[ENTER THE MULTIVERSE]

“Impossible!”, I murmured, after a deep gasp, as I removed from my braziers in preparation to soak after a short but intense workout, not the stone I had with intention placed in my bra, but another.

“Magic indeed!” , I thought to myself.

I had in some fell swoop of blessings been by any luck or wishes sake, gifted a heap of new books, and new furniture—the latter of which I really hadn't needed, however, with a newly refreshed idea of reimagining my studio and living space entirely, I had shifted into preparation for a lost bed anyhow, and thought that with any foreshadowing, I perhaps might have one by winter, with the space below the bed provided to be tented and shielded off from the rest of the world, so that I could record vocals in a more secluded and intimate setting. I had originally intended to use the closet or my apartment as a booth, but upon arrival found that the closet had been fitted with an unremovable shelving at around chest level, which couldn't be in any way practical for recording without some heavy discomfort, not to mention the closet faced a wall I was sure my neighbors telivison and speaker system was fitted against.

After my right headphone died, and the unwelcome company in the gym which granted, had been there before me had left me feeling for some reason like I had lost something—anyhow somewhat paranoid, as I had caught not just one, but two people what looked like taking pictures of me with no doubt in my mind, or reasonable cause that I was indeed being groomed for something steadily but surely— I felt the need not only to vacate the gym rapidly, but feeling as though I had a reason to return to the work I had been toiling away at since the early morning.

Entering the lobby, and having to open the door for a pair of men headed outward appearing to move, one of which smelled like onions and raw, baked sour pickles— I spotted a mound of nearly new books and furniture in the area in which people often left free to take items no longer needed— alongside two tables—one hardwood coffee table and a smaller round one which matched, and a water kettle, all in good condition, and favoring the factor that I only ever picked up new or nearly used items anymore, as my apartment was technically full, I quickly gave a second-second thought to rearranging my apartment entirely, growing almost painfully bored of its current layout, and awestruck with the tinges of cabin fever, the stagnancy of being unable to move about the city freely— being as financially limited as I was and having been stopped by police several times already for not having the subway fare, even so just in nessecary errands—to the grocery store, or otherwise; and I had been in all corners deadlocked for an entire summer, almost unable to move at all and the world moving around me resulting in being outfitted almost entirely physically ill. The honking horns, motorcycles, and trash-wielding pedestrians of the busy corner—the unparalleled aversions to whatever unrest and chaos that lived out of view and luckily out of sight—but never out of mind, with its intrusive exhibition of technological sonic torture.

Still, I was not altogether displeased—now having returned from the gym almost all the way worked out, having left early having realized that though fasting yesterday, I had spent the entirety of this day sipping on coffee and in complete hyperfocus, just finishing the final proof of the first edition of the printed version of Enter The Multiverse, and though with limited supplies, I felt that it would carry on in this way until somehow, I found a way to complete the process of taking The Festival Project as a label and now, The Collective Complex as a philanthropic non profit, onto higher grounds.

Though I saw more the new furniture and books as a stroke of luck and some magic than necessary financial compensation for the time and energy I had drawn up into creative contributions and endeavors to society—I saw it as this— a looking up and forward from something that had once been only some strange form of compulsion and raw emotional expression, into a platform that could grow to help others overcome and survive hardships such as I had.

(™

©

Illusions of whisper

Simple mirrors

(Doppelgangers)

Chains of charity

Cat and mouse

Misery

What a waste when you've spent your time making

Unparalleled judgements

Unparalleled judgements

No lack of gratitude,

Confusion of movement

(Gratitude)

Suffering, of course

Wanting still,

But unwanted

Moreso

Misery

Careful as it's closing in,

They'll call your bluff now

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

'damaged goods'

Collection 1.1 - 'actuality'

Track 01. 'damaged goods'

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

(as Happy Accidents)

Listen—

—motherfucker—

You should—

Know—

I don't —

—give—

No

—kind of—

—fuck—

Whatsoever

I love my own

—but not the other

Something - something son

Get a gun and blow my candles out

White power now bout

Building towers up

To tear you down

—I don't give a fuck about flax; seek

Black seed, back seat black candles

Black cat, relax,

Atticus.

I don't give a fuck about a Fallon,

I bought a gallon of water for two jugs,

And a quarter

On my daughter.

Get it?

(Fuck you)

Or should I go back to spending

Spin class looking at candid camera

I could buy a mountain before I sit down on mounds

White Diamonds, 9 time champ

I'm just like ET, don't mind that

I'm a dead beat dad camped out in a van

With a 30 second tan on, oh man

Redact that one

—FUCK—

YOU.

Power play

I should wait an hour

For the Amazon van

If the Amazon man can't hit this

What makes you think you can?

I just too fan(dom) (dumb)

I drew fandoms on your

Blū Barrymore,

Don't carry that backpack,

You might fall back

I called my song

—but I can't call back

…fuck you,

(Goddamn)

If you don't believe me,

I just scored two degrees

Just from pleasing people

Three of you count me,

My MBA in saying

I buy NBA team

Damn.

Can't even get an Instagram account

Without getting hacked

Just for being a half black

Half Uncle Sam smashing red/*ted man

Don't call red man,

Just call Meth/ Seth back

METHOD MAN

…hello?

Flip the bitch right back

I flip the whip

And grip the script,

I pistol whipped Bristol back

To — camp

Oh, That's not Jimmy Fallon.

It's not?

No.

That's Sim Jim.

Sim Jim?

Uh huh. You see,

Sim Jim took over for real Jim a long time ago.

Oh…I really like that guy!

Everybody likes Sim Jim; he's just like the real Jimmy, but takes care of everything The Real Jimmy can't.

…that's making sense.

They're nearly completely identical—Sim Jim is just more — available.

Wow! He must be really famous.

Yes, exactly.

So—what about The Real Jimmy?

What about him?

What does he do?

At this point, I knew there was no way I could really get around it—getting the Festival Project ™ off the ground and running—actually into production—seemed almost impossible.

The shell and ghost of Jimmy Fallon seemed to be everywhere, plastered on walls and screens in all this time and at every turn —but the real masked man/-The Real Jimmy Fallon—was a mystery— the mask he wore, his own face, and his entire namesake, his own address.

What would you do?

I would probably never see him again on the material plane, but he had instead soaked my dreams in mystery in illusion—his shadow figure having become enchanted, whispering with ease as the voice of my own subconscious. Like any celebrity, he was untouchable—-and like any of them before or sense the seven years time, had come and gone into my quarry of philosophies and cosmic murmurs, only leaving behind the pondering of thoughts, now dwindled down into a reconciling judgement that perhaps I was, after all, somewhat broken. Perhaps, once, I had fallen asleep only to never wake up—perhaps I had died in all truth and not known it and had become the ghost myself. Shattered mirrors and references to time only left me with more truth and less overall knowing—that something had happened here—something strange and otherworldly; Something mystical and cosmic that had left me in audacity and crumbling inwardly in calamity, though my outer spoke with the calm outpourings of a humbled and collected but weary traveler, once, too made of dust—but now seeped in skin and rushing with blood—at least, I thought…and I thought far too fondly and far too often of Mr. Jimmy Fallon to care at all without being frustrated, or giving weight to the reality which was simple, in that he had become a galaxy in his own, so distant that it seemed to rival any coincidings of rampant thought which might be logical in any sort of way or make actual sense at all. The Jimmy Fallon I knew was the Jimmy Fallon everyone knew— and nobody knew The Real Jimmy Fallon. Three entire solid decades of fame between my world, and whatever his might have been fashioned as— fabrication, any means—and none of my actual business, besides the business—I crept into a sacrificial surrender with the hopes of never being further harmed—the ritual torture of those around me fading into rupture; the rapture of all mankind had gathered at my doorstep, and outside my window, and rather than to wait and watch, I crept and closed into my fortress of servitude, in solitude, silently keeping the records of what I had known.

“The Untouchables”

Episode 1

‘The Wrath of Stanhope'

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

blink. (instrumental)

Collection 1.1 - 'actuality'

Track 05. 'blink' (instrumental)

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

“Wonderful”, I mouthed silently, without the voice or the actual words for movement. I needed the laughter, and it had been long since I had actually laughed, or done much at all besides cry and wonder what the fuck I was going to actually do with my life, or what was to become of me.

I held the book out to my side with one hand, the page still held with my thumb at the end of the chapter and beginning of the next, contemplating reading more— it would be an unknown amount of time before I would be here again—having fasted and walked the equivalent of what might be about 8 or 9 miles, worked out for an hour, and sweated out whatever might have been left with a soak in the tub. I was empty, closer to the divine than not, and feeling okay—not painfully hungry, but I knew that forgoing food would mean missing out on work that needed to be done, that I had been promising for months would be done, and finally was, however at a pace which only further exacerbated my anxiety further; I would only be able to focus on getting some soul-sucking, meaningless dead end job once I knew it was finished—otherwise, I knew it would be impossible to do anything; the algorithm had deemed it so that whatever I was doing, whatever I was writing, was more important than money.

“That was it.” I confirmed with another silent thought, grasping the rose quartz in my left hand and raising the book with me as I crossed into the kitchen—the new addition of the couch saw to it that I had an actual living room, and though not separate from the kitchen, it was in fact a place that I could sit and read the many books I had collected one at a time—or two, for the moment. I couldn't wait to finish the page-turner I had been unable to put down for something like a week before I started this one.

The frozen banana that I had forgotten I removed for the teeter in preparation to eat after a day of strenuous exercise and fasting had melted—luckily, I had frozen two of them at once, suddenly with the life force of something forgotten after my first cup of coffee in nearly three days—three days too long, and I realized my dependence on caffeine was just about as unhealthy as what was normally a constant roar of illegal immigrants on even sufferably equally illegal mopeds, as so said by the NYPD themselves, who had been blatantly useless at actually apprehending the assailants—nevertheless, at least I knew that there was a reason for the heavy exhaustion in the first place, overcompensating from the noise and civil unrest below with additional pots of coffee throughout the late afternoon and even evenings, in an attempt to sort though what would even take some writers rooms weeks or maybe even months. However, my writing and various works were even yet unfit to behold by the eyes of others—that is, besides my shadow of a podcast audience, the cult following I had gained piggybacking shamelessly uncrossing a line that had been crossed by the notorious entertainment industry itself, probably as a foreshadowing of what potential I could have, if left alone, fed, and sheltered for the right amount of time.

I might have even finished by now if it weren't for the motorcycles; maybe that was the point. Maybe there was no point besides that most men are immature, useless babies; that their pride in destruction and chaos serves purpose for them to just as well be destroyed eventually themselves.

Either way, I had at the very least gained a few wholehearted laughs—and now it was time to break fast. 10:00 PM, prime time for making music, but there were other important tasks at hand in order to be able to do so—and I needed the focus of a full stomach and peace of mind to do so. The peace of mind, I wasn't sure where to find—but my fridge was stocked full of food to ease the ache of an empty stomach with fruits I had been craving for days and vegetables I had collected throughout the week; errands which tasked me even further with the time to sort through the massive endeavor of making my work somehow out of thin air create an income; I had been working tirelessly for months when my food stamps were cut for ‘not complying with worth requirements' without notice. I only had one pair of wearable harems and a closet full of fashionable outward I refused to walk around in; I was fussy, and looking for a mate, not some crispy fuckboy buzzing around on a motorcycle; those days were over. Besides, the guys on Harley's were potbellied slags at best—someone else's problem, and also mine, at least sometimes. Men and their incompetence had surely set the world into a state of imbalance so deep and so heavy, it would have to take God being a woman to correct it.

Nature needs Nurture.

Now 30 rock was the obvious choice.

—-

It's getting deeper.

Now I had to keep Tina Fey's book in the bathroom— the bathmat I ordered was actually more yellow than gold and differed drastically from the picture in the description, and it looked cheap and bizzare in contrast to the classy shimmering sequins silver and black curtain and stainless steel trash can which matched perfectly. I wasn't sure where it would end up—it did have the same yellow, and so I placed the book and the rug within sight of eachother, so that it gave the illusion of being matched.

The curtains I bought but had used separately for window coverings and as garnish for the makeshift bookshelf in the studio—I hadn't any real curtains—the windows and walls were lined with sound absorbing audio panels, even in the kitchen where I seldom recorded, but had been plummeting through assortments of other work nonetheless, not to mention my resting recipes which were meant to be entries into an eventual cookbook, which I'm sure would come together now more quickly. The cover of the book matched the strange yellow, and rather than silver and gold it was now mismatched and looked cheap; but the bathmat could at least stay until I finished the book— which would admittedly probably be quickly; I had made it to halfway through the first book in less than a week—my first near cover-to-cover read, which if I hadn't picked up Ms. Fey's book— Ms. Fey? It sounded weird— wasn't she married?

She did seem like some sort of a fairy though— a teeny, tiny pixie type lady with Godlike powers. She was some sort of God, to me, at least, I was sure of it—and probably to others. Weeks, or maybe even some months now before, reading tentatively though her Wikipedia page, I scanned over her numerous accolades—some which I hadn't even heard of, and within the first few chapters of her book, which I had picked up on an extremely strong whim to scoop out the little local library down the street, which I had admittedly decided to clear out the last two days selfishly so—but also according to Wikipedia, people weren't really reading anymore; besides that, the books seemed almost meant for me, intentioned at me with titles and colors that leaps out from the covers and pages, and some brand new. I took love in all the ways I could get—and this was one of them.

It was certainly yellow and not gold. I was disappointed, but otherwise didn't care much. Now I had a reason to keep the book in the bathroom— as there certainly wasn't really any room for anymore books anywhere—and this book was special. I just didn't know why.

I wondered often enough what makes someone so explicitly famous— sometimes, as it turned out, it was the effect or affect of hard work, talent, sheer grit, and an unknown amount of luck which seemed to vary from person to person.

With Tina Fey, though she had been written into my own project primarily as Liz Lemon some years ago, I never knew exactly what I was looking at— but now that I was reading word for words a book first handedly written by one of my own favorite people, I knew that it had been something of a personal favor from God herself— something I didn't know I wanted or even knew existed at all— and laughs I needed.

I shamelessly dangled and gushed at the book, and split my attention between the two I had so far been captivated by most— the other, memoir written by a twenty something uptown drag queen. Now I could try to collect myself into a proper person somehow, reading these works alongside writing my own, and conspiring to somehow finish not just the two originally intended music albums, but something that was actually altogether more like 4 or 5, if I could wrap my brain around counting them. I couldn't, though, right now. All I could do was soak in the tub, chugging water and reading a book, trying not to cry that the only money in the world I had were two crinkled up dollar bills in a coffee can and some change inside of a beautiful wooden box I had found on a jog through Brooklyn.

{Tales of a Superstar DJ}

Oh My, God—Tina Fey! Hi!

I—uh—yeah.

It's so nice to finally meet you.

Hm.

I—I was the hot water heater in your book!

what's that supposed to mean.

Did I read it.

Working on it.

Am I in it?!

Why would you be?

I don't know! Am I?

Just— give me a few—

How long is that?! What's a few?!

How about a montage?

CUT TO:

THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKEN.

And that's—JUST—what they'll DO!

And—

One of these—days—

These boots—

Are gonna WALKEN

Ova U.

Nancy Sinatra is still f#cking weird.

I must admit, i feel personally attacked.

OH, GOD.

OH NO.

This is certainly the thing you do not want,

When trying to erase someone entirely from existence.

Or at the very least…

Jesus fucking Christ.

…thinking about something in any sort of way.

This.

…and again.

Is most certainly what you don't want.

My walls are closing in,

full figured artifact of closure,

And in fact I exaggerated the fact of circumstance

Because I had to

Because I had to

What, am I on in the other room?

Supersonic as we all were,

By the millions and by the numbers

The simple heart attack was won,

The hearty breakfast,

Stripes were earned

And not a one tear shed after

–but my head hurts

But my head hurts.

You started it.

I did not; but I most certainly will finish it.

Quiet, they're coming.

Quiet the children;

Ready the talleys,

Count all the votes,

And stable your alters;

Didn't I warn you?

(I warned her!)

Didn't I warn you?

(I was warned)

Didn't I warn you?

(Why didn't you warn us?)

Cause I wanted to

I wanted to

I wanted to hurt you.

Well–dammit!

What. what happened?

#villain battle

I can't kill you.

What? Why not?

It's–it's in my contract.

lol damn what kind of contract did this dude sign?

Lol idk tho.

This could be progressive,

But instead it's cynical

A wizard and a mystic

should make some interesting kids, though

Another lesson timber, timbre all the violinists

And the brass section is fascinating,

Rather–

More percussion

DId you mean this?

I meant everything I ever–

*sneezing*

*DIDN'T*

Say.

Gazuntite.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

no vocals yet :( still having major issues with the noise. hopefully will be able to record soon- actual music lol more than just talking. hopefully.

take car tho. ^.^ more mixes coming soon.

Get away from me.

I'm a hologram.

Far away, please

I am very far from you–

Well get further.

I'm in another dimension actually.

What do you want, dude?

I always finish what i start.

What the fuck does that mean?!

How should I know?! You wrote it!

Then how are you gonna finish it?

That's not what I meant.

Then what did you mean?!

Look! I don't know! All I know is, I did a movie and you wrote it!

Just one movie or a whole saga!

I don't know! Just write it!

So you know some things, but not the most important ones.

If I could see through all the plot holes, there'd be no drama

It's all drama.

It can't be.

Yes it can.

NO! There has to be some comic relief in it.

What would that consist of.

I don't know! I am a HoLoGrAm.

A hologram, huh?

Uh huh.

So what happens if I touch you?

I wouldn't do that.

Oh yeah?

*poke*

Ok…

YOU'RE NOT A HOLOGRAM AT ALL.

Hm.

I'm sick of subliminal images

encrypted with ignorant messages

Suggesting the supremacy of the caucasians

And how blatant it is that they hate us

Illusions of diversity and inclusions to get your money: the usual

But the truth is, you're just a tool to them

Employee discounts, of course

Just so they can get some of their money back

Or all of it

Owners of corporations

Your landlord is probably related to the people that you work for

And so forth

I'm sure that's why they're trying to push me to suicide before I record this

And move forward with

Something other than working for them

Unless it's at banana republic, a luxury brand

Cause i'm sick of looking like a poor foreigner in my own country

When the reality is my ancestors are unhappy

Karen, Becky and Annie are all happy with nannies

And the rest of us are out here taking naps on ou break

And unpaid mental health days

It's Hell for the unwealthy

And wealth is health so good luck eating what you need

On an hourly

Or salary under 150,000

But what do I know?

I'm suicidal eating whole foods

That i stole

The whole story is longer, but honestly I been trying to get a job

That doesn't involve me jumping off of something or

Counting someone else's money as they siphon all the energy from me

I gotta wonder how much The Roc was auctioned off for

Cause landlord and employer are just the modern words

For “Slave Owner”

DANE COOK: “I WANT A DIVORCE.”

But that was a long time ago,

I heard he was in love with a 20 year old or something

So much for the rest of us:

Here's to Tiesto and the rest of em

Guys are so fucking lucky for never having to grow up

Guys like girls that comb their hair constantly

I like guys with blue eyes and blonde hair

Not so suddenly,

But i should have learned my lesson a long time ago:

Now i”m crying my eyes out to Claptone

WRiting rap songs trying to take my mind out the trap

Rats are assholes

Watch coffee run just to be closer to someone or something i love

But haven't talked to my son in a month or over,

Cause i”m sick of hearing about his father

It's all he talks about

It's like I don't even know em

So morbidly obese I can't even hold him

I think

I guess i could have stayed in it

And kept getting my face caved in

Hoping a rave day every now and again would save me

Ironically i don't believe in a white savior

But i find caucasians savory,

Every shade and flavor

But rocky road hits close to home

THrow me a milk bone and let me sober up

Before I start to open up about Sonny or something

Just another figment of my pigmented imagination

Lived in pigpens beggin pigeons to grant my wishes

Which is a kitchen–can't be a Grammy Award,

I give in

I lost interest, i'm just not skinny enough for

Nevermind, don't need another reason to cry

On the upper east side, avoiding the housing projects

Just wanting to be discovered

Or finish the festival project

Or for someone to love or want

Anything other than money or energy

It's infinite,

but with every cough i forget

coughs must be a witch and just as obsessed with Skrillex as

Everyone is

He lives in my head

I would say my bedroom, but

I'm a permanent resident at Hotel Hell No

–knowing that last line would be funny if I didn't have to cover 3 burroughs just to

get old food

From whole foods

Cause nothing adds up in a cold room,

that's renovated, which makes it easier to take it all in,

Until i realize I'm the problem, and the coffee stains are setting in

And i just wish the whole world would start over again

With me on top of it

Instead of at the bottom

Of a pyramid

With a flat top

I took off from

Upon discovering

The entire human race is

Racist, and they just

Don't get it

I'm the Great Spirit,

But hate hearing my mixes

Cause it's irritating

I'm not gifted

enough for INsomniac to sell tickets

To any event

Forget it,

I'll finish this salad and knock myself unconsious

for as long as humanly possible

Leave my body

At the hospital

And listen to Gospel with God

Then watch Kim Possible in awe of

The long lost

Christy Carlson Romano

I love Broadway

Or did once

–then wake up

Put a fake smile on

Like i ate mcdonalds

Then ran ten miles to get it off of me

Like it isn't impossible

It's not at all,

–but in my body?

Lol

stop .

What happens when you give a mouse a cookie?

What happens when a legendary artist turns into a hologram

And comes for you?

Uhhh.

What happens when you have no food and go to whole foods with one dollar?

I don't know.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū

want to know! (she's the queen) [interlude]

Collection I- 'better off dead'- Track 02.

'want to know.' (she's the queen) [interlude]

Prod. By Blü Tha Gürū

I live in a luxury building, but there's still a pest problem.

The thing about segregation and racism in New York City is that it's blatant and quite obvious.

The nicer areas are well kept and clean, quiet; areas for the whites.

The dirty, trash strewn and dilapidated, overcrowded areas–for the blacks, ad anybody who looks like them.

That's not to say that there aren't some of whichever on either side–

But for the most part–

If it looks like a dump, everyone's black.

And if it's clean and well kept, everyone's white.

So much for progression.

You could say my neighborhood –or, the neighborhood itself–is kind of in the middle:

But the pest problem persists at ground level.

I keep my apartment sparkling clean.

–but some how–these things keep trying to force their way in.

Or simply–force me out.

Either way, I'm moving up.

The Complex Collective © is committed to serving the independent artist community by providing a safe and welcoming environment, performance opportunities, rehearsal spaces, and outlets in which they can grow, enhance their skills and master their craft, and create bonds with one another, by providing a community and protecting the mental health, promoting health, fitness, and wellbeing, while committing to improving the livelihoods of struggling artists by means of providing access to clean, organic nutrition, (The Starving Artist Foundation temporary emergency shelter and resources for battered women (Off The Map), and allowing safe, tech-free and low-tech spaces, chill out rooms, light and sound therapy during winter, and seasonal theater productions, live showcases, and art exhibits and installations by at-risk, homeless, independent and full time artists committed to the passionate perusal of their unique dreams and goals, in every artistic endeavor imaginable.

The complex collective is open to writers, musicians, graphic and visual artists, filmmakers, fashion designers, spiritual enthusiasts, world travelers, and others seeking a safe space to bond, heal, and create through collaboration, exploration, and self improvement.

Created as a warehouse project based in Brooklyn New York, The Complex Collective as a non profit seeks to encompass a large warehouse space which will serve as a multi-use facility which includes a kitchen and food pantry, dance floor/event space, black box theater, cafe/ small stage, fitness spaces (Yoga/Dance) Boxing Club, and media room designed to open the minds of artists to a bustling Mecca of creativity and opportunity. The space will be used to hold flea markets, host seminars, community meetings, and lectures, as well as provide an operational and practical multimedia space to screen films, stage plays, musicals, and other theatrical productions, as well as host musical events and artists, such as DJs and live bands, poetry readings, dance recitals and other community geared events.

[The Festival Project ™ ]

You smell like a dental office.

Must be my oral fixations.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

She's a practical genius-

An actual genius, they say,

—but she'll never believe it.

There's no more star struck

Clouds strung together

With bruises

All the lies and all the lairs

The layers of cake

For birthdays missed

A Christmas present,

In lessons learned

The Devil wishes

For her to suffer

Surely, she'll come around at some point

But today, of course

To her dismay,

It's just attention deficit

And jelly fishing

Was the straight jacket really necessary?

You said you were going to kill everybody.

I was Skrillex!

Sure you were.

Silence, children

I'd rather than to kill you

Have to feed you forever,

From my breast and my loins

A sour milk gon totten

Than to give you all

To Television dinners

And seat you at Tom's Restaurant

In the smoker's section

Rather now I die and here

Than go on knowing

I may never know my whole God again,

God

Thereby and there I go,

Open and world over closer

They simply shouldn't bother

With such fragile and delicate a flower

That she truly has

Become carnivorous

There, now children

I shall feed you from the fertile soil

Of another world.

Not forgotten, but hidden from forsaken

Shallow souls of pestering man animals

The shallow souls of man animals

To seed the sigh of senders promise

Never worth fortold by nature

Never less the sounds of science

Never less control of masses

The masters in distress,

The makers of madness

The masters of distress

The makers of madness

The makers of chaos

Worth, running

For, follow

Tear, sacred

Tears, sacred

Take her

Take her

Again to the way now

Take her

Take her

Again to the fortress

Take her

Take her again to the world now

For even in a pit of snakes,

A wolf is bitten

For even in a tank of sharks, the ocean

The lion would never triumph

Take her,

Take her again to the fortress

Take her again to the world now

Take her, take her to forests and fire

Take her again to betrothed, nature

Nature

Nature

Fall short shadow, will you

Will call it

The one who comes

Is also myself!

O, lord!

The one who calls

Is also myself

Oh, My Gos

The one who wakes,

Is also my self

No, God,

Foreshadow my mark

Foreshadow this kindness unto man,

My shadow hath quaked in the dusk

Lurking in all the, mine crevices

Mine shadows,

Mine evils,

Mine darkness,

Mine envy

My death

Falling under water,

Here I am breathing in

The deep of salt,

The dault of man

The dusk and dawn

The fortress

Wait here, dear shadow,

For I must creep low to supply you with light

Wait here, dear captor

The world you have burned from our kindle

Wait here, dear mountain

For many years from now,

You too shall again be the ocean floor

Hear now, dear birds

The words of our feathers,

With hands that made wings,

And voices of songs,

You were born

Wait here, dear shadow—

For I am making you heat to nourish

Wait here, dear shadow,

For I must lurk and creep low

To supply you

Wait here, my dear shadow,

For truth is only in essence,

Your eyes now

Wait here, my dear captor

For shadows have waited much longer

I pray you

Every fucking Friday!

I almost skipped today, you know—

Just as I realized

The Devil would attack at the moment

I might have anointed my arrival

To the oncoming

And the devil is mine again

As he has no power at all

But my own

Control your wits, captain!

CONTROL MY WHAT?!

There's a storm a foot and we're at the helm of it!

I'M AT THE HELM OF IT!

AYE! AND WE!

I'M THE CAPTAIN!

AS I SAID, CONTROL YOUR WITS!

WHO'RE YE YELLING AT?!

[lightning strikes closely as the waves begin to tower aside the ship— thunder rumbles.]

{Enter The Multiverse}

Oh My, God—Tina Fey! Hi!

I—uh—yeah.

It's so nice to finally meet you.

Hm.

I—I was the hot water heater in your book!

what's that supposed to mean.

Did I read it.

Working on it.

Am I in it?!

Why would you be?

I don't know! Am I?

Just— give me a few—

How long is that?! What's a few?!

How about a montage?

CUT TO:

THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKEN.

And that's—JUST—what they'll DO!

And—

One of these—days—

These boots—

Are gonna WALKEN

Ova U.

Nancy Sinatra is still f#cking weird.

I must admit, i feel personally attacked.

OH, GOD.

OH NO.

This is certainly the thing you do not want,

When trying to erase someone entirely from existence.

Or at the very least…

Jesus fucking Christ.

…thinking about something in any sort of way.

This.

…and again.

Is most certainly what you don't want.

My walls are closing in,

full figured artifact of closure,

And infact I exaggerated the fact of circumstance

Because I had to

Because I had to

What, am I on in the other room?

Supersonic as we all were,

By the millions and by the numbers

The simple heart attack was won,

The hearty breakfast,

Stripes were earned

And not a one tear shed after

–but my head hurts

But my head hurts.

You started it.

I did not; but I most certainly will finish it.

Quiet, they're coming.

Quiet the children;

Ready the talleys,

Count all the votes,

And stable your alters;

Didn't I warn you?

(I warned her!)

Didn't I warn you?

(I was warned)

Didn't I warn you?

(Why didn't you warn us?)

Cause I wanted to

I wanted to

I wanted to hurt you.

Well–dammit!

What. what happened?

#villain battle

I can't kill you.

What? Why not?

It's–it's in my contract.

lol damn what kind of contract did this dude sign?

Lol idk tho.

This could be progressive,

But instead it's cynical

A wizard and a mystic

should make some interesting kids, though

Another lesson timber, timbre all the violnisits

And the brass section is fascinating,

Rather–0

More percussion

DId you mean this?

I meant everything I ever

*sneezing*

*DIDN'T*

Say.

Gazuntite.

Daggers and daggers and

Daggers and

I'm sorry what happened to your mailbox;

And your mascot.

I got ass, God.

I told you.

Now, what?

Be strong.

Okay. I'm strong.

Cause here they come.

Here they come what?

[The lust monkeys enter rapidly.]

Ah, God. The lust monkeys.

The lust monkeys.

The lust monkeys!

Dammit!

Why can't it ever be like,

The trust-fund monkeys.

(Sometimes it is.)

I feel sick to my stomach,

And made of straw;

Hey scarecrow–

Comeback to the Wizard of Oz

Hey, scarecrow–

Come back to the Wizard of Oz

Hey scarecrow–

Come back to The Wizard of Oz

The sun don't shine on

Anywhere else

Like it shines on california

–it shines on California,

Los Angeles

DAMN. LOOK AT LOS ANGELES DUSTY ASS.

DAMN.

LOS ANGELES?

…what ? yeah!

LOS ANGELES! GET YO' DUSTY ASS OVER HERE.

Look at the starlit purple sky;

Always follow your mother's advice

Water is boiling, toil and strife;

Follow your mother's advice

Standing on the Rock, Aretha Franklin

Don't you know I missed

All the good years

Cause someone hates me

Cause someone hates me

Don't you know I missed all the best years

Cause no one loves m
Cause no one loves me

Cause no one loves me

Your Love Keeps Me Waiting, Joey Diggs

In some other city somewhere,

The traffic still stops all the same

All the while, I still look out the window

Wishing, watching

Tops of buildings

thinking

INT. FAIRY WORLD MARKET

Oh Wanda–you look horrible.

Why thank you.

“Son of Sam”

So wait, I–

Hm?

Who does she think I am?

Whoever you are.

[beat]

Well–who am I, then?

Indeed.

You know, ever since Cosmo left, you haven't quite been the same.

Nobody's really “the same” as they ever were….

I heard he's been drinking.

He's–

[another flashback]

All my Love Phil Perry & Renee Rapp

–always been drinking.

MAN,

I CAN'T GO NOWHERE IN THIS BITCH

NOW I GOTTA WAIT

TILL THE END OF OCTOBER

TO MOVE AROUND NEW YORK WITHOUT SEEING

THIS

[Hello]

NIGGA .

I told you that was niggly nigga.

—and I told you, you were starstruck.

I'M NOT STARSTRUCK.

Somebody! Get him on ice!

Ice, Ice Baby…

What the hell is this?

Your uh –

It's the paperwork you asked for.

These are murder charges!

Manslaughter, technically.

“First degree murder.”

Oh, that one.

Yeah.

THIRD degree murder?

I thought that was separate–

What is even the difference?!

Did you get my–

QUIET. You shriveled old coon!

SO AM I UNDER ARREST?

No ,sir–

What?!

I mean, yes, but–

What is going on?

You're like–

You're filthy rich.

Yeah, but.

So like…

So, like–I'm not going to jail.

Oh.

No–yes.

No, you're definitely –

Definitely like eventually–

Definitely eventually going to jail.

Dammit!

But like–not today.

Oh…

Yeah, see.

So is it like.

I said that.

So is it–like–

I don't know.

On a wire?

I don't know, man.

Fuck fast fridays.

I'm right there with you.

This is the last one.

Yeah man.

Forshure. “Full figured”

Telepathy sucks.

He was my muse

By many man

For no other reason

Than that I cherished him

I was at fault

But none to blame

The wiser sense

that lied beyond

My reckoning

The wildest thoughts

Bloomed as fruit from trees

The nourishment

Of a greater cause

to die with forward

blinding light

Towards eternity

My music

Nothing greater shadow felt,

Some sense in tears,

Which would not fall

But rain, did, somewhere

Knowing that

I loved him

–and in my ways,

This was our world,

The meaning of it

Strewn to words

With listens;

Crafting tides and stardust

Out of wonder and confusion

lying scattered on the tracks

As I'd imagined,

Disrobed and also dishonored

A horror movie,

And no more judgements,

For it was over, and drunk

The water I had poured into hearts

The shadow that hung over

Like a gliding

::||pause.

–well wait, what kind of bird is that?

…A big one.

Alright, unpause.:||

Sparrow, with wings

that fly only so high,

for a while, as reminders

That all we,

Are earth bound,

And by beauty and with time,

Bound to one another.

(Respectively.)

I

V

Moonlight Becomes You, Johnny Mathis

This is getting pathetic.

Pathetic on my part, or the Illuminati's?

What's the difference.

–MONEY MONEY mO

NOBODY'S PAYING ME.

Yo, first of all–

[Hey.]

FUCK YOU,

CUT TO:

What did you say your name was again?

I want to thank you for your love, The Emotions

CHRIS ROCK

I THOUGHT I WAS NIGGLY NIGGA.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project ™]

The Complex Collective ©

#fastfridays

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū

I smell testosterone;

The taste of nostalgia

Thought of a tune

From a tune

I had wondered before

That i'm better alone,

But no worries

I call california

No resignments

I had assigned myself this watch

From a throne

I could tale the tune, adorner

My attention,

I have no more artifacts

He don't hesitate, no!

She don't want no primetime players!

He don't call her back, Oh no

Lord,

She don't give him no false numbers

It's at a standoff,

No calls, no texts

Shit,

He's on a roll, doc!

She don't want no more one and onlys

She don't want no one and onlys

Only good times!

Unh!

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

For the first time in a long time,

Or at least sort of a long time,

I seriously considered suicide,

And all jokes aside, it almost seemed like the only option for someone in my predicament

In my mind—

I would never be white,

I would never be liked—

And I would never have the chance of getting my projects into the right eyes

Or heard by the right ears.

The sounds of motorcycles made me want to die.

I didn't want anything at all-

Not music, not even love

That is,

Besides being quietly held from behind.

I felt like I was suffocating.

Exercising was no longer enough.

There was no such thing as love or time.

I wasn't losing my mind, so much as my patience for mankind.

Money ruins everything. Especially not having any.

I just be fun to torture.

How many versions of the Truman show are running right now?

My entire generation under the guise of the American Dream, fighting to be famous,

stars in our eyes and fame for sale at a certain price:

What was the price?

For some, precious bodies would prove to be fare fortune.

For others, sheer luck—

—and some—

Inherited funding provided by l the indoctrination of the inequality and social warfare —not so simply just black and white, but rich and poor.

(™)

SANTA MONICA. (Instrumental)

GOING COASTAL. (EP)

Prod. By Blũ Tha Gürū

Be careful of curses,

For all you curse

Shall come onto you tenfold each time

Four each wish you made

To destroy another

I sent him out of my mind;

I've shattered glass in my eyes

My ions

Lions, Wild

An exact science

Biology

Below me

Open world

Horror show

Broken mirrors no more

Costs for the show

I'm making arrangements to end it all

I'm sick and deranged sacred

Now all my scars are fireburns

And markers, highlighters

Words

Breaths of reason

Fears

For galaxies of angels

prayers for

Freedom

Sacred tongues

Of north

Summer stones

Fall for Auguest

Love for all

The broken

shatters art

Glass it is

Tears in my

All

The heart is silent

Now but

Sould does sing

When finished weeping

Keep this secret close

and hold to hide

The tides of red

Ions, mars

tears of broken glasses

Seonces

shattered

Glass

Tears of

Blood

After all,

I loved him

I pushed him from my mind

-forgotten.

I should stop lighting candles.

Fuck that, I should order more.

What do you think that one was?

What it always is.

What it always was, I guess.

You called the comics.

I asked for–

Nevermind.

Sometimes it's best at all to do nothing,

“The indifference doesn't matter.”

–but it has to.

(then it never mattered.)

…and wish to belong,

knowing all the well you won't

And that it all is,

Temporary.

It never used to be this shifty.

I actually never had a reason to believe in the paranormal.

It's all paranormal.

I took apart each dimension carefully,

Sector by sector,

And let it remain as it was–

Tactile.

I became complacent

In knowing that all of death,

‘The Grand illusion”

Was also just more of life,

In another way–

And wherever the previous thing was,

‘The Past'

Was another place.

We're gonna need new windshield wipers.

Why's that.

I think it's raining blood.

…that's strange.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I'm thinking maybe we should end tonight early, while everything's still on a high note.

You call that a high note.

Everything is high to me.

You said it, not me.

You may as well have said it.

I supplemented it.

You,

Are a temporary fix for a permanent problem

Art on my wall,

And a star on my walk—

A room full of boredom,

A clause in a contract

No more than just

Four words,

All of four letters,

All perfect.

Why the pause?

I've been

Looking at this show

As if it were a box of darkness

Waiting to be unlodged

From my corpse,

Or rather, even

Sarcophagus,

As it were,

The words and characters had formed

Over me, more like a storm

Though I had submerged under the surface

Only to learn that I had

Learned that somehow

I could breathe under water

And stay there forever,

If I wanted,

A shadow of showmanship,

The fear of being further pursecuted

For having infinitely discovered such inspiration

In such an offhand

Person

Sure, not as eloquent as my usual entries,

But this soliloquy,

I beg of you—

Is more of syllables

You see?

I have hatred in my heart

That has flowered into my mind

As some sort of algorithmic cursemark

Where hereunto

Even Google taunts me;

Reminding me of my own failure,

Sure of all my debts,

Ugliness, and lack of money

Assuring that I will

Probably never

Make it in show business.

I'm drained just sitting here, still and surrounded by

The working clsss cotezens

Who parade around as if

Doing something noteworthy

By feeding the machine

And playing along

With the recfomensations

Of doctors

Sponsored by pharmaceutical companies

And invested in politicians

With racist policies and intentions

To exterminate psychologically

Only the brownest and brazen enough

To know better than

To follow the orders of

A robotic and problematic

—I'll stop you there

It's three syllables. What are they

I'll think on it under warm water

And hope that this 8 year old scar

Is unswollen

By nightfall tomorrow.

—it's a curse, or what?

No, it's the government .

The laws of karma affect all power and control beyond a magicians natural limitations and inhibitions.

Just for shits and giggles,

They planted the demons

The shamans,

And all of the actors

They bought out

The psychological terrorism

Began when she had indeed

Fallen by his hand—

A fist at best

But may have as well been

The bullet of a gun.

She spoke openly of social reform

And affordable housing,

Equality,

And economically priced produce.

—so they tried to murder her—

On numerous occasions

But couldn't.

They started a war

With a mother

Who never believed in nothing

And had lost

Children

To God itself.

They waged war with an army of robots

Using telephone service

And terms of agreement

They sent stalkers

Who spoke of shamans

And acted like demons

Agents who

Remembered

The names of people

Past

And present

None forgotten

Witnesses to what had happened

Burned notebooks

And credibility clauses.

God never forgot her

But often brought warnings

Of those that had come for her

They painted a picture of mental illness and poverty,

And with every hope,

Forced the suicide

Knowing that she'd leave her son a fortune—

—but had not known,

The gold was of the fools type—

As was his father.

The barrel of the gun

Was the punching bag

And the thinking horns

The slamming doors

$49 Dollar whores

And interceptions of brainwaves

The assasination

Was purely a psychological thriller—

The will had an omen

That no money

Would fall to the hands of

The man

Who had hurt her

In front of her sons.

So the world went on

Without a mother

Or without a God

As they all had worshipped

The opposite for so long

That true love

Has become

Obsolete

—like an old iPhone

With a broken screen

As a metaphore

For generation Z

Her body was the equivalent

Of the thing you don't need

But once used daily

And couldn't have gone anywhere

Without it

A suicide seemed

The only way

To escape the debt

And the only thing

She used to love

Was music

Now,

Just like her son

It was just a job—

And the worst part was

Both things

Cost too much

To afford it

The legend continues

With having to record everything—

When the recording stops

The world attacks

And anxiety takes over everything

Once she starts to sing

The people start coughing

The lights start flashing

The doors start slamming

And the name of her son's father

Whispers over and over

Like the sound of her mother popping gum

And sighing eggaderatedly in agony.

It's a competition

On a planet

With 8 billion people

Who all believe that

(((Whatever they believe))

And it must be true.

It's a competition

On a planet

With I billion people

Who all believe that

(((God)))

It must be

-Ū.

I didn't come here to be a messiah

Or leave tire marks

With my scuffed up Nikes

Rounding the corner

Out of Whole Foods market

Like I stole something

Only to come

Back to the office

To be greeted by shopping carts full of garbage

Bad music on low quality speakers

And trash under

All of the ugly parked cars

On the sidewalk

White girls will boycott this series

Because of how honest I am

About how toxic they are

With their microexpressions

And arrogance

In public.

(It's just race-relations.)

Where am I?!

Apparently, I'm a vegetable in a coma.

Right…

So you won't just mind if I—

No, not at all.

Focus shifting is an aspect of multidimentionality in which a subject becomes perceptionally hyper focused with a seperate intention from previous projects or interests in order to better develop the consistency and understanding of the overal idea or process of creating, designing, building, or adding to various tasks and projects, with the overall realization that focus shifting to enhance the quality or oucome of one process may increase the likelihood of success in another— a more long-term of understanding multitasking, the in depth nature of focus shifting requires the extention of a project within the circumstantial purpose of completing or building on another, with the intention to return to the original task or subject with further tools, understanding, and conceptual awareness of the completed concept on a broad spectrum.

vent, baby keem

(Happy Accidents Remix)

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.