[ENTER THE MULTIVERSE]

Although I hadn't realized it at first, after that fight I wasn't the same, and though I somewhat quickly recovered morally, howeve somewhat defeated in the sense that my roommate did seem to have been overtaken my some demonic possession, perhaps even the devil himself as I knew it—as it didn't seem at as all provoking the situation as it had all turned out—and though I had won the fight, my soul had been thrashed about; what was it about my aura, or the soul itself that

such a demon would continue to chase me? She had bitten me, enough to have left a bruise and actual bite marks reaching well below the skin, as it seemed her grinding teeth had torn into the muscle, but not quite broken the skin—and as she had attempted to crush my windpipe, digging into the skin of my neck, which had left a haunting bruise remarkably similar to the injury my ex husband had given me, leaving my throat sore and my windpipe somewhat crushed— luckily, not enough so that it hurt my vocal chords, which I carefully rested, as with the rest of my body…and though I had meant to return to training in the gym only one day-post battle, it had taken a striking four days of rest to recover, returning on the fifth day to a trial membership to a gym which included a sauna in downtown Brooklyn; I wished I would die, and wanted nothing more once again than for my life to end, and without means to such an end I had crawled into a deep depression—I had at the very least been making music, which was fulfilling, but not entirely lucrative—the fallbacks of being submerged the lower income black community being owed money and undermined as an artist —or person, in general— Of course, societally expected to return to work as a corporate slave, which I outright refused—I'd rather die, and hoped I soon would; I hated being black, being around such stereotypically ghetto people constantly, and having to adhere to the stereotypically black standard of living; a result of the Eurocentric corporate greed and still entirely racial society, materialism and of course ignorance—and though something in me was pushing forward to succeed, another part of me wanted to just lay down and die.

I could no longer frequent a decent gym, or afford to look like a decent female—I wantdered about in tattered clothes, boarding busses and trains without being able to pay fare and praying for an understanding driver or lack of traffic patrol policemen—the only place I may have even considered taking employment would have been Equinox, if not just for the free membership—and the more I thought about rejoining corporate slavery, the more I thought about how there would be no time or energy left at all for making music or being a DJ; I was already becoming empathically, just as sic, tired and miserable as everyone else around me was, and therefore would not return to regular work; I chose instead to be slowly killed by the system, which seemed to be the only place for me—and I assumed just to spite me the winner of the discovery project would be a younger, hotter black female albeit with less talent but more marketable, the blue eyes of the world turning more quickly into demons than the black faces I was constantly surrounded by, and yet, still God sat on my shoulder in every since as a guiding force, though the light seemed otherwise overcome by shadows, I knew peace freedom now would either come from music or from death, either of which was welcome, as love seemed forbidden and out of sight entirely.

So I fell into a deep depression

With nothin left to learn but lessons

Devil still won't let up, but it's nothin

I don't got not love to love left

Basic ass bitches

With Marc jacobs tote bags

Nothing is random

I just don't care to be bad no more

I don't care no,

I just don't care about

Nothing

Glad I'm not as black as you

Matter of fact

Can't pass the paper bag test if I had to.

Then again I could really flex.

And encore the magician

Just to get rid of you

All that you do

Just to put me through bullshit

And drag me through hell with you

Has to come back to you.

Nothing to make me feel better

No one to love me no more

Nowhere to run

It was the longest train ride possibly ever, and I couldn't seem to write, besides a few lines of what seemed ünextraordinary– and though I had work to do up to and out of my eyeballs, I was tired, angry, and drained. I knew it was only in my mind that I had been bitten by an actual vampire, there still seemed the remnants of some satanic curse lying about; the stench of the iron my estranged ex-husband used to perspire emu sting from the bodies around me; the subtle smell of cat piss in places I would frequent, and worst of all—not one, but two roommates with excruciating bruxism, which I concluded absolutely altogether could not be circumstance or coincidence if there ever were such either thing, but the result of black magic—and though I had cast 8 explicitly specific spells over the last week or so, two of them as a means of protection from such darkness and chaos, and the other six had been with the intention of well-being and health in mind; a new perspective and state of mind, an aura of success, focus, and accomplishment—and of course, more protection, as the uncanny befuckery of my ex seemed to follow me everywhere for whatever reason. I had been increasingly miserable and lonely because of it—the literal knockdown drag out brawl that had resulted in the almost exact injuries inflicted by my ex during our very last scuffle had left me excessively and astonishingly bitter towards all males, but especially black ones, often appearing more violent and possessive than most, and the white ones who trailed behind little skinny white girls like lost dumb puppies were no better—and this included Dillon Francis, now sitting atop my shot list with his disgustingly blue eyed girlfriend or whoever she was at the forefront of all the remnants I had left of whatever goodness I did have left for him—and as it turned out, as strongly as I ended up feeling for him even only having existed entirely in a world of magic, lucid dreams, and paycheck or paychotix inclinations—it turned out I would be just as outwardly spiteful of the creature, which I'm sure had been the entire purpose of whatever demon or devil had possessed my roommate in the first place—

Her eyes had turned red with fury as she scratched and clawed at me and though I had done well to held her at bay, and although my tone at the gym was clear paying off, the element if suprise and the heavy dinner I had met with the adrinaline of the moment had indeed kept me calm, never with any intention to harm my assailant, but to keep her from harming me, all the while maintaining the safety of my electronics—my Laptop, which had been sitting open on my nightstand as I frittered around in Ableton, my MPC and audio interface, which sat just beneath in the shelf below, and of course, my decks themselves, still laid open atop the dresser, as I had only just earlier in the night finished another hour long mix, and though I had begun that mix using the song I had released and forgotten about entirely—the banana bread it had inspired me to purchase say warmly in my very full stomach as I pinned my Satan possessed roommate to the floor in a deadlock, dragging her across the room still pinned and reaching for the door, opening it and yelling for Security to subdue the attack as she screamed and fought frantically, biting at my hand like an aligator, jaws clenching shut with unweilding grip just before I placed a swift hand on her neck, turning her like a rabid dog a wrestling my arm around her neck as she clawed at mine; the heat of the moment had itself kept me from feeling any pain besides the bite on my left hand, which itself at the time less hurt than startled me—but upon waking the next day, the bite marks throbbed with heat and ache, the c-shape of her overbite carved into the crescent moon shape on my left hand between my thumb and index, there the “meat” was, so to speak—the scratch marks from her nails stinging on either side of my infinity tattoo, and in the middle of my neck—my windpipe bruised and sore as I had just recovered from a severe flu—or having just had my tonsils removed, still painful to swallow, and fearful that I might not sing—luckily, I still could, however—something was shaken in my soul, and, even more strangely as the struggle came to an end, with my roommate pretending that I had initiated the attack, just as the security guard Slolemnedned waddling in confusedly, my roommate, still wild and rabid, darted under my bed, grabbing the smooth Obsidian stone I had held for sometime Sonny and had used since obtaining it as a prayer stone to wash away whatever curse had come over whatever world we shared—and while my mind became focused on ensuring she wouldn't attack and damage my expensive DJ equipment, upon removing my things from the room I double and triple checked to ensure that the stone is what she was indeed after—and in fact it was. She had taken Sonny's Obsidian for whatever reason, which I had been taking great distance from anyhow, and I chose to see it as a blessing and sign of good things to come.

Whatever, you're fucked.

I know, huh.

You're so fucked.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

*Slaps with t-bone steak*

ITS SO NICE TO MEAT YOU.

Get outta my peripheral;

I told you— I'm an alien!

Go somewhere I can't see you

(So I can keep invading)

We came in peace—

—until we realized you don't have it here

Get out of my peripheral

I don't want to see you

So what if it's over

Better not hover

Over me

Like a helicopter

Like a helicopter

Now the (t)rain comes

With a rumble

Here we all are

In the jungle

As we all were

Always

I saw you

Calling

I never wonder

When the world is under water

Cause it all just starts again;

The wars and all the murder

All you are was

Just a part of

This maginificent disaster

I'm gonna go for dinner;

Maybe I can call you after

She left

Makeup and hair color on the pillowcases

But no lipstick

—Just a reminder

I don't give a shit

About your girlfriend;

Better do the laundry after

If you're smarter

Than I was

Cause I walk

Home alone

And there you are

Holding her

Lights on;

Knock my lights out

I'll be right back—

But that was about a half-hour or so, ago and now I'm

About to black out

A night owl,

Or white owl,

Who cried out

“No, this is my house!—

Either sit down, or get out of it”

And that was the—

Fuck this bitch.

Who hired her?

You'll stay in this room with the subject for up to three months;

—okay.

Record everything.

Isn't this illegal?

Not for us.

Okay.

There's something you should know about before I tell you think.

I have to know something before you tel me something?

It's like a precursor.

What's a “precursor”

Fuck.

What:

Nothing.

What is it.

It's—nothing—

You can't just say “fuxk”

“FUCK.”

UGH.

If I fall,

The whole house will fall down with me;

I promise

The whole house and all the walls,

If I fall,

If I fall for you

I promise,

If it goes all wrong,

I won't wait long for you;

I'd ask the same, that is,

If the game we're playing

Was all the same,

But it isn't

(It really isn't)

It really isn't—

Another circumstance of wisdom

Or conincidental t-shirt to believe in

God makes guesses at the aftersoutht androgynous.

We could make love for hours in the silence

But I'd have to wander off, when morning comes

Before you recon you don't want me

And I'm sad and always wondering

“If I had left witha my stuff before the Sun came up,

Would I be struggling and suffering?”

No, probably not.

Probably not, huh

I promise

Rich and shameless,

I probably shouldn't say this,

But I've been drinking;

I've been thinking

I've been sinking into feelings

I don't need,

But actually

—

Look at me when I'm bleeding for you

Look at me!

Look at me, into my dreams when you leave me

Waking up lonely

Thinking of only

You

Until I remember

I'm here

And you're there

With her

Watch me while I whiter away,

I'll watch you while you slither up my leg

And bite my thigh

Just how I like it

Now I'm high again on dying

It ain't right,

But fuck,

I like it

Fuck me like you mean it

Fuck me right

Ugh. What.

Okay, I secretly might break my veganism streak

Just for a fresh ass strawberry frosty—

Like I need to lose another dollar,

Fuck it

That's it.

It's a sickness.

The ‘-complications.' mixtape compilation series which focuses its internal monologue on the ideology of exploratory existentialism, using simple and classic mixing techniques into smooth transitions which mirror synconocities in time, musical elements, and lyricism to illustrate a vortex of collisions in cosmic omniscience, theming its recurring dominant soundscapes into a singular foundational focal point, and centering its multidimensionality into a gripping pull to return its emphasis on reflecting at checkpoints as if to reiterate a greater hidden meaning; the highs and lows of falling in love, it's consequences, long days and nights, missed connections, lost and unrequited love—capturing overall the rock and roll darkness of the neo-moden dance music scene—moving about from world to world—night after night, song after song—bodies on bodies and the escapism of rave and dance floor culture, connected through the pulsating and throbbing heartbeats bridged by light waves, and spread across neon skies across the globe.

Featuring dearly beloved hit and dance classics alike from global and legendary super-artists and masters of the dance floor, deadmau5, Kaskade, kx5, Skrillex, Fred Again.., Claptone, and more—featuring new music by and mixed with heart & soul by underground swamp creature and ancient rave God ‘- Ū.' as she explores the outer realms of dance music pre-and-post existence in the guttural haze of the afterlife.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Just the thought of it was making my stomach churn–and though I was far off the thought or hope of stardom, especially from that of The Festival Project, there was something pulling me towards it; I had been planning to watch at least one episode of Drake and Josh with the hopes of any inspiration whatsoever to pull through connecting all of the dots and plotholes of seasons 6 and 7 of Enter The Multiverse–however, something low and deep inside of me had been stricken with such grief in the aftermath of the chaotic twists and turns of the past 3 months that my heart began to hurt, my stomach bubbled into knots, and the sick and twisted feeling of impending doom sat at the helm of my throat, still aching and sore from the grips of what might have been a demon, or something even far more sinister–and this was no different. This was the gripping hands of the Illuminati itself–the organization which had left its very own mark in every fibre of my being, programming that would otherwise appeal to the greater masses–and though I was sure I was being punished for all of the silly and whimsical things I had done as a child, it had been a torturous adulthood otherwise- I could for certain never be trusted, by man or any other creature, and had likely been marked for death, presumably slow and sure–still dancing with the thought of a quick though never-painless suicide, conquored by the lower realms of another world, unseen by those I merely dreamt about and ever hoped to be alike.

“Fuck, I'm sad.”

I had finally eaten, which did feel better–though I hadn't managed to return to the gym as I had planned–I had at least gotten some work done, not that it made a difference or any dent in the massive workload I had myself compiled to do–but it at the very least was done and over with, and one-less worry on my mind–but I was worried. Filled with stress and anxiety, I wondered how I might escape the penniless nightmare I had once again found myself in–this time, unable to even look for work, as it seemed something in my entirety was bound to reject such expectations, even under such sufferable circumstances–my hair in shambles, forming dreadlocks, my clothes falling away into rags–and of course, my bills overdue and unpaid.

Everything I happened to do seemed like a waste of time and money, mine–or anyone elses, and I had been restricted just out of sheer fear and financial restraint to never even visit Manhattan, seeming to always end up stuck long enough that I became irritable. Still, no minimum wage job seemed worth showing up simply to hate myself and everyone else I would possibly interact with in an eight-hour time span for literally nothing in comparison to whatever corporation or employer's profit margin might have been. The Bloomberg's list of billionaires had ruined my entire drive to make anything less than at least one million dollars– which still seemed a small amount, and it was that or nothing at all, which I would have been happy to die at literally any moment having.

I thought of suicide

For the second time since

I opened my eyes

Why, what a wold world

What wild times

Why am I even alive,

(If I am?)

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

YO, WHERE'S THE ICE?

SELENA GOMEZ

…In the fridge.

*sips straw smirking*

[FROM INSIDE THE FRIDGE: The ice has completely melted–the ice cream is now simply a creamy pink sludge.]

UGH.

ICE DOES NOT GO IN THE FRIDGE, SELENA.

[SELENA GOMEZ is exaggeratedly inebriated.]

SELENA GOMEZ

(Hiccups)

Sorry.

The coffee appeared to have been resealed–which I almost hoped meant it contained some some sort of magical additive that would allow me to overcome the sort of rut I had been so unsettled in; it really had seemed the last roommate had done somewhat of a number on me–the bite marks on my left hand now turned to a perfect crescent-shaped scar, forming a remarkable C-shaped half circle, and I knew now that no one could be trusted, as she truly had been possessed by The Devil, or some sort of Demon, or she had been paid or hired by some agency to attack me, as the way she had lowered the room temperature to freezing so that I had been sitting in the cold hours before our fight–and of course, had chosen such a night which I had intended a well-deserved feast, after weeks of malnourishment, unintentional fasting, and still with all of my might trying to the best of my abilities to train for at least an hour per day with overall success in the endeavor–it seemed something eerily odd about the encounter, and though I considere myself a paranoid conspiracy theorist at best, there was still something shattering about the experience, so much so that I felt I had been at once dragged into Hell, and also somehow elevated–having captured the experience inadvertently all on tape, having forgotten that I had even been recording for the first place, still collecting bits and pieces for the album I was trying to make, but taking my time on–it had to be worth all of the work I had so far put into it–which was a lot, and it still seemed that something was trailing behind me–I remained neutral entirely to the matter, not to deconstruct such bizarre circumstances as one thing or another, either good or bad–but I had become irritated by now at the very least, as my new roommate, though sweet, was too sweet, and I found it too good to be true that she appeared to be so clean, neat, and tidy that she wasn't as well up to something, or also hired by someone–seemingly to collect information, or to study me .

“Not too much…” I thought to myself, filling the filter only so slightly as to test its contents, and careful not to upset my nervous system; I was, actually still on edge, but today in particular; it seemed everyone that I collided with wanted to know something strange, as if if they already knew who I was–and still in the haze of all that had happened, i let go to expectation, embracing myself as I knew only I could, and finally allowed myself the understanding that I was, actually, entirely alone–with no friends, no family, and no allies–but certainly no trust to be had.

“What do you know about Shamans?”

My new roommate asked; This was entirely the wrong way to go about opening up a polite conversation with me, as I had had discovered that along with my estranged and abusive ex-husband, and also my former roommate, had excruciatingly noisy Bruxism–and though I had been working closely with the spirits to undo anything which might have been a curse, demonic spell, or hex–I had never not believed in coincidences at any other time in my life: I thought “She must be some kind of spy.” Perhaps a psychologist intended to collect information after the ridiculous amount of synchronicities and circumstances which had become otherwise outwardly apparent to the exterior world in whatever realm I happened to have found myself in– not that it mattered, as I considered all to be done to me was to eventually to be returned to sender, and the extreme amounts of poverty, homelessness abandonment, lovelessness, hunger, and overall dehumanizing Hell that I had otherwise been put through to simply be a test of wills, a sign of better days, or, merely, a subhuman existence in which my place in the universe had been deemed somewhat ‘useless'. In any event, I still hadn't wished for any of it to be cast upon even my worst enemies, if they existed–and because I didn't believe them to exist at all in any form besides my darkest and most unhinged, ludacris self–unraveling at the core and grasping at the throes of suicide simply for the supposed peace and rest of ‘non-existence'.

My new roomate often and out of nowhere brought up things that I had been psychologically tortured with–and at the very least I knew of course that I was indeed being watched and perhaps even studied–and I knew undoubtedly that whatever information I gave her would without any doubt be used against me–and so, once more, I toiled away at The Festival Project, the mockery of my own judgment a stone cast upon the glass house in which I lived, at least in my mind–not shielded from but subject to whatever cruelty my very own mind and consciousness saw fit to suffer through in this lifetime, without promise or evidence of relief in the next– it was, afterall–an infinite eternity; Loveless, penniless, and without a soul or song in the world to love again.

Are you ok?

I'm fucking fantastic.

That's awesome! Good to hear.

Yep.

Polar opposites,

My solar plexus is off or something,

Dropping stuff,

Walking like I'm drunk,

Talking strange, voice is strained

Look me in the eye and lie to me;

I walk the line from just behind

Or where I lead.

And lately, I've been dreaming of bleeding on the streets

Or not needing to be seen, l.

Oh. Olden rings, one million streams and

Putting things in places

Make no mistake,

I'm a wreck

I ain't been loved in a long time

Take a good look at the mark on my neck

You wanna step up, it's a long line

I'mma hit you up later

Gotta go grind

I'ma pull up in a

Wtf is this

That's a-/

I don't get it.

Okay.

It's a van full of trophies.

I fuckin guess!

What's that supposed to mean?

I don't know, I hate my life.

Yeah.

Fuck.

What.

I'm leaving.

When.

Tonight.

This isn't the right dimension.

Well.good luck

What happened now?!

Dillon Francis seems more obnoxious than usual

[DILLON FRANCIS BEING EXTRA]

Mm–I don't think so.

This is out of control.

It's not out of control I'm in control

This is out of control.

we;re going to play a game.

What kind of game.

A minigame.

What does this game entail.

haha.

**sidenote:

Laidback Luke is not laidback at all.

He seems calm.

That's just his demeanor.

Haha.

Okie. Whats wrong with al these guys

Nobody sleeps here.

What about him. He looks asleep.

No.

[waves hand gently]

See he's–

You're on in 5.

[Suddenly, Very awake.]

Oh wow.

See. Superstar DJ.

Well, fuck, man.

What is this

Just stand here

What. For what

Just– wait here.

Wait?! For what?!

Just – [Leaves]

LAIDBACK LUKE

(eyes)

I don't like this.

(eyes)

I don't like this at all.

MA, MORE COFFEE.

WAAAT?

MORE COFFEE, MA!!!

Lol these guys again.

I love these guys.

How did we get here?

Technically, we're still in a deadmau5 construct.

I dont think he's okay.

I Don't think anybody's okay.

Are you okay?

No.

(eyes)

…

Oh.

“Oh”

FUCK YOU SO HARD, IT HURTS TO STAND UP.

FUCK YOU, DILLON FRANCIS.

FUCK DILLON FRANCIS.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

What are you doing?

–dying.

Die faster.

Q: How do you break up with deadmau5.

A: You don't.

JOEL

TALK TO THE HEAD.

Oh, come on!

What is this.

Idk. I figured if there was a dimension where SUPACREE is dating DIPLO–

Ew.

What.

Ew.

–Then there's probably one where she's got somethin' going on with that guy.

How do you figure.

Hm.

Hm.

Interesting.

Very Interesting

Grow up. We all have

–girlfriends.

–jobs to do.

–secret fetishes.

Sick.

This is retarded.

Turn this off.

I want to die.

WHERE IS SKRILLEX.

Skrillex is playing mountain man with a bunch of fake models and rapper dudes,

Woah.

He looks different.

What happened.

More on that later. Or not.

Oh, come on!

Everybody. Shut up.

Not me, right?

Especially you.

*eyes*

what's 9x9?

Uhhh–

Are you serious?

This isn't math!

Everything is math!

HOW IS THIS MOVIE CAST?

CAN DEADmAU5 ACT?

–short anser: YES.

Long Answer:

By The time this movie gets made, we'll all be dead.

We're all dead now.

Dead *and* gone.

*crowd gasps exaggeratedly*

I THOUGHT THIS MOVIE WAS ABOUT SKRILLEX.

It was- he didn't like it.

Why wouldn't he like it?

You called him a “nigga” 47 times.

Was it 47?

At the SUPERBOWL.

I guess that makes him the champion of niggas.

I guess so.

Whatever happened to Dillon Francis.

Idk he's pussywhipped or something. I guess.

Nice.

Still gettin it.

Shut up, fans.

Okay, ouch.

How.

How–??

How does someone with THIS MUCH pride and THIS MUCH ego get THIS MUCH power?

Probably with all that pride and ego.

This is correct.

____

{JOSHrushes in violently.]

DRAKE

Uh huh…

SOMETHING IS WRONG.

…what makes you say that…?

LOOK AT ME.

I see you…

I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY.

–how am I supposed to tell that just by looking at you?

YOU ARE SUSPICIOUS.

[suspiciously]

No I'm not?

[He violently grabs DRAKE by his lapel; gripping him with a fierce and wild look in his eyes]

Look Motherfucker;

I am looking!

I have always wanted to kill you–and now there's NOTHING stopping me.

EXCEPT THE LAW–

[MEGAN/MIRANDA/CARLY enters mysteriously.]

Unhand the boob.

BOTH

….MEGAN?!

JOSH

(er…wait)

Sure.

[They stare at her in awe; her silhouette grasping at the shadows of the dimly lit space; she is dressed in a sultry black dress, sheer panty hose, and knee high boos, with a matching fedora and puffs seductively on a long and narrow cigarette from the extra long holster. ]

Separate.

[They obey, bewildered.]

Sit.

You smoke now?

Sometimes. For dramatic effect.

This is uncomfortable.

Very unsettling.

Wait.

Wait.

Are we filming right now.

Is someone filming?

[Breaking 4th wall.]

Camera's always rolling.

;;PAUSE.

Oh, that's why Drew Barrymore was in my dream last night.

This is a lot of celebrities.

GOD

I'm working on something.

::||ALRIGHT, UNPAUSE.

Hold on a second.

No, we're rolling.

–I am one-hundred percent heavily medicated right now.

I second that.

Ditto.

–I'm also slightly intoxicated.

Also that.

Hashtag “me too.”

No “hashtag me too”

DOn't say that in Hollywood!

It was a joke! I was kidding!

That's not funny.

Nobody's laughing!

C'mon! I meant–I'm like, drunk right now–

Still though–

Very tacky…

I've been day drinking.

Drinking and smoking?! I don't believe you!

Oh, you don't?

[beat]

hmm .

[Shrugs, admittedly.]

Wait, wait–hold it.

No holding, we're rolling.

Are we rolling–?

Holding…

And…We're rolling!

I'm definitely rolling.

Drake!

I'm rolling. Ballsacks.

C'mon, man!

*drake being dumb*

I'm being serious!

So am I.

This is serious. *smokes*

Gross.

Stop doing that.

Doing what? This is what I do…

No, I mean: I woke up this morning and I swear to God–

Woah!

Don't do that.

I did everything under the sun EXCEPT go to work to be on TV for a show I wrapped like 15 years ago!

You–WHAT?

Uhhh…

Is this real?

…

…

…

Damn. this just got super existential; I have to take a second to summerize this, I'll fill in the dialogue late , I guess

The scene was running on anyway.

What? I liked it.

Anyway,

So what we have here is a cross-dimensional triad: DRAKE has been running throughout the interdimensions of time, but unbeknownst to the audience is which DRAKE this is; is this the real life DRAKE BELL, actually a fictional character written into the fabric of SUPACREE'S reality as fate would have it–or the fictional DRAKE from DRAKE & JOSH; Although apparently heavily medicated, JOSH PECK, the actor has been tossed into a nightmarish infinite loop along with other various HOLLYWOOD CELEBRITIES, as SUPACREE has opened various portals throughout the known universe in order to life-switch timelines without having to shapeshift into anyone's body, simply switching her own timeline–with that of her ideal career; Only having done this once, however, triggers an inescapable loop of infinite switches, resulting in a massive disillusion and chaos, as some celebrities go missing entirely from any known reality (in which SUPACREE omnisciently exists, typically, intermittently throughout the series); However, in this scene the audience must suspend its sense of belief, as it takes place in a multidimensional environment; DRAKE and JOSH perhaps, has been running throughout it's entirety, never having been canceled and JOSH PECK has arrived on set in a drug-fueled delusional meltdown; A Parrallell JOSH at some point perhaps even switching timelines; This mysterious, shadowy version of MIRANCA/MEGAN/CARLY is written as such so that this character can be placed or moved to or throughout various specific timelines: Adhering to the plot however,

JOSH PECK is an actor, out of sorts with himself, meanwhile–

This version of DRAKE is the fictional character from a TV show, in his own fictional world; He is a 4th dimensional device

However,

The audience should remain unaware that MIRANDA COSGROVE has already merged with her 4th dimensional counterparts, after joining SUPACREE in her Hollywood crusades, traveling through time, space, and the inter/multidimensions on missions to answer the SOS Hollywood originally signaled to SUPACREE during The Legend of Supacree in the first season.

That should do.

Wow.

Hold it

What.

You looked this deep into that boy's eyes?

Not on purpose.

-

The ‘-complications.' mixtape compilation series which focuses its internal monologue on the ideology of exploratory existentialism, using simple and classic mixing techniques into smooth transitions which mirror synconocities in time, musical elements, and lyricism to illustrate a vortex of collisions in cosmic omniscience, theming its recurring dominant soundscapes into a singular foundational focal point, and centering its multidimensionality into a gripping pull to return its emphasis on reflecting at checkpoints as if to reiterate a greater hidden meaning; the highs and lows of falling in love, it's consequences, long days and nights, missed connections, lost and unrequited love—capturing overall the rock and roll darkness of the neo-moden dance music scene—moving about from world to world—night after night, song after song—bodies on bodies and the escapism of rave and dance floor culture, connected through the pulsating and throbbing heartbeats bridged by light waves, and spread across neon skies across the globe.

Featuring dearly beloved hit and dance classics alike from global and legendary super-artists and masters of the dance floor, deadmau5, Kaskade, kx5, Skrillex, Fred Again.., Claptone, and more—featuring new music by and mixed with heart & soul by underground swamp creature and ancient rave God ‘- Ū.' as she explores the outer realms of dance music pre-and-post existence in the guttural haze of the afterlife.

Wow, You're funny, God.

If i must say so.

I mean. Wow.

I didn't do this all myself, you know; I had help.

What?!

Help From Who?!

Dillon Francis, Apparently

Oh, I highly doubt that,

Oh, I wouldn't .

I need a lover—

I need a lover;

Call me your lover

(I want just a lover)

I need a lover

(I need a lover)

Dillon Francis was quite possibly the whitest white man in the ever living world—

But maybe, that's what I liked about him. Now that I had time to process that for the most part, I had been tricked into fulfilling some strange prophecy— there was nothing less-alluring about the world I had been peering into, now more than anything

Movement at the stillpoint

Mark something

You've got to balance this shit out—

You've got to

Turn the world on its head

(I don't get it)

Now you're into this club

(I don't fit in)

Now you're into this world

(But we've been here)

Wait

I'm not new to this!

Wanna go do it again?!

Nothing's new to me!

I keep secrets like

Fountains keep pennies

Plant daisies on mountains

—your hand in my mouth says that

“Head is the answer”

Thanks, Kendrick

Now I remember what I wanted in the first place

Now I remember what I printed;

What I cooked him in the kitchen after—

—back to keeping secrets;

What's an apron and a hat is all you're wearing when I get there—

Just like the man in Manhattan

Or cat on the Channel—

A special edition of some shit with Mario Lopez

That sent me right back to the minion

With eyes like you had in that dream I went back to

I'd say

“Fuck Dillon Francis”

If I thought of “fuck” as an adjective,

Instead of an adverb.

Fuck this whole world —

Now I just want to surf,

I had just scratched the surface of scratching—

Before storing my turntables

What.

All of a sudden, I'm a DJ?!

Gee thanks!

But God, I'm still loveless and

I hope you

Marry that blue eyed girl

Pop out a bunch of kids that look

Just like you

What else would I do with my time

Than scroll through Instagram

And eat a ham-salmon sandwhich—

Thinking of going for pancakes, after

god likes me fat,

We talk much more that way

PASQUALE

I need you up at night.

CC

For what.

SUPCREE

For what.

SUNNI BLŪ

I AM UP.

PASQUALE:

This is for what.

THE INSOMNIACS ARE ALL IN .

“ALL IN”

wtf does that mean.

The grey streaks in his beard drive me wild-his eyes even wilder; “it's best I not look into them”, I thought, “when giving him this stone..” or maybe, even at all; I knew that if I were to look into his eyes, I would fall in love—all the way in, and not just the lust that I had been struggling with, noticeably for years, now; I would see him from the inside out, from the outside in—and any way in between. I already knew that I wanted him—but for exactly what and how long seemed to allude me.

It ha: been a long day with no end yet in sight, and though I was tired, accidentally having fasted throughout the day — namely because I had been out of water the night before, dethawing ice from the hotel's machine into an emergency supply—and having awoke with an immovable force to head straight to the gym, promptly after doing laundry.

Though I left what was considerably late, conforming my sleep patterns to my roommate's schedule had not been the easiest of tasks; I found it to be true that energy—or rather, a lack therof, was remarkably contagious. I had been more tired than usual, and more “down” than my normal waves—in fact—it was easy to differentiate this energy from my own, and though I was thankful to have a quiet, moderately clean, and near silent roommate—lucky, even—it was nearly impossible to escape the grip of empathy as it grew into me, our time together short but stifling enough that I was up into the early mornings as she dawdled away on her phone—and, having spent the entirety of my stay offline—becoming increasingly sensitive to her phone's radio signals, sometimes seeming to blast into my brain and penetrating the deepest of sleeps, and though I thought to return to deadmau5 to set myself to rest, for the most part I had been enjoying peaceful enough rest once she finally did get to sleep—in the early morning, which meant that I would more naturally wake closer to noon, eating up most of my morning with sleeping and battling the force of inner city traffic to make my way into the gym, or the library—whichever suited the day and the time—though, for the last three days, I had made it a point to get to the gym daily, rather than every other day, which I had missed, but become a hassle—and though I had found a gym that was decent and clean, it was rather small, the sauna never hot enough—and of course, as it had appeared from my first day having arrived at the club, I was of course being watched and followed—and though I had briefly wondered by “who”, I knew it was of the through forces of The Eye, otherwise known as the Illuminati, if there ever were such a thing— (but of course, there wasn't) often blasting Skrillex every other song as some means of torture, which I could attempt to ignore, but my body couldn't—failing to lift under the pressure of a weakened state by about the third Skrillex tune, confirming my suspicions entirely—a drastic jump from conspiracy to the conformation of psychological terrorism via Skrillex—but for what?

By now, of course, I had begun to figure out that I wasn't entirely normal, —that something wasn't right, or maybe even that I had done something exceptionally right, and though I didn't know exactly what, I began to think about the amount of writings I had published online, as well as the significantly “extraterrestrial” recordings that went along with them, and though having used Skrillex as a springboard, the longer I went mulling over all that had happened I realized that there appeared to be something bigger at place—Perhaps I was, indeed, incredibly enlightened—and there seemed to be a greater, outer force that indeed knew and saw all, even deeply into my psyche, and into my dreams.

Though I had darted down with excruciating detail into my Google documents the latest dream that I had with Dillon Francis, I didn't know what exactly to make of this particular cadence of synchronicities on this otherwise ‘normal' morning, not that anything at all had actually been normal in any way by far, as long as I could remember backward. Things had indeed been strange for years, which had culminated in the conglomeration of documents, recordings, and other odd-end and unfinished projects that had so far been created under the umbrella of The Festival Project—but it was this day that I truly began to realize that there was something more than circumstantial or coincidental at all about whoever I was, and whatever I was doing—and even with all of my theoretical writings of supernatural, subliminal, and subconscious circumstances and happenings, I wasn't, having existed for the most part broken, homeless, and unpaid for my efforts—sure of either who I was, or what I was doing—let alone how. In all of the strangeness, I only attributed “God” for whatever weird strange thing would happen next— and here it was.

I had been thinking about Mario Lopez a lot recently or lately, in bits and pieces and of course less often than I thought of any other reoccurring figure, but certainly about Mario Lopez, his seemingly ageless and incredibly healthy, youthful appearance, and oddly, even of his children, as I knew that he had them; and I had, of course, along with all of those things had wondered about his wife—the whole of his family, of course. His fame had lasted nearly my entire lifetime, and I was almost always pleasantly charmed by the sound of his voice, or his familiar face; and there it was, now—plastered up on a screen I hadn't realized was even there before, but now somehow stood out broadly against the backdrop of the otherwise drab laundromat, which I of course found to be remarkable, as I had very recently for whatever reason been struck with flashes of not so much a curiosity of the man at all—but rather a form of reflective thought.

“Oh shit, there he is!” I thought, finding just his appearance on TV coincidental, at best, before zeroing in on the actual atrocities yet unexplainable by man, or any other force—the only cruel explaination being that The Illuminati itself did indeed have access to my Google documents, even though I had been for the most part of two weeks completely offline, with no intention to publish at all—however—I had forgotten about the dream itself, until this sudden collision of sorts had stirred remnince of at all; a dream I had recorded with implicit detail from my first waking moments, indicating some importance; my dreams had been straightforward and vivid lately, and had been filled with all sorts of reoccurring figures, from Sonny Moore, to Billie Ellish, and of course Dillon Francis-and in moments, of course, the later had come rushing back to me with a vengeance, as a life sized-dancing Minion with two differently colored eyes shifted my attentioj from the screen, directly to recalling that dream— the most vivid dream of all of them—and though Sonny had appeared to me more recently, I thought it best not to record them; I still felt betrayed that he had come to New York and left me to be circulated through the system—which of course I was sure had it's purpose, but didn't make me resent him any less for it, compounding the hurt that he had put me through parading Kayla Lauren around—it seemed the entire model of The Skrillex Conundrum was to make me feel stupid, fat, and in cursed skin— and I was at least no longer two of those things. Still, though, I did carry feelings for the man that were impossible to offload, and though I had quite blatently broadcasted my sexual attraction to Dillon, who was apparently, of course, taken by a blue eyed girl of course—it had somehow become deeper at least to me in the following days and weeks afteer my departure from “Season 6” and it's adjacent episodes, a strange half-season debacle in which the emotional uproar of Sonny's appearance in New York and the upheaval of my surroundings—my entry into the homeless system—allowed me to embarrass myself without reform in the honest and brutally raw, post-season aftermath—a restless and sleepless chaos filled nightmare from which the only redeeming comfort was deadmau5, which may have been the point of it at all—as I fiddled in Ableton, it seemed to become a more natural process, creating drum patterns with ease and the once-tedious challenges and difficulties of music production and engineering having become things of the past—but something in all this had seeded in my mind a crucial element of the cosmic alchemists mindset I had been living in; there seemed to be, as in the Christopher Nolan film Tenet, parallel streams of time running both “forward” and “backward”, and even “up” and “down” respectively, creating where and how i was at any given moment as the perceptive present—as in—there always seemed to be some extension of myself both forward and backward in time, if there were such things, and as I continued to write, evidences of God, extra terrestrial presence, interplanetary mechanisms—mauverability through deep space, and time travel all became increasingly and rapidly relevant; I had to have been right enough about something , somewhere, at some point—but even up to now couldn't wrap my head around trying to get a “normal” job, which might be worth the money to be able to escape from my way-too-many-black-people Hellscape, (not that way ‘too many white people' wasn't a thing, but at least was not as abruptly obnoxious—as I had now realized that overt racists often more tactically employed quiet methods of psychological disengagement, rather than flat-out disrespect and cruelty the black-on-black culture had thus far represented.

In my mind, however, race had little to do with my actual placement in the world—at least, or so I thought— and though the appearance of where I had been at this point situated was grim or perhaps even bleak, the opposite was actually true; I was now, though strictly under the radar, off the grid, and underground, an extremely accomplished writer, whether anybody knew it or not—and someone did.

Low and behold, “The Lopez Kids”, who has been thinking of and new existed were brought the the screen, after a segment featuring Jeannie Aiki had bedazzled me enough to Google her, her familiar voice sparking a curiosity, her own beautiful young one putting a glisten in my eye, along with a tear; I missed my son dearly, and was glad to know that he was with my mother—still worrisome, to say the least, but not as worrisome as he having been with his father, who I knew was fucking up in extreme ways beforehand—but had only been confirmed a few days before, actually exactly one week earlier, as I had toggled off airplane mode just long enough to revive an incoming call from my father—and, having only just the night before having had the dream about Dillon's strange eyes—a dream in which he was not present, but his truck was— promoted me to quickly answer the call, though I had been in the midsts of a whirlwind of transit—a chaotic navigation through unknown territories; he told me that my mother had my son—that my ex husband was unable to care for him any longer. The more right about my ex husband I was, the more peril it felt; I knew my son would be a different person if I had had the ability to raise him.

“Something is up.”, I bawled— having seen and heard enough of my own mind scattered across the silver screen—

Not only had the Minions eyes reminded me exactly of Dillons—the only dream out of a series of dreams about he, Sonny, and even one with my ex that I had found it important to record—but it was also “National Oreo Day”, which was celebrated with Oreo Doughnuts, appearances from Jeannie Aiko, whose apparent first interview had been with Johnny Depp—who had found his way into my dreams years earlier than nearly anyone else in this lifelong series of bizzare oddities— Ellen DeGenwres discluded—who had more than likely been the first and most random celebrity to make their way into my semi-conciousness; I had never been particularly obsessed or even a fan of Ellen, and yet her appearance in a teenaged dream had stayed with me years into my adulthood—and thiugh during my childhood and adolescent years it had always seemed I had been somehow destined for fame, even before the mockery of the masses and media turned my entire generation inevitably into fame-hungry “artists” , the last few years altogether had been remarkably and even increasingly synchronized; it was as if I had indeed in my lifetime made groundbreaking alterations to the space time continuum.

It wasn't until later in the day that I decided to find the document in which I had recorded the dream; I began to laugh reading over my own words as unhinged as it all was—the recording was bizzare and though I hadn't forgotten having the dream itself, I indeed had forgotten many of the details, which of course made me instantly regret not having written down any of the dreams I was having about Sonny—still careful not to let myself feel too much of anything having to with him, even and especially his music, which I only allowed myself to play with purpose, for study.

SILVER SCREEN SHOWER SCENE

Woah, have you lost your goddamn mind.

Yes.

I live in a very strange place in the universe.

[there are several glitches in the matrix; almost too much to bear.]

Very,very strange.

What are you doing? Crying?

..I'm not crying…

Stop crying, Jesus–

–DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY BAGELS I HAD TO EAT TO BE SUPACREE?

A lot. You look hideous.

I am hideous!

No arguments, there.

Ugh.

Lets Go!

Try not to look off into the distance with your finger in the air like that; It makes me feel like we're in a comic book or something

What if–we are?!

Then we're probably about to get our butts kicked before the scene changes or you have to turn the –

{NINJAS OUT OF NOWHERE}

“The Noir Episdoe”

This is business, not war.

What's the difference?

[beat]

Money.

HIIIIIIIIIYAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

Oh My God. I'm so fat.

YAH!

Why do I always have to fight when i'm fat?!

YAH! KI-YAH! — [ROundhouse Kick} HIIIIIII_YAHH.

DO you have to say “Hi-yah” every time you deal a fatal blow.

–they're not fatal, they're gonna wake up, eventually–YAH.

Oh yeah? Even that guy?

{Super dead guy}

Probably not him.

“Probably.”

YOU are a PR nightmare.

I'm an everything nightmare.

Ugh.

I just found out what PR even was.

LAWYER enters furiously

You fucking lunatic!

It's sunny out–

What did you do this time?

UPDATE:

The Skrillex Reddit is still the cringiest place on earth.

It's so gross.

I hate this.

Worst place ever.

WORST FUCKING PLACE EVER.

Fuck.

What.

We have to go back.

Why? What'd you lose?

–My dignity.

Worst place ever.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Lookie here boys:

What is it?

–I'm leaving.

Oh, you're gonna wanna hear this.

What.

I found the first “whites only” water fountain since 1962.

Okay, what do you want?

A deal.

Oh, I'll give you a deal.

Cash up front.

[He presents a one dollar bill]

Is this enough.

[beat]

Where are you going with this?

Nowhere, fast.

YO.

What now, dude.

SHE'S ONTO US.

I doubt that.

Look at this.

I highly doubt–

*gaaassp* Shenanigans!

You know what I like about you, Ariana?

Everything.

Hah.

Hm.

You know how to keep a secret.

I don't know what you're talking about.

Exactly.

*rolls eyes, flips hair.*

Well, here's another one for you.

–Another what?

This is how my darkness becomes your darkness.

I already have enough on my own.

I know.

You don't know. Only God knows.

MOM!

Don't ask me again.

This is heavy, Doc.

What is it?

The soup! It's too heavy.

Too much cream?

Way too much! I have a meeting!

Meeting with who?

The Hollywood People.

When?

Soon–what time is it?

I don't know.

Dammit! Why don't you have any clocks in your house?

I only just recently remembered what a clock was.

Oh!

Here.

[God produces a small pocket watch and presents it to him; it's nearly noon on EARTH; But the two are sharing a meal of course in the famed kitchen of the Creator in the TImeless VOID.]

Ah, Jesus Christ!

He's not here…

I'm gonna be late.

Now, now; You know I wouldn't let that happen–

[a smug look|

Hugs and Kisses.

[As they embrace, he disappears into a mist of light and stardust, fading away from the void and into the exterior world; he realizes God has slipped him the watch; he flips it open to reveal the time: it is now 11:44]

Amazing.

V.O.

Now you won't wait so long to visit.

[He places the wach in his pocket and walks into the studio]

MICHAEL J. FOX has been asked to reprise his role as MARTY MCFLY many times before; But never for a project like this.

____

Meanwhile,

What am I going to do with you?

[The Festival Project.™]

YOU'RE DEAD TO ME!

–I'm dead to everyone!

Don't do this.

You wanted to come to the other side.

No, I didn't.

We'll you're here anyway;

Might as well stay awhile.

With eyes like burning fire

And saddles for the riders

The horse begins to gallop

(or the horses, rather)

On the mark to beating drums

To move them forward faster

What the fuck is this.

idk. Kx5.

*-*

!_!

Here u go

Wat is this.

it's a dragon.

Oh, thats nice.

Ya.

Whats it do.

Idk. dragon things.

ok.

Don't put it in ur bathroom.

Why.

idrk.

Hm.

†

Hey.

Ugh–No, Kaskade, go away.

It's me, Ryan!

No, Get out!

I'm No† Ka–k (gags) –skade!

Gross!

It's just Ryan! I promise!

NO. GET OUT.

Lmfao.

Right.

This show is fantastic.

Who was that.

Fucking–Kaskade again!

Are you sure.

Ugh.

Looks like Ryan.

Kaskade is Kaskade.

{shrugs] Dudes a creep.

“Kaskade Ruins Lives”

Is this the same episode as before?

Eventually, yes.

Wasn't I doing something

Are you goona let this go?

Um.

Well I'm fucked.

Why, what happened.

Obsidian.

That should do

Unsobsidian.

Okay, i'm fucked,

Well, what's this?

An Oreo Cookie.

I mean, sitting next to it.

Oh, its a portal gun.

Raves are not just raves–

A party is not simply a “party”

–These big festivals

–they're diversions.

–DIstractions.

Distractions from what.

If you were supposed to know,

–you'd know.

it wouldn't be so important that you go.

Why is it?

These ancient rituals…

It's occult magic.

They've got it down to a science.

The government funds this.

The government funds everything.

WoooooooW.

It's not really a secret, if you can google it.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

The ‘-complications.' mixtape compilation series which focuses its internal monologue on the ideology of exploratory existentialism, using simple and classic mixing techniques into smooth transitions which mirror synconocities in time, musical elements, and lyricism to illustrate a vortex of collisions in cosmic omniscience, theming its recurring dominant soundscapes into a singular foundational focal point, and centering its multidimensionality into a gripping pull to return its emphasis on reflecting at checkpoints as if to reiterate a greater hidden meaning; the highs and lows of falling in love, it's consequences, long days and nights, missed connections, lost and unrequited love—capturing overall the rock and roll darkness of the neo-moden dance music scene—moving about from world to world—night after night, song after song—bodies on bodies and the escapism of rave and dance floor culture, connected through the pulsating and throbbing heartbeats bridged by light waves, and spread across neon skies across the globe.

Featuring dearly beloved hit and dance classics alike from global and legendary super-artists and masters of the dance floor, deadmau5, Kaskade, kx5, Skrillex, Fred Again.., Claptone, and more—featuring new music by and mixed with heart & soul by underground swamp creature and ancient rave God ‘- Ū.' as she explores the outer realms of dance music pre-and-post existence in the guttural haze of the afterlife.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

[LAST SEASON ON : {Enter The Multiverse}

DILLON HART FRANCIS is laying in a lush green meadow, centered in a field of daisies dressed in all white.

Though I’m not sure we’re meant to be,

I’m sure that we could be;

Or have been—

But that’s just me;

My memory expands further than the eyes see;

You’re like me,

But likely,

Another lesson I need

So here I am

Rolling in the deep

Keeping secrets,

Sleeping with my grip

Tightly wrapped around the key;

A lock that doesn’t open,

Another thing I don’t need;

And I don’t need you,

But I’m thinking that I probably shouldn’t think

I need a drink—

(Of love)

Another drink—

(Of blood)

It’s something wonderful, or was

A pigeon turned to dove,

And then a duck,

Right before my eyes

I’d be lying if I said I never cried so much

Over one

Lustful

Stunning

Something

What? You woke me up for nothing

I was someone in my dream,

And now I’m up,

And I’m no one

I’m no one, huh

But funny, sometimes

Why me?

I just keep on writing,

I just keep on writing

I just keep on writing

I’m deprived,

I’m not alive anymore—

No one ever loved me before.

He certainly must be dead; he thinks; his bright blue eyes glisten in the light, and as they begin to change, one single daisy stands out to him–unmoving, he stares at it, her petals rustling in the light breeze of the wind, however–they, too, begin to change. He takes a slow, deep breath in, still, however unmoving, as the daisy seemingly begins to dance and glisten; now he seems curious at best, but still unmoved. The daisy begins to flutter and twinkle, dazzling as the light seems to move around it, the meadow fading into a picturesque blur as the flower blooms, now changing color into a swirling array of flashing colors, now emitting a lulling hum– a peaceful and calming lullaby of frequencies and tones, cosmic and otherworldly and yet somehow natural and familiar; Dillon becomes flush with bewilderment and awe, as the daisy continues to flash strobing patterns of lights and colors, now opening and growing as its petals stretch out, reaching into a flush and glorious cascade of pure white light–as his eyes widen, he moves slightly towards it; it opens up and swallows him whole.

INT. LIVING ROOM. DAY

THOMAS WESLEY PENTZ is slightly stunned, still glued to his screen; his good friend DILLON FRANCIS, an actor, has invited him over to watch his newest movie.

What the fuck.

The daisy returns to its natural state, and a warm wind blows through the sunlit field.

FADE TO BLACK.

What the fuck did I just see.

I swear, you’re in the weirdest movies, dude –

He turns to his side to see an empty space on the couch where Dillon had once been sitting.

Dillon?

He looks about the room confusedly, then pauses the movie, getting up from the couch and starting to the kitchen.

Dillon. Your movie’s weird, bro.

However, the kitchen is empty. He approaches the counter, where GERALD is placed–he looks awkwardly at the pinata, staring into his eyes before turning it around.

Ugh.

He departs to search for Dillon in the bathroom.

Dillon! Where you at, bro? I paused the movie!

He checks the bathroom; also empty.

YO!

He turns down the hallway, hearing the sound of the shower running–

Are you in the shower?

No response.

I’m not about to come into your shower bro; it’s weird and random that you’re in the shower when you invited me over to watch your movie.

Still, no response.

Bro!

Again, silence–the shower continues running.

Alright…you better not be naked.

He steps into the master bedroom, the steam of the hot shower crawling out of the master bathroom and into the bedroom.

Are you okay?

He winces as he looks into the master bathroom, shower running at full power and the room filled with steam, to the point that even the roof is condensating; a drop of water drips from the ceiling and into his left eye–

–fuck–

–rubbing his eye, he observes the room to be empty–his friend is nowhere to be found; He is in the house alone.

COMING UP:

"The Insomniac"

I could no longer withstand the fuckery; Skrillex was running around the world looking like a mountain man, surrounded by beautiful women and creating upper-echelon music i could only ever drea myself to make; Porter Robinson had just gotten married to a 90-pound porcelain doll-looking girl who I’m sure never had to work in her life (and never would) in the fairytale wedding of the century, attended by the world’s top-DJ’s (at least the ones who didn’t have cemented-in performance conflicts, probably), and Dillon Francis, who was so much of a copycat that I assumed or rather even feared he would soon engage and marry his very own cookie cutter white girl, leaving me in the dust and rubble of the unfinished festival project, thousands of pages of Skrillex and Dillon Francis both respectively and collectively– with nowhere to go but in my own way, my love for their music a gaping hole in my my heart and my soul wraking havoc from what I had seen, felt, and experienced in all he fuckery; my fangirl-like social media frenzy was no more: I could nor would I bear to continue torturing myself just trying to wash the feelings out; I would always feel for them , in some way–and the inescapable truth now was that I had indeed become a professional DJ; though seemingly far from superstardom or fame at all, remembering that I had only ever even attempted to climb the social ranks with such depth and ambivalence for the chance of having either of those two by my side–as friends, lovers, collaborators or otherwise–now, I couldn’t care for much more than to move on--(or at the very least, up.)

What a ridiculous life.

And while it seemed to have all been for nothing, I knew after all that it wasn’t; only time would be able to tell and unravel the truth behind the mysterious chaos and magic in which we all had once intertwined.

“At least I still have deadmau5.”

My dirty little secret.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Happy EDC Week.

-Ū.