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I wanna make dubstep.

Dubstep.

Yes.

Why.

Because.

Why.

I don't know. I just want to make Dubstep with my black girl magic.

Half black.

...half-black girl magic.

You can't. There's no such thing.

Yes there is.

No there isn't.

Yes there is--if there's black girl magic, and i'm half black, then there's half black half black girl magic.

Yess...but you can't use that to make dubstep.

I can't.

No. You can't.

Okay...what....do I need to make dubstep?

Talent.

Okay--

Ahaaaa, just kidding.

?

You need Satan.

WHAT?

Yeaaaah. I know. I'm not a fan either, but.

FAN? Aren't you afraid of him?

Nah. Satan can't do shit.

Then how do I need him to make dubstep.

He's very powerful.

I don't need Satan to make dubstep music.

Oh you don't.

No.

I need money.

God.

Huh.

I need money.

Okay. How much.

Like $20,000,000

Like twenty-million dollars.

Yes.

Ok.

Really?!

Sure!

Like US dollars

TWENTY MILLION US DOLLARS?! ARE YOU CRAZY?!

You know know I am!

FINE— but you know what?!

Fine?! Wait—really?! What?!

Ask Satan first—see what he says.

WHAT! Why would I ask Satan about anything?!

He knows lots of things.

NO!

Just ask him.

NO! I hate that guy!

Why?!

Cause he's Satan!

Fair.

It's not fair. People worship him.

Just ask him.

Why?!

Because. That way you get FORTY Million Dollars.

What!

20 from me—and $20 from him—

What the fuck! God!

—But! He's going to want a favor.

I ain't doing Satan any favors!

—just ask him; he'll do it—I'll handle the favor.

What the fuck…

Whatever he asks you to do, just come and tell me; I'll take care of it—

Take care of what?

We'll see. Then I'll give you twenty million dollars.

US Dollars?!

Are you sure you don't want KWD?

What is that?!

Too late! USD!

—AGH!

{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 synconocities 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; the highs and lows of falling in love, it's consequences, long days and nights, missed connections, lost and unrequited love—capturing overall the rock and roll darkness of the neo-moden dance music scene—moving about from world to world—night after night, song after song—bodies on bodies and the escapism of rave and dance floor culture, connected through the pulsating and throbbing heartbeats bridged by light waves, and spread across neon skies across the globe.

Featuring dearly beloved hit and dance classics alike from global and legendary super-artists and masters of the dance floor, deadmau5, Kaskade, kx5, Skrillex, Fred Again.., Claptone, and more—featuring new music by and mixed with heart & soul by underground swamp creature and ancient rave God ‘- Ū.' as she explores the outer realms of dance music pre-and-post existence in the guttural haze of the afterlife.

Oh yeah, i'm a big fan.

I doubt that.

No, I am.

No, you're not.

I am. One time: I almost spent $60-something dollars on a Covid test so I could get into your show.

Oh yeah.

Yeah. Then, I found out it was $60-something dollars with insurance —

$60 with insurance?

—Yeah— and like $150 without

Wow.

So I jut showed up anyway since I already had the ticket to see what would happen —

Why didn't you just get a covid shot?

I almost did—cause I heard they were giving them away for free—and I love free shit—

What is “free”?

Nothing. But when I got to the door, this blonde chick said if I gave her $10 she'd let me pass.

Just play along

You don't have to suffer

You're not in the wrong

Don't wait too long.

Just pretend you belong

Like it's your favorite song

And maybe someday

When all the beauty fades away,

We all grow old with time and age, you'll say

“I made it” and just fade away

Into a remix

And this is why I don't check Instagram

Often, anyway—

Play the game, pretend your famous

Don't change your name

It's too late for that shit

They'll try to blame you, the haters

But really it's all the same you

Even Jesus can't save you

From whatever you're about to go through

—just shuffle the album,

Plug up your ears real tight

So only the bass gets through

And your hate yourself

But there's nothing you can change today

Except you, so —

These days are crazy

But Everything's virtual

Unfuck The World

Sunni BLU

I'll see you at the end of another long bender

Head in a blender

Idk how did I get here

Back of a sprinter

In LA in the middle of winter

Right at the center

I am ok up on a stretcher!

All the stars are below me:

You don't even know me!

You will never be my homie

You'd be lucky just to blow me!

You reap what you sow, so

I guess i had it coming

Go Smoke a cigarette so your mouth'll stop running

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Oh yeah, i'm a big fan.

I doubt that.

No, I am.

No, you're not.

I am. One time: I almost spent $60-something dollars on a Covid test so I could get into your show.

Oh yeah.

Yeah. Then, I found out it was $60-something dollars with insurance —

$60 with insurance?

—Yeah— and like $150 without

Wow.

So I jut showed up anyway since I already had the ticket to see what would happen —

Why didn't you just get a covid shot?

I almost did—cause I heard they were giving them away for free—and I love free shit—

What is “free”?

Nothing. But when I got to the door, this blonde chick said if I gave her $10 she'd let me pass.

Just play along

You don't have to suffer

You're not in the wrong

Don't wait too long.

Just pretend you belong

Like it's your favorite song

And maybe someday

When all the beauty fades away,

We all grow old with time and age, you'll say

“I made it” and just fade away

Into a remix

And this is why I don't check Instagram

Often, anyway—

Play the game, pretend your famous

Don't change your name

It's too late for that shit

They'll try to blame you, the haters

But really it's all the same you

Even Jesus can't save you

From whatever you're about to go through

—just shuffle the album,

Plug up your ears real tight

So only the bass gets through

And your hate yourself

But there's nothing you can change today

Except you, so —

These days are crazy

But Everything's virtual

Unfuck The World

Sunni BLU

I'll see you at the end of another long bender

Head in a blender

Idk how did I get here

Back of a sprinter

In LA in the middle of winter

Right at the center

I am ok up on a stretcher!

All the stars are below me:

You don't even know me!

You will never be my homie

You'd be lucky just to blow me!

You reap what you sow, so

I guess i had it coming

Go Smoke a cigarette so your mouth'll stop running

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

“She's going through my bag.” I thought to myself– the warm running shower over the back of my neck returning me fully to my body; It had taken something like an hour to return to myself– still within and yet so far out of my body, that the twisting and turning cosmic purple light of my natural aura became all of me, as, whisked away through space and time, pushed and pulled through all of the trauma I had endured certainly over the last few years alone, but the entirety of my lifetime–it had all been part of something bigger and greater than I could have known–supposedly all in my control, and yet seemingly not-so at all.

I could feel her in the other room, checking my bag–she would find the sage that I had meant to burn in the bathroom during my shower, and yet had been in such a state that I only grabbed my clothes, unwilling to go to the gym: my honesty had again betrayed my own safety–earlier, my roommate asking where I had gone in the late night/early morning before, and my response, which was honest, only confirmed why I had come to the conclusion not once but many times that honesty will only ever hurt you —I had learned well and under the excruciating pain of reality that any vampire, vulture, or entity alone would take honesty as weakness, only to be used against you; I had reached the tipping point in being taken advantage of—I was hungry, owed money, and out of sorts—my new roommate was off in a number of ways, but I was no longer willing to be subjected to whatever experiment at wlll—I had for years been a test rat, my suicidal tendencies, notions, and ideations often vilified, but justifiable nonetheless.

‘I tell the truth!” , the words of Bibi Bourelly, of course one of many of Sonny's suspected lovers, rang in my ears sometimes, as I teetered on the grounds of morality in the under relms of poverty, where people as often as ever lied, stole, or otherwise continually broke more codes and societal expectations in order to get by, or even get ahead – “It's deep, but it ain't that deep.”--more words apparently by the “wise” Bibi, one of the handful of the always-priviliaged, raised-rich spoiled brats Sonny kept in his arsenal, himself a mere tool of the psychological torture which I was certain would eventually end my life, but certainly had halted my affinity for any career or ambition in music whatsoever anyway–not that I cared much for anything. I understood now that I was being controlled and manipulated at nearly every corner–sorted into the overall trash pile of other miserable and useless slaves and subhuman beings marked unfit, and of course–after whatever had happened with my former roommate, now had an increasingly irritating annoyance of the pestering new roommate, who was otherwise nice and sweet, but of course to the point of suspicion.

I had left my body long enough to think about anything and everything that night—and after the amount of wrong that I had endured, the meltdown bad been a longtime coming. I had been discarded as trash, thrown to the wolves, and completely abandoned by anyone and everyone but God itself, all other forms of love a sheer illusion—another form of attachment I had only learned to sever under the cruel injustice and inequality of the world. My body was merely a shell—all else formed around it a paradox.

My roommate often at random brought up events or subjects from my own past that I wished not to talk about, at first altering me to the notion that she may be some kind of therapist or psychologist–maybe even military. She claimed to be Japanese and also have lived in Germany for 20 years–sad herself to have been in the Homeless system for over four years, and “trapped” in the united states unable to work due to a lack of social security number; There were many things about her story I found off or strange and very odd–and so I knew never to trust her or anyone else for that matter– but it was the fact that she had brought up Shamanism first and foremost without me having so much as a word about anything, of course, coupled with the oddity that she would grind her teeth throughout the night as did my estranged ex husband and former roommate: a disease which I learned only affected 10-30% of the population in total: I suspected of course for the entire program to be some covert operation: The State was in fact, the same regime responsible for, just after the death of my son, fueled by lack of sleep from grief – tied me to a bed (though I had bee cooperative and non-violent) overdosed me involuntarily with a strange medication and allowed me to urinate myself, then lay for hours soaked in urine–and only after days of psychological abuse and torture, forcing me to talk to a Mormon Bishop, and sedating me with heavy doses of lithium— which deemed me unable to talk, move, or speak for several days–and caused me excruciating migraines—all for the sake of psychological experimentation. Of course, this was still The United States of America, a Globalist Republic– and of course, I was still a black woman–the most demonized, traumatized, criminalized existence on the face of the earth.

My new roommate had talked openly for days about being attacked by some kind of spirit or demon, which forced her to gain weight; a demonic type force that supposedly sat in her stomach for and implanted certain thoughts in the form of voice in her head– at the same time, she had been increasingly adamant that I never burn sage or palo santo–she had already proven herself to be a snitch, as in the early morning hours of my first morning as her roomate, the Operations team flooded in, opened my drawer, and of course confiscated my $8 sage stick, luckily overlooking the palo santo–she of course pretended not to have narced, but over the coming days would allow it to slip that she had indeed told the Operations team of the sage, which caused them to follow up and confiscate it.

I found Sage to be crucial to my protection and part of my religious sanctity: That anyhow, I had been made to eventually kill myself or fall prey to the system which would in any other way ensure that I was made to become ill by way of poor nutrition– The system failed to provide vegan or even vegetarian meals, and of course the same system made sure that my food benefits were handed out irregularly–I often had no money to eat at all, and just as well drifted into the memory of one of my last conversations with the host of the air bnb I had stayed at, who also seemed to have been on some kind of agenda–he had also constantly brought up things that I didn't want to talk about, consistently forcing conversations about race relations, the race war, how oppressed black people are, The White Supremacy, and other nightmarish perception-altering and overall negative assertions, leaving me with this:

“I had to steal food!”, he said, claiming having once been homeless himself–a story I neither wanted to hear or honestly belied. It had been long since I could trust anyone besides myself, but especially a man–not that color had much to do with it, besides of course my constantly being reminded that I was stuck black.

‘All the more reason not to care.' I thought, my apathy becoming an overriding factor.

I was starving–and though not quite in the actual stages of starvation, which I had staved off by eating genetically modified fruit over the last couple of days– which didn't appear to have any nutritional value at all and certainly didn't give my body any energy I could use, especially not to take the grueling one-hour ride to the dirty, overrun gym–which at least had a sauna and was 24 hours–but useless, as the sauna was closed during the overnight hours when I wanted to go, escaping my new roomates controlling habits, forceful talks equipped with code words and subliminal messages, the pesterance of being unable to cleanse the room with sage, and, of course — her almost nightmarish sensitivity to everything, which included light, the music in my headphones being too loud (so much so that I could hear the city noise over anything I could in my headphones, and of course made it impossible to work in ableton, as everything I did as she tried to sleep was “too loud”--even writing was forbidden, as I one had had been typing away at the 7th season's script and she asked that I not type at al– nor could I use my mixer, as the button pressing was “too loud”, and while most of my musical inspiration came at night, I could see that for whatever purpose, this person was being used to manipulate and control me once more- No burning sage, no making mixtapes, no typing…

“You have the whole day when I am gone, you can do whatever you want.”, she said

As if I myself didn't have things to do during the day–just getting to and from the gym taking stretches of precious time alone–of course met with another method of psychological torture– the constant drilling, hammering, and knocking about in the room directly above mine–which sometimes of course felt like being opened from the inside out, my synestesia poking holes in my sanity-and while that should have been enough of an excuse to spend all of my days at the gym–the gym itself had become a way for the system to control and manipulate my mind, for even as my body grew stronger, my mind grew weak and muddled being followed around by little white girls swinging their hair in my face, people coughing all around, and trash everywhere

I had fallen into a heap of despair, as the combination of the date alone, the research I had been doing, the work I wasn't getting done, the money I wasn't making, and the lack of nutrition set in–the night shift operations refusing to allow me to use the can opener, after I had left it atop the microwave and not “put it in his hands”-- a classic misogynistic, controlling black man, he always gave the residents a terrible attitude, but I had no reason myself to dislike him before this moment.

“I don't have to let you use the can opener.” He said.

My only food for days had come from the food bank, besies the free GMO-fruit the shelter sometimes handed out, which had been making me sick and lethargic; of course, because it had come from a food bank, they required a can-opener–as the luxury of a pop-top had rarely been afforded with such off-brand food, I might have considered myself blessed to have, if it weren't for the “no cans” rule at the shelter: Neither did they provide a kitchen to cook in, and so residents were expected to eat microwave TV-dinners–but of course, there were no vegan and vegetarian options, and even if there had been, I wasn't absolutely sure that I would trust by God to eat it, as the two microwaves buzzed for hours at a time to warm the food fed three-times daily to the zombie like residents, who I sometimes observed in passing on my way in or out of the shelter.

“This is my only food.”, I balked.

“That's not my problem!” he said.

“My food stamps aren't coming regularly: I got this at the food bank and it's the only food I have.”, I explained.

“SO?!” He said “You're not even supposed to have that on the premises.”

“I know.” , I said. “But it's the only food I have.”

The system had been so inconsistent with my food benefits that I never could expect when I would be able to eat again, or for how long–it seemed it was all a sham to force me into the mental health system. I was malnourished, lethargic, and still injured from the fight I had been in just weeks earlier.

“That's not my problem.” He scoffed.

“So I can't use the can opener?” I asked.

He just ignored me, shrugging.

On any other day, i might have just brushed it off–but on this night in particular, hunger forged a deep tear into my soul, the weight of all I had been through plummeting down into one nearly-fatal blow – the man was arrogant as always but on this particular night seemed increasingly evil.

“Yo, this is fucked up! I can't survive on only bananas and you don't have any Vegan options: my food stamps don't come regularly and I can't eat! This is FUCKED UP.”

Even with all I had been through, I had realized I barely blew up–though far from an actual saint, I had been gifted with at least the patience of one, really only ever doomed to explode after a buildup–and it had been months of being what seemed like strategically terrorized: my fight delayed, keeping me trapped in the United States, prone to corporate slavery and no privacy at all, my bills outweighing any income I had the ability to make, trapped inside of my too-fat, too-black body for too long, and of course, being tormented by Skrillex, trapped in the homeless system, hazed by White Supremacists, blacklisted by Insomniac, and sent into an otherwise chaotic and segregated world from which I did not come from–i had been bullied, physically attacked, made to fight, consistently followed and of course, ever-presently chronically reminded of an abusive marriage which had left me homeless, mourning and grieving two dead children, and estranged from the third–who had in the care of his father become morbidly obese, subject to neglect, and unaware of my presense–let alone the love I had for him left–the only love I really had for anything anymore–and not that it mattered; I could not afford to care for him, or myself–and had become uncomfortably numb, sober, cellibate, and brainwashed enough to have once believed that I could succeed in entertainment–though, as it turned out– I had just been another useless subject of mass manipulation, predictive programming, human experimentation, and psychological terrorism– my life, among many didn't matter. I had been deemed useless, and doomed to be discarded at the age of 30.

My suspicions had been confirmed; As I had collapsed into a heap of flesh, returning to the room in hunger and fury and throwing the three cans of vegetables to the ground, tears gushed from my eyes as I considerably died in more ways than one, over and over– overcome by the years of torture I had endured from the system itself, for whatever reason, and of course, a breakdown I would have otherwise avoided entirely, had my annoying roommate not earlier reminded me “Is it the 23rd?” and it was indeed the 23rd of May, the anniversary of my son's passing – he would have been 7 or 8, but I had lost count, attempting to erase the memory of my broken, fucked up world. To think, in another world I may have had 7 or 8 year old twins and a husband–which was in fact, all that I even wanted to begin with in the first place; I had given up my dreams of being a household name–a broadway actress, a television star, a world-class musician–I had given up my own dreams long ago.

I left my body entirely, curling into a huddled ball in the workchair, tucking my head between my legs and under the desk, my arms in a tight grip underneath my knees–my mind racing and soul ripping from its capsule, hovering above my body and enamored that I had become thin enough to fall into such a position, as if bracing for impact in a plane crash; and suddenly, there I was–all at once, in-and-out of body

“Brace for Impact!”

The plane crash, of course – and all the other scenes I had yet to write playing over and over in my head– the stories of my innermost imagination shattering and spread across the starlit sky which I became in a fuchsia purple wisp, space and time forming around me–I was neither dead nor alive, and though I could still feel my abdomen firmly pressed against my thighs, I was so far outside of and above it looking down at it, completely gone–and though I could feel myself still breathing shallow, hollow breaths, I could no longer feel the weight of the anger, the sting of the hunger, or the grip of evil around my neck.

It was indeed a Holy War–constantly haunted by memories of a past I only wished to forget, followed and prodded by soldiers of an unknown force–military? CIA? I didn't know , but it was certain that I was being watched and studied, my psychic inclinations and seemingly supernatural gifts becoming exploited and exposed throughout my entire life; My roomate had initiated too many conversations that just so eerily suggested that indeed, she too, had been marked with a task– collecting information about my psyche, living habits, preferences, diet, and, of course–history–and though she seemed kind enough and did have brown eyes, i would probably never trust another human being again.

She rubbed my back as I sat, still rolled into a fetal position and weeping, for the time having been unable to move; as she stroked my back and rubbed my hair, half dredlocked and th usually shaven side overgrown into a curly patch on my head, I began to feel the soothing touch of another human being for the first time in years–as I had realized only days before on the subway, squeezed so tightly between two other people during rush hour transit that I could feel them both breathing–i noticed the remarkable truth that I had not been loved or touched in so long that this, being squeezed between two breathing humans, was somewhat soothing–and as I breathed myself heavily in and out, I began to return to my miserable body, in the less-than-miserable room we shared, but not so happily that I would ever become comfortable or call it home. I needed space, but couldn't seem to speak– I returned slowly to consciousness as the tension in my back arose to it's normal pressure, as I lifted my head, my neck clicking from the injury from the fightt.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I didn't, but i could barely stand to move my head, and I was, indeed “Barely Breathing”, which I noticed, and seemed to have to cry a little bit more, and a little bit harder after a brief moment thinking about Dillon Francis, and though as I had left my body for quite some time and sat scattered across in all the remains of what might have been pieces of The Festival Project I had written for him, or even in the very least which had been so inspired by–a dark crevice had opened up into a black void, which seemed to occupy the space where my soul had once been, and any of the feelings I had kept there with him–For indeed, I had returned to my body, however, part of me was long gone– and I knew I had indeed faced another spiritual death, cast somehow just in a moment into yet another, even deeper realm of the afterlife, with nothing left to do to submit to it.

“I'm probably going to kill myself by summer!” , Alex said–and for some reason her words rattled around in my brain superimposed as some sort of code which probably meant: You're going to kill yourself by summer.

It felt true, and though I hadn't been pressed so hard against the doors of suicide, my mind had often drifted to a place of remorse for all that had happened- perhaps I was indeed trapped in a shamanic stronghold–and though I myself had been for some time equipped with healing powers, I had been reluctant to use black or Satanic magic to fight whatever had been the cause of my consistent homelessness, isolation, financial ruin, intense hunger– and foraged bitterness towards whatever external forces that seemed to rule over every entirety of my existence; I had been pulled apart, tortured, tormented, and disfigured in such a way that I wished not to live in the greedy, materialistic money-driven world anyhow.

One of the napkins I had balled up and tossed into the Whole Foods bag that my roomate had held out for me the night before had been placed in my backpack, atop the bag where I kept the sage I had replaced and had been hiding and two pieces of palo santo–I didn't care so much as what the punishment would be and had chosen religiously to keep protecting myself, and though my freedom had been threatened,

“They'll take you a worse shelter!”, my roomate had yelled, after interrogating me about “smoking” in the room— and, not that I would have allowed her to know, I conceded that in the event I was moved to an even worse shelter, I would simply jump in front of a train or from somewhere high up enough that I knew death was imminent, as so many had before and did each day: there wasn't anything worth living for anyway, and I had given up the fight entirely. The Festial Project was a mockery–Skrillex had been used to terrorize me, and Dillon Francis was no different–there was nothing and no one in the world that I could trust, who would ever understand me. But, I kept waking up in my horrible, miserable body–unloved and unwell, and so at the very least, kept burning my sage, saying my prayers, and wishing something would change–though according to the book I had been reading, slaves such as myself were raised to be disposed of at the age of 30.

“In that case…”

I had used the modest amount of money I had earned to restart my podcast subscription, knowing that it would be on a limited basis: I wasn't making any money, and was still being followed around by demons–which the book stated, were used to control and manipulate my existence at every turn, and it seemed that the Hell that I had been in for years was entirely inescapable, anyway.

I had felt that she would use my downtime as I showered and continued to return to my body to check my bags–leaving behind the balled up napkin as a passive aggressive tactic to let me know that she was aware that I had obstinately lied–

But if there was one thing I had learned, is that in the Hell I had been born into and pulled through for 30 years, is that honesty will only hurt you–something someone pretty, rich, and privileged like Bibi Bourelly, Sonny Moore, or even Dillon Francis would never understand–or perhaps, for at least the latter two, being men of great influence and power–knew all-too well.

Well enough, at least.

‘This means that they will be locked up in a crazy house for the rest of their life. Rather than be put in straight-jackets with other crazy people it would be better for the person to commit suicide.'

‘twice the normal dose of two kinds of lithium carbonate to put her into a lethargic stupor'

‘The programmers are very careful to have heart monitors on the victim, and to have paddles ready to revive the body. ‘

‘Dissociation is used as a defense to protect a person from overwhelming pain and trauma. It is a natural ability of the brain. Hypnosis or hypnotic trance is a form of dissociation. There are a number of types of dissociation: amnesia, somnambulistic states, localized paralyses, anaesthesias, and hallucinations. Hypnosis can reproduce all of these dissociative states. The mind naturally hypnotizes itself under various conditions.

Hypnosis is a valuable tool to move the mind to different neurophysiological states and to get the mind to different levels of the subconscious mind. Hypnosis can also play a role in working around amnesia, since both are types of dissociation. Hyperventilation helps a person induct into a hypnotic trance. Torture, depersonalization, fear and acute anxiety stimulate the body to hyperventilate.

Common objects in a person's life that can be hypnotically given a programming meaning include music, tones, colors, the sight of a book or Bible, the pyramid on the back of a dollar bill, pictures of God, silk scarfs, jewelry, lights,

93

sounds, TV programs, and countless other things. The limit to this is simply the programmer's creativity.

A common hypnotic device for washing away pain is running water.

MK Ultra Subproject 128

Delta - This is a Greek letter shaped like a triangle which symbolizes change in calculus. It has become a favorite word to use in naming things for the occult elite. Delta teams are 4 person assassination teams which usually are secret teams. Delta Forces is an elite unit that operates under the Joint chiefs of staff that is made up of highly trained total mind-controlled slaves. Delta models are slaves whose sole purpose is assassination. Delta alters are alters within an Illuminati alter system which are programmed to be assassins. These alters are often some of the deepest in a system and in a Genie bottle or with Umbrella programming.

SETH MEYERS is under contractual obligation by the NBC conglomerate to assist in gang stalking SUPACREE to shift her into the dimension where she is a writer/comedian.

9 minute drive—56 minute bus ride.

How'd you know I'd take this bus?

We always know.

Who is “we”

Oh, you know.

No, I don't.

Exactly.

Illuminati—confirmed—

You're not supposed to say it.

Say what?

Exactly.

SETH produces a bundle of letters, fanning them out like a deck of cards.

I thought you were a pyrophobe.

Where did you get those?!

Where do you think?!

…iluminati confirmed.

Wish granted.

—wait, which wish?

[He unfolds a one dollar bill and tugs twice at both ends.]

Or—which—witch.

[SETH MEYERS dissipates into JIMMY FALLON]

OH—UNH—UH!

MWAHAHA!

Oh *censorred* no.

I'll see you, my pretty!

Ew!

*dissappears*

[In a whisp of embers and ashes, he dissipates into smoke—the one dollar bill floats perfectly into her hands; it reads S U P A C R E E.]

Aw, *fuck this*

Find the song: throw it up —throw it up—.

AMY PEOL— AND TINA FEY APPEAE LITERALLY OUT OF NOWHERE.

*cencorred* the *censorred*

Don't worry! We'll be here to guide you!

What! For what!

We're your fairies!

You're not fairies!

I'm fairy drunk. *hiccups*

Youre not fairies! You're actors; and you smell drunk. Jesus.

Actually—in a fairy close parallel dimension

—okay, that's enough_

We are fairies!

Huh?!

—but in this one—

[they poof into witches]

We're just witches!

Uhh—

It's a coven!

No—noo—

I made all that up!

We know!

Now it's true!

Woah—*censored* that *censored*

“Sonofabitch!”

The bus I was making my way to crossed the intersection a block away—and I *farted towards it, lunging at full speed—

Lol okay

*darted towards it, lunging at full speed.

It had been a rough two days with nearly only coffee and no water at all, besides the ice I had melted down from the machine to make my coffee, which I hid in the closet to keep from being confiscated again—I felt like I needed coffee to breathe,

If I don't do it;

You gon do it for me—

That's a promise

I'm a honest to God monster

A Gobstopper: I'm non stop

In this mo'fucker like a direct flight

I just might decide to glide into hiding;

A hiatus;

I ain't right,

I ain't white either,

I scythe, ether—a slice, sprite?

Neither;

I drink water, like weeds, Peter,

Or Padre—a gardener on your lawn

I beg pardon, your honor

But a dollar in Oaxaca keep the lights on

And I'm homeless,

So build the damn wall,

—And some more homes,

Brick and Mortar,

Old world's out of order

Oh! It's yelawplf

What

Throw it up

God answered my question via YouTube with a less than 24 hour turnaround time.

DAVID SPADE

Oh, it's this guy again.

DAVID SPADE

…

That's his name?

I— guess— wait

Well, that's the set, right?

Looks like it

…

I thought it was SETH GREENE

— o, I'm Seth Greene

Are you sure.

Yes.

FUCK

What.

I forgot something

Martini?

Fuck, yea please.

Really?

At this point—

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

KASKADE enters obnoxiously.

KASKADE

YO.

MAN. FUCK YOU, KASKADE.

KASKADE

[WATCH YOUR] LANGUAGE

MAN, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

KASKADE

GET UP—

FUCK OFF, KASKADE.

KASKADE

—And get dressed.

I'm already dressed.

[beat]

KASKADE

You call that dressed?

—I'm not naked.

KASKADE

Yeah, but you're not dressed.

Fuck you, dude.

What did you do.

I TOLD you not to play this song.

I WASNT PLAYING. I was LISTENING.

What's the difference!

SUBWOOFERS.

Agh. Christ.

What is it, now.

The Mormons are right.

About what now?

I said DRESSED that's not dressed!

What! I'm dressed!

Dressed!

This is dressed—

dressed: that means: suit and tie!

Suit and Tie?! I'm a girl!

Yeah—Not tonight.

“Not tonight”. What the fuck's that mean, Kaskade.

You're a guy.

—no.

[cut to]

SUPACREE is dressed as SUNNI BLŪ.

You look nice.

I hate you.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

It's all history from here

Whatever that means.

I awoke with a song in my head, not my own, though—and the “fuck-you”s that came with it—an since I couldn't do anything but sit there and simmer in my boiling self hatred for even knowing the song, and the strangeness of the last night's dream still looming, which certainly hadn't been bad, but altogether strange—of course, the writer of the song still to often on my mind to find any comfort, a stiff and empty sadness sitting in my lap—and though my roommate was still asleep, it was already decided that another mixtape was at the top of the day's to-do list.

Really I've been up all night

Might look like i'm lying down,

But it's a lie

If I go outside I might

Burn in the light

But all I need is fire—

And your love tonight

[[FAME SCHOOL MUSICAL]]

—(goodbye, Dillon Francis/ The Ghost Of Dillon Francis)

Mixes for my Exes

35-1 [[Teacher, Teacher]]

I feel a shrivel up my spine—

A shriek, or a whisper, a wail

Lost in time,

There you are;

Strike a pose—

Do you know who I am?

A poser—

A fraud;

A loser;

I lost you

There you are, after all

I'll be there after

What the fuck, man.

Idk. Kx5

Do you every think about all your options?

no.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Although I hadn't realized it at first, after that fight I wasn't the same, and though I somewhat quickly recovered morally, howeve somewhat defeated in the sense that my roommate did seem to have been overtaken my some demonic possession, perhaps even the devil himself as I knew it—as it didn't seem at as all provoking the situation as it had all turned out—and though I had won the fight, my soul had been thrashed about; what was it about my aura, or the soul itself that

such a demon would continue to chase me? She had bitten me, enough to have left a bruise and actual bite marks reaching well below the skin, as it seemed her grinding teeth had torn into the muscle, but not quite broken the skin—and as she had attempted to crush my windpipe, digging into the skin of my neck, which had left a haunting bruise remarkably similar to the injury my ex husband had given me, leaving my throat sore and my windpipe somewhat crushed— luckily, not enough so that it hurt my vocal chords, which I carefully rested, as with the rest of my body…and though I had meant to return to training in the gym only one day-post battle, it had taken a striking four days of rest to recover, returning on the fifth day to a trial membership to a gym which included a sauna in downtown Brooklyn; I wished I would die, and wanted nothing more once again than for my life to end, and without means to such an end I had crawled into a deep depression—I had at the very least been making music, which was fulfilling, but not entirely lucrative—the fallbacks of being submerged the lower income black community being owed money and undermined as an artist —or person, in general— Of course, societally expected to return to work as a corporate slave, which I outright refused—I'd rather die, and hoped I soon would; I hated being black, being around such stereotypically ghetto people constantly, and having to adhere to the stereotypically black standard of living; a result of the Eurocentric corporate greed and still entirely racial society, materialism and of course ignorance—and though something in me was pushing forward to succeed, another part of me wanted to just lay down and die.

I could no longer frequent a decent gym, or afford to look like a decent female—I wantdered about in tattered clothes, boarding busses and trains without being able to pay fare and praying for an understanding driver or lack of traffic patrol policemen—the only place I may have even considered taking employment would have been Equinox, if not just for the free membership—and the more I thought about rejoining corporate slavery, the more I thought about how there would be no time or energy left at all for making music or being a DJ; I was already becoming empathically, just as sic, tired and miserable as everyone else around me was, and therefore would not return to regular work; I chose instead to be slowly killed by the system, which seemed to be the only place for me—and I assumed just to spite me the winner of the discovery project would be a younger, hotter black female albeit with less talent but more marketable, the blue eyes of the world turning more quickly into demons than the black faces I was constantly surrounded by, and yet, still God sat on my shoulder in every since as a guiding force, though the light seemed otherwise overcome by shadows, I knew peace freedom now would either come from music or from death, either of which was welcome, as love seemed forbidden and out of sight entirely.

So I fell into a deep depression

With nothin left to learn but lessons

Devil still won't let up, but it's nothin

I don't got not love to love left

Basic ass bitches

With Marc jacobs tote bags

Nothing is random

I just don't care to be bad no more

I don't care no,

I just don't care about

Nothing

Glad I'm not as black as you

Matter of fact

Can't pass the paper bag test if I had to.

Then again I could really flex.

And encore the magician

Just to get rid of you

All that you do

Just to put me through bullshit

And drag me through hell with you

Has to come back to you.

Nothing to make me feel better

No one to love me no more

Nowhere to run

It was the longest train ride possibly ever, and I couldn't seem to write, besides a few lines of what seemed ünextraordinary– and though I had work to do up to and out of my eyeballs, I was tired, angry, and drained. I knew it was only in my mind that I had been bitten by an actual vampire, there still seemed the remnants of some satanic curse lying about; the stench of the iron my estranged ex-husband used to perspire emu sting from the bodies around me; the subtle smell of cat piss in places I would frequent, and worst of all—not one, but two roommates with excruciating bruxism, which I concluded absolutely altogether could not be circumstance or coincidence if there ever were such either thing, but the result of black magic—and though I had cast 8 explicitly specific spells over the last week or so, two of them as a means of protection from such darkness and chaos, and the other six had been with the intention of well-being and health in mind; a new perspective and state of mind, an aura of success, focus, and accomplishment—and of course, more protection, as the uncanny befuckery of my ex seemed to follow me everywhere for whatever reason. I had been increasingly miserable and lonely because of it—the literal knockdown drag out brawl that had resulted in the almost exact injuries inflicted by my ex during our very last scuffle had left me excessively and astonishingly bitter towards all males, but especially black ones, often appearing more violent and possessive than most, and the white ones who trailed behind little skinny white girls like lost dumb puppies were no better—and this included Dillon Francis, now sitting atop my shot list with his disgustingly blue eyed girlfriend or whoever she was at the forefront of all the remnants I had left of whatever goodness I did have left for him—and as it turned out, as strongly as I ended up feeling for him even only having existed entirely in a world of magic, lucid dreams, and paycheck or paychotix inclinations—it turned out I would be just as outwardly spiteful of the creature, which I'm sure had been the entire purpose of whatever demon or devil had possessed my roommate in the first place—

Her eyes had turned red with fury as she scratched and clawed at me and though I had done well to held her at bay, and although my tone at the gym was clear paying off, the element if suprise and the heavy dinner I had met with the adrinaline of the moment had indeed kept me calm, never with any intention to harm my assailant, but to keep her from harming me, all the while maintaining the safety of my electronics—my Laptop, which had been sitting open on my nightstand as I frittered around in Ableton, my MPC and audio interface, which sat just beneath in the shelf below, and of course, my decks themselves, still laid open atop the dresser, as I had only just earlier in the night finished another hour long mix, and though I had begun that mix using the song I had released and forgotten about entirely—the banana bread it had inspired me to purchase say warmly in my very full stomach as I pinned my Satan possessed roommate to the floor in a deadlock, dragging her across the room still pinned and reaching for the door, opening it and yelling for Security to subdue the attack as she screamed and fought frantically, biting at my hand like an aligator, jaws clenching shut with unweilding grip just before I placed a swift hand on her neck, turning her like a rabid dog a wrestling my arm around her neck as she clawed at mine; the heat of the moment had itself kept me from feeling any pain besides the bite on my left hand, which itself at the time less hurt than startled me—but upon waking the next day, the bite marks throbbed with heat and ache, the c-shape of her overbite carved into the crescent moon shape on my left hand between my thumb and index, there the “meat” was, so to speak—the scratch marks from her nails stinging on either side of my infinity tattoo, and in the middle of my neck—my windpipe bruised and sore as I had just recovered from a severe flu—or having just had my tonsils removed, still painful to swallow, and fearful that I might not sing—luckily, I still could, however—something was shaken in my soul, and, even more strangely as the struggle came to an end, with my roommate pretending that I had initiated the attack, just as the security guard Slolemnedned waddling in confusedly, my roommate, still wild and rabid, darted under my bed, grabbing the smooth Obsidian stone I had held for sometime Sonny and had used since obtaining it as a prayer stone to wash away whatever curse had come over whatever world we shared—and while my mind became focused on ensuring she wouldn't attack and damage my expensive DJ equipment, upon removing my things from the room I double and triple checked to ensure that the stone is what she was indeed after—and in fact it was. She had taken Sonny's Obsidian for whatever reason, which I had been taking great distance from anyhow, and I chose to see it as a blessing and sign of good things to come.

Whatever, you're fucked.

I know, huh.

You're so fucked.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

*Slaps with t-bone steak*

ITS SO NICE TO MEAT YOU.

Get outta my peripheral;

I told you— I'm an alien!

Go somewhere I can't see you

(So I can keep invading)

We came in peace—

—until we realized you don't have it here

Get out of my peripheral

I don't want to see you

So what if it's over

Better not hover

Over me

Like a helicopter

Like a helicopter

Now the (t)rain comes

With a rumble

Here we all are

In the jungle

As we all were

Always

I saw you

Calling

I never wonder

When the world is under water

Cause it all just starts again;

The wars and all the murder

All you are was

Just a part of

This maginificent disaster

I'm gonna go for dinner;

Maybe I can call you after

She left

Makeup and hair color on the pillowcases

But no lipstick

—Just a reminder

I don't give a shit

About your girlfriend;

Better do the laundry after

If you're smarter

Than I was

Cause I walk

Home alone

And there you are

Holding her

Lights on;

Knock my lights out

I'll be right back—

But that was about a half-hour or so, ago and now I'm

About to black out

A night owl,

Or white owl,

Who cried out

“No, this is my house!—

Either sit down, or get out of it”

And that was the—

Fuck this bitch.

Who hired her?

You'll stay in this room with the subject for up to three months;

—okay.

Record everything.

Isn't this illegal?

Not for us.

Okay.

There's something you should know about before I tell you think.

I have to know something before you tel me something?

It's like a precursor.

What's a “precursor”

Fuck.

What:

Nothing.

What is it.

It's—nothing—

You can't just say “fuxk”

“FUCK.”

UGH.

If I fall,

The whole house will fall down with me;

I promise

The whole house and all the walls,

If I fall,

If I fall for you

I promise,

If it goes all wrong,

I won't wait long for you;

I'd ask the same, that is,

If the game we're playing

Was all the same,

But it isn't

(It really isn't)

It really isn't—

Another circumstance of wisdom

Or conincidental t-shirt to believe in

God makes guesses at the aftersoutht androgynous.

We could make love for hours in the silence

But I'd have to wander off, when morning comes

Before you recon you don't want me

And I'm sad and always wondering

“If I had left witha my stuff before the Sun came up,

Would I be struggling and suffering?”

No, probably not.

Probably not, huh

I promise

Rich and shameless,

I probably shouldn't say this,

But I've been drinking;

I've been thinking

I've been sinking into feelings

I don't need,

But actually

—

Look at me when I'm bleeding for you

Look at me!

Look at me, into my dreams when you leave me

Waking up lonely

Thinking of only

You

Until I remember

I'm here

And you're there

With her

Watch me while I whiter away,

I'll watch you while you slither up my leg

And bite my thigh

Just how I like it

Now I'm high again on dying

It ain't right,

But fuck,

I like it

Fuck me like you mean it

Fuck me right

Ugh. What.

Okay, I secretly might break my veganism streak

Just for a fresh ass strawberry frosty—

Like I need to lose another dollar,

Fuck it

That's it.

It's a sickness.

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 synconocities 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; the highs and lows of falling in love, it's consequences, long days and nights, missed connections, lost and unrequited love—capturing overall the rock and roll darkness of the neo-moden dance music scene—moving about from world to world—night after night, song after song—bodies on bodies and the escapism of rave and dance floor culture, connected through the pulsating and throbbing heartbeats bridged by light waves, and spread across neon skies across the globe.

Featuring dearly beloved hit and dance classics alike from global and legendary super-artists and masters of the dance floor, deadmau5, Kaskade, kx5, Skrillex, Fred Again.., Claptone, and more—featuring new music by and mixed with heart & soul by underground swamp creature and ancient rave God ‘- Ū.' as she explores the outer realms of dance music pre-and-post existence in the guttural haze of the afterlife.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Just the thought of it was making my stomach churn–and though I was far off the thought or hope of stardom, especially from that of The Festival Project, there was something pulling me towards it; I had been planning to watch at least one episode of Drake and Josh with the hopes of any inspiration whatsoever to pull through connecting all of the dots and plotholes of seasons 6 and 7 of Enter The Multiverse–however, something low and deep inside of me had been stricken with such grief in the aftermath of the chaotic twists and turns of the past 3 months that my heart began to hurt, my stomach bubbled into knots, and the sick and twisted feeling of impending doom sat at the helm of my throat, still aching and sore from the grips of what might have been a demon, or something even far more sinister–and this was no different. This was the gripping hands of the Illuminati itself–the organization which had left its very own mark in every fibre of my being, programming that would otherwise appeal to the greater masses–and though I was sure I was being punished for all of the silly and whimsical things I had done as a child, it had been a torturous adulthood otherwise- I could for certain never be trusted, by man or any other creature, and had likely been marked for death, presumably slow and sure–still dancing with the thought of a quick though never-painless suicide, conquored by the lower realms of another world, unseen by those I merely dreamt about and ever hoped to be alike.

“Fuck, I'm sad.”

I had finally eaten, which did feel better–though I hadn't managed to return to the gym as I had planned–I had at least gotten some work done, not that it made a difference or any dent in the massive workload I had myself compiled to do–but it at the very least was done and over with, and one-less worry on my mind–but I was worried. Filled with stress and anxiety, I wondered how I might escape the penniless nightmare I had once again found myself in–this time, unable to even look for work, as it seemed something in my entirety was bound to reject such expectations, even under such sufferable circumstances–my hair in shambles, forming dreadlocks, my clothes falling away into rags–and of course, my bills overdue and unpaid.

Everything I happened to do seemed like a waste of time and money, mine–or anyone elses, and I had been restricted just out of sheer fear and financial restraint to never even visit Manhattan, seeming to always end up stuck long enough that I became irritable. Still, no minimum wage job seemed worth showing up simply to hate myself and everyone else I would possibly interact with in an eight-hour time span for literally nothing in comparison to whatever corporation or employer's profit margin might have been. The Bloomberg's list of billionaires had ruined my entire drive to make anything less than at least one million dollars– which still seemed a small amount, and it was that or nothing at all, which I would have been happy to die at literally any moment having.

I thought of suicide

For the second time since

I opened my eyes

Why, what a wold world

What wild times

Why am I even alive,

(If I am?)

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.