| L E G E N D S: ICONS. |

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 SOMD 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.

'perfect.'

Collection II- 'antithesis.'

Track 02. -'perfect.'

Prod. by Blū Tha Gürū

Didn't you just say

I lost my entry

Or should I elate about

Becoming the president of Ohio

On hi hopes

Really, I'm signing my heart out

I don't care who you are

What you are

It's getting hot out

Fly by

The gym Dan wait, all I want is cupcakes

And a cheese grater

I should stay married

My face makes a great punching bag

And I've lost my mind

I should share airtime

With the finer ones

We're not freinds if

All I want is to fuck you

And we're not fucking

If I'm not models

Let's go shopping

I got so sick

Of being stalked and followed

For no money

I just stopped going

But woke up going full throttle

Anyway,

How are you?

I'm still recording

Just to prove my theory

On how

The world

Really does

Revolve around me

Whether I like it or not

I'm still not Fallon,

Or Adam—

But good one, goggles—

for trying a hard ball

It might have hurt to not for awhile,

But I've got no patience

For brainless.

I've got no games

And no players,

Just hatred

Let's think about real quick:

What the fuck do I care

If you win or lose?!

You'd better not!

I'm definitely disposable.

A total useless bombsell,

Mid grade,

Short order

Ugly by your standards,

So excuse me, Ms. Lopez,

I'm coming into hard times

Stupid blue suit wearing—

Where's season 9.

Up yours.

The voices in my head are God's

They haunt and taunt

But do not harm

cachapas

Lalalalala—

“Prolonging The Inevitable”

ENTER THE MUMTIVERSE: LEGENDS

That's two songs lost, they said the same name would destroy me

I don't know,

I'm not the same as I was

The songs are lost

But sometimes they come back

When I come around

And say

Fuck em

Should out Kamala

I don't mind the dark side

They got cookies

I don't mind the light side

They know my colors

I don't write no more songs

I sit silent and alone,

I get mad as fuck

RYAN REYNOLDS

you mean we're not really going to the mall?!

No, Ryan Reynolds's, we're not going to the mall!

You LIED.

It was for a good cause. Get in the car.

YOU LIED TO ME.

Shut up.

AHHHHHHHHHH

STOP CRYING

What if evil don't be evil on purpose

What if all this stuff

Is just bad timing

I might call the cops on my own soul

Imm tired though

It's dark and old

Riding round in circles

In motorcycles

No proof of purchase required

What's wrong at all,

I didn't call in no one's name

No Calvin Klein models in my entourage

— even the ones I want

Especially those in fact

No role models at all

Just college student

Motorcycles, motorcycles

Hurt her more, okay?

We'll pay you for it

The doors slam

And motorcycles

Whether I not

I go to the gym

So why pray about it at all

For it to stop if God's all back logged

I got decisions to make in the am,

Imm late on some deadlines;

I'm only talking to a dead guy,

If you're live, then,

Ride up

Staring at Manhattan

From the redlines

Mostly brown faces

Neon eyes

Brown bags

They say,

I could pay half price for a mansion

—it has somebody handsome in it

I should ask the crackheads

For forgiveness, simple

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Now I'm wondering what the fuck they did to Obama

Some shit he can never talk about bro.

Some shit,

What they do to Kamala?

For real!

White supremacy is on some psychological terrorism shit,

They don't even gotta touch you no more .

They'll kill you with your own fucking mind

Frequencies and shit

The brain is electric.

And the soul is not always attached.

Your whole ass soul can abandon ship on some trauma shit—

Real fuckig talk.

I leave my body a little bit every time I'm in the subway

“No.”

Some shit you don't want to see

Some shit you can't talk about

My soul like “bye”

I'm like “bitch, where you going?”

“See you later”

What the fuck, bitch!?

“Find me.”

My soul gone.

Fuck this world—

Fuck this body right now.

Whatever you're putting it through is WRONG.

Meanwhile,

I'm on the stationary bike for like two hours cause I had fucking cream of wheat last night—

And watched bad girls club the day before.

I'm telling you. I love bad girls club.

I'm trying to calorie deficit myself into affording a peloton.

Then I can sit In my livingroom. Watching bad girls club for visualization

It's like body shopping,

Half the time I can't even understand what these fucking Broads are saying,

cause they're gods.

They're dumb— Fucking gross

Or smart and just know acting hot and dumb gets you more dollars-/

Cause we all know men fucking hate smart women.

And if t you're hot and smart, and they can't fuck you—

They'll try to take you down some other way.

I'm 30 years old.

I just realize all a man does is literally destroy shit,

Literally just destruct?

Fucking destroy.

That's it,

That's all they fucking do.

They want to fucking kill us,

That's their game,

Double points if they can make you fall in love with them.

That's the best way to destroy something wonderful and beautiful

Make you think you're loved

You're beautiful,

You're the center of the world—

And for a time, you are

Then—

DESTRUCT

The real killers will put a baby in you

And try to own you forever

—this little weak ass nigga over here grunting and shit.

Shut the fuck up.

Go hop in somebody's dms.

Go watch anime and “play the game” and shit,

Fuck these dudes.

I like older dudes now.

Like,

Fuck these 90's niggas.

They're obsessed with fucking creepy ass Japanese cartoons,

“Anime is cool”

“Oh, it's the animation”

No,

It's a light skinned cartoon bitch

That's a little bit exotic with some fucking green hair and purple fucking eyes who talks in a fucking high pitched baby voice with a school girl outfit and pigtails and giant fucking boobies

Anime girls are like toddlers with fucking giant boobies,

That's it.

With green hair

And fucking purple eyes and shit

Yep.

“It's the animation”

Dumb ass niggas.

It's a creep habit.

Go take your weak dick to Japan and get the fuck out the gym.

Throwing 20 pound weights and shit,

Fuck out of here,

That's why dudes like skinny bitches

Cause they can't do shit with their dicks.

Dudes like stick thin girls cause they like to destroy things,

They got a 5 inch dick and shit

But a petite little 5 foot 99 pound teenager makes them feel like a real fucking man

I'm a put my tiny dick THROUGH this bitch,

But I promise, that shit don't work.

Even the petite little bitches apparently just fake this shit

This nigga over here doing gymnastics trying to get my attention.

You got it,

But it's not my attention you need.

You wake my dragon up?

Then it's over,

You wake up that dragon?

It's game on.

I'm like

“What's your story”

Hm

“What this nigga about”

Shit,

You feed the dragon?

I'll sit there and watch dumb ass anime and play video games with your stupid ass.

You feed my dragon,

All of a sudden, you're a genius.

That's why I don't take no black dick

Fuck that shit,

Bitches be hypnotized as hell.

That's that shit.

Nope.

I got limits.

My dragon gots limits.

I had c-section

My only ex—

My one ex—

Like 5 inches max,

Make it like 4.5–

4.2 cause he's fat

When you gain too much shit

Your Fupa makes the base of your dick inaccessible

And the base of your dick is the best part!

Says the back of my throat!

HAHA!

The base of your dick is the best part—

If you're obese,

It just—

It's gone.

And when it's cold,

You get a whole innie belly button

True story,

A whole ass inverted dick.

My ex's dick used to actually just run inside him.

—he a pussy.

A whole ass fucking pussy

When I heard that salt and pepper song

“Aww, look, a second belly button”

I'm like

“Right!”

But you know what

It's the opposite with big girls

Big girls pull all kind of dudes

Be having them obsessed

You know why?

You get lost in that pussy!

Damn!

Wet! Like the ocean!

Whild—

Like the JUNGLE.

That's why they been hating on big girls so long

Dudes is low key territorial

They be with their friends like “fuck fat bitches”

They make fun of each other for trying to look at bigger women.

“Oh, you like fat bitches”

“Hahahahaha faggot”

—but the truth is,

That's a mind game

Dudes like those

They're all about that

They'll haze you out of liking—

Even looking at that bitch

“Oh, you like fat bitches?

You like that bitch?”

“You're fucking pussy”

“Fucking little faggot”

“I don't fuck fat bitches”

—but then you know what?

He gon go fuck dat bitch.

Mmmmhmm,

And most dudes are fucking prejudiced against fat bitches so you know what?

Her pussy tight

It's wet like fucking water

She the whole earth and the ocean

He like “I LOVE YOU”

(Imma deny this ever happened, but)

I LOVE YOU,

Dudes are the worst,

You can catch that fool in the act and you know what?

He'll deny some shit you saw him doing until the day he die

He'll lie in court on your ass

He'll be convicted and sentenced and still deny some shit

You saw him do!

Ten people could have seen this pussy ass bitch ass lyin ass nigga do it—

And he's still like

“That never happened”

TEN SECURITY CAMERAS SAW YOUR ASS DO THAT SHIT:

“No, never happened.”

“WE ALL SAW YOU.”

“It wasn't me.”

“Never happened.”

What the fuck!

That's why I hate the me too movement.

Like, don't get me wrong, I stand with women—

But privately,

Don't tell on these niggas.

Be there for each other

Seek support and treatment—privately

Shit,

He might be a special kind of monster

He might even pay for your therapy and shit

“Never happened, wasn't me. But you're clearly very sick and I feel for you— I'm gonna help you out”

Some shit.

He went and did some monsterous, foul shit-/

And he knows this,

He'll never admit it-/

And then, to make himself look like a better person

Or a person at all,

He'll try to have you “repaired”

Knowing damn well he broke you

He did some gnarly shit

To your heart

To your mind—

Maybe even your face!

He fucked up your job,

Your reputation,

Your peace of mind?

Your clarity-/

—and maybe even your face,

“Doctor— this dumb crazy bitch has a bullet wound, she's bleeding all over the place. It's a problem.”

You're all

“He had the gun! He shot me”

He's like

“She's bleeding on my floor and shit, it's a mess.

Has a big old fucking hole in her—

She's fucking up everything.”

“He shot me!”

“That never happened”

I'm barely alive right now,

I promise,

I wake up out of my body

With no way to get back in it

And the only thing behind my mind

Seems to be eyes that arent even mine

I don't want to see another human being maybe ever again

I keep trying to get a job that would be worthwhile but nothing seems to be working

I light candles to protect myself from looking at the clock from certain times

sometimes I feel like the best way to go would just to be beaten to death

Over and over again

Cause every time i look at the clock at 5:55

That's what it feels like anyway

Only instead of dying and crossing over to the other side

I have to stay awake in this life with a broken mind

With nothing and nobody around

Besides people who smell,

think ,

And act like him

Thereby, your honorary stands as it may—

Doctor, you're speaking out of turn and out of order

Sovereign by nature and varying by state—

Doctor, you're speaking out of turn and out of order

Come now the clock strikes one all night

Doctor, you're speaking out of order

Gather by the dew of the morning light—

Doctor, you're speaking out of order

Listen, I'm going to be using you as a human shield for a little while.

What! What for!?

I just said! A human shield!

—well, I'm only part human!

That part will do.

I come around the world

And back again

Multi dimensional

And irrational

Time traveler

Promotion to journeyman m

Ascension never finished | |

Aprrenticship on the condition of

Subliminal

To women, I'm indifferent,

Don't go the picture of either gender

Chicken tinders in the

[Conventional oven]

[the festival project (™) ]

I hatd to throw the note away;

on one side jokes,

On the other

a whole curse reversal

I keep seeing numbers

And iron smelling robots

And I'm almost sure that

The motorcycles

And slamming doors

Are all punishments

For moving forward from him

God went in on that album yesterday.

Facts.

#ffs

I'm real excited about these breakfast tacos tho.

For real.

What makes them breakfast tacos.

What about these tacos is breakfast.

The fact that I'm having them for breakfast.

But it's brunch time.

Whatever, brunch tacos then.

(Potatoes makes anything breakfast.)

I'm not arguing,

Alternatively, however

Potatoes can also make anything dinner.

Wut r those.

Lol DJner jeans.

Well work on it.

My mother used to leave me in casinos and make me look for her for hours.

I would check the bars one at a time over and over to see if she was there.

Sometimes she'd run off and dissappear and I'd just walk around in circles thinking I'd find her,

Until eventually I did.

[A haunting whisper wakes CONAN OBRIEN from his slumber.]

[raspy ghostly whisper]

CO—NAN.

Huh! What the—?!

COOOOO—NAN!

lol.

This is beginning to be the house of horrors.

Actually, the show is called

House of Hosts.

Sure whatever.

wtf is going on in this series?

Idk but apparently Fallon lost the microphone challenge.

Idk what that means.

Nobody really does.

‍♀️

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

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.

“Impossible!”, I murmured, after a deep gasp, as I removed from my braziers in preparation to soak after a short but intense workout, not the stone I had with intention placed in my bra, but another.

“Magic indeed!” , I thought to myself.

I had in some fell swoop of blessings been by any luck or wishes sake, gifted a heap of new books, and new furniture—the latter of which I really hadn't needed, however, with a newly refreshed idea of reimagining my studio and living space entirely, I had shifted into preparation for a lost bed anyhow, and thought that with any foreshadowing, I perhaps might have one by winter, with the space below the bed provided to be tented and shielded off from the rest of the world, so that I could record vocals in a more secluded and intimate setting. I had originally intended to use the closet or my apartment as a booth, but upon arrival found that the closet had been fitted with an unremovable shelving at around chest level, which couldn't be in any way practical for recording without some heavy discomfort, not to mention the closet faced a wall I was sure my neighbors telivison and speaker system was fitted against.

After my right headphone died, and the unwelcome company in the gym which granted, had been there before me had left me feeling for some reason like I had lost something—anyhow somewhat paranoid, as I had caught not just one, but two people what looked like taking pictures of me with no doubt in my mind, or reasonable cause that I was indeed being groomed for something steadily but surely— I felt the need not only to vacate the gym rapidly, but feeling as though I had a reason to return to the work I had been toiling away at since the early morning.

Entering the lobby, and having to open the door for a pair of men headed outward appearing to move, one of which smelled like onions and raw, baked sour pickles— I spotted a mound of nearly new books and furniture in the area in which people often left free to take items no longer needed— alongside two tables—one hardwood coffee table and a smaller round one which matched, and a water kettle, all in good condition, and favoring the factor that I only ever picked up new or nearly used items anymore, as my apartment was technically full, I quickly gave a second-second thought to rearranging my apartment entirely, growing almost painfully bored of its current layout, and awestruck with the tinges of cabin fever, the stagnancy of being unable to move about the city freely— being as financially limited as I was and having been stopped by police several times already for not having the subway fare, even so just in nessecary errands—to the grocery store, or otherwise; and I had been in all corners deadlocked for an entire summer, almost unable to move at all and the world moving around me resulting in being outfitted almost entirely physically ill. The honking horns, motorcycles, and trash-wielding pedestrians of the busy corner—the unparalleled aversions to whatever unrest and chaos that lived out of view and luckily out of sight—but never out of mind, with its intrusive exhibition of technological sonic torture.

Still, I was not altogether displeased—now having returned from the gym almost all the way worked out, having left early having realized that though fasting yesterday, I had spent the entirety of this day sipping on coffee and in complete hyperfocus, just finishing the final proof of the first edition of the printed version of Enter The Multiverse, and though with limited supplies, I felt that it would carry on in this way until somehow, I found a way to complete the process of taking The Festival Project as a label and now, The Collective Complex as a philanthropic non profit, onto higher grounds.

Though I saw more the new furniture and books as a stroke of luck and some magic than necessary financial compensation for the time and energy I had drawn up into creative contributions and endeavors to society—I saw it as this— a looking up and forward from something that had once been only some strange form of compulsion and raw emotional expression, into a platform that could grow to help others overcome and survive hardships such as I had.

(™

©

Illusions of whisper

Simple mirrors

(Doppelgangers)

Chains of charity

Cat and mouse

Misery

What a waste when you've spent your time making

Unparalleled judgements

Unparalleled judgements

No lack of gratitude,

Confusion of movement

(Gratitude)

Suffering, of course

Wanting still,

But unwanted

Moreso

Misery

Careful as it's closing in,

They'll call your bluff now

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

“Impossible!”, I murmured, after a deep gasp, as I removed from my braziers in preparation to soak after a short but intense workout, not the stone I had with intention placed in my bra, but another.

“Magic indeed!” , I thought to myself.

I had in some fell swoop of blessings been by any luck or wishes sake, gifted a heap of new books, and new furniture—the latter of which I really hadn't needed, however, with a newly refreshed idea of reimagining my studio and living space entirely, I had shifted into preparation for a lost bed anyhow, and thought that with any foreshadowing, I perhaps might have one by winter, with the space below the bed provided to be tented and shielded off from the rest of the world, so that I could record vocals in a more secluded and intimate setting. I had originally intended to use the closet or my apartment as a booth, but upon arrival found that the closet had been fitted with an unremovable shelving at around chest level, which couldn't be in any way practical for recording without some heavy discomfort, not to mention the closet faced a wall I was sure my neighbors telivison and speaker system was fitted against.

After my right headphone died, and the unwelcome company in the gym which granted, had been there before me had left me feeling for some reason like I had lost something—anyhow somewhat paranoid, as I had caught not just one, but two people what looked like taking pictures of me with no doubt in my mind, or reasonable cause that I was indeed being groomed for something steadily but surely— I felt the need not only to vacate the gym rapidly, but feeling as though I had a reason to return to the work I had been toiling away at since the early morning.

Entering the lobby, and having to open the door for a pair of men headed outward appearing to move, one of which smelled like onions and raw, baked sour pickles— I spotted a mound of nearly new books and furniture in the area in which people often left free to take items no longer needed— alongside two tables—one hardwood coffee table and a smaller round one which matched, and a water kettle, all in good condition, and favoring the factor that I only ever picked up new or nearly used items anymore, as my apartment was technically full, I quickly gave a second-second thought to rearranging my apartment entirely, growing almost painfully bored of its current layout, and awestruck with the tinges of cabin fever, the stagnancy of being unable to move about the city freely— being as financially limited as I was and having been stopped by police several times already for not having the subway fare, even so just in nessecary errands—to the grocery store, or otherwise; and I had been in all corners deadlocked for an entire summer, almost unable to move at all and the world moving around me resulting in being outfitted almost entirely physically ill. The honking horns, motorcycles, and trash-wielding pedestrians of the busy corner—the unparalleled aversions to whatever unrest and chaos that lived out of view and luckily out of sight—but never out of mind, with its intrusive exhibition of technological sonic torture.

Still, I was not altogether displeased—now having returned from the gym almost all the way worked out, having left early having realized that though fasting yesterday, I had spent the entirety of this day sipping on coffee and in complete hyperfocus, just finishing the final proof of the first edition of the printed version of Enter The Multiverse, and though with limited supplies, I felt that it would carry on in this way until somehow, I found a way to complete the process of taking The Festival Project as a label and now, The Collective Complex as a philanthropic non profit, onto higher grounds.

Though I saw more the new furniture and books as a stroke of luck and some magic than necessary financial compensation for the time and energy I had drawn up into creative contributions and endeavors to society—I saw it as this— a looking up and forward from something that had once been only some strange form of compulsion and raw emotional expression, into a platform that could grow to help others overcome and survive hardships such as I had.

(™

©

Illusions of whisper

Simple mirrors

(Doppelgangers)

Chains of charity

Cat and mouse

Misery

What a waste when you've spent your time making

Unparalleled judgements

Unparalleled judgements

No lack of gratitude,

Confusion of movement

(Gratitude)

Suffering, of course

Wanting still,

But unwanted

Moreso

Misery

Careful as it's closing in,

They'll call your bluff now

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

“Impossible!”, I murmured, after a deep gasp, as I removed from my braziers in preparation to soak after a short but intense workout, not the stone I had with intention placed in my bra, but another.

“Magic indeed!” , I thought to myself.

I had in some fell swoop of blessings been by any luck or wishes sake, gifted a heap of new books, and new furniture—the latter of which I really hadn't needed, however, with a newly refreshed idea of reimagining my studio and living space entirely, I had shifted into preparation for a lost bed anyhow, and thought that with any foreshadowing, I perhaps might have one by winter, with the space below the bed provided to be tented and shielded off from the rest of the world, so that I could record vocals in a more secluded and intimate setting. I had originally intended to use the closet or my apartment as a booth, but upon arrival found that the closet had been fitted with an unremovable shelving at around chest level, which couldn't be in any way practical for recording without some heavy discomfort, not to mention the closet faced a wall I was sure my neighbors telivison and speaker system was fitted against.

After my right headphone died, and the unwelcome company in the gym which granted, had been there before me had left me feeling for some reason like I had lost something—anyhow somewhat paranoid, as I had caught not just one, but two people what looked like taking pictures of me with no doubt in my mind, or reasonable cause that I was indeed being groomed for something steadily but surely— I felt the need not only to vacate the gym rapidly, but feeling as though I had a reason to return to the work I had been toiling away at since the early morning.

Entering the lobby, and having to open the door for a pair of men headed outward appearing to move, one of which smelled like onions and raw, baked sour pickles— I spotted a mound of nearly new books and furniture in the area in which people often left free to take items no longer needed— alongside two tables—one hardwood coffee table and a smaller round one which matched, and a water kettle, all in good condition, and favoring the factor that I only ever picked up new or nearly used items anymore, as my apartment was technically full, I quickly gave a second-second thought to rearranging my apartment entirely, growing almost painfully bored of its current layout, and awestruck with the tinges of cabin fever, the stagnancy of being unable to move about the city freely— being as financially limited as I was and having been stopped by police several times already for not having the subway fare, even so just in nessecary errands—to the grocery store, or otherwise; and I had been in all corners deadlocked for an entire summer, almost unable to move at all and the world moving around me resulting in being outfitted almost entirely physically ill. The honking horns, motorcycles, and trash-wielding pedestrians of the busy corner—the unparalleled aversions to whatever unrest and chaos that lived out of view and luckily out of sight—but never out of mind, with its intrusive exhibition of technological sonic torture.

Still, I was not altogether displeased—now having returned from the gym almost all the way worked out, having left early having realized that though fasting yesterday, I had spent the entirety of this day sipping on coffee and in complete hyperfocus, just finishing the final proof of the first edition of the printed version of Enter The Multiverse, and though with limited supplies, I felt that it would carry on in this way until somehow, I found a way to complete the process of taking The Festival Project as a label and now, The Collective Complex as a philanthropic non profit, onto higher grounds.

Though I saw more the new furniture and books as a stroke of luck and some magic than necessary financial compensation for the time and energy I had drawn up into creative contributions and endeavors to society—I saw it as this— a looking up and forward from something that had once been only some strange form of compulsion and raw emotional expression, into a platform that could grow to help others overcome and survive hardships such as I had.

(™

©

Illusions of whisper

Simple mirrors

(Doppelgangers)

Chains of charity

Cat and mouse

Misery

What a waste when you've spent your time making

Unparalleled judgements

Unparalleled judgements

No lack of gratitude,

Confusion of movement

(Gratitude)

Suffering, of course

Wanting still,

But unwanted

Moreso

Misery

Careful as it's closing in,

They'll call your bluff now

{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 car 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