Isn't it strange that I can write something, and not remember what I wrote the next day?

I remember that I wrote it, and writing it, but not the words, really, or the structure.

They make pictures in the documents, shapes that they themselves as things make imprints as etching but have never been seen, by anyone else but me, at least—and whoever is phishing in my documents.

That's the dangerous part.

I do remember Jimmy Fallon, or just glimpse of it—that's the other dangerous part.

What exactly have I become apart of?

Why is this character hounding in the back of my mind? And what is relentlessly bc aching for truth and still clinging to the secrecy

I left him alone, but the thing kept returning.

Like that little yellow breasted bird who kept coming to visit me; he adored himself so looking in the water pipe like it was a mirror— what a paradox

No hot water heaters, but also,

No tent cities.

Then, I wasn't exactly an expatriate, or enemy to the patriarch. I liked men in charge, so long as they were the right kind of man.

But what is the right kind of man?

These versus were written in cadences that seemed like gibberish at the time, but two days later reading back, did seem to make sense… but for what?

It was almost peaceful in the apartment now that I seemed to be on the way out.

“You were warned in the drama club,”

The words rang in my mind but I had no idea whether they were just words to another song or some sort of string of things— these telemetrical tests to see if I could hear these things being stated over and over to me as if they were drills rather than things I was thinking.

Apparently I'd been betrayed but what was new?

My entire being in existence had been strings of betrayals and so these words, though unkind, could have meant anything.

Fear, usually, was the biggest weapon against any mind endangered, but I wasn't in fear of anything besides never seeing my son again— this was likely either way in that certainly in at least one way, I had been betrayed.

Perhaps I was expected to act like a man, and that I wouldn't miss or always feel attached to my baby; but I wasn't a man, or a dog. In

fact, I was a woman, and now so much aging that these things could be used against me.

I wasn't guilty, because I wasn't not-trying.

But these things were speaking volumes in what has been done to me and against me, and rather than to be the victim here, I altered my thoughts into those of a understanding never-martyr, because in fact my death would be kept secret; hidden, even.

I had been isolated from everyone and everything, and this was the agenda my purpose suited— perhaps a growing mental health crisis, though unobjectifiable I had been targeted— these things were made to hurt me, or make me believe I was becoming famous, but were never of any meaning, and indeed though I had written these things,

Any illusion of safety had been manufactured.

There was none; I was not safe here— or anywhere in the United States anymore.

Once I'd returned from Mexico, I had been recaptured, and closely studied, and controlled, and manipulated into doing and acting on behalf of my kind, which was being made to be the enemy.

What it had to do with any public figure wasn't entirely beyond me; in many ways, maybe, this figure was and could either be, both the Rock and Thr Kite— or the wind, or water, or earth itself; and perhaps since my death had marked the start of our awareness to any thing…it hadn't been entirely unnoticed that this overriding factor was that it was the same sort of cycle from one, repeated four times, and then eventually stopped.

In the unbalanced nature of my own time seeming to be shrinking, the more I realized that people to me were unkind, and distant.

It wasn't a swperate person or personality that had written these things; but a side of me that needed to be sleeping when these energies seemed to be surrounding me; and again this cruelty as peaking into an unbearable circumstance of needing to escape, and because I hadn't the financial means— seeking means to an end.

This brutality on the inside of my mind revealing itself to be the need for peace was overwhelming anything— the need for fame, connecting, recognition… the reality of it was, the illusion of safety was shrinking; I didn't have anybody or anything, the the words themselves were only being seen by those unseen.

I could have been portraying these deeply prolific things into the very hearts and minds of the enemy that was vilifying and demonizing me; keeping me out of a job and away from my son as a way to justify these dehumanizing and humiliating realities— the things that could make me appear crazy if need be.

But the truth was, I was sort of just timekeeping… not writing because I wanted to, or needed to— but because in the same way, it kept happening.

{Enter The Multiverse}

On our planet, turkey is a fruit.

No way!

Yes. We call them—

Poul-trees.

—gross!

Ahaha.

L E G E N D S

I was told that some have souls

And some do not, less fortunate

But though on high, and not our kind

Some seek to know that is which not

The Rock And The Kite IX

“No kings!”

Cries he who is not crowned King,

Though as he sits below, this shrieking—

The King sits silently, knowing

And keeping,

Thinking and rarely is he even speaking;

The King has been Kinged for the Kingdom he's keeping.

Lol did you realize the capitalization in the K's though?

It could be interpreted any of either way.

The poem itself is in the hypocrisy of non movement of the people from the very institutions it detests, In that—

In docile inaction, he who protests such things must, by direct action also seek to change the barriers of the institution in which it is formed, which starts at the foundation in one themselves—

Not simply idealizing a movement, but becoming its motion.

It furthermore alludes to the notion that, the King has become King not simply my lineage but simply acting in opposite regards to the common man.

It insinuates overall, that he who regards himself as a king is also himself a king.

[The Festival Project ™]

They say

“On Tuesday, you die.”

To me this is cruel and unusual punishment

To I it is sweet relief, and a good time

If I indeed prepare to end my life

Due to need and indeed,

Strife and poverty, so please

Remember me to think twice

When you greed and heavily

Impede in this— peace

That's why you need a scribe.

Do not describe me as decent,

I recently resent my decent

Into these regions from these Kingdoms

Which present me with

Grief

Regis, meet Kelly

Egregious? perhaps, actually

That and then astonishing

To ponder on such a moment,

Structured in the ruptured structure

Of my

DEADMAU5 powers down immidiately upon playing his first song.

Oh no.

Again!

Here we go.

Puncture. [wound]

(Remember? I was corrupted.)

I've been building a resume

I was real in my healing

She'll need Jesus

And he'll need buildings

Real estate?

You can relate?

Displays of affection.

It's too late now to deficit

Your attention.

It's too late now

To recommend your reflection

It's too late now

To make a mess in the kitchen

It's too late now,

It's sediment in a mention.

Who did how what when where why?

I idolize my Christ conscious,

This is him.

Well well. We meet again.

{Enter The Multiverse}

All my references are irrelevant and furnished even

Not a trace of a friend or relative that could manage, even.

My balances are invalid,

In the red and negative,

My management and dispatch, however—

“Oh that's cute.”

Microaggression.

The deep affiliation of

No— not this again

JIMINY CRICKET

JAHOVAS WITNESS

DEADPAN COMEDIANS—

L E G E N D S.

…

Jesus, anybody but—

{Enter The Multiverse}

…is it me?

LIZ LEMON has not had the best day.

AH NERDS.

It began with finding out she is indeed just a fictional character;

I'm a what.

This was confirmed by her review of all seven seasons of the hit series 30 Rock.

I don't understand.

Suddenly, as the tapes were concluded, she was handed a mysterious yellow envelope which apparently contained the complex codes needed to return things back to “as normal as possible”— however..

A MAN snatches the envelope out of LIZ LEMON'S HANDS, leaving her stranded in a seemingly off parallel universe where—

Oh hey, Tina.

Everyone keeps calling her “Tina” and she doesn't know why.

-_-

I have no new muse.

To some, this may confuse—

But I need no more blues;

This jazz was all a ruse.

Really?

This is awful.

I'm missing all my cues,

The game I cannot lose,

The life I did not choose

Begins to light a fuse

I am a ticking time bomb

A loose cannon

A straight asshole,

And complete troll,

If I told you I owed you a lesson

Would you roll over in this pine box?

I miss mine craft and my socks

My office, my rock and

Last off, I miss my boss.

What'd you do to Lorne Michaels?

You look confused!

He's acting strange!

That is not my fault! He was always strange.

Huh?

Think about it.

MEANWHILE…

She's been leaking pieces of the script online and it must be stopped!

Ooh, whose this blue suit?

Some hot blonde.

They're all wearing blue suits..,

Just as likely.

Hey! Hey! Who let you out of the TV?

What?!

This is not my purple.

Oh, aw shit,

What did you say?

This is not my purpose!

Oh no.

Oh no.

Oh yeah. Full meltdown mode on the TV screen

And it just kicked in that the mistress is infact invisible and just lives in his head, this deadpan actress bombshell, clever

Pleasurer has all just been

…

A TEST

!

Gazuntite..

Am I on in another room or something?

What?!

I can always feel it.

It just sets in,

It's just the fame,

Release the rest—

And the language can make sense;

It's been a sacred acre, and I guessed

This measurement of time

They hate you.

I bet, dude.

No, I'm serious— it has to end.

Oh well.

So I ran from hell at high speed,

Fell to my death by a rope at the neck

With a hope it would all just stop

If I drop to the bottom with a shot

Of adrenaline and I just don't come up

Out the water

I

T

I

S

Just not like it was

And I've never had love come back

Once it's gone

This is all just stuff

But my heart's sure to pop

If I don't get done

With the bottom floorness.

I need four heads for all my knowledge.

I need a whole box of cops for all these problems

And probably a constable

I'd be unstoppable if I could just nod for once

And smile,

Like I don't have thoughts,

For once.

Now that's a dunce.

(What you are.)

I'm hoping with these supplements

I can run again

(They were 20 bucks!)

And hoping if it's love enough

He gets complements

but not all of them.

I hope if I keep my walls up

I could just stall the

“Halt who goes there?”

Don't get locked out!

Don't get homeless!

Don't get knocked up!

Don't get bone out wings!

—You don't know if they're all bird.

Where's your album?

Fine, I'm done.

If I pitty pat

And fiddle faddle

With Jimmy Fallon

Then is this a riddle or a puzzle?

He'll resent the ridicule but surely he'll accept the saddle.

(That is a sad clown.)

Really, she'll present the message,

Recalling and still spilling all the gruesome gore and images just from before,

The horror core of all the assimilated messages,

The missed inboxes, the just-kept hostages,

The ten tails, is it—?

It gets welled in, wellness

When there's hell to pay,

Water turns into Welch's.

Is this indirectly feeding my somewhat obsession?

Perhaps; but under the umbrella of “one night only” I must indulge my exorcisms with admittance that I just trust the adjustment for a month's budget of exercise,

And hold the fries,

I see my eyes wandering—

Oh look, it's these guys.

FREDDIE

so wait.

THE ACTORS lie down against the cold black floor of the black box theatre. Though the floor has been freshly painted, it also wreaks of dusty velvet curtains and a hint of stale cigarette smoke, which no one seems to know from where this is emanating from.

Visualization exercises are key.

However, here, the actors appear to be conversating with one another

Yo I for real just didn't want to pay the price increase.

These bastards.

Well played, NBC.

And let's just be correct about this,

I need something to watch on the Peloton.

I'm sure the ads will no less than come after me.

Indeed, my fragile mind has been altered, living in between the streams to a TV reality.

Yo apparently there's an “NBC writers program”

—Completely missed it.

Facts are, I'm still under par, and still under Paar, however…

Okay, I'm paying for it, this had better be—

—they're baiting me.

For what.

This is so unconscious.

Liz Lemon on the treadmill

So what, I eat pop tarts

Instead of 3, I eat ten meals

It's real.

I told you you're in a cult!

Which one?

What?

IX

I have several acts,

And these distractions weren't as impulsive

As well thought out—

Pull the plug, Carson!

Pull the rug out from under the cat,

And the watch her react

This is just one person.

It is pertinent, the clause and causability,

The instigations, the Investigation,

The investments, the integration of the information

So much for insomniac

I close my eye every time I run a mile

You know

I can't help but hide

When I'm told in my own mind

That today, I'm likely to die

So I spent all night

Crying for viable options

ICONS

This is not left over,

You were just scrumptious, dumpling.

Oh there's Nigel Thornberry

And Joy Behar,

Listen now or hold your forever

But pray hard,

Cause that's what makes today hard

I okayThe Today Show

And may Harvard, but stray far from the Ark

If the Mayflower is trademarked,

Okay, embark on a grey streak,

A slave heart, a wave heat, grave deep

In a cave park,

But they weep and may keep secrets if they seek

Weekenders and they leak benders which may think in that he sleeps with her!

—but they thought wrong!

I'm not on drugs or having it rough as an alcoholic,

If anything I'm demolishing the impossible when I bought the peacock, acknowledging to all of them the terms and agreement,

from which I see agrees for them to be egregious

And with rights to detail or even possibly derail

These emails into retail;

So it could be Hell…

I really need help.

I need background noise

For my annoyances—

More people for the Peloton and

No more clairvoyances,

I'm prone to losing homes and power to appliances

I rely on false alliances

To try to make my mind a bit

Better, but got behind a bit…

Horse chasing in Manhattan

I can keep up with a horse drawn carriage

But only stopped to catch it,

Then, really

I've been I memories and giving it the method

Holy fuck I've never been this depressed

From just checking my messages

I regret all these inspections

It just diminished my respect for them—-

Impending doom for the impendium

I'm getting up the strength to ride the Peloton

But mulling over everything I didn't want

This beat is probably hot as balls…

Yo whatever happened to Lin's friend

Who used to beatbox with him?

Long before he entered into Television or with Disney Pixar,

It was way too far back in my memory, and then with this; I think

Maybe I'm more like him,

And nobody will even remember me!

—well, I remember, but barely.

Barely is good enough!

Here's my weakness:

Where's my Tony?

All I know is,

The bizarre ride

Was a rollercoaster

I once rode in a hard dream

And I wrote in a notebook

Colored just like a sports car

You know that I love a corvette

But probably need a corset

Just to fit in your car!

Can you sell me a dream and a nightmare at the same time;

It was just custard colored the corvette, or the sound of a songbird, almost purchased my worth to the tune

Of a little bird, canary,

And with every word it's getting scarier

To reverb and reverse not such a curse,

But was a very sequenced strategy to unrehearsed

Reality and as it may, just a game

And nothing short of fame, however

Breaking me

Goddammit what was his name?

I'm gonna be upset if I have to look it up.

Well, are you satisfied?

Not even relatively, Mr. President

This resident is half my age and every page I turn is just—

Irrelevant.

Ugh.

The best $7.99 I ever spent

Back to the lonely island

Oh yeah.

That's what I was writing.

BILL lies on his back eyes wide open with hand over his chest; something isn't right.

Still, here, in the crisp cool of the black box theatre floor, it almost seems that for now—

BILL HADER

You forgot I was here.

The demographics are telling;

The stocks are selling

The tik tocks are dwelling in your mind

As the white collar crimes

And the rhymes you're forgetting—

Or lines you're spitting

It's a self fulfilling prophecy.

He's a ghost, he's the reaper

He's the time, he's the Keeper;

He's the push, he's the teacher

The present and the preacher

That's why I shouldnt be here

You cannot live for free here!

So what do I owe you?

How do I know you?

Wrote you a letter

Wanted to blow you

Should I just throw you overboard

Or write another book

Here's a proof of purchase

I hope it's worth it

If you're homeless

I resoned this whole orchard

I am prone to no hurt,

But you know, it does show

I could go gold

If just left alone

For more then a moment

They hate you,

Say you're a disaster.

Operate under the radar

And pay her under the table

Hoping you hate hard

{Enter The Multiverse}

STEFON

It's that thing where you don't smoke any cigarettes at all, and then you smoke two packs immediately to reverse jumpstart your nicotine tolerance–?

Does that work.

I don't know. But yea.

Copyright The Collective Complex ©

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

© 2025 All Rights Reserved

-Ū.