[ENTER THE MULTIVERSE]

{Enter The Multiverse}

‘The Legend of Red Man Tom.'

Prod. by -Ū.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

Self Care— A Freestyle Mixtape.

Performed By: Blū Tha Gürū

Prod. By J. Dilla

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

He's the luckiest man in the world.

Not to mention, a notorious telepath…

C'mon, you have a good hand…

–and he's going to throw the galaxy's most important poker game

{Enter The Multiverse}

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

07. s w e e t p o t a t o p i e. Vogue Mix V1

So why am I envious?

It isn't athletics, I promise

Its pages and pages

Poems and proses

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

The CELEBRITY YAUGHT is HIJACKED by a MARTIAN named GOD.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.

This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.

The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror"

"Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms."

The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus.

The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual.

Artist's Note:

This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture.

The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual.

As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day.

"The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants.

The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus.

The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons.

This is a living document.

In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture.

This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.

05. s t r a n g e.

L.JONES

Ah, now— mirror, mirror on the wall

OOH, this shit is dirty, let me get that—

HEY!

Ah damn! I didn't know you were in there!

I'm always in here!

I was looking for myself!

Exactly!

What do you want?

What do you want?!

You can't answer my question with a question!

I am you!

Not all the way—

Hey look here, that guru sent me and I want you to get something straight—

—you are right, this is hanging cooked.

[she tilts the mirror and the man stumbles diagonally]

HEY!

My bad.

Now LOOK! There is a reason I am appearing to you here in today.

Now wait a minute, I gotta get some windex, this spot is just buggin me.

No! Do NOT use windex!

You are right! I just got a brand new jug of white vinegar!

Now HEY!

{Enter The Multiverse}

SUNNI BLŪ has just finished an interview and performance on JIMMY KIMMEL LIVE and exits with their ENTORAGE.

There's something off about that gal.

You mean guy?

What? No—

—that's a guy.

*squints*

A what.

Wait—

That's a lady.

You thought that was a girl the entire interview?

What?

That's a dude.

You're kidding me.

Sunni Blu is a man. Trust me.

That's it…

SUNNI BLU'S PHONE rings

Calling

Hmm.

Hello?

I know you're a woman.

…who is this?

That's it. This is the worst idea I've ever had.

Where are you, Jimmy?

No place you need to be concerned about.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.

This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.

The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror"

"Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms."

The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus.

The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual.

Artist's Note:

This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture.

The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual.

As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day.

"The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants.

The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus.

The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons.

This is a living document.

In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture.

This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.

“Man In The Mirror”

04. s l y t h e r i n.

Fresh from the land of a thousand suns

And I stil don't know which stone to land on

No random environment;

I underwent the whole attorney

And still met with resistance

I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was

A supplement to my existence

In fact, it is,

An edifice or m addition to my nutrition deficit

And I says,

For whatever's lost but goes on,

Fight for rich or poorer while the poorer suffer longer

No longer argue my agreements,

Distance to whatever's after

There I rest upon the sober throne,

And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as as stones,

For may as well without the water

And also sure to rot,

Or waste as rats,

Computer paper,

There again

Recycling bins of compost

Just for show, but not for shredded paper

No, no longer or wonder my nonsense,

In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here—

And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered

Torment your emotions,

Also just to want but not to have

As those that matter.

So I've called in all the white clothes

Now we represent with denim.

And I'm stuck inside your television

Stuck inside your television

Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred,

Separating yourselfs as the basis for this

Depreciation?

Wonder, again I wonder

And still no sad trombones,

Only stories, and somber surfers

And solemn whores and silent wars with words

And sundries

From the land of one thousand suns

And a thousand sons you've lost

A thousand wars,

A thousand girls who want you

Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it

Rare. But slightly often scored,

Parched,

And barely long forgotten,

Tipping,

And waiting only

This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup.

Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something,

I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water.

You know it?

I also do that for the dozen,

No trend follows, or feathered gathered,

Hollow winds and tunnels

Tunnels sent and shadows

I hadn't been pin pricked

I never been picked out

Blow the candles for which wish?

I've be ever been bound to love

Or celebrated by another besides my mother

But here's so sensory deprivation,

Overstimulation

lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend

But she won't shut the fuck up

He's just standing there like

“Clearly I'm getting sex out of this”

And she won't stop talking.

I love that.

I'm like “bitch, shut up.”

He's like

“Help me.”

I'm like

Not my problem, broskies,

You better look interested instead of over here.

Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me.

Anyway, another son was born without my honor.

Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor

Before I realized it was gold,

And I was slaughtered

No use crying over spilled galaxies,

Still you're trapped in I,

And I'm found to want more than I decided

If I'm divided and clustered up

And yet I'm divine then,

I should gather all I've had

Combine it into one

—and yet

Another columbine has come

As if they're all occurrences,

Just set to Apple Watches

And broadcast t'all the provences.

In a cinch I've just realized

I've the trench coat to match your jacket

But no longer the converse all stars

And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle

Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating,

Crash the grate at all the hours,

Never really gravitating for anything important,

Only alt-right

Can't afford that

All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally.

Who am I?

That's right? I can't belay in body!

Oh,

I can't to grip the shadows

Boxing with the cat for your night

V.O

We were friends with the humans—

Most of our job is finding out what happened with them.

Future people

Vintage potluck

All out time

And all our hard work

All our bad luck

All our warns

Fell on her shores

as lodes for her

Oh,

How his legs fall so calmly one over the other

Or,

How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings

Our melodies will walk in chords for all time

For now if ta zzz A as te r

( I love when i get off the train and that happens)

What a brilliant blue,

Yea, in fact, its cerulean

Yes, in fact, if you can

Facts to rule them all, so

If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry

Here's your love;

None

For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone

From the top

Don't ever forget you're on watch

I've got a whole heart full of freedom

Just don't look up from your phone e

They brought you jo now pull you don't a bit

You're a clown, it seems

But no activists

They heil Hitler in central Bedford

No articles of new clothing l, huh?

They love to watch all your digging

They call it hyper vigilance because racism in New York can be so violent

That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers

Which justifies hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world

They see themselves as the controllers

Still slave master but in such a context

That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.

This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.

The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror"

"Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms."

The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus.

The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual.

Artist's Note:

This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture.

The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual.

As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day.

"The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants.

The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus.

The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons.

This is a living document.

In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture.

This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.

03. s w e a t.

Just pretend

It's imminent;

My relapse,

As a drug I take it in in increments

Collapse;

My photographic image memory

Serves me perfectly

A classical caricature

And still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt

(Still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt)

I'm here in present tense

An artifact and image

Inside all the builds and relics

Mr. Tim is here

When Mr, Night Guy gets too perfect

Ties it on a bit for treasure chests

And pleasure's never where the head will reac, dear

Here hearts

Silk eyes

Don't trust

Tame scarves

Legwarmers

Silk ties

Autographs

Silk ties

Autographs

Silk ties

Autographs

Silk ties

Autographs

Wedding bells

And autocrats

Grandfather clock and pendulum

And scarcities and garish art,

And murderers upon the dusk

The carriage sure to'ave spoken

Crypt sinking,

There faultlines, now quaking

My hind legs are to shore

And still my forelegs tip.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

02. s t r I k e f o r c e.

Mister Jimmy you're out of touch.

Mr. Chaos you're out of God.

Ms. Divine, you're not enough

Ms. Monroe, you're out of love

A dozen is a dozen

Hallmark roses

I still love my ‘ol Miss Molly

I still love my golden trophy

Mr. Trump,

You're out of touch

Mr. Moore,

You're out of line

Ms. Monroe, you're not enough

Mr. God, you're out of love

But I still love my ol' Miss Molly

I still love my golden trophy

I still love my Hollywood,

Golden boys

I still love my silver screen

And golden eras,

I still love my world before love

I still like my alma mater

But i'll never ever love her

I put out for dear Miss Molly

I get up for four-door wallets

I belong to none or nothing

I should die, I don't belong her

I still call her over after

Don't belong here under, over

I still love my golden boys though

I still love my golden trophy

Mister Jimmy, you're out of touch.

The kid will never go to sleep,

You know

The boy will never rest

He'll never do his best, you know

He'll never do his best

She'll never be the best you know

She's never out of bed

She'll never see the sun you know

‘It's only in your head'

The boy will never drown, you know

You know the boy's so cold

You might go out for now, you know

But you'll go home alone

He'll never hit the ground, you know

The boy will never rest

The boy will just go down,

You know

As history at best

(The girl is staring out the window as the frost comes out their mouths)

Fresh from the land of a thousand suns

And I still don't know which stone to land on

No random environment;

I underwent the whole attorney

And still met with resistance

I just asked for an amphetamine as if it was

A supplement to my existence

In fact, it is,

An edifice or addition to my nutrition deficit

And I says,

For whatever's lost but goes on,

Fight for rich or poorer

– while the poorer suffer longer.

No longer argue my agreements,

Distance to whatever's after

There I rest upon the sober throne,

And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as stones,

For may as well without the water

And also sure to rot,

Or waste as rats,

Computer paper,

There again

Recycling bins of compost

Just for show, but not for shredded wager

No, no longer or wonder my nonsense,

In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here—

And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered

Torment your emotions,

Also just to want but not to have

As those that matter.

So I've called in all the white clothes

Now we represent with denim.

And I'm stuck inside your television

Stuck inside your television

Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred,

Separating yourselfs as the basis for this

Depreciation?

Wonder, again I wonder

And still no sad trombones,

Only stories, and somber surfers

And solemn whores and silent wars with words

And sundries

From the land of one thousand suns

And a thousand sons you've lost

A thousand wars,

A thousand girls who want you

Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it

Rare. But slightly often scored,

Parched,

And barely long forgotten,

Tipping,

And waiting only

This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup.

Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something,

I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water.

You know it?

I also do that for the dozen,

No trend follows, or feathered gathered,

Hollow winds and tunnels

Tunnels sent and shadows

I hadn't been pin pricked

I never been picked out

Blow the candles for which wish?

I've been ever been bound to love

Or celebrated by another besides my mother

But here's some sensory deprivation,

Overstimulation

lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend

But she won't shut the fuck up

He's just standing there like

“Clearly I'm getting sex out of this”

And she won't stop talking.

I love that.

I'm like “bitch, shut up.”

He's like,

“Help me.”

I'm like,

Not my problem, broskies,

You better look interested instead of over here.

Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me.

Anyway, another son was born without my honor.

Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor

Before I realized it was gold,

And I was slaughtered

No use crying over spilled galaxies,

Still you're trapped in I,

And I'm found to want more than I decided

If I'm divided and clustered up

And yet I'm divine then,

I should gather all I've had

Combine it into one

—and yet

Another columbine has come

As if they're all occurrences,

Just set to Apple Watches

And broadcast t'all the provinces.

In a cinch I've just realized

I've the trench coat to match your jacket

But no longer the converse all stars

And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle

Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating,

Crash the grate at all the hours,

Never really gravitating for anything important,

Only alt-right

Can't afford that

All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally.

Who am I?

That's right? I can't belay in body!

Oh,

I can't to grip the shadows

Boxing with the cat for your night

V.O

We were friends with the humans—

Most of our job is finding out what happened with them.

Future people

Vintage potluck

All out time

And all our hard work

All our bad luck

All our warns

Fell on her shores

as lodes for her

Oh,

How his legs fall so calmly one over the other

Or,

How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings

Our melodies will walk in chords for all time

For now if ta zzz A as te r

What a brilliant blue,

Yea, in fact, its cerulean

Yes, in fact, if you can

Facts to rule them all, so

If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry

Here's your love;

None

For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone

From the top

Don't ever forget you're on watch

I've got a whole heart full of freedom

Just don't look up from your phone e

They brought you up now pull you down a bit

You're a clown, it seems

But no activists

They heil Hitler in central Bedford

No articles of new clothing l, huh?

They love to watch all your digging

They call it hyper vigilance m because the whites in New York can be so violently racist m

Their strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers

Which justifies their hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world

They see themselves as the controllers

Still slave master but in such a context

That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind

Why existing in white neighborhoods in less than perfect black skin seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor

What if covert racism doesn't hurt as much–

(or never, ever-after)

Mister Jimmy you're out of touch.

Mr. Chaos you're out of God.

Ms. Divine, you're not enough

Ms. Monroe, you're out of love

A dozen is a dozen

Hallmark roses

I still love my ‘ol Miss Molly

I still love my golden trophy

Mr. Trump,

You're out of touch

Mr. Moore,

You're out of line

Ms. Monroe, you're not enough

Mr. God, you're out of love

But I still love my ol' Miss Molly

I still love my golden trophy

I still love my Hollywood,

Golden boys

I still love my silver screen

And golden eras,

I still love my world before love

I still like my alma mater

But i'll never ever love her

I put out for dear Miss Molly

I get up for four-door wallets

I belong to none or nothing

I should die, I don't belong here

I still call her over after

Don't belong here under, over

I still love my golden boys though

I still love my golden trophy

Mister Jimmy, you're out of touch.

F

I can very much count you out;

E

I can very much drift away

G

I can very well close my eyes.

Am

What do you want me to say?

You want the whole thing?

Well what a fun night.

It was a hard roll;

it was a good time

It was a hard come down, though

A hard fuck

It was a hard laugh;
I wrote a good book

We took a long ride;

Then smoked a long blunt

Woah

Hush now, good fan

Come and take a hard roll

A long stroll

a hot dance

I want to take a half more

The comedown was hard,

But i just got the honor roll

Come down, good fan

I want to hold your hand now

I want to take a good pause

I want to have a hard roll

Calm down, good fan

I'm headed for your heart now

(i want to take a hard fall, I want to take a hard roll)

Come on, good man

I wanna get a hard on

I wanna take a hard fan

I want to have a hard fuck

I'm going for your heart now

I want to have a long roll

I'm going for your heart now

I want to take a good smoke

Yeah, and it's something like that

And i look both ways before I cross the

Cut the road

Yeah, i hate myself as well

But i know you don'

But you know, we're all getting older

It just goes more post mortem

To hold secrets inside

Pass over regrets

and don't touch em

Like you don't want em

But you don't want

No one else

And you don't

wanna run

So you either say hello to the dog

Or bark,

And then jump back

I have you on speed dial

But I misfire

T

total recall

I don't call blocked numbers

but still number one

d-d-don't

be a retard,

Work harder

Learn more than your other parts

To control them

supermanteras

Entourage

Tata-

Ratata

Don't be retarded

Rat poison for supper

Rat poison for supper

And politics for something sweet afterward

You heard of the knowledge?

You heard of the good book

Good one, Doctor

I'll run harder

next workhour

Cause we're all undercooked

And we're all overdone on the outside

still half frozen in the gut though,

You know

You know?

Enjoy your holiday supper

Enjoy your apartment

Enjoy your destruction

I'm just getting started corrupting your disk drive

Full system failure!

Fill system failure!

Full Jimmy Fallon!

I mean–

Redact that.

Don't be retarded.

Run out of water!

We're all out of order!

I might as well pull the plug

Or just more fires.

I got hard times under

And hard times covered

No hard times coming cause

Look, I got smarter

(don't be retarded)

I got semi sweet chocolate

And lessons

And lovers

And neighbors

And demons

and evil around I

So who could have thought

That the work of God was just

[us, at it]

At first, i thought nothing, and then all at once,

All it was, as is.

While I hope that one day for me, there's a me

And a man in a meadow

No time to decide however, how long I can act as irreverent,

The single disciple, the limitless modem,, the signal to imminent the

I took a misstep, I went the wrong way

I thought I was done, but I should be on stage

Just pretend

It's imminent;

My relapse,

As a drug I take it in in increments

Collapse;

My photographic image memory

Serves me perfectly

A classical caricature

And still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt

(Still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt)

I'm here in present tense

An artifact and image

Inside all the builds and relics

Mr. Tim is here

When Mr, Night Guy gets too perfect

Ties it on a bit for treasure chests

And pleasure's never where the head will reac, dear

Here hearts

Silk eyes

Don't trust

Tame scarves

Legwaemwss

Silk ties

Autographs

Silk ties

Autographs

Silk ties

Autographs

Silk ties

Autographs

Wedding bells

And autocrats

Grandfather clock and pendulum

And scarities and garish art,

And murderers upon the dusk

The carriage sure to'ave spoken

Crypt sinking,

There faultlines, now quaking

My hind legs are to shore

And still my forelegs tip

So why am I envious?

It isn't athletics, I promise

Its pages and pages

Poems and proses

Keep it together karassndra

Why are you out all alone in a war zone without a gun?

Why are you out with the bomb squad in a rainstorm

Why are you known amongst all the lands?

You won by a landslide but by a show of hands

And a slight side of hands

And a show to the world that you own what you're on,

Let them come hold enough to hold you down with the motorcycles.

No country for old nothing

When the highlight of your whole life

Is the subdural hematoma growing to the surface.

And you were sure before you'd never have that part of your symmetry in tact again

See how the devil surrounds us when we interact with God and pure genius

Human will always kill God;

He doesn't understand it

The attacks and the tactical wall for sure come to a close;

The whole empire is falling

And Heaven is calling us home;

This has been just a warning

I'm still hiding j. The closet;

I'm sure to fly your hawk back, homing,

Nothing like a good pigeon,

depending on the moment

And deepening hour disinterest in anything?

See how evil walks amongst us

When you haven't come upon it in a moment

Or have all your other targets lined up—

Do remember dear ther it all comes back to haunt them

When they're all younger

And haven't been tortured yet

The fun part first and the war part after;

Sure to suffer if you're sure to hurt her

Sure to muder for a quarter or a tucked shirt

Sure to give a shit if just my mister in a basket

Do you understand that?

I won't

Good good

Goddamn

I might have a heart attack

I might have to kill myself

I hate this place

I'm tired now

I dropped my hat .

I'm an individual

Stuck in a simulated and subject collective consciousness

I'll tel you where the problem is

I promise this

It seemed more like a tactical marketing strategy than an actual accident, knowing the type of superstar Sonny had become. Yet, I couldn't help but give it a second thought, almost admiring it—whatever it was—as there is no such thing as bad press. As it all played out over social media—which I obstinately rejected, but however so embraced by those in what one used to call "the arts"—it felt undone; It was now strictly business within those very same markets. Here was this, an apparent plagiarism based on ‘outsourcing' a simple photo for a follow-up single to an album I knew I could not be moved to listen to, even after months.

I had spent my own time, in a torturous chaos sense, researching these sorts of psychological tactics and strategies of such conglomerates. It seemed almost as if the negative and seemingly coincidental exposure was in congruency with the so very Skrillexian need to stay relevant to the newer age in changing times. He seemed to embrace some sort of artistic evolution, at least from what I could sense at a long and strong distance. However, my ability to understand the article I'd very much by accident stumbled upon—while overlooking my own dilapidated ticket stubs on Resident Advisor—cautioned at the kind of humbled and grown logic that had become what was left of my womanhood.

I had in so many ways made a fool of myself, an embarrassment for what I thought of at the time in the name of love. Still, in all this time, I was so desolated and alone that it had become such an apparent and distraught sense of waking up to what formerly was. With this, I thought one of two things. I knew this Sonny, like most men of prestige, power, and great wealth, had devised his team of sharp-witted, intelligent, beautiful women. This apparent slip-up over the artwork for his latest endeavor—which I had, for every reason, protested in defense of my own dignity—was perhaps the result of a beautiful woman without creative ingenuity stealing the artwork in bad taste, as evidenced.

Or—even more cunning—this was the wit of a trained and marginalized soldier in the art of programming. The apparent plagiarism was, in fact, another brutal and hollow Skrillefied market for attention. Over the last decade, he had no shortage of the ability to create and draw eyes to whatever art or concept was forced out of the mechanized monster.

Still, there was a sharp growl. I knew I was meant to find this as a reminder of what I'd find if I looked any further or listened to his music anymore: a rise in sharp numbers, mass appeal tactics, and this-or-that shallow hogwash of distinctly skeletal bodies and avant-garde aesthetics. It pointed at the unachievable from my eyes and standpoint. It was the rockstar air and attire of everything I wasn't: strictly thin Hollywood or other ideals to which the construct was entitled, but I wasn't.

I had to set out on my own way because what I had intended with music was jumbled into appearances, pornographic sexualities, and masculine dominance. It meant I had aged out of the desirability and affect these very same masses were being marketed from. Sure, I understood that the Skrillex project had established a sort of order for what the electronic festival industry wanted. But I also wanted something else accomplished in my time that wasn't just being some shallow, hot-girl, obscure go-after.

The entire time, I had been under the impression of a duality of magnetism I often still had difficulty loosening myself from—that this illusion of an emotional tie or loveness, outside of what was a physical or illustrious concept, had no substance within the business at its core. It was, to say the least, a heartless world and a heartless business.

Now that my own music was without purpose, I could forever distance myself from the other masses—the consumer-prosumer-commercialized "artists" that had sprung up out of access to the direct-to-streaming music market via technology and disposable funding. I had no way of embodying my mind to do away with the parts of me that needed to change to become one of them—in the sense that if my music looked and sounded alike, I would be embraced. But I was far from being the type of consciousness that had formed seemingly with the twist of a knob or an Ableton shortcut by one of electronic's founding fathers. In an unfortunate way, I had finally realized he was just that.

— Death of A Superstar DJ.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.

This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.

The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental