Hey, Oprah—

Oprah.

Oprah.

Oprah.

Oprah.

Oprah

Oprah

Oprah

Oprah

OPRAH—

WHAT?!?

—I love you.

(OPRAH WINFREY sighs and groans, sinking back into bed.)

—and…

...AND?

...I made breakfast.

(This wakes her up a bit, as she is curious to see what has been made; Supacree energetically bounces into the next room.)

HEY, JANET JACKSON—

“Legends: The Melanin”

S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ has been taken to a top secret training facility to prepare her for her journey into celebritism.

EARLIER:

S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ is robbed and kidnapped at gunpoint by JANET JACKSON, BEYONCÉ, MARIAH CAREY, ALICIA KEYS & OPRAH.

what a combo.

I know, right?

A NINJA stops S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ in her path, knocking the açaí bowl out of her left hand—

WHAT THE FUCK!

—luckily, she still has her smoothie—however, before she can take a sip, the ninja, who she seems unbothered by, knocks the smoothie out of her other hand.

NO, MY SMOOTHIE!!!!!!!!!!

The NINJA stands, motionless.

S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ takes a fighting stance.

THE NINJA takes a fighting stance.

FUCK you dude, that shit's EXPENSIVE! YAAAAH.

YAAAAHHH!

They NINJA fight; S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ SUPACREE has the advantage, until.

ANOTHER NINJA arrives as backup.

I got this!

Then, ANOTHER OTHER NINJA and A FOURTH NINJA surround SUPACREE;

Oh, fuck that.

They create a formation—each taking a fighting stance. She is majorly outnumbered.

THE GRAND NINJA arrives

HIIIIIIIIIYYYAAAAAAA.

Nope, fuck this.

The ninjas synchronize, ready to fight.

Nope, I quit.

S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ retreats, running.

One of the ninjas has already advanced in her path.

Not so fast!

You're a LADY?!

Now you're surprised?!

S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ attempts to flee. The ninja pistol whips Supacree. She's out cold.

God dammit, Janet!

What?! She's fast!

She's also heavy.

Just get her!

It takes 3 ninjas (and a fourth for support) to lift SUPACREE into the sleek, blacked out Escalade. They close the back, and unanimously all 4 doors, in sync. The Escalade drives away, license plate reading:

LEGENDS

Leave it alone,

Just let it be

Could you just–practically be me for a second,

I want to check something out.

–I am–practically you–

Hold on,

Let me get a cat and a couple supermodels.

I'll be right back.

Great.

Where am I supposed to get two cats and a supermodel on short notice?

No, it was, a cat and two–

Tell me your name one more time.

I was certain i'd never forget.

You will forget about this.

I need more magic.

I just gave you magic. Where is it?

Uh.

Up my nose.

Wat is the dosage on those anyway?

PORCUPINE.

uh, don't touch that?

DON't GeT TO0

Hold on a second, this might be the most accurate, if I ever–

DId you ever

NO.

I'm stuck in this

MUFFIN.

MUFFIN!

COME HERE MUFFIN.

What happened?

I lost a cat.

[RACHEL DRATCH IS IN THE IMPENETRABLE TEN]

this has never happened.

Hold the fucking phone. Hold the fucking–

OPRAH

UHWUHT.

PHONE.

[OPRAH WINFREY DOES NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOUR BULLSHIT.]

Why all caps

CAUSE SHE'S MAD

WHO THE

[NOPE]

DO YOU THINK YOU ARE CALLING ME AT THIS

[UH OH]

HOUR

WHAT HOUR. WHAT TIME IS IT. WHERE'S WHOOPI.

I got her.

-Wait–you go her?

Yup, she's safe.

*squints*

I'll be right there.

Oh shit, is that Skrillex?

No, that's The President.

No, this is Patrick.

Why did the Chicken cross the road?

Pretty much out of sheer panic.

Run it! Run it to exhaustion!

RUN THIS BITCH INTO THE GROUNDHOLE!

Good, it's Groundhog's day.

SPRINGTI–

NO.

Put some clothes on.

Let's play piano.

I'm a martian.

oh . that's dumb. What happend to your planet.

Yer on it.

No, you're on this: my planet.

URANUS

What happened.

*SPPLAT*

(Now I'm like, gas.)

*blat*

Ooh, wow, how'd that happen

*shrugs*

science /math

ASSHOLES.

Wat happened.

Just wait here. I'll be right back.

ARTY MCWIRED

You know, just in case there's a

LAWSUIT

dammit .

LAW SUIT

huh

LAW SUITS

I don't get it. Why are you all dressed in

What BRoTHeRhOoD is THIS.

Oh good, a map.

YOu know these things are useless to me.

Of course, this would be the perfect day to go

SHOPPING

JELLYFISHING.

DOLPHINS.

Idget it.

What.

How did Dolphins survive a nuclear holocaust?

Anything left here?

Nothing I s–

ooh , wats that.

Woah, look, dolphins.

LIke, 12 of them.

Gnarly.

My world changed when I got a couch.

Everything changed, actually—when I got furniture. Actual furniture, more than just a mattress on a floor and a cheap Asian desk from Amazon I actually loathed. I almost never worked at the desk, anyway, as it didn't seem equipped for the totality of my studio—the keyboard and drum machine, and though the keyboard had been calling to me over the last few days particularly, I had spent the last couple days almost carelessly longing, in peace and near total silence, with not a care In the world or a thought besides my mantras, with the occasional conglomerate rapid overthinking caused by the terrorists outside, now thought more likely to be police officers or feds themselves, as the police never seemed to be able to stop them–and it seemed that perhaps It was a federal act of domestic terrorism itself. No actual police officers or forces seemed to care or could stop them–and if it wasn't the devil himself, it had to have been the military or something of the like, pushing some sort of political agenda.

Either way, I wasn't going to be moved in such a way to keep reacting to such immature and primitive war tactics—and thought that it was just as likely that by November, come voting time, they would all be miraculously disappeared, if not before due to the inclement weather I was sure was coming by the end of summer.

I was almost sort of on my own time, besides the voices in my mind which screamed to work harder and faster, be skinner and more perfect, and that my prime time had passed—that I would never be loved again and that I was a horrible mother, that besides all the more knowing it for myself, I hushed and numbed with my mantras, uncaring.

At the very least, I was alone, and not interested in people— the humanity had left the humans by way of corporate slavery and electronic addictions, rigged elections and a totalitarian government which masqueraded as a democracy, but In all truth had been for quite some time, out of the hands of its people.

All the better, as the people had become programmed and controllable, easily manipulated, and for the most part and maybe even for the best, unconscious creatures—the majority of them malnourished, dehydrated by choice and lifestyle, eating processed foods as voluntary poison–and especially in New York City– undereducated, and without rest; The youth at the hands of the system which controlled all aspects of their lives, comparing them not by wit or skill but privilege and genetic composition; by looks, wealth, and vanity. The algorithm was indeed sorting them by all it knew to— perfect, and imperfect, almost always attributed to environmental factors, such as financial stability and of course—access to certain luxuries and freedoms— a hard line dividing the classes now.

I lounged somewhat gracefully in my favorite polyester blend skirt as my harems washed with the tablecloth and dishrags— I was nearly out of suitable casual clothes, and although I had been collecting some fashionable outerwear, I never planned on actually going out.

Being penniless in New York was tiresome, and I had spent enough time fighting its monsterous crowds and the infestation of migrants long enough during my year within the homeless system—now, still trapped by the terrorists which surrounded the block and what, if it wasn't some kind of federal experiment altogether, also seemed like some kind of criminal enterprise, which situated itself in the warehouse just adjacent to my building, though having lost their illegal smoke shop, a group of shirtless hoodlum-looking types, still appearing to continue business outside of where the smokeshop once had been, now becoming an obvious and unwelcoming eyesore, as the owners of the “auto body shop” which plagued the neighborhood by parking ugly cars on the sidewalks around the entirety of the corner—combined with the discarded trash, old appliances and the occasional shopping cart filled with such , not to mention the trees which stood in beds of littered filth– as if to say “we run this block”—some shade of brown and careless as to what peace might be to some others, they held enough of something like money which masquaraded as power, and therefore enough of whatever they had to continue to make the block a less welcoming place to live, and besides the motorcyclists—which all seemed to be one, haphazard, operational network— stood as a good reason not to bring any child into this mess— the brown-black world of Brooklyn New York's Queen's facing war zone—the ugly truth of old racism and money in New York City; and after a year two year spectacle on how most of the black and brown culture within New York City had bred itself to be unrestful, misbehaved, and brutally drained of its class by the system itself; it was nearly understated that the culture had become toxic. The Redlining of New York City had become obvious–New York City's own racism a blistering outward truth. I

I wanted so badly to be able to travel and return “home” or rather, to my apartment–or even rather–to my studio–as it never really did feel like home with the ability to see it all in a new light. I had been in New York so long that I felt myself becoming callous and bitter—I needed to leave, but had been at a standstill creatively, as if there was some kind of block on my music. It was true that I couldn't hear much of my own sounds or music over the traffic in the outside world, and I was sure I had been sent here as sabotage so that I might never make it out of the depths of this world.

Either way, I wasn't going to take it much longer— if I was ever made to be homeless again, I would simply kill myself—and without a love that I could call my own— a real love, disconnected from the destruction of my son's father, completely away from the satanic, demonic and evil curses he had set upon me— a love that would set me free from him and his world—

I would kill myself.

I would do anything to escape the constant thoughts of him bombarding me, the flashbacks of his brutal beating— the evil words he had said and the evil, tumultuous series of homelessness which followed. I would do anything to rid myself of him entirely, and I had not yet at all been loved by someone who didn't seem possessed by something after some time—it was as if this energy would find its way into anyone near me and drive me to insanity just so that his version of the story would become true; the evil lie that I had simply “lost my mind”, and out of nowhere, just had “gone crazy.”

His version was the lie— Everything that I had once become was a reflection of himself—weak, unstable, and unable to function, all the while he had used my energy to sustain and survive; a vampire narcissist who could not have without my doing lived or functioned on his own. The one man I had ever shared tied with had been always too tired to get up for work, and always without fail, unable to keep a steady job – and of course— situationally plagued with poor spending habits, bad judgement, and outright laziness. He simply wanted to play the game, drink his 4locos, and use my computer to make rap beats; of course–I was holding him back from his true potential.

Becoming like him was what seemed to the outside world as ‘losing my mind', and upon choosing to leave him, to find myself again. His only strategy had been to to form an illusion—that his own mental illness was actually mine. That the traumatic physical violence I had endured and hidden in fear of him had never actually happened.

He kept me at a distance to make it seem as though I had abandoned my son; used our son as bait to attract another mate, and then began to discard him, treating him as an extension of myself which he could feed on for light and energy–and eventually discard. He claimed that by ignoring my phone calls and attempts at keeping a bond with my son, that I had no interest in being a mother. He projected onto other that I had been sick or incapable—with the veracity of a cereal killer with just enough charm, the racistly indoctrinated outside world fell to default that always, though having been the survivor of serveral violent acts, that I was somehow in the wrong–that I had somehow deserved the things which were being done to me.

The physical scars that I wore were of his making, and the label that it formed— a mentally ill and unstable homeless colored woman— projected to the right-swinging red-necked Alaskans that I was somehow the problem; However, with time, I was sure that his meaning to subdue and belittle me was returning to him in the way of Karmic justice, and that the light that I had left within my own child would be his redeeming quality, in a world where I had been outcast from and unable to return to.

I wanted desperately to at least visit—but saw no end to the financial ruin which homelessness and debt had caused insight; the recovery from his physical violence almost seemingly impossible; even frequenting the gym often enough would result in a particular man entering the gym to practice his sparring; often though I tried to prevent the flashbacks from occuring, I would eventually, hearing this, over my music at high volume, imagine the punching bag as my face.

I realized at some point that I might never actually see my son again. We were thousands of miles separated and years between us–and because I had been honest in my documentation of the violence that had happened between us–he was refusing to sign the divorce papers, leaving me dangling at the end of a long rope I was sure I'd hang from, and limiting my ability to be seen by the system as entirely independent of this disastrous type of person. Of course, ‘boys will be boys'--and these types of boys in particular had the habit of protecting one another whether they were in the wrong, or not. A brotherhood of course, in which I had been marked as beatable, discardable, and of course, some sort of sub-human.

How could I even know that I was safe from his dark and evil reach in a world said to be and many believed ruled by demonic bodies which Satan himself had claimed?

In heavy prayer and reflection I had been asking of the men on motorcycles, to which God's answer seemed to speak truth; that these men were not men at all, but Satan's playthings. They had no free though or will to act on their own, and were instead controlled—that the toxicity, the terrorism, the injustice was a spectacle of sorts for the dark lord, in thy he controlled so many of what used to be people—now more just puppets for his displays of affliction upon humanity. These men had no purpose at all but to be consumed and possessed by a creature which had no face at all—no true name at all— the force of evil itself, which by now had controlled nearly all man, and nearly all of humanity.

The Complex Collective ©

Nicolas Fountainisi was a disgusting human being.

Not altogether a human creature, he foraged ways of l believing in kindness and gratitude though never actually having felt, or with feeling at all— what human nature actually at all was.

Premeditated murder.

Desensitization,

Sensitive information

Curious niggers

Did I say it again?

Indifference.

It's whatever.

Psychological terror chamber.

I love Oprah and motorcycles

But I hate robots.

Huh.

Well, I'm at it.

Let's go kick in the googleverse

I could write a metaplex

Languages,

and something was stolen!

Porch robber

False fortune

Decisions, decisions

Evil ass bitches

Temptations,

Temptations—

I seen your face when I mated here

Oh,

Lord

It's the lyricism

Let's make spousal abuse poetic.

Let's make her stay in the system!

Let's make it more severe weather!

[Thunder and lightning.]

Let's go hang in the googleverse

I might write a metaplex

I'm infinite,

And you're infinite—

But your producer

Is inferior

Where is he then?

I left him in a wedding

For aftermarket parts

I'm making belated birthday cakes

On the 4th

Or the fifth

Better believe it

I ain't got enough to—

Switch from the antiquity, did you?

I told you, I ain't tell if they come at me!

(Don't tell if he touch you)

He got the power,

The lawyers

The women,

The money,

The mortals on battery pack—

Waaaages!

I'm not finna snatch shit

Just so you can say

I snatched it

I asked you for passion and peace

All I got was the passion

And nails in my outstretched palms

I tried to warn you!

Sickness, is it?

It is,

Traffic on magnets

Let's go hang in the googleverse,

I might write metaplex

Fear of the fortunate

Don't mean to hurt us-/

We're just immortals

They don't even know us no more

Depart the children of earth

For the worst days to come

Not to the worthless,

But the wealthy and fortunate

Burn up

Listen and learn, son

Your mother was for us

But I got my butter's worth

(Don't make me work hard!)

I thinkni just left myself

Woke up in a primary school

A perfect apartment

But a dive bar

To an old fuck

Going out on those LTEs

Is always bothersome,

Don't you know?

Torturer's complex

—they know not.

Don't worry mom,

I got an assignment

You're proud of me, aren't I?

Are you adorable,

For a robot stalker

Stop in the road

Just to intercept

That I'm always

Where you don't want

(On top of you)

Once you been hit in the face by a man

And

Separated from your young

Then blamed for it

Once you old your dead children and

Feel their cold frozen bodies

Once you get stalked

And tracked by hostile robots

Pulling out

All the fine details of your life

Is if your birth

Your entire upbringing

Is your fault

You stop giving a fuck

About little dudes

Throwing weights around

Guess who gets dangerous

Once they find out

They're being fucked with

Over and over

And nobody loves her

This ugly fat bitch

Guess who gets tired of poverty

But gets blocked from getting a job

Being broke

I shouldn't even need this shit

But apparently demons

And shit he said

Stands up in court

—but he hit me.

Turns out I lost my mind

And the devil's a liar

Turns out I like them blonde and blue eyed

Huh

Oh well

I'll stay alone on false positives

All day

Getting fucked with

Pennies on the dollar

Followed and followed and followed

All I want is a bullet hole

In my aura

Whatever man, this just got weird again.

Reading the book, I realized how funny I was—because Tina Fey was funny and interesting—but I might even be actually funnier, and had al certainly lived a more seasoned life—her white girl hardships were endearing and I loved her all the more for having read through the surface level collection of stories from throughout her life and world—she was certainly luckier than I was, and more likable—-and maybe even probably funnier in person, but for now, she was just smarter, and that was enough to encourage me to list the words that so far I didn't know, starting in the middle, and somehow looking back to the beginning.

I didn't want to miss anything—she was actually a considerable role model besides Oprah, though it was obvious we lived in different worlds entirely.

Captain

Captain!

Oh, Good, come in, Cannon.

You've—changed.

…as you know, Monday we disembark.

Yes, I'm aware.

And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us.

Yes.

I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self.

How old are you, anyway?

You should never ask a woman her age, LT.

Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know.

Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately…

Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that.

I'm still very much in the privacy of my office.

You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public.

Never as a woman her age!

You're not a woman; you're my captain.

We'll see about that after tonight.

Being a woman, or being my captain?

Both, probably.

Hm.

By any chance would you be interested in joining me?

As your subordinate, or as a man.

Both, probably.

Or neither… presumably.

As my escort.

I beg your pardon.

I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition.

—er, your condition, captain?

Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind.

[he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.]

Consider it done.

Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour.

Half an hour?

Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early.

We're earning points?

We are now.

Very well then. What am I wearing?

Something sharp.

Sharper than the inside of a half hour.

On your mark.

I'll—see you soon.

He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him.

Sergeant.

Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back.

Oh.

I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage.

Whatever, though. Doesn't matter.

At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture,

TVP

S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer.

DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour.

—

DAEMON

Who's this beautiful sister?

PATRICK

My head writer; don't even think about it.

DAEMON

I don't think. I just do.

Esha approaches— Dash politely bows and kisses Esha's hand.

ESHA

Should I get tested?

DAEMON

—and funny.

[Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with Daemon Dash; Furious, Patrick means to interrogate her at work the next day. ]

PATRICK

Why would you even date that asshole.

ESHA

Because—Pat. He's a comedian.

PATRICK

I'm a comedian! So?

ESHA

So, he's funny.

PATRICK

And?

ESHA

And he said things to me—

PATRICK

(defensively)

–What kind of things?!

ESHA

Charming, funny things—

PATRICK

Okay?

ESHA

Things he wouldn't say to you over dinner— because, I'm–

PATRICK

—you're a woman.

ESHA

—and your head writer. So naturally….

PATRICK

Esh, you're a genius,

ESHA

So is he. We have—some new material to work through.

[ESHA produces a hefty pile of notes and serves them to PATRICK]

PATRICK

(squealing)

Ahq!

ESHA

Your monologue tonight.

[Patrick excitedly shuffles through the papers.]

PATRICK

Oh yes. Oh yes.

ESHA

You can thank me later.

© The Festival Project ™ , Inc.

All Rights Reserved.

Broken bottles.

Someone should stop her

Walkin walking

God knows I don't belong here

And I don't want to

Passover was April 21-30

Global War on Terrorism

Aka WWIII

Oh, indeed.

Don't look left

Take a deep breath

My heart beats differently

I think it might be the end

I think it might be

I think I might be the enemy

The pushing mechanism

When i breath him in

I levitate

And gravitate to what it meant

The sake of the art,

The hurt of the heart

As sacred as it ever was

The turning or the Torah talks of

Gestures, since the fall of Rome

The toga on the alter

Solid hands unwrap us all

From falling over

Old and awkward

No award for wisdom

No rest for the wiser

No love for the troll

Since thunderstruck from under us,

Delivered all but what we wanted

So we talk of kama sutra,

Surely we can't talk at all

Of what we know

As once was bonded

Laughed it off

To come from what

The call to us,

Fair serve governors fortress

I work up in mentions

Carved the scarlet letter out of

Cannons, of course

MA.

WHAT. I'm BUSY.

IT'S ON.

The what?

The show we watch!

The one that—

YES,

Oh, my GOD.

Yes.

YESSSSSSSSS.

Usnavi, get your popcorn

This is some worth watching

Up in arms for forwards

Causing sore arms,

Numb thumbs

From crucifixes

Are you wondering what God

Would walk about the horned carving

A kamikaze walk of tall corn—

Follow me, dear mantra

Your whole house is watching.

Sacre.

It's happening again isn't it.

I do want ice cream.

All I need is a divorce

And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall

To rub me off at the stroke of

Nevermind what the clock says

In God's house they're all wrong

The blasphemous for Catholics

Has begun,

So strum your number into the teleprompter

And just hope no one gets hurt

By the hook on the next song

—like the hook of my last surviving bra

digs into my back does,

Or the skin on my lack of tummy

Has rubbed off under the suicide

Of the cycle—

It's getting tighter

A loss of interest is equal to

A loss of consciousness

And I'm 21 days drunk

On the alternate, though—

I'm sober and feeling less

Loved.

The animal I've become is all cardio

And karma sutra

For karma comes

To the weak of heart

To use the world as swords

To cause harm

To the calm artists

I thought I told you off once.

(Already)

You look awful.

lol.

You look terrible, broh.

But my album sound fire.

#producerholes

[portal]

It's coffee time!!

It's not coffee time!

It's not coffee time.

Iiiiits coffee time.

Damn.

Where's the cat.

Gestating.

I fell asleep on a Saturday afternoon and woke up on a Saturday morning something like 19 hours later, after a series of dr same the types of like I was sure that my new dreamcatcher would shield me from—the turquoise beads were probably plastic, but who could know—without further inspection, I gladly hung it up near the window to catch the bad spirits who had been attacking me in the night, mostly in the form of satanic possessed motorcycle riders or heavily drinking passerby's. Wouldn't it be nice to have somewhere beautiful like this in downtown Los Angeles, or even Santa Monica? I had grown tired of the toxicity of inner city New Yorkers and the third world antics of the newest inhabitants— still/- it was the first apartment ever in my entire adulthood that was totally and completely mine, and I took good care of it. I knew that most folks weren't as clean and tidy as I was, and although I had left my apartment quite a mess in a lurch to get to the post office, returning the cheap and improperly advertised fake essential oils I had returned upon discovering that they were indeed not actually essential oils, but something that smelled more like floor cleaner, and was the consistency of water—they were fake, and the bath rug had been altered with photoshop to make it look gold, while it was actually yellow. I took it back, remembering the promise I had made 3 days ago—once I was finished reading Tina Fey's matching yellow book, I would find somewhere else to put the rug, but it clashed so classlesley with everything in my apartment, that I couldn't stand to look anymore; the rug had been removed from the bathroom before even filing for a return label; the fake essential oils joined it in the box three days later— a Saturday I was sure upon first waking was Sunday, but then glad it was some kind of time slip through the dimensions as I slept wearily for hours after refusing to go to the gym, only to be followed by what seemed like robots—the same 3 or 4 people showing up when I worked out no matter what time I decided to go—early or late.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.