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

FUCK YOU, DILLON FRANCIS, YOU LITERAL AND FIGURATIVE PIECE OF--

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

It's a "fuck you Dillon Francis Sandwhich"

(fuck that n*gga.)

It was becoming clearer and clearer with each passing day at Equinox that I was again the Guinea pig central to some kind of secret social experiment, or worse, psychological—which meant of course I had become allures into a trap and had always been the perfect prey—still a dumb, fat, lazy and now hood-bound nigger with a taste for luxury and the wellness that had been stripped from the lower realms at all—desperate for the life I had designed for myself on my own but still trapped in some kind of hex or curse—some strange and bodiless demon always find its way next to, around or near me—anyone I liked, loved, or became close to had vanished, and I was left alone to suffer in the loveless and dark underworld without any solid way to escape. I had been fed with garbage for weeks —almost no fruits and vegetables at all, and had been without water for quite some time, my clothes were embarrassingly worn and dirty, wreaking of mildew—and now it was even worse—demons were always quick to overcome the body of any female I wished I could be— my entire life has been an nightmare, the glimpses and flashes of regression flashing through my mind— my abusive mother, my abusive husband— I was an altogether shit person, doomed to again succumb to slavery; meanwhile, the pretty and perfect bodies around me seemed not to worry, work, or care at all—I was taunted with everything I wanted and everything I loved—and it had taken me all the time I had lived to realized that I had never been loved at all.

I guess I'm not ‘pure of heart'

Stroke of genius, perhaps—

Stroke or dark

Let me stroke your cock underwater;

Of course, said the God

To the Goddess— m

I've just aboutbhad it,

Or lost it

Wreaking all havoc on my mind,

Or most of it

I turn the whole goddamn world on a dollar

And then I move on,

There are so many others

I hold my guitar like a body,

It's a small one

Like a daughter

Or just someone to love me

If that's what you're after,

I'm honestly sorry

I'm not pure of heart

And nobody loves me

It's been a week back at Equinox

I've barely touched my decks

But men fall in love with bodies,

Not talent

And I need somebody to love me

For balance

Cause I've been so out of it,

I've been in ballet

But this is New York,

And that was Alaska.

Callie whatever's music fucking sucks and she gets to open. For deadmau5.

Okay, white supremacy. I get it. I quit.

I don't know why I even try.

It's okay. She's a little white girl. She's gonna look 40 in 5 years.

Yeah, and I'm gonna have permanent lines in my head from getting fucked over by the world continually for being a fat black woman.

But you still won't look 40.

But I WILL be 40.

But you won't LOOK it.

I'm so broken and lonely

I just want someone to hold me and love me

But that just won't happen

Love isn't for me

I was just born in the wrong fucking body

(No free days)

I had named my new skateboard Ryder, and though it had been acquired quite by accident, it had been an instant manifestation that was somewhat unexpected, although I had explicitedly listed a new skateboard amongst the other items I had wished for in the series of spells that had would up the whole world into a strange and yet somehow better place, though of course not without its own shortcomings, and of course ultimately my own shortcomings— the spells had been working in the ways that they always did—explicitly accurate, and manifesting quickly with an unexpected twist, which would come with some sort of strange sting that didn't last long—but the lesson itself did, which was the thing that was important.

I was in and out of love—of course, not all the way out of it entirely, but still bruised and burned from all that I had learned about the men I had fallen for, the the industry I had been at the very least introduced to, but still not entirely enough so that I was paid well, of course, pouting in every single sense that I would have to take a regular job at some point to

smooth and jazzy, City-style modern and chic

the synethetic experience / the sound of synesthesia

- hard, weird, 90's sounding techno, glitch

I hated Hudson Yards more than any other Equinox I had ever been to in my life—and I considered the fact that I had been to so many an achievement—I'd have never been able to afford it if I hadn't gotten on the mailing lists, awaiting the perfect time to join, eliminating the pricey initiation fee— then, something like $250, now having doubled, and all the more with an exclusive top-tier which has first excluded me from entering the Hudson Yards location at all, the actuality which had led to my eventual delay in arriving to JFK after all, though it had first been the Spirit Airlines flight delay out of LA and into Vegas to retrieve my drum machine, which now sat in yet another pawn shop in New York, and though I had at least until October to pick it up, I wasn't at all happy with any of the progress—or lack there of that I was making in music; the specifics of the curse began to unravel— and since I had once been married to a sufferably failed musician, it was more than likely his abborent energy the block which had been dellaying my eventual success—and there was an eventual success, knowing that all curses and hexes are ultimately returned to the sender at a devastatingly amplified .

Though I seemed myself marked I realized it had been somrone or something all along that had allowed be back into Equinox in the first place, which was the only thing in the world I had wanted, besides food, water, and music— almost e entirely leaving love out of it, because in a sense there was this ever-present inner knowing that I could never be loved: my own child had during our last conversation regurgitated the sadness and destruction of the negative energy my ex had indudated him with—stories of dead babies and unsupervised near-death experiences where my ex husband, always reluctant to wake up, had slept through some tragedy in which my then-toddler had gotten himself into—he had slept through out eldest son's death, and of course, his over sleeping had lead to the numerous jobs he had lost over the course of our relationship, probably doomed to fail from the start but myself never having been aware of how blind becoming morbidly obsese and so drug-dependent could cause one to experience a walking death in itself—the loss of two children, the faithless, loveless

My plan for the day has been to get into the sports club early with my laptop in hand, but of course, the quest for proper and balanced nutrition continued, as I had finally of course squired the protein I had been so desperately lacking, but still with the deficits of the actual energy I needed— I waxwork.

Nice

I awoke just before noon, only to drift back into a dream for 40 minutes or so, awaking again at 30 past the hour in a a rush and frenzy to skate to the food bank, which I had been m dreading, especially because it was my third week in a row and I knew for a fact. That threes were indeed a charm of some sort— a heavy esoteric rule that I had followed quite faithfully—so faithfully, in fact, that I always knew that true third time doing, saying, or seeing anything was a certain sign of rapid change, in one way or another, and proceeded in all with heavy caution. This also meant that it had been threee weekend since the last episode in my podcast series, and though I had thought to perhaps pawn my audio interface as well as my almost defunct MPC studi, as I was more preoccupied with improving my body so that I might find someone decent to offset the awful and horrible sexual monster that had been welling up from inside me — the reason I hated Hudson Yards the most1- mirrors and reminders, reflections of how I would never be good enough, in a sea of picture perfect Barbie dolls of all shapes and sizes— and I had nearly lost my mind and soul just by way of googling the upcoming support for the deadmau5 vs. test pilot show, very fittingly at the Brooklyn mirage and on the date which marked the anniversary of my own suicide, august 4th; and as the date grew near, I wanted more and more to try again1-to escape the horrible and awful cruel world of inequality—I hated the blackness of it all— the black slaves of Jamaica queens m a heavy contrast to the thoughtless Barbie dolls that didn't have tow work or think for anything—they were created just to have fun, lounge, party, and fuck—all of which I wanted to do but never had the chance. My entire life I had been too dark and too ugly to be pretty or adorable—and of course, my mother's scattered actions and bipolar personality, perhaps even schizophrenic tendencies which had been beaten into her by her father, rather than genetically inherited—had kept me from being good at anything. Sports, music, or anything which might have allowed me to be successful were often abandoned—my mother's temper tantrums always acting up on days which I was due to rehearsal or practice— eventually quitting because it no longer excited me, her mood swings controlling my entire destiny, and causing the uproar of anxiety and unconscious addiction that culminated in my doomed, abusive narrorator

(Don't leave me like this)

(From am to pm).

Love,'money, party

Alive

fidkros

The fight to keep blacks and browns in the darker and lower realms while elevating the whites and hybrid elites into ascension continues to deter the human race from true and forward evolution.

"Post raciality and the silent technologically driven race war in America" -CC Stone

YO, FUCK YOU, DILLON FRANCIS.

WHAT DID I DO?!

I DONT KNOW YET, BUT FUCK YOU!

AAGHHH

*hulks out *

FUCK—YOU.

Woah.

This is strange.

Should we stop them?

No, I think we should watch.

*eating popcorn*

We should watch.

Because,

I'm better off—

Than last time I saw you;

You never saw me;

And I saw right through you;

You were the boat,

And I was the ocean—

I kept you afloat,

And you sank into me

Woah.

Okay. I did not want to put that all on the same note.

But there it is,

It still applies.

What are you.

What is what?

What is you?

Hum.

What is me.

Hm.

Hmm.

?-?

Eyes emoji?

Yeah.

We haven't used that in a really long time.

You should explain.

No, just don't—

REWIND

INT. ON GOD. ALL DAY

Dillon Francis: You know what? You're right, you're right. We shouldn't. You're right.

SupaCreeChakChel/Original Cree: I'm Right? I know I'm right. I'm Always Right.

Dillon Francis: Oh, i know I just--I know that that's your guy--

SupaCree: It was. It was my guy. It's fine. I'm my guy.

Dillon Francis: Don't worry, I'm your guy.

SupaCree: You're not my guy--I'm my guy now. My guy died.

Dillon Francis: ...but I'm a guy…

SupaCree: No you're not, you're Dillon Francis.

Dillon Francis: I also died.

SupaCree: You lost a life. You're like--I don't know, at least a trillion eternities younger than me.

Dillon Francis: Not a trillion eternities…

[She just looks at him]

Dillon Francis: ...Wait, how old are you, anyw---

SupaCree: What should we eat?

Dillon Francis: I don't know, I mean, we're dead, do we really need to?

SupaCree: ...I mean... do we need to do laundry? If we're Gods, we could just--

[With a flick of the wrist, the laundry is clean.]

Dillon Francis: Huh. What happens when I do--

[He copies her movement; Immidiately, something terrible has happened, off camera--the screams and bloodcurdling sounds of horrified people crying in agony.]

-OH GOD! GOD PLEASE! ALMIGHTY DILLONFRANCIS!

Dillon Francis: Is that ME? Is he--are they-- calling for my help!? I can't help that, I don't even know what I did!

OH GOD PLEASE! IN THE NAME OF DILLON! OH GOD-- IF THERE'S A DILLON FRANCIS IN THE UNIVERSE---JUST!!

Dillon Francis: [remorsefully, looking down at his palms] Oh, God…

SupaCree: It's not as easy as being a DJ, is it?

Dillon Francis: Oh yeah, I...I was a DJ, once. Huh.

SupaCree: We all were--right? And then we all blew up. [She puts her hands out, in an attempt to fix his clearly horrible accident] But, man, I don't think that Apocolypse got anything on this..

[Dillon Flashes back to SupaCree using her magic, & Chak Chel wielding the elements--he looks at her easily reweaving time space and reality, quite chipper.)

Dillon Francis: Wait, so she..you...you had magic forever…?

SupaCree: Oh, Dillion, you silly, I made it so that you humans...

[A flashback of the ‘voodoo boy', overlaps a flashback of Skrillex. She jumps and shutters, much to the horror of the people in the world she is attempting to mend]

*sighs* Yes, Dillon Francis, I have always had powers. Multiple Souls, Multiple, weird hearts that regenerate--well--now you have one of my heart, and--I gave one of the others away...then I got sacrificed, for peace, that one time--you were there, right?

Diillon Francis: Oh, yeahh! I was. That was before…

SupaCree: Before Magic IS Real? Yeah. It was. So. Thanks. For that.

[A flashback of SupaCree being offered as a human sacrifice “for peace”, as the Cosmic owl swoops down.]

Savage Raver: Wait, that was the Cosmic Owl, right?

Raver: So...did we do it right?

Savage Raver: Is it raining diamonds? Are you floating on a Skrilloop, in a River of acid?

Raver.:...uhhh...no?

Savage Raver: THEN NO WE DIDN'T DO IT RIGHT, THAT'S JUST A SIGN WE'RE ALL ABOUT TO DIE.

[From Timmy Trumpet; PARTY TILL WE--]

DIllon Francis: And that was it, huh?

SupaCree: Very quick apocalypse. Didn't even get to see it, I had to have freaking surgery…

Dillon Francis: Oh yeah…

SupaCree: Yeah, and I had to perform it--and a Live seet.

Dillon Francis: Same. Fuck that.

SupaCree: Fuck that. [she accidentally wrecks something, more screaming] Sorry guys... I'm really sorry...I'm fixing it...kind of...

-Where is Dillon Francis?!!

-There IS no Dillon Francis!

-He's Abandoned us!

-There is no Great DJ in The Sky!

-BURN! BURN IT ALL DOWN!

SupaCree: [Healing, trying not to look.] I got it don't worry about it...I'll fix it, It's..I got it.

WHO'S YOUR DILLON, NOW?! YEAHHHHAHGHHGHGHG!!!

[Savagery]

Dillon Francis: [worriedly] Oh, man... that is…?

SupaCree:...........Go get lunch, i'll just...i'll fix it. I'm fixing it.

[She looks away working more quickly as the sounds of a now clearly drastically violent and “Godless” world. As Dillon backs out of the room, running, she looks over her shoulder, then crouches toward the world; She becomes the Dazzling cosmos of their sky, looking down at the destruction, quite actually impressed.]

SupaCree: Oh, man.

OMEN! OMEN! THE SKIES SPEAK WITH THE OMEN!

SupaCree: Oh, shut the fuck up, i said “oh man,” , like “oh, man-- god damn,D iillon Francis, what the FUCK did he do to you guys?

-DILLON FRANCIS DID THIS? DILLON, THE ALMIGHTY--?

-I told you. God is NOT a DJ.

SupaCree: Ah. Nah. Most Gods are DJS, actually, yeah. We do that. Not the best DJ in the entire galactic expansions of the universe, or anything, but...i'm a pretty good DJ. And i'm almost finished fixing your shit. Check it, I got you.

[she repairs the world rather quickly]

See.

-Well ...well yeah, what about...What about our God?

SupaCree: Yeah, he'll be back he's just..you know. first day on the job, it's not...it's not like just being a DJ. Thats, you know, only a few thousand people at a time.

What about all of our dead?

SupaCree: Well...theyre..theyre dead.

But, you're God--almost--!

SupaCree: No, I'm God, Dillon Francis is Almost..well he's almost Dillon Francis, but it's just--look-- you want your God, you got it--he'll be back in a bit. But. I don't know what a bit is, on this...where is this, anway?

World of Rave

SupaCree: Ohhh, rave..I haven't been a rave since i've been working this God-job full time--whats World of Rave like--

World of Rave? We're a private Artificially Evolving Intelligent Space Station within a Tri-Verse Between World of Music, World of Sound, and Our World

SupaCree: Heyyy. I was a Tri-Verse Once--I used to--or still am...a traverse. Wait. I'm the Onmiverse now...This is me...you--i'm---where are you? ...and why do you worship Dillon Francis?

-HE ABANDONED US!

SupaCree: He's Diloon Francis, Just. Chill. Now. Tell me his origin story; how is he your God? Is there a bibe?

-He did a lot, for our planet, actually--after he retired as a DJ.

-He sacrificed his self, in our names, to Save The Rave.

-There was an eternal battle throughout the galaxy, which destroyed our entire planet and way of life--

-Dillon Francis fought with a golden and diamond encrusted hammer--

SupaCree: ...that's my hammer!

...well, he had it on him. And we didn't see you there, so…

SupaCree: Of course--i'm in your cosmos, how would you have seen me?! Wait. Wait. Waaaait...

...you wait.

SupaCree: What's that sound?

..It's you. You're literally just, a bunch of stars in the sky right now.

SupaCree: I'm that all the time! What is that SOUND?

What Sound, we don't hear anything but--

--WHAT THE FUCK IS THAAAAA

The Whole World Screams in Terror,

SupaCree: Wait, what the fuck IS--AHHHHH, wow-- really

THE SKRILLEX: I AM SKRILLEX. Shoots through the atmosphere, landing on a platform within the mostly repaired space station,/artificial planet.

SupaCree: Ah, God. I'm out.

-Wait, you're not done fixin' our stuff!

-Or Raising the dead!

SupaCree: For What?!

FOR THE LOVE OF DILLON FRANCI--

I am tired.

ALEXA, PLAY DEADMAU5

NOTRIGHTNOW.

Playing: Deadmau5

Go to sleep.

NO.

SLEEP MODE ENGAGED.

*sleep*

DAMN!

I know, huh.

How'd you do that?

[shrugs]

I had somehow programmed myself to fall asleep to deadmau5.

Somehow?

Yeh.

THIS is HOW:

Season 5

!Hecho In Mexico!

Jesus Fucking Christ.

Ahem.

I mean,

JESUSCRISTO, PENDAJA!

There we go.

Now it was almost impossible to not at least yawn when deadmau5 was playing, unless i was actually playing, in which case, deadmau5 became an easy transitionary soundscape for my otherwise probably pretty awful DJ sets.

What is this.

SUCKFEST9000

WHAT?! Did I miss SUCKFEST8999?

You missed everything.

Where was I?!

GOTOSLEEP.

NO.

GO–GET–

NO–

GO TO SLEEEP.

NOOOO.

*deadmau5*

*sleep*

Dang.

yeah .

Is that a taser?

No, it's deadmau5.

I– what?

It's concentrated deadmau5.

(yum)

Don't be disgusting.

No, I mean–

x_x

hurry . its wearing off.

how could it be “wearing off”

It's a synaptic dampener. It wears off.

Ah, crap.

what.

Did you see that?

First of all…

ah-hah

[THE DEADMAUS ENTERS]

AH!

I know, huh.

Alright, fuck this.

Is that his monster?!

No.

What is it?!

It's The Deadmaus.

OH MY GOD.

Yeah, i know.

However–

What. The. Fuck.

That's his monster.

LEGENDS: EPISODE 7

“Every Man Has A Monster”

There was something ironic about all of it; I grasped the pusling rock in my left hand and stuffed a plant-based Oreo into my mouth with my right, listening to deadmau5 and wondering how, if ever, I would properly deliver the crystal to Dillon Francis, Skrillex all but a facet in the back of my mind– I had considered the broad fact that I had created such a fascinating illusion, each man merely a holographic phantom–a figment of my imagination.

Or a fragment.

How is that?

Watch the calories.

How about–I eat whatever the fuck I want, cause it doesnt matter.

IT DOESN'T MATTER.

Christ, that's one hell of a loop.

That's one hell of a guy.

Yeah well–aren't they all?

What?

Hell.

I had been using deadmau5 itself as a security blanket; a pacifier, if you will–to soothe and calm my nerves, to sleep, or even heal; I was detrimentally ill in a way I hadn't quite ever been before besdes after a loss, at which point, even then, was not the same as this. Though I had spent the afternoon munching on cold pizza and oreos, my stomach was still for the most par incredibly nauseous, and in knots, cramping often enough to remind me that I could still feel pain, besides emotion, any way, and I blamed the frigid cold and the pouring rain for my inability to sto crying at random, which I hadn't done in years. Indeed, I was sick. There was almost nothing to be done about it but be, as I had already begun tapering my nicotine habit, only newly re-started during my time in what seemed like every fucking smokeshop in Downtown Los Angeles, and ll that was relly left to do was to return to a respectable gym routine; but at any rate, I was keeping my figure and fitting comfortably into my extra smalls, speed walking an average or at least a mile-or-more a day–not that I considered it exercise, but it at least created enough of a calorie deficit that it didn't begin to show anywhere but my arse, my bloated belly only a result of whatever God-awful crisis my gastrointestinal system was wreaking havoc on the rest of my body with, probably a result of too much coffee, or too much fasting, or too much effing bullshit, which the city was full of–but there was really no escape from.

I had spent a better part of the night before hunched over and clutching the house speaker at Kream, clinging to whatever frequency I could that would ease the pain of my aching belly, and my pathetic life. I often had used ‘'The Red Albums” for sleep and hypnosis, and anything Blue or Green for exercise, or focus–typically saving “The White Album”, which of course was speckled with hints and tinges of gray and and aire of more red for long journeys, deep thoughts, and relaxation; a narrative adventure I mostly kept as a treat for myself and out of my sets.

So is deadmau5 your favorite DJ?

Uh. No.

That's a lie

No, it isn't

This is all deadmau5.

yep , all dedmau6*

*oh god

Wait.

what .

“A Parallell Universe”

So all your stories are like, stuck inside his music?

Well, not stuck–and not all my stories.

Oh, that's right.

Look, I write to everyone's music, if it's decent.

IT'S MAD DECENT.

Go somewhere else.

I think i'll stay.

UGH.

So wait.

WHAT, dude.

All of these stories connect, somehow.

Yeah, I guess.

But–how?!

PASQUALE

Yes?

GET IN HERE.

Oh shit, we're back at that scene?

Took awhile, didn't it?

That took forever

What the fuck is forever, to a motherfucker whose time is irrelevant.

Forever.

Aha.

You have to admit,

Skrillex has a pretty sick deal with the devil.

WHAT.

THE DEVIL

so —

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

The ‘-complications.' mixtape compilation series which focuses its internal monologue on the ideology of exploratory existentialism, using simple and classic mixing techniques into smooth transitions which mirror synchronicities in time, musical elements, and lyricism to illustrate a vortex of collisions in cosmic omniscience, theming its recurring dominant soundscapes into a singular foundational focal point, and centering its multidimensionality into a gripping pull to return its emphasis on reflecting at checkpoints as if to reiterate a greater hidden meaning.

I can't help who I am

Nobody can help who you are.

Apparently, not even Jesus could save him.

Who the fuck is this.

That's just deadmau5.

No, who is he?

It's fucking deadmau5!

I mean–what's his name.

What's his name?

Yeah, what's his name?

You don't know his name?

NO! What is it?

But you know everybody's name.

Fucking–Exacty.

This is why I cant listen to deadmau5 anymore.

Why is that–

I'm so sorry about this.

Sorry about what.

[Entire World Ends]

Yeah, well. Rookie mistake.

Fuck I hate my life.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

The ‘-complications.' mixtape compilation series which focuses its internal monologue on the ideology of exploratory existentialism, using simple and classic mixing techniques into smooth transitions which mirror synchronicities in time, musical elements, and lyricism to illustrate a vortex of collisions in cosmic omniscience, theming its recurring dominant soundscapes into a singular foundational focal point, and centering its multidimensionality into a gripping pull to return its emphasis on reflecting at checkpoints as if to reiterate a greater hidden meaning.

Okay—we're all adults here—

(Everyone nods, yesses in agreement)

—except deadmau5. He's like 5.

I have a name.

Does anyone care?

Okay, ouch.

Oh, he feels!

ENDER BENDER ZIMMERMAN has the worst name ever.

Lol.

I drank a lot in the third trimester.

He becomes a de facto villain— of course, because of his ridiculous name and of course, living in the shadow of his parent's fame and fortune.

Who the fuck are his parents?

JOEL

Not it.

Brand new turnkey apartment

Post near, food floor all that

Way way higher than the fourth floor

All that

Way way higher than your front door

All that

Wow,

How I've always been needed

And never been loved

Moog Grandmother

Ableton Push 2

Pioneer Model One

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Polar opposites,

My solar plexus is off or something,

Dropping stuff,

Walking like I'm drunk,

Talking strange, voice is strained

Look me in the eye and lie to me;

I walk the line from just behind

Or where I lead.

And lately, I've been dreaming of bleeding on the streets

Or not needing to be seen, l.

Oh. Olden rings, one million streams and

Putting things in places

Make no mistake,

I'm a wreck

I ain't been loved in a long time

Take a good look at the mark on my neck

You wanna step up, it's a long line

I'mma hit you up later

Gotta go grind

I'ma pull up in a

Wtf is this

That's a-/

I don't get it.

Okay.

It's a van full of trophies.

I fuckin guess!

What's that supposed to mean?

I don't know, I hate my life.

Yeah.

Fuck.

What.

I'm leaving.

When.

Tonight.

This isn't the right dimension.

Well.good luck

What happened now?!

Polar opposites,

My solar plexus is off or something,

Dropping stuff,

Walking like I'm drunk,

Talking strange, voice is strained

Look me in the eye and lie to me;

I walk the line from just behind

Or where I lead.

And lately, I've been dreaming of bleeding on the streets

Or not needing to be seen, l.

Oh. Olden rings, one million streams and

Putting things in places

Make no mistake,

I'm a wreck

I ain't been loved in a long time

Take a good look at the mark on my neck

You wanna step up, it's a long line

I'mma hit you up later

Gotta go grind

I'ma pull up in a

Wtf is this

That's a-/

I don't get it.

Okay.

It's a van full of trophies.

I fuckin guess!

What's that supposed to mean?

I don't know, I hate my life.

Yeah.

Fuck.

What.

I'm leaving.

When.

Tonight.

This isn't the right dimension.

Well.good luck

What happened now?!

There's a test?!

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Wow. How is it you look better.

I'm gonna need proof this exists.

Proof what exists.

THE KOOLAID MAN erupts through the wall.

OH YEAH.

I'm going to bed.

MA!

FRAN/SUPER JEWISH MOM

Look all I got is matzos and coconut water.

*colecanth growls scarily*

FRAN/ SUPER JEWISH MOM

AHHH!

Bananas! I got bananas! You want some bananas?!

COELACANTH

Arg?

COELACANTH, THE GIANT TERRIFLYING CLOUD MONSTER apparently Loves bananas

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

In my own shadow.

With the color coordination and syncopation of the synesthetic movement, c o l o r s quietly takes to the underground with an array of cosmic collisions and polyharmonics only ever eclipsed by the aromatic esthetic of sensuous and illusive, ethereal sine waves of the electric sky.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Grandmother Moog

Pioneer Model One

Roland TR-909

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.