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

Now all of a sudden, i finally could see in the dark ,

Perfect.

Welcome backk.

I told you I was coming.

Staring down at me,

The obscenity of your lips on anothers,

Does it–

–hurt?

Get it, or you'll lose it.

The science of your music is sick,

Numbers in cadences, worlds and the worlds of melodies

just Be honest.

I lost it.

–Then you really never had it.

Then you really never had it.

Then you really never had it.

Then you really never had it.

Then you really never–

Random

Devious Meth Heads

Eli Scruggs

The last time I saw you;

Remind me;

How to arrive in a room.

Dead center

Tell me why I see everything but you

Tell me why'd

I see through you.

Takesx it back to

The very last place we met

The very last place we met

If we have to

Dzzr DD as as as as dads dad dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd

{Enter The Multiverse}

The sky is falling

Why god would you call on me

For them to follow me—

An offering

Stare—Off in the distance maybe

Someone save me,

But hey, it's strange days

Crazy, it's in the same key, even…

Must be me

I might bite the bullet, at least I'm not driving it

I might like a silver dollar

But I'm still not buying it

[this is why I'm hot]

Kiss me

Give you time to miss me

51 - 51 - 51 - 50

I take six inches

Grateful what I'm given

Drive

Indifference: women _— mistress

End up in the mystery's

Have mercy

lol oh no, what happened .

My god .

Need water:

I'm so thirsty

Sitting up

Crunching numbers since

6:30

Wear wigs to the poster store.

up, down goes the axel

Or axis, as it were—

Well, aren't you special?

Or, weren't you then,

The means to and end were just as well

Doing it for us,

As anything is

Two tonsils, a swift

Hard hatchet,

On back of a bathrobe

Kingdom come,

Come now

Wherefore art thou

Artform?

All that for a man and a yo-yo

On Manhattan-bound L-train

The wrong way,

But everything changes

The strangest arrangement has yet to be staked and

Public is a harder place to be every day

—

Let's make it a banger,

Two thumbs up

And you're famous

This is all I ever do on the subway,

If it's something

Imagine

All the laughs you've ever had were fake

Imagine that

What if no one's ever seen you without your hat on,

Sure, stumble backwards and step on me

Four words for you—

All your choice, though.

An actor can manage a handstand,

After gymnastics.

Your manager asked for a handle,

This is a hand out

Bran, milk;

We ran out of bread;

But I could go back out

Thought you were coming back east,

But you're stuck in the west now.

Getting wet now— getting better than ever

And going to bed at decent hours

With friends, now

Aha,

I got your soul on the watch now

Every eye to look over your God now

Take a deep breath,

Forget it,

Shut your mouth

Thought you're going back east

But your stuck in the south now

Here's a pink flower

Have you ever had a raindrop

Come fall from out of nowhere

And no one standing over you

And nothing's ever done about the

Sorry way you talk about

Or go on about it

I'm out west,

But I parked you north now

Sound the trumpet,

One of seven

Seven dollars

All awards shows on hold

For marketing options

Stop, drop and

Stop drop and

Stop drop—

Take it out of the numbers,

Swallow them up

And swallow them whole, hun

You better be quiet.

I—

You just said that to like, 9 Apps.

#mass surveilenxe

I'm not even worried about that. Look at this.

SUPACREE breaks *through* the fourth wall; permanently.

ACTORS

*crying*

Okay check it out.

What the sketch—

I broke the fourth wall; it's

What do u mean:

I eliminated it. It's gone.

But then, where do i look?

Wherever you would normally look.

Where would i normally look?

It's just a device. You'll get used to it.

I won't.

You will.

—I won't.

They won't.

We won't.

But! Unh!

Try now, but less gay.

How do we know the difference between what's real and what's fake.

you can't.

You can't?

No, you can't.

But how do we know what's part of the show and what's not?

You don't know.

You ‘dont know'?

You don't know:

It's life.

So it just—-

—starts—

So, it just starts, and just—?

You don't know the story, it just happens.

It just happens—what.

Around you.

Like—“around” you?

Wow. So you came here just for this?

Yeah.

I—

Can you try not to look so devastated?

*looking devastated*

No: I—

Stop.

Should we have killed this thing when we found it?

Yeah.

No.

Hm:

Yeah:

It's bigger.

It is bigger.

It's bigger now.

It's way bigger.

Should we have—

Possibly—

Maybe.

Yes.

No:

idunno.

‍♂️

Anywho,

The word was “what”

The time was ‘now',

The said and done within the hour,

With such prowess as to around them

To the most confounded,

Complex of a

Pirouette,

Such a flower yet to be

Unraveled,

Or unspun yet,

Unwound

Found in the bullet wound

Of the undead,

Bloodshed and

Solid devotion led

A revolution so

Destructed

She was said to be combustible

If stumbled upon

Or made to be airborne

in open flame

Welcome to Earth's first Hyper Reality Show.

Are you on it?

You don't know.

Don't change the channel

(Cause you can't)

We'll be right back after

These fan-powered ads.

Fan powered “how”, you ask?

Well,

What.

Okay this is a really bad idea.

Are we still going through with this.

We have to.

W

We

Wee

We can't.

It's too late, we had to.

But we can't.

Too late.

No.

How dare you.

No.

Noh.

For God's sakes

Get this baby out of me now,

If it's Grey's Anatomy,

How about an astounding mound of

Pros and pronouns

To go and pronounce

These profound

Swole glands and nostrils,

Pockets, protections and

Dead on arrival,

The whole sound of beating hearts

Enough to wake up in the morning

From such a stuck stutter

A clusterfuck of rubberduckery

Debauchery or fuckery

Flutter to honor your words,

Your sorry brother in the back shields

Or the back fields, in the reflection of the

Knife at your neck against the alter

Or the blood from under what

The untouched nothing,

Story set against the backdrop,

Of lust long pushed over from rust—

Are you forward, or falling faster?

Falling, none—

Again,

Nothing breakless

Heart necklace,

By product or poached particle—

Barnacle or blockbuster;

Practice forecast of ‘therefore,'

Fair word,

Fast forward to woke darkness

And shook offerings,

Monsters of the tidal and,

Right you are that there was nothing loved

And nothing lost

(A cum soaked art form)

Arms unbound from a cats yarn,

Foraged and written from an epiphany since

Admittedly augmented,

The reality from which you were watching

The awesome aspostle,

As downtrodden some as they once were

Come up sore and swollen

from the arms and alms of a lover

Quick to recover,

The unborn with certainty,

That it was her of the omen upon us

Once unremarkable,

Your honor was

Ok, cool.

[The Festival Project]

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

-X.

The algorithm knows.

Back To The Future

On Autopilot

On Autopilot.

-

Cutting into a kiwi

Barely conscious

Waiting on the devil

to stir up a fight

Once i take my first bite

Since the eve of hanukkah

Or the first night of

I've lost count, now

Isn't it awful

Ought to get right up

“Tell me,

What have you?”

Grain, for the brain and

Broth for the bitter

I feel in my throat, but

It's just getting deeper

Finally, i”m in the right place

The race for the right

(asleep at the left,

Again, with the devil

Again, with my head

Still, there's all the more weakness in the world

Than there's strength

Geometric Echoes

All that, and a can of beans?

Look, I had a lot going on in there.

Can you do four more days in?

Probably–I mean.

Great, I'll see you in there.

Yeah, I guess.

Enjoy your beans.

yeah.

You must shield your eyes from the Dead Mouse.

Look at this.

What in ThE FuCK

Bye-bye.

I'm telling you, this thing is NOT. OF. THIS. EARTH.

What would you call that?

..I wouldn't

hey , look. I need eight years.

EIGHT MORE YEARS?

Yeah.

Well–how old will you be by then.

Dead. Dead years old.

Ftw–

Over my dead body.

MEANWHILE

WAITER:

Would you like some…Pepper.

Mm…no.

What, no pepper .

No, no pepper.

I stopped eating bananas for a year because of Skrillex;

I can certainly stop eatting pepper.

PeEPpPEERrRRr

*

What?

Lets g0.

Ok, I can't hang out with you guys anymore; you're too rich.

There's no such thing

There's no such thing as “too rich”

Tha Davinci Code, Scene at one hour 41 minutes

Blue-eyed savior…

Old blockbuster

Controversy

Matrimony

Same as always

Blue-eyed savior

Old time movie

Another blockbuster,

Controversy

Conservative,

Corrupt,

Same as always

It;s the last thing that you'd want to know

But there you are, steady asking for it

There's no such thing as me anymore

(when there's no such thing as ‘Cree' anymore)

What did you do this for

The last thing you wanted to know

But you still keep asking,

asking

Damn, he's beautiful

How old is he

Whose he married to?
The standard round of questions

The standard mode of transportation

Transpose this, I hope

Or translate it

Wipe the slate clean?

I haven't even eaten enough for today

And it's already raining!

Why are you complaining?

Whyare you complaining?

What are you complaining for

Don't you are bring me a single tear

Are we all not eachother?

Aren't we all eachother?

Are we all eachother?

Drowned in the long monologiue along the opera

Now left all alone, a spiral staircase

Here I am, or here I come

To waking

Here I am, or here I was

To dreaming

[An Hour Long Special]

Isn't it funny

I havent thought of you, since I thought of you

Follow the flower

The ribbons of love

And the flora of what was forgotten

But not

‘I want one of those to play with'

A big boy,

With a big toy

or a

Big toy,

With a nice tool

Or a hot rod

Or a hot tub

You're late.

I'm always late.

WAKE UP.

I'm ALWAYS up.

Password.

Fuck. I Forgot the password.

Password: Flagship.

Fuck.

Yes.

I did it.

How

How did you

HOW DID YOU DO THIS.

Do, what? I just–

Good, I made it!

Oh Good, you made it.

Go ahead and swallow the bullet you wrote for your valentine

Burn the letter you wrote to your God,

Or just as likely mine

Why I feel sick–

I only had to die eleven times

Lets get back to the daily routine

I haven't been myself

I've been everyone else between Queens and Manhattan
This past week

Lets get back to the daily routine

Okay

Poutine and a little ketchup,

That's darkly dreaming

Skelotons in my getup

Lets get back to the daily routine again

Shall we

I've never even had champagne

What a shame

My life's all wrong

It's a fucked up world

and a fucked up song

Lets get back to the part

Where we all get along

(That never happened)

I just had this song in my head;

And he's got a scope on the gun

hidden camera, “you're alredy dead”

A way new take on a way old song

But i was just here

And you were just there

And I was just there
And you were just here

In my head

I'm already dead

I just had to check

End of us

Left to suffer

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

I found Waldo at the Waldorf Astoria,

Glory be,

I hollered

“Gloria” for Mr. Morrison to follow me

“Forward, forward,

Onward, onward!”

Into the night with the impolite gang stalkers

And night watch

On, but just as honestly implausible and awkward

As it is comical

What did you want again

I saw Santa Claus on the local

Holdup

It's too early for menopause

Ahem

I can't follow you to a place with no abortion laws,

You fucking moron—

Or Mormon,

Excuse the aftertaste of

‘Man, I gotta just start telling people I'm a writer.'

I just had to pet the kittens—which at first appeared to be just one tiny cat then revealed to be two, by the stranger, who had all but stopped me in the doorway to talk; it seemed of course a little procured—and I must have been followed quite thiuroughly from Whole Foods, to the Guitar Center, and doubling back to CVS—where the man stood at the entryway, a man who at first glance has looked largely like a security guiard, though my red-tinted glasses—which, while dulling the pain from the stress and tension of my current happenstance, also counteracted at least some of the sensory overload I experienced going out and into Manhattan, especially fasting, which I had blamed for the man's sudden appearance at first—Of course, then, however, I more logically surmised that I was probably followed, and that this man was more than likely another agent of some sort; I wondered to myself why exactly besides my way of dressing and courses of action I might have been so interesting; it seemed no law enforcement agency was looking to actually persecute for the tedious petty criminal acts I had been almost required to commit in order to stay alive—and—as it seemed as of late, I had only in my own mind been doomed to the confines of homelessness forever, no matter how bleak the circumstances—and the circumstances were bleak; nothing quite seemed worth it anymore, especially to try in a field in which I had been so numerously ridiculed and perhaps even mocked to the point of failure—where here at least, having not eaten in days, and having the unusual go-around as to what exactly I should spend my money on, or rather—how I should spend it, seeing as there was never enough to get everything I needed at once —and the emphasis was on that of need; I got almost nothing that I wanted, ever, and the totality of my inclement had been spent on clothes that weren't turned to rags, underwear, shoes that would shield my feet from the wet and cold, and of course musical equipment—which one might have equated to a want had it not seemed there was a bounty over my head for whatever reason to continue making music—and there was, some kind of unspoken contract, seemingly between me and God itself, that music was the only thing I had to do; and that even in my undertaking once again of fitness as to somehow accumulate the money I needed for my body contouring and the massive amount of musical equipment and technology I needed, there was nothing I could do but sit and crunch the numbers over and over as to how I could pull off what seemed like a multi-level process—the process od creation without limitations, and self care, where I met at the crossroads with any devil that may have mattered—and of course, where I met this man, cradling two small kittens which distracted me from the act at hand; I was drained, some kind of sick, and had been oversleeping, realizing that in the same way that I was using the fast as waste management, the coconut water that I was using to rehydrate after long hours in the sauna and intense workouts at the gym were wreaking havoc on my bladder, waking up constantly to use the restroom and extending my needs for sleep into the afternoon, at which point I would scramble anxiously in order to ready myself for the day, which always seemed to take more time than it should, considering I simply didn't want to deal with the process of going out into the world—the trek from the ghetto to the mid Manhattan drive had become monotonous and full of obstacles, most often in the form of disgusting individuals in some way or another, or what even seemed to be a cult of annoying and irritating people wearing dirty white Nikes as a show of how powerful a stronghold my exhusband still seemed to have over me— but it did seem to be some kind of excersise, not one which showcased his power, but the power of another entity, which seemed only to be posing as remnicense of him to redirect the intent of whatever cruel hex or curse which had been placed over me. By now, I knew my ex-husband had dug his own grave, that his karma was well on its way and that the powers-that-be would not let slip the hand of justice for what had been done to me, nonetheless in front of my children—no matter what I had done before, or thereafter, I had never deserved that.

“You're a creator, what do you do?”, said the man

“Music.” I said, without delay.

“I know. I can tell. You produce?” He asked.

“Yeah.” I replied shortly, not entirely distracted from my intention.

“Me too.” He said.

“Oh!” I swept; I was much more interested in petting the kitten than speaking about music at all, but at the very least I had it somewhere, probably written on my forehead, that I was a music producer.

“What do you use?” I asked, or something like that—but now I was fully distracted, as he had revealed a second cat—a black one—to which I was delighted; my life was a little more empty now than even I had expected—I had cut off any connection to the outside world whatsoever and had learned to live without love at all, and yet— the soft and silky baby fur of the kittens calmed me enough so that I wasn't so anxietal, which was probably what I needed anyway—even showing up at guitar center had given me the sweats I wasn't getting, having missed the gym entirely, and it had seemed as though I had always intended to rest on Saturdays, that my new rest days were Friday, as I almost never made it into the gym in Fridays for whatever reason—however, I had given myself a Pat on the back for a 7- plus day gym streak, and had been running myself ragged, and of course, unable to focus—anytime I heard a song at all, I thought about what I needed to create what was considered “placement-worthy music”, or at least, even music that I could palate.

“I'm in FL studio— what about you?”

“Ableton.” I said, almost starting another sentence before he cut me off—alerting me to the reality that he could indeed be another agent.

“I know.” He said,

“How do you know?” I asked, not so curiously as to irritated that he seemed a little too conspicuous, not ever to believe in such a thing as coincidence anyway.

“You've got the glasses.”

“Oh, the glasses. Yeah.”

“You know, he said, I used to have a pair just like that. Where did you get them?”

“Amazon, I said, of all the places. Of course.”

The next few sentences were a wash, but of course, the entire subject matter swirled around the same mottled object— I couldn't seem to wrap my mind around what the point was, but the intent was made clear instantaneously.

“—Skrillex?”

“Uh—who's that?” I was suprised myself at the coolness of my own response— it seemed authentic, even to me.

“Skrillex.”

I shook my head in ‘confusion'

“—Skrillex?”

“I don't know who that is. I thought I knew everybody.”

“I guess I'm an old head,”

“Old head,” I chimed “Benga. Rusko…” I was of course being almost openly facetious, almost irritated that anyone dare cohearse an entire conversation if only to bring up Skrillex, the forbidden fruit, the Illuminati poster child with whom I had forcibly cut ties for my own sake.

“Old school manga, anime—“

Now I was entirely disconnected— I assumed this person had listened to my podcast, or at the very least been briefed—and in that instance I was relieved by another passerby, a kind woman, also profoundly distracted by the fact that the man had not one kitten, but two.

I quickly made my escape, and though the man seemed to follow, as the woman watched, I made it clear to the woman that she had done me a kindness, and she stood in the way of his following me down the aisle. I nodded her a great thanks, and swiftly disappeared.

There is no escape from Skrillex.

“What the fuck do you want, Sonny?”

While my heart is thumping

And my blood is pumping

I should let you know, honey

What's going on

All on autopilot, walking

I haven't eaten; I shouldn't even be here

In your honor, an apartment—

Your birth year in the address

Remarkable,

A whole hall of parked cars,

Cover up the scars with hallmark cards

And framed arrangements of newspapers

And Trader Joe's paper bags

But here you haven't

Another hot head,

Studies psychology, but still doesn't get it

And suffers of course or disassociation

Cough, without a losenge

Come unhinged at heaven's doorstep

Then, walk back to hell

With the others—

The blackest of the nnlack in black world

Where you are

Where you belong

I shouldn't even be here

I haven't even eaten

I didn't plan to fast, however

I reached the last straw

It's all hostile

A power struggle

And for once my stomach isn't hungry

CUse I'm just

That upset

Cut off the bad parts

Cut out the color

Just to move forward

Four more, then move past that

Now you're in our house,

But the ball's in your court

The extra small leggings from my Gymshark haul became less of a a stretch, and I felt myselfnsteunking considerably—not that it mattered. Soon without protein, I would once again grow weak— and as always, constantly being surrounded by draining people became more of an irritant than a stressor—but the stressor was this; the coordinator, as wel just as much with any

one

Whatever, I'm bored.

Why can't I have deadmau5

Cause that's a no.

Come on.

No.

Please

NO.

I get sick just on remnicense

Of his essesnce

Shit, I should get back to that

Back to

MR, EVANS.

Shit, hide dude.

Hide WHERE.

I dunno!

There's nowhere to hide

Then RUN!

I CAN HEAR YOU.

Oh shit dude,

Fuck,

Just open a portal.

NOWAY, MAN.

GET IN HERE

FUCK THAT.

SHHH.

There's nothing straight up worse

Than sensory overload at the Equinox

Turn off your colors, broski

Woah slow down,

I want you love me;

But you won't

That cool

I'm not lonely,

One thumb

Hold on to dear life with the other

Here comes the other one

Getting to close for comfort

It's alright

I got this

There's no place in the world for me;

Guess it's back to the dirt for me!

There ain't no place on earth

I'd rather be

Than not on earth

Where everything

Is nothing

Elsewhere

Everything is everything

Every single

Particle of

Dust

Let's just demolish—

—I need some fingernail polish on

— such a thoughtless—

Never has a day gone by I ain't thought about

—what abott it the others—

—is that all of us?

—don't let me stop ya—

Was I interrupting something

I'm fucking done with this

HOT SAUCE!!!!!!

What.

Oh yeah, this kid again.

Oh wonder.

OH WONDER

!&,$&

He cracks me up. Check this out.

What:

Kid, come here.

Come over here.

Is he ok?

I don't know: look at this.

Cellphone on my hip bone

(That hurts, tho)

Woah,

Am I skinny enough yet, Sonny

Fuck it, somebody will love me

As long as I'm bony

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

"The Practical Phantom "

It's toxic here