[ENTER THE MULTIVERSE]

When he hits you,—find a safe place; take all of your valuables quietly, and report your injuries to multiple. Agencies of authorities; keep the incident well documented, and do not let much time pass between this incident and its report.

When he cheats; or you suspect him of cheating, do not confront him; do not look for further evidence. Simply walk away quietly, and do not return; do not give him the opportunity to convince you of anything beyond what you already know; the love you still may have left for him will blind you. Forgive him, but do not return to him: he will only learn better how to evade you, and take advantage of your willingness to forgive or reconcile: he will only alter your mind to believe that his actions were justified, when they were not.

Do not stay in contact, as friends, or otherwise; if you work together, find a new job

Do not argue or provoke him; keep his pride and ego intact by allowing him to believe he is right, and quietly exit the relationship.

One argument is enough. Just break up.

Do not stoop to any level below oneself to play mind games, cheat back, or seek vengeance—do not try to persuade friends and family one way or another; make a new life, with new friends—leave him out of it.

Walk away.

Say nothing.

Man lives in a world in which he believes is his own, and yet still ponders on what woman only knows naturally and intrinsically—man's true fault is to believe that it is he from which he henceforth came, however—the toxic society from which in this sense of ‘knowledge' has been built, a society which has exceeded its forecedul oppression has nearly now halted the evolutionary potential of not only the human species, but of most the species known to inhabit the planet earth, as man takes not his ideology of destruction and consummation from nature, but from the darkness and void of confusion created from within, the separation of woman from his own self in the dissolution that the body portrays its own value by the perception of beauty, which marks his endeavors of perfection through material wealth, no such which has substance to any creature dwelling with higher consciousness and ability to change and create without the infliction of pain, in resistance to what itself Love is.

What is Love?

Love is God and therefore all things which make new upon themselfs to enforce change without limit, restriction, or the separation of ones oneself from all that is, was, or has become

An energetic entity which has yet to be understood, as with such understanding, it becomes again as something new and unrecognizable to man, before he himself

Men= destroy/ take/ burn love

(((Spectrums)))

Women= create, make love //Dynamics

The imbalance in the world has become such so that almost the whole world has become blind to the truth of love, in only which man finds as a body, but not within himself, and in which women only finds in survival, within herself but bound to the will of man to live freely, which cannot be within his reign of these cruelties and harsh misjudgments.

Man only finds value in that which he sees as aesthetically beautiful, which has harmed and entrapped the souls of those now for seen as “wicked”, encased in his blindness to love to any other thing than himself.

TVP © The Complex Collective| ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SAM, often called “FAT SAM” is known by his eclectic fashion and heavy stature, and navigates deals and contracts between “the tv people”, or the network, and “the music people”— he is known for his off kilter antics, party culture conessouring, and unique charming laugh. Although a wild creature at best and the party animal of all party animals both off and sometimes even on the clock, often meeting and foreseeing the standards of his superstar clientele, he is kindhearted, honest, and brutally incredible at his job, known throughout the TV world and Music world as a hero, if not a living legend.

The world was full of babies and pretty women, the trophy boys and husbands that seemed to worship them, and flock to their every aide—meanwhile, I had become quite frigid, and felt ugly amongst all things—nobody seemed to want me, and instead of wondering why, I alluded it to my features—the rich and poor in New York so horribly segregated that I might as seemed as more the latter, if not just from my skin color alone, let alone my style of dress.

Other people's opinions of me, however, were less and less important by the day, and although I wanted more children, there was no settlement as to the kind of man I wanted to attract; Not just wealthy and talented, but handsome—an equation for disaster, but so long as I had my children and was kept well, I wouldn't mind. Another lazy, however arrogant and poor man was not what I needed—and there was power in the gestures of weak people around me that the world had become a hellish place for those who hadn't been given the opportunity to flourish.

Am I in?

What? Jennifer Aniston?

Did it work?!

—I—yeah—

Pass.

Thanks, Jim!

You're the man!

Watch this.

Watch this.

Good Shepard!

My lord!

Goddamn,

Goddamn,

Goddamn!

Nice. I'm in.

Fallon, I don't know how you did this but—

Jimmy!

You the man!

What's up, Jim!!!

Yo! *high fives*

Yeah.

[Jimmy Fallon Is Suddenly]

YOU DA MAN

“The Man”

What in the fuck does that mean?

I don't know yet.

This guy is obnoxious.

It appears to be some kind of magnet for something.

Ooh, what is that?

Lady, get out of here.

Look what I found.

I don't know:

What is that.

It says “iPod”

You gotta be joshing me. Let me see that.

What.

What.

What.

What.

What?

…

…

Nothing.

Nevermind.

Let me back in!

I can't, it's

I got—-

I'll give you 10 Million

Ten million—what?

Ten Million Dollars!

For what.

UGH.

Fuck you, dude.

F- you—dumb ass little—

“Whatever, man”

I had half a mind to move the alter into my studio and force myself to fall back asleep, complicit with the fact that I was two days away from spinach and whatever other vitamins I was lacking. I was so tired and sore, and had run out of multivitamins days ago. Maybe this was the lasting effect of ever having taken vitamins and then stopping, and it seemed a cruel gesture to do anything but soak, knowing over all I should walk away from the world entirely. It was beginning to feel a lot like there was no escape from the constant and persistent ask to the universe for peace, protection, and wealth—and no end to the work that had been done, but had yielded not much to prosper.

I think that's the point though, so that you second guess your own judgement—

That your intrinsic sense of energy

Seems to have betrayed you

And leaves you somewhat altered.

I could have sworn she had blue eyes.

She did.

Maybe they change.

That much?!

Who knows. Maybe.

One must only be bitten by a dog one good time to learn that dogs can be dangerous—and yet— I had been bitten by the blue eyed many a times and still had somehow found my way into forgiveness, if not for my own sake.

Maybe she was wearing contacts.

I used to.

I had been thinking about investing in new colored contacts to make my eyes appear lighter, and a blonde wig to soften up the dark tan I had gotten unintentionally going about in the summer—still thought, it had been a long summer of not doing anything but going to the food bank, writing, and spinning in circles about how to make money. Long bouts of trying to shut out my old life from my new one, pushing my divorce, and becoming separated entirely from anything once having to do with my name at all. Within reason, I had suffered considerably over nothing, and despite my efforts, there seemed there was nothing I could do to find gains in my own creativity. There was only seeking and never really finding, the things I needed but none of the things I wanted. Everything I owned had been once owned by someone else, besides the few items I should have not even considered my own, but belonging to the world almost as much as I had. I was tired, consistently grief stricken, and felt unwelcome entirely by the entire world—or at least—an entire generation of people that were my own, but had learned not to respect what I had become— broke, and in turn, broken.

Sometimes I want to cry like Marcy D'Arcy in the 6th season of Married With Children.

I only smile when I see the color yellow and then dream of him,

Seeking nothing but solace

At the concourse, we converse momentarily

And then go our separate ways

Forever and always

Forever and always

Your secrets

I smell like dirt

And arrived in the real world

Covered in blood

And scraped over the,

Over the knees,

Yes I did

Come recover then,

What you've lost from the world

Born in chaos, not quite

But almost, as we're once swarmed the waters

Keep it better quiet, now

Keep it better quiet now,

Keep it better quiet now, your secrets

There lies no tru loyalty to bands tied

On middle fingers

Besides to one's own self

And they who they shall

Desire and claim as another

Extension of God,

In her

Or their arms

There is no claim to faith or mercy

Than what comes between us,

Bombshells

As argued in chaos

—mother, you're not listening

To the call of the wild

Then now,

How am i bound to that besides being

In sanctity

The obnoxious obese man who drove the loud motorcycle up and down the street was obviously a very weak man—and he wanted the world to know it. His loud and obnoxious roaring must have overcompensated for his sloppy, fat and sagging body, which hung over the seat and sides of the motorcycle—the excessive revving of the engine must have been to let the world know that this was his power—having earned the money to ride a motorcycle; but in all other ways he was obviously lost, his slothemly and gluttonous blob of a body almost making the oversized Harley look like a play bike, his tiny penis probably covered to its top in whale blubber; he clearly had no other way to feel powerful, besides of course— being the leader of a gang of mindless peasant monkeys, who all would do anything for their own bikes—monkey see, monkey do.

Perhaps his obesity to the third world unthinking drone slaves was a sign of his dominance—or they lived in fear that he would eat them.

Obesity aside, it was his force of obnoxious harassment that had designated him as an obviously insufferably weak subhuman— much like a bully who dealt with his own faults by terrorizing others, such was the man with the Harley.

There was nothing impressive about him besides his bike—and since he had abused that with such outright offense, even that made him look stupid.

He raced his engine as if to say “look at ME! I have arrived!” But after actually glimpsing at the blob, it was hard to not laugh at it. He was hard to miss anyway, and probably should have opted for a truck or some sort of SUV to hide his intolerant and debilitating self-inflicted illness— the inability to control when and how much to eat, or how to do anything besides ride up and down the street on a motorcycle—perhaps a walk could do some good; in definite need of a jog, and a strict diet. I was embarrassed for him, and most people who weren't so obviously diseased and more in the like of self indulgent and lazy—I had once been like them, but no longer, and first and foremost I believed in respecting my neighbors, treating others as I wished to be treated. I wished to live in a quiet and safe neighborhood, but the obnoxious morbidly obese man alone was a symbol of the disastrous mark capitalism had made on the American empire—lazy, docile, greedy, potbellied idiots accounted for all too many of the world. I knew that with the desire to change, that one could change—now to force myself to believe that with the desire to succeed in something, one could succeed—I was at least trying. But the weak and uncontrolled idiots spawning from holes in the underworld and buzzing around like the pests and roaches they were reminded me that if anything, these imbiciles were decent at almost nothing but breeding other fucking idiots.

Hopefully, one day my own blood would grow up to want to work out with me, eat well, and change from appearing as his weaker half— lazy, obese idiot just the same as these, however—at the very least, the roaches were fastidious. They buzzed around under the illusion that working for the American system would grant them anything besides a motorbike and some fresh looking street wear, the attention of girls too stupid to understand that 99% of men simply weren't worth wasting time with or on, and unknowing to this or their own worth, would still do it anyway,

Some of the bikers had girls on the back; I always felt bad for the girl on the back of the motorcycle rather than jealous—I would rather be at the helm of the thing, riding it for myself.

Then, thinking back to a time before I realized how crowded cities were, sighting that there should be laws against loud vehicles in urban areas such as this— there was at lot more open road than not in LA—highways, that is, and bikes were easy to maneuver through heavy traffic. New York was another story—congested, overpopulated, and now filled with a disease which added to its decay at a quicker rate than ever. The illegal immigration crisis was much like a rodent or insect infestation, but harder to control—one simply could not exterminate millions of actual humans, and yet, the problem was still the same— this was a disease, a pest infestation, as most of the immigrants weren't working, but simply subsisting on the taxpayers dollars they were allocated and finding ways not to work; they were parasites, many of them set to explode with more parasites. We had indeed been infiltrated, and made to pay for it, both in restlessness, and in dread. Culturally inept to most decencies as even the crudest Americans had been bred with, many although not all roamed around like feeble minded children in brand new Nike wear, munching on fast food and candy as if guests to some kind of amusement park—however, to the thoroughbred tax paying Americans, this was no amusement; it was a distressing, eye opening wake up call that something had gone terribly wrong, on the already overworked working class' time and hard earned money. It might have seemed cold and calloused to think of them as rodents—but, always observant, I also much believed in calling a duck a duck; most of them were not respectful, pushed and shoved, threw trash everywhere— and left their minor children to roam about or even put them to work, unaware of what child labor laws were; they used their unborn children as anchors to be able to stay where neither they were truly welcome or belonged, bloating the welfare system and benefitting from funds that had been laid to them with taxpayers dollars.

The United States of America had its own problems, and its own citizens being overlooked, once again the needs of continually systemized blacks and other minorities falling victim to this new wave of people to care for.

The capitalists had sold out the working class once and for all—the immigrants needed to go, and probably would, eventually tiring of the unattainable American dream we all had been sold, but they had been gimmicked into attempting to create— all to supplement an oncoming election. An election which really gave the people no choice at all, besides gawking, debating ignorantly about misinformation, and of course—intrinsically siding with the good old American narcissism which would force them to take the side of whoever supported who looked like them— the Latino vote was obviously an important factor—and of course the polished machismo and Latin pride of those being supplemented by the income of their friends and relatives come to stay, though unknowingly, chunks of money out of their own tax paying pockets, would vote for the most lenient immigration plans—probably the safest bet, the presidential office mere puppetry at all anymore. However, it had been obvious that the Right has set The Left up for disaster by allowing the black to have been shifted blue—though the rational explanation for the reallocated funding fell directly and logistically to the right. The Oval itself, empty and the actual control belonging to the wealthiest billionaires and corporations whose hopes of the thousands of migrants becoming their corporate slaves had mostly backfired terribly. With any hope, many of them would take what they could, and travel back below the border where life was simple, food was fresh, and without need to play the part of the facade of the American dream—no need for the material goods and fashionable street wear supplied by the American taxpayers—no need for iPhones and all of the decorations the taxpayers had supplemented for them—no need to live up to the ridiculous standards of actually being an “American”, which in reality, by now meant working so much that there was no peace, there was no rest, and there was no real freedom—and as a working class or poverty level citizen, having to compensate for everything and everyone around you, always working harder for less— and purposely being kept back and behind as the wealthy elite closed their circles tighter, shutting out the ugly, the brown and black, and those deemed unworthy out of their precious world.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Secret President

Make the old man laugh–

–make The Old Man break a sweat

Make the old man dance

(Make The Old Man Young Again)

Make The Old Man dance, I said

Wise Owl

My server be your server;

My proxy, thine proxy…

WHOOPI GOLDBERG (as The Cosmic Owl) sits crouched over a nest of stone and earthen metals of precious kind, enchanting within the thick smoke of incense and fragrant oils, with a whispered chant, evoking with spirit and summoning with force–a spell of all spells; a worldly ritual. Her golden turban matches the embellishments; the royally fashioned robe and chains around her neck, bangles and ribbons of gold and silver draped with the hooded cape of which the grand sleeves, falling into the grand purple flowing train of the cascading draperies.

Meanwhile…

Come on, we don't got all day…

–”we”?

I don't got time!

MEANWHILE,

CHRISTOPHER WALKEN awaits at the corridor of an unknown marker, inside of a train station–which appears altogether to be in a different time; altogether a different place; the period of his dress appears perhaps late 1800's; his pocketwatch, which he checks sporadically–also golden.

ALSO MEANWHILE

So this is Casper, huh?

This–yeah.

The friendly ghost.

Well–

AGH.

He used to be, anyway.

Why are you not making any sense!?

I asked for PROTECTION!

I gave you LIGHT!

That's not a protection! It's a target!

What the fuck ar eyou talking about?

*vampire*

{instant kills vampire}

*demon*

{Instant kills demon}

THESE THINGS EAT LIGHT.

Well. I don't know how to help you.

Get me out of here!

I can't do that!

i told u i was deadmau5, man.

Wtf.

wait , like, all of it?

ya.

shoot that nigga.

LIVE:

All the Niggaz is getting shooted at.

EVERYONE ELSE

…that was already happening, tho.

WHITE SUPREMACISTS

*shrugs*

*drinks another bottle of coca cola*

*trashes entire planet*

*doesn't feel*

Lol

BLANG-BLANG.

MEANWRHILE:

DEADMAu5

NO, I'm TEsTPiLOT

Whatever, dog.

KILL THAT N–

DEADMAU5

LOOK AT MA DIK.

…ok.

Wasn't there another scene after this?

I dunno, I got dick-stracted.

Yikes

UNTIE ME.

UNITY.

UNITYYYYYYYYYYY.

WHAT.

UNTIE ME FROM THIS–THING.

No, actually, I think you should stay there.

The most bizzare thing happened this morning.

The most bizzare thing ever, to have happened to me, ever—which is saying a lot l— but

I was scratching my head, and all of a sudden,

This tiny fingernail—

An itty, bitty teeny-tiny fingernail, like,

Dislodged itself from my soul or something—

Fell out of my hair,

Okay, God. What.

This baby fingernail—

Like, okay it could be like a newborn big toe nail or like,

A one month's old like actual finger

Aww, I just used to bite them. They were so little I didn't want to cut them with the clippers.

Their little fingers

You don't want to accidentally—

You know,

They're just so soft.

Awws.

What the fuck, God.

That makes no sense.

I've been primarily by myself for like—ever—

And anytime I'm in public, I'm wearing a hat—

My wash machine is only used by me, thank god and

What the fuck does this mean?

Mad Men is an American period drama TV series that aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. The show follows the lives of the people who work at a New York advertising agency in the 1960s, and focuses on the professional and personal life of Don Draper, a talented but mysterious ad executive.

{Enter The Multiverse}

GET—OUT OF MY WAY.

What are you doing?!

MOVE.

Is this a code four?

Far beyond code four!

Oh my!

What could it be?!

Move! This is a serious matter!

The NBC pages are in a frenzy, pushing and shoving one another frantically, turning 30 Rockefeller plaza into an animalistic jungle of confusion and chaos.

What is going on.

The games—sir.

The—games?

The. games. Sir.

I–m– afraid I don't know what you're talking about

You should be afraid! Be very afraid. Because the games.

What “games”

The GAMES have begun.

CUT TO:

Seth Meyers stands in the mirror comparing two exactly identical ties— he appears to be talking to himself, asking

SETH MEYERS

how do you like this tie?

—to no response.

He uncomfortably shifts and switches to the other, exactly identical tie.

Or this?

Yo. What a creep.

Again, to no response, he waits a moment and switches to the first, exactly identical tie, with an assertive nervousness.

SETH MEYERS CONT'D

You're right, the first one. Yeah.

He completes tying his tie, then placing his hands in his pockets, still facing the mirror—quite enamored with himself. He leans up onto his toes and then back onto his heels, admiring himself before spinning around to face the anterior of the room;

SETH MEYERS

It's showtime.

He points his fingers animatedly at his mock audience—now we see that the room is filled top to bottom with stuffed animals, puppets, dolls, and other strange likenesses…

Hold up, i'm distracted

Just stick to what you know.

Most of the Saturday Night Alumni and Late Night hosts had long, noteworthy careers in comedy, hefty writing backgrounds, and tons of experience in television. I found myself out of place and grasping at straws, letting something come for a moment between myself and my sanity. I did know music—but wasn't the girl with her shit together enough to have made any kind of dent in my obviously gaping music career, with the additional workload of what may have been the work of a genius, but also a madwoman—or mad man, depending on whose essence or presence happened to take hold of my weary and feeble soul, or

Distracted again

[the news] (the actual news)

Whatever (Wednesdays) - your weekly dose of whatever.

The Audio Files (for Audiophiles and Music Producers/ Engineers)

That was all I could remember off of the top of my head, not that it mattered at all, actually. I was grasping as strings and between worlds— the winner of the contest had beautiful pictures, and had played festivals—her website was flawless, and I liked her, later finding that she was Greek. I didn't seem to mind women, so long as they weren't the hateful, competitive, and typically racist—even on both sides—American type, and I scanned the list of participants that had been American to see if any of them were black women—doubtable, though in the New York scene some black women had seemingly out of nowhere taken to techno, and with that I had shifted gears to make my production more focused in bass and dubstep, if I were ever to return to my state of producing at heavy volume. I hadn't, with so much on my plate to juggle or rather spin, and I had been in quite the bubble of for whatever reason l trying to solve the puzzle of what had suddenly become what seemed like an NBC sponsored charade through the inner workings of my mind, only to find that not only was I not qualified, but also not entirely capable of doing any of the jobs I wanted to, and with that notion had settled once again comfortably in the cradle of suicide, hating everyone and everything around me—and using Tina Fey's book as an alter to light my prayer candle, all the while knowing someone had left it there—the book, along with a collection of surf themed relics, especially for me.

I had been thoroughly warned about Jimmy Fallon. He was an impressive egotist—- walked amongst rightfully the elite, was highly competitive, and powerful. He was not the kind of man you tell ‘no', even if you were, like me, entirely unsure as to what the question was—his eloquence had been understated, the design of it all, unique, in a way that it all seemed to speak of a time before time— I was immovably always fond of the Greeks

Lost, was the old world,

Our own,

Bound by candle light;

Marked by wisdom,

Enrichment,

Cherished times,

Beseeched the throne,

A mask of wands,

The arch of Tryerdom,

I am the arms of therefore

What was once,

The whole of body,

As a man or womankind,

Seeks to know a God—

They are as one,

And all of us,

Beyond the shroud of time,

A whimsy befallen, like leaves upon us

Overgrown the garden of Adam,

Wrought with fruit,

Which rotten lies upon the tide,

So soaked with formidable ocean

She or he therefore has lost

The touch of truth,

The seekers wisdom,

All are none again,

And so shall fall the empire

They called us upon as ours.

—in God we Trust.

Amen.

Fuck, man.

How am I supposed to—

What do you call it?

—summon.

Summon a fucking—

What's it?

God.

—God…up on this fucking soundstage without the entire audience or anyone else noticing.

You figure it out.

How, though?

What the fuck.

It takes a lot of impressive achievements to get into the page program.

Yeah, but .

I would assume your studies in practical magic to be at the very least—

—Doing what now?

Adequate—if not satisfactory.

You are weird.

This is weird.

I paid cash, and I expect results.

Whatever.

Now, be careful with those tablets.

We wouldn't want anyone dangerous getting a hold of them.

Anyone like who?

{Enter The Multiverse}

Do your job;

I'll do mine.

When we go, we go—

And when we go…

The man emerges from below the surface of the water, gasping for breath; as the water drips down from his hair and face, back into the water, as the splash echoes into a dull chorus of dripping, his mouth open, gaping, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare; he breathes deeply as something in him recollects before the blur of the world sets in to become a clear and crisp, colored world.

We go the way we came—

At once, and Alone.

As if no one could know where we've just come from—

Or where we must go.

But we must go.

“Cosmos Factory”

This could be fatal.

—but isn't everything.

He's not breathing.

Call an ambulance.

nurse!

Call a paramedic.

The paradigm shifted as I departed one world and entered the next.

In a fit of blind rage and fury, also came an excitement; I was accomplished.

The man is distinguished, late 40's to early 50's, with dark, lush hair.

Soon, you know, it will all be grey.

It can't be.

What do you mean it's ‘empty'?

This is not the place!

What place?

This is not the place that it was!

Ah, so this is Cosmos Factory.

I thought that was a comedy.

I was hoping it would be.

Here it is.

I was wondering what was in there.

I'm still waiting to see what's in Mrs. Gillipsie's refrigerator.

Well, keep waiting. I've got a few more chapters in this memoir and I can't be bothered with trying to figure out why Johnny Depp is the narrator in the voiceover—

My God, how you've changed.

Well, yes— I am a changeling.

Not to mention your improvements in shapeshifting.

Actually, let's not mention it.

very well.

Whatever, man.

Tom.

Is it?

It should be.

Whatever. Come in.

Oh. What a lovely portal you have.

—shut up.

But the man reemerging from his practical baptismal submergence is none other than —

I don't think he's capable of a role like this.

He isn't—which is why I wrote it like this.

You know, by the time the actual writers get their hands on this, there will be so many rewrites it will be hard to imagine or recognize you even wrote it.

That's—already becoming a sort of paradoxical challenge.

Of course it is. You shifters never have any idea the kind of repercussions coming, or, the endless— and I mean —endless realms—

—infinite—

Endless. Things are rarely infinite actually besides the things that always were, henceforth—infinite—

Of course,

Always having been and always will be.

Got it.

So. Do you understand the kind of effort it takes as a collective to have come up with a work like this?

I understand the benefit of having opposable thumbs and an iPhone,

You think you're smart;

—when I'm thinking, at all—

But you're actually a genius; that's right, without thinking at all.

Have you thought about the characters you haven't yet created?

There are more?

The worlds you've yet to build?

I've got all my money on blowing my head off before ever actually making it as a stand up comic.

And I've got all mine on you blowing your head off, after you've made it as a stand up comic.

Now, which is it going to be?

[beat]

Statistics don't lie.

Actually, they do—

Especially in America.

North America?

South America?

You know as good as I know, I mean the Good old Goddamned USA.

That's a lot of good old goddamned, Uncle Sam.

—aha,

And Sam, I am.

Now, suit up as Dr. Suess and make sense of this.

Nothing makes sense—

If everything did, what would be the purpose?

[agreeing, simultaneously]

Puzzle Pieces.

[a moment of solidarity]

Now, pick the old man up off the ground,

And get to it.

He's not that old…

You only say that because you're older.

Let this trickle down into the body of success that I should be born at least two decades left than half a century ago.

Any less and you'd be begging for some kind of pardon for all the crimes against humanity you've caused to solidify the theoretic concept of consciousness within the occult, instead of humbly accepting the consideration for an honorary doctorate at any given Alma mater whose brotherhood of trust has bonded us through this unjust monologue to seal such in blood as a relic.

That's a lot of words.

I have hairs on my chest.

They are grey.

Congratulations,

Some of them silver.

Is that a riddle?

If it were, would there be so many puzzle pieces?

I think that would take this whole thing out of balance.

Manage your axis.

Bid you well.

Severance.

“The Occult Classic”

HOTDOG-HOTDOG.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Showrunner: Matt Weiner

Peggy: Elizabeth Moss

Blue eyes, it is.

I wish, I wish,

Be careful what you wish for,

Or cook in a Petri dish

The world is a stage,

The people a plague

The magic was gone,

The days were the same.

[The Festival Project ™]

Blonde hair, blue eyes;

Live once, lose twice—

Brown skin, brown eyes

Die inside.

(Or just die.)

{Rewind}

Captain

Captain!

Oh, Good, come in, Cannon.

You've—changed.

…as you know, Monday we disembark.

Yes, I'm aware.

And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us.

Yes.

I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self.

How old are you, anyway?

You should never ask a woman her age, LT.

Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know.

Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately…

Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that.

I'm still very much in the privacy of my office.

You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public.

Never as a woman her age!

You're not a woman; you're my captain.

We'll see about that after tonight.

Being a woman, or being my captain?

Both, probably.

Hm.

By any chance would you be interested in joining me?

As your subordinate, or as a man.

Both, probably.

Or neither… presumably.

As my escort.

I beg your pardon.

I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition.

—er, your condition, captain?

Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind.

[he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.]

Consider it done.

Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour.

Half an hour?

Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early.

We're earning points?

We are now.

Very well then. What am I wearing?

Something sharp.

Sharper than the inside of a half hour.

On your mark.

I'll—see you soon.

He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him.

Sergeant.

Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back.

Oh.

I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage.

Whatever, though. Doesn't matter.

At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture,

TVP

S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer.

DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour.

—

Who's this beautiful sister.

My head writer; don't even think about it.

I dont think. I just do.

Esha approaches— Dash politely bo s and kisses Esha's hand

Should I get tested?

—and funny.

Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with daemon dash, furious Patrick means to interrogate her

Why would you even date that asshole

Because—Pat. He's a comedian.

I'm a comedian! So?

So, he's funny.

And?

And he said things to me—

What kind of things

Charming, funny things—

Okay?

Things he wouldnt say to you over dinner— because, I'm

—you're a woman.

—and your head writer. So naturally.

Esh, you're a genius,

So is he. We have—some new material to work through.

Ahq!

Your monologue tonight.

Oh yes. Oh yes.

You can thank me later. Broken bottles. :9'd one stop her

Walkin walking

God knows I don't belong here

And I don't want to

Passover was April 21-30

Global War on Terrorism

Aka WWIII

Oh, indeed.

Don't look left

Take a deep breath

My heart beats differently

I think it might be the end

I think it might be

I think I might be the enemy

The pushing mechanism

When i breath him in

I levitate

And gravitate to what it meant

The sake of the art,

The hurt of the heart

As sacred as it ever was

The turning or the Torah talks of

Gestures, since the fall of Rome

The toga on the alter

Solid hands unwrap us all

From falling over

Old and awkward

No award for wisdom

No rest for the wiser

No love for the troll

Since thunder struck from under us,

Delivered all but what we wanted

So we talk of karma sutra,

Surely we can't talk at all

Of what we know

As once was bonded

Laughed it off

To come from what

The call to us,

Fair serve governors fortress

I work up in mentions

Carved the scarlet letter out of

Cannons, of course

MA.

WHAT. I'm BUSY.

ITS ON.

The what?

The show we watch!

The one that—

YES,

Oh, my GOD.

Yes.

YESSSSSSSSS.

Usnavi, get your popcorn

This is some worth watching

Up in arms for forwards

Causing sore arms,

Numb thumbs

From crucifixes

Are you wondering what God

Would walk about the horned carving

A kamazake walk of tall corn—

Follow me, dear mantra

Your whole house is watching.

Sacre.

It's happening again isn't it.

I do want ice cream.

All I need is a divorce

And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall

To rub me off at the stroke of

Nevermind what the clock says

In God's house they're all wrong

The blsphomoous for Catholics

Has begun,

So strum your number into the teleprompter

And just hope no one gets hurt

By the hook on the next song

—like the hook of my last surviving bra

digs into my back does,

Or the skin on my lack of tummy

Has rubbed off under the suicide

Of the cycle—

It's getting tighter

A loss of interest is equal to

A loss of conciousness

And I'm 21 days drunk

On the alternate, though—

I'm sober and feeling less

Loved.

The animal I've become is all cardio

And karma sutra

For karma comes

To the weak of heart

To use the world as swords

To cause harm

To the calm artists

I thought I told you off once.

(Already)

You look awful.

lol.

You look terrible, broh.

But my album sound fire.

#producerholes

[portal]

It's coffee time!!

It's not coffee time!

It's not coffee time.

Iiiiits coffee time.

Damn.

Where's the cat.

Gestating.

My phone was never the first thing I reached for in the morning—but I was sure there was something missing in my mind from a place in LA that I used to frequent, that sold giant frosted cookies that were also vegan. There was donut friend, which I always enjoyed and craved—but I was sure—absolutely sure that I was missing a m cookie, and it was absolutely driving me wild that I couldn't think of the place, or find it on Google. Has it been before turning vegan? Was my memory failing me in thinking that the cupcakes and donuts that I had often brought back to the hostel in boxes were timetimes cookies also? It seemed like there were cookies…and I'm sure that there were, as I could remember the thick frosting often being sweet and decadent enough to lick from the top, and that the bottom cookie was sweet and soft, and usually warm—and that I almost always couldn't finish the cookie in one sitting. Had this all been before I went vegan? I was sure I distinctly remembered sitting atop my bunk at The Freehand savoring this cookie, but a google search yeikded no results—none that I could find familiar, and it bothered me so much that I actually decided to start my day just on the tip of figuring out what it was was.

As I crossed through my apartment, realizing I hadn't bothered to throw the trash out after mopping and went m directly to bed early, not with the consideration of rising early but really just out of exhaustion, I had decided that in order to get work done that my workouts would have to be pushed toward the end of my day, somewhere between still having the energy to manage and not being disturbed—as I had seen that girl to at I very specifically didn't like again m, I had realized that again, I was correct— even after an hour of working out, I simply didn't like her energy. There must have been something wrong with her—or incompatible about us altogether; she had come into the gym quietly and was sort of hiding and even still, I had instantly recognized that there was a foreign energy—and squinting to see her, saw that she was crouched on the other side of the gym. I dismounted the stationary bike and figured that an hour of cardio would be enough for the time. Strength training would only force me to crave protein—-and I was running low saving everything that I had in order to better strategize an arrangement which didn't leave me at the bottom of New York's merciless barrel. It seemed I wasn't going to get the job at Equinox after all—it had been nearly a week since my interview with them, and having not heard anything back, I realized that everything, no matter what—was always just a game. I needed to figure out how better to play it before my life ended abruptly on some sort of whim.

Sitting down in the darkened bathroom, I realized that in order to restore and keep my energy, I should be unseen, and unheard.

‘Keep your head down.'

I'm sure there was some type of code or rule for the way I should handle myself in public or even in private all well knowing the types of things I had writtten about, let alone which had been published—and while I planned to clear out what written works had made it into cyberspace unchecked, there was nothing less important to me than the actual world, what it expected of me, or who was in it. I hadn't entirely failed yet, but I also hadn't entirely succeeded, and after a strange series of dreams— almost all of them more interesting than the one with the cookie, (mentioning that the reason I had been curious about the cookie in the first place was from a strange series of dreams)

“Ohhh, you know what—that might have actually been that place in Vegas, before I went vegan.”

The boxes at the freehand must have been all from donut friend and Sprinkles—and it astonished me how much of a sweet tooth I actually had which was sort of now quite well managed. There was no sugar or even salt in the house— and with the lack of food that I actually had in my apartment, for at least something like the next two weeks, I was sure that I'd reach minimum weight—absolutely minimum weight— by the turn of the month. That is, all the weight I could lose betsides what needed to be surgically removed, and there was some sort of plan formulating somewhere outside of myself in exactly how that would be achieved. Because at any rate—I knew that it would.

There were no more cookies, no more donuts, and no more cupcakes, besides the occasional box of the frozen type I had ordered from Amazon fresh which I did thoroughly enjoy, almost always in one sitting after a wild amount of cardio had implemented a faster metabolism and brought me to the realization that so much cardio meant that entirely that I could eat ‘whatever in the fuck I wanted' without gaining any weight or even losing it—and as I stepped up to take a shower, pulling my shirt up and over my chest, I inspected my abdomen, though holding bloat from pinto beans and deep fried sweet potatoes, still toned with the definition lines I had only just now learned that I had, creviced and notations of my sometimes 4 or 6 pack abs, though hidden under the sagging skin of my once maternal belly— still evident at all, and a factor of my minimal pride in that I had gone in one lifetime from one body and into many others— and one day, an even more drastically different one.

I fantasized owning a peloton but realized that I may have to settle on a rental until I had outfitted myself with some sort of safety net.

lol there's a sweet potato emoji. wtf.

I don't know how you did this but—

I woke up.

Apparently, I'm Lorne Michaels.

Please stop.

I don't know what that means.

You know what

If I was pretty

Nobody would hate me for anything

I swear to God only ugly people are punished or any or all of our matings.

I lost the ability to see worth in myself.

I also lost the ability to write good songs.

Just let me watch bad girls club

And wait for the motorcycles

To make my night

A living hell

“I didn't mean for this to happen, Jimmy Fallon. “

It was a whisper, actually— less than that, as I set the stone with the others above the amulet— I placed easch crystal carefully at the alter, keeping only two of them for myself; the rest, as guardians to the amulet. I could no longer keep such a relic around my neck; it had become quite heavy, and the dreams had become deep and more illusive, and it seemed there was some dark spirit along to it after all—and after all— the amulet was my only living son's, anyway, intended as a gift and charm of protection for when I next saw him—whenever that could be, or would be. It had been a long and interesting but altogether uneventful year, and now, not even feeling right in my own self, I intended to continue hiding, and perhaps even burrow further away until I was granted a full and proper divorce; my ex husband using his refusal to sign the papers as a final act of control, and though I almost found it admirable, I only became more dismissive of it—the person I was then, simply was no more; in fact, she was dead enough indeed that to disappear and become a ghost could do no worse than to further alter the course of time and distance it would take to ever become in such a way again—that is, if it were infinite, and for peace of mind and freedom of spirit and soul from bondsge, insisted it wasn't.

It was less than a whisper enough that none other besides God could have heard it, and yet it seemed something or someone had—as a door quickly slammed as the words—words which meant a name I was sure I would never say again—“Jimmy Fallon” left my mouth. I couldn't come close to words at all let alone a name, and especially not a song; but then, of course, there was The Book of Knowlege never to have been spoken and as always, the ever moving truth of songs— There were other Gods that new no words at all besides the melodies and rhythms of our hearts—and there never really was every truly a Jimmy Fallon at all—

Only myself.

Whatever the fuck.

Alright, alright.

It was next in the que with purpose, probably but quite on accident— Now I could continue in my pattern of dulling my brain for the remainder of the night as I had been all day. Since March I had seemed to cry what I thought were the rest of my tears, and however, after a particularly mind numbing day of trash television and Olympic surfing, it seemed the ocean alone was enough to pull from what was left of my soul, and as it turned out, it still was there.

I was bored of the brokenness of New York—something like living in a rotten and spoiled toy, with the limits I had been given—and though I should have been happy, to finally just have my own place— the people surrounding, as always, ruined it—

Them being myself aside. I wished the things outside of me were quieter.

Now I could finally almost put my mind out of focus for just a little bit longer—and creep on Johnny Depp without doing it intentionally. I had stopped looking up famous people, besides some women and businessmen I knew could never feign my interest anyway. It was never about money— and always about creative intelligence; I hadn't seen the movie as an adult, and so I was sure it would have some insight to offer. I tried to forget that I had aged out of almost everything—and that my mother had so greedily destroyed any real chance I had at becoming what I might have been with anybody else as a mother—or at least some one around to watch her raise me and correct her damaging actions, words, and harsh thoughts. At least she had taught me to read and write—and if worst actually came to worse—which it was starting to look like—how to trade my body and time in exchange for things I wanted and needed. All women were nearly prostitutes in some way, anyhow—and the only thing deterring me from it was on every honest God I ever thought of, the fact that white women made more in sex work than colored women did.

— it almost hurt to watch Olympic surfing.

Actually, it did.

It hurt, a lot.

What's a girl

Have you ever had a girl before?

What's world when you're wound up in an orphanage

Probably astounding

I've got a shadow

Sad, should have danced with him

Now he's so mad that

—I don't even touch my guitar

No more

I have words

No songs

The whole world's

At war

And to surf

— you need water

I love

New York

But hate

Thus corner of Brooklyn

I want to go up

Testosterone

—I've got a word for the goner

“Gonzo”

I've got a cannon

Or blonde, for reference

Why were all stalkers

I'll book The Tonight Show,

I'll summon up Carson

A ,

I promise—

A good time was had

—I promise, no subtle obsession.

I made a decision, I went with it

Just a protagonist, actor—

A comic

Producer, by marriage

I swear,

It's just adding up evidence

If ever gets intensities

Offensive, this illumination

— I don't doubt you.

I want chocolate milk

What even is that?

I've been eating healthy

I've got half an album out

And half inside my head

With Donnie Brasco

I've got half a million dollars somewhere

Stuffed inside my cunt, I think

With hallmark cards and shopping carts

I owe them half a fortune

I hate it so much

I watch a whole soul

Come out if television

I love it so much

But I hate the whole public

And crowding

I don't want love

I want fucks

I want puppies

—Jesus he's beautiful

My ex husband had similar facial structure to

Mr Depp respectively,

I'm guessing my artistry,

Intention,

A preteen obsession at least sort of paid off.

Somehow.

Now it's my eyes on the other, the older

—

The way that he sits and does nothing but slump

—Al Pacino, they call him?

The false father and forced profits often acknowledged

The love of the old and weathered.

For once I woke up to a record

33 rotations a minute

{Enter The Multiverse}

—what are you gonna do?

Blondes and shit.

The best of the best—

—I'll tell ya,

I recommend it

(Recommended by a Friend)

I have a headache twice my age.

I made a mistake half my life ago

Woke up this morning

Bought myself a gun

To make it right

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 | 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

{Rewind}

Blue eyes, it is.

I wish, I wish,

Be careful what you wish for,

Or cook in a Petri dish

The world is a stage,

The people a plague

The magic was gone,

The days were the same.

[The Festival Project ™]

Blonde hair, blue eyes;

Live once, lose twice—

Brown skin, brown eyes

Die inside.

(Or just die.)

{Rewind}

Captain

Captain!

Oh, Good, come in, Cannon.

You've—changed.

…as you know, Monday we disembark.

Yes, I'm aware.

And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us.

Yes.

I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self.

How old are you, anyway?

You should never ask a woman her age, LT.

Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know.

Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately…

Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that.

I'm still very much in the privacy of my office.

You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public.

Never as a woman her age!

You're not a woman; you're my captain.

We'll see about that after tonight.

Being a woman, or being my captain?

Both, probably.

Hm.

By any chance would you be interested in joining me?

As your subordinate, or as a man.

Both, probably.

Or neither… presumably.

As my escort.

I beg your pardon.

I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition.

—er, your condition, captain?

Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind.

[he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.]

Consider it done.

Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour.

Half an hour?

Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early.

We're earning points?

We are now.

Very well then. What am I wearing?

Something sharp.

Sharper than the inside of a half hour.

On your mark.

I'll—see you soon.

He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him.

Sergeant.

Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back.

Oh.

I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage.

Whatever, though. Doesn't matter.

At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture,

TVP

S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer.

DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour.

—

Who's this beautiful sister.

My head writer; don't even think about it.

I dont think. I just do.

Esha approaches— Dash politely bo s and kisses Esha's hand

Should I get tested?

—and funny.

Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with daemon dash, furious Patrick means to interrogate her

Why would you even date that asshole

Because—Pat. He's a comedian.

I'm a comedian! So?

So, he's funny.

And?

And he said things to me—

What kind of things

Charming, funny things—

Okay?

Things he wouldnt say to you over dinner— because, I'm

—you're a woman.

—and your head writer. So naturally.

Esh, you're a genius,

So is he. We have—some new material to work through.

Ahq!

Your monologue tonight.

Oh yes. Oh yes.

You can thank me later. Broken bottles. :9'd one stop her

Walkin walking

God knows I don't belong here

And I don't want to

Passover was April 21-30

Global War on Terrorism

Aka WWIII

Oh, indeed.

Don't look left

Take a deep breath

My heart beats differently

I think it might be the end

I think it might be

I think I might be the enemy

The pushing mechanism

When i breath him in

I levitate

And gravitate to what it meant

The sake of the art,

The hurt of the heart

As sacred as it ever was

The turning or the Torah talks of

Gestures, since the fall of Rome

The toga on the alter

Solid hands unwrap us all

From falling over

Old and awkward

No award for wisdom

No rest for the wiser

No love for the troll

Since thunder struck from under us,

Delivered all but what we wanted

So we talk of karma sutra,

Surely we can't talk at all

Of what we know

As once was bonded

Laughed it off

To come from what

The call to us,

Fair serve governors fortress

I work up in mentions

Carved the scarlet letter out of

Cannons, of course

MA.

WHAT. I'm BUSY.

ITS ON.

The what?

The show we watch!

The one that—

YES,

Oh, my GOD.

Yes.

YESSSSSSSSS.

Usnavi, get your popcorn

This is some worth watching

Up in arms for forwards

Causing sore arms,

Numb thumbs

From crucifixes

Are you wondering what God

Would walk about the horned carving

A kamazake walk of tall corn—

Follow me, dear mantra

Your whole house is watching.

Sacre.

It's happening again isn't it.

I do want ice cream.

All I need is a divorce

And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall

To rub me off at the stroke of

Nevermind what the clock says

In God's house they're all wrong

The blsphomoous for Catholics

Has begun,

So strum your number into the teleprompter

And just hope no one gets hurt

By the hook on the next song

—like the hook of my last surviving bra

digs into my back does,

Or the skin on my lack of tummy

Has rubbed off under the suicide

Of the cycle—

It's getting tighter

A loss of interest is equal to

A loss of conciousness

And I'm 21 days drunk

On the alternate, though—

I'm sober and feeling less

Loved.

The animal I've become is all cardio

And karma sutra

For karma comes

To the weak of heart

To use the world as swords

To cause harm

To the calm artists

I thought I told you off once.

(Already)

You look awful.

lol.

You look terrible, broh.

But my album sound fire.

#producerholes

[portal]

It's coffee time!!

It's not coffee time!

It's not coffee time.

Iiiiits coffee time.

Damn.

Where's the cat.

Gestating.

My phone was never the first thing I reached for in the morning—but I was sure there was something missing in my mind from a place in LA that I used to frequent, that sold giant frosted cookies that were also vegan. There was donut friend, which I always enjoyed and craved—but I was sure—absolutely sure that I was missing a m cookie, and it was absolutely driving me wild that I couldn't think of the place, or find it on Google. Has it been before turning vegan? Was my memory failing me in thinking that the cupcakes and donuts that I had often brought back to the hostel in boxes were timetimes cookies also? It seemed like there were cookies…and I'm sure that there were, as I could remember the thick frosting often being sweet and decadent enough to lick from the top, and that the bottom cookie was sweet and soft, and usually warm—and that I almost always couldn't finish the cookie in one sitting. Had this all been before I went vegan? I was sure I distinctly remembered sitting atop my bunk at The Freehand savoring this cookie, but a google search yeikded no results—none that I could find familiar, and it bothered me so much that I actually decided to start my day just on the tip of figuring out what it was was.

As I crossed through my apartment, realizing I hadn't bothered to throw the trash out after mopping and went m directly to bed early, not with the consideration of rising early but really just out of exhaustion, I had decided that in order to get work done that my workouts would have to be pushed toward the end of my day, somewhere between still having the energy to manage and not being disturbed—as I had seen that girl to at I very specifically didn't like again m, I had realized that again, I was correct— even after an hour of working out, I simply didn't like her energy. There must have been something wrong with her—or incompatible about us altogether; she had come into the gym quietly and was sort of hiding and even still, I had instantly recognized that there was a foreign energy—and squinting to see her, saw that she was crouched on the other side of the gym. I dismounted the stationary bike and figured that an hour of cardio would be enough for the time. Strength training would only force me to crave protein—-and I was running low saving everything that I had in order to better strategize an arrangement which didn't leave me at the bottom of New York's merciless barrel. It seemed I wasn't going to get the job at Equinox after all—it had been nearly a week since my interview with them, and having not heard anything back, I realized that everything, no matter what—was always just a game. I needed to figure out how better to play it before my life ended abruptly on some sort of whim.

Sitting down in the darkened bathroom, I realized that in order to restore and keep my energy, I should be unseen, and unheard.

‘Keep your head down.'

I'm sure there was some type of code or rule for the way I should handle myself in public or even in private all well knowing the types of things I had writtten about, let alone which had been published—and while I planned to clear out what written works had made it into cyberspace unchecked, there was nothing less important to me than the actual world, what it expected of me, or who was in it. I hadn't entirely failed yet, but I also hadn't entirely succeeded, and after a strange series of dreams— almost all of them more interesting than the one with the cookie, (mentioning that the reason I had been curious about the cookie in the first place was from a strange series of dreams)

“Ohhh, you know what—that might have actually been that place in Vegas, before I went vegan.”

The boxes at the freehand must have been all from donut friend and Sprinkles—and it astonished me how much of a sweet tooth I actually had which was sort of now quite well managed. There was no sugar or even salt in the house— and with the lack of food that I actually had in my apartment, for at least something like the next two weeks, I was sure that I'd reach minimum weight—absolutely minimum weight— by the turn of the month. That is, all the weight I could lose betsides what needed to be surgically removed, and there was some sort of plan formulating somewhere outside of myself in exactly how that would be achieved. Because at any rate—I knew that it would.

There were no more cookies, no more donuts, and no more cupcakes, besides the occasional box of the frozen type I had ordered from Amazon fresh which I did thoroughly enjoy, almost always in one sitting after a wild amount of cardio had implemented a faster metabolism and brought me to the realization that so much cardio meant that entirely that I could eat ‘whatever in the fuck I wanted' without gaining any weight or even losing it—and as I stepped up to take a shower, pulling my shirt up and over my chest, I inspected my abdomen, though holding bloat from pinto beans and deep fried sweet potatoes, still toned with the definition lines I had only just now learned that I had, creviced and notations of my sometimes 4 or 6 pack abs, though hidden under the sagging skin of my once maternal belly— still evident at all, and a factor of my minimal pride in that I had gone in one lifetime from one body and into many others— and one day, an even more drastically different one.

I fantasized owning a peloton but realized that I may have to settle on a rental until I had outfitted myself with some sort of safety net.

lol there's a sweet potato emoji. wtf.

I don't know how you did this but—

I woke up.

Apparently, I'm Lorne Michaels.

Please stop.

I don't know what that means.

You know what

If I was pretty

Nobody would hate me for anything

I swear to God only ugly people are punished or any or all of our matings.

I lost the ability to see worth in myself.

I also lost the ability to write good songs.

Just let me watch bad girls club

And wait for the motorcycles

To make my night

A living hell

“I didn't mean for this to happen, Jimmy Fallon. “

It was a whisper, actually— less than that, as I set the stone with the others above the amulet— I placed easch crystal carefully at the alter, keeping only two of them for myself; the rest, as guardians to the amulet. I could no longer keep such a relic around my neck; it had become quite heavy, and the dreams had become deep and more illusive, and it seemed there was some dark spirit along to it after all—and after all— the amulet was my only living son's, anyway, intended as a gift and charm of protection for when I next saw him—whenever that could be, or would be. It had been a long and interesting but altogether uneventful year, and now, not even feeling right in my own self, I intended to continue hiding, and perhaps even burrow further away until I was granted a full and proper divorce; my ex husband using his refusal to sign the papers as a final act of control, and though I almost found it admirable, I only became more dismissive of it—the person I was then, simply was no more; in fact, she was dead enough indeed that to disappear and become a ghost could do no worse than to further alter the course of time and distance it would take to ever become in such a way again—that is, if it were infinite, and for peace of mind and freedom of spirit and soul from bondsge, insisted it wasn't.

It was less than a whisper enough that none other besides God could have heard it, and yet it seemed something or someone had—as a door quickly slammed as the words—words which meant a name I was sure I would never say again—“Jimmy Fallon” left my mouth. I couldn't come close to words at all let alone a name, and especially not a song; but then, of course, there was The Book of Knowlege never to have been spoken and as always, the ever moving truth of songs— There were other Gods that new no words at all besides the melodies and rhythms of our hearts—and there never really was every truly a Jimmy Fallon at all—

Only myself.

Whatever the fuck.

Alright, alright.

It was next in the que with purpose, probably but quite on accident— Now I could continue in my pattern of dulling my brain for the remainder of the night as I had been all day. Since March I had seemed to cry what I thought were the rest of my tears, and however, after a particularly mind numbing day of trash television and Olympic surfing, it seemed the ocean alone was enough to pull from what was left of my soul, and as it turned out, it still was there.

I was bored of the brokenness of New York—something like living in a rotten and spoiled toy, with the limits I had been given—and though I should have been happy, to finally just have my own place— the people surrounding, as always, ruined it—

Them being myself aside. I wished the things outside of me were quieter.

Now I could finally almost put my mind out of focus for just a little bit longer—and creep on Johnny Depp without doing it intentionally. I had stopped looking up famous people, besides some women and businessmen I knew could never feign my interest anyway. It was never about money— and always about creative intelligence; I hadn't seen the movie as an adult, and so I was sure it would have some insight to offer. I tried to forget that I had aged out of almost everything—and that my mother had so greedily destroyed any real chance I had at becoming what I might have been with anybody else as a mother—or at least some one around to watch her raise me and correct her damaging actions, words, and harsh thoughts. At least she had taught me to read and write—and if worst actually came to worse—which it was starting to look like—how to trade my body and time in exchange for things I wanted and needed. All women were nearly prostitutes in some way, anyhow—and the only thing deterring me from it was on every honest God I ever thought of, the fact that white women made more in sex work than colored women did.

— it almost hurt to watch Olympic surfing.

Actually, it did.

It hurt, a lot.

What's a girl

Have you ever had a girl before?

What's world when you're wound up in an orphanage

Probably astounding

I've got a shadow

Sad, should have danced with him

Now he's so mad that

—I don't even touch my guitar

No more

I have words

No songs

The whole world's

At war

And to surf

— you need water

I love

New York

But hate

Thus corner of Brooklyn

I want to go up

Testosterone

—I've got a word for the goner

“Gonzo”

I've got a cannon

Or blonde, for reference

Why were all stalkers

I'll book The Tonight Show,

I'll summon up Carson

A ,

I promise—

A good time was had

—I promise, no subtle obsession.

I made a decision, I went with it

Just a protagonist, actor—

A comic

Producer, by marriage

I swear,

It's just adding up evidence

If ever gets intensities

Offensive, this illumination

— I don't doubt you.

I want chocolate milk

What even is that?

I've been eating healthy

I've got half an album out

And half inside my head

With Donnie Brasco

I've got half a million dollars somewhere

Stuffed inside my cunt, I think

With hallmark cards and shopping carts

I owe them half a fortune

I hate it so much

I watch a whole soul

Come out if television

I love it so much

But I hate the whole public

And crowding

I don't want love

I want fucks

I want puppies

—Jesus he's beautiful

My ex husband had similar facial structure to

Mr Depp respectively,

I'm guessing my artistry,

Intention,

A preteen obsession at least sort of paid off.

Somehow.

Now it's my eyes on the other, the older

—

The way that he sits and does nothing but slump

—Al Pacino, they call him?

The false father and forced profits often acknowledged

The love of the old and weathered.

For once I woke up to a record

33 rotations a minute

{Enter The Multiverse}

—what are you gonna do?

Blondes and shit.

The best of the best—

—I'll tell ya,

I recommend it

(Recommended by a Friend)

I have a headache twice my age.

I made a mistake half my life ago

Woke up this morning

Bought myself a gun

To make it right

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 | 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

{Rewind}

XXX. ft Kendrick Lamar (Uptown A Remix)

[Bootleg] Uptown A

The Complex Collective

Original Track: XXX. (DAMN, Kendrick Lamar, 2017)

“The Rescue”

This hearty soup uses tumeric, garlic, and beetroot to help boost the immune system and ward off oncoming attacks.

This is not a simple soup to throw together once you've already come down with a full-on cold or flu, as you may not have the energy to gather the ingredients and for preparation, however— this soup is more meant for helping to boost the immune system in the beginning stages of coming down with a seasonal bug, or as a preventative booster. This recipe's complex blend of vitamins and minerals from greens and root vegetables keeps its ingredients' wholesome nutritional value high by first oven roasting the vegetables in a medley before adding them to the pot rather than boiling them; the prep time for this recipe is about 2 hours, with an additional 1-2 hours of cook time to simmer for flavor and for the raw chickpeas to reach the ideal texture before serving— the blend of herbs and root vegetables will add a layer of immunity and protection against any oncoming disruption to your normal level of health, and is hearty enough to be served alone, or with a side dish of salad or even a half sandwich, if you're feeling up to it.

You will need:

½ medium size had of cauliflower

½ medium to large yellow onion

½ red onion of the same size

½ white onion, per reference

1 whole celery heart

One fresh turmeric root

1-3 beets worth of beet root and leafy greens— you will only use the root for this recipe and can save the beets for later

1 stalk baby boo choy

3-4 medium sized carrots

¼ green bell pepper

⅓ pasilla or Anaheim pepper, per preference (one is milder than the other, but for heavy sinus congestion I suggest the Pasilla pepper, which is a bit spicier and will decongest easily, especially when including some of the seeds into the medley)

⅓ red bell pepper

⅓ yellow bell pepper

⅓ orange bell pepper

½ can stewed tomatoes with onion

½ can stewed tomatoes with garlic

(This is for broth flavor)

One whole vine ripened tomato

5-8 cloves of garlic (per preference)

About 3 tablespoons of fresh ginger root (a thumb tip's worth)

3 cups chickpeas, pre rinsed and soaked overnight

½ cup finely chopped fresh dill

½ cup finely chopped fresh cilantro

¼ cup finely chopped freshoregano

½ lime

½ lemon

Crushed red pepper

Sea salt

Thyme

Black pepper

Part II

Spirit says music was first, then words, and after actions—and then all of time is just acting out the stories that were told in the beginning as art

and…

Something tells me

Something's not all the way right with my head

I'm

Lost in my mind,

I'm

All the way here,

But I'm still

Somewhere off a bit

Velvet, the skin,

I'm just as sick in my head as I ever,

Recovered sex addict, and by definition of nutrition

—this handsome nigga smells like red licorice.

(It's actually cherry ludens with pectin.)

Zeroing in and away, heroing hard

For your heroine,

Heroin veins,

Pigs on the wing,

Singing your song

Hearing your cry out

Fly out my miles, my son

Come into my arms, mine oath

The love, some trouble

Heavy was her heart,

Lied to cover

Still shattered,

Ravine ions, cosmos farm

And Wanda's black eye

Timmy's wishes and

SpongeBob's shallow grave,

Oh, how high I got

That Arnold's lost love

Was actually

Strangely enough

Also his narcissist,

Probably also practicing witchcraft

And exorcisms of him.

Scissorman, Scissorman—

Get a load of this one;

Frog and toad, a couple laughs

Behind the masks,

For this world.

Would you honor?

Give your blessing, butter

Different wages paying,

Listen, shallow author:

You would write but then not follow up

About the actors?

The actors!

The actors have had it.

I'm

Just

As

Badly

Damaged

As

I ever was

And listen, Awesome told me

Your story

I chuckled

All the way

Up until

The literal punchline

Now,

Go home;

Go hike Runyon.

For a few hours, we can pretend.

That old haunts

Don't boil up

They always have, of course

But you know

Nothing quite as pungent as

What's become of yours

[I love my son.]

There it is again,

As if something had called her,

There, more words

But less of them than the tongue could offer

Swear you, listener,

Past this message sits the wilted thumbs of wilderness,

and weary travelers,

Song pigeons and mismatched audience appearances

For pleasantries

And of course,

Dessert trays.

Cause I wear—

—We all know.

If anything happens these days,

It's because I'm a comic.

(At some point)

Sunglasses before the sun's up;

Eat candies before it all melts

Warm something as download comes

To fight or fold,

To win or die

To live or lose

Whatever then

First time flying

And I've got

My mind blinding me out

Deciding for once

That I'm not the whole world

Just to have the experience

If being surrounded by others

In some way.

The runway lights up all blue, and I'm in love with you.

The subway cars opposite collide, I wish I died already.

I should give some time between myself and my writing, I think.

I really shouldn't end things the way I'm thinking of ending things—

But I'm thinking of ending things.

How selfish of me.

First time flying

Sunglasses before the sun comes up

Halls on my tongue

And vitamins in my pocket,

I shuffle over and over in my mind,

The millions of dollars

And all that I go through

Just to skip post,

And go home to no one.

But—hello there

No one's looking over your shoulder quite so hard as

This poster is,

So aware of what's there, and near you

You've begun to fear it

Well, then,

Hands in my pocket and down

Dawn to dusk,

Shaking my head,

Drunkenly, but stone sober

Really no one told me about the poetry,

But a whole world opened,

Inside of your notebook—

Which I stand holding.

Pleasentries, sick dissent,

Indecent exposure.

And body odor this early in the morning;

Gotta love country folk

Supposedly no judgements, but as I grow I older,

The slower toad I become, and discover my bird eye—

Here's to hopes

The Hellicopter is all I know

From here to Hell and back

Westward bound,

The Sun rise behind us

Sunglasses and no sun yet

My eyes reminders of times

I remember

Sure you did, sir

I been there

Suffered the whole coast

And I'm still not sure

You realize you're face down, ass up at an international airport right now.

They say this airport is known for its art installations.

You don't say.

Grandiose to escape the algorithm,

Tapped in with the captains hats

Fit six of my guieapigs in the business

1 transsexual,

And 6 women

3 biracial non-bianaries

Some accused extra terrestrials

You left me home, but —

Nobody washes the whites without me.

It's OWSLA again.

[The Festival Project ™]

It's mid week in midtown

I fell asleep at a business meeting,

Thinking in sequences,

Drinking in increments,

Sweet, sweet music,

Death and television

Television

Celebritism, star power

And no wonder

Early October vacations

From power fortunes tied to us

We want Redbones,

Resonated chambers,

Thankless sacraments of disaster

Are you archived?

Damaged and the flatline

Comes at such a heavy decibel

Your arms grow numb and

Start to stiffen;

No wonder you're not paranoid

Inside of our religion

The Eye

See i,

Excuse me miss—

Did I miss it ?

Plea, I

Give thanks,

Again for

—this is our tradition

Me, I,

Seek I

—-meaning to make sense of it but,

The might,

She died, I guess

The center of my kitchen

Distressed from attention deficit disorder

Sure, Marsh

—Whatever doctor .

He was just the type I like

Milky silky white

Sunglasses

Slicked back hair

Thick round thighs

High fashion—( l)

Sun baked

Pose to take a selfie, right?

Just the type I like;

Milky silky white

There's the girl that'll do anything for ya

But she's no body

With nobody

No good, I

In fact

So ugly l you could choke on just the thought of her

Even with beer goggles on

But she'll do anything you want

And like it—and it doesn't cost

She'll fall in love with you

(For not even a single dollar.)

[The Festival Project ™]

Now that we —

{Enter The Multiverse}

Ahem.

Part III

Day trip

Take a nap

Change the map.

Pet the cat

Let the dog out

Run a lap

Pitty Pat

Pitty Pat

Pitty Pat

Pitty Pat

I Pitty Pat

I Pitty Pat

Broh what up with these Dillon Francis clones tho.

How do you know they're clones?

They can't all be multi dimentionals.

They could!

You never know; they really could.

I run these robots

Into dark corners

Just to honor me

They come scurrying and ugly to annoy and ponder upon me, all the while praying l, my mind on

Don't mind those, they're broke bots

I haven't l l stopped my work to finish

Work on

[The Festival Project ™]

I'm sure by now you've noticed

The only people in

Champion sportswear and

Jansport backpacks

Are ugly, slow,

And weak

L E G E N D S

(I have noticed.)

If attention deficit is forsure your destination

I'm you're designated courier, or carrier pigeon

This isn't ingidgenous reparations or explicit subliminal messages,

But if it is, this is suggestive your direction is correct and attentive

Listen to this shit:

Case dismissed;

Next time I'll fly direct

Hit my line if your eyes are dilated

I'm miles high,

So if it rejects,

Just leave a message

(Eject!)

All of a sudden,

I'm somewhere else

(With him)

He pulls on the rings

On the back of my

—what was I wearing again?

I should have stayed home in the first place

(You don't listen)

I should have stayed home in the first place

(You don't—)

I should have stayed home for awhile

Cause before hand, and I'm wild

Random foreplay,

Orgasm,

Desire you,

You're right, I don't listen.

All of a sudden, I'm gone with you.

Those women in Santa Monica,

All perfect and in hoards and by the handfuls

The type celebrities get

Celebrities need,

Celebrities want—

A shrill reminder

Or what I am,

And can often lose focus,

Drawing back on icons,

Sifting through the skin I feel,

Entrapped by circumstance

And perhaps, even

Some terrible curse, or

A shield of protection.

—the deathly hollows.

It almost felt as if I'd never write again, but here I was

Nearer somehow to a strange fame,

The end of famine

And feast of none—

Doubling back upon

Something I had recorded

In this experience,

Alone and awakened,

Moving in automatic,

Chaos and charismatic,

felt, but never intertwined

In the awesome circumstance

Of wanting, no—

Needing to be loved,

And never having been;

Needing to be touched, and never having felt

The grip of sorts,

The higher bar taste of something I had become famished,

The sense of a calling so sacred,

It beconed to my sea,

The only one,

A diamond in starry skies

A night of dawn,

But dark, the thought

The ever present one,

Never loved,

And shallow kind

Shallow breath,

And putrid thoughts,

Reckoning the wilted flower,

The springing seed,

The calling of another and yet,

Here I was,

Tolerance,

At her mercy—

Fearing none but knowing,

By the handfuls they come,

And drawn like magnets

Into my being,

A focus,

Nonesuch art none otherwise known as

My hell

The bodies of women

Perfect and priveleged,

Sunbathed and worthy

Of everything I wanted and needed

Without working at all.

I wondered harder, fasting.

Soft lips upon his Adam's Apple,

I drift away in his chest,

Dreft, the smell of michielf managed,

Then, the music of songs loved

And garnished with sprouts of June

In the coming of spring,

Does form another,

Again, my love

I call for mercy

The pain of yours needing born

And my heart estranged

Mercy

Her eyes were darkened circles

And body brittle;

As I admired her courtesy, charm

And delicate stature,

Arose to connect this,

A tune—

So sung to tell a story

Of Rocky Racoon

Irish spring to lather his back,

In bar form;

His burgundy Mercedes Benz has had parked in my garage,

And I, not able to trust his drunken judgements,

Captured his keys, as my mother and I

Had worried for him,

Dissappeared again into the night, and yet—

At least the keys and the car

Were safe with me, at home

As was his,

Whenever he wished to return

My strange and far love

Nearly since almost nothing

Screen doors and Fischer Price

Office calls and casting agents,

Honey bees and biopics

Telephoto lenses and

Semi autobiographical pornography

Marriages and suits to match

A name for Vegas wedded lie,

A love bloomed from birth,

Cherished insights in the water

Reservations and yamakas,

Simple and sacred,

The undone village,

The thought of nothing but one

Until another does pull the string

To which I had once known as harness,

But had since cut,

Only watching to strive,

Seeing the dance one makes for one to distance,

But only dangling, seeing not that I

Had come free and was wary of

All love, by now.

All men, indeed.

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

For the second time in recent happenings, the scar on the inside of my bottom lip began to swell and heat up strangely, as if it were activating in some sort of way or still healing—the scar itself was almost 8 years old, and in fact— would be 8 years old with the coming of springtime. It was a strange sensation, though not entirely traumatic— and while also fighting off some sort of infection, my body in entirety wasn't altogether well, but the mark to me stood out anyhow, as just the other day after leaving the craft store, the scar had lifted bizarrely, swelling as if some sort of creature under the surface of the skin had been moving around just enough as a reminder that it was there at all—now, something like a week later, it began to tingle and heat as if it were in the process of mending itself, and though when it had been healing, bits of skin and pieces of my bottom lip which had come loose after my bottom row of teeth had gone through nearly to the other side— not quite puncturing all the way through, but enough to indent the outside of my mouth with some bruising and swelling reminiscent to that of having once pierced my lip; in fact— the damage was so apparent that it had created a swollen enough tunnel on my upper lip, where my canines had created marks to make make it easy enough to re-insert new jewelry into the old piercing which had closed over time, and now had been halfway reopened by the blunt force of my teeth connecting with my ex's fist. In fact, I took it well enough that re-piercing the old upper lip didn't hurt at all, and almost made it seem meant to be. Then, in my mind—I was still fragile. Six or so week postpartum and still heavily lactating, with severe depression after having learned of the infidelities committed throughout the entire duration of the relationship had left me in a frenzied state— I worked almost around the clock after being hired at the local veterinary clinic, the doctor of which I had known since I was seven years old, and who had been happy to hire me, and after having already lost something like a hundred pounds, I took to the job considerably well, completing my daily tasks to focus my energy and the duration of my shifts to running the boarding dogs, often saving the larger breeds for last—the greyhounds and labs, the retrievers— so that I could run as fast and as hard with them as I could, and with each dog, a set of squats, windmills, and burpees and jumping jacks before running each pup through the obstacle coarse in the yard, never eating on my lunch breaks really, but only ever stopping to pump milk— so that especially when running, I wouldn't create a mess. I had always over-lactated, even for a short time supplying milk for other children, and in particular—my very best friend, whose choice to quickly resume drinking after her son's birth dissallowed her to continue breastfeeding, and either way, I had more than I needed, besides the occasional lot added as coffee creamer by one such who had discovered the magical and medicinal property of fresh breastmilk.

I was, of course, considerably smaller than I had ever been, probably since the fourth grade when procuring such a scar— and it only seemed at least somewhat believable and fitting that, when asked about the heavy swelling and bruising on my face and lips, that I had been hurt so tragically working out on the pavement— having falling doing pushups, or burpees, or something—to which no one seemed to have reason to believe otherwise; I had, after all, taken my level of fitness to new heights, and, after having lived so much of my adult and adolescent life anywhere between 250-350 lbs, once peaking at something like 380 or even more without the actual knowledge of such (always being asked politely if I wanted to know during doctor's visits, and of course, declining) my chaotic and frenzied state after the realization that the entire fabric of my relationship had been a complete lie, made sense to the outside world—and though without the bravery to actually admit to what had happened, the Doctor, after scolding me for not completing my daily tasks, just the day after this scar had been created, seemed to have let me go, not because of the actual incompletion of my duties, but as a harsh reckoning with knowing that I had lied directly to her face about what exactly had happened to mine.

The years homelessness that followed was due to the eviction received after having lost this job, and though with steady and careful recovery I was able to break free from my abuser, the lack of family support and financial stability combined with this legal eviction on record would see my struggle as a survivor of the physical and psychological violence which occurred over this, nearly a decade's time, seen by the outside world as an antagonist— a sick person, a derilict, a disgrace. It would take years for the truth to surface and as it had, the strangeness of things began to occur as not things in my mind, but things in the world, which were very real—and though while still in harsh denial of any such things besides other, ever having happened, it was this that remained, this scar—now strangely heated and almost swollen as if again I should be reminded that this scar did indeed mark a death of sorts, the life after which had all been some sort of strange dream; a walk through the afterlife, sometimes carried on the wings of angels or even driven by chariot of The Gods.

— Death of a Superstar DJ.

Lights fade,

Fade to black;

Sacred stones and crystals cross eyed,

Just across I,

Desire my mark;

The finish and the start line are one in the same

So as soon as I finish,

I start.

Part I

Do not disclose your location.

No address, I guess.

Stressed and headed for some sort of war zone

I'm sure,

No entitlements and I pushback,

Push to start

—I swear if you keep scrolling,

I'll take your eyes out.

I been yellow taxi'd

Two four door Ford explorers,

Nevermind the o'luck eye,

Cause I am all for it.

Party to the people!

I need water,

I mean, power.

You wanted the Stand Up Special.

I wanted nothing of the sort.

You could be funny.

Suddenly I'm sitting in the middle seat,

My eye on -

Seriously, I might not ever come out in public again

Again

Again

Again.

What are you channeling?

Apparently,

Jimmy Falllon and Natalie.

What in the fuck are you wearing!?

(A blazer and a fish scale.)

What in the fuck are you trying to say?

I'm trying to—

Thank you

I fainted and woke up in LA .

Dang.

If you're going to cry,

You might as well do it at 10,000 feet in the air—

—she's tied to her phone, the ensemble has gone.

Nobody wants her around anymore,

Nobody wants a new phone, not really.

Nobody needs a new friend, not Fallon.

I picked up the one thing I liked

In the whole place

And your name was on it.

Is this fame, or magic!?

Is this God, or a bludgeoning?

I forgot where my heart went,

Steered toward the fountain, naturally

So the water would calm me.

If this obviously-from-denver

New balance wearing motherfucker doesn't get

His long ass leg from within inches of mine,

I swear all the way to God

And all the way to—

Where is this?

—wherever.

I'm gonna reach behind me,

And kill him.

You know you've been in New York too long

When you don't have not a lick of patience

Or time for anyone's bullshit.

you:

Shut it down.

Shut it down!

A slap across the face is just as well—

—Is just as well.

And a swift kick in the ass is

We're back to the Irish,

The turn of the times,

And his eyes are mine again.

FUCK THIS,.

Just listen to me, for once.

I listen to you a lot, voice in my head disguised as

Who is this

The devil. I guess.

Great. So were the devil.

Could be.

Listen to your gut.

Not the greatest idea! I'm hungry.

Look, don't you touch me with those greasy little—

#spirit fingers.

LINCHTIME

*LYNCHTIME.

Goddamn. That misspelling took a TURN.

Let's just—

ITS JANE LYNCH TIME!

That's—yeah.

Listen, I have something to tell you.

Does it have anything to do with—

Get in the box.

Why, what's in the box

Damn. I don't have a lick of deadmau5 with me.

And why is that.

I was [redacted] I don't know..

You — might be the devil.

If— maybe.

In my eyes

(In my eyes)

I swear all the way to fucking GOD

This long ass nigga

With his dirty ass new balance shoes

All the way in my peripheral vision

Is about to be a whole

No leg havin ass nigga

Like that nigga I saw on the train the other day

I thought about your story Ark/Arc

All the stories I didn't want, like Noah's

Throw stones from glass houses.

Gas prices go up;

Every time I see some shit

I wanna throw up

Stomach in knots lately,

Been three years since I seen my own blood

No knots berry farm

I roam the streets very armed

I got scary arms,

Call em Michelle Obama;

Am I wrong or am I wrong;

I love the fuck out to New York,

but I don't belong here,

I just came to write a song here

Got stuck here

It's been two years since I had a

Man, or a beer

I'm black and I'm Queer,

Screamed “fuck Fallon”,

Then he just— showed up here.

Center stage

Now I entered a new dawn,

Turn the suffering on a bit

And turn the fucking lights off

I'm high as a kite,

A bird and a plane

In plain language,

I'm a mega famous alien

Okay then

Sure Sim, it is simple

A wrinkle in time,

Your first wrinkle

I popped pimples,

I'm still sure my high chair

Is right there

I got one foot in the grave,

I'm inside Bearr

I died there

Serious

Take the camera and check the images

Remember this!

I said sit your bitch ass down

Before you get slapped by

The secret president

As a death wish

For fuckin real

Everybody on the godddamn plane

Is about to get bitch

Slapped.

BITCH

SLAPPED.

What the fuck is wrong with people.

I swear all the way to God these toddler brain motherfuckers

Is driving me crazy.

I'd rather hang out

With actual CHILDREN.

At least it makes sense for them to be retarded.

Ya'll ain't got no business being this fuckin whacked.

Criminal mischief,

Interesting, isn't it?

Dismissive,

In fact, gone fishing.

Doors open, open

I'm on the road again, road again

Hands wrapped around my throat again

I'm sure to explode again

Who wrote this?

Take a ballpoint paper and pen to your notebooks,

And you're so shook, you bought

Two whole tickets to San Cristobal

In the same thought

I'm a good boss;

I'm a bad kid,

I'm a great guy

—with some bad habits

I'm a fat blonde

In a bad mood

And that's big facts

This dumb motherfucker behind me is about to get slapped—

SLAPPED.

I didn't mean to hit him that hard, broh

I didn't mean to really hit him at all though!

It's infinite, this bitch just gets under my skin

Like it's Siphilis, it's middles and pistols

Niggas and bitches

Nothing you would ever see

On regular television.

I took an elevator to heaven

I haven't been back since,

I don't remember at all what I left

Under or back there

In the black lands

It's bad earth.

Tomorrow, tomorrow

Today

Tomorrow, tomorrow.

59;/$ l

Tomorrow—

—tomorrow—

Today

Tomorrow,

Tomorrow

How much power can one man have

(Apparently a lot. )

What could this mean,

If nothing at all?

I just wanna get loaded

And run off and rave

I just want a family,

A horse,

And a grave marker

No, don't bury me

I just wanted a family.

I just want to write a good story,

Now I'm stuck in world history

All the well knowing

Now I know I gotta die

Before everyone I ever loved

Or even kinda sorta liked

— as a fan, you know?

“This man will destroy you.”

That is literally what the faraway shady ass voice said about Jimmy Fallon.

So whyz

why god.

Is this dude —

Not even all of a sudden

It's you.

It's you.

Like fucking everywhere.

It's YOU.

Gazuntite.

I move about silently,

Emergency calls only

Nobody needs to know me

Or where in the fuck I'm going

I'm showing you my dark sides

And none the wiser

The only Devil I got my eye on

Is a liar.

So what if God then?

It'll leave this case open

The gate opened up,

And I rolled in

Smoldering

Sometimes I forget I'm the whole world

Just long enough

To be annoyed

By everything in it

But especially myself, and increasingly

WHY THOUGH.

So suicidal,

I got blood in my eyes

Love in my mind,

I wish.

Cause with men

Love isn't blind

Rolling the size

And the eyes in the back of my head

I heard I'm a genius

I'm also retarded

Cause I still like penis

After all these dicks

The vision was just

Fallon in back of a Patty Wagon

How fitting,

Hands fisted and cuffed

In front, instead of the back of him

The Gillian in fact, was Saint Patrick

It's same difference

Insane niggas,

It's getting ignorant

And at this point

It's unicorns

Something going on,

Don't know what it is

Feels like something wrong

Bitch.

How the fuck you walk in a whole ass place.

I don't know.

The whole ass fucking place

Right, I don't know!

And the only thing you touch—

I—-

Has Jimmy Fallon's name on it.

I don't—

Scary huh,

Unfair really,

I'm scared, really so

Seriously don't look at me funny

If it gets weirder and deeper

When I never really asked for this

And I don't really know what happened

I think Fallon did it.

—but on what account?

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

'bezuz' (Park Avenue Interlude)

I_NY (I Love New York)

TBA

Uptown A

'bezus.' (Park Avenue Interlude)

I _ NY - (I Love New York)

TBA

Uptown A

VO.

Now, this man was good looking—

And I mean,

rob Lowe good-looking.

Hollywood perfect.

Too good looking to be trusted—

You know.

But he said,

And this is the thing I thought that was strange,

THIS MAN

I need you to trust me.

—what I wanted to know was—

How could two folks such as I,

And such as he—

Really trust one another?

He was Hollywood perfect. Real shiny.

And me?

Well I—

I was ugly.

Almost, man.

Just remember, you started it.

I got stars in my eyes

I got hit in the face real hard

I'm a real smart artist m

I tend to work harder than your baby mama

I light a fire under your ass,

Don't ask me for nothing,

Smug as a motherfucker,

I might have robbed, but never mugged you

Hot chocolate

I got five on it,

If I'm high, honest,

I get by, honest,

On my fly, honest

I might not swat it.

But the SWAT swarmed I.

GET ON THE GROUND!

I don't plan to return here

I don't earn here

I just burn here

Bury me in a war deer carcass

I hear smear Marcus

Just to be clear, I wear Marshalls

Good one, God

I got u.

That's a lot

That's really a lot

I really got lost on the way to the market, ya'll that's a lot

That's really a lot

Look what I bought

A whole card full of nothing

That's a lot

That's really a lot l

Damn, when the fuck I'm a get off this train

This shit is. Draining.

young ninja still in training

This keeps getting deeper.

No longer believing in coincidences, I can only turn to god to ask how it just so happened, that the first book I happened to touch

Had Jimmy Fallon's name on it.

Tell me why, though.

Apparently, Jimmy Fallon has a book club.

I'd be committing suicide to even look that up.

Turns out Brooklyn has a Yacht Club,

And a surf club.

Is there any reason at all to believe that these three things are connected?

Everything is connected.

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Carry your feet to mine kingdom.

I have come again

To bear good tiding;

A greeting no other than now,

For as such,

Thee returns to fair and justly sit

Upon the throne

Which you had been born

And had also birthed,

The worlds, alone yours

The only stone turned now, I,

As the page does unfoldeth,

These things part I now, as with time,

Words have flourished,

The wisdom

Seas hath parted,

And your rage has formed

A new art,

Besides I, mind you,

For body's sake with woven

I am here, from dust and wind,

I am tide and seeking, song,

And are I now none,

Other than you

To form a wave of oceans,

Song of crying out—

Lord, I have come once,

Again to honor you,

lord, as I am,

As it may,

We are as one.

Come now,

love.

They're gripping at straws to make me look and feel crazy which can only mean—

He's losing his power.

Hopefully he's expecting another baby.

Hopefully, for the ba's sake and its mother, it's not a little girl.

Even my big and strong boy might be irreversibly damaged at the hands of a psychotic narcissist with anger problems—and though surely he had tried to kill me any way he could, I had survived.

Now, the tables had indeed turned in my favor. With enough time, the truth would be revealed not only to those above, but to all who knew us; I hadn't lost my mind at all, only finally found a pair of eyes that could see the world around me that they did not like—and a pair of legs to run away from it.

The first time my ex husband actually hit me— he had snapped, and though there had been other counts of shoving,heavy handed close calls and other questionable events in the years leading up to this, it had never been what it turned out to be his fist actually connecting with my face— not just once, but several times over and over until something got in the way— even years later, I didn't know what, but maybe just that I had stopped moving, or struggling to get away.

“Play dead.”

Maybe he thought I was dead—or maybe I was. Everything since in the nearly eight years after seemed an inescapable and hellish nightmare—inescapable, that is, from him. Or, from “it.” The thing that had tried to kill me

That even after assuming an entirely new identity and seperate life, this dirty, lazy, disgusting and altogether unllpleasant energy seemed to follow me everywhere—and worse—this energy seemed to crawl into the other humans surrounding me, and like a parasite, never letting go.

I wanted to die as much as anything just to never be reminded of him again.

My thriving and success would make him look like a fool— more of one, anyhow, and either way— his jealousy of my life without him made it obvious how little and weak he actually was, though not on purpose, and, in some ways—many small ones, I had succeeded.

Suddenly, everything became battlegrounds—fighting for my life as if somehow I were still in my abusers presence and grips—the devil in him seeking me out in the world as if I had deserved it in the first place.

No one really deserves to die like that/-

Especially not in front of their children.

Now at least I knew he had no power alone, but that what one would The Devil itself often lived inside of the weak—weak in spirit, weak minded. Feeble and malleable, often fat and lazy people, it had become obvious— that people were the tools for this force to deplete the light and kindness, the good spirit and soul's purpose of others.

I had forgiven him, but something indeed had rotted away the core I thought once shared into a blackened depth if awful waste—the things about him belonging to a world I wished never to see or be part of. I had grown, and changed—and I was sure with time so had he; perhaps not, but I couldn't know and wouldn't want to, wishing only for the best for anyone's sake.

But this thing that seemed to follow me was a pitiful, screaming l and evil thing—I had let go with the consistent reminders of the permanent scars left in the crevices of my lip, and on my face—and though an entire child and perhaps several women between us, his need vengeance that I had left must have been mad, as the sweltering parasitic welt that riled up with enough fierceness to crawl into other sunken bodies, and surround my every waking moment. Not his power, at all, but a greater force of evil—the evil of all mankind—Satan himself seemed to have chosen me as his prey, my abuser as the illusion of conception.

There for I,

There for I,

There for I,

None! As truth did shatter mine ever being,

And also Ever person near

WHO VALIDATED THAT BITCH'S PARKING.

—you think she drove here?!

—if she did it would be on a broomstick.

Goddammit.

Get her out of here!

Out! I said!

You're…not a fan of Fallon's, are you.

No, I'm not.

(No—God, no.)

Well, why not?

First of all, he winks at people.

;)

*cringe*

Like, off camera.

JIMMY O'FALLON

And I want damages.

Damages?!

Damages.

He's seeking damages?! To what.

JIMMY O'FALLON

Like, my entire—everything.

Damages to everything.

My entire life!

Ah.

[The Festival Project ™]

I've got to admit, being sued hy Jimmy Fallon is probably the most exciting thing that's ever happened in the entirety of this series!

What about that thing with Skrillex.

(That was pretty exiting.)

Which thing with Skrillex?

All the things with Skrillex were pretty exciting.

(Admittedly, yes.)

Then there was Dillon Francis.

I hate Dillon Francis.

Exactly.

Why!

Because he excited you.

Next question!

Ahead.

Yo. I finally get to link up with Supacree.

You're a mess.

Everything is a mess.

The world is a mess.

—your mom's a mess.

Amanda, please.

Have you been drinking?

How long has deadmau5 been a cat?

Forever, I think.

Exciting!

Enter through the exit! Enter through the exit!

Who the fuck let you in here.

{Enter The Multiverse}

MARTHA STEWART'S plan for world domination is complete.

L E G E N D S

Johnny Moon was a handsome fellow;

Johnny Moon was a Sam as well.

Johnny Moon was a madman also;

Johnny Moon had indeed done bad.

Johnny Moon was a handsome devil;

Johnny Moon was a charming man

Johnny Moon went to heaven after

Johnny Moon finished in Hell.

Welcome To The Wonderful World of…

| The Complex Collective © |

By

[The Festival Project ™]

Breaking down that one scene from Ascension.

How the fuck did these two actors even get into the realm of ascension?

Being honest, I think it's that part of the dream like in The Wizard of Oz and/ or Alice in wonderland where everything just kind of bleeds together into one blurry weird world before it all explodes—or implodes—

Whatever, just kill yourself.

(On my way.)

Titus- Jason Sudakis

Perscimmion - Will Forte

Why.

I don't know why.

The King

(I'll let you decide.)

Titus and and Perscimmion—

One argues this character's name is actually “Persimmon”… i've generally myself no preference but though I had first heard it as “Simeon”— Apparently, actually, “Perscimmon”, or “Persimmon”, the former however not accurately as in other contexts, he is sometimes referred to as “Perci”

Whatever. Why is this Will Forte.

*shrugs*

Cause whatever, I don't know.

(I like his socks.)

Titus and Perscimmon—

Perscimmion

Whatever.

CUT TO:

/Bedtime Stories with Chak Chel

—or was it, Chak Chel's bedtime stories.

Whichever. No one cares.

THE COSMIC AVENGER/SUPACREE

Ugh grow up.

KIRSTEN SHAAL

Or is it Kristin?

Ugh

K, SHAAL

It could be whoever, or whatever— anyone— right?

GOOGLE KID 1

But it's not whoever.

GOOGLE KID 2

It is whoever.

GOOGLE KID 1

It's just two actors!

GOOGLE KID 3

—then pick better actors!

watch it!

K. SHAAL

It could be whatever, it could be whoever… I could be whoever! I'm whoever. It doesn't matter.

CUT BACK TO:

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S

Dissecting this recent excerpt from Ascencion

© The Festival Project, Inc. 2019

All rights reserved.

— have just discovered the King's seduction of a lady in waiting; the reigning Queen of her own dominion, betrothed to another, also presumed to be in his own right, a King.

As scholars and members of the high court, both Titus and Perscimmion are groomed to keep watch over the happenings within each quarry, as given jusrisdiction by the Asended Mastery to spectate freely throughout all lands, and as such; they often travel—often in pairs or groups.

Titus and Perscimmion

Persimmon

Whatever.

—have quickly departed, haveing spotted the King far out of bounds, to which the King quickly launches after these two Kingsmen in pursuit, and though their loyalty lies within no singular dictation, they somewhat begrudgingly agree it best to keep the King's secret, after he wearily explains to the men, as his friends and genuinely that he feels he has fallen truly in love with her.

KING IV

Titus!

[Titus is annoyed and expecting there to be a fight]

TITUS

Mellow. (Chill, bro)

KING IV

Be bold, you! (If you have something to say, then say it now and let's duke it out.)

TITUS

Never—mellow I am, as are we.

(Nah, I'm chillin. We cool.)

(I'm good, he's good—we chillin.)

PERCI

Chaos, you've spelled it.

(You've opened a can of worms, dude.)

(You got us all fucked up.)

(You fucked up.)

KING IV

I've spelled then many words

For our wise,

Nevermind before you found her waiting,

Dusk was fallen

And here you,

cry out such a task-

To have found her in waiting,

Not I or heavy bound,

But yet with lust,

The breath of motherdom on her wicked truth

The tied you have counted,

For I wisked away with every since

Your true intent, persist, I may.

The King implies here that he's made many conscious choices and has been playing at this game as a King, to which that only other royalty might understand, the strife of making hard decisions in which case, others might be hurt— or even killed.

He explains that he and this Queen have found common ground, confining in one another's understanding of hardship as leaders,

And that their attraction to one other has grown from this trust —naturally, and out of control; as he sees her maternal prime has approached; he suggests that he means no harm at all, but urges the men to think about what they plan to do with the discovery of their possible affair—nearly asking “what exactly do you plan to do with your knowledge of this?”

(Are you finna tell on me?)

(Who you finna tell?)

TITUS

Now. (Yo.) (srsly?)

[Titus is a bit pissed that the king would turn it around to imply that his knowledge of this secret could do more harm than the secret itself; he is quite visibly angry.]

[Perci keeps the peace by holding his friend back.]

PERCI

Mellow. (Chill, bro.)

KING IV

You found for call my wants;

Shallow, as it may

My need ne'er far behind the broken,

Does call to you, brother,

And you also,

For I widow in thought,

My fury

(I'm a man; I have needs— I often put my needs as a King behind that of ny entire Kindgom—you're both men; so you know how it is; the feelings I have can't be ignored—it's primal.)

A tear.

[sarcasm. He's suggesting “cry about it.” Or “why don't I believe you?” Or, blatently—]

(Cry me a river!)

A tear, you ask

But one does not cry as I seek

Fair judgement and ridicule,

Severed heart I,

Come now awakened in

To her,

A dusk had come,

Though night was golden

A dawn arose with fury in my bosom

Mine love awakened

[He implies to lose his composure would show weakness—the King also implies here that he does, however, feel horrible about it; that he expects to be reviled, killed, or even dethroned—that his heart has truly broken as he has discovered something new in him; he has fallen in love with her. That after spending the night with her, he had become anew.]

TITUS

Not love, but—[he begins to argue that it is only lust]

PERCI

Seldom! (Yeah right/ that's rare.)

KING IV

Love, I bear you mine honest hands,

The wilted rose,

Blood upon thornes,

Truly marks I who has come

To wake in her

(I'm telling you, I'm really in love with her.)

[the king pleas that painstakingly so, his love is pure and true]

PERCI

Then. (Whatever.)

[Titus gives up and agrees]

TITUS

So, I mellow. (Okay, okay.)

[finally Percimmon speaks his mind]

(Or whatever the fuck his actual name is)

::||pause.

By now it ought to be obvious to you, dear reader and listener, that I am in fact, dictating this—translating these things for you sent from some faraway higher realm, for the sake of the art and with the purpose of your understanding my true intentions, as fellow human and as a writer, to live in the way I desire, honestly and wholeheartedly, without further interruption to my sanctity and wellness, in peace—

Until my departure from this world.

Does that quite say it?

I don't know.

Whatever.

::||Unpause.

PERCI

(By the way apparently some decendant or incarnation of the God Percius, son of Zeus)

PERCIUS

PERSCIMMION

SIMMEON

PERSCIMMON

PERCI

(You get it, right?)

Mits infinite,

And for the sake of this concept,

Let's just consider this—

All the same fucking guy,

Or at the very least,

Very closely interacting versions of this same guy

Within these parallels

Of time and space

Wherein these worlds

And realms

Exist.

Okay?

Ok.

Good.

Proceeding.

[this dude's pretty much been quiet the whole time but now is a little tiffed himself.]

PERCI

Did you fear for not

The death that approaches,

For now you call I,

And our brethren here,

For siren had sounded to wake,

You in the light and there destined to love

By blood is bound,

And yet you wait, here now on high

Calling to us, havingbeen hound by light,

Whether you did, or did not forsought

Come as foreign

And leave again

Worried, feather feared at all

That by this blood, you too shall weep,

To reap again what you sow

Or shall they say,

As punishment,

For cause just binds??

(Did it bother you at all to think that not only you might get killed, but get us all killed?! Now you're asking us to lie for you— because all of a sudden, you're in love with this woman; a blood oath set in stone, and her having been betrothed— and here you come, running after us, after it finally occurs to you—whether you meant for it to happen or just “didn't think about it”, went all this way just to fuck shit up (complicate things), then come back home freaking out, running around like a chicken with your head cut off (acting like a crazy bird about to get eaten) saying that, whoever has to hurt or be killed over all this, you feel really bad about— but overall, know you what's coming to you, and you know, and I know, and he knows that we'll probably just all be better off not telling anybody about this…at least for now… but eventually, someone's bound to find out about this, and the less people “know”, the better…right?)

KING IV

Now. (Yeah.)

TITUS

I second. (I agree.)

KING IV

Here, too, I second,

I third, even for not I as you,

And you both as I,

And how,

The sun has set upon us,

Why, death is sure to come

As I rise,

But give me no mercy, this

Mellow now,

I only beg

What here has transpired

Silence here,

Between myself and I—

Brethren.

(So we all agree that it's better that this all just stays between us.)

[the king implies that either way the truth will probably come out and he will die for it, but for now, the secret is best kept between them, with the understanding that they too could be killed in the vengeance and damage of the truth being told sooner than later.]

Steady ye we all sigh as one. (I'm basically you.) / (if any of us go down, we all go down.)

Steady ye as my death is yours. (We are one) (we're fucked, but whatever I guess.)

Steady be my tongue as forced to lie with sacred heart true love does lie.

(I hate having to do this but my love is true)

So be it. (Fine)

So, then. (Very well then.)

Honor thy pardon. (Thank you guys.)

Off, then. (Just …go.) (Get out)

[the king quickly vanishes into the night]

Damn, that took me longer to decode than I actually spent writing it.

You—wrote this?

I…

Whatever.

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

They're gripping at straws to make me look and feel crazy which can only mean—

He's losing his power.

Hopefully he's expecting another baby.

Hopefully, for the ba's sake and its mother, it's not a little girl.

Even my big and strong boy might be irreversibly damaged at the hands of a psychotic narcissist with anger problems—and though surely he had tried to kill me any way he could, I had survived.

Now, the tables had indeed turned in my favor. With enough time, the truth would be revealed not only to those above, but to all who knew us; I hadn't lost my mind at all, only finally found a pair of eyes that could see the world around me that they did not like—and a pair of legs to run away from it.

The first time my ex husband actually hit me— he had snapped, and though there had been other counts of shoving,heavy handed close calls and other questionable events in the years leading up to this, it had never been what it turned out to be his fist actually connecting with my face— not just once, but several times over and over until something got in the way— even years later, I didn't know what, but maybe just that I had stopped moving, or struggling to get away.

“Play dead.”

Maybe he thought I was dead—or maybe I was. Everything since in the nearly eight years after seemed an inescapable and hellish nightmare—inescapable, that is, from him. Or, from “it.” The thing that had tried to kill me

That even after assuming an entirely new identity and seperate life, this dirty, lazy, disgusting and altogether unllpleasant energy seemed to follow me everywhere—and worse—this energy seemed to crawl into the other humans surrounding me, and like a parasite, never letting go.

I wanted to die as much as anything just to never be reminded of him again.

My thriving and success would make him look like a fool— more of one, anyhow, and either way— his jealousy of my life without him made it obvious how little and weak he actually was, though not on purpose, and, in some ways—many small ones, I had succeeded.

Suddenly, everything became battlegrounds—fighting for my life as if somehow I were still in my abusers presence and grips—the devil in him seeking me out in the world as if I had deserved it in the first place.

No one really deserves to die like that/-

Especially not in front of their children.

Now at least I knew he had no power alone, but that what one would The Devil itself often lived inside of the weak—weak in spirit, weak minded. Feeble and malleable, often fat and lazy people, it had become obvious— that people were the tools for this force to deplete the light and kindness, the good spirit and soul's purpose of others.

I had forgiven him, but something indeed had rotted away the core I thought once shared into a blackened depth if awful waste—the things about him belonging to a world I wished never to see or be part of. I had grown, and changed—and I was sure with time so had he; perhaps not, but I couldn't know and wouldn't want to, wishing only for the best for anyone's sake.

But this thing that seemed to follow me was a pitiful, screaming l and evil thing—I had let go with the consistent reminders of the permanent scars left in the crevices of my lip, and on my face—and though an entire child and perhaps several women between us, his need vengeance that I had left must have been mad, as the sweltering parasitic welt that riled up with enough fierceness to crawl into other sunken bodies, and surround my every waking moment. Not his power, at all, but a greater force of evil—the evil of all mankind—Satan himself seemed to have chosen me as his prey, my abuser as the illusion of conception.

There for I,

There for I,

There for I,

None! As truth did shatter mine ever being,

And also Ever person near

WHO VALIDATED THAT BITCH'S PARKING.

—you think she drove here?!

—if she did it would be on a broomstick.

Goddammit.

Get her out of here!

Out! I said!

You're…not a fan of Fallon's, are you.

No, I'm not.

(No—God, no.)

Well, why not?

First of all, he winks at people.

;)

*cringe*

Like, off camera.

JIMMY O'FALLON

And I want damages.

Damages?!

Damages.

He's seeking damages?! To what.

JIMMY O'FALLON

Like, my entire—everything.

Damages to everything.

My entire life!

Ah.

[The Festival Project ™]

I've got to admit, being sued hy Jimmy Fallon is probably the most exciting thing that's ever happened in the entirety of this series!

What about that thing with Skrillex.

(That was pretty exiting.)

Which thing with Skrillex?

All the things with Skrillex were pretty exciting.

(Admittedly, yes.)

Then there was Dillon Francis.

I hate Dillon Francis.

Exactly.

Why!

Because he excited you.

Next question!

Ahead.

Yo. I finally get to link up with Supacree.

You're a mess.

Everything is a mess.

The world is a mess.

—your mom's a mess.

Amanda, please.

Have you been drinking?

How long has deadmau5 been a cat?

Forever, I think.

Exciting!

Enter through the exit! Enter through the exit!

Who the fuck let you in here.

{Enter The Multiverse}

MARTHA STEWART'S plan for world domination is complete.

L E G E N D S

Johnny Moon was a handsome fellow;

Johnny Moon was a Sam as well.

Johnny Moon was a madman also;

Johnny Moon had indeed done bad.

Johnny Moon was a handsome devil;

Johnny Moon was a charming man

Johnny Moon went to heaven after

Johnny Moon finished in Hell.

Welcome To The Wonderful World of…

| The Complex Collective © |

By

[The Festival Project ™]

Breaking down that one scene from Ascension.

How the fuck did these two actors even get into the realm of ascension?

Being honest, I think it's that part of the dream like in The Wizard of Oz and/ or Alice in wonderland where everything just kind of bleeds together into one blurry weird world before it all explodes—or implodes—

Whatever, just kill yourself.

(On my way.)

Titus- Jason Sudakis

Perscimmion - Will Forte

Why.

I don't know why.

The King

(I'll let you decide.)

Titus and and Perscimmion—

One argues this character's name is actually “Persimmon”… i've generally myself no preference but though I had first heard it as “Simeon”— Apparently, actually, “Perscimmon”, or “Persimmon”, the former however not accurately as in other contexts, he is sometimes referred to as “Perci”

Whatever. Why is this Will Forte.

*shrugs*

Cause whatever, I don't know.

(I like his socks.)

Titus and Perscimmon—

Perscimmion

Whatever.

CUT TO:

/Bedtime Stories with Chak Chel

—or was it, Chak Chel's bedtime stories.

Whichever. No one cares.

THE COSMIC AVENGER/SUPACREE

Ugh grow up.

KIRSTEN SHAAL

Or is it Kristin?

Ugh

K, SHAAL

It could be whoever, or whatever— anyone— right?

GOOGLE KID 1

But it's not whoever.

GOOGLE KID 2

It is whoever.

GOOGLE KID 1

It's just two actors!

GOOGLE KID 3

—then pick better actors!

watch it!

K. SHAAL

It could be whatever, it could be whoever… I could be whoever! I'm whoever. It doesn't matter.

CUT BACK TO:

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S

Dissecting this recent excerpt from Ascencion

© The Festival Project, Inc. 2019

All rights reserved.

— have just discovered the King's seduction of a lady in waiting; the reigning Queen of her own dominion, betrothed to another, also presumed to be in his own right, a King.

As scholars and members of the high court, both Titus and Perscimmion are groomed to keep watch over the happenings within each quarry, as given jusrisdiction by the Asended Mastery to spectate freely throughout all lands, and as such; they often travel—often in pairs or groups.

Titus and Perscimmion

Persimmon

Whatever.

—have quickly departed, haveing spotted the King far out of bounds, to which the King quickly launches after these two Kingsmen in pursuit, and though their loyalty lies within no singular dictation, they somewhat begrudgingly agree it best to keep the King's secret, after he wearily explains to the men, as his friends and genuinely that he feels he has fallen truly in love with her.

KING IV

Titus!

[Titus is annoyed and expecting there to be a fight]

TITUS

Mellow. (Chill, bro)

KING IV

Be bold, you! (If you have something to say, then say it now and let's duke it out.)

TITUS

Never—mellow I am, as are we.

(Nah, I'm chillin. We cool.)

(I'm good, he's good—we chillin.)

PERCI

Chaos, you've spelled it.

(You've opened a can of worms, dude.)

(You got us all fucked up.)

(You fucked up.)

KING IV

I've spelled then many words

For our wise,

Nevermind before you found her waiting,

Dusk was fallen

And here you,

cry out such a task-

To have found her in waiting,

Not I or heavy bound,

But yet with lust,

The breath of motherdom on her wicked truth

The tied you have counted,

For I wisked away with every since

Your true intent, persist, I may.

The King implies here that he's made many conscious choices and has been playing at this game as a King, to which that only other royalty might understand, the strife of making hard decisions in which case, others might be hurt— or even killed.

He explains that he and this Queen have found common ground, confining in one another's understanding of hardship as leaders,

And that their attraction to one other has grown from this trust —naturally, and out of control; as he sees her maternal prime has approached; he suggests that he means no harm at all, but urges the men to think about what they plan to do with the discovery of their possible affair—nearly asking “what exactly do you plan to do with your knowledge of this?”

(Are you finna tell on me?)

(Who you finna tell?)

TITUS

Now. (Yo.) (srsly?)

[Titus is a bit pissed that the king would turn it around to imply that his knowledge of this secret could do more harm than the secret itself; he is quite visibly angry.]

[Perci keeps the peace by holding his friend back.]

PERCI

Mellow. (Chill, bro.)

KING IV

You found for call my wants;

Shallow, as it may

My need ne'er far behind the broken,

Does call to you, brother,

And you also,

For I widow in thought,

My fury

(I'm a man; I have needs— I often put my needs as a King behind that of ny entire Kindgom—you're both men; so you know how it is; the feelings I have can't be ignored—it's primal.)

A tear.

[sarcasm. He's suggesting “cry about it.” Or “why don't I believe you?” Or, blatently—]

(Cry me a river!)

A tear, you ask

But one does not cry as I seek

Fair judgement and ridicule,

Severed heart I,

Come now awakened in

To her,

A dusk had come,

Though night was golden

A dawn arose with fury in my bosom

Mine love awakened

[He implies to lose his composure would show weakness—the King also implies here that he does, however, feel horrible about it; that he expects to be reviled, killed, or even dethroned—that his heart has truly broken as he has discovered something new in him; he has fallen in love with her. That after spending the night with her, he had become anew.]

TITUS

Not love, but—[he begins to argue that it is only lust]

PERCI

Seldom! (Yeah right/ that's rare.)

KING IV

Love, I bear you mine honest hands,

The wilted rose,

Blood upon thornes,

Truly marks I who has come

To wake in her

(I'm telling you, I'm really in love with her.)

[the king pleas that painstakingly so, his love is pure and true]

PERCI

Then. (Whatever.)

[Titus gives up and agrees]

TITUS

So, I mellow. (Okay, okay.)

[finally Percimmon speaks his mind]

(Or whatever the fuck his actual name is)

::||pause.

By now it ought to be obvious to you, dear reader and listener, that I am in fact, dictating this—translating these things for you sent from some faraway higher realm, for the sake of the art and with the purpose of your understanding my true intentions, as fellow human and as a writer, to live in the way I desire, honestly and wholeheartedly, without further interruption to my sanctity and wellness, in peace—

Until my departure from this world.

Does that quite say it?

I don't know.

Whatever.

::||Unpause.

PERCI

(By the way apparently some decendant or incarnation of the God Percius, son of Zeus)

PERCIUS

PERSCIMMION

SIMMEON

PERSCIMMON

PERCI

(You get it, right?)

Mits infinite,

And for the sake of this concept,

Let's just consider this—

All the same fucking guy,

Or at the very least,

Very closely interacting versions of this same guy

Within these parallels

Of time and space

Wherein these worlds

And realms

Exist.

Okay?

Ok.

Good.

Proceeding.

[this dude's pretty much been quiet the whole time but now is a little tiffed himself.]

PERCI

Did you fear for not

The death that approaches,

For now you call I,

And our brethren here,

For siren had sounded to wake,

You in the light and there destined to love

By blood is bound,

And yet you wait, here now on high

Calling to us, havingbeen hound by light,

Whether you did, or did not forsought

Come as foreign

And leave again

Worried, feather feared at all

That by this blood, you too shall weep,

To reap again what you sow

Or shall they say,

As punishment,

For cause just binds??

(Did it bother you at all to think that not only you might get killed, but get us all killed?! Now you're asking us to lie for you— because all of a sudden, you're in love with this woman; a blood oath set in stone, and her having been betrothed— and here you come, running after us, after it finally occurs to you—whether you meant for it to happen or just “didn't think about it”, went all this way just to fuck shit up (complicate things), then come back home freaking out, running around like a chicken with your head cut off (acting like a crazy bird about to get eaten) saying that, whoever has to hurt or be killed over all this, you feel really bad about— but overall, know you what's coming to you, and you know, and I know, and he knows that we'll probably just all be better off not telling anybody about this…at least for now… but eventually, someone's bound to find out about this, and the less people “know”, the better…right?)

KING IV

Now. (Yeah.)

TITUS

I second. (I agree.)

KING IV

Here, too, I second,

I third, even for not I as you,

And you both as I,

And how,

The sun has set upon us,

Why, death is sure to come

As I rise,

But give me no mercy, this

Mellow now,

I only beg

What here has transpired

Silence here,

Between myself and I—

Brethren.

(So we all agree that it's better that this all just stays between us.)

[the king implies that either way the truth will probably come out and he will die for it, but for now, the secret is best kept between them, with the understanding that they too could be killed in the vengeance and damage of the truth being told sooner than later.]

Steady ye we all sigh as one. (I'm basically you.) / (if any of us go down, we all go down.)

Steady ye as my death is yours. (We are one) (we're fucked, but whatever I guess.)

Steady be my tongue as forced to lie with sacred heart true love does lie.

(I hate having to do this but my love is true)

So be it. (Fine)

So, then. (Very well then.)

Honor thy pardon. (Thank you guys.)

Off, then. (Just …go.) (Get out)

[the king quickly vanishes into the night]

Damn, that took me longer to decode than I actually spent writing it.

You—wrote this?

I…

Whatever.

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

We're going somewhere else.

What does that mean?

Somewhere else!

You know why I hate you, Fallon?

Fuck. I gotta find Fallon.

Places

[The Festival Project ™]

I should know why…

—because you are good at everything you do.

I always was. What can I say?

Nothing. Shut up.

That's your job.

I don't have a job.

Oh, that's right.

That's right.

[Fallon seems slightly intimidated, but nevertheless, cocky—bold and arrogant as always—and of course—

—smug. ]

{Enter The Multiverse}

The older the wiser—

The bigger the better

The taller the whiter

The richer the further you are

From the life that you want

Typically, typically

Oh, there you go again

For

Richer for poorer

Old

Haunts with old souls it's,

No wonder you dissaolved on the

Revolving door

When it's all the same concious thought

That you walked all of your dogs

To the mall in

The same four thoughts

The same

It must be getting dark

The souls are seeming more

Forgotton

Spirits wandering

Here are you now

Here I

Nigga drinking money

No one ever noticed

We must be one in the same,

Since I ain't g/have /give a damn

God, thank you God.

I told you, I love New York.

Who doesn't?

The poor…

—Broken.

On God,

On train

All four

On one

On God

4 train

6 stops

Cause I got

Money

Power cut off

I just came back from Whole Foods market

I hate shopping

Fact