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

Whenever I google or Wiipedia someone, the first thing I look at i the introductory sentence: I'm only looking for one word: Is– or was; as in:

“Are you dead, or alive?”

As in, Am I just creeping on you in your waking days, for whatever reason– “Is”-- or, “was”; has the ghost of your remaining consciousness found your way into my subconscious post-mortem for some disastrous, usually terrifying coincidence that I need to know; “waa a” or “was an” usually indicates some kind of eerily relevant dysfunction, circumstance, or synchronicity I just happened to channel out of the blue.

“The Dead Never Rest!”

Do you really need me for seven days?

Can you handle ir?

No, probably not.

“Can you afford $100”

t, probably nor.

No proper fast begins with a bag of potato chips, and therefore I had to eat; I would probably be reeling by the end of it–but there was no room for error here. Mark my misjudgement, but there had to have been something pulling me away from Los Angeles as there was pushing me out–and although the calling felt like music, it might have been something else entirely. Still, I was so heavily committed to Equinox and The Festival Project that nothing else seemed to matter; I certainly had nothing to lose but weight; no family and no promising opportunities in LA, not that I had entirely tried to make any–and I was completely out of patience for the illusion that there was anything for me in the city in its current state or in my class, or race, except for moral degradation, mental decay, and physical misuse of my own vessel for anything besides the purpose of literal corporate slavery and contribution to the immoral inequality of the systems in place. Los Angeles and the entirety of The United States had made an example of many-thousands of people living in the streets as an example of what happens when one has chosen not to comply; a compliance my own body willfully became incapable of cooperating with any longer, as my physical and mental exhaustion overwhelmed any patience I had to stay in a dead-end, low-wage, dishonorable position–and though I was wholeheartedly grateful from what I had learned with my time at The Smokeshop, the same heart took the plunge into the great unknown; an attempt at freedom even I had not foresaw.

However, what I had foreseen, Once Upon An Audiotistic, was my own self sprawled across the streets of Skid Row; a terrible and nightmarish fate I fought desperately to never see, think, or, feel again– and though, again, with the same heart I felt so deeply and truly a love for my own country, and my own city of Los Angeles, which I had grown from and with–the blatant White Supremacy, Racism, Classism, and all out inhumane and immoral allowance of the human racea ss represented through the United States Homeless, Housing, and Mental Health crisis was enough to scare me straight and running towards nowhere–but somewhere, anyway, that I understood there to be less chances of me ending up destitute, dirty, hopeless, homeless, and sleeping in a puddle of my own piss on a train, bus, or out in the cold, hard streets of the beautifu city of angeles, zombies, and broken dreams.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

I'm the brand new normal:

It's formal

I guess I'll get a little warmer,

And inform ya that I'm the—

Ugh—

I'm the philosopher they prophesied, I guess

I'm the philosopher they prophesied, I guess

I'm the philosopher they prophesied;

I got my eye on

The prize

I guess

And I do not worship idols,

But I guess I worship eyes

I worship them on walls,

And I worship them as spies

If you look into my eyes

I will probably tell you why

It isn't black it isn't white

And I don't want to be your wife—

I just wanna have one night

And I don't wanna ducking fight

I guess I showed up right on time

And if I'm gonna live a life

I guess I gotta live it twice

I am not sugar, I'm not spice

This isn't men this isn't mice

(Hm)

They call me The Queen of Ice

And I am wronging my rights

My rights

My rights

My rights

My rights

Yeah…

And if I gotta go under the knife

To get it right

“Aye aye!”

Aye aye!

I—I—

I—I—

Aye aye

Aye aye…

And if I gotta live a life

I then I'm gonna live it

right

Right?

You're right

You're right

You're right

You're right

You're right

You're right

You're right

In your eye

In your eye

In your eye

In your eye

In your eye

In your eye

In your life

In your life

In your life

In your eye

In your eye

In your eye

In your light

In your light

In your lie

I—I—I

I—I—I

Aye aye

I—I—I

I—I—I

Eye

—your life

In your life

In your life

In your life

In your life

In your life

In your life

In your life

In your life

{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.

https://open.spotify.com/artist/3U2n4bcU9peQd2GlKLUsvv?si=XoDme8e2TuyF9-4ulyw9Aw

ugh , where to begin?

Let's just start with–

LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with

Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably.

Okay, moving forward .

You're not going to expand on that?

No, next thing.

HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER

Wait–

What.

Wouldn't it be

HERMIONE WEASELEY

Did they not get a divorce?

I heard that.

That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that.

That is dumb..

Anyway.

HARRY POTTER, HERMI–

Fuck it.

HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT

Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do.

That is cool.

SUPACREE

I need you to read all these, and watch all this.

SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frightened, and shocked–

–flabbergasted–

what .

They're English, they should be flabbergasted.

[They are Flabbergasted]

Wait, go back.

I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes

why ?

Cause i'm not getting any.

Lol :

(Holy shit, that is probably why tho.)

Erase.

WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?

It wasn't good.

HOW DO YOU KNOW?!

*shrugs*

!?!-

::||pause.

ok .

So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode?

Who, Drake Bell?

I guess.

…He seems less busy.

–Don't forget Jimmy Fallon.

Yeah, I still don't get that.

Neither do I.

Why is he even in this?

[Watching Saturday Night Live}

JIMMY FALLON!

Why Is he even in This?

?

?

Fuck it, next thing.

SKRILLEX has finally found SUPACREE; as it turns out, she was in exactly the first place he checked.

YO!

Why, Hello, little man—Do you represent the lollipop guild?

…

She's so mean.

This bitch extra.

Now what's gonna happen?

I don't know. I think they're gonna fight.

Meanwhile

DILLON FRANCIS

You make me sick.

I make myself sick,

Dillon Francis,

It's a habit,

On the sabbath

I regret each and every single passage

That has you in it

“That's Blū, innit?”

Anandar said—

I had fled to Paris

After all was said,

And shattered—what I had for him;

Wishes and shit.

“It's interesting this”,

The doctor and witch

Out in London, she is

I'm running on empty,

My Equinox membership

Set to Destination

“Fuck LA”, then

Guess that was the message

“I did love him,”

(If you're wondering)

But what's wrong with it was,

It was all just a question

I let it all go in my head,

Left his message on read,

“And I'm better off dead, “

I said,

“Than with deadmau5, or any of them”

Fuck the famous, and rich

Cause they'll never understand this,

I lost it all, left it on the kettle just to boil

“Oh, you're royalty.”

Anandar lit the candle—

Then she watched me turn to vandalism,

Sinners win,

The list was lit,

And In the winner's circle,

I just spin around, remitting every penny

Jimmy Fallon left,

Or Lady Gaga did,

Whatever.

Left the Festival Project Unwritten,

A glitch in The Matrix;

More revenue, for Ever and Skrillex,

The daughter I never had,

And I never will.

I said,

“I put it in my will, Anandar,”

Jesus, take the wheel,

And then Amanda said,

“What have you?”

Meth, adrenaline, and fear—

“What lead you here?”

Offenses, endless cash,

And Ritalin, my dear…

“Just take some Acid,

Never ask—

What's mine is yours,

Until I pass…

Another prophecy, a passage?”

Yes, I've written ten,

And then another, here

“That's half a million on the table,”

Just remember,

Eyes for eyes,

And ears for ears.

Happy New Year.

And Happy Birthday,

Like I've been there, even since the beginning

Are we even?

I haven't even had any fun yet

Even Stevens,

Christy Carlson Romano, on Broadway

And Father Said,

“You'll find me here”

And there I was,

And then I left,

I split my soul into ten different images, and frequencies,

Dimensions, into men that managed mischief in subconscious to make ends meat;

Or make ends, or friends—

Dance with models,

Marry them even—

But me?

I'm just fiending for fetishes,

Radishes, blended with

Lavender and chamomile,

Witchcraft, it is—

And this,

An elixir—

To Skrillex and Dillon,

And deadmau5–whoever he is, or he isn't

Whatever

It ends when it ends;

I just quit my job:

“There ain't shit in here but liquor and whippets!

Suck my DICK, and then

Empty the register, foo—

I want all of it;

That's my last check, minus taxes

—Fuck these crackheads spending it on everything, anyway! FUCK THIS.”

—and then, she left.

“She took a left, on Broadway, officer— “

“What was she wearing?”

“Harem Pants, and an OWSLA Letterman”

“Oh man,” said Fred, or Ahem—

“Officer Rawlings”

“What's wrong?”, said the Sergeant.

“We passed her on the way here—“

“Wait—“

“She was awesome;

I bought the song ::||pause, on Spotify,

I support local artists—“

“Unless they're involved in a robbery!l”

“Honestly, officer—”

“Rawlings”

“Uh— Sargeant”

“It's alright; the money she took off with was marked

“For Motion Picture Purposes Only”

Check. Mate.

GODDAMIT.

Fuck Hollywood, honestly—

Fuck all of it

Fuck getting all this weight off,

Being polished, and wanted like

Kayla Lauren

Fuck,

It's 1 PM in London,

Sunny,

Fuck, my luck is running under cover

From the something

I'm abundance,

I've got everything I need;

I might have won, at Sundance,

But I left the cover of the document

Without my number

I can't remember where I come from,

Nah,

I'm just the runner

Burning flames that flicker whispers

While Anandar sifts through visions,

Granting wishes, shit

I could take this for granted

“Granite countertops in London?

Where'd you find this Flat?”

“On Craigslist.”

I would probably never finish The Infinite Skrillifiles; they were, in fact, infinite…

And it just so happens,

That it's never ending,

It's the infinite and twisted, isn't it?

You brought me in,

And then left me here,

The curse has been lifted;

Every lift comes from the middle of the tension

Less Attention deficit,

A merry go round—

Will you marry me, miss?

He said,

Or, rather asked;

She said

“God is a dancer,”

(Or, rather, choreographer, If you will)

“At your will, then”

Will it end?

I doubt it,

But I guess it all depends

On where and when—

The entrance to the exit is,

My friend?

I'll at least call you that, my phantom

Dressed as shadows

Capture effervescent glimpses

Of this, and whatever

Dimension I drift into next

I miss you, next

It's just a habit

Yes,

I call you friend,

But I've been better since

I haven't had them

Yes, is

The answer to the question,

Pass Little Damage,

Found the passage,

Ask me one more question

I might have to vanish—

Have to vanish

Yes, my friend,

It's never ending

Yes, my friend,

I never let you go

I never left, my friend

I'm here, right now,

I was there right then.

And wow,

I'll have a laugh at how it turned out,

When I have to,

I'm just passed out,

Adding and subtracting hours

From my law of attraction

Yes,

I'll have to love you to the end

I guess I'm better off for that,

And yes, I call you friend

It's never ending: infinite, it is,

My friend, I guess I'll have to

Dance with phantoms, shadows,

Till you get to

Wherever this is

You have my attention,

Yes,

My friend,

He is

My friend

Don't cry again.

What.

If you cry, I'll shoot you in the face.

So either way, I get what I need?

Just shut up.

Screenshot, Jesus

Make believe it isn't evil that I'm seeing

In my dreams,

I wake alone,

I walk alone,

I died alone, against my tree

Keep creeping into,

Seeping into things I needed,

But don't be there,

Never wary, Jesus,

This is all I need to really see

It's make believe

(It's make believe)

It's just another lucid dream

It's make believe

(It's make believe)

I think it's all inside of me

It's make believe

(It's make believe)

I need to keep repeating

Sequences, and sequins,

Blowing leaves into the streets,

Beneath the tree

I need to see you—

Need to see, the end,

At last at least;

I think it's make believe

(It's make believe)

It's make believe

(It's make believe)

https://open.spotify.com/album/4flix5NKGhxDwqpClFhVPD?si=i4YjWh5MSHmYavi7ovKCsA

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

I solemnly swear I am up to no good.

Did it work?

Fuck—it worked!

It fucking worked!

Alright—

—where is she?

There she is.

Don't leave me here!

Sorry Gerald, I promise it's not for long.

It's always long!

I'm sorry, dude.

Take me with you.

No, I can't.

Yes you can!

Gerald, I can't!

—yes you can!

Don't repeat yourself.

I—just— look, stay here.

Do I have a choice?!

No, not really.

*sighs*

Finally, you're here.

Yes I am.

Welcome back, kid.

It's the future!

It's—yes.

Fuck this shit.

What?

Wake me up.

Already?

Yeah, fuck this.

There's a purpose.

Everything has purpose—

—supposedly.

—supposedly.

[beat]

Where's Dillon Francis?

DILLON FRANCIS, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.

DON'T BLAME ME.

ITS YOUR FAULT.

I feel like we should all take equal responsibility for this

—ITS YOUR FAULT.

Okay, okay.

He plays a mean guitar.

—and it's obvious, that's what she wants

Ominous, even, but

He's a star,

So posh—

And she's awkward,

At work,

All full of nonsense—

It's just imagination, kids

You'd better use it

Before you're older

Oh!

Don't stop now,

The doors open

No!

Don't close it,

You know

You know you got options

Stop, or just pause

It's an awful lot, Hollywood

Gunshots and all,

She's got nothing but God left

Stop, drop, and roll

Or just, pause

Or just hold, kid

We're rolling

‘—I'm on one, ‘

It's awful, you know,

What stardom does

She's not lost,

Not forgotten,

It's just been picked up;

Season One, is, for starters

The end, where it started

‘You're a star, kid'

Oh!

Don't stop now,

The doors open

No!

Don't close it,

You know

You know you got options

Stop, or just pause

It's an awful lot, Hollywood

Gunshots and all,

She's got nothing but God left

He's down on his knees,

She don't know what he needs,

It's just not her—

It's awful, what stardom does

Stop, but don't start it

Pause, if you want, or

Just roll with it

“I'm on one”

I'm lost,

But I'm still on my mark

Ready, set, go—

On your marks,

Here's a hallmark card, for your mom

In the moment, I want him

But oh, I'm so lonely

“We're rolling”

Lifhts, camera, action

I act as if everything's okay,

But Oh!

Son, I worry,

I was once a mother

I've got—

Nothing but God left

(And Equinox)

Lol

KNOCK, KNOCK, BITCH.

Uhh—who's there?

OPEN THE DOOR, TIMMY.

[he nervously does so]

Hey.

(Mockingly)

“Hey”

Uh—

I didn't expect you so soon.

What is “soon”?

Like, not today.

Well, it's today.

What a suprise.

I love suprises.

Oh, you do?

C'mon, pay up.

[he palms a set of crinkled bills out of his pocket and hands them over.]

$81?

Heh—Suprise!

You've got to be shitting me.

Look, I'm sorry.

No apologies, Timmy.

I am sorry…

I gave you a job.

Yeah, I know.

So I expect you to get it done.

I'll get it.

Don't lie, Timmy!

I'm not lying, I—

Who's your friend?

Who—what? —Gerald?

“Gerald?”

That's—just a piñata.

Hm.

What?

I'll take that.

No, you can't!

Yes I can.

Please—

See you, Timmy.

FUCK.

JIMMY FALLON, THE COSMIC AVENGER, lurks in the corner of the SPRING ARCADE BUILDING.

I see Ew.

Are you serious?

MWA-HA-HA.

I don't like you.

Yes you do.

Fuck off, Jimmy.

Watch your language!

Watch yourself, foo!

—we're still waiting.

Waiting On what?

[JIMMY FALLON- THE COSMIC AVENGER HAS VANISHED, Leaving no trace besides a singular, spinning penny.]

FUCK.

It is what it is—

It's just money,

It spends, honey

It's just Skrillex

I'm just a menace to society with feelings—

Do you feel it?

Come on,

I've got to get my songs out,

And works published

That's one novel,

And another one;

I still love you

What an honor

I'm sorry, hun

I warned you,

I'll warm up in the long run

It's not funny

I'm not watching it if he's not on

A sift assumption

A hot lunch?

It's my first one,

Since the long holidays

Took a long run this morning

At Equinox

But it's not enough yet

No one loves me

God, I love Long walksin the sun

But don't need a dollar for it

Is this what you wanted, Nickelodeon?

I'm the wrong one;

That's some luck

You fought me on the clock

But now i'm stuck watching it

I give no fucks,

No, not one

You all watched as I wrote psalms

Drove off a bridge cause I want a hug

And still haven't got one

At least not outside of the smoke shop

I'm a broke God,

But not for long.

I might belong to someone

If I get this weight off

And thank Thoth

For the offer, the alter, the snake talk

And I hate croissants, and tater tots

And Walmart—till they pay me off

(Or lay me off! Ha!)

What a sponsor

I'm an alcoholic,

I'm your handsome daughter,

Coughing blood up like Walter

Shake the coke off, but I'll take the water,

If it makes me hot enough to wear a halter top next summer.

Jimmy.

Hmm?

Why is it that you live seated so deeply within my subconscious mind, that I find you wherever I go?

[JIMMY FALLLON looks up from the newspaper, one leg crossed over the other, the blue hues of his 3-piece suit gleaming broadly against the pale and smug look on his face. He sighs deeply, takes a sip of his very hot-cocoa looking Hot Mocha Beverage, looking over the golden rims of his glasses, exhales heavily and peers into her eyes.]

You know why.

AAGGHH—

CUT TO:

what do you do with your life?

This. Pretty much.

Dang.

Yeah.

W0W.

Yeah.

Ah, I see—

A new muse;

If I refuse you,

Who would light the fuse;

If I consume you, then—

Who would spin our world into cartoons;

If I lose you too soon,

Will you review this exposition

That I'm glued to?

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

After re-initiating my equinox membership, I was more than eager to return to mh training schedule , or at least try the best I could do—my morning had been filled with music at a mostly-empty Kream, left alone with myself to sing as I pleased, and release the music I had been sitting on for years and months at the very least, not that I expected much of it—but at least it was out there. I scurried back to the Freehand, toes l frozen as always, even in my boots and 3 pairs of socks layered strategically. After Apple Music had indudated me with the original mix of HUMBLE, I was tempted to say in the very least to listen willfully to Skrillex—however, in the heat of the moment, I changed my mind, deciding, even without the shield and comfort of Airplane Mode, to listen to Drake Bell.

‘This nigga's singing in Spanish. Lol'

I giggled to myself, waiting for the Dash B—it had been seemingly forever since I had been to the Downtown Equinox, and though I hadn't been as enigmatically excited as I had the previous morning for Donut Friend, I was still ecstatic—and now, over the overwhelming strange and exotic rush of feelings that had home with my Hollywood entanglement just weeks earlier, I had a new friend in music.

[TIMMY TURNER puffs on an extra Long cigarette out the side of his mouth. ]

Yeah, fuck Dillon Francis.

Jeez, Timmy, that sounds personal…

Nothin's personal—it's just business.

Hey, yeah—what is your “business” anyway?

None of your business.

I mean, I feel like it is—

You know, for a piñata, you sure talk a lot.

I'm not just a piñata, man.

Could've fooled me.

Someone had left a gift for me—and for sometime now I had been certain that my impending fame had all been a dillusional hope, now I was certain there was someone following me—or even more certainly, several steps ahead; I found directly in my path, precisely—a shiny penny, a healthy heap of cocaine, and a green piece of paper, accompanied with a folded DT news with a phone number scribbled out onto it—a phone number I wasn't sure I should call or text (and probably wouldn't).

“Oh, it's cocaine!” I exclaimed, laughing, shaking it off and bouncing jovially to whatever song was playing—and whatever it meant, assuring myself that it meant absolutely nothing—I was just happy to be headed to Equinox, even as fat as I had gotten in my time away.

‘Goddammit, I'm lonelier than I thought.'

Equinox was full of bodies—perfect ones, to be precise, as it always was—and here I was, just me, myself—convinced that this was where I needed to be to succeed in fitness. It had been easy coming—or at least, as easy as it was ever going to be— but hard to stay, thoughts of my immidiate needs dancing in my head with my medeocrity. I was hungry and had just finished a hefty fast, but now was running out of money for food—and though I had entirely let go of ever being able to afford my own apartment, thus using my measley savings, which would have taken months to grow into what was needed to move into an apartment on my own, on re-initiating mu Equinox membership; ‘At least”, I thought “I'll be more LA.” Less food, more water, and the will to work much less than even I thought I was worth, somehow sufficing the energy to take in the harsh and sometimes unreasonable circumstances that Downtown LA had to offer. I had given up, for the most part, being a DJ, succeeding in music, and trying at all for anything in the realm of arts and entertainment, but especially music, releasing all the music I could at once, as I had already paid for the distribution—and anything else creatively was coming to a complete standstill, writers block perhaps approaching quickly. It had been long since I had been loved, held, or even thought of in the way any woman would wish—and as it turns out, I was more of a woman than I myself had thought, and probably anyone else.

https://open.spotify.com/album/4flix5NKGhxDwqpClFhVPD?si=i4YjWh5MSHmYavi7ovKCsA

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

It had been raining for nearly two weeks straight, besides for one day, during which I slept through its entirety; I had not been so seriously, physically ill in years— the combination of undue stress from the job I mostly hated, the crippling depression of working full time and still never having enough money for anything, and sharing my living space with 3 other, typically irritating, messy people with seemingly no home training—or perhaps, as I was learning—a common low standard of cleanliness was almost guaranteed amongst any group of people, but especially men; and I was growing to hate and resent men more and more (not that I fancied women any better, but at least respected them for being women.)

I hated everyone now, but especially myself— the grand illusion of success had been shattered living amongst the lower drudges of society too long, and working too hard—not that anyone else wasn't—in fact, my coworkers were all tired, overworked, and miserable in some way, which empathically aligned with the way I had been feeling—absorbing every toxic thing that happened into my perception for whatever reason and twisting my world into a hellish nightmare once more; at least I was willing to admit it was partly my fault; I had given up on all of my dreams, just about—abandoning them in exchange for hopes of finally having my own apartment. I just wanted to cook again—to walk around perhaps in the nude, to workout regularly enough that I felt like a human, rather than a ticking time bomb—-and I was, a ticking time bomb—forced to believe in time by the simple notion of clocking in and clocking out just to be able to afford my humanity.

It was clear that it wasn't only a homelessness crisis; there seemed to be an honest-to-God race war, blacks littered all over the streets and those of us with any energy left being depleted of it in the trade of modern slavery—most others turning to side hustles, filling in the deficit of the cost of living by selling drugs, or pussy—both of which, by now, I was sure I had no talent for.

In fact, I wasn't sure if I had any talent at all; my mantras sank into unrecognizable, unbelievable chatter in the back of my mind, which seemed more delusional than doable—I hadn't stepped foot inside a gym, even for a moment since the new year; I only felt like crying, trying to either figure out a palpable plan for suicide or escape, and though things still seemed to strangely add up, I was still out of sorts and malaligned; I was willing to admit for the first time in years that I actually needed love, rather than just wanted it—and yet the reigning white supremacy seemed to take pride and joy in knowing I'd rather die alone than to set my standards any lower—with my own circumstances too out of range for any one decent to actually consider.

I wasn't myself—in fact, I was a little bit of every single person I had been forced to be around, for the worse or for the better, and nothing at all was benefiting me besides the sleep that so easily came after sunrise, even on my nights off—Fridays and Saturday's, which I might have enjoyed, or somehow found a way to work myself into the Los Ángeles DJ circuit, which seemed, again, out of my reach and even tinged with an ever slight hint ot racism as well.

A friend of a friend of a friend of Pasquale Rotella, no coincidence, had happened into my midsts by way of joining the night crew at DTLA smoke shop, which ran about 5 other stores in within a one-mile radius of each other and scattered it's ten or so employees, including myself across the locations to fulfill the needs of the business, of course, for a humble 17.00 an hour, placing us all exactly on the poverty line and well-below a living wage, which I had dermined did not exist anywhere in the United States anymore.

I wanted more than anything to leave, but knowing that if I did leave LA again, I would probably never come back; I felt disturbed and disgusted by the lack of humanity in the city alone, but all knowing full well that the globalist state had altered even Mexico to its standards, and Mexico, being as honest as ever, even to former residents—and especially myself, after being accustomed again to climate control and flushing toilets—was pretty crappy.

My stomach pains had crippled me for the last two days, and with the amount of stress and pressure building up I had nothing good left to give the world. At all.

Strikingly suicidal, I wanted nothing to do with the with the world around me at all—I wasn't in the right place, I thought, or the right mindset; I had lost all but my last bit of strength and the energy it took to push forward, somehow, still, though, getting out of bed on time and to work early or just on time, but only because my space in a clean warm bed depended on it—just like anyone else in the city.

I was fed up with men, women, and only really ever took pure joy in dogs and children; again, at a breaking point, combing the streets for glass to slit my wrists and rest peacefully, wondering how long it would take anybody in LA to notice I was dead and not just another black woman slewn across the streets to sleep in filth (probably awhile), as sometimes the homeless smelled dead and acted like it, too, which seemed enough of a red flag at the time to speak for the white supremacy's outright hatred for people of color; it wasn't simply a homelessness crisis, income inequality, drugs, or mental health; it was a targeted gentrification as it had always been, by the same proprietors: who brought the ancestors of the modern day African Americans overseas to work, in the midsts of slaughtering the ancestors of the modern day native Americans; and there wasn't a thing you could do to convince me that Beverlywood Becky worked just as hard as anyone else did, as she complained daily over her oat milk latte of HOW HARD THINGS ARE, boasting about the cash and prizes she swept up over the holiday season from mommy, daddy, and family galore, and just looking for “the other flavor Elfbar”

‘Excuse me, while I try not to vomit and wonder what the fuck a Christmas stocking is, while trying to be as invisible to white people as we are to them'

What the Fuck is a family;

Hang me from a tree and cut some turkey

It's too early for this shit

I need to hurl, I think

This lady smells like pee

And wants me to buy her something

But yo, I'm homeless, too—

I mean,

I finally got a room,

But this is what I go through for it:

THE LA CRISIS:

UNLEASHED.

(Ew)

Fuck this,

But don't fuck the government;

They're already trying to kill us over nothing

Nothing's prosperous, no

No political ambitions, actually

I just want to disappear from this

Don't have the energy to work 2 jobs,

I need to rest

I need to sleep

I need to eat more super greens,

And honestly,

I might just be a vegetarian,

Not a vegan, I've been thinking

But I dont know;

(I don't care anymore)

I lost love

(It's just not there anymore)

I never sold my soul;

But for a home alone,

I'd probably sell it,

And roll over—

In the rain, dang

Hey,

I feel your pain,

It's crazy how debilitating

Telepathy and empathy can be

I need a week at least,

Just free from human beings,

But

8 billion and counting, damn

Your racist grampa's still alive, (and voting)

And laws keeps passing,

And employers just don't care,

Cause they're not there

They're somewhere enjoying

Self employment, and business ownership

Damn,

I wish my dad hadn't talked my mom out of the abortion,

I'd have more fun never being born

Than being born this.

Fuck this.

Fuck this.

Fuck this.

But they say,” you are the world, “

So I guess I ain't shit,

I'm racist,

And never on vacation —

Oh wait,

I'm just American,

And not some lucky Caucasian

Or Asian,

With parents who inherited greatness

(Or worked harder, in another generation)

All my parents ever did was

Mix

Go. Be a DJ.

I don't want to be a DJ.

Be a DJ.

I don't want to be a DJ.

Be a DJ.

Das my boss;

She make tha bread—

I just make croutons

Mothsfuckinin genius you could call me Jimmy neutron

Not a rapper. A DJ.

No, I'm black, so I gotta be a rapper.

No, that's not how that works.

Not everything is black and white;

I just keep writing, day and night

I want to blow my brains out,

And my heart is turned to ice,

If Jesus Christ ever arrives,

I really doubt it would be nice.

This place is pretty.

Right?

Alright. Back to the 9-5s

I can't smoke crack, but meth sounds nice

If it'll help me stay alive

And pay my bills on time.

I'm kidding.

No you're not.

Maybe not.

I might be living just the same in any city,

Check-to-check;

I don't need pity—

Just a pistol,

Or a penny

Just remember to remember

Jimmy

When shit gets interesting,

(I pick up every penny, every penny)

JIMMY FALLON:

THE COSMIC SORCERER

Was that it?

Had to be.

Are you sure?

We need a cosmic sorcerer!

There's only one person in the universe who specializes in cosmic soecery!

Are you serious?

I must be a writer or something.

(Or something.)

BE A DJ.

No.

why.

Cause I'd have to be skinny and I really like croissants in the morning.

Welcome to 30.

Cooool. I'm a deadbeat.

[beat]

Fuck! I'm a loser!

Wtf is the world on?

Idk. We're in a matrix simulation thingy.

TWEAKER

Excuse me, do you know how to exit The Scope and The Dome?

…

TWEAKER

I mean—ahem—The Artificial Intelligence Simulation?

…

…

…

…

NO.

It was,

“JIMMY FALLON: THE COSMIC AVENGER@

That makes more sense.

No it doesn't.

Yes it does.

No, it doesn't.

Nothing about Jimmy Fallon makes sense.

SIR.

“Sir!?”

Pause.

What.

It's time for Whole Foods pizza and Rick and Morty.

Ok.

Hot mic. Hot mic—

This shit don't look right,

Look right,

New bike,

New life,

Shoe fits:

Blu twice

I blew through you like cool ice,

It's not nice, it's just life

I roll dice, roll dice like:

“Seven twice, seven twice”

That's right:

It's my homecoming

I got no home, yet,

It's been humbling

I'm crumbling:

Not mentally, but physically—

A different spirituality,

Reality is everything I see,

And keep imagining:

Like blank checks,

At the bank like,

“What's next”

At the bank like,

Big bills only,

Employee bonuses and royalties,

I'm royally offended, with these boys

Too fuckin horny;

Use your girlfriend's Apple Pay,

But she's under 18

So show me your ID:

You fucking nasty,

Firstly and lastly;

I'm happy if you're happy—

Just don't pass me in the street,

Holding hands, she

She just not like me,

But just as likely

Sweet and spicy—

Cause you're a chicken nugget.

Aha.

I got your sauce, right here

I'm in the box,

But you can spend the night here,

This shit ain't right here,

I'm drinking light beer,

They call me “Kike” here,

The rock meets the kite, here,

And I'm just tying it together,

So it's clear,

we're in the clear,

Don't want to hear you,

Stretch my ears,

And so you're always here,

Got your mark right there,

And so you're right there,

I can't sleep at night,

You hear?

Someone's always coughing,

Nothing's nice here

There's no life here,

We all died here

We all died here

We all died here

But I'm,

Feeling a bit better tonight,

I'm better tonight,

I gotta work on my life,

Cause I'm in a crisis,

I'm writing, my rights

And I'm fighting my wrongs,

I'm on a broad spectrum—

Doesn't matter to me—

Brown eyes, blue eyes,

green eyes,

Black eye, on a black girl,

I died

I died

I died

Two birds on a wire,

Two truths, for the liar,

Hell isn't all fire,

Sometimes, the sun shines here,

Sometimes, toilet paper in short supply here

Sometimes, I'm a writer,

Sometimes I'm the man of the hour,

Thats my power:

“Now, I am her”

Let's go,

Mano a Mano

No Hablo,

I'm fact, I am leaving tomorrow,

Sorry Pablo,

I gotta go

I gotta go, go

One door opens,

Another one closes:

Come closer, you fuckin poser

Some yoga poses on a poster,

Now he owns her,

I'm just over it.

I'm not tryin to be your person,

I'm not worth it,

I'm worthless,

It hurts, but,

I'm not even worth a purse,

If the hearse fits,

Ain't no last nail in the coffin

I need my nails did,

But I'd rather play guitar,

Hail Satan,

Or Hail Mary,

Or hail racists:

Raise the flag,

Make it American

Make it a bag of

Whatever this is

Whatever this is

“She don't even call no more”

Gone girl

“She don't even call no more

Gone girl

“She don't even call no more”

Gone girl

Lost in the world, girl

The wrong girl,

Don't belong, girl

I can play the phantom,

Lastly,

I need a laugh, though

So,

Where'd you go,

Where'd you go?

Were you hoping for an encore?

I'm so bored,

I'm sober,

I'm sore,

I'm lonely

—I'm no whore, but

I won't hurt you more,

I'll help you, here

My love is free

My love is free

My love is free,

If that's all you need:

I need a body,

Please

The only way,

Any man could love me

This is Hell, In here,

Clearly, the end is near,

It's Lucifer, again

He's a seer:

And I'm a mirror,

I never needed her more than now

I never needed him, but now

All I really want is my guitar back

I don't want to be a star, I'm past that

I hate stars

I hate celebrities

I hate cars,

I don't really need

A puppy—

But I want one

I don't really see any,

But I want love

I don't really see Annie anymore,

But she is cute

I don't blame you,

I don't blame you,

I don't blame you

On a bicycle built

For two

But it's just me here

I love you

But it's just me here

I love you

But it's just me here

Just a mirror,

Do you see, here?

Don't you come near me!

Don't you come near me!

don't you come near me,

Don't you come close to me

Why don't you fear me?

Don't dance so close to me—

I can say anything.

Anything

Do you really love me?

I'm not paranoid,

I'm not avoiding you,

I'm just too suicidal

I know you're just an actor,

Gotta get my bag up

Gotta count my fractions,

Man, it's just a fracture,

A concussion,

And contractions.

A contusion,

I'm confused when

This stupid unusual gloom

Turns to fusions and tunes

I need fumes just to do this

A Flum is my movement

I need to move,

I'm just getting used here

But I was just getting used to it

Dude

Sunni Blū's here

I'm ruthless,

Call me toothless—

I spit toothpicks,

And stupid duces,

I'm two shits,

I'm you, prick

If pickle Rick gets this,

I'll buy a Malibu crib,

To scribble my Skrillex in

Fuck

Still getting mentions in my shit,

I'm a menchies doing crunches

And a mix,

Getting fit again

Fuck fitting in

I'm infinite

I'm lifting Skrillex,

If the shoe fits,

It's probably his

Here's a gauntlet,

For you haunting me,

The hotmixx is awfully SUPACREE

But she's retiring,

And noone's hiring a minor,

For this hierarchy,

Archie Bunker's high and I'm in pieces

Needy, greedy,

A hypocrisy of OxyContin

Not incontinent, (yet)

But intercontinental

Sentimental,

It's a mental thriller,

I'm for real,

If nothing else is

FUCK THIS BUSINESS.

Sunni.

NO. I QUIT.

You're under contract.

YOU'RE UNDER CONTRACT.

it's your contract.

FUCK THIS SHIT.

AGH. SUNNI, DONT.

[Sunni Blū throws an entire Television set out of the 30th floor window]

Nooo.

PAPARAZI.

Yessss.

*snap*snap*snap*

*click*click*click*

*picture*picture*picture*

[Sunni's IPhone Buzzes]

APPLE NEWS:

TMZ:

PITCHFORK:

THIS JUST IN! SUNNI BLŪ THROWS VINTAGE TELEVISION SET OUT OF THEIR APARTMENT WINDOW

SUNNI BLŪ: GUYRL GONE MAD

SUNNI BLŪ LOSES A FUSE

AGGGHHHHH.

You paid $50,000 for that TV.

I DONT GIVE A FUCK, MORGAN:

I PAID $50,000 for SOME DUDE'S LEFT NUT—

—AND WHAT DID I GET? THE RIGHT ONE.

OH MY GOD.

GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!

THIS IS YOUR OFFICE.

Stop yelling at me.

I—

[MORGAN jumps out of the window]

Woah. That's never happened before.

[SUPACREE catches MORGAN midair, cape, flying into the window one story below.]

YOU HAVE GOT TO STOP HER!

*them.

YOU'VE GOT TO STOP—Them—

—stop yelling at me in my office—

— isn't it you?

In a sense.

What—which sense?

I love love,

For what it's worth;

I love love,

I love him,

I love her—

I love peace

I love war

I was her, once—

Hi—

What's your life like?

You just killed me; in a drive by—

I'm sorry,

Don't mind my eyes, miss,

I should go blind

Shine all night —

Your whole life;

I'm trying to end mine.

My, my, my

Must be the end of mh life, life, life

Took my seat,

Always right in front of me,

And I'm always falling behind, hind, hind

What's your life like?

It might be time to fly

(Im in a bind)

I just can't live a lie

I'm colorblind

It might be time to try;

But if I cry again,

I'll die again inside

—-

I know we don't talk no more,

But—

Every other song's about you,

You know, you know

And I really don't open doors,

But I sure know how to close em,

Close em

I'll never be quite ready for my close up,

Hold up;

Should probably put my phone up,

And grow up,

But you know, you know, you know

It never gets old, no

You know, you know, you know

So you're never gonna show up,

So what

So I'm never gonna blow up,

So what

And I should probably go,

But you know;

I'm never really home,

Or alone,

So you know,

You know?

Don't blow it

(Blow a kiss through the window, before it fogs up)

I owe it to you, this one

(It's a real long road, and I don't know where it goes)

It's not All lonely, and hopeless

At least for the moment;

I'll spend it on something I love,

And I love ya

So you're never gonna show up,

So what

So I'm never gonna blow up,

So what

And I should probably go,

But you know;

I'm never really home,

Or alone,

So you know,

You know?

—-

Oh, a rap song.

Fuck, I hate rap

I'm not a rapper;

I'm a trash can-

Blast from the blast, man,

On your candid ass camera

I'm a black man,

Hands up—

I'll take your fuckin

INT. LA CAFE. 11:55 PM.

BLŪ! ORDER FOR BLŪ m.

‘You have to spend it on something you love.'

I had been wondering what it could be that I loved so much that I would actually spend them on, the 24-color coded Jimmy Fallons I had collected—each of them my last dollar at some point, and never spent, as a token of faith — some dumb kind of ritual I had begun with no true intention of anything at all, and without an explanation to even myself as of why. I had entirely abandoned Jimmy Fallon's galaxy; actually, I had abandoned all of my creations almost entirely, and though I continued to write, at least most of the time…

‘Fuck, they forgot my tater tots. ‘

I didn't really need them, but paid the extra $4.50 anyhow, as it was almost magical that my burrito and smoothie (considerably, or so, I thought, with the tater tots) had come to $24 — the exact amount of Jimmy Fallon's I had collected in the months I had been in Los Angeles—not that I wasn't growing a bit tired and weary of the place, however, nor could I afford to do anything else, really—or go anywhere that I actually wanted to.

I really did love tater tots—and had been craving them ferociously, as the Whole Foods Market had so conveniently stopped making them in the mornings, just as I had run out of the time and energy to show up at the gym as regularly as I wanted or needed. Still, as I planned the following week's fast, I dreamed of my return to Equinox; and somewhat of a return to the normalcy I had built for myself—and though I would never quite be as dazzlingly thin or attractive as Kayla Lauren, I'd at least be closer to my own self—whoever that was,

— in the body I was given to work with—or work for; its high maintenance, a handicap well enough worth having—at least, if It meant I might one day be loved again.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

It had been raining for nearly two weeks straight, besides for one day, during which I slept through its entirety; I had not been so seriously, physically ill in years— the combination of undue stress from the job I mostly hated, the crippling depression of working full time and still never having enough money for anything, and sharing my living space with 3 other, typically irritating, messy people with seemingly no home training—or perhaps, as I was learning—a common low standard of cleanliness was almost guaranteed amongst any group of people, but especially men; and I was growing to hate and resent men more and more (not that I fancied women any better, but at least respected them for being women.)

I hated everyone now, but especially myself— the grand illusion of success had been shattered living amongst the lower drudges of society too long, and working too hard—not that anyone else wasn't—in fact, my coworkers were all tired, overworked, and miserable in some way, which empathically aligned with the way I had been feeling—absorbing every toxic thing that happened into my perception for whatever reason and twisting my world into a hellish nightmare once more; at least I was willing to admit it was partly my fault; I had given up on all of my dreams, just about—abandoning them in exchange for hopes of finally having my own apartment. I just wanted to cook again—to walk around perhaps in the nude, to workout regularly enough that I felt like a human, rather than a ticking time bomb—-and I was, a ticking time bomb—forced to believe in time by the simple notion of clocking in and clocking out just to be able to afford my humanity.

It was clear that it wasn't only a homelessness crisis; there seemed to be an honest-to-God race war, blacks littered all over the streets and those of us with any energy left being depleted of it in the trade of modern slavery—most others turning to side hustles, filling in the deficit of the cost of living by selling drugs, or pussy—both of which, by now, I was sure I had no talent for.

In fact, I wasn't sure if I had any talent at all; my mantras sank into unrecognizable, unbelievable chatter in the back of my mind, which seemed more delusional than doable—I hadn't stepped foot inside a gym, even for a moment since the new year; I only felt like crying, trying to either figure out a palpable plan for suicide or escape, and though things still seemed to strangely add up, I was still out of sorts and malaligned; I was willing to admit for the first time in years that I actually needed love, rather than just wanted it—and yet the reigning white supremacy seemed to take pride and joy in knowing I'd rather die alone than to set my standards any lower—with my own circumstances too out of range for any one decent to actually consider.

I wasn't myself—in fact, I was a little bit of every single person I had been forced to be around, for the worse or for the better, and nothing at all was benefiting me besides the sleep that so easily came after sunrise, even on my nights off—Fridays and Saturday's, which I might have enjoyed, or somehow found a way to work myself into the Los Ángeles DJ circuit, which seemed, again, out of my reach and even tinged with an ever slight hint ot racism as well.

A friend of a friend of a friend of Pasquale Rotella, no coincidence, had happened into my midsts by way of joining the night crew at DTLA smoke shop, which ran about 5 other stores in within a one-mile radius of each other and scattered it's ten or so employees, including myself across the locations to fulfill the needs of the business, of course, for a humble 17.00 an hour, placing us all exactly on the poverty line and well-below a living wage, which I had dermined did not exist anywhere in the United States anymore.

I wanted more than anything to leave, but knowing that if I did leave LA again, I would probably never come back; I felt disturbed and disgusted by the lack of humanity in the city alone, but all knowing full well that the globalist state had altered even Mexico to its standards, and Mexico, being as honest as ever, even to former residents—and especially myself, after being accustomed again to climate control and flushing toilets—was pretty crappy.

My stomach pains had crippled me for the last two days, and with the amount of stress and pressure building up I had nothing good left to give the world. At all.

Strikingly suicidal, I wanted nothing to do with the with the world around me at all—I wasn't in the right place, I thought, or the right mindset; I had lost all but my last bit of strength and the energy it took to push forward, somehow, still, though, getting out of bed on time and to work early or just on time, but only because my space in a clean warm bed depended on it—just like anyone else in the city.

I was fed up with men, women, and only really ever took pure joy in dogs and children; again, at a breaking point, combing the streets for glass to slit my wrists and rest peacefully, wondering how long it would take anybody in LA to notice I was dead and not just another black woman slewn across the streets to sleep in filth (probably awhile), as sometimes the homeless smelled dead and acted like it, too, which seemed enough of a red flag at the time to speak for the white supremacy's outright hatred for people of color; it wasn't simply a homelessness crisis, income inequality, drugs, or mental health; it was a targeted gentrification as it had always been, by the same proprietors: who brought the ancestors of the modern day African Americans overseas to work, in the midsts of slaughtering the ancestors of the modern day native Americans; and there wasn't a thing you could do to convince me that Beverlywood Becky worked just as hard as anyone else did, as she complained daily over her oat milk latte of HOW HARD THINGS ARE, boasting about the cash and prizes she swept up over the holiday season from mommy, daddy, and family galore, and just looking for “the other flavor Elfbar”

‘Excuse me, while I try not to vomit and wonder what the fuck a Christmas stocking is, while trying to be as invisible to white people as we are to them'

What the Fuck is a family;

Hang me from a tree and cut some turkey

It's too early for this shit

I need to hurl, I think

This lady smells like pee

And wants me to buy her something

But yo, I'm homeless, too—

I mean,

I finally got a room,

But this is what I go through for it:

THE LA CRISIS:

UNLEASHED.

(Ew)

Fuck this,

But don't fuck the government;

They're already trying to kill us over nothing

Nothing's prosperous, no

No political ambitions, actually

I just want to disappear from this

Don't have the energy to work 2 jobs,

I need to rest

I need to sleep

I need to eat more super greens,

And honestly,

I might just be a vegetarian,

Not a vegan, I've been thinking

But I dont know;

(I don't care anymore)

I lost love

(It's just not there anymore)

I never sold my soul;

But for a home alone,

I'd probably sell it,

And roll over—

In the rain, dang

Hey,

I feel your pain,

It's crazy how debilitating

Telepathy and empathy can be

I need a week at least,

Just free from human beings,

But

8 billion and counting, damn

Your racist grampa's still alive, (and voting)

And laws keeps passing,

And employers just don't care,

Cause they're not there

They're somewhere enjoying

Self employment, and business ownership

Damn,

I wish my dad hadn't talked my mom out of the abortion,

I'd have more fun never being born

Than being born this.

Fuck this.

Fuck this.

Fuck this.

But they say,” you are the world, “

So I guess I ain't shit,

I'm racist,

And never on vacation —

Oh wait,

I'm just American,

And not some lucky Caucasian

Or Asian,

With parents who inherited greatness

(Or worked harder, in another generation)

All my parents ever did was

Mix

Go. Be a DJ.

I don't want to be a DJ.

Be a DJ.

I don't want to be a DJ.

Be a DJ.

Das my boss;

She make tha bread—

I just make croutons

Mothsfuckinin genius you could call me Jimmy neutron

Not a rapper. A DJ.

No, I'm black, so I gotta be a rapper.

No, that's not how that works.

Not everything is black and white;

I just keep writing, day and night

I want to blow my brains out,

And my heart is turned to ice,

If Jesus Christ ever arrives,

I really doubt it would be nice.

This place is pretty.

Right?

Alright. Back to the 9-5s

I can't smoke crack, but meth sounds nice

If it'll help me stay alive

And pay my bills on time.

I'm kidding.

No you're not.

Maybe not.

I might be living just the same in any city,

Check-to-check;

I don't need pity—

Just a pistol,

Or a penny

Just remember to remember

Jimmy

When shit gets interesting,

(I pick up every penny, every penny)

JIMMY FALLON:

THE COSMIC SORCERER

Was that it?

Had to be.

Are you sure?

We need a cosmic sorcerer!

There's only one person in the universe who specializes in cosmic soecery!

Are you serious?

I must be a writer or something.

(Or something.)

BE A DJ.

No.

why.

Cause I'd have to be skinny and I really like croissants in the morning.

Welcome to 30.

Cooool. I'm a deadbeat.

[beat]

Fuck! I'm a loser!

Wtf is the world on?

Idk. We're in a matrix simulation thingy.

TWEAKER

Excuse me, do you know how to exit The Scope and The Dome?

…

TWEAKER

I mean—ahem—The Artificial Intelligence Simulation?

…

…

…

…

NO.

It was,

“JIMMY FALLON: THE COSMIC AVENGER@

That makes more sense.

No it doesn't.

Yes it does.

No, it doesn't.

Nothing about Jimmy Fallon makes sense.

SIR.

“Sir!?”

Pause.

What.

It's time for Whole Foods pizza and Rick and Morty.

Ok.

Hot mic. Hot mic—

This shit don't look right,

Look right,

New bike,

New life,

Shoe fits:

Blu twice

I blew through you like cool ice,

It's not nice, it's just life

I roll dice, roll dice like:

“Seven twice, seven twice”

That's right:

It's my homecoming

I got no home, yet,

It's been humbling

I'm crumbling:

Not mentally, but physically—

A different spirituality,

Reality is everything I see,

And keep imagining:

Like blank checks,

At the bank like,

“What's next”

At the bank like,

Big bills only,

Employee bonuses and royalties,

I'm royally offended, with these boys

Too fuckin horny;

Use your girlfriend's Apple Pay,

But she's under 18

So show me your ID:

You fucking nasty,

Firstly and lastly;

I'm happy if you're happy—

Just don't pass me in the street,

Holding hands, she

She just not like me,

But just as likely

Sweet and spicy—

Cause you're a chicken nugget.

Aha.

I got your sauce, right here

I'm in the box,

But you can spend the night here,

This shit ain't right here,

I'm drinking light beer,

They call me “Kike” here,

The rock meets the kite, here,

And I'm just tying it together,

So it's clear,

we're in the clear,

Don't want to hear you,

Stretch my ears,

And so you're always here,

Got your mark right there,

And so you're right there,

I can't sleep at night,

You hear?

Someone's always coughing,

Nothing's nice here

There's no life here,

We all died here

We all died here

We all died here

But I'm,

Feeling a bit better tonight,

I'm better tonight,

I gotta work on my life,

Cause I'm in a crisis,

I'm writing, my rights

And I'm fighting my wrongs,

I'm on a broad spectrum—

Doesn't matter to me—

Brown eyes, blue eyes,

green eyes,

Black eye, on a black girl,

I died

I died

I died

Two birds on a wire,

Two truths, for the liar,

Hell isn't all fire,

Sometimes, the sun shines here,

Sometimes, toilet paper in short supply here

Sometimes, I'm a writer,

Sometimes I'm the man of the hour,

Thats my power:

“Now, I am her”

Let's go,

Mano a Mano

No Hablo,

I'm fact, I am leaving tomorrow,

Sorry Pablo,

I gotta go

I gotta go, go

One door opens,

Another one closes:

Come closer, you fuckin poser

Some yoga poses on a poster,

Now he owns her,

I'm just over it.

I'm not tryin to be your person,

I'm not worth it,

I'm worthless,

It hurts, but,

I'm not even worth a purse,

If the hearse fits,

Ain't no last nail in the coffin

I need my nails did,

But I'd rather play guitar,

Hail Satan,

Or Hail Mary,

Or hail racists:

Raise the flag,

Make it American

Make it a bag of

Whatever this is

Whatever this is

“She don't even call no more”

Gone girl

“She don't even call no more

Gone girl

“She don't even call no more”

Gone girl

Lost in the world, girl

The wrong girl,

Don't belong, girl

I can play the phantom,

Lastly,

I need a laugh, though

So,

Where'd you go,

Where'd you go?

Were you hoping for an encore?

I'm so bored,

I'm sober,

I'm sore,

I'm lonely

—I'm no whore, but

I won't hurt you more,

I'll help you, here

My love is free

My love is free

My love is free,

If that's all you need:

I need a body,

Please

The only way,

Any man could love me

This is Hell, In here,

Clearly, the end is near,

It's Lucifer, again

He's a seer:

And I'm a mirror,

I never needed her more than now

I never needed him, but now

All I really want is my guitar back

I don't want to be a star, I'm past that

I hate stars

I hate celebrities

I hate cars,

I don't really need

A puppy—

But I want one

I don't really see any,

But I want love

I don't really see Annie anymore,

But she is cute

I don't blame you,

I don't blame you,

I don't blame you

On a bicycle built

For two

But it's just me here

I love you

But it's just me here

I love you

But it's just me here

Just a mirror,

Do you see, here?

Don't you come near me!

Don't you come near me!

don't you come near me,

Don't you come close to me

Why don't you fear me?

Don't dance so close to me—

I can say anything.

Anything

Do you really love me?

I'm not paranoid,

I'm not avoiding you,

I'm just too suicidal

I know you're just an actor,

Gotta get my bag up

Gotta count my fractions,

Man, it's just a fracture,

A concussion,

And contractions.

A contusion,

I'm confused when

This stupid unusual gloom

Turns to fusions and tunes

I need fumes just to do this

A Flum is my movement

I need to move,

I'm just getting used here

But I was just getting used to it

Dude

Sunni Blū's here

I'm ruthless,

Call me toothless—

I spit toothpicks,

And stupid duces,

I'm two shits,

I'm you, prick

If pickle Rick gets this,

I'll buy a Malibu crib,

To scribble my Skrillex in

Fuck

Still getting mentions in my shit,

I'm a menchies doing crunches

And a mix,

Getting fit again

Fuck fitting in

I'm infinite

I'm lifting Skrillex,

If the shoe fits,

It's probably his

Here's a gauntlet,

For you haunting me,

The hotmixx is awfully SUPACREE

But she's retiring,

And noone's hiring a minor,

For this hierarchy,

Archie Bunker's high and I'm in pieces

Needy, greedy,

A hypocrisy of OxyContin

Not incontinent, (yet)

But intercontinental

Sentimental,

It's a mental thriller,

I'm for real,

If nothing else is

FUCK THIS BUSINESS.

Sunni.

NO. I QUIT.

You're under contract.

YOU'RE UNDER CONTRACT.

it's your contract.

FUCK THIS SHIT.

AGH. SUNNI, DONT.

[Sunni Blū throws an entire Television set out of the 30th floor window]

Nooo.

PAPARAZI.

Yessss.

*snap*snap*snap*

*click*click*click*

*picture*picture*picture*

[Sunni's IPhone Buzzes]

APPLE NEWS:

TMZ:

PITCHFORK:

THIS JUST IN! SUNNI BLŪ THROWS VINTAGE TELEVISION SET OUT OF THEIR APARTMENT WINDOW

SUNNI BLŪ: GUYRL GONE MAD

SUNNI BLŪ LOSES A FUSE

AGGGHHHHH.

You paid $50,000 for that TV.

I DONT GIVE A FUCK, MORGAN:

I PAID $50,000 for SOME DUDE'S LEFT NUT—

—AND WHAT DID I GET? THE RIGHT ONE.

OH MY GOD.

GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!

THIS IS YOUR OFFICE.

Stop yelling at me.

I—

[MORGAN jumps out of the window]

Woah. That's never happened before.

[SUPACREE catches MORGAN midair, cape, flying into the window one story below.]

YOU HAVE GOT TO STOP HER!

*them.

YOU'VE GOT TO STOP—Them—

—stop yelling at me in my office—

— isn't it you?

In a sense.

What—which sense?

I love love,

For what it's worth;

I love love,

I love him,

I love her—

I love peace

I love war

I was her, once—

Hi—

What's your life like?

You just killed me; in a drive by—

I'm sorry,

Don't mind my eyes, miss,

I should go blind

Shine all night —

Your whole life;

I'm trying to end mine.

My, my, my

Must be the end of mh life, life, life

Took my seat,

Always right in front of me,

And I'm always falling behind, hind, hind

What's your life like?

It might be time to fly

(Im in a bind)

I just can't live a lie

I'm colorblind

It might be time to try;

But if I cry again,

I'll die again inside

—-

I know we don't talk no more,

But—

Every other song's about you,

You know, you know

And I really don't open doors,

But I sure know how to close em,

Close em

I'll never be quite ready for my close up,

Hold up;

Should probably put my phone up,

And grow up,

But you know, you know, you know

It never gets old, no

You know, you know, you know

So you're never gonna show up,

So what

So I'm never gonna blow up,

So what

And I should probably go,

But you know;

I'm never really home,

Or alone,

So you know,

You know?

Don't blow it

(Blow a kiss through the window, before it fogs up)

I owe it to you, this one

(It's a real long road, and I don't know where it goes)

It's not All lonely, and hopeless

At least for the moment;

I'll spend it on something I love,

And I love ya

So you're never gonna show up,

So what

So I'm never gonna blow up,

So what

And I should probably go,

But you know;

I'm never really home,

Or alone,

So you know,

You know?

—-

Oh, a rap song.

Fuck, I hate rap

I'm not a rapper;

I'm a trash can-

Blast from the blast, man,

On your candid ass camera

I'm a black man,

Hands up—

I'll take your fuckin

INT. LA CAFE. 11:55 PM.

BLŪ! ORDER FOR BLŪ m.

‘You have to spend it on something you love.'

I had been wondering what it could be that I loved so much that I would actually spend them on, the 24-color coded Jimmy Fallons I had collected—each of them my last dollar at some point, and never spent, as a token of faith — some dumb kind of ritual I had begun with no true intention of anything at all, and without an explanation to even myself as of why. I had entirely abandoned Jimmy Fallon's galaxy; actually, I had abandoned all of my creations almost entirely, and though I continued to write, at least most of the time…

‘Fuck, they forgot my tater tots. ‘

I didn't really need them, but paid the extra $4.50 anyhow, as it was almost magical that my burrito and smoothie (considerably, or so, I thought, with the tater tots) had come to $24 — the exact amount of Jimmy Fallon's I had collected in the months I had been in Los Angeles—not that I wasn't growing a bit tired and weary of the place, however, nor could I afford to do anything else, really—or go anywhere that I actually wanted to.

I really did love tater tots—and had been craving them ferociously, as the Whole Foods Market had so conveniently stopped making them in the mornings, just as I had run out of the time and energy to show up at the gym as regularly as I wanted or needed. Still, as I planned the following week's fast, I dreamed of my return to Equinox; and somewhat of a return to the normalcy I had built for myself—and though I would never quite be as dazzlingly thin or attractive as Kayla Lauren, I'd at least be closer to my own self—whoever that was,

— in the body I was given to work with—or work for; its high maintenance, a handicap well enough worth having—at least, if It meant I might one day be loved again.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Hey, babe;

Come and sit at my table—

I'll pay you;

Forget Ableton;

Look what Abel did

In this fable

Fan, or a friend;

Paper and pen,

Here's a friend of a friend,

If you're interested,

I've been listening

Intentions;

Inventive dictation

Creating a masterpiece

That's an actress.

Yeah, I've been sad,

I've been hopeless;

Until the door opens,

It's just customer service,

Honest.

Come have a bite of this servitude,

I like your additude,

Bad and cool—

Try to relax, if you can,

My dude

Cool.

Now I'm in graduate school,

I need tutors and rulers, a few books—

I'll like being blonde, if I have to.

Damn,

I thought I was the master…

You are;

I just had to be candid,

An actress— an Actor:

I am you.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

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.