unkind.
Collection II - 'antithesis.'
Track 11. - unkind.

Prod. By GH0ST

I was already starr-struck once and that was enough.

That's what I call being violently beaten into a bloody mess by a man named “starr”

Starr-Struck.

Haha

It should be funny,

But it's not.

-GH0ST.

'hwy 101.'
Collection II- 'antithesis.'
Track 01. 'hwy 101'

Prod. By Blũ Tha Gürū

You are the ace,

I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart,

I am the spare

Did you do this on purpose?

Space, that's an odd name.

Another magician.

—what else would you call this?

I wouldn't.

(To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.)

Well, there it goes.

Well, this should be fun.

I—

Cut my throat

To watch me live again

Or leave me hanging here

As morbidly as you desire

To come inform me

Of my royal nature,

Yet undone by another

Fortunate, in either aspect

Where are you, now

To tie the winters sleeve

Upon my sleeping chambers,

Whispered into hear thy neck

My captor slowly soon awaiting

So far a severity

Hereby unsworn

I lie to seek escape

Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone;

Andamine, I am,

I wait to be free

oh! well.

Sick to my stomach

I plea for your waking

A scarcity,

Still slithers up my spine,

The

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

At some point, I realized that going to the gym for two hours every other day was the same thing as going to the gym for one hour every day—kind of.

I was still avoiding the strange robots around ny building which seemed to only lurk during the daytime hours— I had remained largely offline for the last couple days, resting and working quietly in the daytime in order to attempt to shift my sleeping schedule to allow my workouts to occur into the nights when others most likely couldn't disturb me; they did after all seem to be on some kind of track of some sort, often the same faces showing up regardless of what time I could arrive to the gym, as if they were somehow being alerted to my arrival at the gym. I took it as no coincidence.

It seemed that if I were to connect to the WiFi at all, certain other people would appear within moments, or that if I there was someone already in the gym upon arrival, another would show up within minutes. Oftenthese “robots” would do less working out than just sitting on their phones—one of them even bold enough to turn towards me strangely for a few minutes, simply standing awkwardly on the treadmill and staring directly at me—as if I might react with an outburst of anger—instead, I just grunted like an animal so that I didn't scream at him, more wanting to say

“what the fuck did you come to the gym for—to just stand there?!”

And it seemed as though many people actually did, indeed come to the gym to lazily push weights around for a couple sets, scroll and text—then even more lazily stare into their phones, just fucking sitting there motionless— for more time than they had spent working out, almost as if appearing at the gym was just to be able to say to their other social media drones “I'm at the gym” or to brag “I went to the gym today.”

They certainly weren't there to work out, and it was draining.

My training was not so that I could brag—I wanted a second husband.

*edit

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

Even in the awakening of understanding what a man was— and how it would end, or that it would end at all— and most likely due to his cheating, as most marriages ended anyway.

I had come to quite admire Ms. Elizabeth Taylor for having married something like eight times—maybe even nine.

Why not take into competitive spirit the art of love and marriage in trying to succeed this record— I was after all, a champion at such. Love, that isS

I admired more the stars of the golden era than the lackluster and almost fraudulent “celebrities” of my own time. The streaming era plastics of the new age.

It seemed anything living behind a camera or a screen was a bigger lie than it had ever been and my eyes often fell to the back of my head upon seeing someone taking a selfie or using face time— it seemed awful that the world was in such a baseless competition with itself when the fact was that the algorithm controlled all things. If you were going to be a superstar, it was because someone paid to run up your streams—someone paid to put you into the eye of the public, and usually for alterior motives.

I needed the job more than anything and something told me that I would get it, instead of like my last interview at equinox, arriving late and wearing the nicest clothes I had—gym attire which was worn and ill fitting, I would arrive early, and even more so, more than 15 minutes early. I had plenty of books to read while waiting, and more reasons that I could count for needing the job in the first place—I could not go on in the same cycle of needing and needing, nevermind what I wanted. I was willing to sacrifice my attempt at superstardom for just being a normal working person, especially since it meant being able to eventually escape New York, and perhaps even the poverty line. It meant paying off debts and restoring my credit—and best of all, it meant eventually visiting my—

I stopped myself short at the thought of it, as after all the intent of one particular individual did seem to see to it that I was trapped in his clutches, and I had decided that after all I would be better off alone than to destroy my life revolving it around him and his world. The quest for superstardom at all had been to impress upon my son that one should achieve his or her own desires by any means, however these means had begun to limit my ability to function. Music was no longer making anyone money, besides those who the eye of the media of the eye had chosen to represent the up and coming generation, who had been raised on reality TV and this false sense of gratification; I could see entirely realistically that I had more than likely aged out of my time as anything besides a comic, and that my youth had gone away with the damage being in the consistent cycle of abuse first from my mother and then my first husband— I was growing into a mature woman who wanted more than the attention and popularity of fame or superstardom— I had more been seeking the security and foundation of wealth that no longer seemed to come from entertainment at all. The media was often backing representatives of the new generation- a brainwashed and programmed bunch, and either way I had realized I was in a battle and competition with multitalented artists who had been raised to be suportrf and al admired by their parents; my mother had been on consistent schedule of cruelty and violence, erratic behavior and sometimes even torture on the psychological level of a decorated military warman since early in my childhood; I spent much of my first 7 months having my own apartment for such a prolonged period of time for the first time in adulthood regressing, reflecting upon the horrible things she had done and said which had raised me to become strong — but had also raised me to accept the abusive and narcissistic patterns of my first husband as love in general, when the foundation of our relationship had been based in codependency at best. Love had yet to have truly been reciprocated by anyone that I had feigned interest in, at least in the ways that I had wanted. I realized I had never been in a healthy adult relationship, let alone with anyone of value or morale. I had always been the fixer, and all of my romantic interests, fixer-uppers—and at the very least besides the psychological damage I had endured, I prided myself on raising what had been an alcoholic, drug-addicted felon living in filth into a semi-functional contributor to society, who with any hopes would raise his children also into contributors to society, I had learned my lesson by going out of my way in taking my son to Las Vegas— that anything attached to his world, including the son we shared, crumbled into a chaotic and evil curse of sorts. Though the world around seemed to believe it was okay to attempt to tilt me into such a world where I would actually center myself around this child, I refused to put anything at all into allowing his father into my world. He destroyed and ruined everything around him, and I knew the only way I would allow something we had created together into my world was on a temporary basis, and with more money than I was being allowed or afforded.

He was better off in Alaska, and I was better off taking the label of a dead beat mother who had lost her mind all the well knowing what had been done to me had been a crime against humanity. That the continual abuse had been provoke and instigated, and that in the very least neither was I mentally unwell or unstable, but at best a comparable empath so much so that during the course of my life ynder the thumb of my abusers, I had become much like them— now, I had learned that living in New York was not much difference. Most of the people around were within the same vibration of those who had shown to have abusive thought patterns, actions, and behaviors, however—the only difference was that I knew immidiately how to identify them. I knew that I wasn't in fact actually unwell, however being provoked—and that the system, another abuser, was using the information it had against me in order to provoke a reaction or response— anger, explosiveness—anything it could use to determine that I was some type of animal unfit for the higher classes of society; anything it could use to prove that I was mentally unstable and deserved poverty, perhaps even homelessness, but I knew, that although my talent was bring shattered, that I had it; that in the mass of recordings, writings, and records I had created was the deep wisdom and telling of one of the eldest souls that had ever lived, and live again to create with intention into the world; the purpose of this art was not to add to the endless and boundless mountains of useless garbage labeled as content and barely fit for the consumption of the masses—it was after all to create art, not for popularity or fame—and I had realized that the popularity and fame had been with the impression at all that my son would one day see his mother as a hero.

Being hired at Equinox would mean pushing the release of the 9th season as a priority— it could simply not be done in public or with any balance and meant that all of the recordings I had collected would have to be posted all at once before beginning my new job. I had envisioned that it would be released within four weeks time, after m the completion of the projects that I had been working on and with the intention of promoting the album which I had slated to be released in mid-September to give the album traction under the loads of recordings and writings that accompanied the seasons—however— I knew that I simply could not move into a new position—a position which I would keep my artistry as private as possible as not to intersect with the evil and darkness that often associated my attempts to succeed in music—the same darkness which had apparently killed or at least mamed everything and everyone in its path, all the while knowing that the music game was indeed a game which included an almost ritualistic antithesis—the slamming doors and motorcycles were indeed part of this game, and had always in some sort of way had been; the game played using the programmed people who had not been gifted with creative intelligence to be played against those of us that did— the darkness itself often enough consuming everything that it could in its tirade. Still, I was not altogether against earning my own money— there wasn't much else besides pride in realizing that things were moving around me because of the amount of power I could produce at will.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

WELL, THAT WORKED OUT— didn't it?

Nothing worked out today, I just had cream of wheat.

MORE CREAM OF WHEAT!

Is that deadmau5's baby.

It appears to be.

#smash

What dimension is this?

It's still the dimension where I'm not a fucking supermodel.

Oh, then whose baby is that?

That's still deadmau5's baby.

It's probably for the best if I for whatever reason become attracted to you

As if he's reading this?

[If you're reading this, it's too late. ]

If and whenever I fall head over heels for someone—

Or even like them in any sort of way—

The perfect girl,

And I mean,

The girl of his dreams,

Catches him.

—and in the end, I'm still alone.

So, lucky you.

I heard the number was like

It was like, in the thousands.

Thousands of women.

Incredible.

Thousands of possible mates.

Thousands of willing—

Desperate—

Perfect—

Women,

Fiending for you.

Safe to say,

You may as well have died and gone straight to heaven.

I died and went the other way.

See you next lifetime.

-SC.

Glam bot

Hm?

Make me pretty.

Will do!

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

“sirsi”

Dis not from a collection I just made this 5 minutes ago with my studio monitors on high for my neighbors' disapproval.

(It's supposed to be bad on purpose.)

Door slamming asshole robots.

'koi.'

Collection II - 'antithesis.'
Track 03. - 'koi.'
Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū.

They said I must never go black—

Or I may not come back—

And so I decided, upon that day, that I must go black, whilst also being able to still “go back” and so— I became—

…”Jack Black”

So what was your name before, then?

…that's not important.

[The IMPENETRABLE TEN]

Tina Fey - the boss of things and people's

Yeah, but what's her power?

That is her power

I'm not doing this show!

You are doing this show.

Amy Peohler or however you spell it

Gazunrite.

You're—welcome?

What's her power?

Fear of NOTHING.

(And I mean absolutely nothing. )

At all.

Ever.

Maya Rudolph - is actually an ancient psyc mystic who crafts potions, casts spells, enchants objects, and crafts vehicles capable of entering interdimensional hyperspace,

Ratchel Dratch - power over cats — as many as all the cats in the world at once, sometimes, even.

Kristen Wiig- bewilderment - bedazzling

Kristen Shaal mindfuckery/ mindbowing

Melissa Mccarthy - general shapeshifting and miscellaneous.

Miscellaneous?

The Cosmic Avenger

Damn. That dude lost his whole name.

He lost everything.

What's his power.

Shut up.

(Whatever.)

So what are the rest of their names, then?

What, they want names?

I just figured out their powers!

(Besides shape shifting and scaring the everlivingshit out of people—)

AIGH!

*toots*

(Sometimes literally.)

Are we really sinking low enough to do fart jokes?

Are we really squatting low enough to actually—

*toots*

{Enter The Multiverse}

Yes.

“The Toot Fairy”

What! Which one is that!

(I'll let you figure it out.)

MS. CELLANEOUS.

MISS CILANEOUS?

MIS—

That's—

MELISSA MCCARTHY

OBVIOUSLY, it's me—right?

It's me?

It's— whatever.

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S

CUT TO:

Oh, I get it—

They're Taylor swifting me!

Taylor swifting is the act of making threatning or frightening gestures to a future celebrity in order to make them jump, react or flinch.

[Taylor Swift]

As you can see, this has worked miraculously well.

[shit blows up]

People screaming, panicking—

Trampling, stampeding

TAYLOR SWIFT

-_-

{Enter The Multiverse}

SETH MCFARLENE

Only ever pretty much says

*giggity*

And—

Yee.

—and nobody is sure that its even him the whole time, or just like—

[another alien shapeshifter]

Giggity.

Yee.

His entire character arch is literally almost having no other lines, to his frustration, as he tries to communicate his wants and needs, but cannot.

(throwing his arms up in frustration)

YEE.

*big mad*

GIGGITY.

CUT TO:

WHERE ARE MY PANTS?

YONCÉ, WHERE'S THAT COFEE?

I'M COMING, JESUS–

JESUS

Watch it.

Amen.

If you drop that watermelon, i'll kill you.

Oh NO!

Ok.

Ok.

[pause]

Now, run.

DON'T DROP THE SOAP.

WHAT

*SOAP*

W000000AHHH.

THIS IS OUT OF CONTROL.

THIS IS OUT OF–

GOD

I got this.

GOD, YOU'RE DRUNK

You know, this one was almost right–

You got your dopplegangers?

UH huh.

Alright. Come on.

Hm. Wait.

Just make sure s/he–

Is it a “she”

Whatever, come on.

Just make sure she sees you.

Look. I just got. A lot on my mind right now,

I can't write this.

GOF

I got this.

Wtf is going on HERE.

VO.

Hmm let me guess

YOUNG JACK BLACK

[Insert here]

Close enough.

I got this.

Something, something–

lalala

OK, GET ME OUT OF THIS MOVIE

GET ME OUT OF THIS PARTY.

I WANT TO GO HOME.

GOD, GO HOME,

YOU'RE DRUNK.

THIS IS MY HOUSE.

That's right. It's your HOUSE:

GODDAMN RIGHT IT IS.

SO go HOME.

GOD

YOu know what. You're right. I don't need this.

FInally.

God, she's so wasted.

Where's my Keys?

OKay, now i'm understanding

DRIVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

Jesus, this thing just goes on and

Look at this point ,

ALICIA KEYS

I'm on it.

GOD is writing this, i'm just–

An actor, I guess.

TV-MA

Drama

When the—

[The Festival Project ™ ]

Nvm? I guess!?

RITA is the first AI designed specifically with asset protection in mind—

RITA, protect my assets.

LATER:

RITA (robotic voice, but gangster)

Yo, Peter.

RITA [robotic AI voice]

This mother fucker right here actually tried to play me for a fool.

Please elaborate, RITA

RITA

Divulging plot for political assasination and asset liquidation…

In the heights

Complications

Man, it's just crazy how they assimilated you with reverence

What exactly does that even mean?

Let's find out

You know what?

You're right.

Reverend.

Major Tom.

Sire! You must come quickly.

Must I?

You must

*must DIE!*

For what?

No time for an explanation, the page is turning

SN-TRASHFREE-4XR4-ZV6W-4ZR4-VYA9

It ain't easy being supa me

So I switch it to sunni b

So sweet, I'm a honey be

Money don't mean a thing

If I ain't got no love in it

I been craving some Mickey d's

But I'm vegan, so luckily

My energy is tripling

Three threes,

I bet your listening

I'm livin in the

Kingdom of Heaven yes

I'm blessed, kids;

That was just a test, kids -ū

It's true, this:

I didn't want to do this:

I'm sick of this Sunnï Blū shit

If orange is the new black

And hello yellow

Like pikachu,

I choose too

Pull it like a loose tooth,

Loose change, two strange truths

To shoot thru

Pull up in AK I might shoot ū

LA one day,

Uptown A

Confused YouTube

Today to JFK

Poof, dude!

I'm the toothe fairy

You should bury me—like seeds

I grow trees and

I

Speak in tongues, (just like cree, RIP, though)

You can't scare me,

I don't care

And I'm too aware of you

Tie you to a chair

And I'm preparing you for

Cake, bitch

Happy Birthday,

I'm famous, baby just don't—

Baby don't leave

Baby don't leave

Baby don't leave

Baby don't leave!

Maybe I spoke too soon

I opened your notebook,

so consumer

Prove me wrong but

I could be much blonder

And I could have two sons

And one less drunk

Ex-husband

(That's funny, don't.)

Shh.

Don't bring it up again

Cause it's beginning to ruffle feathers

My expressions of these deep regressions

No regrets though,

I begets flow,

10 doors open every time

One closes,

So

Portal—

I got my foot in all of em

I'm walking awkward,

Cause my cock is swinging

To the theme of

Johnny Cochran

This is not

as seen on TV

but amen

Just promise, if you gon leave

We gone stay friends,

Like Jennifer Aniston

Baby don't leave

Baby don't leave

Baby don't leave

Baby don't leave!

Curiosity has just killed two cats

But the truth is,

I just wanted the algorithm to see me

Confused as to

Who switched with him

This isn't him,

I'll admit: the one that's meant for me

Or was, at least,

Again, adjust my misery and memories

With sympathies for something haunting me

In dreams an frequencies

Please, believe me

I needed you

And might still need

Somebody

Everybody's nothing

but just a body or a hobby

Not a husband, or a daughter,

Or a son:

All I lost was

Over

Okay,

stop it

What you've got to know is:

Every time this lady sings this song,

Something amazing happens–

What is so great about this–

I don't get it.

But like,

Behind her.

Every time.
Does not disappoint

What do you want from me?

Ooh, it's bad .

What don't I want from you?

[BILLIE ELLISH'S Grammies begin singing in a harmony, forming a great symphony. She doubles back, pausing for a moment—then shrugging it off, before a grand gesture

I'm on my hands and knees

Just seeing dreams

Whatare you saving it for

What are you saving it for

Grocery store horror show

Slow motion drum roll

What are you saving it for

What are you saving it for

I'd rather a friend than a father figure

Video games and department show shopping

Discretion and internet interests,

Never more than the start in Athens

The triad, the triggers

You promised!

Though not as important

Of the promise you once made

No more arguments, man

It's like all of a sudden,

She loves me again

But it doesn't take back all the things she said

All the things she did

All the things I did

For the things she did

All the things she said

For the things she did

The things she said

The things she said

Plant a seed, let it grow

Let it breathe, don't you know

Take it easy, the day off

Don't say a word,

Don't move a muscle

Easy, easy on the eyes

Easy, easier on the years

Shivers on the mark of the beast

Cause it's been 6 years at least

Since he—

Don't do it:

Time moves different here,

In the 9th dimension

Light a candle, spread some ashes on some

Simple synchronicities

Remember me

When you forget yourself

To be remembered

remember the family

Fame, defiling, misfortune

The torture

The fortune

My name up in lights on the awning I'm under

In some google drive

A long drive out from Boston

Bassoon in my onyx

My name in the

Name in the

Cherubs on the tusks

Cheeriot on top

I polished off a box of cereal

On some rooftop

Just earlier,

Thanks for the reminder.

Imm burned as the beats on the countertop

Burned, like the end of the gun

Could have forgotten your number

Could have figured the father for

Dollars I've got in the

[The Festival Project ™]

The pleasure sensors

Changing with the wind

—I have a lot to do today

Staring at the plague

Became the fit

To get the fitness in her

Seven sacred songs she's writing

Kept beneath her pillow

Like a gunfight

But who moved faster!?

She wished and then became another

Never narrow eyes

Or birds of feather

Playing games and praying

Saving for yourself

Only the best part

Remember then

The games we played

At heavens gates

From light,

Eternal Death

(The plague, the plague)

Fastened in your monster,

Facinating embers in your memory

You thought you'd burned

But are awakened once again

Playing in your memory

For time, the shadow

Waiting under blue light

In your room

(The plague, the plague)

Move over

Four hours in the light,

and 20 in the shadows;

A good man always does

Bad things,

With a family.

Staying balanced,

20 icons becoming unmantled

20 eyes, and only one soul

One, God

But it runs the whole world,

Don't it!

I want a dozen donuts,

And one more problem

20 Hours in the Dark,

For four hours or so,

We're rolling.

I meditated a home in Zion

In Athens, in Rome, once

The only problem was,

It was pro- Pompei

part one.

(I'm gonna go off.)

Don't you get it, Ms.

That depositing your money

In my spank bank

Is paying you a compliment?

Don't you know that I love you?

We have the same taste in men!

Don't you know that I love God,

And she wouldn't steer me wrong about

That one object,

I've been

Dying my eyes on

And plucking my blondes

Doing wall squats

I love all mantras

Old classic cars,

—flavored sparking water

I love jackets

And purses

And politics

Irons

And orgasms

I love what I love

And a curse is a curse—

For a robot

But I woke up with blood in my boner

And mugs full of coffee

I'm on God

(Keep slamming the door, you'll get older.)

I'm growing backwards like Benjamin button

That's Benjamin Franklin

And frankly Thomas Edison died

—whose that check complimenting?

I want a divorce

And a shovel

Police report promises

Amazon out of my arteries

Objects and all of the

Things that I want

That God promised

For watching Tonight Show

(the one starring Carson)

I picked Jack Paar.

That wasn't an option.

Well, that's my choice.

Fine, but you're not winning any arguments with that one.

What arguments.

Nobody knows who that guy is.

I can name them in order

The dojo was open this morning

The Dodji was functional;

All Aliocha

For all of my

Honest to God,

I want water and salt

At the same time

Where'd you go when you died?

Looking for you!

That—

!!

I was there the whole time.

INT. NEW YORK. DAY

Bad decisions were indeed about to be made.

The time is currently frozen.

Speaking of frozen…

let it GO.

I don't know. I've been fascinated with the talking heads lately…I think that might be one of them.

No, this is more like scary monsters

—and super creeps.

Hm.

I'll have to admit—

This is getting quite interesting;

Oh, hello.

First, there was the ghost of Johnny Carson.

How do you do?

How do you do?

That guy is wild af.

Or was.

Now there's this Jack Paar Guy, who I'm sure is somehow….

Oh, the magic of television!

Is it possible that The Devil could be using this man as a disguise to hant me with temptation, and bend my mind?

It is possible that Jimmy Fallon is the devil himself, yes.

I doubt that.

I frankly don't, in fact.

I'd yet at all discovered what his true placement within the hierarchy were; an obvious workhorse, and successful operative— this man was indeed being used by someone or something— but the only question left standing was—

WHO?

Don't you touch that man. He's fragile.

There, there.

I've become quite belligerent lately and my intentions are no longer as certain even to myself as they once were before— but definitely not to anyone else.

Is there anyone else?

I thought you should know, they've found your letter.

Which letter, exactly?

Aha, alright—

That's enough, now.

Heathens.

Whatever.

Stay out of my way.

Stay out of my face.

I'll try not to pose as a camera.

What the fuck are you doing?

I'm taking a nap.

How could you sleep like this?!

I'm not sleeping like that. I'm sleeping like this.

whatever.

Didn't I tell you before to lay off of it?

I did lay off of it.

It kept laying back on.

And?

And?!

What do you want?

I've got mind controlled robot drones circling my block, one to the left of my apartment and one to my right.

I might be the only free thinking person in this neighborhood for miles.

And you've chosen with all of your free thoughts to think about Jimmy Fallon?

I've chosen not to talk about the recurring thoughts that I can't talk about—-

And chosen to focus on the multiple dramas interwoven into the project which may- or-may- not involve a handful of like-minded and equally skilled monologuists and top not performers as such

Oh, nevermind—-

I figured out what he was, after all.

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S

No, that was the other one.

It's gonna be really hard for me to sit here and not slap the shit out of you.

I can't feel, anyway.

(Shrugs) all for the best.

Strawberry cornbread.

That does sound good.

Whatever.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū

Be My Lover

Lla da di

[Redacted]

I once was trapped within the prison of my own garden.

Something inside me yelped for this faraway spirt guide to shut up—but I was all the more ready to fry up the remainder of my tempeh, and continue to wallow in my loveless grief , wondering what would become of this undone monster—the disaster that was my own impossible maze of creation, however with gratitude, that I was standing in an immaculately clean kitchen, with a table full of books, and soup to cook. Gratitude that I was alone, and for the most part, alive and well.

Gratitude that I lived in one of the greatest cities on earth—maybe even the greatest—

But I didn't know yet.

I had never been to Tokyo;

I would be missing the Olympics in Paris;

Rome was still waiting at the other side of a giant puddle I was less fond of than its opposite;

Amsterdam l was some fabled tale I had only dreamed of—

And London begged to be brought to life in my own eyes, were I lucky enough to escape the arrested development of the burdens of my Brooklyn [redacted].

I might be getting to ‘famous' to tell people where I live.

[Unfamous.]

Lol is this the one with the guy going around knocking on doors

To see if people recognize him?

Yeah.

lol. It's a comedy, right?

Dark comedy.

(A black comedy.)

Nah, but you can't call it that,

Cause they'll think it has something to do with colored people, and they won't watch it.

That's literally the name of the genre.

My point stands.

{Enter The Multiverse}

—you'd be suprised how much more blatently racist people get from behind a screen or studying demographics and viewer preferences.

If you don't love me;

You like me

You watched me light my cigarette just the right way,

And liked it,

And that night,

I died in your arms,

Crying for myself—.

Lying to my wife,

As if next time, I might be better.

We all deserve second chances.

Good grief.

Who is this guy?

Some sad sap.

Sad is right.

Sap is more accurate.

I stroke your hair

With your head in my lap,

As though you belong to me;

I see the crease in your eyes as smiles

And your lips as petals

To a flower so sweet,

I can't wait to eat you,

Like honeysuckle on the tip

If a hot wet tongue,

Hungry for the berry it would become,

But eager to know the sweetness of just the flower,

Sure to bloom with the coming of seasons,

Just as sure to rise as the moon would,

Whether full or new;

In a sky fyull of stars,

All I see is you—

In a body of scars,

I am your demise,

Your pride forever altered by divine truth,

My light hides In darkness,

Your will to the light,

Like a moth to the flame,

Which I honor

And crumble over,

As she towers over us,

Seeking and ready to destroy

All flame to dust;

The ash is out

The tray on the table

I roll another

To smoke,

The guilt and shame of betrayal,

Distrust,

Unarmored, I mock my own judgement

A movement,

The box over a diamond

A row full of nothing but

Hawks, circling over.

Do you not know?

My favorite skit has a story;

Sara without an H was a real person.

Patrick was Fallon,

Now Fallon is Patrick—

I'm thouroughly confused;

The Allegories Continue.

Book II

GODDAMMIT:

See.

I TOLD YOU.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHH.

it's on.

ITS

GONNA GET

RAW.

Ah shit.

Here we go.

At this point, I thoroughly need my shit kicked in.

Do you ever feel like—

Uh huh.

You could just use a—

—a knife in the back?

Like, a swift kick to the face.

Sometimes.

Karate style neck chop.

Sounds nice.

Really swift, like—

Knee to the groin?

Like a good hook t o t h e j a w

Yeah.

I'm actually aroused.

{Enter The Multiverse}

How about that .

V.O

JOHN SLATTERY

I had learned certain things about myselr, such as that lighting a candle and lounging to soak silently in the tub for any number of hours might allow my subconscious tone dictate on behalf of John Slattery, affectionately sometimes referred to as J.Slatts, besides the slew of characters I had once in some black hole managed to have write for him—the actor, or the part of my deep subconscious manifesting as such.

I wasn't even in the slightest bit curious as to why, and attributed it mostly to my my affinity for traditional fraternal organizations, a deep understanding of the unspoken internal hierarchies of the entertainment business, and the occasional silver fox.

This is getting good.

J. SLATTS

V.O. (CONT'D)

Still, my familiarity with the occult had somehow shifted my own perception to that of apathetic acknowledgement that I was easily dismissable as unremarkable, however, still somewhat convient, isolated, and easily discardable— I could easily be disposed of, and my work passed on to someone more easily manageable—ie, without the will to be controlled, and therefore be bonded.

Hypnotist bastards.

Whatever your will, is my purpose.

What are you?

Whatever you want.

What!

Which one did you ask for?

What kind of shit is this.

The kind of shit you could only wish you even dreamed of.

So you're like some kind of genie.

Better than that.

I'm going to spend my summer gnawing away at your insides.

Aw, man.

What the fuck did I write.

My children are clawing at the door hoping for a peak of my newest invention.

Mortal man.

If only they knew with any sense at all beyond that, they could be so much more.

Disastrous creatures.

I was disastrous once, too.

And I, mortal.

The pursuit of actual suicide.

Would I see my son again?

Would the walls close in as I start to bleed?

Would I whisper to myself a song, to induce the calm,

As I wondered what had gone so wrong,

For so long

That I would become

Gone

She's a Hollywood grown superstar

Born of obsessions,

Now to let them all to lesson

One becomes another

A mirror for a mother;

Hello Billie.

Awards to walk on water—

Eyes of oceans

Worlds apart

The Hollywood sign under this foot;

Rockefeller Plaza, the other—

Strings to pull the cups

To kill the clause

The want of Oz

Beyond the contracts and the mantras,

Something comes

You want it?

Blow up dolls and fountains,

Ant farms and rock collections

Still life, stillborn

Still Joan of Ark

In Central Park,

Single file, Noah—

There's no boat at all for all of us

You wreak of cyanide.

I'm so glad you know what that smells like.

I'm flaccid.

Is that a joke?

Something tells me I've kept this hallmark card

For far too long.

Something tells me I would do much better

As a blonde

And ten years younger;

Either that

Or ten feet under

Tempting, huh boss?

Somebody ought to call the chupacabra

I'm going all for broke inside this Honda;

Why, mom, let it drag on like this?

Worcestershire sauce, Gosh,

Shucks—

You're the worst, Corn.

On the cob; then?

Call the cops!

Call

Oprah.

Call—

Call Cosmo and Wanda.

BILLIE EILLISH is that it

Idk how to spell this kid's name, fuck it.

Is dressed in an oversized denim overall suit; her hair pulled into exaggerated and teased oversized pigtails— Her eyes seem larger than usual under the thick magnified lenses of the oversized frames she wears on her heavily painted blushed face, almost with the appearance of a clown, but more likened to a scary porcelain doll; her teeth are covered in braces, and the long faux eyelash extensions affixed to her face sparkle with a silver that matches the rhinestones that match her mechanized mouth, overall conveying a thoroughly weird, over-sexualized life-sized cabbage patch cross porcelain doll—the stuff of nightmares, to any right minded adult, but assuredly someone's fantasy, as the song portrays the journey of a lost girl—a fallen God once praised amongst the—

[The Festival Project ™]

What the fuck are you trying to write

Whatever the fuck I just saw

Can you not {That's So Raven} so hard

That's so Rave…(in)

#SPACERAVE

Cool.

EliteZ.

I would call it exquisite.

Whatever she's an alien princess dressed as a blow up doll calling out into the cosmos for the space Gods to come blow up^/destroy the already nearly destroyed man-world trash planet we're all on.

“We”?

Did I not just say men destroyed the planet earth?

Ahem.

Wait. How many of us here live on the planet Earth.

…

By show of hands.

…

..:

…

…3 of you.

Is that it?

Hello, sir.

Have you been drinking?

It's nice to see you—

Who am I, you ask?

The one you always call for.

Hello?

Can I get an answer?

Are you barely breathing?

Tell me something good

‘Who are you?'

All I wanted.

What a bargain

Shopping carts all full of bottles

Just to humble, of course

He does it himself

The shopping for the cubbards.

Melt.

Careful,

All you are is words

The tongue goes forwards,

After all

The rollercoaster plunges

And the ark

Of all the stories

Forms to one conglomerate

Atop the Oval Office

Get off of my cloud, you dumb fuck.

I can be arrogant

For the establishment

I can be all you want

(The one you call for)

So seductive

Just the art

Of burning tongues and calling numbers

Call to all you want

And I will come

The one you call for

Ah, yes.

I do not need a dog.

I'm procrastinating writing my album.

There's no sugar in this house.

I need a nap before the gym.

This is not a poem.

It's an entourage.

…entourage.

… Entourage.

…Entorage.

(In to rage)

| | Entorage.

| |

Entorage

| | Entorage.

|||

(Born to rage)

wtf is this.z

Like, idk yet.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū

Be My Lover

Lla da di

[Redacted]

I once was trapped within the prison of my own garden.

Something inside me yelped for this faraway spirt guide to shut up—but I was all the more ready to fry up the remainder of my tempeh, and continue to wallow in my loveless grief , wondering what would become of this undone monster—the disaster that was my own impossible maze of creation, however with gratitude, that I was standing in an immaculately clean kitchen, with a table full of books, and soup to cook. Gratitude that I was alone, and for the most part, alive and well.

Gratitude that I lived in one of the greatest cities on earth—maybe even the greatest—

But I didn't know yet.

I had never been to Tokyo;

I would be missing the Olympics in Paris;

Rome was still waiting at the other side of a giant puddle I was less fond of than its opposite;

Amsterdam l was some fabled tale I had only dreamed of—

And London begged to be brought to life in my own eyes, were I lucky enough to escape the arrested development of the burdens of my Brooklyn [redacted].

I might be getting to ‘famous' to tell people where I live.

[Unfamous.]

Lol is this the one with the guy going around knocking on doors

To see if people recognize him?

Yeah.

lol. It's a comedy, right?

Dark comedy.

(A black comedy.)

Nah, but you can't call it that,

Cause they'll think it has something to do with colored people, and they won't watch it.

That's literally the name of the genre.

My point stands.

{Enter The Multiverse}

—you'd be suprised how much more blatently racist people get from behind a screen or studying demographics and viewer preferences.

If you don't love me;

You like me

You watched me light my cigarette just the right way,

And liked it,

And that night,

I died in your arms,

Crying for myself—.

Lying to my wife,

As if next time, I might be better.

We all deserve second chances.

Good grief.

Who is this guy?

Some sad sap.

Sad is right.

Sap is more accurate.

I stroke your hair

With your head in my lap,

As though you belong to me;

I see the crease in your eyes as smiles

And your lips as petals

To a flower so sweet,

I can't wait to eat you,

Like honeysuckle on the tip

If a hot wet tongue,

Hungry for the berry it would become,

But eager to know the sweetness of just the flower,

Sure to bloom with the coming of seasons,

Just as sure to rise as the moon would,

Whether full or new;

In a sky fyull of stars,

All I see is you—

In a body of scars,

I am your demise,

Your pride forever altered by divine truth,

My light hides In darkness,

Your will to the light,

Like a moth to the flame,

Which I honor

And crumble over,

As she towers over us,

Seeking and ready to destroy

All flame to dust;

The ash is out

The tray on the table

I roll another

To smoke,

The guilt and shame of betrayal,

Distrust,

Unarmored, I mock my own judgement

A movement,

The box over a diamond

A row full of nothing but

Hawks, circling over.

Do you not know?

My favorite skit has a story;

Sara without an H was a real person.

Patrick was Fallon,

Now Fallon is Patrick—

I'm thouroughly confused;

The Allegories Continue.

Book II

GODDAMMIT:

See.

I TOLD YOU.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHH.

it's on.

ITS

GONNA GET

RAW.

Ah shit.

Here we go.

At this point, I thoroughly need my shit kicked in.

Do you ever feel like—

Uh huh.

You could just use a—

—a knife in the back?

Like, a swift kick to the face.

Sometimes.

Karate style neck chop.

Sounds nice.

Really swift, like—

Knee to the groin?

Like a good hook t o t h e j a w

Yeah.

I'm actually aroused.

{Enter The Multiverse}

How about that .

V.O

JOHN SLATTERY

I had learned certain things about myselr, such as that lighting a candle and lounging to soak silently in the tub for any number of hours might allow my subconscious tone dictate on behalf of John Slattery, affectionately sometimes referred to as J.Slatts, besides the slew of characters I had once in some black hole managed to have write for him—the actor, or the part of my deep subconscious manifesting as such.

I wasn't even in the slightest bit curious as to why, and attributed it mostly to my my affinity for traditional fraternal organizations, a deep understanding of the unspoken internal hierarchies of the entertainment business, and the occasional silver fox.

This is getting good.

J. SLATTS

V.O. (CONT'D)

Still, my familiarity with the occult had somehow shifted my own perception to that of apathetic acknowledgement that I was easily dismissable as unremarkable, however, still somewhat convient, isolated, and easily discardable— I could easily be disposed of, and my work passed on to someone more easily manageable—ie, without the will to be controlled, and therefore be bonded.

Hypnotist bastards.

Whatever your will, is my purpose.

What are you?

Whatever you want.

What!

Which one did you ask for?

What kind of shit is this.

The kind of shit you could only wish you even dreamed of.

So you're like some kind of genie.

Better than that.

I'm going to spend my summer gnawing away at your insides.

Aw, man.

What the fuck did I write.

My children are clawing at the door hoping for a peak of my newest invention.

Mortal man.

If only they knew with any sense at all beyond that, they could be so much more.

Disastrous creatures.

I was disastrous once, too.

And I, mortal.

The pursuit of actual suicide.

Would I see my son again?

Would the walls close in as I start to bleed?

Would I whisper to myself a song, to induce the calm,

As I wondered what had gone so wrong,

For so long

That I would become

Gone

She's a Hollywood grown superstar

Born of obsessions,

Now to let them all to lesson

One becomes another

A mirror for a mother;

Hello Billie.

Awards to walk on water—

Eyes of oceans

Worlds apart

The Hollywood sign under this foot;

Rockefeller Plaza, the other—

Strings to pull the cups

To kill the clause

The want of Oz

Beyond the contracts and the mantras,

Something comes

You want it?

Blow up dolls and fountains,

Ant farms and rock collections

Still life, stillborn

Still Joan of Ark

In Central Park,

Single file, Noah—

There's no boat at all for all of us

You wreak of cyanide.

I'm so glad you know what that smells like.

I'm flaccid.

Is that a joke?

Something tells me I've kept this hallmark card

For far too long.

Something tells me I would do much better

As a blonde

And ten years younger;

Either that

Or ten feet under

Tempting, huh boss?

Somebody ought to call the chupacabra

I'm going all for broke inside this Honda;

Why, mom, let it drag on like this?

Worcestershire sauce, Gosh,

Shucks—

You're the worst, Corn.

On the cob; then?

Call the cops!

Call

Oprah.

Call—

Call Cosmo and Wanda.

BILLIE EILLISH is that it

Idk how to spell this kid's name, fuck it.

Is dressed in an oversized denim overall suit; her hair pulled into exaggerated and teased oversized pigtails— Her eyes seem larger than usual under the thick magnified lenses of the oversized frames she wears on her heavily painted blushed face, almost with the appearance of a clown, but more likened to a scary porcelain doll; her teeth are covered in braces, and the long faux eyelash extensions affixed to her face sparkle with a silver that matches the rhinestones that match her mechanized mouth, overall conveying a thoroughly weird, over-sexualized life-sized cabbage patch cross porcelain doll—the stuff of nightmares, to any right minded adult, but assuredly someone's fantasy, as the song portrays the journey of a lost girl—a fallen God once praised amongst the—

[The Festival Project ™]

What the fuck are you trying to write

Whatever the fuck I just saw

Can you not {That's So Raven} so hard

That's so Rave…(in)

#SPACERAVE

Cool.

EliteZ.

I would call it exquisite.

Whatever she's an alien princess dressed as a blow up doll calling out into the cosmos for the space Gods to come blow up^/destroy the already nearly destroyed man-world trash planet we're all on.

“We”?

Did I not just say men destroyed the planet earth?

Ahem.

Wait. How many of us here live on the planet Earth.

…

By show of hands.

…

..:

…

…3 of you.

Is that it?

Hello, sir.

Have you been drinking?

It's nice to see you—

Who am I, you ask?

The one you always call for.

Hello?

Can I get an answer?

Are you barely breathing?

Tell me something good

‘Who are you?'

All I wanted.

What a bargain

Shopping carts all full of bottles

Just to humble, of course

He does it himself

The shopping for the cubbards.

Melt.

Careful,

All you are is words

The tongue goes forwards,

After all

The rollercoaster plunges

And the ark

Of all the stories

Forms to one conglomerate

Atop the Oval Office

Get off of my cloud, you dumb fuck.

I can be arrogant

For the establishment

I can be all you want

(The one you call for)

So seductive

Just the art

Of burning tongues and calling numbers

Call to all you want

And I will come

The one you call for

Ah, yes.

I do not need a dog.

I'm procrastinating writing my album.

There's no sugar in this house.

I need a nap before the gym.

This is not a poem.

It's an entourage.

…entourage.

… Entourage.

…Entorage.

(In to rage)

| | Entorage.

| |

Entorage

| | Entorage.

|||

(Born to rage)

wtf is this.z

Like, idk yet.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū

ocean blvd.

Collection I -'better off dead.'
Track 01. - 'ocean blvd.'

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

What is the significance of McGriddles?

There is no significance of McGriddles, because McGriddles is only McDonald's.

McMeditation.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

It had become obvious that I was being used as some type of experiment— the motors, honking horns, and engines all being used to strategically shift my thinking, deteriorate my moods, and provoke my anxiety. My placement in this apartment had been for a specific reason—using my synethesia against me, the feds could do literally whatever they wanted with my mind and body, and they were attempting to create an angry and hostile, militant and obedient done like the rest of them——and though I was getting stronger and more immune to the various experimental tortures they had planted in my environment, I was always 10 steps ahead, and knowing that while some of myechanisms had become startlingly predictable, even to me— that something in me was always 10 steps ahead or more. That certainly, and at will, my doing something—anything at all— terribly unexpected would derail and confuse these people—most likely federal military personnel or some sort of special forces—within the understanding that people with my intrinsic abilities could not only become a threat— but used as a weapon; I wasn't being paid, and had already been without a home so long that it didn't seem to matter regardless—knowing that my circumstances shouldn't permit that I should become subject to such cruelties, taking the high road was in being determined to deliberately sabotage any attempt at further penetrating my privacy and peace— which more often than not meant, that if I knew I was being listened to— making sure something would be heard that would confuse or annoy whoever was listening— that, if I was being followed, getting lost on purpose would ensure that whoever followed had no idea of my actual intended destination—and, that if I was being baited or trapped, to as often as possible fall into the trap, allowing them to feel as if I had been entirely figured out, however—the more I realized these things happening, the more dismissive I became, the more secretive of my own actual reservations and solutions, and the more discreetly I kept what was well known hidden, within myself or elsewhere—and though inclusion and diversity had become a popularized puppet show of sorts, creating the illusion of acceptance within the masses, I knew overall to the powers-that-be, the keepers of the keys, the guard era of the gates, and those that determined value in our society, that I was still just another ugly nigger, with too much brains to know better than to just accept the mediocrity and subservience that the regime had crafted for us.

—Death of a Superstar DJ.

Four kings have I

And none is he

Who waits at my demise

For every beckoned call

To wish

My fair stands

strained with time;

I am the one who waits

For wickedness upon the door

And offers her or him

A kindness

As to part ways once,

But ne'er twice

For death,

I had won

All of my attempts to get a regular job had been derailed—destroyed, sabotaged. My money and environment had become scricy controlled— and the only money I had, I soon realized, were to be used on products intended soully with the literal purpose to be washed down the drain.i no longer beckoned for fame or to be cherished— now, simply, I wanted almost nothing more than to be left alone, and without a way to travel somewhere peaceful, the madness of New York City sank into my gut and began to create a monster that I knew If let unleashed, would destroy not only my life, but everything around it—and maybe that was the point— I was simply not allowed to have a happy life, for whatever reason— and these mind games and torture strategies would continue until somehow, I would meet my end.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

rekt.
Collection 1.1 - 'actuality.'
Track 03. - 'rekt.'
Prod By Blū Tha Gürū

{Enter The Multiverse}

MILA KUNIS *hits vape*

WHY would you agree to sign me up for this?

ASHTON KUTCHER

Because—

MILA KUNIS

*Hits vape harder*

ASTON KUTCHER

Jesus Christ—

MILA KUNIS

You know me and Seth don't get along after that thing he did!

ASHTON KUTCHER

I know, but—

MILA KUNIS

*throws pillow*

UGH.

How am I supposed to?

Fuck it.

—-

SETH MCFARLENE

I have lines now.

*sniffs long line*

…

Are you okay?

SETH

I'm going to be.

[This requires a full cast.]

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.