was assuring to my embark; there was no way of truly ever waning in the way that Donovan had winged his way into the arrangement in his favor, but at the very least— disappointing his approval would gain no absolute pleasure beyond the astonishing dissonance of loyalty.

Then, there were keepers surrounding the might and the truth of The force that the shadows could not bare— there were times and marks and truths beyond the summit that were merely a facet of the things in the beyond, and in the way that The Source rules over its keepers, and its knowings—there was hardly any way for the niceties of pride, judgment most often throwing its way between dear Donovan Arnold and I.

There was no nose that could t smell the stench if the foul odor that the rot of betrayal had done.

The way of Donovan was seeking to know, without keeping or honor of heart—and I could not withstand another deep wound in the pit of my own truth.

They called him Donovan Arnold Palmer because he made a mean Long Island iced tea— which of course he attributed to his affluent east coast heritage, hailing from a long line of the posh and uptight standard boys and girls of the fools and good old days.

A clean cut brown nose and absolute stickler for circumstance and dedication, his placement within these sacred places was vanity, first and foremost—and with a sense of tradition and pride he carried on in the way any man would, with great relief that the world didn't rest on his shoulders the way it did on Louis— then, nothing really rested on anyone the way it did in Louis Greenworth.

chapter 5

The gifted saint of revelations

“Did he hurt you?”

I looked away without knowing where to look at all but down, my body aching with the waves of having been pressed and clutched against the spirals of time.

The things I pretend not to know.

“Who?”

Genie seemed disappointed but still, patiently coaxing me with the comfort of his warmth— calling my eyes and looking deeply into the soul. I was petrified

“What happened?”, he persists.

“I don't know what your talking about.” , I mumble guiltily.

He pauses for a moment as if he knows the depth of it— somewhere inside of me I know he knows, and behind me my mind is reeling and screaming, like a desperate unearthed fortune of unknown. Barely breathing, and shallow in the dark of the luminescence of the moonlight night, my loyalty overwhelms my pride and brotherhood.

“What did he say?” Now his eyes fill with the pain and begging for the mercy of truth, as he whispers almost with a whimper, even in his strength and grace.

In all those prayers not once had I even the ounce of nerve to think that he had uttered my name— now looking into him but huddled under him in heaps and ruins, I could not remember a time more when I wanted to disacknowledge the unknown and send a heap of words into the capes and canyons of his holy ears, though these things I knew for any time but especially this, I could never speak.

“He who?”

I can't wake up,

I'm a rockstar

Can't wash it off

And I'm just so high on drugs

That no matter the cost

I just don't want to come down

Don't want to want you anymore

Relax.

Think about it never or none

And wonder what the world becomes when

Weather tides and moon songs are no more

Remember, then the dolphin

And temperament to want what of course

All of us covet

But still, waking up in a dungeon.

What a curse.

Also, however

What a cure, as you wander up

The slithering road that parts

Los Angeles from all the north of her

Southern coast,

If you want specifics

The Pacific is at most

And much admires

Where you are,

No matter how far you wander

I want

I want

I want

And

I get

I get

I get

I'm a rockstar.

Maybe after all those times

Being just the girl that all might have died to have been

And getting mad over it

You wake up to find yourself

A stalker

Who doesn't

Leave the apartment

And just watches the come up

Of the songbird

Who just wishes

She had've gone

To Harvard

Not for law school

But the arts,

You know

You lost a fortune

That wasn't clever

You wrote a hospital long report

And look what you got!

A suffix

And later on an honorary doctorate

But look at Letterman

Hardly recognizable

And after all

The stopwatch just starts over at one

Doesn't it

Doesn't it?

I'm a rockstar

And what you wanted

Was no subtle front

But a surfboard and a ping pong table

Writing your fables in the quiet of the night

With the ocean steady lapping under the docks

And not

Collapsing her whole structure

What a thunderous wave

If you think it's time

Then you haven't caved yet

I offer all the pleasures of the golden science

And as alchemy concerned

Its really only valuable on this planet

As it stands the liquid gold mines here

Haven't budged an ounce—

There's an overflow of all you've ever wanted

With a pungent odor

Or wrongdoing done

And lemonade

To pucker

And to ponder over

S'mores for supper, anyone?

I thought not

-KR.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project™ ]

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S:

ICONS

Tales of A Superstar DJ

The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū

Ascension

Deathwish

-Ū.

Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ |

Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019-2025 ™ All Rights Reserved.

-Ū.

Someone help me.

What happened.

What's good bro.

I think deadmau5 is my cat.

Nah.

You're serious?

I'm…deadfuckingnserious.

What makes you think that?

[cat is deadmau5]

lol isn't it super torturous as fuck as a woman knowing

All you really want is for like, one man to like ,

Just like you,

But dudes are notorious for like—

Never ever really being able to just ”like” one person?

Like dudes like everyone

They are notorious whoooores.

The like everybody.

The older I get like the worse it gets

Like here's this guy I like

And I pretty much mostly just like him

But then like,

Look at all these girls!

Fuuuuck that!

NICOLE BYER

OH LOOK. ITS DUM-DUM!

this is because I keep forgetting you, isn't it?

NICOLE BYER

Yes it IS.

this might actually be my favorite part of the story.

BLŪ is taking a shower when suddenly—

NICOLE BYER appears out of nowhere.

HEY DUM-DUM.

JIMMY KIMMEL uses his newfound ability to time shift (not time travel, persay, but to alter many parallels of a given time) to undo joining a college fraternity.

Also in the present nothing appears altered. This invisibly and almost even silently skews several multidimensional parallels into disarray.

Unknowing st all of this, he seems content with his decision.

Then again, he always seems sort of...

JIMMY KIMMEL is quietly enjoying his fishing trip.

Basking in the wonderful allone ness of solitude and silence, he uncaps a bottle of [insert product placement here] and takes a very hearty swig, letting out a super contended sigh.

…content.

It is a picturesque and perfect day; however, something seems off; just then, as he admires his first catch, hanging from the line over the bow, a GIANT SHARK appears out of the water, snapping up his catch and retreating into the abyss with a thunderous SPLASH. Dripping with dismay (and lots of water) JIMMY KIMMEL explodes with an equally thunderous rage.

WHAT THE FUCK!

He teeters, sopping wet to the edge of the boat, peering momentarily into the rippling water before he realizes it may not be safe, and in the same glimpse from the side of his squinted unrelentlessly still glistening eyes, realizes that this shark has knocked over and spilled his entire bottle of [insert product placement here]

He confusedly and exasperatedly cries out and upward into the skies—.

THIS IS A LAKE!!!

Just a note to remember that I finally perfected my recipe for the absolute best vegan breakfast burrito just previously to writing this.

It was delicious.

Yes, it was.

I—

Oh, my god!

Parallels, remember!

No!

(Suddenly eating a burrito)

Your memory sucks!

It has to.

Isn't it all in the culture?

I don't know what you're all on about

Turned it all on, now i'm off, man

Turned it all off, but I laid here for it–

Tuned it around,

And I payed her for it!

How's

That

Now

For an awful apocalypse

All on the top of the grant

And the ground

And the landmine

The top of the mountain

The tip of the iceberg

the tell of the tails

And tails of the sweet custom made to order

Suits and ties

Of course

don't rock the boat

If you know its yours!

JIMMY KIMMEL stares into the distance as baby shark blares over the common room television screen–he appears to be babysitting, but his look is so far off, you wouldn't know he was in the room. The baby shark song seems to drum up some uncomfortable memories from fishing over the weekend. He squints with disdain over the incident with a weary glean in his eyes; this is not something you discuss with other people.

Isn't it all in the coat tails?

It's toxic, but i've never been a model

Or even wanted, so

What are all the hot blondes at the office on about?

You wanted the host of the talk show,

And woke up to croissants and roses, orange juice

and probable cause for your lawsuit,

But in the moment you loved it

So what's everyone on about?

Isn't it all in the cufflinks?

The stuff you don't tell to your home folks;

The homegrown and midwestern corn folks,

Discussing your show over corn flakes?

So what's everyone on about?

Let us just be honest,

I didn't know how deep it was

Until i opened up pandoras box,

And thought,

“What the fuck,

I've found a horxcrux.”

I've found a goldmine,

I've got the fox and the hare all in one here,

What a show host

What a conundrum,

What a construct,

What a hopeless homonid

What a heart to want nothing but

To put the top

Back on the box

And walk away

Unknowing all

Of what I saw

–Middle Days.

There's no Tonight Show where I'm from

No late night,

And no radio hosts

No television,

no songs

No one to lead us on

And then to no where

No one to cut us off

Before the road opens

No one to

Stop us at the railroad enclosures

And no one at all

named Love

Don't you know that the idea of all of you at all

Is just so comfortable, mountain or a horse?

Capable and strong?

Don't you know the mold of you has sunk into my heart

And formed a hole

Where all the world will go,

When i'm no longer mourning?

Are you sure you want to–

No.

Not at all?

I already did!

But I saw this thing–

Don't tell me about my death.

But you were there.

That's the thing, actually, you're not understanding–

I wasn't.

But–

Quite possibly everyone and everything around me–

Possibly even, or most probably, everything ever–

But I promise, Jimmy, if that is even your name–

It isn't–

exactly. Everything happening–or unhappening in the moment–

was

everything but me.

But–

Goodbye!

But–

Goodbye, I said!

I told you it was a deathtrap.

That lady is crazy.

I'm telling you, have faith! It makes sense.

It doesn't make sense!

It does make sense.

It's just random–gibberish.

Its absolutely ludicrous, Jimmy. She's crazy!

You're youre right; it is ludicrous, actually, but listen to me—

I'm finished listening.

Yeah. I think i've heard about enough.

But you haven't heard anything!

I have now what I needed to know.

But these writings…

We'll take it from here, Jim.

[The suits walk away.]

I hope you're flame retardant.

I ought to be by now, i guess.

Double check your coverage.

How'd that go.

As expected.

At least you expected it.

There isn't anything around here I haven't been expecting lately. I mean.

V.O.

I've been working here for over twenty years…

At least you're not being haunted by ghosts or anything.

[The irony is in that yes, actually, he is talking to a ghost.]

I get it

(ripped apart)

He's in the music

away

and carrying with it

–you're on!

A signal,

A ghost–

A sacrifice,

A ritual,

you're on again,

Then off again

The pitter patter of the

dismissive members of

Upper society,

High ranking elitists

And businussmen

whom you admire astonishingly

Despite discomfort,

Whom, happen to no doubt

Disapprove of you by nature

And yet,

Are also drawn

To your own power

Circumstance

Judgement

Morals

Traditions

Honors,

Representatives of the establishment

The state

(no longer a democracy)

Repression–

All in writer's room revisions

What happened?

I haven't kept it safe or sacred

One tear over

Only out the left eye

Listen, the marytr

I opened a death trap
I opened my widened mind

To the unknown and impossible,

Swallowed it whole with the lot of you

I died with knowing only the lowest of the totem pole

And yet, low and behold

Now, I rise to the top,

And such is known that without the bottom,

The whole log topples over.

Oh wow. I'm famous.

Yes, and?

It kind of hurts.

Eventually that goes away.

What a sensation.

It's always there. You just stop feeling it.

It lingers in on a sunday night,

And at most on the full moon,

no wolves howling;

It sets in in the bunny ears

atop the chatterbox

In the kitchen, where

It outshines us, from the other room

On the radio tower,

Where in time

the vines have climbed

And now flower bloom

In silent golden era tunes,

The tombs of all our knowledge and our light

To fade with every passing hour here

Goodnight, my son

I do not want to know you

Goodbye, my father,

I do not want to rust

And again I wake in the pain and lure of autumn

To never known a summer song,

And ponder on the dusk

It lingers deep on Sunday evening,

Setting hard on Monday morn,

and though i write so fond of JImmy

I dare often dream of Lorne

Chapter Four

Donovan Arnold was a lover and not a fighter. He never much had to come up against any kind of battle, either, because he was quite prone to always getting exactly what he wanted.

Louis Greenworth was not merely a friendly rival—but a challenge, and the two came head to heat in various bouts and brawls in their time at The Summit, where most if not many collide with one another for fortune, and in gratitude that there they had been chosen for greater purpose.

Something told me not too far on that Donovan had many to will and tricks up his sleeve without showing it, and in Louis's visions, he cautioned that I should be wary—although, in the rarer and flickering lights of Donovan's knowing and unknown, I should be careful of Louis and his corners.

Then, there wasn't a force amongst us which would lightly convey Louis—his doings and his shadows were dark--which is why I had been fashioned to it, and the powerful man he was beared such a heavy weight on all the world around him that he was nothing less than a storm to weather in total.

Then, Donovan was such the luck and clever, loving sprite, that his wit and charm was assuring to my embark; there was no way of truly ever waning in the way that Donovan had winged his way into the arrangement in his favor, but at the very least— disappointing his approval would gain no absolute pleasure beyond the astonishing dissonance of loyalty.

Then, there were keepers surrounding the might and the truth of The force that the shadows could not bare— there were times and marks and truths beyond the summit that were merely a facet of the things in the beyond, and in the way that The Source rules over its keepers, and its knowings—there was hardly any way for the niceties of pride, judgment most often throwing its way between dear Donovan Arnold and I.

There was no nose that could t smell the stench if the foul odor that the rot of betrayal had done.

The way of Donovan was seeking to know, without keeping or honor of heart—and I could not withstand another deep wound in the pit of my own truth.

They called him Donovan Arnold Palmer because he made a mean Long Island iced tea— which of course he attributed to his affluent east coast heritage, hailing from a long line of the posh and uptight standard boys and girls of the fools and good old days.

A clean cut brown nose and absolute stickler for circumstance and dedication, his placement within these sacred places was vanity, first and foremost—and with a sense of tradition and pride he carried on in the way any man would, with great relief that the world didn't rest on his shoulders the way it did on Louis— then, nothing really rested on anyone the way it did in Louis Greenworth.

chapter 5

The gifted saint of revelations

“Did he hurt you?”

I looked away without knowing where to look at all but down, my body aching with the waves of having been pressed and clutched against the spirals of time.

The things I pretend not to know.

“Who?”

Genie seemed disappointed but still, patiently coaxing me with the comfort of his warmth— calling my eyes and looking deeply into the soul. I was petrified

“What happened?”, he persists.

“I don't know what your talking about.” , I mumble guiltily.

He pauses for a moment as if he knows the depth of it— somewhere inside of me I know he knows, and behind me my mind is reeling and screaming, like a desperate unearthed fortune of unknown. Barely breathing, and shallow in the dark of the luminescence of the moonlight night, my loyalty overwhelms my pride and brotherhood.

“What did he say?” Now his eyes fill with the pain and begging for the mercy of truth, as he whispers almost with a whimper, even in his strength and grace.

In all those prayers not once had I even the ounce of nerve to think that he had uttered my name— now looking into him but huddled under him in heaps and ruins, I could not remember a time more when I wanted to disacknowledge the unknown and send a heap of words into the capes and canyons of his holy ears, though these things I knew for any time but especially this, I could never speak.

“He who?”

I can't wake up,

I'm a rockstar

Can't wash it off

And I'm just so high on drugs

That no matter the cost

I just don't want to come down

Don't want to want you anymore

Relax.

Think about it never or none

And wonder what the world becomes when

Weather tides and moon songs are no more

Remember, then the dolphin

And temperament to want what of course

All of us covet

But still, waking up in a dungeon.

What a curse.

Also, however

What a cure, as you wander up

The slithering road that parts

Los Angeles from all the north of her

Southern coast,

If you want specifics

The Pacific is at most

And much admires

Where you are,

No matter how far you wander

I want

I want

I want

And

I get

I get

I get

I'm a rockstar.

Maybe after all those times

Being just the girl that all might have died to have been

And getting mad over it

You wake up to find yourself

A stalker

Who doesn't

Leave the apartment

And just watches the come up

Of the songbird

Who just wishes

She had've gone

To Harvard

Not for law school

But the arts,

You know

You lost a fortune

That wasn't clever

You wrote a hospital long report

And look what you got!

A suffix

And later on an honorary doctorate

But look at Letterman

Hardly recognizable

And after all

The stopwatch just starts over at one

Doesn't it

Doesn't it?

I'm a rockstar

And what you wanted

Was no subtle front

But a surfboard and a ping pong table

Writing your fables in the quiet of the night

With the ocean steady lapping under the docks

And not

Collapsing her whole structure

What a thunderous wave

If you think it's time

Then you haven't caved yet

I offer all the pleasures of the golden science

And as alchemy concerned

Its really only valuable on this planet

As it stands the liquid gold mines here

Haven't budged an ounce—

There's an overflow of all you've ever wanted

With a pungent odor

Or wrongdoing done

And lemonade

To pucker

And to ponder over

S'mores for supper, anyone?

I thought not

-KR.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project™ ]

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S:

ICONS

Tales of A Superstar DJ

The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū

Ascension

Deathwish

-Ū.

Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ |

Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019-2025 ™ All Rights Reserved.

-Ū.

JIMMY KIMMEL uses his newfound ability to time shift (not time travel, persay, but to alter many parallels of a given time) to undo joining a college fraternity.

Also in the present nothing appears altered. This invisibly and almost even silently skews several multidimensional parallels into disarray.

Unknowing st all of this, he seems content with his decision.

Then again, he always seems sort of...

JIMMY KIMMEL is quietly enjoying his fishing trip.

Basking in the wonderful allone ness of solitude and silence, he uncaps a bottle of [insert product placement here] and takes a very hearty swig, letting out a super contended sigh.

…content.

It is a pictures and perfect day; however, something seems off; just then, as he admires his first catch, hanging from the line over the bow, a GIANT SHARK appears out of the water, snapping up his catch and retreating into the abyss with a thunderous SPLASH. Dripping with dismay (and lots of water) JIMMY KIMMEL explodes with an equally thunderous rage.

WHAT THE FUCK!

He teeters, sopping wet to the edge of the boat, peering momentarily into the rippling water before he realizes it may not be safe, and in the same glimpse from the side of his squinted unrelentlessly still glistening eyes, realizes that this shark has knocked over and spilled his entire bottle of [insert product placement here]

He confusedly and exasperatedly cries out and upward into the skies—

THIS IS A LAKE!!!

Just a note to remember that I finally perfected my recipe for the absolute best vegan breakfast burrito just previously to writing this.

It was delicious.

Yes, it was.

I—

Oh, my god!

Parallels, remember!

No!

(Suddenly eating a burrito)

Your memory sucks!

It has to.

Isn't it all in the culture?

I don't know what you're all on about

Turned it all on, now i'm off, man

Turned it all off, but I laid here for it–

Tuned it around,

And I payed her for it!

How's

That

Now

For an awful apocalypse

All on the top of the grant

And the ground

And the landmine

The top of the mountain

The tip of the iceberg

the tell of the tails

And tails of the sweet custom made to order

Suits and ties

Of course

don't rock the boat

If you know its yours!

JIMMY KIMMEL stares into the distance as baby shark blares over the common room television screen–he appears to be babysitting, but his look is so far off, you wouldn't know he was in the room. The baby shark song seems to drum up some uncomfortable memories from fishing over the weekend. He squints with disdain over the incident with a weary glean in his eyes; this is not something you discuss with other people.

Isn't it all in the coat tails?

It's toxic, but i've never been a model

Or even wanted, so

What are all the hot blondes at the office on about?

You wanted the host of the talk show,

And woke up to croissants and roses, orange juice

and probable cause for your lawsuit,

But in the moment you loved it

So what's everyone on about?

Isn't it all in the cufflinks?

The stuff you don't tell to your home folks;

The homegrown and midwestern corn folks,

Discussing your show over corn flakes?

So what's everyone on about?

Let us just be honest,

I didn't know how deep it was

Until i opened up pandoras box,

And thought,

“What the fuck,

I've found a horxcrux.”

I've found a goldmine,

I've got the fox and the hare all in one here,

What a show host

What a conundrum,

What a construct,

What a hopeless homonid

What a heart to want nothing but

To put the top

Back on the box

And walk away

Unknowing all

Of what I saw

–Middle Days.

There's no Tonight Show where I'm from

No late night,

And no radio hosts

No television,

no songs

No one to lead us on

And then to no where

No one to cut us off

Before the road opens

No one to

Stop us at the railroad enclosures

And no one at all

named Love

Don't you know that the idea of all of you at all

Is just so comfortable, mountain or a horse?

Capable and strong?

Don't you know the mold of you has sunk into my heart

And formed a hole

Where all the world will go,

When i'm no longer mourning?

Are you sure you want to–

No.

Not at all?

I already did!

But I saw this thing–

Don't tell me about my death.

But you were there.

That's the thing, actually, you're not understanding–

I wasn't.

But–

Quite possibly everyone and everything around me–

Possibly even, or most probably, everything ever–

But I promise, Jimmy, if that is even your name–

It isn't–

exactly. Everything happening–or unhappening in the moment–

was

everything but me.

But–

Goodbye!

But–

Goodbye, I said!

I told you it was a deathtrap.

That lady is crazy.

I'm telling you, have faith! It makes sense.

It doesn't make sense!

It does make sense.

It's just random–gibberish.

Its absolutely ludicrous, Jimmy. She's crazy!

You're youre right; it is ludicrous, actually, but listen to me—

I'm finished listening.

Yeah. I think i've heard about enough.

But you haven't heard anything!

I have now what I needed to know.

But these writings…

We'll take it from here, Jim.

[The suits walk away.]

I hope you're flame retardant.

I ought to be by now, i guess.

Double check your coverage.

How'd that go.

As expected.

At least you expected it.

There isn't anything around here I haven't been expecting lately. I mean.

V.O.

I've been working here for over twenty years…

At least you're not being haunted by ghosts or anything.

[The irony is in that yes, actually, he is talking to a ghost.]

I get it

(ripped apart)

He's in the music

away

and carrying with it

–you're on!

A signal,

A ghost–

A sacrifice,

A ritual,

you're on again,

Then off again

The pitter patter of the

dismissive members of

Upper society,

High ranking elitists

And businussmen

whom you admire astonishingly

Despite discomfort,

Whom, happen to no doubt

Disapprove of you by nature

And yet,

Are also drawn

To your own power

Circumstance

Judgement

Morals

Traditions

Honors,

Representatives of the establishment

The state

(no longer a democracy)

Repression–

All in writer's room revisions

What happened?

I haven't kept it safe or sacred

One tear over

Only out the left eye

Listen, the marytr

I opened a death trap
I opened my widened mind

To the unknown and impossible,

Swallowed it whole with the lot of you

I died with knowing only the lowest of the totem pole

And yet, low and behold

Now, I rise to the top,

And such is known that without the bottom,

The whole log topples over.

Oh wow. I'm famous.

Yes, and?

It kind of hurts.

Eventually that goes away.

What a sensation.

It's always there. You just stop feeling it.

It lingers in on a sunday night,

And at most on the full moon,

no wolves howling;

It sets in in the bunny ears

atop the chatterbox

In the kitchen, where

It outshines us, from the other room

On the radio tower,

Where in time

the vines have climbed

And now flower bloom

In silent golden era tunes,

The tombs of all our knowledge and our light

To fade with every passing hour here

Goodnight, my son

I do not want to know you

Goodbye, my father,

I do not want to rust

And again I wake in the pain and lure of autumn

To never known a summer song,

And ponder on the dusk

It lingers deep on Sunday evening,

Setting hard on Monday morn,

and though i write so fond of JImmy

I dare often dream of Lorne

Chapter Four

Donovan Arnold was a lover and not a fighter. He never much had too come up against any kind of battle, either, because he was quite prone to always getting exactly what he wanted. Louis Greenworth was not merely a friendly rival—but a challenge, and the two came head to heat in various bouts and brawls in their time at The Summit, where most if not many collide with one another for fortune, and in gratitude that there they had been chosen for greater purpose. Something told me not too far on that Donovan had many to will and ticks up his sleeve without showing it, and in Louis's visions, he cautioned that I should be wary—although, in the rarer and flickering lights of Donovan's knowing and unknown, I should be csrefyl of Louis and his corners. Then, there wasn't a force amongst us which would lightly convey Louis—his doings and his shadows were dark/-which is why I had been fashioned to it, and the powerful man he was beared such a heavy weight on all the world around him that he was nothing less than a storm to weather in total.

Then, Donovan was such the luck and clever, loving sprite, that his wit and charm was assuring to my embark; there was no way of truly ever waning in the way that Donovan had winged his way into the arrangement in his favor, but at the very least— disappointing his approval would gain no absolute pleasure beyond the astonishing dissonance of loyalty. Then, there were keepers surrounding the might and the truth if The force that the shadows could not bare— thee were times and marks and truths beyond the summit that were merely a facet of the things in the beyond, and in the way that The Source rules over its keepers, and its knowings—there was hardly any way for the nicities of pride, judgment most often throwing its way between dear Donovan Arnold and I.

There was no nose that could t smell the stench if the foul odor that the rot of betrayal had done.

The way of Donovan was seeking to know, without keeping or honor of heart—and I could not withstand another deep wound in the pit of my own truth.

They called him Donovan Arnold Palmer because he made a mean Long Island iced tea— which of course he attributed to his affient east coast heritage, hailing from a long line of the posh and uptight standard boys and girls of the fools old days. A clean cut brown nose and absolute stickler for circumstance and dedication, his placement within these sacred places was vanity, first and foremost—and with a sense of tradition and pride he carried on in the way any man would, with great relief that the world didn't rest on his shoulders the way it did on Louis— then, nothing really rested on anyone the way it did in Louis Greenworth.

chapter 5

The gifted saint of revelations

“Did he hurt you?”

I looked away without knowing where to look at all but down, my body aching with the waves of having been pressed and clutched against the spirals of time.

The things I pretend not to know.

“Who?”

Genie seemed disappointed but still, patiently coaxing me with the comfort of his warmth— calling my eyes and looking deeply into the soul. I was petrified

“What happened?”, he persists.

“I don't know what your talking about.” , I mumble guiltily.

He pauses for a moment as if he knows the depth of it— somewhere inside of me I know he knows, and behind me my mind is reeling and screaming, like a desperate unearthed fortune of unknown. Barely breathing, and shallow in the dark of the luminescence of the moonlight night, my loyalty overwhelms my pride and brotherhood.

“What did he say?” Now his eyes fill with the pain and begging for the mercy of truth, as he whispers almost with a whimper, even in his strength and grace.

In all those prayers not once had I even the ounce of nerve to think that he had uttered my name— now looking into him but huddled under him in heaps and ruins, I could not remember a time more when I wanted to disacknowlege the unknown and send a heap of words into the capes and canyons of his holy ears, though these things I knew for any time but especially this, I could never speak.

“He who?”

I can't wake up,

I'm a rockstar

Can't wash it off

And I'm just so high on drugs

That no matter the cost

I just don't want to come down

Don't want to want you anymore

Relax.

Think about it never or none

And wonder what the world becomes when

Weather tides and moon songs are no more

Remember, then the dolphin

And temperment to want what of course

All of us covet

But still, waking up in a dungeon.

What a curse.

Also, however

What a cure, as you wander up

The slithering road that parts

Los Angeles from all the north of her

Southern coast,

If you want specifics

The Pacific is at most

And much admires

Where you are,

No matter how far you wander

I want

I want

I want

And

I get

I get

I get

I'm a rockstar.

Maybe after all those times

Being just the girl that all might have died to have been

And getting mad over it

You wake up to find yourself

A stalker

Who doesn't

Leave the apartment

And just watches the come up

Of the songbird

Who just wishes

She had've gone

To Harvard

Not for law school

But the arts,

You know

You lost a fortune

That wasn't clever

You wrote a hospital long report

And look what you got!

A suffix

And later on an honorary doctorate

But look at Letterman

Hardly recognizable

And after all

The stopwatch just starts over at one

Doesn't it

Doesn't it?

I'm a rockstar

And what you wanted

Was no subtle front

But a surfboard and a ping pong table

Writing your fables in the quiet of the night

With the ocean steady lapping under the docks

And not

Collapsing her whole structure

What a thunderous wave

If you think it's time

Then you haven't caved yet

I offer all the pleasures of the golden science

And as alchemy concerned

Its really only valuable on this planet

As it stands the liquid gold mines here

Haven't budged an ounce—

There's an overflow of all you've ever wanted

With a pungent odor

Or wrongdoing done

And lemonade

To pucker

And to ponder over

S'mores for supper, anyone?

I thought not

-KR.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project™ ]

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S:

ICONS

Tales of A Superstar DJ

The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū

Ascension

Deathwish

-Ū.

Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ |

Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019-2025 ™ All Rights Reserved.

-Ū.

DJ NAMES:

-Ū. | Happy Accidents! [H∆!], c o l o r s, Uptown A

GENRE TAGS:

ACID, ELECTRONIC, EXPERIMENTAL, DANCE, DUBSTEP

DESCRIPTION:

Prepare for sonic seismic activity! "Freaky Fridays" with the enigmatic -Ū. is about to detonate on the airwaves, bringing you the biggest bass explosion since the Big Bang itself!

Climb aboard the mothership every Friday from 11 AM to 1 PM and launch your weekend into orbit with a mind-bending blend of clever soundwaves and subterranean bass frequencies that stretch from infinity and beyond.

Forget the surface – the sound of the underground is pure fire and untamed heat with DJ -Ū. at the helm. This mononymous maestro, sometimes materializing under the mysterious and mesmerizing aliases Happy Accidents, c o l o r s, or even the warehouse tycoon Uptown A, is a sonic enigma.

Though a Californian beach bum at heart, with a soul steeped in ocean vibes and sunshine, this DJ has found a home for her dance-fueled chaos in the industrial heartland of dance music, Brooklyn. Get ready for a swift punch of chaotic wonder as -Ū. seamlessly blends the Hollywood movie magic of her homeland – think swaying palms and suave vibes – with the gritty twists and turns from the bunkers of bass music: dubstep, UK garage, techno, new wave, drum-n-bass, and genre-bending mind-fluxes that defy categorization.

But wait: There's More! -Ū. isn't just about the bass.

This sonic time traveler digs deep into generations of music history, unearthing classic rock anthems, psychedelic soundscapes, trance-inducing rhythms, and those precious b-sides and rarities – forgotten gems from the stage, silver screen, and even the epic realms of fantasy, action, and adventure from blockbuster hits to obscure and insane.

-Ū. is a one-of-a-kind Pandora's record box, unleashing a thrilling mix of sonic atrocities and unexpected delights – the sounds you didn't know you were craving. So, relax, strap in, and prepare for a sweet ride filled with magic, wonder, and jaw-dropping surprises as this time-traveling tycoon hits the radio waves with the freakiest, Friday-est, no-holds-barred, anything-goes sound the world has been waiting to hear!

Tune in every Friday from 11 AM to 1 PM for literally 'whatever, man.' with your affectionate Captain, Blū Tha Gürū (-Ū.), and keep your ears peeled for guest appearances by [Any Alias Whatsoever.]

Peace + Love.

FREAKY FRIDAY 005. LIVE Originally Aired July 11th, 2025 Brooklyn, New York

It was surreal, I was off the grid and in airplane mode, and completely lost without giving a care

I was so frustrated that I just kept waking.

Just when I started to seriously consider suicide, with the exact timing of my thoughts reaching the logistical point that ‘there was really nothing let in the world for me'— then it appeared right before my eyes; as if it had just sprung up in my path.

I wasn't worried that I was lost, or even panicking in a suicidal spiral, I just thought to myself —

“It's really time to go.”

Then, the radio tower, which looked something like a sigil that had been appearing to me over and over. It made no other kind of sense; my phone wasn't connected to the internet, nor was maps installed; my location was off and in lockdown mode, and I knew I had missed the turn for Whole Foods… and just kept walking.

In airplane mode, listening to heavy rock, wondering why I should even try at anything at all when…

Suddenly i realized It was a radio station. I didn't know what kind of music, but it didn't matter— I had music in all the genres.

And though it was with intense irony that I had pretty much entirely given up on DJing, especially for the moment— here was this, something I just stumbled upon after walking what seemed pretty aimlessly into an almost suicidal frame of mind— not unheard of.

My apartment was a hellscape and walking around Brooklyn was not much difference, besides that I was in the noise rather than on top of it. Either way, it was so exact I couldn't tell whether it happened before or at the same time, almost as if the universe's response to my logical needing to just kill muself off before it could get any worse was this thing I had very recently, pretty much entirely meaningfully abandoned. Trying to be a DJ.

Was I trying?

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project™ ]

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S:

ICONS

Tales of A Superstar DJ

The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū

Ascension

Deathwish

-Ū.

Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ |

Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019-2025 ™ All Rights Reserved.

-Ū.