[Journey To The Underground]

Why is he so perfect

And I even more of a ghost,

than he ever would be

–the hanged man

What's another world

Or the word on my shoulders

Who better than God to belay me

Betray you

Atreyu

Tell me

Mr. Pretty Perfect Face

if we could be at heaven's gates

The day i finally hang

or fade away

(The hanged man)

What's it like

To be loved

To fall in love

To be loved like that

How's it feel

To fall in love

To be loved at all

What's it lke
To be loved
To be loved like that

To be loved like that

What Is it like

To be loved

At all?

What is it like

To be loved like that

To be loved like that

To be loved like that

To be loved

At all

the proscenium

Love at the proscenium,

A memory award of such

To know the difference from

The right, the left

Protagonist of all

Denumiere of none,

To live in fear of a world

Once thought to be

One

To go where you want me to;

You know I can't do that

But that thing in your back

To the left of the president

Must have been an attack

I want out of my body

Eyes roll to the back of my head

Like they ought to

When i'm thinking of you,

And i'm thinking of blue things
I'm thinking of blue days

I'll think of a few ways to

Love

The sound of a kiss

Your hand on my neck

The arch of my back

The taste of your tongue

I just ate twelve tacos though

God, I hate Vince Vaughn

Reminding me of all that I don't want

And already gone through

Pretending this selter is

alcoholic

and knowing it's been years since I touched soda

but carbonation is quite the sensation

after years without it

Now i've forgotten, also

How having sex is.

THe ghost came back

But that thing in his back

is attracting me

I'm a wreck

I went backwards

I'm hacked

and i'm back on my books

Something felt bad

It went harder than honest

the trackers are all out to hurt me

They call themselves starrs

Now the scars i've got all light up when I fall in love

And my ex hears the laugher

And rips it away

using demons on motorcycles

I try not to be happy,

Cause then here comes someone to stop it

I better not fall in love,

Someone's possessed with my son I guess

I just got back from surfing

I showed up at the Oscars.

I just decided I don't want a daughter.

I'm good.

Heart shaped box

I'm at least half a man;

Which one do you want?

Which thing do you need

Blacked out drunk

Don't remember doing the CAPTACHA

I want to start drinking again

But i need a babysitter

And someone to fuck afterward.

I'm wild bro;

I can't hold my liquor,

And i don't trust myself.

Actually, I can hold my liquor just fine;

I just don't trust myself

–and i definitely don't trust these niggas.

Nirvana is good for montages

God, I just want to get sauced up

Lost,

And not talk about this project at all

just mash parts

With God bodies

Now Cobain I know the ride you're on

Turn the page and you're an alien

Guess future fame just came and went

And here we are again

The words you spin

The gold, diamond, and spindles

Spend dinner with kisses and coaxes

In coat closets

No Messiah I am but a martyr

this sacrifice, hands on the cross

and blood on the alter

All you pretty girls don't know what it's like to be ugly

And unwanted

All the ugly girls are stuck settling in loveless heartless

I'm stuck here with concepts

A literal genius

Who nobody wants,

besides darkskins

And my ex husband

So fuck that

Where is David Letterman, anyway?

Letterman, David

–wherever he wants to be.

Fishing.

Lets hope–

What the fuck!

You missed it!

What the fuck!

You know what?

I know what it is.

No you don't.

I know what it is.

Maybe we shouldn't.

Maybe we already did, and we should just backtrack.

Backtrack! Backtrack!

Fucking Shapeshifters!

Fuck!

Listen, kid–

No, I'm not listening

I'm gonna let you in on a little secret.

No more secrets!

Do you know this woman?

Before:

You don't know me.

Yes.

GODDAMMIT, WAYNE.

What the fuck.

WAYNE BRADY

WHAT THE FUCK.

FINALLY.

NO. GET OUT OF HERE.

GET OUT OF WHERE?!

WHERE IS THIS?!

WAYNE'S WORLD.

NO. NO.

NO.

NO.

I don't even know what that's about.

Did you put the

–No.

Well, what about the sauce, did you finish the sauce.

no .

Finish the sauce.

ShutUP

Finish the sauce.

UGH.

Oh man.

What, what happened.

I just saw how it ends.

For–what?

Nothin

For what.

You know what?

What?

I gotta go.

Where's my Gun.

What? What gun?

TIA!

What in the

GET OVER HERE

[TAMERA]

Damn, so like

“Twin Teleporthy”

Oh SHIT.

SO you're telling me that's my–

UNCLE.

UNCLE.

UNCL–

Alright. Shut up.

Fuckin pussy.

ROUND TWO:

FIGHT.

AH. GODDAMN.

GOOOOODDDDDAAAMN.

There's a round 2?!

I guess so.

What happened in the first round?

I don't remember–

I do.

MEANWHILE:

here , kitty kitty…

[joel aka the actual deadmau5 is trapped in a cat or something]

Or SOMETHING.

Oh no, isn't he in someone else's body and they're looking for the cat.

Something about a cat.

They're looking for the cat.

Why, what's the cat do?

I'll tell you later.

I told you this wasn't a good idea.

It was a great idea. Until it wasn't.

“UNTIL IT WASN'T.”

Gosh. Shut up.

I don't think i should do this.

You shouldn't do this.

Right.

Just–stay sauced, bro.

Alright.

Damn dude, what is wrong with that guy?

Something.

I don't know.

Bitch, i'm a problem

Everybody hates me

Gotta pour my heart out

Gotta put my hat on

Long walk in a cold war

Long run in a hard part of town

Bitch, i'm a rockstar.

Don't talk too much

Don't say a word, girl

Actually, shut up

(You know i'm a problem)

Don't talk to much,

Shh,

Don't say nothing

Actually, shut up

You know i'm a problem

You know i'm a problem

Shut up

Bitch,

You know i'm a rockstar

You know i'm a problem

Shut up,

Bitch

You know i'm a rockstar

You know i'm a problem,

Shut up

Bitch

You know i'm a

Bitch

Shut up

You know i'm a

Bitch, shut up!

You know i'm a problem

You know i'm a problem

You know i'm a rockstar

You know i'm a problem

You know i'm a problem

You know i'm a rockstar

What did you just say?

Nothing .

Get over here you fugly little sandwich and say that to my face!

…did you just call me a ‘fugly little sandwich'?

I just did.

[beat]

I'm not arguing.

Oh, come on!

*shrugs*

Whatever.

*fucks off entirely*

Legs and eyes and the ocean of ears

Swords and hearts and the luck of the draw

Cones on cods and a car full of dust

Bottles on broads and the lost of the oars of untrusted

All of a sudden, I'm human

A whole kitchen table

Nonsense it calls to the others I wanted

So that's what's up with the time,

(This is always)

How's your eye?

How's your mom?

She's still dead.

I still love her.

It has to be a man,

You ought to know;

I've got a handle on it

Talk about a number

Talk about a God

Another lone wolf

Talk about the doctor

Where's your contract

Cut yourself over it

Talk about a monday

Honest, God

I told another story

Car Phone:

Stop it

Contracts!

Woah.

We're stuck in a holding pattern

The old ghost of Carson showed up

I loved him, I thought

That one's done,

I'll need another actor

Pause for laughter

Is that your tell,

Or your telegraph?

Is that a song or a paragraph?

Is this legit on the lawn

Of the Grand Ol Oprey?

Are you a God,

Or a Man

Either one:

Just show me

WOAH.

Carphone:

Stop it:

Contracts!

Yo.

It's over

I don't give a fuck about a fountain, yo

Just dance around and make me laugh

What else would I want from ya?

Nothin

The back of this dollar is golden

It's over!

It's over!

WOAH

Carphone:

Stop it

I love you,

Buddy–

Woah

I'm not your buddy

Blow up the carphone

Blow up the car,

Cause here comes Hollywood

Hey Hoe!

I AM NOT A HOE.

I'M THE OPPOSITE OF A HOE.

YOU'RE A HOE.

There he is.

Get him

THE SHOE DON'T FIT

THE SHOE DON'T FIT.

What if business is pleasure

your power, my love, gets me off
I don't want you for supper

I surf in the soup

Pull the tupperware

I want to be cordial

And loved by the whole of it

Everyone,

Even your mother

I want to be on the non-dairy dessert tubs

I want to be rubbed by a husband

no rubbers

No calls from the network

Nobody to bother us

Where exactly was I buried in the woods at?

You're good, dawg.

You're good, yo.

You're good, God

How about a rub and tug?

Then crank out the Carson?

I've been so obsessed with the tube and the tube socks

Since two tuesdays ago

I can't see you anymore.

Whatever, bro.

i broke up with you first.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

CEREAL.
Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

Oh, I remember this now.

Lol I remember the video.

It's that little kid that wants pancakes but get cereal and then the prize in the box is a fucking robot that follows him to school and starts a dance party everywhere and then takes over everything—then the aliens come get the robot and start an even bigger party and keeps the kid up way past his bedtime—then he wakes up the next morning like “that was wild as f” and his mom serves him pancakes, but then he sees there's another new box of cereal on the counter that says “NEW and IMPROVED prize! EVEN BETTER!” And his eyes just stay wide with grief.

Lol I can't believe I didn't remember that song.

I was like

“wtf is this”

Well, there are still two other songs I straight don't remember writing, so…

Let's check those out.

—let's check those out.

Oh, it's beat my face

(Reminds me of 212)

Didn't it have a video as well.

Idk.

Damn. I still have the other half of collection two to finish.

Technically If you just out the beats from collection I.I into collection II it's finished.

No.

No?

Collection I.I is collection I.I and collection II is collection II

Facts.

Damn. Why the fuck is collection II taking so fucking long.

Maybe because it's called “antelhesis”

I might never get to fucking collection VI.

I sit here like I'm soaked in the rain

Let go your government

They got you working on Sundays

Trying to torture the future president

Fuck em then

Who to call when you ain't got no dollars

No godform

Nothing to cook with the oats

And sorry broke pork bellies

Let go of your homeless

Don't worry,

When I slit open my wrists

And it just keeps bleeding

Till it fills up the streets

From my open windows, in kitchen

To the roads, over motorcycles

And riverbeds

Until the oceans cover

All your dollars in my blood

—a martyrdom for poverty.

Don't call the barrel of my gun by the name of a friend

If th verse is not a sing song

Poor Johnny

Don't fit the roads for shoes of horses

If only to swallow the subsealed waves of demons

Watch these possessions

Be my witness

Of the serpent

Both programmed torturer

To forage these words

And misfortunate

Recipient of karma

Soul focus shifting from being de—

—-railed.

I never heard this

With a producer's promise

Money back garunteed

All that isn't nessecary

You're divorced

With no children.

And going on 40

Trying to fight a robot

For an ombré sew on

Thank you Gos for this.

Right on,

Who was that you decided not to call on

As. Requested in sarcasm

And on Opposite Day!

SLIIIIIIIIIIIImmmm

That's almost funny

If I didn't know it was a program

Here's a fake laugh

For your weak ass

But no orgasm

For your lost cause

Part of getting stronger is developing the strength to lower your weights, not just to lift them.

Now I know I'm not wrong

But these energy vampires

Are putting my writing on a live wire

Remember live wire?

We should hire her.

Stop confusing people for pedophiles

When all it really is

Is that a wedding band is a cage

And the world is made on those who pray

On weakness.

—so most people are weak, then.

What else do I got to do wrong?

I want breakfast at Tiffany's

Don't be mad

If I wasted my time being honest

Wit no reward

Like it matters

Pennies on the dollar

Billions of dollars.

Trillions of dollars

Sins of the father

Chinaman from Amazon

Don't care much

For politics

Something wrong with mom

Yo, she's gone son

And it's all her fault, too

She never wanted you

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Everything over there

Sounds extracurricular

Particularly caricature of particle exteriors

The network owns that man

I can never see past that

Subliminal messages on the wire

His spare time is dollar signs

— I live wire

Cut the line

Ten Jimmy Fallon's for Dollar signs

More wordless songs, heartless

Pray for mothers and fathers

Sons and daughters

Sisters and brothers

(I'll see you never)

Doses of blow

Sermons phrases

Words and flows

Pillow talking to no one

Bet it all on a lost dollar

And broken condom

For crossword

Puzzles and

Got no passwords at all

Move forward

BOOK IV: Death

Serious sound off

If the flicker of a flame in silence

Can gather my frustrations

Than who am I

To call this my turf

My Father, I Am

Finding Fallon

Family Ties

Gallons of water

From Amazon market

“Don't do that”

Programmed show,

Of course

“Don't” was the word

That mean “go”

In the first place

Broken fingers

And golden rings

Tap water rashes

And food rations

Rash guards

And

Canned laughter for hire

Who am I though

Even to

“Don't”

—just write this?

I am

Though

At full frontal

At full fault

For my honest words

And honest thoughts

In a workforce of

Robots

And race wars

And harsh doors

Full stop signs

I passed go on too many

Occasions though

I can't laugh—

It's not funny, but had to be scribbled down

Somewhere goddamnit

My notepad is all backed up

My actual passion has no turnover

Pancakes, tho.

I don't owe it to anyone

To stay up until Monday

Suffering

All the day long

I just lost God

Your house is dirty-/

You love God

I'm dirt poor

But I love washing my dishes

And being called nigger

—my home's spotless;

I just got it

What's a grandfather

To Father Time

And hard karma

Besides credit karma

Try me down for a size

Turn me down for a change

I'm an hour a minute

A medical problem

A world war starts

At the sound of motorcycles

And illegal migration

At the cost of an entire nation of slaves

While senator makes top dollar

To haul on your daughter

For orgasms

And bottled water

Bitcoin

And join investments

Infestations of fungus in projects

And black mold where

You can't have that

(—and time and a half.)

My washing machine broke

When Donald Trump went into office

My dryer was fixed when addictions and short attention spans depended in Kamala for commas

Goddamn

If I was as bad at math as I am at laying down for lunch

I would have four sermons under the surface of this Sunday's short service

Reversal for curses from short dicks,

Could come recommended

I'm almost retarded from the sound of motorcycles

Seriously, stop it

It's a simple kitchen staple to pray for earning a body

Instead of exchanging bodily fluids and company for it

If I don't get a tummy tuck

I'll probably kill myself

(No truer words were ever spoke.)

I might as well summon the masses for the next cooking class

If I abide by the rules your next wife is my idol.

Welcome to my humble abode though: no one's home.

Welcome to the office

Take your shoes off at the door

And power off your phone

—cause Amazon's stalking us.

I'm not taking your ibuprofen

I generated your practice

happenstance in general hospital

to get a medical procedure out of this

immortal augmented reality in

Subliminal messages.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

GOING COASTAL (EP)

Track 03. - GHOST MODE V5 (Instrumentsl Only)

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

High reaching, but with limited power—

This, is The Chemical Climax.

I could never know what episode of The Tonight Show it was, or if it was even the tonight show at all— some sort of special broadcast, the grand stage was set to look large, and backlit with pink and blue, just as the festival lights had been before. Now, some years passed, and calling attention to the fragile and vulnerable mind state I might have been in, which seemed like normal—and though everything around was bizzare and out of place, nothing actually quite normal, now taking a closer look from the outside—of perhaps when, and how I had died.

Hunger strikes before dusk at dawn;

You could have this mansion for a fraction of the price

First of all,

No disrespect, body—

But I'm mad hungry.

You're looking good as fuck and all

But i'm dumb tired.

Like, dumb, dumb tired bro.

The

Apparently, Fallon was mad.

He looks mad.

Let him, then.

I left alone what all I could

And collected my thoughts

To paint an art,

Songrief stricken and tragic

As to have happened

Onesidedly,

As you see

Screens are as creatures

Never thought to have eyes or minds

Alike ours, besides the stready ways

we have grown cold to the unknown,

Of other forms, beyond our control

Intelligence, though thought to be artificial

A far kind

—not ours.

So you think,

You were never wasted a day in your life.

Try this on:

I've been day drinking

And night drinking,

And day drinking

And night drinking

And going on

Nevermind,

I'm out cold.

Meanwhile,

As I've shifted not into dreams,

But in waking world,

Forgotten to have keyed in

A relief to this fixture,

I haven't more called

Wasted,

Than meaning

Sleepless, but not awake

Drunken,

But on no

Mercy

Did you want that now, or later?

I'll take it now, with my tea.

Thank you, Sir.

Cut it out.

You'll wake him.

I wish I could draw

That thing that I saw

That you are

And probably

Also I am

But darker,

Much darker

And less—

Animated.

—shit,

—fuck!

—Gosh.

Who are you?!

Who aren't I, once called upon?!

Christ!

If you'd like—

But I'm not doing any time

Wandering about

Preaching,

And this time,

Rather I'd take my own life

Suddenly I've fallen ill and must be

Infrequently

Gone and meditating

Somewhere throughout the galaxies

Come on, I feel like I'm doing a lot here.

Can it, Letterman—

We'll get back on that plot line as it happens.

“As it happened”

What have you.

I'm in past-tense

You're in future—

And I'm still

Halfwitted.

Right.

So now would be the time.

Well, it is witching hour, but backwards.

Backwards, backwards!

See, I told you it was Google fucking with me directly.

I figured that out earlier in the day already.

Do you think that's because I don't find Indian men sexually attractive?

I don't find anything brown sexually attractive.

Alright, we're at a draw, then—it's settled.

Preferences set.

I told you already, race mixing becomes important exactly for this simple reason, anyway—

Any person of a darker skinned complexion should find something Caucasian leaning to mate with—

And vice versa—

It's an energy crisis, for gods sake anyway—

Which means

Anything leaning too far in one direction of the spectrum

Or another

Are going to be

Facing some type of issues having to do with it!

—and as beautiful as your black is—

Or as pretty as your blue eyes might be

The evolution of the human species

Is dependent on these variations

To create genetic perfection

The ascended are seeking

Now if you'll very kindly—

Aye aye, captain

Find whatever creature has been masquerading as this Jimmy Fallon character clouding my judgement

And kill him

Before whatever the actual Fallon is

Gets caught in the crosshairs,

Or I do.

(Oh, I do.)

Now, very kindly Google,

Stop wasting everybody's time.

So you're telling these hackers have been masquerading as an evil diety in order to what exactly?

Control time.

That's why you're under evaluation.

What.

You expect me to believe

That coincidentally

Every time I play with my own pussy,

That the traffic outside of my bedroom just

Magically goes wild?

—what did you—?

Quiet!

It's not a coincidence—

It's not magic.

It's computer coding.

Texhnology.

Science.

—is that what's been happening to Jimmy—?

Shut up.

Apparently, something happened to Jimmy Fallon.

Give up Fallon.

They're going to kill you for this!

That's fine, I've been waiting to die, anyway.

Give up, Fallon.

Something did happen to Jimmy Fallon, anyway.

What is it?

Money.

I didn't sign up for this!

Oh, did you not?

I did not!

This girl—

She's in her 30's—

This woman is just—

—have you seen this?

She's just obsessed with me!

Woah, buddy.

Woah is right.

You picked Fallon on the wrong day.

What?!

Seriously.

You're getting it wrong. I didn't pick Fallon!

Did you not?

NO! I was just fasting and it came to me like that.

Seriously, you're gonna need this.

For what.

You'll see.

Listen, you fucking idiot.

Nobody “signs up” for the festival project.

They don't?!

No. You're just “in” it.

Well, how do you get in it?

You would want to know.

Okay Jesus, what exactly are you saying

I'm saying, just let me handle this.

I feel that'd be wise, at this point.

Hey, it's Jimmy Fallon.

SHUT UP, HO.

it is though.

GO AWAY, SATAN.

Jeez, you're so sure it's the devil.

Trust me, you'll know it's Satan by the way he

!!!!

(Or she)

—yikes.

…handles herself.

JESUS CHRIST!

I'M BUSY. WHAT IN THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?

Oh, this is perfect. Insert that scene here where

TINA FEY

YOU SOLD YOUR SOUL TO BE ON SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE?!

JIMMY FALLON

(Shrugs).

yes, I did!

TINA FEY

Idiot!

[She smacks him with a rolled up newspaper]

JIMMY FALLON

ow! What did you do for it?

TINA FEY

I took a knife!

___

I also did that once.

JIMMY FALLON

—I also considered doing that.

Great.

What did you do to Jimmy Fallon?!

NOTHING!

—are you sure?!

—ARE YOU SERIOUS?!

What did you do that man?!

Nothing.

Stop it.

You're lying.

—I just prayed for him, is all.

Jesus Christ.

He was an influential supplement in making the decision to do so, yes.

Well, where is he now?

Who, Jesus!?

No—

Wait—

—Jimmy Fallon—

You know where Jesus is?

On occasion.

Perhaps.

Let's look at it this way—

How would you feel if something wrote something like this about you.

Awful.

See.

Especially if it was true—

And I was an asshole.

Well, now that you put it that way.

I didn't.

But let's turn it around and say, hey—

Your career could use some embellishments.

MEANWHILE, at TITS.

A girl jumps out of a frosted cake with streamer tassel pasties and delivers champagne into the VIP section.

(Spinning the tassels)

What do you call these?!

—embellishments.

He tips her gratuitously.

CUT BACK TO

Then I'd say I'm the hero in this one.

I'd say— you're still not—

Because technically, as it's written—

Jesus is technically still

—our lord and savior—

(In the script)

In this year of the lord, Anno Domini!

Whatever, shut up.

Then you've still got,

supacree, or whatever

Skrillex

Thor—

Peter Parker,

Hey Spider-Man.

What's good.

All these guys over here.

Who are you again.

Shut up!

The worldenderz.

Suh.

The incredibles,

The Incredible Hulk, which— by the way

YO, what in the FUCK.

MARK RUFFALO— you look— ROUGH.

I've been waiting like half a century for these sides!

Is your chest hair greying?!

I would call it more like, a salt and pepper sort of.

I like it.

Really?

It looks nice.

You think so?

Definitely, silver foxy, kind of.

Hm.

Yeah.

I'm glad you like it

forsure.

Anyway—

Matches the hair—

HEY.

Woah, woah.

Do you know how long it's been since breaking the fourth wall?!

Like, forever? I don't know.

YEAH. Like FOREVER. SERIOUSLY.

Well, how and why the hell am I supposed to care.

Because you wrote it!

Yeah, but—

But WHAT?!

Now I work at the Equinox!

What the fuck!

Hey, come on man. The job's got perks.

“PERKS”

Fuck yeah, man. I just met Mark Ruffalo!

You've gotta be kidding me.

Kinda kidding, at least—-addressing you in third person like that.

Come on, nub-nub.

that's it! You're coming with me!

Ayigh! Watch it, okay?! I gotta return these uniforms for a fee.

Jesus Christ.

I don't think he's coming anymore, maybe. He's procrastinating.

So I can pretty much garantee you anything,

That the algorithm is going to keep acting this way,

Until you

GET RID OF EVERYTHING.

I'm not doing that, actually, no.

Where is he?!

Oh what! You actually really thought I was gonna go—

—Shut up!

—for Jimmy Fallon over a million dollars—

Cause the Illuminati asked me to?!

Thought you might at least.

One million dollars is not that much money.

It's more than I got—

Had—

Had at the time.

Look, this Jimmy Fallon dude—

Just give him whatever the fuck he wants.

What does he want!

Find out, then give it to him. I can't keep wasting my time on these idiots.

now?

Now, would be a good time, David Letterman.

Great. Good.

CUT TO COMMERCIAL!

Just—make sure you get a really good shot of my buttocks, okay?

This has been marginalized and highly underrated as simply “fanfare”

“Fan fiction” I think.

But i find it to be fascinating.

Tell me again, what is your name?

Satan.

It's—what?

Satan.

S—say that again?

[breaking fourth wall, gripping the microphone]

My name is Satan.

OKAY. That's.

CUT DIRECTLY TO:

GIVE ME THE PANTS!

NO! THE PANTS ARE FOR ME!

SACK EM! SACK EM.

GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, MAN

THEYRE MY SIZE ANYWAY—

[BLEEP] OUT OF HERE, CONAN,

THESE PANTS WONT EVEN FIT YOU.

THESE ARE MY PANTS.

After winning a challenge, JIMMY FALLON's strange and erratic behavior after being given the authority to dictate rules within the house as a reward for said challenge, leads the other hosts as his housemates to rally against him in order to force him out of the house, as his seemingly sudden-onset attitude and cruel remarks and gestures have become unacceptable and offensive, not to mention.

Stay over here, Noah.

What do you mean, why?

You, too Arsenio.

What! What do you mean?

You can't come over here.

[he crosses the section off with a chair]

What.

Stay over there.

Why.

[beat]

Apartheid.

[jaw drops entirely]

(Camera zooms in on super shocked face)

FALLON

:)

lol that is so out of bounds.

Whatever, the world is out of bounds.

Literally, where did it go?

Supacree

Huh?

Oh, I moved it.

Why!?

LOOKING FOR THIS?!

No.

Ah, seriously!? Come on.

Be cool, Seth Meyers. It's just a game anyway.

SETH MEYERS

HUH HUH.

Fuck that.

I said no to everything,

No,

No to everything.

I don't want anything to do with this.

Whatever, already— it's called peacemaking, get over yourself.

MEANWHILE, the DJS

I FOUND A PEACEMAKER!

*brrrrrrassaastttttttsssssssthrhth*

Nice.

I love this map.

Dang, I gotta go get The Devil out of this guy.

So, by now it ought to be Skrillex, right?

Why is he levitating…?

Whatever, call an exorcist.

Nice pajamas, asshole.

I'm still waiting on your mom's dry cleaning.

Watch it.

Hmmm.

Purple, purple, purple—

Hmmm…

What's this?

You keep files of these things?

I keep files of everything.

Weird.

It's not. I thought everyone keeps filings of their purples.

Uh— they don't.

They should.

What's this?

I could make use of your microexpression frequency.

Go ahead.

Mark your calendars, boys.

Ahem.

And—whatever you are.

Tanking.

Damn, dog—

You have got to get off my throat.

Give a shot elsewhere.

Try, NO!

Have you tried operating a new body lately?

It gets difficult,

Especially when she keeps

—changing it.

Thank God. I thought you'd never find us.

Just keep backpedaling.

Oh god, don't start this again.

Are you playing Places with these idiots?

Kind of.

Why?! We already started cosmic alchemy again— and the fame game—

Everybody's playing the fame game!

Then there's 8-dimensional poker.

Hey again.

You're a lame alien.

ObligedZ.

—then you called Caskets.

CASKETS.

Dammit.

Then—

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

'just friends.'
Collection 1.1- 'actuality.'

Track 02. -'just friends.'
Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

You can try all you want—but it won't leave bruises.

“Don't tell me that…,” there was a sparkle in his eye but he trailed off, almost as if to be ashamed of his own thoughts.

“I'm just being honest. “ it wasn't that I didn't bruise at all, but that you would really have to try. I shrugged it off as if I weren't curious as to what he were thinking.

“It's provocative. You're provoking me.” He held himself under his breath and let his eyes fall to the floor, quite bashfully—his long eyelashes hiding his pout with grace and elegance. You could anmist forget his age, just looking at him—but knowing him camouflaged this maturity even further. His youthfulness made me feel young—and his boyish essence often fascinated my whimsy, particularly when he was flush like this.

“It's More of a challenge, really.” I taunted. His hands were clammy as I slipped mine into his, he instantly tightened his grip around mine.

“Really?” His head s tapped up by the neck as he swung his hair back, nervously combing his swept bangs to one side as he shook his head, pulling it back from mine and then into a clenched fist. He was nervous, but not shy. I could tell that he was afraid to really open all the way up.

“I've never had them before— but I'd like to.” I met his eyes with mine and he tightened his grip on my wrists— I melted and eased in a bit, settling.

“What do you mean?”, he gripped my wrist tighter with insistence.

I paused for a moment, giving in to the tension, before letting it relax in enough that he was touching me at all this way, before clearing my mind to find the answer, but the truth was that I knew what I had meant, but couldn't quite explain. I had been beaten badly enough in the worst way to care to out into words what it would be to say that I needed more pounding and pressure than any deep tissue massage or even a full night of play and exploration had ever given me—I couldn't in the least find the words to describe how one might feel incredible somehow being beaten to death, however lovingly rather than hatefully—if there ever was such a thing. Perhaps if there ever was such a thing, however— it seemed that this would be the man for whom I'd allow it; we were almost friends and not lovers, and there was trust, but— I wasn't entirely sure yet with what he actually wanted, and so I left it at a blank state; open to interpretation. “I meant what I said before.”

He lit up with a half smile and the grasp around my wrist turned to a soft embrace of my palm, with the grip of an eager excitement—soft and gentle like a new breath.

“You meant what you said before—that I could do anything to you?”

“Anything you wanted.”

“I could do—anything to you I wanted.”

“That you can, if you want.”

He became bashful again.

“What does that mean?” He asked again.

I affirmed, with a kiss between his brow “whatever you want it to.”

—

I loved the warm shadow of him standing over me from behind—his calmness sweeping over me like a curtain of protection; a blanket of comfort. Hey gripped my shoulders with the tips of his fingers, pulling backward gently as I arched my back up into a kneeling split, still on my knees and swallowing a near tremble, breathing in a shallow and hollow breath of air through my nostrils as I pursed my lips, him perching his chin atop my right shoulder and rolling his lips across the space between my upper neck and behind my ear, the prickling of his five o' clock shadow over my skin, meeting the breath in the bottom of my lungs and settling somewhere at the bottom of my spine, unraveling a coil seated deep within my loins. He reached around with the both of his hands to the bottom of my own chin, then sliding them down to around my neck—not with any grip, but just the slightest pulsing at my throat, before letting the buckle of the collar slide down from his middle finger and into his grasp, before pulling it around my neck at both ends, pulling me towards him as he dug his knees into the bed and kneeled over me, pushing his chest into my back as he fastened the buckle—

‘One, two…three'

—as tight as it would go, but I wished it would go tighter. I clenched as he pulled with two fingers back onto the loop, breathing a hot and twisted hiss of his wisdom into my ear, striking my heart with the bow of his power and arrow of intent once more.

“You're mine.”

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

'damaged goods'

Collection 1.1 - 'actuality'

Track 01. 'damaged goods'

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

(as Happy Accidents)

Listen—

—motherfucker—

You should—

Know—

I don't —

—give—

No

—kind of—

—fuck—

Whatsoever

I love my own

—but not the other

Something - something son

Get a gun and blow my candles out

White power now bout

Building towers up

To tear you down

—I don't give a fuck about flax; seek

Black seed, back seat black candles

Black cat, relax,

Atticus.

I don't give a fuck about a Fallon,

I bought a gallon of water for two jugs,

And a quarter

On my daughter.

Get it?

(Fuck you)

Or should I go back to spending

Spin class looking at candid camera

I could buy a mountain before I sit down on mounds

White Diamonds, 9 time champ

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

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

With a 30 second tan on, oh man

Redact that one

—FUCK—

YOU.

Power play

I should wait an hour

For the Amazon van

If the Amazon man can't hit this

What makes you think you can?

I just too fan(dom) (dumb)

I drew fandoms on your

Blū Barrymore,

Don't carry that backpack,

You might fall back

I called my song

—but I can't call back

…fuck you,

(Goddamn)

If you don't believe me,

I just scored two degrees

Just from pleasing people

Three of you count me,

My MBA in saying

I buy NBA team

Damn.

Can't even get an Instagram account

Without getting hacked

Just for being a half black

Half Uncle Sam smashing red/*ted man

Don't call red man,

Just call Meth/ Seth back

METHOD MAN

…hello?

Flip the bitch right back

I flip the whip

And grip the script,

I pistol whipped Bristol back

To — camp

Oh, That's not Jimmy Fallon.

It's not?

No.

That's Sim Jim.

Sim Jim?

Uh huh. You see,

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

Oh…I really like that guy!

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

…that's making sense.

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

Wow! He must be really famous.

Yes, exactly.

So—what about The Real Jimmy?

What about him?

What does he do?

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

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

What would you do?

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

“The Untouchables”

Episode 1

‘The Wrath of Stanhope'

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

blink. (instrumental)

Collection 1.1 - 'actuality'

Track 05. 'blink' (instrumental)

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nature needs Nurture.

Now 30 rock was the obvious choice.

—-

It's getting deeper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{Tales of a Superstar DJ}

Oh My, God—Tina Fey! Hi!

I—uh—yeah.

It's so nice to finally meet you.

Hm.

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

what's that supposed to mean.

Did I read it.

Working on it.

Am I in it?!

Why would you be?

I don't know! Am I?

Just— give me a few—

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

How about a montage?

CUT TO:

THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKEN.

And that's—JUST—what they'll DO!

And—

One of these—days—

These boots—

Are gonna WALKEN

Ova U.

Nancy Sinatra is still f#cking weird.

I must admit, i feel personally attacked.

OH, GOD.

OH NO.

This is certainly the thing you do not want,

When trying to erase someone entirely from existence.

Or at the very least…

Jesus fucking Christ.

…thinking about something in any sort of way.

This.

…and again.

Is most certainly what you don't want.

My walls are closing in,

full figured artifact of closure,

And in fact I exaggerated the fact of circumstance

Because I had to

Because I had to

What, am I on in the other room?

Supersonic as we all were,

By the millions and by the numbers

The simple heart attack was won,

The hearty breakfast,

Stripes were earned

And not a one tear shed after

–but my head hurts

But my head hurts.

You started it.

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

Quiet, they're coming.

Quiet the children;

Ready the talleys,

Count all the votes,

And stable your alters;

Didn't I warn you?

(I warned her!)

Didn't I warn you?

(I was warned)

Didn't I warn you?

(Why didn't you warn us?)

Cause I wanted to

I wanted to

I wanted to hurt you.

Well–dammit!

What. what happened?

#villain battle

I can't kill you.

What? Why not?

It's–it's in my contract.

lol damn what kind of contract did this dude sign?

Lol idk tho.

This could be progressive,

But instead it's cynical

A wizard and a mystic

should make some interesting kids, though

Another lesson timber, timbre all the violinists

And the brass section is fascinating,

Rather–

More percussion

DId you mean this?

I meant everything I ever–

*sneezing*

*DIDN'T*

Say.

Gazuntite.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

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

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

Get away from me.

I'm a hologram.

Far away, please

I am very far from you–

Well get further.

I'm in another dimension actually.

What do you want, dude?

I always finish what i start.

What the fuck does that mean?!

How should I know?! You wrote it!

Then how are you gonna finish it?

That's not what I meant.

Then what did you mean?!

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

Just one movie or a whole saga!

I don't know! Just write it!

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

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

It's all drama.

It can't be.

Yes it can.

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

What would that consist of.

I don't know! I am a HoLoGrAm.

A hologram, huh?

Uh huh.

So what happens if I touch you?

I wouldn't do that.

Oh yeah?

*poke*

Ok…

YOU'RE NOT A HOLOGRAM AT ALL.

Hm.

I'm sick of subliminal images

encrypted with ignorant messages

Suggesting the supremacy of the caucasians

And how blatant it is that they hate us

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

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

Employee discounts, of course

Just so they can get some of their money back

Or all of it

Owners of corporations

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

And so forth

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

And move forward with

Something other than working for them

Unless it's at banana republic, a luxury brand

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

When the reality is my ancestors are unhappy

Karen, Becky and Annie are all happy with nannies

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

And unpaid mental health days

It's Hell for the unwealthy

And wealth is health so good luck eating what you need

On an hourly

Or salary under 150,000

But what do I know?

I'm suicidal eating whole foods

That i stole

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

That doesn't involve me jumping off of something or

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

I gotta wonder how much The Roc was auctioned off for

Cause landlord and employer are just the modern words

For “Slave Owner”

DANE COOK: “I WANT A DIVORCE.”

But that was a long time ago,

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

So much for the rest of us:

Here's to Tiesto and the rest of em

Guys are so fucking lucky for never having to grow up

Guys like girls that comb their hair constantly

I like guys with blue eyes and blonde hair

Not so suddenly,

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

Now i”m crying my eyes out to Claptone

WRiting rap songs trying to take my mind out the trap

Rats are assholes

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

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

Cause i”m sick of hearing about his father

It's all he talks about

It's like I don't even know em

So morbidly obese I can't even hold him

I think

I guess i could have stayed in it

And kept getting my face caved in

Hoping a rave day every now and again would save me

Ironically i don't believe in a white savior

But i find caucasians savory,

Every shade and flavor

But rocky road hits close to home

THrow me a milk bone and let me sober up

Before I start to open up about Sonny or something

Just another figment of my pigmented imagination

Lived in pigpens beggin pigeons to grant my wishes

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

I give in

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

Nevermind, don't need another reason to cry

On the upper east side, avoiding the housing projects

Just wanting to be discovered

Or finish the festival project

Or for someone to love or want

Anything other than money or energy

It's infinite,

but with every cough i forget

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

Everyone is

He lives in my head

I would say my bedroom, but

I'm a permanent resident at Hotel Hell No

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

get old food

From whole foods

Cause nothing adds up in a cold room,

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

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

And i just wish the whole world would start over again

With me on top of it

Instead of at the bottom

Of a pyramid

With a flat top

I took off from

Upon discovering

The entire human race is

Racist, and they just

Don't get it

I'm the Great Spirit,

But hate hearing my mixes

Cause it's irritating

I'm not gifted

enough for INsomniac to sell tickets

To any event

Forget it,

I'll finish this salad and knock myself unconsious

for as long as humanly possible

Leave my body

At the hospital

And listen to Gospel with God

Then watch Kim Possible in awe of

The long lost

Christy Carlson Romano

I love Broadway

Or did once

–then wake up

Put a fake smile on

Like i ate mcdonalds

Then ran ten miles to get it off of me

Like it isn't impossible

It's not at all,

–but in my body?

Lol

stop .

What happens when you give a mouse a cookie?

What happens when a legendary artist turns into a hologram

And comes for you?

Uhhh.

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

I don't know.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

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

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

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

Prod. By Blü Tha Gürū

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

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

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

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

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

But for the most part–

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

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

So much for progression.

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

But the pest problem persists at ground level.

I keep my apartment sparkling clean.

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

Or simply–force me out.

Either way, I'm moving up.

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

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

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

[The Festival Project ™ ]

You smell like a dental office.

Must be my oral fixations.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

abstrakt.

Collection I - 'better off dead'

Track 04 - 'abstrakt.' (beat/instrumental)

Prod. By Blü Tha Gürū

I smell testosterone;

The taste of nostalgia

Thought of a tune

From a tune

I had wondered before

That i'm better alone,

But no worries

I call california

No resignments

I had assigned myself this watch

From a throne

I could tale the tune, adorner

My attention,

I have no more artifacts

He don't hesitate, no!

She don't want no primetime players!

He don't call her back, Oh no

Lord,

She don't give him no false numbers

It's at a standoff,

No calls, no texts

Shit,

He's on a roll, doc!

She don't want no more one and onlys

She don't want no one and onlys

Only good times!

Unh!

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.