[ENTER THE MULTIVERSE]

At an interesting and quick pace,

The man asked to be seen by the doctor,

A wish,

No distasteful strand of eloquence left unopened—

He asked for a mailbox, and she gave him a shovel

(And a shower for a show!)

O Conan!!!

That just became so readily amusing to me,

That I might have failed to have mentioned, dear reader

An atrocity unwinding for us we have found—

and we have found such indeed, in perpetual times,

To be one another, and all at all times! A quest!

Given a seat at the entry,

To have been given any attention,

And keep each of them with me

A mention—

For factor of disappearance— “¿whereforeartthou women? “

We'll ask—

(But no children please)

I get it;

I got tracked down for an autograph

And asked for one, if any

For a stone each

Goes to the other.

Listen,

Movement again

Catch me if you can, car//cat.

What a head trip

What a head trip

What a disasterous ask,

How I failed to have lost you at all,

And found one at the crossroads,

Dropped off at the crosswalk

Don't forget waffles!

Stramlining streamers

And bicycle tires

Times of the times

Of the times

(Of the times, I said)

I love iron

And ironing boards in the flatiron district

Don't do anything I wouldn't

(Fair, and very well said.)

Fair and very well done, your honor

Are we all on the same ark now,

Noah?!

No!

It couldn't be I had ever lived so dangerously

Look at me

I went all that way

And only lost $22 dollars!

A dollar a minute!

—times a wasting!

I went all this way

And still owe 30 minutes on the stationary bike

{After 30 More Minutes on The Stationary Bike}

In the crosshairs//crosfires of something once thought as love, we find reason to give in trust to such, as not has now parted from within these sequences

—of time, through time—

and by time, in and of itself, in nature

—with and throughout cause of now and where we have come, into truth;

Awakened by our judgement,

And in spirit, here gathered as farkind.

Sometimes, I honestly don't know what any of this stuff means— or what I'm writing until after I've done it.

I've got to go;

That's Christopher Lloyd.

John Wilkins, Sr. Sir. Reporting for duty.

Have you got your paperwork gathered?

As you asked.

As was commanded.

Yes, sir.

I see here you have— mounted—

—and unmounted—

—yes…this mission—several times within the last decade.

I've seen to it to show all paths taken within the simulation—sir—both in and out of each district within the series grid.

*face*

—uh, sir.

…I see. And your continuum?

Spotless: In fact— with your judgment, you might confirm I've become somewhat of a—

(Clearing throat)

Ahem.

—celebrity.

*coughs*

—sir.

[a break]

—it has been well documented.

All Things Considered…

…All Things Considered.

(Breaks fourth wall, as if to say “i beat you to the punch.)

(No pun intended.)

That's not funny!

No, it's not, but—

All Things Considered…

….

“All Things Considered”

{Enter The Multiverse}

Huh. A new show.

Oh My God.

What's wrong?

A new parallel.

—where?

…close.

And—how?!

Since when did we ever know how things happen—

[The Festival Project ™ ]

—In this realm, or anywhere else?

—-

How's “anywhere else” sound?

Marvelous— as long as it doesn't cost too much.

It won't.

Please tell me you're taking these things seriously.

Serous as it gets.

It's as serious as they come, I think.

They're going to kill him.

They're going to kill me!

I'm…gonna kill him.

Well— that's enough!

Off to work!

I've gotta go!

AND LIVE FROM NEW YORK, ITS

—I touched it.

Shut the ——

UP.

Um. What.

You can't say that.

We're live .

I just did [bleep] say that

Why is it—

—oh my god—

—where's the censor?!

Are we live!?

We're live!

Cut to commercial!

We can't!

Run the backup generators.

Ahahahahah.

We gotta get this thing off the ground.

We'll see.

Oh! She's—

I'm sure you'll understand lately.

Through the corridor.

Where's the corridor.

You'll see it.

*walks into wall*

Er—maybe not.

Portal!

Portal!

Portal!

Always.

Follow.

Your instinct.

Maybe later?

I—

Wait! Where are you going?!

Somewhere else! I don't know!

There's something you should know.

What should I know.

He—shot himself this morning.

Oh, that's terrible.

I might have my wires crossed,

Then again,

Come again,

Here again—

Second time

The controller of everything

Controller of God

—but if God has a controller

I guess that's who I am

(That's who I am)

I'm not tryna look cute today;

I just wanna go in on a loan

How long has it been

Seen I seen what you saw—

But if I saw your face,

It's a whole new world

I got lost once;

No more scholarships

No more storms,

No abortions.

No missed calls,

No more harsh words

(Harsh words lost!)

No more music,

More songs

Fire on,

Bass guitar—

I play everything on the wall

I'm a whole animal

I got tired of the wall,

I got a will to work

I just won't work

For a star!

Someone call my employer,

I got ties, and bosses

Leather cuffs and centrifugal force less

I'm so worthless

But you started it for her

No, I don't want to smile;

I should just start the fire under my soul

To get lost with it.

I'm still tied to the art,

Still tied to it all

I still can't decide

For my heart

Or my soul

If I should just move on with it.

I shouldn't move over so fast;

This whole car has bucket seats.

I should just leave it to God,

And I don't want to worry too much

About projects

I already took losses on

If it buffers again,

I know I'm in charge

Just thinking about where I've gone with it says

I should let it go,

All the way gone.

I don't need a divorce

I need to resurface

Just let go

And just get gone

I've been missing a piece of my heart

And I've had a lot of fun times

On rooftops

But I got two dogs barkin

With no bones

And no boners

As thrones

To sit upon

What was that about the crown?

If my plane goes down, all is lost.

I thought about voice activated doors—

Keeping the lights on at night

And starting wars over

Don't hold onto value

What doesn't serve you only

Sell the dream they sold you

To show you

The cold shoulders;

I need no more open doors

And no pawns

If it's not worth all of it

All of it.

I don't want

More open doors,

And more artifacts to show

I could only get cold hard numbers

No nurses more;

Wait till you get a divorce—

That'll show you the cold hard world.

I'm not worried about an offer.

I'm not worried about a job,

As long as I've got

long John Silvers

I'm not worried about the way it works so much

Except

Leaving a piece of myself

In the past,

With no way to get out.

(There's no way to get out)

Didn't I say before

That I loved the whole world over you.

You built the whole world over water

The wall around Rome in a day.

Remember the time you sold your piece

And your peace

Remember what you could give

To forgive

To forget

To spend your entire life

Spinning and spinning

In the wild

And

End-the-end

It's a win-win situation.

It's a push to start world, you know

This—we live in

A paranormal paradox

Of modern amenities

And

[Conviniences]

[The Festival Project™]

—-I just want to play with him.

I promise, I'll give it right back when I'm finished

I don't plan on keeping it

Or living long

Or doing well—

Or coming home till morning.

Everyone gets worried after supper

When the car backs out of the driveway, God knows

I could be gone for an hour at most,

Or a month,

Depending on

Where I'm going

Nobody knows

When I close my doors to visitors

Open to the public, on some days.

On some,

Corporate function.

Dress code with all the right

Suits and ties,

Dollar signs and

Brunches

Now, far beyond private

Firewall

And a lockdown mode.

I'm dizzy with the loss of time

But you'd chain me to a bedpost,

Managed by a stranger

Then again, at night

I've lost all hopes

All night,

Steady fishing in a man made pond

For nine hosts.

So if 9 out of 10 times

The answer is yes,

And one no—

Might as well vote;

Get on with it

I should fill out an app for McDonald's yet

I'm already full of c/gum

And water.

So why not?

[The Festival Project ™ ]

Laramie Hughes is a jack of all trades.

A representative of God on all behalfs

Tearing down the institutions of sanity

Forbearance of betrayal

Unkind, but bewildered

They come in all incarnations

Ignorant to one another

Which one's which?

However,

The light that brings awareness to all things,

The triad of knowledge,

Wisdom and

illumination

Your pain is words in music

Tears to translation,

The chaos, destruction

Of forming worlds once thought

As foraged, once of thought

But now become of us

What we are

The color of God

(He looks to meet his untimely demise atop a skyscapter in midtown Manhattan)

Oh God, here it goes

Below, the summoned protector waits, awakened as archangel and antithesis to what is known, to catch him — thus prolonging his existence, and though not truly preventing his untimely death, giving birth to his enlightenment...

Oh God, here it comes.

He jumps, giving way to all element

-a ragdoll,

She stands basking in his glory,

Nonchalont

And catches him.

A high tide breaks,

Catching into a storm

In the night,

Off the coast,

In Los Angeles

Embargo!

Embargo!

A sanctioned cry,

For here once more Friday comes,

Again we call to all Ark,

The martyr of aces—

Keeper of stones,

Craft of Wanda,

They call God,

But also non-form

Circumstance of other

Antithesis,

Before antiquity.

The light in your language

Has crafted pure steadyform

Emotion in my cadence,

Thought to be worlds of wonder

Dance, brave fortune has captured!

Light, scared not of darkness

But ending in all time

The underworlds unknown to awareness

At all—

A Kingdom;

See you now the heart unfold,

The tired messages of animals form

A love so misrepresented as to call it so

One,

Besides the box of fixatures,

Captor or wrechetness

The end of all evil,

The Sun of a new kind

Blood on the water,

Bask in I now,

Another misfortune

The keeper of keys has gone and fallen

Not into rest,

But another world—

Waking is he to the cries

And the sorrow thoughts of others,

The many amass,

To structure what had bonded

Him of his hands,

The ties,

No more a world he leaves behind!

No more is he!

Steady, mister

I have forgiven the end of all what is real

In exchange for your interest

Sanctioned

Embargo!

Embargo!

So, wounded mother—

In your care I bloom

If only to forget of you,

Upon waking my own,

A gifted enchanted and given sword,

No shield but I,

As my own title

Becomes coordinates;

A map and globe to scale

Crafted of thought

Trickle now your tears, chorus

Dear chorus—

Sing now of accomplishments and whistles gestured at the woven wicker basket

Have you a candle for us,

Doctor—

Or perhaps,

As architect,

You have fashioned, dear savior

A mercy-

Forgive us of our pondering

Unknown of your nature

Until light had vanished

From our eyes

And dark tortured skies

Screeched with winds captivated

As to know

Where you had gone.

Oh— why?!

Would this lapis appease you?

A ring of tin and aluminum;

I thought not

(Then again to think at all,

Becomes your own world.)

Again I am crying for your forgiveness

A kindness granted

Only to know once,

The word of your will

Again,

The fur of cat is groomed

With the essence of frankincense,

The wreath of rosemary

A run through the financial cordidor

Panhandling

There, I gathered wood for fire—

The journey a gift of eternal enchantments

A forceful trek to ponder

What I had tied

To my own,

A heart,

A soul,

A seed—

An ocean.

Keeper's Saint,

Will you again find tide with us?

In our minds, we are at feast and in fortunes

But our bodies gravely,

Not at rest,

But to give way to

What is wanted.

Embargo!

For this true, it's no comedy upon us;

These acts of kindness

And tea fortold

Have come again,

As once in Athens,

And again in Rome

And now in New Jerusalem,

As to be

Opposite Eden

—and suddenly,

All the blondes

I had become

Had come to surface

That I was her,

Buried in my own blindness and envy

Having thought of myself as the enemy

And she of circumstantial evidence of the devil at large

I pitied again,

The blankness of my own heart

The displacement of my own soul

Never having been loved at all

By a man besides my own father

She can clear a sample!

Why I got licenses,

Replacements and mailboxes?!

I got nothing but a refund

Shit

15 more minutes, no fame

Control

Let me get the fuck out of here

Before the whole world follows

Let me get the fuck out of here

Before the whole world follows

Six Kings since

Six aces

Since process

Covered incofortable

Since Prince given 6 senses

6 grievances

Seven suns

Seven daughters

Seven worlds

Seven waters

BENYONCÉ and her 6 parallel selves are seated at an upscale restaurant in New York City.

Oh my God—

That's Beyoncé.

No way!

It is—

Oh my Yod.

Seven waters please

Uh…

My cousins!

Cousins!

You didn't know—?

Family.

Cousins! Right

A super gay waiter enters wearing by some coincidence a relic he purchased that Beyoncé herself had once worn; he clocks in for his shift and sees the seven neyonces ay the table

|||

{THE GAYEST FANGIRL SCREAM THAT EVER}

Sss.

Demarcus, as we learn the super fan is called, after losing his job due to the incident, is sought out by Beyoncé and her 6 multidimentional selves and contracted as a bampheramph to enter the void and aide in time traveling the other dimensional multi space, returning each Beyonce to her respective existences and thus restoring the balance to the Beyonceverse as a whole; though he he learns he may never be able to return home to his primary dimension, he agrees anyway to the dangerous feat and is promised upon completion of the mission to be thoroughly rewarded, however Demarcus makes it known that the greatest reward of all is to have had the joy and experience of meeting his all time idol and lifelong hero— a tale of the love and power of fandom, and heroic journey of everyday heroes, brought together though the love and journey of music—and superstardom.

[Demarcus is eventually returned to a dimension in which his wildest dreams have become a reality.]

#fastfridays

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S

Embargo!

Nonetheless, here we are-/

All unmasked and known by our titles

As labels,

In the unknown the darkened light spoken

Had awoken to none more than chaos

A rampant pain and fury of unrequited love

On four accounts,

Mark the 5 and 6

For an eight series coincidal

There we are in the whole form

If only one God,

Which has been said

To walk upon us,

All the knowing of

Nothing at all

Besides the hope of a midnight dawn

By candlelight

Foraged in rain

And pastel paint

For domed cielings

Incense prayers

And glorious foretelling

Of those to come once

And again

And never more

Once world has sought

Only fair weather modems

And blinding call, so—

We are again

In entourage,

Our own truth—

Embargo!

The chorus and ensemble assembles

As protons and smoke,

Ashes and dust,

Cadences and melodies

Melodramas

[The Festival Project ™]

Hark!

How now?

Vikings!

—you said what?

And Frat Boys!

Jyre snatches the binoculars from Hyro..

Let me see that.

To die in one way,

In form another—

For who can deny any artform

So crafted with such delicate an I,

That any you, fair beings

Could understand

The circumstance of what love I gave

The shield of oath,

The blood of sacrifice,

An origin

None truth would swallow

Or define the son(g)bird,

Once scattered and set to depart

Dear storms would follow,

A songbird,

Canary,

Dove,

And the trumpets of swaddled,

Mother goose and laid bane in arms,

The wrath of therefore furious wages,

The seeing and benign snadow of tithings

Truths that borrow!

Scared from creatures

Actual or none at all

The gallows and gourdes

Of strings pulling,

Speaking our words from quilted fingertips—

The Gods,

Safely perched and at safe distance

From he who does not want her

But becomes of all the treasured stone

Awakened in her fortresses

Cast of shadows,

Bond and tied by boundless skies

The Cosmos,

A journey—

Entered in antithesis

And formed awakened in the galaxies

For where apartheid stands as happened

No other circumstance and safety whileyou,

Will I now or neither gathered

From all eyes have seen,

Heart has heard,

Sailors watch the sails have set

Into wind with breath of air,

Forming therefore more words,

wisdom of color

Coat of arms

Swarms of aces,

And currents dollars;

The foretelling of stories often told,

But neigh listened to,

But watched and taught

By neighbors with greetings,

Dressed as others in our forms,

How call,

A truth be told,

For once in the den of wolves

And the call of tiles,

Tires, never once to touch the ground,

Chosen by nature

To be fitted by those of ours

Who wait in the galley—

Unbynow, our ties

Who have chosen in sense of nature

To have forgiven us,

Our lies—

To have caused us

To have shattered there,

And on the wicked, resting wings

Of a creature

Who does not fly

She keeps holy water by her bedside

Of roses and willpower

The 6th Saint of Guesses

And Fantasy…

Wow! Reese Witherspoon. Hey.

Yeah!

I totally forgot you existed.

Well… thanks—

—and I totally get you mixed up with Drew Barrymore, sometimes—

Oh…

Brittney Murphy—

Okay, that's not—

—Dakota Fanning.

Okay, yeah, that's—

But she's like 12.

She's like, 30, I think.

What's the difference?

A lot. Like, a decade and a half.

Hollywood, ya know.

Uh…

Time flies. Anyway.

Yeah.

Reese Witherspoon. Geez.

Yeah.

Have fun.

Wait, where are you going?

I gotta go— whatever, some bullshit—

Hollywood— blah blah blah.

Then why am I here?

Consider yourself lucky.

For what?!

Everybody wants to be in The Festival Project!

What's “the festival Project?”

I don't know. ‍♀️

—?!

Welp, see ya.

—!!!

{embargo}

I was serious enough,

In my words and my ties

For the sake of my bonds,

Out of bounds and on

Brooklyn bound trains,

From Manhattan

Machine washed field of fantasy,

Outfitted for us all on the glory of a spring day

In autumn,

California heroine or lure,

Folktales

And superstardom

Made of truth and of love,

A new kind,

The end of ages laced with wickedness

A bounty on her words,

The way of others are kind in their shadows,

No one has called,

And now,

No one is watching

Waiting, whisperer

A different one, another kind

The brief awaiting,

Then there goes I

Under the hidden sun,

The Autumn come,

The fall of man,

The dawn of love,

The synchronicity of sounds as songs

The birds call home,

No wonder the window was open.

No books,

All alone—

To summon up my own galaxy

Would be to wish

I hadn't let tie me

To worldly pleasure

On fasting day—

But yet again,

Here calls my own nature,

Needing to be needing to be wanted,

Then withered, as it were, to something else.

Hiding in your eyes,

I am

My love of natures kind

Your hazel tides

And ocean blue—

The thought of jade,

Who yet again

Was meant for always,

As I am only

Darkness scorned beauty

All of your luck, as my witness

Forever to hear shadow

To the wickedness of man

Though we are not aligned,

Still the same as many kind,

I want not the slow churning

Of being that, and this at all

—as God is one

And acts in many parts,

All of us,

Or some,

Between set boundaries,

Games of war,

And for arguments sake, inquisitive

Gestures of word fare, gameplay,

Galleys and artfare—

Begin to think you, me,

And I, yourself, you—

Lest we part in denial

Of our dire cause

To form man

The Standard.

The Classic.

The Ordinary.

And—

You rat-toothed bastard!

What did I do?!

You know what you done!

I haven't! And that's bad grammar—

Don't you tell me how the hell to talk, before I kill ya!

Kill me! For what!

You know what!

I must admit, I've become quite partial to using

This Jimmy Fallon character

As a human shield.

WHY. WHY ME.

wtf.

lol

Why Jimmy Fallon.

Because.

—

AGH— NO

HES GOOD HOOMAN SHIELD.

___

HE'S A GOOD HUMAN SHIELD!

Enter the corridors,

The unclaimed nature

Of travelers, in our time,

Coming the wave of signs,

Foreigners,

Call watchers,

Then and here,

Come waiting, wanting to know glory,

The foundation

Of Love Light

The faceless god

Comes creeping in the night

Seeking body to form

Among the walking,

A fiercety of weapons kind

Explanations embellished with

Seemingly meaningless

Only wanting time to waste,

Skinny and shallow,

Part chef and waiting,

None to others, at all,

Therefore I now, part ways

From waves and tides

To become rain and ghosts,

Beauty and wind,

Lessons and learned sins,

Therefore now I,

Wait and wonder,

Pondering to feed the birds

Or quench the thirst

For game and superstardom,

Not only of hreatness,

But ground in the greys and silvers of my hair

Mustache and whiskers,

Brows and hind eyes—

Where are you now

That I was upon waking,

A mistress,

But gathered now,

Awakens under clouds of sun,

To be another,

Only formed as the ground crumbled under her

Again, I live

Again, I go where there is no light of sun

By the shield of sight,

And the whisp of this,

That needs attention as such,

To call I—

A lost soul,

But friendly enough ghost

To have written songs in your partial kitewind.

Then, said I—

A watch upon the wrist would only tell time,

But not the day or the place of arrival for I,

Dear pardoned traveler,

Have also come journeys

Bound by galaxies grasp,

To have whispered into ears,

The things of Jesus

You will wait for him

As the curtain closes,

To come again,

though does he know not

In which beast he will be

But you, shadows

Wait in his envy,

The things you seek to ask and believe

The greetings of long since foreshadowed bark

Amongst you, believe now,

A new tale of these things,

As we bring peace,

You are now

In our forest,

Whenever be you now

Or forever,

As all is eternal,

As I am

You are

Fuck! Whatever that means!

I know, right!

Is this gonna happen every Friday now?!

Every Friday you fast, yes!

Goddamn!

Or don't! I don't care, really. Up to you.

No preference or preference really—

Anandar!

You called me out of my—

—what was I saying!?

First Aliocha

Then Anandar,

A salamander and wildebeest this morning

The grounds had shook

With all of the games being played

In the honor of one

Then,

I thought

A ghost myself—

Impartial to suicide,

But having lost the fit of love

Now to be tied at the alter,

A sash

Okay.

Delicate rain falls from leather skies,

Calling beasts of ours to nest in the calm and warm

Mother of Grattitude,

May I ask,

Where are you now,

That I've become humbled,

And true to art,

As having been asked,

Now not scrolled upon stone walls

Or scryed by fire,

But in this age,

Begot by light,

Another monster of my mind,

Shifted into these as saints,

The words of songs and poems,

The pages of unknown worlds,

In the cyberspace,

Perhaps,

Also as cosmos,

Also as thoughts

Also as words

Also as light—

Also as species;

These things are true to which I know

With what knowledge you have gave me

To think this way,

Upon each breath—

No attempt to be prolific,

But to be at all

Some wages as exchanged

Material things not wanted, but needed

And monetary gains,

Also as thoughts now,

But perhaps also cosmos

True, or not?

Fact, or fiction?

Carson, or Fallon?

What?

Who wore the pants better.

I—

Quickly!

I'm a dead man.

(I'm sure they're both dead.)

Hurry up!

What the fuck!

We're talking about two literal ghosts here!

Which is why—we don't have all day.

Do you know how long it took me to get Wilder down here for this?

Isn't he dead too?!

Perhaps, I am.

Boy, the rabbit was mad…

Almost as mad as the hatter,

And as expected

GET THAT DAMN CAT OUT OF HERE!

Your annual obsession is in;

Turns out, you've come down with the madness

We all tried on, as a hat once in fables

But now,

Machine washable,

Returned to Amazon

With the packaging label attached,

And still!

None was as mad as the black hatter at all!

No tea, but only strong Colombian coffee led

Taken black,

And made so strong by Alice,

Who indeed had been shrunk

To be fit to be tied

By Kendrick Lamar,

No white rabbit at all,

But oh,

To call him a cat,

Or a hatter,

Or caterpillar

Would make no sense at all—

At all you say?!

At all,

As you see,

He was no red King,

No,

But made house of cards

And all had fallen on his kingdom

To become something other

Than Alice at all,

But also lost

For you see,

She had fallen, dear Alice,

Into some hole in Compton,

And dropped

Into the bottom of the ocean

Propmptly below The Island

Of Long

—as so is below

Had happened above

Once a porcelain fable,

Now having been painted,

With the laces

Or tie died folly

Of uncorked

Nothing happens for nothing at all

No justice for just calls,

No focus,

Full world

The fear bought

And new war

For walks

Erhmergersh

It's a purple flermergerder!

*gasps*

Erhmgersh!

Whurt er luridly purple plurbergerder!!

Lurvlry!

Oh!! Ernd Shutrd ur lurvley sherd erv pruplelerplre!

There's in sense in

An evening with fate if he misses it

Assumed to be dead, or with you—

But for the cause,

There was no absolute certainty of the remittance—

The scoured and folded body

Of the wonderful world of God,

Once betrayed and forgotten

For better or worse,

With Gratitude asking for an experience

Her waters had sculled canyons,

And her words fell as oceans

Of another place in time

Or custom caskets

Please bury me,

sheathed in earth,

So that I breathe her

Forgiveness

For a toxic and harmful incarnation

Of our greedy

Alignments and reconciliation

Recognizing that—

If it's going to go fast,

It's gonna be loud—

And if it's gonna be loud

It might as well be a gun

(Just kill me already)

Not hungry yet,

But moving my parts where they ought to be

Out in the world,

And not waiting at all

To come home,

If I'm called with the promise

Of never returning

—not to return here .

Maybe i'm the one they call

The devil himself

When all I wanted

Ever

Was just to be loved

—even by just my mother

Not every other day

But every day

By someone

I live and can't love

In crustpunks city, USA

Better known as Brooklyn New York

Where the mullet is making a comeback

God help em!

I just turned back time

By two whole minutes

Thinking of skylines painted

With music

Meanwhile,

I almost forgot I'm still a cat

My fucking goodness

But I've no use for a litter box

Not even a little bit

(Which things should be and which things though not)

The curious case of Benjamin Button

In full throttle.

I'm so serious—

That's the second mullet I've seen in a week.

Stop it!

God help em

God bless em

Gid love em

Haven't I been standing here

More than 12 minutes already?

Standing still in New York

As new worlds are formed

With new words

I must have done something wrong today.

The bus driver was okay lookin.

I don't look at bus drivers.

I'm like—

Woah, buddy.

You can handle all that you can handle all this.

Good job, Jimmy.

Can you please stop using me as a human shield.

No! Cause then I'd need another human shield!

Then get another human shield!

No!

Why not!

This one is indisposable!

Oh God.

Where'd she go!?

Who?!

God!

What! She never came here!

What do you mean!? She said—

I was here the whole time! I didn't see anybody!

Well who'd you see?

Nobody, just some crack head!

Goddammit, we missed her!

What?!

Didn't I tell you—all the crackheads are God?!

What! Nobody ever told me that.

How did nobody ever tell you that? I told you that!

You never told me that.

I told you that. I know I told you that.

You never told me that.

Well—

Goddammit.

What the FUCK.

Why the devil always wanna be BEHIND a motherfucker?

Do I have something on my back?

Oh look. A portal.

Skrillex?!

It looks like

The Devil attached to my back

I might have to take a knife in it

A counterpart

To take the hex off

(Something told me not to go out.)

Something also told me

Nothing happens at all

With no movement

But God was lost as crossroads, either how

And anyway,

And anyway, we all got lost

At one time or another

What if I told you,

Once formed to one another

You've become

Forever bonded

AVENGERS, ASSEMBLE!

You really want to bring the—

Now,

When you need it most, you become the hero you are

Ther you always were.

But least expected it,

Especially now that everyone

Well fit to be

Tied to the cross

This for sure is why I dont fly spirit.

The New York experience

At poverty level

Is eye opening

To the inequality

And injustice

Foraged by ignorance

I've never been to bowling green

But got errands to run

Honestly,

You put your practically newborn baby in a bus

Exposed to all these people?!

BITCH, are you OUT OF YOUR MIND?

#I_NY

Yo somebody' actual grandma just got on the bus

In a tube top

I'm not eggagerating

This woman was like 70 years old

And you know black don't crack!

But I'm like:

DAMN.

Who GRANDMAMA IS THIS?!

Then she gon sit down next to me,

And get on Instagram.

She's checkin her stories.

I'm like—

Damn,

She looks about the same age as my actual grandmother.

That's—

I'm like

Woah.

My grandmother don't do all that.

My grandma taught me how to make lemonade,

that's it.

How to make lemonade, and to stay in abusive marriages until the kids grow up.

That's it.

This I know.

Thanks grandma.

I almost like this lady better.

She tore up, but she hip!

Is not the entire world a chemical dependence?

Dancing through projects

And galaxies

Stunted in movement, alcoves

Shallow ponds and hollow rivers tides

Comes again who I am,

When not all else m

She got off the bus, I was like

“Bye grandma!”

Aww.

Imma miss her.

She smelled good, too.

You know racism is really bad

When a colored woman would rather wear an old, ratty old wig

Or a terrible weave

Than her own natural hair.

I'm guilty of it myself—

And this is because I know

The way you are treated in public—

By not only whites— but other blacks

Judgement and mistreatment of the public in general—

If you natural hair is the furthest away from what has been made to be the ideal standard.

I'm rolling through the hood

To return after 9 months

This internet router

Which never worked due to “outages”

And came with hidden fees

Now on my credit report

The deeper I get into the hood, and the more the bus clears out

The most clusters of housing projects

And dilapidated buildings I see—

A reminder that the world at all much has not been changed

But only further hidden away from the eyes of what is known

A car without a name a fixer upper but a keeper

A classic

[EKO restaurant]

{Enter The Multiverse}

Punk rock Jimmy

Had a lot to say

Skeleton, skin and bones

Skeleton Keys,

I am formicated

I thought none deserving of such

At all

All the icons

And idols

And suffered star worshipers

Watching for lost survivors

Galloping the galaxies

—unicorns.

Horses colored as unicorns

No fair appetite at all

For applications,

Mezmerized, believing you will fold at mercy

The ions, are to say at least

All to none

They had already worshiped her

Already murdered her

Already bloodied her gown!

Drown, now!

Die! Silence!

Cadences,

Return to sender, your creatures

Fury of the underlord

Garnished of the underwent

Weeping of galaxies tied

Tied,

Dirty faith.

Wicked wars,

Sorted earth, l —

Now, remember how you found her

YO, FUCK YOU JIMMY FALLON.

He shakes his head and smirks smugly.

Oh…

“OH” ?! OH! YOU RUINED MY LIFE.

You had a life?

I had SOMETHING.

What was it?

I—

*smash*

Wow.

—SHOULD KILL YOU.

Somebody get this guy out of here!

AGH?!

No, it's okay.

You were wrong about everything.

I was— you just shifted.

Excuse me?

You shifted! Who are you?!

BUBBLEEEEESSSSS!!!!

I'm— so sorry.

THEY KILLED MY DOG.

Your rot weiler's name was “bubbles?!”

BUBBBBBBBBLLLLEESSSSSSSSSSS!!!!

OH GOD, BUBBLES!!!!!!

WHYYYYYYYYYYYY

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

HALLE BERRY

is that how you spell it

It is for now. Fuck going online

“That ain't part of my day”

Shut up Drake, not now.

You'll thank me later

“If You're Reading This, It's Too Late”

[HALLE BERRY is taking A VERY PAINFUL SHIT, clutching her *favorite OSCAR award--

Which one's her favorite?

CUT TO:

BEFORE

HALLE BERRY looks over her OSCARS in the display cabinet, carefully scanning them, with a New York Times paper tucked under her left arm, sipping from the coffee cup in her right hand.]

—I like this guy.

The other OSCARS groan; they are often overlooked during this process.

Come on!

This guy!

AGAIN!?

UGH.

CUT BACK TO:

[HALLE BERRY clenches painfully, sweating audaciously—at the worst possible moment, her cellphone rings. ]

WHAT THE—COME ON

I THOUGHT I WAS IN AIRPLANE MODE.

(I just found out The Illuminati can still make calls go through in airplane mode

Or without cell service at all)

wtf my phone is ringing.

That's weird. You don't even—

—I don't even have a phone.

Right.

(Seriously, my phone is disconnected. I didn't even pay my bill.)

The fuck.

[it's JIMMY FALLON]

Damn. This dude has the worst possible timing ever.

Like fucking ever.

Always shows up at the worst

—THE WORST MOMENT.

[HALLE BERRY rejects the call. It rings again]

WHAT THE—

[She ignores the second call. A moment of subtly relaxed silence, until—

[JIMMY FALLON appears in the ceiling window of the bathroom. HALLE BERRY SCREAMS, still fluting her OSCAR.]

(Calmly, kind of)

Hey,

WHAT THE FUCK, JIMMY.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

I called first!

I KNOW THAT—

Went to voicemail.

YOU SHOULDNT BE HERE.

Just—calm down.

NO.

Look.

GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!

I'm not in your house, I'm outside your house. Technically.

—yeah, but your FACE is in my house—

—I hear that's the best part.

—What?!

Listen—

Get out—

No, look, listen—

I need to borrow your Oscar.

What?! For what?!

That's not important.

Oh really?!

Yeah.

It seems important.

It's not that important

Just—-

What!

Give it to me!

[He snatches the OSCAR and tosses her his GRAMMY.]

Just—trade me.

What! What for?!

Just—trust me—

I do not—

Just trust me—!

WHAT!

Congratulations.

As you were.

Kind of.

WHAT—JIMMY—

[She realizes the ridiculousness of her calling after him. She sits awkwardly with the Grammy in her lap, sighing]

—he was my favorite…

[SUDDENLY, though the other window

Why does this bitch have so many windows in her bathroom that are this penetrate?

For the sake of the joke, but probably not something any celebrity should have, are windows where anyone can enter your house from the outside.

Fans are weird.

CUT TO:

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

I LOVE YOU.

CUT TO:

What's this place.

It's my house,

Where are the windows?

They don't exist.

CUT BACK TO

[DANE COOK appears through the opposite window.]

YO.

WHAT THE FUCK!

Chill, Halle Berry.

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!

I'm the guy who wrote this.

You should have called first!

Who do I look like, Jimmy Fallon?!

NO. I LIKE HIS face.

Huh.

Is that what it is…

I GUESS

I DONT KNOW.

—who are YOU—?!

GET OUT OF MY HOUSE—

I am not in, technically—

I DONT CARE!

Ooh—

Is that a Grammy award?!

I didn't know you had a Grammy!

Gimmie!

[he snatches the Grammy]

HEY!

Is—what is this, for COMEDY?!

FOR COMEDY?!

WHY WASNT I MADE AWARE THAT THIS IS A THING?!

I DONT KNOW,

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?

WHAT THE FUCK.

It's not important.

What.

Anyway, thanks.

Toodeloo.

The Rock must have been buzzing in some sort of special way on this day; because for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I had finally rearranged the remainder of my seemingly new surroundings— the miniature keurig, a status symbol, of course, looked handsom on the work desk— the cat tree seemed to match, though with no actual feesible monetary income, and no end in sight— the tree itself would have to be enough to lift my spirits. It was a nice cat tree, almost untouched and looking very brand new— though the couch had a few scratches, though easily hidden with the decorative use of a couple throws—at least I had a couch, and all that was left to accomplish before fully enjoying was to arrange an order of Freebreeze to rid it of its previous owner's dandruff smell, and general mismanagement—besides that, it was itself almost brand new as well, and it seemed a strange new world to wake up in, after sleeping in a nearly empty apartment for 6 months; there was 6 months left in my lease, and I was getting nervous that they would try to push me out—hopefully I would find someplace better, or at the very least higher up—with the same amenetire intact. Still, I was working as diligently as in could on organizing—at least the recordings, to put together the next group of projects as quickly as I could— nevermind the writing—and there was so, so much of it, I hadn't a clue what to do.

I had been avoiding Rockefeller Plaza like the plague for quite sometime—it always made me nervous in a sort of way I didn't understand, in that I would pulsate and vibrate differently, and more often times than not was upset and concerned that I had yet to go to the top—a costly feat—nor could I afford to entertain or enjoy any of the amusements at the bottom—not that i wanted to, as the older I got, and especially the longer time spent in New York, the more of putting the public and large crowds were—particularly after a remarkably disgusting respiratory infection I caught on new years, battling a crowd which became impossible to move through at all—let alone see the ball drop—and I had learned my lesson, especially after The Macy's Day parade; the crowds in New York were disgustingly unbearable, and in order to get a good view of anything, you would have to arrive nearly a full day early, and simply camp—now I knew why people packed around collapsible lawn chairs on holiday weekends.

I had been blindsided by Fallon towards the end of the Macy's day parade—I hadn't any clue at all that he apparentlyboarticipated annually, as it had been years since I had watched the parade myself with my parents—and still, it was iconic—I always wanted to go. Still, and even though I had only written very little of him up to that point, I found it disasterous that as his name was announced and the float which carried him and The Roots, the best late night band on Television, not by opinion, but by fact—as I had most recently been studying and researching as thoroughly as I could all of the late night hosts since the dawning of Television in preparation to write this pilot, The TV People, short handed to TVP—and just then I recalled a dream from the night before, about Pat Kirkpatrick—for the first time in the dream world, it wasn't Fallon at all, but Pat Kirkpatrick.

I couldn't remember the dream, nor could I seemingly work myself out of the rut that had been the plateau in writing the show—the show itself was heavy, with so many characters, all of which each had been given detailed and specific personalities, livelihoods, and backgrounds—in fact, I hadn't written anything in such a way since college, with detail—actually, I had never written anything so detailed at all, so character oriented that the character analyses filled entire pages of documents with excruciating vividness, as if these people were real. Well, now they were—and Fallon was neither Patrick as I was Esha, and the story has taken its own form, still however birthing an incredibly awkward and romanticized fascination and near obsession with Fallon—not that I would feed it to be so. I blocked out the news outlets, the media, the alrogithm's suggestions to watch bits and pieces of Fallon, though, however, I refused, and somehow, I didn't need it. Fearfully so, he was somewhere lodged deep inside me—and I was even sort of embarrassed to have written some of the things I had of his essence, however prophetic it seemed to be, that for about a three week period between April and May, I seemed to have gone off into a trance of sorts, writing for hours and experiencing vivid visions of this show, The TV Prople, alongside writing The Festival Project ™ And all of its markers—there were so many worlds, so many ways throughout them—and now as I had realized, I had actually been writing about Fallon nearly as long as I had been writing about Sonny, but differently. I had never of course come face to face with Fallon as I had the latter—and still—found it somewhat nessecary to hide my face beneath a mask as his float passed my viwingbspace, an elevated view from the staircase of some church, which had happened to be perfect—and although I was certain it's not as if he was looking for me—I had just then been writing of this Cosmic Avenger, and hadn't any idea at the time of Fallon in reality having been an actual magician, and still— with cameras everywhere, and knowing even what I had written—I didn't want to be caught by any passing cameras with any sort of blush or worse—a smile on my face as the float passed— a smile which would flash my atrocious gap-tooth and crooked smile I was sure was permanent, by then having been in the homeless shelter nearly a year. As soon as his name was announced, I promptly pulled up my masked. I had already been caught on camera earlier in the parade gawking at some float—now was not the time to be caught gawking again.

He, like Rob Lowe seemed impeccably professional and well-rehearsed, like a cartoon character— he was, after all, kind of a cartoon character, however now, even if it was partly due to my own writing, I took him more seriously. There was a darkness about him— a sometimes glassy-eyed, almost scary darkness that told me, even a world away not to fuck with this dude—some kind of animal or monster I was sure we both shared, however mine more the type and category of insatable and undernourished and his more peaking its head out in the form of a multi-millionaire network puppet, which housed an untamable powerhouse of musicianship, manhood, and wit— it's true, I was finally scared of him, knowing after all what the true tears of a clown could be, a dangerous man in a uniformed suit, the Everyman for the programmed masses, and the funny man with a jig to dance, a story to tell, and an indoor life— secret realm within I was sure no one knew. I fed the monster with respect to the home, happy wife, and children— I, after all, loved love, and only wanted it for myself, leaving alone the parts of a man I had found and was sure was broken enough to have left me puzzled and star studded rather than struck as I always was, tears welling up at the thought of it that something should be mended neither I or anything I was could not fix—I continued to write, however, knowing I was walking on glass barefoot and tiptoeing on eggshells around the mass media conglomerate of the network that stood between my feeble world and his, the higher ups— and bryknnd: it was, after all, a level system— and now with a beautifully decorated and fully apartment, besides my mistress on the floor instead of the space saving loft bed I had wanted—though it looked just right with the piano bench as a headboard, housing my crystals and new globe, plus a colorful collection of books I could crack open as I awoke to the morning light, no longer so early but increasingly later, as I shifted into the insomniatic habits of a true DJ and music producer, still writing and reading in the mornings, however— I had to wonder what level I was truly on.

My apartment looked like a home. The decor was better than I could have imagined myself even, the tasteful furnishings and modern elegance shifting my reality— no longer an empty apartment, now a fashionable hub for art and creation. I assumed the car would come along in the winter, with any hopes that I would finish my albums by then—and also looming over me— my last life, and the people in in struggling to call up to me in this very ascended realm, which I was lucky to inhabit.

‘Thank you God for your many blessings'

My wishes it seemed, had been granted— magic did indeed seem real, and though I had an Amazon return packaged and ready to go— there wasn't a time and place I could see myself as ready to even be near The Rock, some festering bulletwound in my heart, all that I had written, not just of Fallon, but of the rest of the people I had honored by word mark but had not yet the status or wealth to have ever known as human at all, but more products of the program; with intention, however, it was the path I had followed to be destined here somehow though small codes and doorways, signals and symbols which called to me and seemed only I could see—but were there in plain sight, and with the right eyes, had meant more than I ever dreamed anything could— open doors to a world I had indeed created myself, and in turn, the world in which I lived had also been created around me. I had to, in my mind, find the light inside all of whom I studied, to humanize myself—nurturing some fascination of fame and celebrity inside which still stood unanswered, the question of why and how one becomes so high up that without trying, that I might continue to find them in my mind's eye and in my world, on the outside, time after time.

—tales of a superstar DJ.

https://linktr.ee/codenameblu

{Now You See Me}

From Google:

Charismatic magician Atlas (Jesse Eisenberg) leads a team of talented illusionists called the Four Horsemen. Atlas and his comrades mesmerize audiences with a pair of amazing magic shows that drain the bank accounts of the corrupt and funnel the money to audience members. A federal agent (Mark Ruffalo) and an Interpol detective (Mélanie Laurent) intend to rein in the Horsemen before their next caper, and they turn to Thaddeus (Morgan Freeman), a famous debunker, for help.

No, not the google documents!

GET IN THE HOLE.

Hm.

What.

Blood Shower

All along the watch tower

Do you feel good?

Do you?

Do you feel bad about this.

I do. I feel bad about this.

I forgot to tell you–

I should probably let you know that I just want to

MAN, FUCK THIS DUDE.

MA.

WAHT.

IT'S ON.

WHAt.

THE SHOW IS ON.

THEWHAT.

THE–

*suddenly self aware*

…I gotta get out of Boston.

What, first this was about war, now it's about bird people?

It's about a war WITH the bird people.

I should sleep.

Hahaha. No.

This isn't funny anymore.

At least it's over.

MA–

Oh, it's far from over.

Yo, i'm going through some crazy shit right now.

Spur of the moment

I'd never thought of it;

This is gonna take forever.

I don't have the patience

To even write this

I just want french fries right now

But been up for two days with no gym and

I'm on a diet.

GUAC TIME.

No, no burritos.

GUAC TIME.

Oh shit, this is getting real as fuck .

NOw i see it three ways.

I love it.

I hate it.

HEY, LET ME OUT.

GET BACK IN YOUR HOLE, SKRILLEX.

I'M DILLON FRANCIS.

IN THE HOLE.

Check it out.

Huh.

It's another DJ.

*agrees*

Should we pick him up.

WEll, the good news is: I found your friend.

Oh, that's good.

The bad news is: He's dead.

Oh, that–'s … nice.

Yeah. It is.

Uh. Kaskade.

Yeah.

We gotta find Ryan.

Why. What's up?

You're freaking me out.

Why. What's up.

Nothing

IS it my eyes?

I–

*wild ass eyes*

Yeah, it's probably that.

Fuck dude, what did you do to deadmau5.

NOTHIN.

He's not the same.

What the fuck is that.

Holy shit I jus timejumped

Where the fuck are you going.

How the fuck could this happen?!

It COULDN'T.

Well, that's it then.

*shrugs*

Well, I guess we're just gonna have to go dig up Dillon Francis.

I guess so.

Do you think he's still alive.

Like, probably not–

Maybe…

No, probably not

@prodbywar& @Halmadeit

This amazon order took me nine hours

Alexa, I think i should fire her

Like a arm

I don't leave at night without armor

Don't make me a martyr

Your mom will be proud of us all

If i make it outta here

And i'll look after her

Got the whole block coming up on my heels as I walk

Wtf is it…

Idk dude.

Is it speeding up?

I…i think so.

There's no way this is 140

IT's 140.

It's 140 .

There's no way.

Yes way.

Nah huh.

Let me see.

No.

Let me at the decks.

Let me at the decks.

NO.

YO LET ME AT THE DECKS.

You want deks.

Yes.

I got deks.

Really.

yeus .

I never listened to it like this

In ableton

I read serato, synesthesia and rekordbox

I talk a lot,

I'm like a human music box

I walk a lot

I run my mouth a mile a minute

(faster than i run around the track reciting rap words)

Like they're passwords.

Oh, I could do this forever..

I wish i had i microphone right now

And was all alone

With the lights off

Lying on the floor

I'd be lying if i said I could afford you

Just to fornicate

But may consider playing with a foreigner

If you're all for her

I'm unnerved, you know

Cause i've been up so long

My monster likes to play with boys and

Make the bass go down below where

Nobody does anymore

Once I get a hold of things

Or the hang of it

You've got another hot ones on your hands

I've another record under my belt

Or in my roster,

Whatever you'd call it

But now I've got no time to bark about

Wanting a dog and a daughter

But none of the responsibility or

Going through all the trouble to find her a father

I'm still holding a fart in.

Reaally–cause–it's been a really long time.

WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT A LONG TIME, JIMMY FALLON??

Um a lot! You literally just saw me make the journey all the way up from nothing.

I am nothing

EXACTLY.

I don't have time to fight with you Jiimmy Fallon.

I did NOT write these games by myself you know?!

Um, excuse me– “GAMES” ?!

YES, GAMES.

Uh, I've only got one game with you in it, my friend.

Is that so!

One game that I've written with the Great–formerly LATE Jimmy Fallon.

Is that like a play on words cause i'm on late night TV

YOu'RE ON ALL THE TIME TV, JIMMY. NBC SHIT IS PRACTICALLY AUTOMATICALLY SYNDICATED.

-_-

…are you alright.

–_-_-__-_

Hold on, I think i've got it

Nice, I found a growler.

yOu still haven't got all the monsters and sprites

Ive got all the big ones, but the little ones are harder to catch.

GrO0Wl3rrr.

Aww.

He's so ugly.

Yeah, but cute, though, right.

I don't think so.

Gro)WwlErrrrrrrrr.

Aww.

That's so fucking gross.

lol . so what does this thing look like.

Well, that't the thing about the monsters and sprites.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT.

It's alright, it's alright–he's nice.

WHAT. THAT'S A SPRITE.

No, it's a monster. He's just scary.

SUPACREE.

David Bowie. What up.

God, it took me ages to find you.

Tell me about it. I'm still trying.

We've been expecting you for a long time.

You were expecting I'd die?

Yes.

So when she says she's “married to the music…”

I'm married to the music.

Oh, so.

Yo, honestly if you een want to talk to this bitch, you'd better have like a musical instrument, or a mic in your hands,

Otherwise–

No, getawayfrom me.

It's not even worth it.

HI.

–No.

What's up?

Tempo.

SUNNI

Cotour

From the store

I was poor

Now i'm honorable

In velour,

Glamour (Snap)

Forsure,

Jesus Christs is

making appearances in my abletons

I'm not able to comprehend or understand exactly the message,

But the evidence sire is mounting

Get it

Reached the temple,

More of a sanctuary,

Is that sacrilegious

I guess it is,

I'm stressed as ever

Trying to get it together

{Enter The Multiverse}

Now I know too well,

The well of tears on my guitar

She's got a body like one

Oh her curves

But I just wonder what it like to be loved

By stars

Socialites and superstars

They're Gods, you know

How high up they are

Above us

And he lives in an ascended dimension,

But he insists, he says

Her transcendence is upon us

He said

Your transcendence is upon us

He says these things,

And then just vanishes

So she gets up promptly

Warms up yesterday's coffee

Looks around in her coffin

And wonders

What for

I just

Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars

Without double r's, you know

I've got scars

But it's mostly just

Teardrops, and soft kisses

On my guitar

Cause, oh, Oli,

I ain't got nobody—

And nobody holds me

Like I hold Oli

(Could have been Ali,

But of course—

I had already lost that one

A whole well of tears,

I lost

At his departure

And a whole well more

When I actually lost him

I almost miss

Having someone to talk to

About anything and everything

But I've got Oli

And God now

I've got Oli

And Oli (oli)

Is all that I've got

Besides God

That's the only contact

In my

Phone book

No more double Ls

And double entendres;

No more double rs

At all

Just scars now

No more metaphors.

Honest is radical

I like them cynical

I should have clinical insanity by now

But I'm only just an artist

You can't help

But can only harm that

And if it hurts hard enough

I'll put art on my walls

Become permanent

Storybooks all over my arms now

My coat of arms now

I've run Ten point 5 miles

In the last 3 days;

But if I rest today

Will a motorcycle gang

Have a parade outside of my window,

To drive me crazy?

I hope it rains,

So they can't play these games with my head

And the seeds that I planted

So deep become daisies

I still don't remember

The way he rearranged me

But these days I make my name sound

So the way

He can never say it

Just imitates

The way

I hate myself

I should be dating

But expressions are

Atrocious

If I fall asleep—

Who knows

I may get

Stolen

That tends to happen

So I'm

All the way up

And I'm swollen in ways

That I hate to say

“I love you”

Love me back

Or say it harder

That's my martyrdom

Come off the cross, for a moment,

Would you for us?

And bend over

Or bow, if you will?

If I did,

Would you still call me wicked

Or just a Good witch

Since I'm a woman,

I just couldn't be

Jesus,

Who you asked for once

And always

Who you asked for some

To save you from your

Credit reports

And consorts

Or some sort of

Nonsense

[famous last words]

God don't speak much English,

She says

God don't speak much these days

We were

Always

Telepathic

That was way back then

When Oedipus Rex

Was on the Guest list

I was standing at the coat check, asking

Why I must take off my hat

When entering the service

To the bouncer, he says

“That's just politics”

I said,

That's just politics

We both said,

What's the difference

Then we all laughed

—then we all just laughed and laughed

Exchange is my favorite exchange

Where my favorite exchanges

Have happened for centuries

Of engagements

Endeared species,

And races pieces haven't tasted the same

Since I haven't had them

Animal products

And animal planet

I found this hat on

Discovery channel

Did you want it?

I can't stand it

So I had to have it back

I just had to use the bathroom

I just had to disconnect

From

[]

See—

I don't even have to put the words in

Cause a name is just words

When that's a man

You just can't have

And that's the worse

When that's a man

And you can't have him

What a habit.

Silky rabbit.

Now he's the

Ace.

All In A Day's Work

I've never died before.

Oh…

that is terrifying.

It sounds terrible.

It's really not that bad.

Why are you not writing this down?

I just need a moment…

It's really not that bad…

I die all the time.

I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's

Look at the colors

The clothes,

This sure isn't queensborough

Escalators for shopping carts

I get it Manhattan

I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects

Where my kind are

I don't belong here ,

God you're intolerant

I like this part of town

But I'm way too brown

And I dropped my crown at the market

I should be jealous of everyone

But I have learned my place

I've been a slave since Hollywood

I lost my son to the devil

Now I pay child support

And terrorist follow me coughing

I'm wrong just for being born !

You could start a war from it

If that's what you wanted

I'm a people watcher people watcher

About to board the people mover

People mover

Slip,

Here's the tell

Slip, here's the tell

I should have a bell around my neck

I think she wanted a picture with papa

I'm playin my own paparazzi

Look mom, I bought a sacafagus

There go them niggas with coughs again

I been watching em

Got binoculars

I got oculus, for my oculars

Look how hot he is, make me ovulate

Man I gotta love it,

Cause they love to hate

Fucking racist crazies

Have it your way

I paid for it with my soul

You hate but I love to love

Somebody just got me fuckes up

I don't have a book to run off of

Shut up, honey.

Now we're all up here

Monkey in the middle

Cause the middle one is weaker

It's getting deeper and deeper

Like the sinkhole that my sink is

Let it sink in

I've been syncing my secrets with demons

In dreams sequences

It's just a reparative injustice

Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff

You can have it

It's ruined anyway m

Look at all this trash

Look at all these classless classes

Classwars,

Racists.

Everybody hates us

The Asians,

Latinx's

The other niggas

What being black is

I'll write it in cursive

It's just a curse, here

So you can have it

I'm moving to Heaven

I'm packing my boxes

I'm getting a cat, too!

His name is Agustus

He's a big one

And I love him

I just wanted a hug or a husband

Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest

And got for a bargain at target some coffee

For being a targeted body

All on an algorithm

I guess I'm just useless.

A dumb nigger demon

Did I just offend you?

Then you shouldn't be reading this either

I wrote it for pleasure

(Or pain)

On the one

Or the two

Or the one

Or the two

I could do a lot with this $20.

I could spend it all on

Fuck all of you

I'm moving to Heaven

Where the heart it

She's not harmless

She's a terrorist—

And I'll kill her, too

Look how right she is

Look how white she is,

Huh

Regardless of color

It's a race war

Lil biiiiitzzz

Yooo, fuck New York.

In every hole.

In every crevice.

Fuck this place.

It's racist—

Not just cause I'm black.

Like statistically.

It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out.

I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan”

Everyone was like

“NOOOOOOOO—-“

Haha

“Nooo, no.”

I was like

“Why not?”

The blacks were like:

HAHA

The whites were like—

*COUGHS OBNOXIOUSLY*

New York is so racist.

It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation

At the same time.

WHAT.

How do you even DO that?

But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here.

And the rich whites are like

YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE.

Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto.

It's some SHIT,

It is NOT COOL.

I finally got my ‘night card' back.

Had it revoked in california .

I was almost a whole valley girl.

I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods.

Trader Joe's.

But NO. Now i live in the hood.

It's fucking disgusting.

I can say ‘nigga' again.

Cause it's NIGGAS.

Lots of niggas.

I'm telling you. It's night and day!

The white folks trains smell like bleach—

Ammonia.

The black folks train smell like a McDonald's.

WHAT.

Or just—

Vomit.

I can actually count the number of times just—

Vomit—-

On the train.

Or.

Dookie.

Yes. Human feces.

But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland.

Families!

People singing!

Hey—cotton candy!!

—and I didn't have to pick it!

Haha!

Fuck New York.

Racist ass HOLE.

I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all.

At that party…or rather, kind of—after.

That acid that never hit Beyoncé

I don't feel it.

Man, I'm a terrible influence(r)

Just take it.

Nah, I'm good—

PUSSY.

-_-

Give me three.

K.

—suddenly hits BEYONCÉ.

BEYONCÉ

…I got this.

[BEYONCE] however, does not

Ohh, shit.

— “got this.”

A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z

What's even after gen z?

The fucking apocalypse.

Anyway.

The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely.

Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong.

Lol

In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel.

Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper conciousness, which

I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around?

I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw—

These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific

Fuck this is hard to explain

Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation.

Anyway, what else is happening

Oh.

All of the celebrities are stuck in—

[the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which

lol. That never going to happen.

Because.

Let's face it.

I'm scared of

…rich people.

Yeah, sure. Yeah.

I'm scared of

The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality.

So why try?

[EDITS]

CONAN O'BRIEN

Alright.

If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next.

No, Conan—that's not how this works.

WHAT—where did you come from!?

When did you get here?

JAY LENO

This goes deeper than all of you can understand.

WHAT the FUCK, man!

When did you-/

—when did he get here?

How did you do that?!

How did you do that?!

What are you, like, the same guy?

Are you not all the same guy?

[they shrug simultaneously and kind of just agree]

Listen at this.

Okay then.

The enemy of your friend is my enemy.

Oh…kay—and the enemy of my enemy—is my friend—

That is correct.

—so we're all friends here.

That's right.

Some special forces?

Which forces?

How special?

[JENNIFER LOPEZ is still JENNY FROM THE BLOCK]

Do I look like a fool to you?

Uh—

OOPS

[a pre-fame Jennifer Lopez receives a drop full of diamonds instead of the usual; she has been granted access into the Illuminati, and becomes an overnight success.]

This feels heavier than usual.

Same as always.

Hm. Are you sure.

Yep.

Hey, you're not the regular guy.

Regular guy died.

That makes sense.

JENNIFER ANNISTON is inside of Ū

Okay, grosss

Not like that

[lifting max weight]

Okay. That was cool. Wow.

Yeah, sure whatever.

I am strong

Yeah yeah, okay.

Are you sure you want to be my size?

Yep.

JIMMY FALLON/SKRILLEX (we don't know actually which at this point) is also trapped inside of Ū

Okay, gross!

Yeah.

SKRILLEX is in all of Ū.

okay—actually, i'm okay with that, but

That other guy?!

[JIMMY FALLON]

Yeah, he's weird.

Also meanwhile, kind of—

MARSHALL MATHERS has a closet cleaning service

lol.

Patrick is smooth as a motherfucker, you know.

Every time his head is down on the desk like that, he takes a bump of coke.

What?! Big uh!

[Patrick takes bumps of cocaine in front of a live studio audience—every single night.]

Woah!

See.

Goddamn. You gotta admire a guy like that.

Jennifer Anniston is the weight on the cable tension machine

Ooh.

Psycho bitch<> devious methods <> new ludachris commercial

All ya'll girls is toddlers

I like long boards and longhairs

Lawn mowers and lawn shares

Aw hell nah, God forgot Cher

I got the Blair witch project

On Blair,

I hope I scare you

How dare you.

Your girl looks like a naked mole rat.

I got my soul back.

You blue eyed bastards stole everything

From the whole blacks,

Hold that thought

I'm at Whole Foods market

throw in the Amazon algorithm off

With marked dollars

Look at God at Walmart

On them rollbacks

You old hacks are cackling

I'm shackled to old habits

Hold hands with me, rabbit

I'm just a silly rapper

really, are you?

Maybe.

Cut the verse of

Reverse God

Now I'm the devil

I'm still lost in the Amazon cart

I sharted all up in your pop tarts

Before you warmed them up, pops

Just for the sake of the art,

Heart to heart,

It's a war on love

And the white girls won with nothin but

Buckets of

Whatever's up there

I wouldn't know

Cause I'm stuck job searching

And running,

Trying not to have a tummy

So some gummy worm will love me

First their sour, then they're sweet

Then nobody,

Trolli

Holy moly I could use some more petroleum in the ocean!

Said nobody

But the globalists are performing your programming

Which you're worshiping

I put my eye on the dollar

So I could watch you all

Crumble and fall

Don't you know

The apocalypse is happening at the mall

Of all the places

How's that for a stream of consciousness,

You salamander

I asked Anandar back

But I went past that chapter

Have a chap

Or a chapstick, for four times four dollars

A bottle of water will cost you a fortune

(But at least the drugs are in it)

Get it

It's recycled piss

Distilled? Which is it, Mr,?

The mystery box was literally lifted into

My dinner from a fishery filled with nothing but niggers in it—

I want a refund, before I catch that

Fucking curse of poverty from — what'd you call it

salmonellahallibut

One hell of a cough from someone on the sidewalk

But guess what?

The devil's in your pocket or your palm,

And that's the omen and the psalm rolled into one

Cause God is awesome,

But my mom is fuckin toxic

And that's how I fuckin got here

Blow my head off,

Slit my wrists

And write a song

While jumping off a bit

When all you need is money,

But the world costs more than

It's worth, and words are nothing

But another fucking problem in your Google documents

I look at my son and see a God,

But half of Satan's in him,

Oh man

Robotics

Lets be honest, I don't even know how to write this.

Where's my sides?!

WHERE'S MY SIDES.

You don't get SIDES with this;

It's just CHICKEN.

I don't eat CHICKEN.

It appears as though, however–

You do.

Ok, I gotta get off this playlist.

I…

i

gotta .

“The Wal*Mart Wars”

Hm.

…

………….

….

*face*

… no.

No. l–

What is this place.

{After a wild night which apparently spiraled out of control,

great , there goes my peace.

Not forever, though, maybe.

FUCK THIS PLACE.

I HATE THIS PLACE.

Everybody hates this place.

But the album is called

“I love New York”

Yes, thats

Technically

How it's pronounced,

though

It's stylized like

I _ NY

Cause.

EXT. MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. DAY

Oh, wow, this is beautiful.

THis is great.

I love this place

FUCK THE FEDS.

CUT TO:

EXT.Typically WHEREVER ELSE

Anywhere ‘above' like 87th?

Lets just call it 80th, be safe.

BE SAFE!

NIGGAZ.

ah shit, i gotta go.

BITCH–

But lets just be honest,

It's technically ‘above'

But it's really

[THE BRONX is a literal extension of the Underworld]

Oh no.

srsly tho.

X_c

Anyway.

FUck man,

Do you think i'll ever get good like that.

Idk what equipment is this

Hmm, lets see, that's approximately

$8,000 USD of CDJs

wow

yep

That's retarded

Yep.

And you still need a mixer.

fukt.

OKay, I would literally sell my soul for this.

Consider it done.

wait , really?

YES. you earned it.

Wait, I–

What?!

You earned it…

Uh oh.

Take care now.

Shit.

[BILLIE ELLISH is trapped inside WALMART]

Uh oh.

Fuck.

what is this place.

INT. WALMART. WHENEVER

EMPLOYEESLAVES

WHAT TIME IS IT. THERE'S NO WINDOWS IN HERE.

That's not funny

IT'S literally a synonym, we might as well make it a portemantau

MEanwhile, in this other dimension,

So that i don't offend anybody…

Actually, you know what?

Be offended.

Quit that stupid fuckin shit

and follow your dreams!

Wait really?

Wait, really?

Sure!

If you want!

…i guess.

AMERICA

NO.

INSTANT HOMELESSNESS

ok , nvm.

Damn.

I know, right.

wtf r u guys watching.

Shut up.

All Wal*Mart Employees are actually top secret government agents.

x ∞ >.< (we'll just use Billie Ellish as the alternate, but really it could be

Could it really?

Shut UP, PLURNICORN.

Wtf is a PLURNICORN

We'll see.

[Upon Realizing s/he is trapped in a mysterious place apparently extremely public

Wait, you've never been to a Wal*Mart Before?!

NO.

I grew up in LA

Rich as fuck

And i've been famous since I was liike 12,

Or something.

Right.

That is–kind of terrifying.

LATER:

WHY IS IT SNOWING INSIDE.

WHERE'S THE EXIT.

THEY HAVE GUNS?!

oh wow, they have GUNS.

WHY DO WE NEED GUNS!

KA-BLAM.

BECAUSE THEY HAVE GUNS.

Bang-bang!

Ptttttttttt—sttt.

And they have guns.

Actually, these are just– confetti cannons.

*pop!*

Lol

“Possibly The Worst Show Ever

the infinite rave continues on in Hell as everyone awaits the return of SŪPACREE- The Cosmic Avenger (Who Is NOT a DJ) and Sunnï Blū (who is a superstar rapper but also not a DJ) go back to back, buying time as the beacon to. Signal "The Supacree" is completed, battling the 10th dimensional DJ Ū, a super ninjas, for control of the decks.

what else happened?

idk.

I CANT STOP DANCING.

none of the DJs can find a pair of working headphones, and the sound guy is missing from the booth.

"missing"

YOU SHOT HIM.

I THOUGHT IT WAS A TRANQ DART.

{Enter The Multiverse}

“TVP”

Hazel is 6, turns 7 season 1

Season 7- 15

Man, I can't remember the other two kids names,

I think the little boy is Ira but I might have named them all and forgotten, shit.

Her sister, though is between 4 ½ and 5, they are technically “Irish twins”, and always fighting—they look very similar, however are not at all alike; Hazel is very much a daddy's girl, while her younger sister is a no-nonsense old soul with the tendency to cause trouble, not by being inquisitive or showy, as her sister often is, but rather by being quietly observant, and tends to dismiss both her parents, often isolating, or even dissappearing without notice, quietly and comfortably into her own world—as the series progresses, and though all of Patrick's children like their parents have showcased some kind of special ability or talent—

Holy shit, give this kid a name-/

I thought I already named her, I just don't remember.

That's true. It seems like they all had names.

She is almost very typically, though showing signs of genius, even at the early age at the beginning of the series, a middle child, prone to upset almost too easily, but rather than acting out, is more likely to take her anger quietly; she shares her fathers deep brown eyes, dark hair, and though she looks otherwise very much like her sister, and later despises her father, is more inwardly and outwardly like him, though taking the side of her mother during their separation and divorce, oftentimes even lashing out at her father quite openly, and very vocally, as she grows into herself.

“Ira”, (may have had another name earlier) is the youngest of three— as his third birthday approaches sometime during the first season.

Great, now I gotta hide all those allegories so nobody can actually draw from this that Patrick—

Where's his write up, anyway?

That shit could go on for days.

I have no idea why this catharsis is happening. I tried to sleep it off, I swear, but I still woke up like—

At least mildly obsessive about this, for whatever reason.

Hazel's 7 - Season Arc

Hazel has the eyes, charm, and charisma for entertainment —she hopes to one day be as her father, an entertainer and performer, and will do almost anything for a laugh. She is often telling jokes, and is a people- pleaser. She is sickeningly cute, with golden hair and Hazel eyes, long eye lashes, and carries baby fat in her face, though she is rather average, neither heavy or plump, and however also not frail at all. She is inquisitive, smart, and busy, almost never idle-minded, and strong. Though sort of a Tom boy, she has been trained well to act with dignity, class, and feminine eloquence, much like her mother—but like her father, has a tendency to be crass, sometimes carelessly so, or even brutally honest—to her mother's disdain, but embraced wholesomely by other family members and adults, she's extremely funny and delightful, and very much unlike her mother, not a spoiled brat at all, often raising questions beyond her years about inequality, later wishing to attend a public school, and becoming quite the advocate for social justice and human rights in her later years, her final season shows a rebellious and sometimes even antagonistic Hazel, who later even favors Esha over her own mother as a parental figure, often confiding in her about things she can't and shouldn't share with her father, although her almost over the top admiration for her father has become the driving force and inspiration for her own endeavors in show business, much to her father's disdain, as she grows older, him becoming more protective of her, and especially within the oftentimes secretive nature of his actual placement and purpose in the business, and her rebellious nature and charm even force-feeding her into the industry, she is a bleeding heart for superstardom, and is often seen along what may be a path to fame, making Patrick's bleeding heart all the more aching, as though he and Catherine remain at odds throughout the series, he truly loves his children, even “the little sick one”, as he refers to the second child.

Holy shit, what is this kid's name

If I had the energy to go through my notes, I could know; but I don't.

The city sickness has been sinking in from the noise of the obnoxious motorists and honestly, being out of protein is giving me muscle soreness, I'm in some sort of a bloated haze from eating almost nothing but carbs, and the fact that I haven't been with anyone in years is starting to circle like buzzards around my head, my heart has been literally screaming but overwhelming with this sense of calm, and though slipping into Patrick's sometimes erratic tendencies, for the most part I've been underwhelmed with society's expectations that I should get some kind of job, and somehow while working not lose focus on my own interests and projects—I hate [the strange modern behaviors of] most people, and everything costs too much money— my son might be going into foster care, or my ex husband is evil enough just to try to force my energy to worry about a problem he's created, and I really wanted to sleep into the afternoon with this lethargy, hoping that everything surrounding this series would just fall off, but it doesn't.

I wake up often wishing I could just forget The Festival Project ™ , but the truth is, it just keeps writing itself, but in the very least, sometimes God gives me little presents that mean the very most to me— a chord organ that I thought was from the 80's, but is more likely from the 1960's—

I love vintage stuff, and musical instruments, which only God could know, really—my fascination with history as if I'm still living it, and this, my sudden fascination and drive to write and complete just one series has been haunting me almost just as badly as anything else has, but especially ripping me apart—especially since I have motorcyclists ripping through my body as if it were some kind of disease that existed outside of me, so contagious that it began to sink in to my insanity and mental hygiene.

I wondered if anybody else knew or cared about these creatures as much as I didn't—and in fact, I had never felt so much like Ali in the way that I didn't care if they, other “human beings” supposedly, all died tragically, and wondered why the walls and windows didn't keep out the sound of the outside world at all…

The middle child begins writing secretly very early on, and is the first to be required more extensive therapy, (as suggested by the family's therapist) after her parent's separation and subsequent divorce. It is not long after she begins learning to read and write at all, that she begins also showing interests in art, asking for art lessons and to begin painting and art therapy, rather than the recommended Equine therapy— she often keeps things to herself, then returning to her hidden places at times when the family's dysfunction becomes uncomfortable and overstimulating, very often paining or reading during times of peace, and retreating to her safe places—sometimes under the stairs, into the attic, the treehouse, or even later, the family's barnyard, where she often keeps drawings, as she ages, later comics, sometimes caricatures of the things she absorbs through her own reality—and diaries, sometimes hidden in nooks and crannies and in places no one would think; a true prodigy and genius, though hidden from much the world, as she is often overlooked, however, her therapist begins unfolding her true reality, often times carrying over sessions and losing track of time, picking her brain or even conversations philosophically

What's the therapists name?

Doctor Robin

She has to have a last name

Well, she's a child's therapist, so she's Doctor Robin, but

It seems like it starts with a T.

We'll see. I just saw her anyway.

I drifted off again, thinking about how wildly detailed this all was becoming, and wondered if there was a series of fictional books waiting to be written. There certainly could be, but my mind was reeling, freshly showered but still undressed, and not even wanting to think of going outside—and yet—I was out of water, and had learned that the drinking water from the fountains, especially in large quantities, had a tendency to make me sick—I hadn't yet eaten anything, and though the coffee was fresh, and my apartment was clean (which made me overtly overjoyed for some reason) smelling of Lemon Lysol and Bleach; with notes of a strong pot of organic fresh ground coffee, it seemed like I couldn't do much more than lay in bed writing this catastrophically interesting series—and it was interesting, which said volumes, considering I had always been picky about my TV watching, being that only ever did certain series catch my eyes or my ears, and those series were almost always—or always, always specifically well written, perfectly casted, and had the edge and draw of becoming an entire world within itself, which this series, though only a week or two old at best, in my heart and in my mind , was rampantly ravaging my own world, almost as if it had become of some importance to keep writing it, and never stop, and though Patrick was the forefigure, another broken male protagonist, the truth in the series was that the true heroes of this sometimes scarily violent drama, were its women—a story meant to be told with a diversified cast of creatures from all worlds and walks of life—Esha, of course, herself, a role that had been some recreation of myself, somehow, though so different that even primarily, I never did see myself as her, besides the onslaught of some otherworldly pain, visions of a scene recollected from some remarkable download, and it might have been once and for all that I had lost my mind, or my life, if I wasn't a writer—I was, somehow, though, after all, a writer.

It had been a fasting day that could have and might have ended tragically anyway, and still the devil marked his mockery of my efforts by consistently flinging perfect bodied women everywhere that I went—though usually with ugly enough faces that I could see nothing but what a man was—uncaring for one thing over the other, a flawless representation of woman, represented in the current time with scantily clad fashion, almost painfully so—the insecurity of women becoming more apparent in the way she would appear, always almost begging to be near to me, with every perfection and complexion I hadn't—but at least I had a tendency to laugh at my own damage, often surmising that she, these demon creatures, hadn't any talent for this at all—which had turned the state of television into a near circus act; that alone urged me to continue writing the series, perhaps with a typewriter, due to the negligence of nepotism within the industry which often resulted in these pretty little creatures getting even further ahead by stealing works as such, and passing them on as their own originality almost so cruelly and without judgement—plagiarism, as it was called, but more accurately intent-to-kill the imminent threat of what had been said to be a minority becoming a more powerful force to flourish in entertainment however, as quickly as the visions had come, the thought of writing it without my phone became dauntingly impractical, and I scribbled only the most intense scenes and plot lines onto notebooks and scratch papers, keeping them as hidden from the algorithm as possible…

lol the Al Gore Rhythm

Ahahahahahahaha

Was that the joke?

Maybe. Idk.

Maybe. Idk.

Hm.

Hmmmmm:

What:

Nothing.

That actually might have been it.

Really, was it?

I will never know.

That is kind of a good dad joke, though.

And a good band name.

Idk about that.

My coffee was lukewarm enough so that I could taste its flavor, as I whittled away at whatever it was—

The story was almost so beautifully being told in allegories and parables that it seemed a shame I may never be rich enough to buy fame, as it seemed that was the only way to become a star these days— and yet—it was more the wealth than the fame I wanted, I had realized, at all—the polished class of the Manhattanites drawing me out of Brooklyn and into some debauchery which was my own Grandiose thought form, that I could actually become, at the ripe old age of 31, some kind of superstar.

‘Why would I even want that, anyway?'

I thought, interrupted painfully by who I'm sure was the same motorist, who seemed to do nothing but circle the block all day, and all night, doing nothing — and I wondered why he himself had decided not to do grub hub in a richer neighborhood, where money would more than likely come more easily.

But really—

I drifted off to a time where I wanted to ride a motorcycle myself, and the curiosity forced me to go online to check the price of what it might cost to have one.

$5,000 for a decent bike, which would include a muffler as not to be so obnoxious and disturbing to others as these creatures had become to me— and I began doing the math on how long it would take to save $5,000 as if it would be possible to work some dead end job for any amount of time without spending money on anything else.

It would take at least 5 months to earn enough for a motorcycle, which landed me directly back at

“Not worth it”, and as horrible as it was, I did at the very least have a luxury apartment for at minimum the next 5 years, however, wanting still to move to Manhattan, Midtown specifically—or one of the quaint and quiet neighborhoods on the upper West Side. The neighborhood was going to hell, after some unworldly godless force had seemed to drop hundreds of thousands of rude and thoughtless third world workers onto the streets and buildings bordering the one I lived on, the neighborhood becoming more rough and less peaceful with trash and debris from the depression and congenital disease that was poverty, the collective unconsciousness of the masses colliding with my empathetic nature and oversensitivity to sound, especially awful sounds, such as the hundreds of motorcycles and hot rodded junk cars which only seeemed to move in a track around a four block radius, and had become a cancerous trigger of sorts, no authority figure seemed to much care about.

I cared less and less each day to listen to music, since I wasn't making it the way I wanted to—and I had realized that the constant displeasure and unrest, the lack of peace had as much to do with the world outside as it did with the world within—and I began to see the disgusting obnoxious noise pollution outside my window as just an extension of man's abuse, ability to rape, torture, and kill, terrorize— the uncaring waging of war, control, and lack of true power; as no good and true man who wielded actual strengeth or true power in any way would continue to show such distructive action and carelessness for others around him— chaos, corruption, abuse, and misogyny was proving to be the downfall of all humankind, as patronaged by man, and, as I became doubtful of anyone's lack of understanding of this, especially as the immigrants themselves were often naturally pedophillic culturally and toxically abusive in nature, most migrants flocking from countries in which women's liberation or the protection of youth had not yet materialized into their understanding of conciousness and morality—the men were weak, unkind, and selfish—the women mere machines at their disposal—and however many there were, I could see that their children, the many of them, remained as the redeeming factor. Anyway, a political ploy for the ages of there ever was such a thing, the newest chapter in American greed and slavery, it only seemed like an extension of evil itself, and less of a coincidence with each growing day—each new person, another burden to the middle class taxpayer, another reason to inflate the cost of living—and all the more reason to continue to terrorize the American people into its own division, hatred, demise, and consumption.

e.

My faith, however, was unwavering—God was real, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy.

Robin Bennett

Fine.

“My name's

—ahem—

“Ron Sennet, and I ain't In it.”

—did the say “don't” write a book about me?

It's Not about him…

Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy.

Robin Bennett

Fine.

“My name's Jon Sennet, and I ain't In it.”

Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear as soon as I had made the call, which infuriated me. It seemed as though the game in entirety to make me look or feel crazy, though I knew I wasn't—well, I was, but not without purpose or reason.

I had been theorizing in energy exchange quite decisively making a mark for my alter, at which I asked to be designated the wisdom and truth of the light within the eye, desire, however never in mind, although I had been summoned in part due to the fact that wenwere somehow alike—I was in some ways besides and out of sorts with my set, sinking my teeth into the forced obsession as I unraveled any possibilities and plotline.

Episode 01. Pilot

An opportunity presents itself seemingly at random— the protagonist's hand is forced into a life changing ultimatum, putting his reuputation and family in danger.

Already involved in an illegal gambling ring which operates out of a secret historical prohibition era speakeasy and some “light” drug mulling within its walls, however often extending even as dangerously close to his workplace, Patrick is propositioned to become an investor in the high end escort service, with which he hired and contracted his lover, Kandi, a “rescue” whom he supports in her exchange for exclusivity, to remain as her only client, however, although he begrudgingly declines, wishing not to be involved in anything much more than what he has already kept under the radar, he is intimidated and threatened by blackmail, his high profile becoming at stake—he then obliges to embark upon this new endeavor, the expansion of this establishment to include a warehouse, which houses a large scale brothel, and, able to use his social status to procure wealthy clientele, quickly becomes a power player within a ring of coveted elites, setting fire to his already inflated ego, and colliding with his intense and highly functional polyaddiction, which he has maintained since his youth, using his entertainment persona as an outlet, becoming a medium of excess, fame, and rampant wealth.

Patrick is beloved by his peers, and is humbled often by his devoted fans and friends—proactively worshipped as a comic genius, a prodigy, and a revered successor to legendary frontmen—

Okay, this is weird, because I started writing this before I even understood what I was writing at all…

—specifically, the sixth successor, to his coveted role.

I had written for Esha to be the seventh successor, as with the symbolism deeply and quite literally woven into the sometimes brutal framework of the series, which I had shorthanded to ‘TVP'…the world around me trailed off as my eyes blurred as they had been lately, and I wondered if I might be having some kind of stroke or something, as I was certainly some sort of out of body—the day had been strange, and I had given up on a run or a gym for the day, the motorcycles alone ravaging my energy, and whether I worked out or not, they were everpresent anyway. They were some sort of toxic, abusive force I just had to put up with, hoping it didn't upset my psychology so much that it ended me, though I had become quite odd as of recently, rambling more than usual and actually praying out loud, as my silent ones just didn't seem to be working—they were probably white supremacists, or in some way connected to some political terror group, but it didn't seem to matter. Someone liked torturing me, and it was becoming apparent that no matter much time I spent at the gym, this torture was going to persist. After a month long gym streak, at least going once a day to lift something, I rested, or rather, tried to rest, kind of— but my mind had been swirling with thoughts of a man I was certain by now I had made up—and writing the story of a man I was absolutely certain came from my mind, but in a way that it almost made no sense at all—as the more I looked into the world that I had already written about, the more I realized was accurate without first having known these things, and however cursed I might have been to even know such things, I decided to call it some sort of blessing instead.

‘God, I used to get so fucking high for days, and when I would come down, just crying and crying, eating Totinos or DiJorno and a bag of Bugles, I would watch Saturday Night Live for fucking hours, and I hated [Redacted]. I hated him.'

Now I still hated [Redacted], but in a different way, and though really it was myself that was more like Patrick, he at the very least, for whatever reason, used to have his face—now, he was just Patrick, and [Redacted] was just [Redacted], and i knew entirely too much about it all, and about myself to be comfortable with it, but nothing was comfortable at all. I had written entire atrocities, novels, and all that was some conglomerate of nonsense which was the festival project, besides how insanely and innately prodigal it all was sometimes, my own words confusing me with a bizzare and asenine dysfunction, awe, actually, often as if someone else had written them, and although I was always at least sort of semi-concious while writing, the spells and cadences I would fall under were some sort of trance, and as I watched the Nirvana rehearsal from Saturday Night Live in 1992, long before [Redacted] or any of the rest of the —

Was it Keystone?

It was, the Keystone cast of SNL, but the first word my mind had jumped to was Hallmark, which—after referencing Google quickly for a fact check, also stood true.

I was willing to admit, even now, though I had long lost interest in Saturday Nighy Live, or anything at all having to do with current events, that the [Redacted] era—or rather even, the Tina Fey era, a true role model, perhaps, and someone I favored over all of the performers I admired, or allowed myself to admire— the Golden Years of Saturday Night were the only years, for me that even mattered— trying to make sense of anything couldn't be done, but I at least had this new project birthed from it to think about.

It would be hard to sit down at a taping of The View and not think about all I had written at all, and it would be impossible not to unfold the characters which had presented themselves, though slowly but surely, through the most vivid visions and insanely lucid dreams, as The TV People began to

What if someone steals this out of my documents?

That would be unwise…the best scenes are somewhere scribbled in my notebooks and random scraps of paper somewhere in my room…this series is almost nothing without those scenes—the elements with which the most painful scenes I had ever written, became word form.

‘I don't know why, but I feel so incredibly high,

So incredibly high right now…'

They could have been words to a song, but I did feel high as a kite for whatever reason, without the actual kite metaphor quite literally dagling over my head, for once, or at least, it had been a few weeks, not a prominent as is was before. I sat soaking in the tub teetering on the possibility that I should actually even watch The Tonight Show, or whatever it was, to set my mind at ease, a betrayal of my own code—as one does not literally feed its obsessions into insanity on purpose. ‘Perhaps, though', I thought, ‘I could get rid of this.' — A cancerous abscess in the tradegy that had become my own sex fueled, rage driven, racing mind—and rather admittedly, it was almost too late, for anything of the sort, as I hadn't any other place to keep the growing world of The Television People any quieter, than within the monstrous algorithm which was Google documents cloud, where it seemed nothing was safe, and anything could be fabricated into reality after being stolen, by someone rich enough to make it happen, however, never being any better than my own disaster of a creation.

And it was, a disaster.

He was a comic genius, a professional, and spectacular performer— in actuality, I knew nothing if not anything at all about him, and the more I collected, the more interesting I found myself, actually, bemused that I seem to have found some sort of twin, another synchronizatic nightmare—if only that I made it to be so, unbelieving yet that I was in some kind of fairytale, though it had become some sort of fantastical and adventurous thing, this what I now refer to as ‘the allegories,'.

I must have been something parasitic to the industry, with the tendency to latch on and ride out whatever had become a faciniation, but it wasn't, in its sense of origin, like anything before— it was something new, in the ways that it was, and something old at the same time—though needing to fall drastically from The Tower without actually doing so, putting a stop to my unlimited creation became a pertinent priority, as even exercising, meditating, and chronic masturbation tended to exacerbate it, as if I was missing a step in transmutation of this foreign substance— an energy which seemed familiar, but also wasn't.

I was receiving downloads several hours at a time, and drifting off into spells and trances of inspiration so heavily that it seemed counterintuitive to call it off, fearing I might lose the intensity of the plot and its characters, and they were that: just characters.

It had taken days to erase Patrick's face into a blank state to restore him from that of his namesake, but now everything was a blur, the allure of scrapping it all to return to making music was upon some sort of dawning, but not yet arrived. I allowed whatever came to mind to flow freely from my fingertips, even if it felt bizzare—and even if it felt bizarre, it never felt wrong at all.

‘Unfortunate, that.' , I thought crossing one leg over another to complete my chapter before draining the tub.

I promised myself long ago to always pray for my own son, before worrying about another celebrity, whose fame and fortune protected them more than I ever seemed to protect myself or my own—nonsense, but a strong sense of remorse, as I had been painted as wicked, in a sense, just for being kept poor, separated from my son, and left in a world without love at all; My project, a keepsake of the hard work I had done; but had not yet been paid for—and the fear was in the understanding that that money might not ever come, that I would never be a mother, a muse, or anything or anyone else I actually wanted. I thought briefly again about just getting a dog—but I only had 45 dollars, aside from the unmarked Jimmy Fallons, I had placed atop an alter on my kitchen counter, wondering how to multiply them into something I wanted—and that had been the start of the game or the project at all— saving my last dollars and spending them at once, with the hopes and wishes that they would become somehow much larger quantities, returned as good karma for the love I had given, but that had not yet come back, in one form or another.

‘He seems miserable, the poor bloak.' , I thought—and with all that I had known to have come with fame and fortune along with the luck, he probably somewhere, somehow was—but my concern was my son, turning the mere dollars somehow from one's into bundles of hundreds, thousands, and maybe even one day a whole million or more.

That was the push behind the project at all—breaking the cycle of the poor black single mother, the story that had been told over and over-/ with stories that had not; the stories that had become

[The Festival Project™]#

Sai

Psy.

See you in seven years, then.

You're so silly—

I'm not going to live seven more years.

We'll see about that.

You will see.

I'll be dead.

So I'll be dead.

So it is.

A summer hiatus,

Vacations in Prague, yes

Let's pray for the rest of us

A sign of the times and a coming of ages

Who made you famous again

As the rest of us

I don't like it

As much as I'd like to

Keep writing

Keep finding the reason to die

and you're blinded by kindnesses

And I ams

I woke up in the 9th dimension,

As an infinite friend

Familiar with my kitchen

JOHN SLATTERY

An interesting thing happened this morning.

What's that, John?

I woke up as John Slattery

Just remember what love holds

The death of a salesman, rechargeable batteries

This walk could take forever in designer jeans

Another day in slave hell

The controllers controlling

And Satan is Sataning

Seems like a time to go clubbing

It's a simple kind of depression

Resting on your head when

All you simply wished is the taste of flesh

The freedom of skin

And the lather of love—

Or blood spatter on the pavement

Aim for the head

If the door's fixed, then we'll break it again

Look what greed does

I hate lazy days in Manhattan

Cause I've never had one

What happened on the way to the forum

I was starstruck;

Five finger death punch

Right in the heart

I wish I was punctual

Right on time for lunch

Don't you want to talk to someone more pungent?

Don't you got models to robot?

Don't you know I never want to hurt you

But you know, I'm going to hurt you.

You know I'm going to hurt you

Now, the review:

Sooner or later, I fall over your world

Good dudes in drags

Good food for thought

I'm a dog

With the wrong parts

You should take Kanye to the mall

With a migrants lanyard

(The migrants are anarchists!

Good one, God)

This one goes to. | this one first, from—

Which one are you ?

I guess we are one in the same

It's a famous radio tower

Live up to your name

Go sell your flower for flour

As I stand at the jumping point

Eye on Manhattan,

The wind beneath my wings

Distracting myself from the mansion I haven't

The mason jars I ought to buy for bargain

The brain and brain cereal I left at the market

I used to love Brandy

Now I just wish I was something, awesome

Now I just wish I was something, awesome

Now I just wish I was something, awesome

“The Album I Wrote On My Way To The Rock To Return Amazon Purchases No Longer Wanted”

That's a really long album title.

I didn't imagine I'd write this much

Just trying not to imagine this man in his under pants,

Or what have you

(I'm just a fan)

I'm just a dad hunched over in the bathroom

Must have been the magic of my backhand, backfired

Must have come untied and undone, under the rainbow

Must be on my way to Manhattan

For some blacklist event.

Where I'm from

The A List

Is a face

No name needed

“Oh, I know who you are”

If I purchased a car today

I might get done paying it off

By my 81st birthday.

Shady.

If I had a penny for every mistake I made,

I would probably be Nameless.

If there was a namesake to lay me into my grave, it would make sense;

Yes, let's move the train for a moment

With the doors still open.

— I'd like to watch what happens.

So what happens when the sun comes up

On the only body you've ever known

And no one wants it

What happens with a dude named Starr

Punches you over and over again

And then no one loves you

(That's starstruck, your honor)

What happens when granted a pardon for passions

And everything happens after is magic

What happens when all you want is to go manic

To finish the album

And just feel good again

What happens when the algorithm has Al Gore in it?

What happens when the rhythm in blues is just the attraction of random black men and their concubine counterparts?

Huh, what happens!

What happens, Kanye?

What happens, The God?

What happens when all that you want is a disgusting assumption of…

No on can trust you

And nobody loves you

Since it was simply a tryst

Put this at a distance.

Where did my energy disappear to!

Where in the fear is my other earring?

Fuck.

Be somewhere, anywhere else but your office, for the moment.

Be anyone but a mother,

Anywhere but your apartment—

It hurts, the construction.

Someone doesn't something

Nobody knows nothing about me,

But what I put in this casket

(This podcast)

Oh hey,

I got fuck muscles from fuckin myself now!

I feel like I'm gonna die if I don't have sex!

For real!

Heal, Oh great dragon,

HEAL, BITCH.

Word.

woof for the world

Will for the wolf;

Rain on the roof.

Cobain don't have a God

(Or a Gun, if you wanted that one)

“Pull me up, God,

I'm done under here”

He called in

I followed the fosters to farrow

And got better

I got better and bitter much quicker and

Never in bed had I been as flexible

As to kiss his chest

As I kicked my own neck

With my left foot.

What the fucking fairyshit is that?

There, I fixed it.

Fixed what.

I don't know what. But I fixed it.

I know, huh!

So be 110 and flexible

Powerlift tectonic plates

Do Pilates

And make waffles!?

Alright, I can do that

But only as Jennifer Aniston

I'd like to take back that Fallon I bought at the black market

He's broken.

I like his band tho—

The one on the left hand,

Over the damaged one.

Are you on to that?

Says the sayer,

Son of Sam

So Sai the sage

Sets the stage

Is that the plan?

Never fall for a man,

Even over an alter

And tied by the hands.

All I see in my initials initially is B Minor

16 might be minors, guys

But she's creaming to find you

At the front lines

Life of a superstar DJ

At the cross roads

Or the turnstiles

How do you turn bile into

Beguiling

Without rifling a few feathers

Or looking into the eye of the rifle

And dying first

Don't you let that tear fall from you onto the M Train.

I'm just training for fame

And hating you every day

Since we made it

Love

Get out of my way, Satan

I'm staying

I'm saying your name sake insanely

Please break me

Like a chicken leg

Or just shake me from this existence

Since I don't seem fit for it

Anymore than I fit that

Givchechy dress you gave that blonde, right?

Am I dying! Or just dying inside

Fuck coughs

If you want him enough to—Use black magic

To do that to me,

wait till it falls back on you,

You gross hag

If God hates fags as much as he hates blacks

We should fly flags over the haggis I made Alice

When she's back from her adventures in wonderland

No wonder you're a Monro

Crossed over from O'Fallons

It's an old warfare with two clans

From the old countries

With no borders

Or border collies

Laboradores

And labirites, likely

As Aphrodite is to smite me

So here comes DJ Francis

With his new black girlfriend

Just kidding

We all know in his world

It's cold and broken

With nothing but blue eyes

And big wild to look over you

Bro, standing up is not going to make this train go anywhere. I almost promise you.

Turns out there's no such thing as a quick trip to The Rock.

Turns out you'll sit stuck in your own sick

God as my witness

For screenshotting those ass pictures

—that's somebody's kids, dick.

tick tok has no limits.

VO

Of course,

The day and time I should have to go to Rockerfeller Plaza quickly, quietly and unseen, the train is magically destined not to move.

I've been sitting here at least a half hour, with no end in sight—

[The doors close and the train begins moving.]

Hahaha!

Fucking hilarious, God.

I've been avoiding The Rock like the plague—

Not that I think anything would happen at all upon arrival— who am I, anyway?

Nobody important.

There she goes.

Still, I've written enough about it, and the people inside and around it,

That the place makes me nervous.

More nervous than ever, that is, actually—

I always felt weird in the place.

[flashbacks]

When I first got to New York,

I would end up there on accident.

Completely by accident.

Lost.

Faulty navigation.

Hackers:

Whatever.

I always just—

By complete fucking accident

Ended up at Rockerfeller Plaza

The city slips over us, as the train sinks back underground —

I'm facing the city now,

As not to be reminded of my abuser's toxic words and toxic hands,

By dirty white Nikes and Jansport backpacks

Still, etched into the subway walls

Are two stars, which remind me to repeat the mantra:

Starr Michael Roberts is a pedophile wifebeater

Less of a mantra than the truest words ever spoken,

But that's all the shape of a five point star means to me now or will ever mean to me

And to think,

The American flag has 50 of the

50 wife beating pedophile men

On a red white and blue flag

That waves just to remind me

I was born a fat ugly black woman

To be a slave

And there's no one to save us

I want to senselessly beat the man in the dirty white Nikes and Jansport backpack

Just like I was beaten senselessly by the man called Starr,

The devil in disguise as my first love

Still trying to chase my soul from its dream

Back into his nightmarish under realms of unhygienic hatred, vomit stained rugs

And piss stained couches,

Phlegm on the walls and

Nothing on but Diablo

And old episodes of The Sopranos.

—but I still love The Sopranos;

And I still love my one and only

Good thing that ever happened

From an awful marriage

That buried me

wonder what's on this side of the train to write

Maybe nothing

Nothing I like, anyway

Some guy that just thinks i'm some ugly black bitch

Of course

All the white rich dudes

Are horrible

I miss the poor surfers

Blowing blunts and wishing they was with blondes,

With me tucked under their arms

I need a tummy tuck to find love

Goddamn,

I'm miserable just sitting here

At least I get a glance at her

The tattooed God

With the pink hair

Where's Wanda

Sai the Saige

Don't say ahit

Unless its music

Sai the Saige says

Turn the page

For more sermons

Sai the Saige sings her words carefully

Writes forwards for whole books in four words

Four worlds down,

Now four more.

That's a world tour.

Lil biiiiiiitzzz

Bro, I might never have sex again.

There's a new STD on the loose

And patient zero is a white man from New York in his 30's

FUCKING GROSS.

Where's wanda

Where's Waldo

Ah FUCK

I got your wallet

WHATS WRONG WITH YOU.

SOMETHING

which one are you?!

Nothing, nobody.

Sunni?!

I'm not Sonny, you're Sonny.

I'm not—

Don't say it

Whatever

Where is it?

Where's what?

The rock

You're on the rock!

I that's not —

Stop it

what I meant!

Which one are you—

Who are you

8mm

I'm the cosmic—

Whatever the fuck.

Gimmie the rock

Get off of me

I think too much

I think I have a disease

I think too much

But I don't think much of me

It's just as much as I want

A three musketeers bar,

That's far fetched

For a vegan

With 12 dollars in the budget

For the rest of the month

Goddamn.

One down

20 to go

Call someone

To take your husband

Home

I'm drunk

I'm stuck in this thought

At the bottom of the rock

Damn. 8 always/ eight ways to get lost here

Not today though, I hope

Follow the smell of coffee

— the open doors

This the stairs—

— up a couple stories.

Muscle memory, I—

Wait.

Are there stairs to the top of the rock?

I would walk them.

Shazam, what's this lame ass fucking song?

Ugh, at least I have muscle memory.

OUCH.

COME ON.

OUCH.

Come with me.

Ugh. I have so fucking much to do.

*I have so much fucking to do.

Okay, now what do I do?

Just jump!

That seems like a bad idea.

It's the only idea you've got.

That's not even my idea!

—but it's the only idea you've got!

OKAY, I've got an idea!

What's it?

Wtf, I've never even seen this many people here.

What is this, a field trip?

GODDAMIT

JUST JMP.

i can't, I'm scared!

Okay. Then I'll push you.

No don't

*push*

helicopter: fluh - fluh- fluh- flh

THERE HE IS—

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

AGHHHHHHHH.

GIANT BIRD OF PREHy-

SNATCH.

GODDAMN

Turn SIM down

Okay, how much.

Just a little

How's that

That's better.

Okay.

Look, I am not interested in you.

I get that, Jimmy Fallon.

I am just doing my job, okay.

I get it, Jim.

Okay?! Do you understand.

I understand.

Okay?

Okay.

Okay.

So what is your job, exactly?

I keep my mouth shut,

Hands fisted misdirected,

But staying on track

Thank god they put this shit here

Hands in my pocket equals words undocumented

I can't help but to admit

I almost wasn't even writing before this

Now fast forward

Every time I'm under this, it feels like I'm already in my own show or something

Of course,

I used to love a good revolving door

Shit

I used to love at all

Man! I hate the rock!

Why.

Cause fuck Jimmy Fallon, that's why!

why?!

CAUSE.

Look, the you from the other dimension should be coming around that corner any minute.

Okay, for what.

To use the restroom.

Make sure she

They:

What.

Me is a “they”

Whatever.

I love the rush of death telling me to jump as the oncoming train approaches from behind me

I could be blinded by the light.

Look, 6'3

God knows what I need

And that makes history

Make sure when you —

when she —-

—goes into the bathroom, find Fallon and give him the—

I know what to do.

Alright,

YO.

NO. LEAVE ME ALONE.

I'm married with a family!

I don't find you attractive! At all!

I know that, asshole!

I only want you for your fame and money!

Wait, really?

No, you handsome basta'd!

Goddammit…

Goddammit! Sunni!?

I knew that was you!

It is me—but the other me is somewhere, so take this—quickly back to the 4th dimension—-

This is the fourth dimension!

Wait, it is?!

YES. What dimension did you think it was

The 8th!

The 8th?! THAT EXISTS?!

yeah!!! Where the fuck are you from?!

The third, I thought!

Thank god, here's this fucking train.

Well, fuck off, then! I gotta go find the 8th dimensional Jimmy Fallon!

What! For what?!

That's priveleged information

Ascended extraterrestrials only, broh!

Woah, woah, woah, don't “bro” me.

I said “broh”

What?! That's what I said—

No, you said—

Whatever. “Broh”,—

—now you said it—

—I'm coming with you—

Don't be homo.

—but, you're a woman, I thought.

That's what's you think.

That's what the tabloids said…

You wanna know what the tabloids said about you?

In which dimension?

Right?! Now shut up. Come on.

[they move quickly towards the—

Towards the where?

I don't know. I've only ever been at the bottom of the rock:

I don't get it. If the antenna is on the top,

Then why did my vibe go.

GLUH.

Sorry:

No , that's a lot; what is that:

—you really think I'm handsome?

I think you're an asshole.

I hate writing at the rock

(Launching to onesel.)

Wtf was that supposed to be

(Laughing to one's self)

Or

(Lunching to one's self?)

Or

(Launching to—

Fuck it, I don't know.

You look ridiculous.

At least i can just write it off to

“Mental Health Problems”

MEANWHILE

Check it out. The devil is following me.

What.

Wanna see.

What the FUCK is that?

He wants my soul.

WOAH.

Yeah, cool, right.

No!

Yeah it is…

What the hell happened

I sucked him off once:

You what.

Calm down. I didn't know it was the devil.

Holy!

It's was un Unholy

See.

Damn Satan

Youuuuuuu are fucking gross.

Yeah.

Nice tattoos though.

I thought you'd like this.

I do. Who's your body?

Some drunk.

The alcoholics are so easy.

What about my soul.

What about your soul, dude?

Why doesn't he want my soul?

He already has your soul.

What?! I never sold my sold my soul.

That's what you think.

Oh, I get it

Comcast owns Jimmy Fallon.

Actually, Nancy Drew does, or whatever.

What's her name

Nancy!

HUH- what!!

DREW BARRYMORE.

GET IN HERE!!!!

woah. Okay. I gotta get back to the 90's.

Why!

I left my

DREW BARRYMORE

GODDAMIT.

Sorry,

JUST GET OUT.

She is cute, though.

She's so fucking cute.

Hey,

What.

Put me on your hit list,

For what.

Cause.

No way, dude.

So it's this Nancy Drew Character

Uh huh.

Then Comcast

Correct.

Then NBC/Universal.

uh-huh

Then Lorne Michaels—

Wait

Correct.

Fuck man. So you mean the portion of Jimmy Fallon I won in that game of 8 dimensional poker is pretty much nothin.

It's pretty much—

Worthless.

Not worthless.

What are you saying—

I'm saying—

I'm not a real woman

I just saw a real woman

With a long skirt

And a body worthy of love

Beautiful hair

And face like porcelain

Nothing upon the sleeves strewn in ink

Petite

I could never be a real woman

Actually, you know what.

I could have worn anything

But I'm not showing up for anything at Rockerfeller Plaza dressed like my inner cumslut

YOUR “INNER” CUMSLUT

THAT WSS AWESOME

I know, God.

*belches juicy semen, slurps*

You're—a fucking awful person, though, just awful.

I know.

Just—disgusting.

Yeah, but—

—that was the best blowjob I ever had

Yep. *burps—slurps* ufgh.

—and you swallowed all of it. I don't know how!

Both: That's was so much!

Haha yeah:

Jinx! You owe me a blowjob.

Okay!

You're fucking gross.

Yeah.

Oh wow.

That went deep.

I mean, not really “deep” it went aural.

*oral*

I swear to god if you publish this

POSTED

DAMN. that dude is good looking.

Why is he dating someone that looks like a mouseS

Maybe he's into mouce face

I guess.

I'm into mouse face.

[deadmau5]

Be nice.

Hey!

What: what do you want

That guys an asshole!

Duh!

Okay. I love white people

But they're weird sometimes

I was lookin at this dude on the train

Like real hard,

And I swear to God, I couldn't tell if that was his girl

Or his twin sister

I was like

What I the fuck am I lookin at

Idk but I like it

It's almost refreshing to see sliders that aren't made of plastic or whatever awful material

OH. CONAN O BRIEN

YEAH.

But mad young.

That's—

LUCIFER!

Hahahaha what

GET BACK HERE.

DAMN.

That's one good looking kid.

Dammit dammit dammit

A bunch of handsome white dudes I want nothing to do with

It's true

I do like the fame

The power

The respect

The money, I could give or take

Or make my own

Just so you'll date me

The power, I like

The respect and the fame

So your name came and went with the hour

And the sunset

I might take walk in the rain

Because my body is ugly

And I just want to be loved

A husband

Two dogs

And pushing a stroller

Of course, there's the part that just wants to have fun

Get fucked up

Love someone I trust enough

To rub against

Without a rubber

Against the grain

Our heads together

He grabs the back of my neck

And I just can't handle it

Fuck. I love mad men— and I love men when they're mad

Especially Fallon

That's somebody's dad in the bathtub, yeah mate

Somebody back at the opera

Probably phantoms

There you go

You've got you a girl

So grab her hand

And hold onto her

Don't let her know

If you love or fuck someone else

Just for the fun of it

Don't break her head and her heart at the same time

She might not come back from it

Like I never did

I never came back

I was punched in the face maybe 5

Or like 6 times

Before I got up, became Skrillex, went for a a run with the dogs

And then did it again

Never was god, though

I got a lot of problems

I love the waterfront

But no one loves me

I'm left in the lobby a lot

Like Miley, in that one song

I guess I'm destiny

Or perhaps I'm your density

Once upon a time, I walked here

Once a upon a time, I worked here,

Shout out to number six.

This one is sung for you

This verse undoes the hex.

Remind me to get your mom hallmark card, someone uttered

I fucking love her

Remember to stop at the shopping carts before your long walk home

Almost hoping you're soaked in the strange acid rain

So hard

You forget what your name is

I spent a whole plot of a film

Just trying to be famous

Luckily,

I think The Tonight Show stops taping in the summer,

So with any luck,

The real Jimmy Fallon is somewhere in Greece or some shit

Rich assholes and their summer vacations—

I'm guessing,

But still unwavering in the back of my mind somewhere

That no matter what,

Whenever I'm at 30 Rock, I'm being watched.

The entire cast of 30 rock is watching the legends saga in 3D, along with some of the keynote cast of Saturday night live—

Don't be selfish

I'm not. I don't know what else I used to watched that's owned by this media conglomerate

ahem.

SLASH/Universal.

Oh, so we are doing this back to the future revamp

depends, are you gonna keep being fat,

Or be spry, like Marty McFly

And just for the fuck of it,

You're the new Hanson in the new 21 Jumpstreet Movie

SUNNI BLU

Aight,

SUPA

Dammit.

TINA FEY

Do you smell donuts.

LIZ LEMON

no, it's cookies

Follow the smell of the cookies.

I get it.

I got it.

Try to remain unseen!

LOOK AT ME. I'M AT THE BASE OF A GIANT PE—

COCK.

LUTZ

When's the action?!

Notes:

Chocolate man makes everything chocolate

Okay. That's stupid.

Chocolate!

Chocolate!

Uhhh—-

TINA FEY

What are you doing here?!?

JIMMY FALLON

I work here…what are you doing here?

TINA FEY

I have tenure

JIMMY FALLON.

*purses lips*

[tina tries to hide the entire cast Reunion of late 90s/early 2000's SNL cast members behind her

TINA FEY

(Nervously)

tah—uh;

I thought you were on vacation.

JIMMY FALLON *squinting under dark sunglasses*

I redacted it.

What does that mean?

MAYA RUDOLPH

(Munching popcorn, wearing overalls)

I know what it means.

Mm.

What does that mean?

I read the comics.

CUT TO:

I have something to tell you.

Okay, what.

It can't be over the phone.

Okay.

-31

Where the firefighters is?

I got some propolis cough syrup for the stalkers

Where is it!

Where is what?

You know what.

What?

From the fountain.

It wasn't me! I don't have it.

. .

. .

Now my days are shattered