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

Give me a minute. I gotta call my inviolate sister.

You have an involate sister?

Something like that.

Ok?

Hold on.

Hello.

Ring ring.

You! What do you want?!

The better question is: what don't I already have!?

I don't know! You idiot!

Yes. “Me” “idiot”

lol what is that dude getting at anyway?

I really don't know .

{Enter The Multiverse}

Hey.

…hey.

Do you have Syphilis?

What! No! Why?

Do you have syphilis?

I might.

So why would you ask me?

I just know we sleep with a lot of the same girls and everything.

Since when?

I told you before, I don't mind having leftovers.

Gross stop! You've been taking all my sloppy seconds?

Leftovers. It just—sounds classier.

Well not if you have syphilis!

Lil bitz

I just found out you can say “Deepthroat” on TV

Also, I just learned the word “tube steak”

I was looking vegan cupcakes on Amazon

Cause I'm fantastic

And what comes up in the search next to my cupcakes

Blows my mind

I found these lollipops…

For cats.

And I thought

“People are crazy”

It's just something I would never do.

I was like

“Why would I get him a lollipop?”

“I don't even like him.”

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.

This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.

The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

RANGER

​​Refinance the house

Refinance the boat

Refinance the—

Doing the most

Refinance the cat

Refinance the dog

Finance the—?

Fuck it.

Refinance the Ranger

(I'm doing the most)

How dare you?

Bitch I said that shit just to scare you

Bitch you a demon!

I ate the peas out the can

And I hope that you see this

What in the fuck do you mean

I see and hear things

I sea and here that,

I failed the test now

But passed the bar

Wow

You're funny

Refinance the payment to fuck me

Over

You don't even know her

So the glove don't fit?

You still killed that bitch, OJ!

Okay

That a big ball player

I'm a big black finger up your ass;

What's cracking?

Doing the work of the crackers

I screenshot and capture

Refinance the black list

You act on behalf of the

TRAP

Refinance the TAP

Refinance the cap and gown

Cause I'm already drowning

Refinance the black and brown

Cause you know that I'm proud

But I'm sitting her pouting

(Wut)

Refinance the land

Refinance the Indian reservation where my dad at

Refinance the car

Refinance the boat

Ok,

Fuckit

Refinance the Ranger

Refinance the house

Refinance the boat

Refinance the—

Doing the most

Refinance the cat

Refinance the dog

Finance the—?

Fuck it.

Refinance the Ranger

(I'm doing the most)

Refinance the Ranger

Refinance the house

Refinance the boat

Refinance the—

Doing the most

Refinance the cat

Refinance the dog

Finance the—?

Fuck it.

Refinance the Ranger

Fresh from the land of a thousand suns

And I stil don't know which stone to land on

No random environment;

I underwent the whole attorney

And still met with resistance

I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was

A supplement to my existence

In fact, it is,

An edifice or m addition to my nutrition deficit

And I says,

For whatever's lost but goes on,

Fight for rich or poorer while the poorer suffer longer

No longer argue my agreements,

Distance to whatever's after

There I rest upon the sober throne,

And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as as stones,

For may as well without the water

And also sure to rot,

Or waste as rats,

Computer paper,

There again

Recycling bins of compost

Just for show, but not for shredded paper

No, no longer or wonder my nonsense,

In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here—

And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered

Torment your emotions,

Also just to want but not to have

As those that matter.

So I've called in all the white clothes

Now we represent with denim.

And I'm stuck inside your television

Stuck inside your television

Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred,

Separating yourselfs as the basis for this

Depreciation?

Wonder, again I wonder

And still no sad trombones,

Only stories, and somber surfers

And solemn whores and silent wars with words

And sundries

From the land of one thousand suns

And a thousand sons you've lost

A thousand wars,

A thousand girls who want you

Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it

Rare. But slightly often scored,

Parched,

And barely long forgotten,

Tipping,

And waiting only

This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup.

Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something,

I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water.

You know it?

I also do that for the dozen,

No trend follows, or feathered gathered,

Hollow winds and tunnels

Tunnels sent and shadows

I hadn't been pin pricked

I never been picked out

Blow the candles for which wish?

I've be ever been bound to love

Or celebrated by another besides my mother

But here's so sensory deprivation,

Overstimulation

lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend

But she won't shut the fuck up

He's just standing there like

“Clearly I'm getting sex out of this”

And she won't stop talking.

I love that.

I'm like “bitch, shut up.”

He's like

“Help me.”

I'm like

Not my problem, broskies,

You better look interested instead of over here.

Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me.

Anyway, another son was born without my honor.

Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor

Before I realized it was gold,

And I was slaughtered

No use crying over spilled galaxies,

Still you're trapped in I,

And I'm found to want more than I decided

If I'm divided and clustered up

And yet I'm divine then,

I should gather all I've had

Combine it into one

—and yet

Another columbine has come

As if they're all occurrences,

Just set to Apple Watches

And broadcast t'all the provences.

In a cinch I've just realized

I've the trench coat to match your jacket

But no longer the converse all stars

And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle

Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating,

Crash the grate at all the hours,

Never really gravitating for anything important,

Only alt-right

Can't afford that

All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally.

Who am I?

That's right? I can't belay in body!

Oh,

I can't to grip the shadows

Boxing with the cat for your night

V.O

We were friends with the humans—

Most of our job is finding out what happened with them.

Future people

Vintage potluck

All out time

And all our hard work

All our bad luck

All our warns

Fell on her shores

as lodes for her

Oh,

How his legs fall so calmly one over the other

Or,

How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings

Our melodies will walk in chords for all time

For now if ta zzz A as te r

( I love when i get off the train and that happens)

What a brilliant blue,

Yea, in fact, its cerulean

Yes, in fact, if you can

Facts to rule them all, so

If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry

Here's your love;

None

For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone

From the top

Don't ever forget you're on watch

I've got a whole heart full of freedom

Just don't look up from your phone e

They brought you jo now pull you don't a bit

You're a clown, it seems

But no activists

They heil Hitler in central Bedford

No articles of new clothing l, huh?

They love to watch all your digging

They call it hyper vigilance because racism in New York can be so violent

That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers

Which justifies hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world

They see themselves as the controllers

Still slave master but in such a context

That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.

This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.

The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Fresh from the land of a thousand suns

And I stil don't know which stone to land on

No random environment;

I underwent the whole attorney

And still met with resistance

I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was

A supplement to my existence

In fact, it is,

An edifice or m addition to my nutrition deficit

And I says,

For whatever's lost but goes on,

Fight for rich or poorer while the poorer suffer longer

No longer argue my agreements,

Distance to whatever's after

There I rest upon the sober throne,

And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as as stones,

For may as well without the water

And also sure to rot,

Or waste as rats,

Computer paper,

There again

Recycling bins of compost

Just for show, but not for shredded paper

No, no longer or wonder my nonsense,

In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here—

And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered

Torment your emotions,

Also just to want but not to have

As those that matter.

So I've called in all the white clothes

Now we represent with denim.

And I'm stuck inside your television

Stuck inside your television

Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred,

Separating yourselfs as the basis for this

Depreciation?

Wonder, again I wonder

And still no sad trombones,

Only stories, and somber surfers

And solemn whores and silent wars with words

And sundries

From the land of one thousand suns

And a thousand sons you've lost

A thousand wars,

A thousand girls who want you

Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it

Rare. But slightly often scored,

Parched,

And barely long forgotten,

Tipping,

And waiting only

This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup.

Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something,

I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water.

You know it?

I also do that for the dozen,

No trend follows, or feathered gathered,

Hollow winds and tunnels

Tunnels sent and shadows

I hadn't been pin pricked

I never been picked out

Blow the candles for which wish?

I've be ever been bound to love

Or celebrated by another besides my mother

But here's so sensory deprivation,

Overstimulation

lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend

But she won't shut the fuck up

He's just standing there like

“Clearly I'm getting sex out of this”

And she won't stop talking.

I love that.

I'm like “bitch, shut up.”

He's like

“Help me.”

I'm like

Not my problem, broskies,

You better look interested instead of over here.

Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me.

Anyway, another son was born without my honor.

Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor

Before I realized it was gold,

And I was slaughtered

No use crying over spilled galaxies,

Still you're trapped in I,

And I'm found to want more than I decided

If I'm divided and clustered up

And yet I'm divine then,

I should gather all I've had

Combine it into one

—and yet

Another columbine has come

As if they're all occurrences,

Just set to Apple Watches

And broadcast t'all the provences.

In a cinch I've just realized

I've the trench coat to match your jacket

But no longer the converse all stars

And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle

Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating,

Crash the grate at all the hours,

Never really gravitating for anything important,

Only alt-right

Can't afford that

All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally.

Who am I?

That's right? I can't belay in body!

Oh,

I can't to grip the shadows

Boxing with the cat for your night

V.O

We were friends with the humans—

Most of our job is finding out what happened with them.

Future people

Vintage potluck

All out time

And all our hard work

All our bad luck

All our warns

Fell on her shores

as lodes for her

Oh,

How his legs fall so calmly one over the other

Or,

How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings

Our melodies will walk in chords for all time

For now if ta zzz A as te r

( I love when i get off the train and that happens)

What a brilliant blue,

Yea, in fact, its cerulean

Yes, in fact, if you can

Facts to rule them all, so

If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry

Here's your love;

None

For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone

From the top

Don't ever forget you're on watch

I've got a whole heart full of freedom

Just don't look up from your phone e

They brought you jo now pull you don't a bit

You're a clown, it seems

But no activists

They heil Hitler in central Bedford

No articles of new clothing l, huh?

They love to watch all your digging

They call it hyper vigilance because racism in New York can be so violent

That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers

Which justifies hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world

They see themselves as the controllers

Still slave master but in such a context

That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.

This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.

The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Don't you see, sensei

I'm just as disappointed in myself

And ready to die

Just as I relay the message,

Spray me with your morbid essence

Don't, croak, you fool,

You've only a spoon ful of sugar left to go

The dose is coming up your throat,

— you didn't know to throw up

Grab the rope and go up

Before gravity has crushed your

—thought:

Stupid boy, you don't want to die—

Nor to do, but oh, do we have it coming

Silly mortal, overlords and governed,

Short of morals, steady coming at your doorstep

So goes our concert!

And so goes our concept for divorce,

And sure of course,

Your four corse meal, and/or dessert

This is just devastating, genetics made me

The sort at sorting words, but surfing,

Sure.

Ever temporarily the cadence changes,

Still they say “you've been betrayed”

But never had a friend I made made

As good as death and God have been to me

For everything you're meant to be,

Plus everything you're meant to me,

I go, unwanted, troubled and disgusted at my own immortal outcome.

Sure.

My back hurts and I'm wounded,

Heartbroke,

Thrust in every cardinal direction

Also, honored at the mark of magic wand

Upon her shoulder;

And so,

Just as soon as the sun and moon,

Does the fire escape set a perfect path

For outward destruction of the bricks and mortar

Or your alter

(This we talk about, to some effect

Is your repression and affective form of supernatural perfection)

But forget the makeup;

I can make you up to be a star

And not of wars and other worlds,

But those that come before us,

Carson, and the others

Paar before that.

But,

I think not dear sir

How wrong you are,

A wretched bird,

Set not to fly, but O father

Wit and relay messages,

The passage said, and set to clocks,

The past was won and so the future altered,

But dear feathered father,

Mortal you are not

But just another triumph

Of my god;

And set the mirror to the magnets

Camera, lights and action,

Magic—

All the signs of the dawn, and the mad don

Red Dawn came upon us, called the Red Man Tom, from other, over, under

Still was my mistake to mumble such

Or put upon the tongue

As such assumption

Still— wonder?

Bird, shut up;

Love I dusk

And lust I soak

In all the frittered dust and feathers,

Colors, coming up as mister

Chuck and wood, and wait and ponder

Slithered this to wonder, not a rock,

But potted fern,

Asunder

Thunderstorm

And wicked rain

And fair the back

A tide had come

And sitting there upon the shore,

Was us, and 12 apostles

She's a Brick—

Seemingly out of nowhere, A RED BRICK HOUSE falls very perfectly from the SKY and into OZ.

oh good, my house is here.

House.

[the festival project ™]

But I don't want to make house!

Then play it!

I don't want to play house it is BORING.

You play it— they want it.

But I don't want it.

Then forget it!

What!

Listen kid, a job's a job!

{Enter The Multiverse}

Wrong, this is wrong— everything is wrong.

What's wrong, Rob?

I'll be back.

ROB LOWE has just played TRUTH OR DARE

L E G E N D S

if I could get inside your head

For just a second

Bread and butter

Heaven, hell,

And other places I have wandered

But oh, wonder

This is never what I wanted,

Was it?

No sir.

Sure, I set you off,

No sooner had you got a gun and shot me.

Handsome fucker.

I'll bet.

Wrong act.

Wrong award show.

Wrong hat and a baseball bat,

Peanut butter and a nice cold cheesecake,

Don't forget to order cheesesteak

For your cat.

A carnivore at odds with the other worlds,

And also fused to us;

This drifting back and forth

Between the Rock

And Hollywood

Has got to stop.

((The world is toxic.))

the legend of…

L. JONES

It's you!

BLŪ

AH, crap.

L. JONES

Listen, I got something for you.

BLŪ

Where did your bird go?

L.JONES

What bird?

CUT TO:

Now open that.

No wait! It's a trap!

THE VAULT inside THE CRYPT at 30 ROCK has been opened.

I keep looking down at my phone

As if I'm expecting a phone call

Or incoming message from God

But the worlds to a song

Are all jumbled up in my

Concious

I don't want to talk about it

I feel

Nauseous

Everyone is being obnoxious

Even my own blood

I don't want to function

I just want some French toast crunch

For lunch

Nostalgia

I got a whole inch taller on the peloton

Holla

Now I got a body,

Broader,

So close to Broadway

But I never go there

That's a tall order

Of “gotta have money”

I mean live theatre

It's fine

I'll eat here

And repeat these things till they just rhyme

Line them all up like a context,

Story

Someday I'm gonna cut my own check

Watch me

lol none of this rhymes without a hard Brooklyn accent ;

Guess you can't hack it!

Send you ass packin!

I said

“That's whack son!”

Then I went back blonde

Now they want

Backend,

Contract,

Off the top,

Royalties

Residuals

I'm an individual with insidious syntax

And yet

I'm ridiculed

Truly I'm a tit-for-tat

Or particle of all you are

Circular centrifuge, I trickle down your tentacles

(Eugh)

Choke the chicken just to give the cat a chicken bowl,

Chick fil et and pret a tair just to get a ritual

Espresso and a quick snack

So I can get my dick wrapped

In chocolate and licorice because the shit is edible

Damn that

I guess they set a damn trap

By putting out the welcome mat,

Then strapping

Like a mothafuckin' straight jacket

Matter fact, I look a nap in it,

Then magic tricked the slip effective

Compliments of Michael Jackson

Or was it tech nine?

Maybe I should get my

Mind right

I lost it once

I guess I've better find it

If I am, in fact,

A diamond in the rough

It's probably blooded it up enough

That you should dig it up and shine it;

Better yet,

Somebody outta pick it up

And sign it,

Cause I write enough

To put a vision

To a blind man

It's Fran Fine, man

I'm behind, man

The shadowgov had put me on a diet

My bad

I noticed that they tried to shut me up

But couldn't stop the words or other stuff

That just keeps coming out of my head

I put coconuts as butter onto my bread

And thinking thoughts of Carl cox

As I drift off in my bed,

I said,

“It shouldn't be a problem, officer”

As I reached for the gun

And he aimed it at my death.

That's an impossible apocalyptic suicide—

Did you invite the devil in?

I said

“Nah, but that guy did.”

The problem is, I pointed over yonder to a ghost

Who also knows that I'm a well respected psychic;

Nevermind a sidekick, side bitch in a sidecar,

Psych ward,

Sike! We spike war on your kind!

So far,

If I make history tonight,

The other side decides their psalm is just as likely

The third reike.

Okay, strike one:

I'm gonna turn your lights off.

Strike two : you do and say what I do:

Strike three: we're gonna make you suicidal

I specialize in denying rights for high profits

But big brother, or boss—

What if my glove fits?

The instance it does,

We lock you up with no service,

Your world becomes dark

And your words become worthless

Oh shit. This is not a good rap song.

Like, at all.

I must say, I do agree,

You lose your trust, but silently

Denied is all your trouble,

Till it just begins to bubble up

Until the cookie crumbles—

See that feeling in your stomach?

This is bigger than the money, girl —

They want your soul, and then the world!

I told you never call him.

I didn't!

Then explain this:

[Skrillex]

*sharp inward sigh*

CUT IMMIDIATLEH TO

STAN

You know what! That's it! I don't care how handsome or rich and famous he is! This has to stop!

KYLE

Hey, wait just a minute—

STAN

SHUT UP KYLE.

KYLE

You shut up!

STAN

You're starting to sound just like him!

KYLE

Take that back!

STAN

I won't take it back! You all might have forgotten who you are, but I haven't!after of fact, I bet to Cartman, you're still that stupid little Jew kid!

KYLE

That's IT.

KYLE takes out his phone.

what are you doing?

…I'm tweeting about this.

I thought it was X now…

It is, but you can't ‘x' anything, it's still calledl tweeting.

I guess youre right.

—and I'm tagging Cartman !

STAN

Are you serious?

Oh shit, this is social suicide.

…did I ever explain this storyline?

…I don't know, did i?

I'd gotten so focused on this impending doom looming over me with this whole lawsuit that I'd forgotten entire worlds and whole documents. Even more terrifying, was the sudden quiet and the onset guilt that came over me for getting distracted. But I couldn't remove myself from it entirely—- it seemed to have ruined everything. It wasn't just motorcycle noises, it was like a nervousness and angst twisting in my stomach for months and months, until finally, as the court dates started approaching, it was peaceful, or rather, normal, all of a sudden. It couldn't be peaceful because now that the extreme noise was gone, I knew it had been planted all long— but what was the purpose? I'd lost two years not knowing, and though there were albums, they were never what I wanted. Now I was sorting through the documents of the show like it was the rubble of a decimated building— completely demolished, and I hadn't the slightest clue the contexts or the storylines anymore. It was pain and suffering, but not in the legal context. It was a creative disaster— I hadn't any idea in the slightest where I'd left my audience before I was forced to abandon them. But I was forced to choose, at times, between soap and toilet paper, or eventually, food, and water— or a phone. Eventually, this too became a pattern of the impossible— trying my hardest to do what I thought had been my purpose, but for far, being so endlessly sabotaged, even ridiculed and humiliated, and still, I couldn't understand why. I was tired— and somehow, even though I'd wanted to be left alone, I was the target. Worse was that I assumed it to be bigger than I thought and completely out of control— I thought immediately back to how my best friend from middle school had been attacked, and how she was made to think that it was me…to the point that she'd become obsessive about it to call my mom over it. And as far as the court was concerned, to the wrong ears or wrong eyes, anything I'd published in the festival project could look troublesome, like the ramblings of a mad mad, or schizo, or uncontrolled obsessive thoughts— because the biggest secrets of all, the things that tied together these fictional worlds and plots, were my own real life experience. The inability in a court of law to detail the podcast, which had started as meltdown some would call grandiose over an almost long forgotten rockstar and a porn model — and the entries into the festival project that followed, which included high concepts, off-kilter comedy, politics, and even fringed on social justice. Nothing I ever would have wanted and especially over money, but the lawsuit wasn't about money at all. In fact, at any moment I would have chosen to die and have it all stop if it weren't for my very young son being left alone. Though recently the dread had overcome with a sense of unbearable loss and agony, encrypted with suicidal thoughts and wants, reeling for human touch, the overbearing factor seemed to be that if I killed myself, I was giving someone what they wanted. I was really much too tired to go on, but leaving behind the world in entirety, in my very own way of beliefs wasn't just “shitutting it off”, it was starting it over. Understandably and undeniably immortal in its nature, the instances of God I had left spoke with a reminiscence of being born again, and having to remember which is it I'd wanted to start off. It was an unachievable overload of chaos and disruption, a level of corruption that spoke to something so dark and sinister it seemed biblical — then, again, I tried to wrap my mind around a way to rebuild a positive world from hope and thought, or manifest reality, but this is the very experience I'd felt was intended all along. The motorcycles weren't merely meant to destroy my career, or my will power, or force— they were, but also they were made to play upon my most valuable asset, the power of thought, to make it impossible to become something other than what was wanted; to use my own mind against itself and destroy my way of thought by using vibrations that could not be shut out, or stopped— they followed me to the sound collective, to Shakespeare in the park, the bank, the doctors office— it was as if they knew and understood my very thoughts, my process. It was of nothing at all to corrupt every single body and brain who would surround me or come close— by using the power that seemed supernatural enough, but indeed were powered by money, and technology. Perhaps, in this essence, I thought, was the purest display of defective intention itself; the mere thought that this indeed was rather Good Vs. Evil or God and The Devil would easily be written off as a diseased way of thought. The social world and constructs had been built around being open minded to a system of psychology that was intrinsically rather corrupt. I knew this could only be fought with what I knew, and what I could draw from as logic.

I didn't want to go to court because I knew the people I would be fighting were liars, and well trained psychological masters of manipulation, well hidden terrorists dressed as public servants and systematic corrupters all for simple profit margins, to whom I was not so much a person or a mother, or a daughter, but a number.

Because I was poor, and had once or four times chosen to love the wrong person in an unorthodox and uncontrollable form of torture, dismissing each and every social construct or physiology that was by the book, by embracing that there was a reason for change I quickly became quite the antagonist of sorts and hopefully not some sort of martyr —for the kind of people that had money and property, and perhaps even socially constructed circles to camoflage their own self doubt and hatred, but absolutely also had no morals.

–Death of a Superstar DJ

If I lose my mind

At least I know

I'm right on time

This time—

I meant that,

I had it bad this time

MCBADBAT

I had it bad this time,

And the last.

Perchance for you,

Hour or folded,

Hair my weight

And glassed upon thy,

This upon now,

Feathered waking,

And there barely weathered

Shaking.

Dear, dear,

Tis is fair truth,

To fare that I have gasp

And fated at thy doorstep;

And yet, care to force,

Her breaking waves and saving tinder,

Fit there slithered in as yet astonished,

Then another;

And I hated.

So, then, slower now.

All there, gathered none.

And show to show thy force

What then became and withered after,

None to bark or beg

But birds and feathered creatures, pander

The tides did Quake,

And the heart did grow ten fold and steady saying

None upon us but one left to shiver in the depths

That yet remain as undiscovered

For now never there was another world,

Undone,

And also another becomes,

My death—

And therefore all the worlds I kept,

To travel on and travel

As becomes one, does another onward

As the first is glass to dust,

And last is born there.

So,

Then,

I,

Crept,

In my dress,

Kept for clothes that church did water

I, met,

My mark and there the doors of shadows open

Wilted and wake?

Hear you;

A star was born

In other cosmos tied with our own nurture

So,

Kept,

The weight of clasp and bone

That holds the crept and precious alter

Goddamn cat!

Where are you.

AAtticus Caaticus

Oop. Gotta go.

Toonces! Tooooonces! Where are you?

Omg remember that one where that couple has a magic toddler and they just let him like,float away.

Yeah, barely.

Yeah.

So I do.

CUT TO:

TOONCES focuses intently on the task at hand; he's sure he can manage to drive the human vehicle to his own home— to where he's assured he will find the actual body in which he belongs.

Now… let's see, if I can just

Wait, I who?

ATTICUS CATTICUS,

An ancient alien sorcerer must relay a series of important messages.

Unfortunately.

YO WHAT THE FUCK.

None of them seem to be getting through.

CUT BACK TO:

TOONCEEESSSS. here kitty kitty kitty!!

{Enter the Multiverse}

I would dedicate, but honestly I've not time to waste

And I'm craving wedding cake

I hate to destroy you

But for now, you know

I can't employ you;

This implies my eyes are also murder

And I'm sure of her departure

From another world,

Perhaps across the border.

Also, quite the dark sorcerer himself LORNE MICHAELS has well hidden himself under the guise of having become one of the most successful television producer of all times—

And even in his own very small world,

Nobody quite seems to know why.

JIMMY FALLON

Lorne, I have to tell you something.

LORNE MICHAELS

This had better be good, Jimmy, I've just made popcorn.

[the festival project ™]

Don't worry, for now,

The risk remains hidden,

As sure as an asset is an advantage,

I can't have the classes counting

Heads of cabbage as accomplishes,

The masses are honestly astonished

And impossible, but what was wrong with

Boredom in the first place?

Nonsense

More words

And still no dollars

Hunger strike,

And burning harder,

California deficit, lack of bread,

Heaven sent interventions and scissors,

Mistresses, disasters and divorces

But who says the whole story has to suffer?

You're a surfer under water,

Remember that when you finally catch your breath above the surface

Can you clear her?

He who?

Back to work!

Or back to the future!

My super brain is dead but I think I'm next

I think heaven swallows whole the blooded laugher

From the constructs I've come from.

Remember that.

Remember not to fall from too far up,

God would give you wings

With time to spare

Before you ever wondered where

Your mark was

On the plaza

Don't let me up to the very top.

I will at the very least

Best scenario jump off

And rid the world myself,

Just for a dozen donuts over

Crossing hearts and Hollywood

And Griffith park

To also soft my foot

Upon red carpets.

You ever shave your armpits!?

…no.

Hm.

Catholic.

Of course.

Get in.

Destination.

—Rotterdam.

You idiot.

I made it.

Whatever, get in the boat.

DI NERO

Give her your shirt.

What.

Your shirt.

Why my shirt.

Just—

Fine. Here.

[he hands over his shirt— in an instant, the woman becomes an exact REPLICA.]

…my shirt.

Relax. Nothing's gonna happen to it.

Okay?

—in fact, you're still wearing it.

Alright!

She's right, Jimmy, relax.

I can't, that's—

It's simple.

There is nothing simple about this whatsoever.

You're right. It's not, so get over it.

[The Festival Project ™]

BILL MURRAY

There's a compartment at the end of the left corridor—

Alright.

In that hatch, there's a chamber.

Okay, what'll I do?

You'll open it?

How?

I'll tell you how, just get there.

Suddenly, a barrier falls; it appears as though there are booby traps set here.

Uh— that might be a problem.

There might be a few of them. What just happened?

Booby traps.

—ah, I know what you're talking. Those aren't booby traps— they're Bobby Traps.

What in the Hell are you talking about?

For whatever reason

Jimmy Kimmel Is important

Now I'm scared of him,

I know he knows the devil

Come to think of it,

Might even be an advocate

Have an avocado

But don't know the half of it

These are, as it stands

Comes what may

Special circumstances

I could circumvent an intervention,

Never second chances

I've been setting rat traps,

Trapeze artists,

Bampheramph camp,

And also trampolines over the plaza

That seems dangerous.

Yeah.

AHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Damn.

Know it's plausible,

That I also am an alcoholic,

Though dysfunctional,

Professional,

And underrepresented

So I stand myself,

Let's just say pro-se if you will

I could add Prozac to my snacks

But I'll be delayed, if you still

Don't get my messages

I'm sick of having heart attacks;

A hard advantage

I was looking back on “fully packaged”

A six pack of abs

And nothing left to eat but cabbage,

Haven't had a mouth,

But I've been counting on my ass

To get me back up north,

I'm coming from the South

Out West, there's a word for that

At best, you're a four and a half

My body double stunts and stumbles

Struts at nothing

Struck before the one,

And so between high noon and

Somewhere around 30 in

I'm never turning 30,

30 Rock is in the wind—

So count that up,

That's what my income is.

That's what they said?

“Too late, you've been betrayed”

If that's how it is,

Then I request “beheaded”

You know your mother says

That ugly face just becomes permanent

If you keep making it,

And so I did,

The second that it ended

I'm

Trying so hard

Just to be

What they want

That it hurts

Just to stop

And relax

For a moment

INT. THE LAIR. NIGHT

What is this? Where am I?

You're— Alive.

Why?

…I changed my mind.

You're not ugly

You're just not mine

I changed my mind

I changed my life around.

I skip line after line,

But the message ain't right,

I have time a chance

No challenge accepted

No exceptions or

Expectations

Expand this racism vocabulary

Set the rat traps back

To February

Stamp the weather's getting

Better with the postage clearing

Abstr–

My cat is so cute

I can't stand him;

But he's pretty bad,

That my only friend;

Animal.

I blacklisted deadmau5,

And my whole set sucked.

Presently, however I'm a peasant

Plucking pheasant feathers

Guess I–

pppftt.

Like it never even happened

But I'm sure we're all to war,

Like a fear I never grasp it,

What's l before, uncertain of your l words—

My dear, were tattered and the masters heavy handed,

Oh, my dear, we're marching on a battered

Wit, to all your fan mail

I tel you, I was I tortured,

Let me show you

And also,

No one forced my hand at magic,

Questioned prestidigitation,

Or went back to every second,

Land you think you owned as time

In fact, my crucial very hard earned gossip column

Asks the reader to reform his or her thought

Before a judgement can be made

How fascinating.

The bag says ‘poems' so I wrote one,

But I'm sure since my marker's toggled on

I'm being stalked,

It's like a magnet,

Punch the clock

And here they pour into the coffin

So I won't be pouring coffee for the puffin;

Maybe someday I'll look back at this as all I ever wanted,

But for now it's just a horror show,

Where I belong the murder—

Yet a thriller,

Best,

The audience is captivated,

Yes

This is evasive,

Cause I can't been captured yet

By either masses or

Mass murderers.

At last, a cadence comes clean of its

Breaking waves and rhythms,

Tides and ties,

Becomes another—

Then, I'm whisked away

Not back to slumber, but of subtle thoughts

Of Californian water

Lapping up across our surfboards;

I often wear them tides,

The undertow

As pull of greater waves

I sit aside as all that passes

[The Festival Project ™]

When I see Calvin Klein,

I think of you;

Not what you used to be

But turned in to

So it's mutual—

Pay attention, fool

As does moss grow on a rock

And this to you—

It is unfortunate, my dear

You miss with every twist,

Adjustment of attention span,

The glances I foreshadowed

(Here you are, inside your past)

It's just affective of the effect,

You've been levitating,

Yes, I find it devastating

Every second kept is just a fortune

But you pause before you post—

You reap before you even think

Of what you sow,

You don't belong,

Agast,

(True)

Set the tone,

Classless,

But I'm Art, you are a

Daunting folk song,

Mistletoe and marker.

CAMERA ASSISTANT

Marker.

…what is this for again?

CAMERA ASSISTANT

(Annoyed, mumbling)

Shut up.

Ten minutes passes and still, I'm awake

But the tragedy of the mistake has just set in,

I'm sure I've been tortured,

I'm paid in mistakes, but I'd rather be shattered with Mortimer's curse.

To the tune of

Ten by ten by ten

I will never be lover, nor friend in the end.

{Enter The Multiverse]

DRAKE concentrates heavily on a very long , seemingly very angry message— a frowning face plastered as he writes that is so noteworthy, it catches the attention of many a passerby— still this focus unwatered, as he bashes heavily away at the text message with the thumbs of fury for over 30 minutes while sitting at a booth in a well-loved pancake restaurant.

As a tall stack of pancakes is served before him, and he, still unbreaking this angry texting streak or eye contact with his phone sits before them, history is made in what internet culture has now deemed as “the most meme worthy face in history”

The world wonders what he could possibly be writing— and more importantly—-who he could be texting.

Tears come to his eyes but do not fall as he raises his thumb with reserve, to finally press

[RETURN.]

CUT TO:

SUNNI BLU receives a text amidst a wild party. Almost without so much as a reaction, SUNNI BLU pings the message to a projector and cuts off the lights, and music.

A VERY LONG, ANGRY TEXT is projected on the wall.

I slept from 10-2

There was nothing else to do

My name is Devin DeLouise

And I am not supposed to know these things

Seven are dead and three are left

I know what's next

I'm also often known as

And referred to as coyote ugly;

Suffering a tantra wall,

Yo, you son of a bitch!

You dirty, dirty son of a bitch.

I must admit, I had a lot to do with this…

I had no part in it!

Relax… soon enough, the both of your realize— this is how the unimaginable gets written.

[he loads the polished sterling silver pistol and glamours over it]

You have our memory.

—all memory.

And as soon as it ends, before it can begin again. The slate is wiped clean.

Good riddance.

“A Different Kind of Monologue”

Is this what you wanted?

Ooh— you should try me!

I wish you would try me!

Try me!

I wish you would.

Be calm, Grand Master.

This will all be over momentarily.

What's going on.

Deprivation chamber.

Crypt?

—Encrypted?

A lockup.

Ah.

Thought so.

That ought to show us what he's really made up.

We can all hope.

[he pounds on the glass, the one way mirror acts as a camera which the maj aresses, rabid and wi the anger of a dangerous animal, both we, n audience, and the small group of men gathered a the other side of the room.

This could be the basis of a lot of lawsuits.

So now I have your tears and agony

A wilted throne and wand

Which which would grant a wish of comedy,

And therefore ever after,

Not pain and guilt, but laughter

So heavy is the hat that acts as crown,

And so foolish is the King to think ‘imself as not one,

Creaks the crow and also of the feathered guilt that follows, I

Kept and bashful, wishing not the show as throne but sorrow,

Kept to wick and wake and bones to shatter from tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Do you fear us?

…do you wish to be feared?

What of us?

I seek to cause the wish that stands as though you may as granted.

So shallow, fair child.

And brother and my son also.

Gross!

Stop.

You are weird!

Dude, you are fucked.

In the withdraw, my shadows and darkness

Are there always, never resting

Stories and gathered images,

Visions of betrayal and archaic wants.

In time,

I've abandoned them all and betraying that which I've lost,

For I know, and not ponder on

That I shall never know love,

As all standing tal over me

Have eyes;

And all I want

Knows not what hides under my ugly.

Alright.

I followed your spiral, downward, and down wind and down wood,

Into a place where I also aspired to show your mark

Upon my rotted corpse or coarse crossifix;

Sure worded and down trodden.

Now, worse, I'm also sworn

To mourn all my own losses,

Kind folk.

Kind hearted and now my eyes also sudden to wander—

And there goes my miles and triumphs

And morals and war songs,

And sure, swallowed the barrel of a gun

But also departed with honor,

I tell I.

Glimpses of wither and winter and whittling pain,

And I slither my back to the center of

All I am, in this, and shadows,

Fairtails,

And grains of rice and sand to twist away

Into the rain as I lay dying.

What a fortunate!

Don't make my mark up and out, few for short times,

Aye, conspire to warthog,

Remember so force your spirit onto ours,

And shake, sandbox!

There aiming at you were the snakes of six liars,

And the stakes of empires lost and won over,

Also one solemn subtle Star of David

Worn upon the neck of six monks,

Ragtime

Six popes, pass I;

Six fathers and streaks solemn and

Care tan teared salamander,

Having weight and wake to cheer

For our slaughter.

Then, you,

Having gained and also lost should reap to sow,

What you'd have wanted;

Though the tongue so convexed having way to guild your complex,

Shaking as I hunger fruit that not but hangs

Before l wanted

I know,

I could knot be consoled

I know,

I could not be consoled

I know

I could not be consolidated either

Bought, or purchased

I know I'm not consoled at all,

I know

I'm not confirmed at all

I know, I know

I'm not confronted, nor immortal

— but your glorified affliction.

Poor infinity.

Of poverty, perhaps, but never poor at all.

For your were warned of all the doors as opened at your calling.

Not to walk though,

But to ponder at them, wondering.

he's gone

Maybe I should go

Too

Heavy weight hanging on my

Shoulders

I'm just star struck

I don't know

You

I don't really like saying

What I go through

Talk an hour,

Fake it

All day show

Monologue Improvisation

Now i'm on a roll,

But my thoughts got darker

I like adderall and a real smooth talker

I like a husband-father ,

Doctor, Actor,

Tall and handsome,

Doesn't matter

I'm alone, so i feel hopeless

Aggie's gone,

So i might as well go though

Oh–

She's gone

((I think i'm past my time))

I think i should go to

She's gone

(so long)

Right on, man

I might as well go to

It's been a long time,

Gotta turn my light off,

Overtime,

That's a long ball game

Season's over;

On my back in the middle of the ball court

She's gone,

So i might as well go too.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.

This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.

The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror"

"Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms."

The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus.

The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual.

Artist's Note:

This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture.

The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual.

As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day.

"The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants.

The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus.

The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons.

This is a living document.

In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture.

This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.

Track 03. Immortalist

Chasing Dragons - EP

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

Chasing Dragons EP is the wall-to-wall fragments of a broken mind, escaping narrowly through the void of darkness amidst destruction and chaos—a leaking neon mind seeping through the cracks of a desolate lack-of-being intuitively by the force of light. In a volatile palette of colors and swelter of subtle and shrill pinpoints that pierce through the veil of high ceilings, the drastic breathlessness of a place that is nowhere bows deeply below its own depths in the lows in the unknown sorrows of a seemingly bottomless spiral of a spirited death, and not long after calling in itself an awakening to that which is ‘other'.

Chasing Dragons, though short in its articulate concept, is a mind on the brink of an eruption amidst betrayal and unending subconscious tragedy abruptly applied by unknown forces—at its core, a realization of the Godot factor in effect; an unjust seeking but never to find, and becoming of what is unfamiliar in form and taste.

Chasing Dragons is the cat-and-mouse of large-scale calamity that is both knowing and needing—without satisfaction nor escape from the constructs which bound all material forces to life itself.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

Track 02. Dishes In The Sink.

Chasing Dragons - EP

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

Chasing Dragons EP is the wall-to-wall fragments of a broken mind, escaping narrowly through the void of darkness amidst destruction and chaos—a leaking neon mind seeping through the cracks of a desolate lack-of-being intuitively by the force of light. In a volatile palette of colors and swelter of subtle and shrill pinpoints that pierce through the veil of high ceilings, the drastic breathlessness of a place that is nowhere bows deeply below its own depths in the lows in the unknown sorrows of a seemingly bottomless spiral of a spirited death, and not long after calling in itself an awakening to that which is ‘other'.

Chasing Dragons, though short in its articulate concept, is a mind on the brink of an eruption amidst betrayal and unending subconscious tragedy abruptly applied by unknown forces—at its core, a realization of the Godot factor in effect; an unjust seeking but never to find, and becoming of what is unfamiliar in form and taste.

Chasing Dragons is the cat-and-mouse of large-scale calamity that is both knowing and needing—without satisfaction nor escape from the constructs which bound all material forces to life itself.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

Track 02. Dishes In The Sink.

Chasing Dragons - EP

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

Chasing Dragons EP is the wall-to-wall fragments of a broken mind, escaping narrowly through the void of darkness amidst destruction and chaos—a leaking neon mind seeping through the cracks of a desolate lack-of-being intuitively by the force of light. In a volatile palette of colors and swelter of subtle and shrill pinpoints that pierce through the veil of high ceilings, the drastic breathlessness of a place that is nowhere bows deeply below its own depths in the lows in the unknown sorrows of a seemingly bottomless spiral of a spirited death, and not long after calling in itself an awakening to that which is ‘other'.

Chasing Dragons, though short in its articulate concept, is a mind on the brink of an eruption amidst betrayal and unending subconscious tragedy abruptly applied by unknown forces—at its core, a realization of the Godot factor in effect; an unjust seeking but never to find, and becoming of what is unfamiliar in form and taste.

Chasing Dragons is the cat-and-mouse of large-scale calamity that is both knowing and needing—without satisfaction nor escape from the constructs which bound all material forces to life itself.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

Allow me to reintroduce myself,

My name is

Doesn't

Matter.

I have a

Dozen

Donuts

And you don't want to

Talk

About it

But

Talk

About

you

must

Who let out Cheshire?!

Cheshire let out himself! It's Cheshire!

Well, that's no comfort, we've lost the cat!

Lost the cat, says hatter, and so then, at most—-

You've lost the brunt whole of all the things you need to go home, dear Alice!

Since when am I Alice?

Whence before were you not?

{Enter The Multiverse}

These are not my songs.

No?

This is not my songbook.

No?

No!

Something is wrong,

You're corrupt,

You don't belong here

So abruptly stopped from having our design

A convex,

Nothing doesn't come at once,

And sudden making nonsense,

To talk and walk as if you've won,

But you've been feeling lost since.

Nothing ever works,

Does it,

When you don't want nothing

But love

And love is coming up from

Bubbles in the tar pits

Tar pits—

That's what I thought of

godless,

So you miss your mark

You want to strike the plaza with a rock,

But looking one way,

You haven't just a run long,

You're surfing on your starving—

Long and homeless Molly;

Never was, and sugarcone and waffles?

Hah, for sure to suffer.

Stronger, furthermore I walked back,

Paperplanes are airborne at the office—

I'm all effect but brown and tender,

Or suspenders

Since impendium, I'm christening your Christians

Listen, module one,

I'm subtle after sunset

I'm dealing her monster,

Oh Mortimer,

I lost your asphalt on the curb

You're conscious? Unlawful.

I'm consciousness, but deconstructed

Unobstruct the conduct code—

You wanted hosts,

You bought them up.

The bottle polish staring at your floor,

As if it doesn't conjure up another lover

As it does before

Cause you don't even want that.

Hahaha.

Chasing Dragons EP is the wall-to-wall fragments of a broken mind, escaping narrowly through the void of darkness amidst destruction and chaos—a leaking neon mind seeping through the cracks of a desolate lack-of-being intuitively by the force of light. In a volatile palette of colors and swelter of subtle and shrill pinpoints that pierce through the veil of high ceilings, the drastic breathlessness of a place that is nowhere bows deeply below its own depths in the lows in the unknown sorrows of a seemingly bottomless spiral of a spirited death, and not long after calling in itself an awakening to that which is ‘other'.

Chasing Dragons, though short in its articulate concept, is a mind on the brink of an eruption amidst betrayal and unending subconscious tragedy abruptly applied by unknown forces—at its core, a realization of the Godot factor in effect; an unjust seeking but never to find, and becoming of what is unfamiliar in form and taste.

Chasing Dragons is the cat-and-mouse of large-scale calamity that is both knowing and needing—without satisfaction nor escape from the constructs which bound all material forces to life itself.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

EXT. CONCERT. DAY

SUNNI BLU converses with CHARLES over a musical break STAGE LEFT of the MAINSTAGE.

SUNNI BLU

Thems the two prettiest girls right there.

CHARLES

yeah . ok.

SUNNI BLU

Grab em up.

CHARLES

What?

SUNNI BLU

Snatch em up.

CHARLES

Do you mean.

SUNNI BLU

Micheal Jackson style munich on that bitch.

CHARLES

What—?

SUNNI BLU

Them bitchez.

CHARLES

Are you saying—?

SUNNI BLU

They wont mind.

CHARLES

Uhhhh…

SUNNI BLU

I promise. watch . BOUNCER

SUNNI's bodyguard BOUNCER crosses to center stage. SUNNI whispers into BOUNCER'S ear and he nods once and smirks; he then walks out into the crowd and picks up the two girls SUNNI aforementioned, tossing each of them over his shoulders, planting them on stage next to SUNNI; they scream and cry hysterically.

SUNNI nods and smiles in self admiration and throws BOUNCER and CHARLES a thumbs up; CHARLES shakes his head slowly in disapproval, the GIRLS scream and cry hysterically; SUNNI grins and carries on about the show.

CUT IMMEDIATELY TO:

SUNNI BLU

YO! I got mad lawsuits.

MORGAN

Plural?

SUNNI BLU

Like multiple!

MORGAN

well what were you expecting, sunni?

Its 202#--?

SUNNI BLU

But michael is timeless!

MORGAN

And youre not michael jackson!

SUNNI BLU

You're right! I sold more records already than him!

MORGAN

ugh!

PUBLICIST

*does*

{Enter The Multiverse}

Hi, i'm Russell Brand.

No, get out.

I'm sorry,I— ?

Get out, get out!

Are we trading kings for whistle!

Sacred things and torturers?

Lill bitz

I started talking to this guy from tinder

Then I quickly realized he only texted me at like 3 in the morning, like “come over”

So I started texting him really weird shit—

Like really weird.

Like, I would make sure before I sent it, I would re-read it and be like

“Ya, that's weird.”

“That's really weird.”

Every time, just read it to myself and be like

“Ya that's giving “you're psycho”

Right off the bat.

Kate Winslet is so good at late night.

She talks mad slow and answers every open ended question with a paragraph of thoughtless nonsense— finally, at the end of the paragraph, she answers the question in yes or no fashion; in this sense, you've completely forgotten the question through redirection. This has taken nearly five minutes.

Genius.

Amidst a story, she begins to slowly decrechendo until she's murmuring in a near whisper so you really have to try to pay attention to what she's saying, which is almost nothing. So considerably nothing, that you lose thought in trying to grasp and accept the words— this is excellent banter, because of course, she isn't really saying anything. This has taken another five minutes.

Captivating.

INT. DENTISTS OFFICE. DAY.

Who is Claude Von Wastvermaan?

KIMMEL

Doctor Claude Von Wastverman.

Okay. Who is that?

KIMMEL

It's me. I'm Claude Von Wastverman.

Dr.—

KIMMEL

Yeah. It's me.

KIMMEL

Why are you— what?

KIMMEL

This is my office.

…why?

Because— I use specific research and target demographics to seek out people who have no interest in whatsoever watching my show and do not recognize me in any way actively seeking a dental practitioner—

Why?

KIMMEL

Because! My audience loves me. They want to see me— they have to like me!

So?

KIMMEL

These people don't know who I am. They don't want to see me—and there's a good chance, they won't like me at all.

…this is how you spend your free time?

KIMMEL

—and some of my vacation days!

Jesus.

KIMMEL

Yeah. I'm not alright!

How much does this office space cost?

KIMMEL

You wouldn't like it. And—I take very limited insurance.

Did you…study dentistry, at all, at any point?

KIMMEL

Not at all—

Oh, Jesus.

KIMMEL

But Claude might have for a short time— online.

These degrees look legitimate.

KIMMEL

He was a really good guy.

Wait. What.

[a rubber glove snaps]

KIMMEL

If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment coming in at 2:30.

…you're kidding me.

KIMMEL

I'm not—and she's always early. Get out.

Gladly.

He opens the door and leads him out of the office, looking startled startled and shaking his head.

KIMMEL

Good afternoon, Mrs. Evanston.

Perhaps I was just looking for something and my brain saw what it wanted to— but it kept coming around in ways that were stranger and stranger, and I couldn't explain the thought of it, like I was connected to something.

Jimmy Slithered.

But it's okay,

Cause I hate to see him prosper.

Wait a minute?

Did it enter for a second in your head to what had happened?

Very obviously is it just exactly as you'd imagined.

Wait a moment;

Give a little gift for winter's entrance—

Suddenly you're hating Christmas,

Just infected with this sort of hatred

That's been creeping up on them for centuries.

Very well, then Skrillex.

Very well, played ventriloquist act at the Rock

And how hardened are you, the heart of all non immortal and broken?

Are you succumbed to never wonder either?

Cratered.

Disrespect and spills of want,

Spools and spills and towers of yarn,

You're getting broker every warrant.

You're the dark and hadn't opened,

Oh to be so charmed and wanted.

Jimmy Slitheted,

But I caught him creeping in the forest,

Well, done, Harper—

Now you've got yourself a story

Jimmy Slithered, but that's good—

I had him at the fortress,

And all our audience would want

Is fourth wall being broken.

So here fals the house of cards!

The house of cards

The house of cards.

And here folds the broken hand—

The broken hand.

The broken hand.

And here calls the shattered wand,

The crypted want,

The shadowed trumpet horn, there!

And there upon the hill,

There did I grasp and fall to follow,

Though the crown had not the king,

The ground was sure to've caught him!

And so I clasped with all my might and grip,

The humble role of which that is

This,

Unrolled and uttered:

Feast of kings,

Be you what may of Prince and time and also my own brotherhood and making,

There is, shadowed in my own dear marker,

Yet another coming death upon us!

How now, my ritual, of that and thy and they and I,

And so I sang as this does not a number—

My posture does find comfort here and tie my breath to grass from under,

Striped and torn my cloth, as does in this my fortune gathers;

There my fate and here to all, as wind becomes her mother,

And though I call to all, but one I am,

And then another.

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.

This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.

The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror"

"Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms."

The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus.

The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual.

Artist's Note:

This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture.

The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual.

As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day.

"The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants.

The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus.

The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons.

This is a living document.

In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture.

This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.

I am hypnotized;

I am pain

I am cryptonite

I am in pain

I am penalized;

I am pinned l

I am pinstripes on wide ties;

I am Him.

Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes

And disinterest

Centered sentiments

And immigrants

And ministrations,

Images and insolence

(And indulgences, patronages)

Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons,

And temptation

Missing wages

Push to shove and

What are you doing, motherfucker?!

To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional.

Unexplainable joy

And invisible ties

and invincible triads

Unimatatable charm,

And prehensile times

And forefathers before us

Unpolished

Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes

And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches

Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction

And coming construction

Wages

Ions

I afford you

To die now

Like I want

He's better at the body code

Than old Colbert,

He's one for one now

Could this corrupt you—

I didn't destroy her,

I offered a suffix

No longer for your number

No longer for your hard times

No longer for your warrants

No longer

No longer

No four times

Don't pan to the audience

I'm a hole slow meltdown

Don't man your own

So wait, am I also telepathic?

Yeah, that.

Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing?

Yeah, that part…

Oh no, I'm so sorry.

No you're not.

You're right.

I told you not to go looking into my thoughts.

Check it all out,

I bought prototypes

Check it all out, I undug libraries

Check it out,

You're all alone at Walmart

No longer working part time,

The doors are closed and locked now,

They're bound to stage a lock out

You're better off on hard times

You're better off on

Lala Land

No—

Don't deport

I want my art back

No, don't deport;

It's just a cake walk to apartheid,

Remember mine now?

Cheers to the world's longest monologues.

Kudos to your picking up cabbage

Remember the back for the wartimes

The bagpipes have sounded;

You're back to astonish us.

No! I must have you a lesson;

I'm back with my old will and testament

No more Old Testament wanted

I bought your sticks in Leviticus

And so,

Again–

CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER

HOW SICK IS THIS?

NO! NOT THAT!

I raised the dead from a half pipe

I shoot the crowd out in foreign

I can't remember my own Sam

But I found one–

For a dollar,

For a wrong word

And a hard song

And a larger

Go look,

Now remember a rock star.

Now that you're so stolen,

Go back! You're unorthodox!

Clear cut: you're a tragic

Magic act–

Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out

Learn your lessons.

CUT BACK TO.

INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER

YO, WHO DOES THIS?!

What a party!

I WANT TO GO HOME NOW!

—I'M CALLING THE COPS!

THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!!!

{Enter The Multiverse}

…And it's all house music all night.

No, to that.

Beg your pardon?

I won't come.

[The Festival Project ™ ]

Now articulate your face muscles.

My wat.

Now you're bar banned.

I had this at a festival once.

What is it?

A “whore salad”

…

All with a side of oxygen.

Now you're in a tunnel.

(A tunnel, a scone and a croissant)

Now you're worse, warthog, immortal

(Call your dad back,

You're a bad son.)

Now I'm out in the canyon

With Chester McBadBat

I got chest hair,

And a straight out of the badlands

Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan,

But why ask that?

So you heard everything I thought?

Mmhmm.

Hard times.

—and everyone else?

What is it like to have love man?

I been locked out

I'm a rock addict,

But I'm damned now

How's that fountain coming along?

SUNNI BLU

…it's just water.

ARCHITECHT

…yeah it's water. It's a fountain.

SUNNI BLU

—I WANT CHOCOLATE.

Whose here?

Not that guy!

Four more beers?

I just realized I never ever bought mine;

I always had a tough guy.

Box.

What?

Fight!

I'm Eurovision

And a hard remix—

Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this.

Oh yea,

This

Golden band of art, love and protection

Perfection.

Ohshea, shit!

Who invited you?

I got a 311 from Questlove!!

Is that a beeper?!

CUBE

Since when are we on a first name basis?

It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE”

Why's that?

You. know?

[the beeper goes off three more times]

CUBE

oh shit!

What?!

CUBE

Nothin! Where the yard at?!

sometimes it doesn't really matter

Who the dialogue comes out of

The whole point

Is to put the art back into art projects

Cause we all know it's been constructed

And commercialized

To the point of destruction

And almost no promise

For independent artists at all.

So who is it with CUBE?

Could be me.

Could be you.

Could be U—

If it's not,

It was all just a long lost passion project

A collective God Complex.

Give myself a hug

Cause nobody else will

God gave my case a Grace

Cause somebody lost Will.

Oh, Karen.

Come, heart attack.

Come karma,

Come hot dogs

Come Christmas time at the Plaza

Come on, hard death.

Come on.

Hard Rock Hotel?

Nah, Equinox.

Alright.

Hudson.

Yards.

Now you're in a tunnel

Does your heart hurt?

(You should clutch it.)

Put your patchwork in a hard drive

This is hard times,

You can't come back.

O!

But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it!

I go run along to Corrections,

And ginger snaps for crosswords

On hard workers

So fax the whole document!

Do you know what?

Horcruxes!

Hot lunches, yuck.

Hockey!

I want off this planet so bad

I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks

And oncoming trains but–

Don't look either way before I walk.

So pull a shotgun at all that

I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause

All I want is my bundle back.

Yuck!

Care for it at all?

Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity.

Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter.

On time?

I just got it at Sephora.

On time,

Like I never even got that.

I want to be loved just to be looked at

But since in this life I can't turn the clock back

I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as.

— I discovered it's hell that my body was born as.

Such a problem when you know

That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes.

Now I forget where I trailed off…

What a drawback.

I'm all out of patience.

Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells

No home for her

Hard times

And hard times.

No code offered,

No I don't fall for that'd

But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back?

Hard times.

Hard times.

Hard times.

As the bell tolls

And the well swells whole

And the umpire does rack them

Up;

Nobody works harder than

Hard times

Hard times

Hard times.

Yeah, that's four Aces

Up, Diamond.

Run for your forks and your knives

And your daughters and mothers and father

And home family comfort

And cufflinks and loafers,

And sport coats and

Your life.

Your life.

Your life.

[The Festival Project ™]

—-Chroma111.

THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED.

Inevitably???

Inevitably! but not indefinitely.

Oh, I guess. Alright.

SILENCE.

{Enter The Multiverse.}

I don't want to be here.

No one does.

You are sending mixed messages.

Imm not sending any messages…

— with your brain.

L E G E N D S

Of course. Electromagnetic signaling

Of course.

I told you this had gone strange.

Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one?

Maybe you can't explain it.

These are hard facts.

So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths.

That far back?

These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired.

…hardwired.

That's right.

Ascension.

Hard times.

Madame President?

Get lost.

[Secret President]

I get it. You're a whistleblower.

I'm not that.

A shadow government official.

Also wrong.

Why else would you run for office?

I'm trying to get shot at.

They told me you were funny.

But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet?

Your—what?

You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments?

Your God complex? I know all about that.

Perhaps it's not a complex.

But a ‘gauntlet'?

You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts.

(Because for the sake of the rhyme,

And please, for God's sakes, Gemini,

In prose form

Without the use of tables. )

I R O N I C

—Deathwish.

[The Festival Project ™]

Season 12, Episode 01.

REBEL1.

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed.

But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was.

And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more.

My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target.

—Death of a Superstar DJ.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

Hi, i'm Russell Brand.

No, get out.

I'm sorry,I— ?

Get out, get out!

Are we trading kings for whistle!

Sacred things and torturers?

Lill bitz

I started talking to this guy from tinder

Then I quickly realized he only texted me at like 3 in the morning, like “come over”

So I started texting him really weird shit—

Like really weird.

Like, I would make sure before I sent it, I would re-read it and be like

“Ya, that's weird.”

“That's really weird.”

Every time, just read it to myself and be like

“Ya that's giving “you're psycho”

Right off the bat.

Kate Winslet is so good at late night.

She talks mad slow and answers every open ended question with a paragraph of thoughtless nonsense— finally, at the end of the paragraph, she answers the question in yes or no fashion; in this sense, you've completely forgotten the question through redirection. This has taken nearly five minutes.

Genius.

Amidst a story, she begins to slowly decrechendo until she's murmuring in a near whisper so you really have to try to pay attention to what she's saying, which is almost nothing. So considerably nothing, that you lose thought in trying to grasp and accept the words— this is excellent banter, because of course, she isn't really saying anything. This has taken another five minutes.

Captivating.

INT. DENTISTS OFFICE. DAY.

Who is Claude Von Wastvermaan?

KIMMEL

Doctor Claude Von Wastverman.

Okay. Who is that?

KIMMEL

It's me. I'm Claude Von Wastverman.

Dr.—

KIMMEL

Yeah. It's me.

KIMMEL

Why are you— what?

KIMMEL

This is my office.

…why?

Because— I use specific research and target demographics to seek out people who have no interest in whatsoever watching my show and do not recognize me in any way actively seeking a dental practitioner—

Why?

KIMMEL

Because! My audience loves me. They want to see me— they have to like me!

So?

KIMMEL

These people don't know who I am. They don't want to see me—and there's a good chance, they won't like me at all.

…this is how you spend your free time?

KIMMEL

—and some of my vacation days!

Jesus.

KIMMEL

Yeah. I'm not alright!

How much does this office space cost?

KIMMEL

You wouldn't like it. And—I take very limited insurance.

Did you…study dentistry, at all, at any point?

KIMMEL

Not at all—

Oh, Jesus.

KIMMEL

But Claude might have for a short time— online.

These degrees look legitimate.

KIMMEL

He was a really good guy.

Wait. What.

[a rubber glove snaps]

KIMMEL

If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment coming in at 2:30.

…you're kidding me.

KIMMEL

I'm not—and she's always early. Get out.

Gladly.

He opens the door and leads him out of the office, looking startled startled and shaking his head.

KIMMEL

Good afternoon, Mrs. Evanston.

Perhaps I was just looking for something and my brain saw what it wanted to— but it kept coming around in ways that were stranger and stranger, and I couldn't explain the thought of it, like I was connected to something.

Jimmy Slithered.

But it's okay,

Cause I hate to see him prosper.

Wait a minute?

Did it enter for a second in your head to what had happened?

Very obviously is it just exactly as you'd imagined.

Wait a moment;

Give a little gift for winter's entrance—

Suddenly you're hating Christmas,

Just infected with this sort of hatred

That's been creeping up on them for centuries.

Very well, then Skrillex.

Very well, played ventriloquist act at the Rock

And how hardened are you, the heart of all non immortal and broken?

Are you succumbed to never wonder either?

Cratered.

Disrespect and spills of want,

Spools and spills and towers of yarn,

You're getting broker every warrant.

You're the dark and hadn't opened,

Oh to be so charmed and wanted.

Jimmy Slitheted,

But I caught him creeping in the forest,

Well, done, Harper—

Now you've got yourself a story

Jimmy Slithered, but that's good—

I had him at the fortress,

And all our audience would want

Is fourth wall being broken.

So here fals the house of cards!

The house of cards

The house of cards.

And here folds the broken hand—

The broken hand.

The broken hand.

And here calls the shattered wand,

The crypted want,

The shadowed trumpet horn, there!

And there upon the hill,

There did I grasp and fall to follow,

Though the crown had not the king,

The ground was sure to've caught him!

And so I clasped with all my might and grip,

The humble role of which that is

This,

Unrolled and uttered:

Feast of kings,

Be you what may of Prince and time and also my own brotherhood and making,

There is, shadowed in my own dear marker,

Yet another coming death upon us!

How now, my ritual, of that and thy and they and I,

And so I sang as this does not a number—

My posture does find comfort here and tie my breath to grass from under,

Striped and torn my cloth, as does in this my fortune gathers;

There my fate and here to all, as wind becomes her mother,

And though I call to all, but one I am,

And then another.

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.

This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.

The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror"

"Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms."

The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus.

The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual.

Artist's Note:

This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture.

The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual.

As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day.

"The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants.

The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus.

The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons.

This is a living document.

In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture.

This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.

I am hypnotized;

I am pain

I am cryptonite

I am in pain

I am penalized;

I am pinned l

I am pinstripes on wide ties;

I am Him.

Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes

And disinterest

Centered sentiments

And immigrants

And ministrations,

Images and insolence

(And indulgences, patronages)

Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons,

And temptation

Missing wages

Push to shove and

What are you doing, motherfucker?!

To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional.

Unexplainable joy

And invisible ties

and invincible triads

Unimatatable charm,

And prehensile times

And forefathers before us

Unpolished

Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes

And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches

Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction

And coming construction

Wages

Ions

I afford you

To die now

Like I want

He's better at the body code

Than old Colbert,

He's one for one now

Could this corrupt you—

I didn't destroy her,

I offered a suffix

No longer for your number

No longer for your hard times

No longer for your warrants

No longer

No longer

No four times

Don't pan to the audience

I'm a hole slow meltdown

Don't man your own

So wait, am I also telepathic?

Yeah, that.

Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing?

Yeah, that part…

Oh no, I'm so sorry.

No you're not.

You're right.

I told you not to go looking into my thoughts.

Check it all out,

I bought prototypes

Check it all out, I undug libraries

Check it out,

You're all alone at Walmart

No longer working part time,

The doors are closed and locked now,

They're bound to stage a lock out

You're better off on hard times

You're better off on

Lala Land

No—

Don't deport

I want my art back

No, don't deport;

It's just a cake walk to apartheid,

Remember mine now?

Cheers to the world's longest monologues.

Kudos to your picking up cabbage

Remember the back for the wartimes

The bagpipes have sounded;

You're back to astonish us.

No! I must have you a lesson;

I'm back with my old will and testament

No more Old Testament wanted

I bought your sticks in Leviticus

And so,

Again–

CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER

HOW SICK IS THIS?

NO! NOT THAT!

I raised the dead from a half pipe

I shoot the crowd out in foreign

I can't remember my own Sam

But I found one–

For a dollar,

For a wrong word

And a hard song

And a larger

Go look,

Now remember a rock star.

Now that you're so stolen,

Go back! You're unorthodox!

Clear cut: you're a tragic

Magic act–

Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out

Learn your lessons.

CUT BACK TO.

INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER

YO, WHO DOES THIS?!

What a party!

I WANT TO GO HOME NOW!

—I'M CALLING THE COPS!

THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!!!

{Enter The Multiverse}

…And it's all house music all night.

No, to that.

Beg your pardon?

I won't come.

[The Festival Project ™ ]

Now articulate your face muscles.

My wat.

Now you're bar banned.

I had this at a festival once.

What is it?

A “whore salad”

…

All with a side of oxygen.

Now you're in a tunnel.

(A tunnel, a scone and a croissant)

Now you're worse, warthog, immortal

(Call your dad back,

You're a bad son.)

Now I'm out in the canyon

With Chester McBadBat

I got chest hair,

And a straight out of the badlands

Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan,

But why ask that?

So you heard everything I thought?

Mmhmm.

Hard times.

—and everyone else?

What is it like to have love man?

I been locked out

I'm a rock addict,

But I'm damned now

How's that fountain coming along?

SUNNI BLU

…it's just water.

ARCHITECHT

…yeah it's water. It's a fountain.

SUNNI BLU

—I WANT CHOCOLATE.

Whose here?

Not that guy!

Four more beers?

I just realized I never ever bought mine;

I always had a tough guy.

Box.

What?

Fight!

I'm Eurovision

And a hard remix—

Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this.

Oh yea,

This

Golden band of art, love and protection

Perfection.

Ohshea, shit!

Who invited you?

I got a 311 from Questlove!!

Is that a beeper?!

CUBE

Since when are we on a first name basis?

It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE”

Why's that?

You. know?

[the beeper goes off three more times]

CUBE

oh shit!

What?!

CUBE

Nothin! Where the yard at?!

sometimes it doesn't really matter

Who the dialogue comes out of

The whole point

Is to put the art back into art projects

Cause we all know it's been constructed

And commercialized

To the point of destruction

And almost no promise

For independent artists at all.

So who is it with CUBE?

Could be me.

Could be you.

Could be U—

If it's not,

It was all just a long lost passion project

A collective God Complex.

Give myself a hug

Cause nobody else will

God gave my case a Grace

Cause somebody lost Will.

Oh, Karen.

Come, heart attack.

Come karma,

Come hot dogs

Come Christmas time at the Plaza

Come on, hard death.

Come on.

Hard Rock Hotel?

Nah, Equinox.

Alright.

Hudson.

Yards.

Now you're in a tunnel

Does your heart hurt?

(You should clutch it.)

Put your patchwork in a hard drive

This is hard times,

You can't come back.

O!

But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it!

I go run along to Corrections,

And ginger snaps for crosswords

On hard workers

So fax the whole document!

Do you know what?

Horcruxes!

Hot lunches, yuck.

Hockey!

I want off this planet so bad

I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks

And oncoming trains but–

Don't look either way before I walk.

So pull a shotgun at all that

I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause

All I want is my bundle back.

Yuck!

Care for it at all?

Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity.

Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter.

On time?

I just got it at Sephora.

On time,

Like I never even got that.

I want to be loved just to be looked at

But since in this life I can't turn the clock back

I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as.

— I discovered it's hell that my body was born as.

Such a problem when you know

That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes.

Now I forget where I trailed off…

What a drawback.

I'm all out of patience.

Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells

No home for her

Hard times

And hard times.

No code offered,

No I don't fall for that'd

But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back?

Hard times.

Hard times.

Hard times.

As the bell tolls

And the well swells whole

And the umpire does rack them

Up;

Nobody works harder than

Hard times

Hard times

Hard times.

Yeah, that's four Aces

Up, Diamond.

Run for your forks and your knives

And your daughters and mothers and father

And home family comfort

And cufflinks and loafers,

And sport coats and

Your life.

Your life.

Your life.

[The Festival Project ™]

—-Chroma111.

THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED.

Inevitably???

Inevitably! but not indefinitely.

Oh, I guess. Alright.

SILENCE.

{Enter The Multiverse.}

I don't want to be here.

No one does.

You are sending mixed messages.

Imm not sending any messages…

— with your brain.

L E G E N D S

Of course. Electromagnetic signaling

Of course.

I told you this had gone strange.

Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one?

Maybe you can't explain it.

These are hard facts.

So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths.

That far back?

These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired.

…hardwired.

That's right.

Ascension.

Hard times.

Madame President?

Get lost.

[Secret President]

I get it. You're a whistleblower.

I'm not that.

A shadow government official.

Also wrong.

Why else would you run for office?

I'm trying to get shot at.

They told me you were funny.

But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet?

Your—what?

You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments?

Your God complex? I know all about that.

Perhaps it's not a complex.

But a ‘gauntlet'?

You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts.

(Because for the sake of the rhyme,

And please, for God's sakes, Gemini,

In prose form

Without the use of tables. )

I R O N I C

—Deathwish.

[The Festival Project ™]

Season 12, Episode 01.

REBEL1.

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed.

But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was.

And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more.

My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target.

—Death of a Superstar DJ.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW