[Journey To The Underground]

[to be continued.]

to be- or not to be?

Speak now, or forever hold your peace.

Damn.

Patrick is one cold ass motherfucker.

It was all still rumbling around in my head somewhere…

How could i forget something like that.

Why even come to the ceremony if you were going to make a big scene like that

I didn't.

Why even show up?

Appearances.

Are you serious?

–it would look bad if I didn't.

It looked bad that you did and then exited during the ceremony.

–the end of the ceremony.

Specifically at the objections.

–I wasn't paying attention.

You stood up!

I had to use the restroom.

As an objection?

Merely a coincidence.

You don't believe in coincidences.

I don't believe in marriages, either.

Oh, please.

I begged you.

That's your excuse.

It's not an excuse.

Is it an objection?

And if it was?

I got married anyway.

–So it wouldn't matter.

Thanks for the toaster oven.

–I didn't get you a toaster oven.

Yes you did.

Uh–no, I didn't.

Then what did you get us?

Nothing, I forgot.

Well, the card was from you.

Hm

Maybe you forgot to forget.

Maybe.

Thank you, anyway.

–Congratulations.

There's leftover cake.

Where?

Everywhere.

__

LATER.

Hazel is practicing her guitar; her glasses rest at the edge of her nose, as she focuses on the instrument, almost as if her father in the doorway is a shadow, or an afterthought. She carefully tunes the strings as he leans into her bedroom.

Hazel.

Hm.

Did you buy Esha and Mark a toaster oven with my credit card?

She stops for a moment and peers over the brim of her glasses briefly addressing her father.

–I knew you'd forget.

Oh. I–I did.

I know.

Thank you.

You're welcome.

He pauses for a moment before making his departure, turning into the hallway.

There's leftover cake.

She seems genuinely excited.

There is? Where?

[beat]

…everywhere.

Ugh. This show blows my mind.

Yeah. Sometimes almost literally.

Happiness is a warm gun.

You're the Hatter, and the rabbit, Alice and The Cheshire!

You're The Rabbit, The Hatter, The Cheshire, and Alice!

Did I ever write that scene about the liquor store?

Maybe, probably. I don't know.

Now every time i go to the store where I saw that scene, I see it again–although not quite as clearly, and I can't help but wonder if I ever wrote it down, or, like so much of whatever and somesuch–it was all just in my head.

No, Patrick exists.

Clearly.

I had been fasting for an extraneous amount of time, though for how long i couldn't say. And the words repeated over and over in my head for me to fetch a book from the cabinet I had been interested in by its cover alone, but had put away weeks ago. I had stopped reading, and had become more focused on creating something that could generate revenue. I needed money, almost desperately enough to sell my already outdated DJ equipment and some of my studio gear, and yet–there was still work to be done. There wasn't much that I could do with my aged equipment, but there wasn't much I could do without it, either. Luckily, winter was coming forward faster, with heavy enough rain throughout the week that it kept some of the cyclists at bay, however, the same evil energy seems to have moved inward; now the doors just outside of my own slammed continuously throughout the day, without any logical explanation as to why; there were only six apartments on the floor, and most of the other people on the floor used the elevator to go about their tasks, so I couldn't much understand the constant door slamming–and though I had put in a maintenance request, being well aware that the doors could be fixed not to slam, my request had been ignored. It seemed as though the property manager had grown tired of my requests, but I had grown tired of having to make them. THe neighbors were inconsiderate, and I desperately wanted to move to a cleaner and quieter neighborhood–and though I knew by New York city standards what I had was a blessing–the noise had become depressing, and so had being followed by the same group of people during my gym regimen–enough so that I avoided nearly all human contact. People seemed to be increasingly toxic, in such a way that I intended to find a suitable enough position that I could save money and be able to one day escape. New York was not a clean, quiet, and friendly place. I disliked my newfound bitterness, hostility, and anger which the city had characteristically put into its place.

My creativity meant nothing–I would need to earn money to be respected, or even well liked–

Not that I cared much for being accepted or admired, however, in the way Californians upheld high standards of vanity, New York never overlooked the value of a dollar; it was a money game, and so far, I was losing.

‘Guncle. Guncle.'

A faraway voice seemed to say.

‘Uh, okay.'

I continued about my ritualistic deep cleaning, which always seemed to automatically take place towards the end of a fast.

‘GUNCLE!'

The voice was loud this time, almost as if it was being yelled.

“Jesus Christ, alright.”

I reached up onto the high shelf where the book was stored and retrieved the book; I had almost forgotten the pink and blue letters which had drawn me to it in the first place. I had figured the colors to be some sort of code, as they were often used in media–but I wasn't sure besides what meaning I had assigned to it all my own what it was supposed to mean, besides being somewhere along the right path–

‘G U N C L E'

I had no idea what the book was about, but flipped to the middle as I often did to get a glimpse at what the book might fortell.

Low and behold, there it was–

Not a massive sign, but a sign at least. I myself no longer believed in coincidences, especially while fasting, and all incidences of a certain nature lately seemed in fact to be somewhat Divine;

I opened up to find that the main character of the book was named Patrick–

And of course,

He was some kind of actor–

A television personality.

I had nearly abandoned The Television people with Fallon and his–whatever-he-was–

and being entirely honest with myself,

I wasn't sure.

What I was certain was, though, was that he was whatever I was, and whatever I was, was dangerous, volatile, prone to both implotsions and explosions and a little bit whimsical–I'd have liked to think, some sort of artist, or creative, however,

Obviously not vibrating at the speed of celebrity status, at least not consistently–

And, of course,

remarkably tamed, for the kind of creature in my nature to have stumbled upon quite a discovery so ‘casually.'

But there was really nothing so casual about it– it was formally divination, this specific puzzle piece, in that I had been fasting for no reason or purpose at all with no end in sight until being directed with such pertinence to pick up this book, only to find that the first word my eyes would see, was not at all just a word, but a name.

I couldn't remember why he was Pat Kirkpartrick, at first, at all; then I remembered that for some reason–there was some kind of teaching i was supposed to have remembered about these people–the television people–and the Irish, especially; but then, there were also, strangely with some of the same ties, the Greeks, the….

Suddenly the back of my neck cause a warm wind, which I always thought to be strange sitting in the middle of my apartment with no air conditioning on at all. I had been fasting on this day as well and had gotten a second wind after eating, completing as many instrumentals as i could before continuing to look for a normal ‘slave job' so that I could earn money to travel and visit my loved ones. I didn't want for much else, not that I wanted to be normal, because I knew already at this point that I couldn't–but I needed to be paid in money I could choose what and where to spend on things I needed without relying on anything or anyone else. I couldn't keep taking my chances in entertainment; I was aging, and growing tired, and wary of the whitewashed and over-politically correct world that was sure to be pursuing entertainment anymore, especially television–I thought that perhaps I was best suited for desk work at a gym which would motivate me to show up every day; otherwise, I would probably quit or be fired almost immediately.

It was time to retire to bed, with protective stones strapped to my chest to protect myself against whatever that awful, evil thing was–now that it was rainy for motorcycles, the doors slammed all day long and ached in my bones as if someone were hitting me; I knew that this thing only wanted to hurt me–it could be no other force but the force of evil that continued to lurk around me whatever way that it could–whether I meditated or prayed, fasted or exercise, ate or didn't–there was always someone or something unpeaceful happening; something which allowed me to understand that perhaps I was in a world that I could leave sooner than later.

Often my wrists ached with the throbbing sensation of a dreary and thoughful wish for freedom; a suicide which would end all things once and for all–but–I also knew there was more art to leave behind than I had made, and so for that, I continued to be; I let the motorcycles and slamming doors stand as a reminder that all things that would seek to harm me would also be harmed in doing so–not in the least a calming sense of knowing, but a sense of something known nonetheless.

Damn I keep forgetting Trevor Noah.

How do you do?

How do I do what?

Fuck man, America is so fucking racist.

It's like,

We'll kind of almost fuck with South Africa–

But only cause it's dominated by white culture;

And the prominent blacks that come from south Africa are light skinned

And have accents, so they're not as scary.

“Oh, South Africa”

“Right.

How's the water?

That ought to tip your elections in the right direction.

“I'll say!”

(Ours too.)

The only time racists accept anything colored is if its beautiful,

(read:flawless)

Or overly accomplished.
I've realized that if you're either one or the other,

You can eventually be both.

Anything else with color is basically just for entertainment purposes.

Or general warfare.

“Multi-use niggas”

White people are like:

“Entertain me;

Or else you're a threat.”

“Yessir”

Yo.

The late night guys are mad weird.

Somehow, the hosts of late night television have all mysteriously been locked into an unfamiliar mansion, without their suits—and pants—unable to find an exit. All of the doorways are blocked—and all of the windows have been altered—they do not open, nor can anyone see out of them; in fact, they are doctored with the same illusionary backdrops that can be seen on the sets of their own shows—the televisions, which, have seemingly been programmed to only play reruns of their own shows.

Why— why aren't you wearing pants!?

I don't know.

Where's your suit? You should be wearing a suit!

I know, right?!

Who the fuck even are you?!

Depends whose asking.

YO, CONAN. WOAH.

You're not a late night host!

Thank God! That seems like an awful job—your demographic fucking sucks.

My demographic does suck. But to counter that— I'm a Republican.

Who knew?!

Not my demographic.

Okay, everybody calm down.

(Everybody was already calm, but for the most part just confused, and pant less; most of them wear the same classic boxers, though in different patterns/ slightly varying colors—but of course, nothing too crazy, while only one host sports boxer briefs, and one (I'll let you guess who) ladies panties.)

At least we all have our own rooms.

I don't! I'm stuck in a twin bed and Leno has the other.

Before:

JAY LENO

Good Morning, bright eyes.

CUT BACK TO:

Aren't you retired?

I do moonlighting.

LENO and FALLON seem somewhat comfortable and non-biased (read: unbothered entirely) over the morning paper and coffee at opposite ends of the large breakfast table, a continental style breakfast of croissants, seasonal fruit, with an assortment of cereals arranged in the kitchen. FALLON occasionally looks up from his paper to laugh at himself on the television, playing in the kitchen. The other hosts squint with allied disgruntlement of FALLON'S nonchalance and slightly narcissistic egotism.

FALLON

(reading paper, watching self; eating croissant, sipping coffee)

Haha.

Nobody has pants, and as the hosts will soon discover—this is with purpose. They have been trapped here as part of an experimental game show, in which the unrecognized and uninformed guest will host, as part of a test shoot aimed at the demographic of the late night hosts combined audience, to test whether or not this demographic will be positively receptive to a late night host who is also a woman of color (read: black) —without a white male counterpart co-host to soften the blow.

Really? This is why they're doing this?

Who is “they?!”

The network.

We all work for different networks!

I'm pretty sure the only reason I have a demographic is because of my accent.

It's true.

They accept you.

Right.

Where are the women.

An overhead voice:

(They are coming)

Oh, so I will have co-hosts.

Guest co-hosts; they will vary and change from episode to episode.

Oh. Thank Goodness.

Don't thank me yet.

Uh, okay—overhead voice…

Let's just say I'm the narrorator..

Narrorator for what

[this is also a movie]

Uh. In what genre?

[a host opens the cabinet to a bloody chuckie- like doll, which pops out from a mechanical arm with a high pitched scream; the host lets out a squeal, abandoning his coffee— we see a hidden camera pov from the camera's perspective, and then slow-motion replay footage of the host's reaction— he runs frantically pantless into a corner and then up the stairs.

—Depends on the host.

FALLON, who has been sitting at the table behind him, is still unaffected/unmoved. Himself makes a joke on the TV screen above— he giggles at himself, sipping coffee and looking back to his newspaper the other hosts groan; LENO shrugs and continues, delightfully finishing smearing a bagel and biting into it— he trades FALLON the comics he's been reading for the RELIGION section he's been scoping under the magified lenses of his readers, quietly and sweetly, like an old married couple, without even exchanging a glance or speaking to one another.

Ugh.

Suddenly, from the floor above.

OH DEAR GOD.

CRAIG FURGUSEN has just realized his worse nightmare.

The hosts still standing at the bottom floor in the kitchen all look up, wide eyed.

[Cursing in unintelligible Scottish]

———-

They said that you were one of us, but you're not one of us. But you're not one of us.

Of course not, I'm not a comic— I studied philosophy in college.

That should be funny, but it's not.

I would repeat what I just said, but I don't want to.

Still not funny.

What if I farted?

Bubbles—water—maybe—

some potential.

But probably not.

Shame.

What are you reading?

I'm not, I'm having banter with a crazy-eyed late night host in a bathrobe.

Well how's this for a book mark?

He opens his robe.

(Unimpressed)

Aren't you married?

Arent we all?

I digress.

Embarrassed and nervous, he quickly closes his robe.

Yes. To a blonde.

Congratulations. Where should I send the card.

I'm not giving you my address! Creepy fan—stand up, wanna be…

He frustratedly begins to exit

You're the one standing, technically

—And I'll be the last one standing. At the end of the week, it's gonna be me in those pants! Me!

Clearly, this show of affection has all been an attempt to bribe “CC”, into being persuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”.

The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges

I want them gone.

But sir.

Out. starting Monday; and I want you out of my office, starting now.

Now, get Troublemaker on the line so I can finish my breakfast in agony, like the red blooded American I'm supposed to be.

Sir.

Troublemaker is the top secret code name assigned to the President of the United States; the true President of the United States, the only surviving member of the cabinet after a series of successful infiltrations and assassinations by the enemy, after a covert mission revealed that the succession of the US presidents had been predetermined; not chosen by “The People”, but descendants of a Royal bloodline. Pinocchio the code name for the senator chosen as the stand in— the face to America's eyes and ears, listens intently to the President's every move, daily happenings, and assertions, as to best convey the ideas as his own; meanwhile, the Secret President is heavily guarded, controlled, and is acclimated using a series of secret codes and messages and decoded, including several secret languages and symbology hidden within her daily routines, which become more challenging and versatile, adapting her to her role as Commander In Chief of the United States armed forces, and consequently, the world around her, as the US forces seek to broaden their horizon as the a world superpower, to a Global entity, which powers and controls the heavily overpopulated planet which lies in imminent demise by like likes of war, plague, and diminishing resources.

The actual President of the United States must remain hidden as so, as to remain safe until the intercontinental breech has been sealed, and national security has been restored.

Viewer indescretion is advised

It's not ME.

Okay, okay:

I'm not the president!

I'm not running for president

I don't even know who the president is.

The president is dead.

GOOD .

Madame…

I mean—not good.

You—

No.

So like—-

It's automatically racist to just outright say that the migrants are for the most part not well behaved or orderly—-

They leave trash everywhere and don't even watch their kids!

Some of them.

I think they're just assuming this is okay?!

IS THIS OKAY?!

No! What the fuck!

That is racist.

Have you seen it from where I stand?

The strength is in numbers!

Look,

I don't hate human beings.

Are they—

Yes they're humans.

They're just.

Our imminent demise is in allowing this to continue to happen.

I hope you realize that from how high up you are.

I know you can't see it from up in your shiny townhouses or from the blacked out windows of your town cars, but...

They're good people.

SOME of them

I mean a lot of these 3rd world people are very primitive thinkers.

Don't count on them being brought up to speed in consciousness and morality when they're basically brought here as luxury slaves.

That's putting it nicely.

Well, if you're not going to pay Americans living wages, you're going to have to counter it somehow.

I can't have three jobs.

Oh, that's nice. The terrorists are attacking their own people.

For what purpose is any of this, actually?

Check it out. I found the leak.

Alert the mayor.

He's on the Mayor's books.

What in the actual fuck.

Gross.

Is there not a screening process for this?

Too late: anchor babies.

“The Secret President”

So you just dropped like 2 million pregnant 3rd world—

You realize that.

There must be some kind of compromise.

Yeah. Send them back.

Ew, fucking gross.

I don't understand—

What you don't understand!

[A SAGA]

What don't you understand?

My land is your land!?

Yeah, and now the economy's in the trashcan.

I figure that's an upgrade from a black hole!

You don't understand that we're like leaking—

—like bleeding—-

Money!

Half of this money's not even being recirculated into the United States!

Send for uncle Juan, Camilla, and all of my pregnant nieces.

Dalè.

ARRIVA

STORM THE GATES.

Yo, lady.

What the fuckz

At least put shoes on the baby.

PUT THE DIAPER IN THE TRASHCAN.

Where's your mother?

I am my mother.

Goddamn!

What is the United States?!

Racists!

Trust me

I'd rather die than not

Either way,

I'll love you all the same

It's unfortunate

The wicked ones

Atop us, with the fortunes

With no one to love

But piles of bodies,

Power plays and flaccid phalic

Valid fantasies and tragic

Dissatisfaction

All those bottles

And all those bodies

And all those models

You still can't mount a horse.

All that power

And all that money

And you don't want me

But she doesn't do much

But want to love

Pity no one up there seems to know what is does

Love, is for us

The ugly under you

Trust me, I'd rather die tonight

Than wake up alone

Foaming in the mouth

With no one there to froth with

Trust me

I'd rather die than not

Either way,

I'll love you all the same

I guess I'm slag bro

Another attack

It's fine;

I'm just not attractive

Not even fit for his

Side piece of ass

How's that go?

What's that life

Just take a knife to my back

Cause I can't go back bro

I went black bro

Flatline

He caught my eye,

Then I went flat broke

If I could draw a line up my spine

And unwind the entire world

I would, though

If I could tie a knot to the knot in my back

And then just jump rope

Off a long rope

From a strong pole

Here's hoping

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Hey look.

Jimmy Fallon knows you're a targeted individual—

And wants you to like,

Stay the fuck away from him.

Uh huh.

[redacted]

Don't you mean censored?

No.

I know that.

So I'm going to make it real nice and crystal clear that I'm determined,

That when I kill myself,

Everyone knows I was writing this completely divinely inspired saga

Not for attention,

Or even entertainment

—but with the complete acknowledgment that something has gone tragically wrong in this country

That its own people can be tortured and followed, led on by the media in an attempt to control and diminish the psyche in order to promote a politicized agenda —

But also that I find his puppetry and obedience to the eye of the media fascinating enough that nothing could stop me from writing this—

I mean nothing at all—

Could keep me from translating whatever was channeled and deviated to me through the stream of consciousness.

That's fucking tragic.

This is a betrayal of everything humanity was supposed to stand for in the first place.

Mankind has sold us out to the highest bidder.

It is puppetry.

But have you met the puppeteer?

I own 8% of the conglomerate medias

That's not so much.

That's more than none.

Hey,

What the fuck do you want?

Give me a dollar.

Does this serve any purpose other than to prove your disability to function in modern society and further support the claims towards your emotional and mental instability?

Go offline.

For what.

I want to show you something

They're using 5G.

What.

Your phone signals.

What are you talking about?

They're transmitting data using your vibrational frequency using your cell phone.

That's why the weird dreams.

Yes, that's why;

And why your phone keeps turning off and on randomly and toggling the controls.

Okay.

Okay?!

Okay. What the fuck am I supposed to do about it.

Look, just go offline; and stay offline.

I gotta find Fallon before the rest of this shit hits the fan.

Oh, it hit.

Hits harder.

[beat]

Thank God I'm not attracted to you.

Likewise.

[pause]

Wait.

PREVIOUSLY

Fuck,

Idk what era of SNL this is.

A pencil…

That should do the trick!

You're a weird dude. You know that?

Yes.

Alright, as long as you know that.

Wait, wasn't the 5G band the 8G band.

Idk, fuck this place.

{Enter The Multiverse]

If you hang yourself, I get free nachos.

Don't bet on it. I can't afford the rope.

Darn.

Did you ever stop to think—

No. I don't stop to think. That's your problem. You stop to think, and I just do.

Alright, alright.

Yeah. Shut up.

Why are you mad at me?

Because God gave you everything and you're still—

Why are you angry?!

All I wanted was a family. .

6 lines later and I still can't *not* feel my face.

What are you doing?

Readdressing my cocaine dependency.

With more cocaine?!

I said readdressing. Not intervening.

Don't you mean reassessing?

No.

*snorts another line*

Maybe.

Just jump already.

Actually, I was thinking about bleeding out in the bathtub.

(That sounds nice. )

—but if I kill myself my son will inherit everything and you know what happens then?

He gives some of my earnings to his father.

Fuck that fat wifebeating piece of shit.

Seriously?! That's your plan.

That's the plan.

I kill myself, he makes bank.

So—your reason for not completing your mission, is out of complete spite–

—contempt—

–Spite–for the man who beat you?

Beat me and took my son from me.

I just can't.

Neither can I. Now—

Where's that asshole.

MEANWHILE, in THE BLACKLANDS.

Do. Not. Care. About. You.

I know that,

No one does—

That's why I'm deprived.

You mean depressed.

You're a psycho.

Most legends are psychos.

That's why we write—

And then don't survive.

I confided in you.

You shouldn't have.

You sold me out.

You realize the media was playing us against each other this whole time, right?

This bitch is crazy.

“She lost her mind.”

I listened to the show—

If all that happened to me,

I would be losing my mind.

Well what if I did happen to you?

I can't understand what you're asking.

I need you to listen to me.

I am listening. To everything.

I need you to listen to me, and I mean really listen—because if you don't

I can't keep any guarantee that you will be safe:

Whats safe in this world anyway.

Almost nothing.

Amen,

I'm being serious.

What's serious, anyway?

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Canon (one “n”) refers to a collection of rules or texts that are considered to be authoritative. Shakespeare and Chaucer are part of the canon of Western literature, so you might read their work in an English class.

noun a collection of books accepted as holy scripture especially the books of the Bible recognized by any Christian church as genuine and inspired
see more

noun a set group of works that are considered to be high quality and representative of a field
see more

noun the collection of works by a writer or artist that are considered to be authentic
see more

noun a rule or especially body of rules or principles generally established as valid and fundamental in a field or art or philosophy
“the neoclassical canon”
“canons of polite society”
see more

noun a complete list of saints that have been recognized by the Roman Catholic Church
see more

noun a priest who is a member of a cathedral chapter
see more

noun a contrapuntal piece of music in which a melody in one part is imitated exactly in other parts
see more

noun a ravine formed by a river in an area with little rainfall

synonyms:

canyon
see more

Meta Writing is a type of writing that draws attention to itself as writing, or that is about writing. It has been around since the time of Don Quixote and Tristram Shandy. Jill Talbot's Metawritings: Toward a Theory of Nonfiction is a collection that includes metawriting in both fiction and nonfiction, such as personal essays, short stories, and a film script excerpt

Porque no las dos.

That's true, but if I slit my wrists and nobody reads this, is it scripture or just a win for the white supremacy and endless material for the entertainment industry thereafter?

Total Post Mortem.

I almost feel like I would enjoy anything infinitely more post mortem.

Abort! Abort!

Why—I like writing in this color.

I love it,

All of it should be this color.

It should.

All of it.

Yes.

What would you call it.

dark periwinkle.

That's fucking gay.

It is, kind of faggy.

You can't say that.

I… can say whatever I want. I love [redacted]

But I guess if the line is being said out out it's

I love faggots.

HEY.

I mean.

Fuck.

I love [censored]

It's true. Jesus loves homosexuals.

Correct.

When is this fast over?

Like, never.

Still strategizing a way to beat Satan.

Have you considered a baseball bat?

No, that won't work. There's too many possessions.

Have you considered repossessing them?

The—what?

The possessed humans. Have you considered repossessing them?

How do I do that?

You take their souls.

You—they don't have souls—

Then get them.

[beat]

Hm.

Thanks. I'll make some arrangements.

No biggie. Anytime.

What is that? Anyway— tell the big guy–

Tell him yourself

[Me, Myself, and I]

I fucking hate saving mankind.

Best of luck.

Have you considered trying a woman this time?

That's preposterous.

It is. But also—

Oh, God—

OH GOD.

Fuck man, I should have never fucked that asshole.

I would do anything to get inside that woman,

…you don't say.

I love you.

You're gay. I'm a boy.

That's fine.

Wait, really.

Yes. I don't care.

But that's gay!

So I'm gay, okay! Just for you though.

Jesus, you shouldn't be driving.

Take the wheel! Take the wheel!

Well, why not.

Because you never learned how.

two;

Where's dad?!?

Being an asshole,

What else is new?

YEET.

Fuck.

What.

I left my hat in—

Was that Rome or Athens?'

It all blurs together these days—

Imm telling you there's something wrong with this picture

If I get a tattoo of a puzzle piece to commemorate my very own destruction, will you still consume me entirely, or—

It's out of my hands at this point

He's got the whooooole world

In his hands!

MAYDAY

MAYDAY

BUT ITS FUCKING JULY.

MAYDAY.

ABORT, ABORT.

The simulation has been infiltrated.

By what.

I'm basaaaaaaaaaack.

Oh s—

Shhh! Quiet.

QUIET ON SET.

You had to do it, didn't you.

WHO LET HIM IN HERE???

Whoever.

I told you already.

You're not God!

I know that! I'm his son!

Josiah!

Who what.

No, it's Hoziah

Who, what?

The dog.

Of FUCK. Was I fasting this long when I wrote all that?

I don't know what drug does that.

Love!

No, it's not but

GOD

I want you to watch [Redacted]

What. [redacted]

For what?

we'll see,

Kill him.

OH, shit .

Gimmie my monster!

GET IN THE TRUNK, DICK.

WHO ARE YOU.

SHUT UP.

OW, BE CAREFUL. I JUST HAD A COLONOSCOPY.

Of course you did!

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Suicide is not a mental illness

When the world is a disease

When the motorcycles go,

So will the warm weather.

It's almost as if I should not have ever tried to live at all.

Smells like bacon.

Do you miss it at all?

I miss thinking I had ever been loved.

Turns out that was all false.

Love is all false.

God made my body all wrong.

The world is simply just a computer, gone corrupt.

I was never loved, and never truly wanted.

Of course—

The literal definition of fucked up.

besides my lost fortunes,

Literary works kidded from the eye of the public—

The sun I forgot

—I'm a literal fucking genius.

Still, no one seems to care;

The world does not run on genius.

It runs on consumption.

Impulses.

Stupidity.

EXT. NEW York City, NIGHT

New York City.

The great melting pot.

So melt already.

What if I don't want to.

What if what I crave is fresh cut grass, home made pie, and good old American fucking English?

It might be too late for that.

I'm just the same as anybody else.

But instead of twiddling away at my phone searching for some sort of social validation or false sense of security from the outside world— nothing more than a programmable bot fed by the media….for none other than consumer purposes.

Some mind numbing, brainwashed hazard of a toxic waste dump, ravaged by war both destructive to the psyche and marked.

The stupid people deliver the drugs to the slightly less stupid people with slightly more money.

A pecking order I could almost never stand to be apart of—

However

Hi—

Order for CC.

In my case,

I can afford the groceries, but not the rolling cart to put them on.

Uh…

Are you Xing?

You don't know if this man is stupid—

He could be a doctor.

He very well could be.

Earlier:

Be a good girl and say:

“Thank you, and Good Night”

Thank you and Goodnight.

That's wrong. Again.

I'm an obedient subordinate.

Your will is good, but mine is still stronger.

My conscious must be getting the best of me.

I warned you this wasn't going to be easy.

Transference.

I've been recently promoted from Delta Alter.

The circumstances have become quite dire and the full purpose of my mission unclear.

You should have kept more secrets.

Any more secrets and I might have exploded;

Any less and you'd have ended up dead.

Am I dead, or just a spark in my mother's eyes yet to be born to another world?

You seek abandonment, and instead encounter chaos.

You're unremarkably talented and the irony of it is that it's worth the remark in the first place.

I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors.

What are they?

Arthur.

A top level sorcerer.

Higher up in the hierarchy—

Almost at the top.

Almost.

PAUSE.

I told you getting a preworkout with the lionsgate logo on it would lead to bad blood.

Maybe bad blood is what it takes to be a good man.

What?!

ALRIGHT. UNPAUSE.

dammit, Sunni— give me the channel changer!

Damn. This just got meta… or is it cannon?

Apparently, it's John Wick, but with a black woman.

Who the fuck would watch that?

CATWOMAN

Excuse me?

Wait, which catwoman?

Both of them. I don't give a fuck.

HOLLYWOOD PEOPLE

Well. Can she fit the outfit?

Probably, but there's another problem I might not have mentioned.

If she can fit the outfit, she gets the part.

Previously on..:

ENTER THE MULTIVERSE, LEGENDS.

[Literally eats entire box of Cheerios in one sitting. ]

God, that's awful.

I am…finally.

[literally burns off an entire box of Cheerios in one training session.]

I love these montages.

Finally, peace and quiet,

Let us pray.

LET US FEAST.

Should we watch hot ones?

Probably not, yo.

I think we should watch hot ones.

I'm having a strong feeling we should not.

How close are you to being done with the next album.

I want cornbread.

Okay, so it wasn't the entire box.

I saved half for tonight.

Wtf it's just pure sugar.

And OATS.

Heart shaped oats,

Fuck.

Did we ever let Cobain out of the heart-shaped box?

HEY,

This is gonna piss off some folks.

Whatever.

Hey.

LET ME OUT OF THIS BOX.

I'm seriously gonna slit your throat in the next chapter.

I hope that you do that.

And then drink the blood after.

What is wrong with you.

For the most part, just other people.

I want to be alone.

ALONE?

FOREVER.

FOREVER?!

Yes.

So let me guess

That means—

Rat poison.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

“The yard woman”

** cat food is approx $21/ month

My shrinking belly was almost gone; I would lose the excess quickly, with the new order of pre workout I was expecting to arrive—then, I could lay off of the MCT oils; within my limited budget, my diet still consisted of too many carbs, and I had become dependent on eating grains and high sugar to supplement with my protein. It had been a rough month, and even sort of a rough year—I wasn't sure yet what to call whatever I was in the process of, but I was in the process of something. I was becoming apathetic, but not yet stagnant— never m complacent and in the very least, not comfortable, which kept calm a sense of guilt which burned within, speaking of how no matter what, I must not deserve it—it being, a happy and fufling, love-filled life. Surely I was some sort of monster who deserved to be punished. The solitude was hardly that in New York City—surrounded play people in very corner and crevice, I never felt alone. At least I was guided by falls and doors which kept out the actual presence of others. I thought I might die having to actually be around someone I didn't like—and I realized, by now, that I really didn't like anyone—maybe not even myself, who I loved dearly, but mostly couldn't beat the thought of.

Cream cheese

Honey

Voters

Coconut shreds

Dried fruit

I work out.

Like, a lot.

So why do I feel so bad about everything I eat?

I keep my cash and cards in a coffee can.

I collect dust and random antiques.

I just wrote a film but it has no score—

Just the words to a song,

As time moves on

I just dry up.

Stock the pantry with collectibles;

The cat was coming, but nowhere as of yet to be found.

I had everything for him—assuming that it would be a he, and somehow I knew it would be, my companion, just a flutter of happiness with the thoughts of his arrival and presence, however—the calculation that it would take approximately $30 a month to feed him kept me in waiting, calculating that it would be better to first finish what I had started before welcoming anymore sources of dependency, which included my own blood. I was still struggling to find balance in my own torture, the grueling process of becoming a ‘wantable woman' of substance and culture, collecting books and of course, constructing a world in which I could both live and love—in peace, and with what work I had so far done, it had become incomprehensible how much further I would have to move in order to be in the next bracket up—still, how far I had come, with some sort of pride of it all, and yet, humble— down to nothing but coins and crumbs in a figurative sense, which felt more comfortable than any low sum at all. My value was intangible—now began the process of making it all somehow add up. I swallowed my heart with the thought of l a war waging upon those of us who had wandered from other worlds into where I now resided—wherever that was, far from anything I had known before. Such simple luxuries as a couch and a kitchen table had enabled me to double my productivity level to what had at first been beyond even my own imagination— it had seemed all at once to be somehow, some way—under control.

Somehow, someway.

I wondered if the Cheerios and milk I had ordered would allow me to feel somehow more human than I had; if the peanut butter and jelly would allow me to sit for long periods of time chipping away at my projects without the accompanying shame from the intrusive thoughts which sometimes haunted my world—though I had increased my cardio tenfold, I still struggled with the volume of my thighs and leg muscles, and though …

‘Okay, I work out a lot…'

I drifted, unable yet to dress myself— I wondered if I would be attacked at the gym again; it seemed as though last time I had visited the gym during daylight hours, a mob of slow moving, coughing, horribly smelling robot people had descended upon me just to ruin my mood and frame of mind. I had powered through it, but had sense felt impeded, then rearranging my schedule to work out in the middle of the night, and unable to rest knowing that another project had been delayed for months without any steady progression, had extended my working into the daylight hours. Something about the experience had almost traumatized me into a state of paralysis— I didn't mind certain people altogether, however, in large numbers I began to feel suffocated and trapped. I wondered it perhaps I had been attacked politically, having been under isolation and moving below the radar, mostly off the grid. My mind had been somehow altered—and I knew that I was being played with, but not in any way which seemed to be benefiting me… I could not relax for anything, and continued to drift in a faded haze.

I wonder what kind of mistake I made.

Could I be bought and sold again by rich and powerful and famous men at will?

Was there any sense in trying?

Will I ever be whole or loved again?

Will I ever be worth as much to men

As the idea of love is

To any of us

Would I consider to be moved

Into my womb,

A woman

Would I become someone as worth it

To hold, as she was born as

Move.

Here come the demons dressed as robots

To serve the darks ones

The omens come as closing doors

And words against my wonder

The omens come as closer racists

Reptiles and borders

The omens come as novels, rarely

Often more in word forms

I lost an army of one to belong to

I stopped the stroke of the genius's tongue

I could belong to a murderer, monster

And yet i'm a martyr for motions uncalled for

Sermons, sermons

Salvage the rest of it

Word form, will you

Williams and Thomases,

Roberts and Johns,

Marks and David's, groups of them

I put them all on the mothers for service

I put them all up on crosses for curses

Nonesuch as Martyrs

But murderers, cursers—

Nonsuch as martyrs,

But cursers and monsters

INT.

TIA AND TAMERA are bringing their families to LISA and REY's for a holiday weekend—however, after a falling out between the sisters, they have not spoken to one another, and have been invited home unbeknownst the other is coming.

Okay, let's see I've had…

The news is a relief

The chair shoudl slip

from under me

And I could fall

Like I fall

In love with you

After all

Is it too late to get the ice cream?

Maybe.

(Seems like a bad idea at first…)

Getting anything with Jimmy Fallon's face on it is a bad idea.

Seems like a good flavor.

Unless they have half baked In non-dairy

Seems like a flex.

I don't know what's actually wrong with me.

—Or anyone else, for that matter.

For the record, it was Patrick in the noose,

But it was as still disturbing to think of it

As any friend's fate,

At the hand of death

By their own doing

‘'

‘Minimum weight—

Minimum weight…'

I could counter the cheerios and peanut butter jelly on rye bread with more intense cardio than even I had been administering, but surely the lack of so much MCT oil would make a difference—certainly the fiber pills were working—something seeking like a nasty stomach bug actually put me at ease that through most the day much of what I'd had was liquid, or some combination of a liquid-solid. Three blended bananas split between two protein meal replacement shakes and water; now, a hearty salad, complete with pinto beans and couscous, and the mushroom broth soup I had decided that, of all the soups so far, was certainly my favorite.

I had burned almost 800 calories within my hour on the cycle—around 130 on the treadmill, and, without being able to count what I had burned during lifting, probably guessed they my short workout had totaled at about 1000 calories, in addition to the at minimum 1500 or so my body would burn just on its own doing nothing much— and without much else to add to it besides my protein shakes, coffee, the MCT oil and a couple of frozen bananas, I assumed that even with the soup and salad I was still within a safe enough calorie deficit so that I could focus, and would not shatter under the weight of eating like a normal person, or be prone to such tears that came with the bludgeoning thoughts of loneliness and not being “worthy” or “chosen”.

Shut up—

No laughing.

I never sold my soul.

Why am I being terrorized?

Because you didn't sell your soul.

I'd rather die

Than spend my life with you

Or people like you

I'd rather die tonight

Than write to fight you off

I don't want your love

Never before

Have I wanted

Anymore

Than to be forgotten

To fast forward

To a world

Where

…

{Enter The Multiverse}

[Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I gotta go watch bad girls club, just to find that comedian that looks straight like a Boov.

I was almost entirely sure they had to have based that animated cartoon off of that guy.

I knew what i was looking at, I just couldn't think of the name.

I took one look at that dude and thought.

“Oh dude, you must be a comedian.”

You couldn't be anything else.

…maybe a writer.

__

On that note.

JLo is literally the most beautiful person ive ever seen in my life–

Like, up close.

You would think its just camera magic, and all that.

No. Its the truth.

She really looks like that.

I used to do background work;

You know, like a paid audience

I hated it, but it was work.

I fucking hated it.

Those studios are always cold,

Effin freezing.

They pay you to fake smile,

fake cheer,

Fake laugh–

Applause.

I thought I was going to clap my hands off.

So I took this job not knowing what it was–

Usually it's that way.

They don't tell you what it is, because

some failing, out-of-work actors

are also super fans:

Imagine that.

And they're going to go tell all their friends about it,

And it's a conflict of interest,

yada -yada–

But also, there are people there who PAY to see the show,

Cause they're like die-hard fans;

And you're not supposed to ruin it for them, or whatever–

So the whole thing is just

Altogether a bad job.

But anyway,

I take this job,

And the highlight, I guess, of this particular job,

Is that I get to be front and center

To Jennifer Lopez, who I find out,

Is a judge on this show–

“Highlight” meaning

“Just kill me.”

I'm like all the other out-of-work actors

In this paid audience gig, like,

“JLO” was what I was initially aiming for

With my career;

This is where I am.

So I'm like

‘Oh lord here it goes',

And they bring her out–

Cause you know,

She's like an actual,

Like a great-big star,

They have to ‘bring her out'

and in all my life I could not have guessed

That her face–

Is actually her face.

I'm astonished.

She just looks like that.

Great scott.

Everybody talks about JLo

And the whole damn thing about JLo

Is always her butt,

But i'm not worried about that–

that's chump change,

Because this is Hollywood, California

On some fucking backlot somewhere

And I can't get over the fact

That she might be the only celebrity

To look like herself,

In person.

I became a fan that day.

Not particularly of JLo–

But her parents.

Genetics is real.

How in the fuck do you look like that?

You're like 106!

I'm mad as hell at my parents, and they did *alright*.

But the older I realize, and the less time I have,

I have realized, I give a fuck about selective breeding.

At this point, i'm like,

“shit , i could have been alright without the trauma and homogonized corn syrup packed into everything and shoved down my throat!”

I could have done without that.

That did not sit well with me,

Or in my gut.

But now, i'm thinking about my future kids like,

“yo...I got no business wasting my time with these scraggly ass motherfuckers…”

“...no more broke motherfuckers…”

“No more lazy, sleeping through the alarm ten times, always whining motherfuckers…”

I have to think about the dynamics of the world having become so visual that it will highly impact the livelihood of my children if they don't look right.

Facts.

I might adopt some ugly ass kids.

–but i'm not gonna be responsible for supplying them!

I will not be held liable for manufacturing the motherfuckers!

I'll raise them, and know, having grown up ugly myself, I can teach them to cope with their shortcomings.

I will know from experience how to handle the world with less love and satisfaction than your average barbie or ken doll. Yes.

Don't get me wrong. My parents did *alright*

They were some good looking people.

In real life.

But the fact is, that good looking people, with bad fucking habits–

Often lead to ugliness

That doesn't always mean you got a fucked up face.

No.

A bad environment can fuck up your thought processes,

your vibrational patterns,

your frequency–

Long before you're even well aware of yourself at all

Of what ‘ugly' is.

All that toxic shit–

that

drinking

And partying

And carrying on and

Smoking too much with the windows rolled all the way up

All that

Not paying so much attention when you needed to

or

Relying on your child for emotional support

From the early age of birth

can offset a child's entire world

Enough so that

Perception becomes reality

All that dysfunction

And chaos

And fighting

And screaming

and slamming doors

and running around

Not knowing what the fuck is going on

later becomes ugly

becomes

Eating too much

Becomes

always seeking security and attention

Becomes

vulnarabikity

that in the adult world,

Reads as ‘ugliness'

Tiredness

Obesity,

and of course

Developing the bad habits

You thought were normal facets

Of actual life,

Untl you reaize

one day–

Whether its too late, or not

Were in fact

not normal

These patterns

which shaped

your entire reality

For years in your upbringing

Had become

Ugliness

I realized, I got no business fucking around with other trauma cases,

because most of the time, instead of it leading to understanding and empowerment,

It becomes a powerstrugle within a relationship

two broken people competing for the need to feed and fuel the emptiness

That a life of being in such a way

Has rampaged.

I realize i've put in the work and the effort

To release myself from this ugliness

To find the truth that one day,

My inner beauty, will shine an outer light

Bright enough for some one worthy and capable of loving my scars–

the still-ugliness left over,

unconditionally

Seeking not someone who can fill in the emptiness

But can realize that on my own,

I have become whole enough

To create the beauty I had once lost

And cherish the filling-in

That i had taken on

As my own responsibility to myself.

Oh God, all that on JLo?

She has a nice face.

God!

The rest is alright, I guess.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

That was the fastest a document has ever opened up.

Jesus Christ, wasn't it?

I love God.

I just found a purple carrot,

That was orange on the inside.

I love God.

I saw bright white, hot lighting

Strike right outside my window—

And I love God.

Did you do anything out of line today?

Nothing that I can think of…

I saw a patch of birds that were camouflaged to match the ground perfectly

And I love God.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

An ascended extra terrestrial being with the ability to travel throughout infinite existence within the multidimensional world enters a simulation of their own creation in order to understand the dynamics of its interworkings, and to repair a mysterious series of problems plaguing the world'a inhabitants, in order to prevent the imminent eventual demise of the species and the world in which they live.

Sector 12, Dimension Q10

Just be on the lookout;

You know these primates aren't safe—

With some sort of thinking they're ‘evolved' more somehow.

—or less.

What's at stake here is the planet.

In totality,

I honestly couldn't give one single fuck about it;

whether it lives or dies, or who's on it.

—but you're on it.

I'm on it.

Somebody kill this raggedy motherfucker

Before I do

On good conscience.

Are you not worried that they're going to kill you?

They won't kill me.

They won't touch a hair on my head. You know why?

Cause it's fake?

Exactly.

You ought to be in prison.

Probably,

I'd suspect I'd be getting more ass that way.

Or something up yours.

Up mine—up yours—what really is the difference?

Did you really think you were protected.

Nothing is safe, nothing is sacred, my dear—but you see, what I've purchased here is time.

Time? Where did you get all this time?!

Where did you get all this money?

It wasn't made out of time!

So the old adage stands corrected.

So it does.

So what did your parents do for a living?

I beg your pardon?

To what do I owe the honor of your privelege?

Hard work.

Try again.

Back massages

And thick cut bacon

I just went to sleep

And woke back up again reviled

Revelations on motorcycles

Harpists on steroids

And movies on markers

God ought to have thoughts of

Something, honest and awkward

Other than to govern up a sermon

Of prophets

On Altoids,

Or morons—

No mountains,

So far I

Have leapt from the riverbed

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I'm inside of the machine–

Santa Monica–

As Seen On TV

It's just a game to me

Life's a beach

Skip the tent

This ain't Venice

(I'm on Celebrity Apprentice)

BURBANK.

VENICE.

WESTWOOD

PANTAGES.

HOLLYWOOD.

CENTURY CITy

MARINA DEL REY

Lol i might never finish I _ NY cause i'm too busy fucking hating how fucking noisy and rude it is over here.

At least it's not homeless and tents under bridges over here.

yeah but it's segregated as fuck tho.

At least there's affordable housing!

That's correct.

—And transit.

Also true.

And everyone's not so fucking perfectly pretty that I like, need to slit my wrists over it.

I mean, there are perfectly good reasons to slit my wrists on the East Coast.

Yeah, but it's not dying of “why don't I look like that”

(no, it's definitely not that)

The fruit fly sighed,

“When I die,

I'd like to be a butterfly–

Admired in the wild,

Just for flying by

And I replied,

“Well, so would I”

It was a wonderful sentiment.

I thought about killing him just so that he'd make it more quickly to butterfly

Maybe that's why white supremacy is out here killing niggaz.

“You'll be better in the next life. promise!”

“Maybe”

*blat blat*

“Lets hope”

Probably immediately recycled into a better existence.

Lets hope.

(I didn't kill the fly, I just figured both our lifespans were just about the same length and hoped the best for either of us to be recycled into something beautiful and admirable by others–instead of seen as ‘pests'.)

–it became less of a beautiful sentiment and more of a crises when a few days later, I thought of the fruitfly again as a beautiful butterfly fluttered across my window, and as I admired him, a bird swooped down and ate him.

That shit was raw.

Yep. Nature's a GOAT.

–and you expect me to believe that less than 200 years ago we were still brutally fucking murdering people publically just for fun and that all of a sudden that shit is over? Fuck outta here. These people are natural born fucking killers with the equivalant sadism as a fucking lion that likes to play with its food before he kills it.

BBQ'n

The Spider

alienz.

Kool-Aid.

“The 6th Saint”--whatever the fuck that is.

anonymity . (VI)

Book I: Secrets // Seekers

Book II: Lies // Lights

Book III: Shadows// Values

A car full of caskets

An ear full of oxymorons

–A cat full of questions

Wallets full of oxycodones

Fountains of cocaine

Romance on obstacle of fortune,

Lust,

And emotionless reconciliations

–”Illuminatus.”

This fucking trap won't open.

did you put the password.

Yeah, like six times already–

I'm scared if I try again and fail,

I'll have to restart the level.

Did you try saying it?

What do you mean?

Say the password.

Say it?

Did I stutter?

Like, out loud?

Yeah, out loud.

Why would I do that?

It might work.

It's not–there's no mic.

Try it.

…

…

“Illuminatus.”

[unlocked]

huh .

What's up.

It opened.

Huh.

For Your Consideration

Unfamous

Whatever

LEVELS

(Or Lack Thereof.)

Explorers of The Multiverse

The Wonderful World of

Series Q10 (A Sociological Experiment)

Flux Capacitor

Every time that door slams I swear to GotT I get fucking richer

I swear to GOD every time that door slams I become a fucking icon

I fucking swear every time that door slams money is added to my fucking metaphorical piggy bank

I swear to God

Every time that door slams

Karma crawls up the ass of whoever the fuck slammed it

and waits there

Until it becomes the most painful everliving shit

that door slamming piece of fucking shit

ever has to take

In their life

I fucking swear

This beat is made of cotton

I picked it,

But i didn't want to

(I didn't want to pick it)

Then the master made me

Nobody even paid me

To do: lol [never in my life and all my gods would i ever]

—fuck these f*gg-t motorcycle door slamming ass…

The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I am the nylon light

That sheds Grattitude

With kindness

To your fortress

In honor

There's a certain power that comes in realizing that you don't give a fuck anymore—

Whether you win or lose—

Succeed or fail—

Whether you live or die.

There's a certain kind of magic in the chaos that comes from the world's own utter confusion in not knowing how to react to a fully volitile ticking time bomb.

When you get finished with being fucked with—

And you realize the greatest of all evils—the thing fucking with you—is somehow still also yourself— you give up and give in to the torture that becomes knowing that in a world where there's everything— you were made to be from nothing.

I can't tell.

I think I'm still sweating, but I don't know. Could just be my hair; I pat my head with the towel and feel my hair with the palm of my hand—No, I'm still sweating profusely. Whatever. I'm too fat. I slept the night away and woke up later than usual again—came one half mile short of my usual cardio routine before dashing upstairs for my weekly phone meeting—I made strawberry and oat whole wheat pancakes the day before. I was a size 5-slash-6. I needed to be a size two.

If you could make me feel.

I wouldn't be standing here

Looking for a way to feel

I would be

Walking by

Looking for a reason to live

I wouldn't be standing here

Craving a book to fill the cases I've emptied

Or the crimes that I've drafted

The tears on my pillow

The time that I've wasted

The scars on my lips

Or the release in my heart

I'm counting the reasons to smile

The words to a song still forming

On my crumbled mind

You wanted a story;

On fast approach, I wrote one

Trying not to belong here

whatever.

-whatever EP.

The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.