{The Audio Files}

ocean blvd.

Collection I -'better off dead.'
Track 01. - 'ocean blvd.'

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

What is the significance of McGriddles?

There is no significance of McGriddles, because McGriddles is only McDonald's.

McMeditation.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

rekt.
Collection 1.1 - 'actuality.'
Track 03. - 'rekt.'
Prod By Blū Tha Gürū

{Enter The Multiverse}

MILA KUNIS *hits vape*

WHY would you agree to sign me up for this?

ASHTON KUTCHER

Because—

MILA KUNIS

*Hits vape harder*

ASTON KUTCHER

Jesus Christ—

MILA KUNIS

You know me and Seth don't get along after that thing he did!

ASHTON KUTCHER

I know, but—

MILA KUNIS

*throws pillow*

UGH.

How am I supposed to?

Fuck it.

—-

SETH MCFARLENE

I have lines now.

*sniffs long line*

…

Are you okay?

SETH

I'm going to be.

[This requires a full cast.]

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

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.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

niagara falls.

Collection II - ‘antithesis.

Track 12. - ‘niagara falls'

Prod By Blū Tha Guru

[Previously on L E G E N D S: Enter The Multiverse}

Baby's all right Brooklyn

Pretty little palace of disaster

Pretty little patterns of —

Whatever

Tantrums, smashing Jack o lanterns

Shadows,

Hands that attach to the strings

Allowing them to dance into dreams

It seems these sacred places

Have been ravaged

And

I have not been running

But I don't have any money

Wise than that

It's less than zero

Negatives

I want to kill myself again

Honestly, I see a way out it just

Requires being tortured

By people coughing.

And motorcycles

I might have seen my son for the last time

At age five

It's finally warm outside

And everything's just

Reminding me

I'm struggling with poverty

Nothing really matters cause I don't belong here

Everything is wrong

I just want blonde hair,

Hurry up, God

Assist me with a suicide

I can take pride in

Not an attempt, but

The only success I'll ever have

At anything

At all

-El Al

Nothing moves the same

After an unrequited love becomes a tragedy

Or just a movie scene

I want to scream for needing to be needed

Then again

Could die just to be dead

Could go back

To just be blacklisted

Or a crackhead

Doing magic tricks

Pass

I couldn't have ever imagined

This fascination as of late

Or making trance

But anything can happen

With the light switches on and off

As the kite catches headwinds

Or hedwig is getting bigger by the minute

That just grows out of his head,

But I wish it was a wig

Like Kristen

Pass

Yes.

Breathe deep into my lungs,

These scenes of things

So evil seeming, even to me

Lucidity becomes as dreamily

Eerie, intermittently meaningless,

And then suddenly,

However much later,

Maddeningly attractive,

As I am, in fact

Attached to this project

As menacingly handsome and devilish as he is

I've decided, it's manageable, but clashes with my

Moral standards and clasps with fabrications

Lay hands on me and see what happens!

—-okay…

“Okay”

Pass!

I asked to be a rockstar and showrunner

On the same blood soaked candles

I took blood oaths

Dancing in front of the fountain

At rockafeller plaza, to no applause,

Of course,

Drinking monsters nonstop,

Ontop of my skateboard

I came back late to Boston

And took a plane to Vegas early the next morning

But somewhere deep in my Google Drive or documents

Is me under a neon sign,

Which reads a name I resigned from saying

Until maybe I get signed

I hate him, but hey,

The name of the game is Mating Season,

And lately I've been craving eggs and

Mayonnaise instead of protein shakes and

Crayons

Wax on, wax off…

Pass, but that last sentence didn't make sense

It did.::

Oh,

Yes, it did.

Promise.

You do some stupid shit.

Okay, so I do stupid shit.

Believe me, you do some stupid shit.

Okay, I believe you.

Don't believe me when I tell you things like that.

What the fuck, Patrick, do you mean, even?

I mean what I mean, but usually just—

For me.

I am you, I thought.

Exactly: don't believe me.

Okay? I don't believe you…

Just—believe me. Believe me.

Oh dang. So there really is no “Jimmy Fallon”

No, there isn't it's just—

Poor little Jimmy Fallon…

What if—

There is no “if”.

Nobody has to ‘agree' to this project

Sign the terms of agreement

For what.

You'll see..

stupid little bitch.

*squints*

What did you just say.

(Walking away, mumbling)

Nothing!

Fucking idiot.

What did you just say?!

(Yelling)

I said you're a fucking idiot, Fallon! You're a fucking lDi0T:

Well, okay.

lol NBC is not gonna let this fly at all.

No, Jimmy, you cannot do this project.

Well, that's alright. I quit.

You can't quit. You have a contract.

I don't—I'm out of my contract:

On what grounds?!

Conflict of interest!

That's my say, isn't it?

Is it?

MORGUE.

I bought a network!

MY NAME IS—

MAaaa!!

WHATTTTTTT.

The show's on!

[A Cold Open]

L E G E N D S

{Enter The Multiverse}

Fuck this kid. I'm gonna kill him.

Kill what. Who.

FALLON. GET IN HERE.

Ah. [explitive]

[‘THE FALLON' gets ‘FALLONED' by ELLEN DEGENERES]

ELLEN

YES.

FINALLY, I'm in this bitch.

[And other members of ‘THE HOSTS COLLECTIVE', a high ranking team in the ILLUMINATI FOREFRONT]

Well, not in the way I'm sure you'd hoped, but.

Shutthefuckup!

Oh wait—is she

Is it “she”

Is she a lesbian?!

What's the “Illuminati”—

We'll get back to that later.

No! gross!

Portia Derossi!

Huh?

I want to be that pretty!

Well, okie.

MEANWHILE,

In my actual own age group…

I'm older than all these hosts, anyway!

Even Leno?

Isn't he dead already?!

Exactly!

EVEN STEVENS

[BEANS is now VEGAN]

Why is vegan capitalized.

Cause it's important.

Hey buddy!

Don't call me buddy. I'm edging on 40.

Time flies when you're—

Rapidly aging?

I brought you some bacon.

You what:

It's farm fresh!

Kooldjredalert

Lie to me

Try to sleep

(In my arms, won't you)

Try to keep the

Time with

My heart

Beat

(Heavenly)

I've been living in your world for just over a month, now.

I'm sorry, Fallon.

That must be awful.

Not too sorry—

Some of this stuff is good.

Just, priceless.

Wouldn't trade it for the world.

But I've hung my head in shame,

Cause I hung myself with gratitude,

Haven't you had enough?

If it makes any difference at all,

And I'm betting it does

All I wished for a wanted and prayed

Was for you to be happy

I buy burners with trackers

Put burn holes in sweaters

The summit at the plummet, pulling forwards

And backwards

I've four words for parlors,

For barbers and hatchets

I bury the four suns,

The moon arose after

I left an Oscar on your alter this morning

Never shall ye rest,

Haven't ever then,

Paid the tythe,

And for the while,

Immortal wife and lover,

Mother daughter,

Soon to call your name and number,

However,

The fall from the drop of polish,

Of course, oil marks upon canvases

Sickness and swells of my

Hands upon your corset

Could you collide with another?

Doubtful, to that,

So shall it must be

List, but never to utter

A mustard seed;

Ground, then unground—

As if planted,

Simple,

As the seed of laughter

So then, would you

By the turn of the hour,

return to the one had you called

Lover,

A curse upon the

Coerced and responsible

A blonde,

But worse,

A pretty one

For never after happens out of nowhere

Now,

Dissociate,

Before I dissipate of

Loneliness

Hark,

The door opens for one,

A bold soldier to come,

Listen lover,

The stone has been

Suspended, by the mirror

In terror

Alarmed,

Cool you are now

Calm, however

Not abound to be lie

Or below

Bound by blood

There you are

In excelsior,

Predecessor

What would you want that for—

The camera obscured;

Why,

If only,

To look upon you

Plastered and enlarged

As you are

Endangered in my imagination

A dangerous and strange,

Dangling addiction

Fascination, now

With power,

And prowess

Come now,

The midnight hour is upon us

[his body hung from the rafters above the studio, just one lamp left aglow—and then suddenly I had awakened, his body still and resting, sleeping quietly—although the hanged man burned into my mind; I left him quietly as I could in the loft and sat with nothing in my mind at all at the canvas, brush in hand, as if I were to draw something—but could not. It was almost as if I was frozen, or even perhaps the canvas were instead a mirror, and I the painting —though I could not know. My dearest Patrick was a broken man, and I his broken lover—the both of us an atrocity at all in shambles—I wept inwardly but not outward, as not to wake him as my tears often did, even from a deep sleep. The sun was far from rising, and though I had barely slept at all, I felt I would never sleep again—I fell at my tilted alter as the sun rose, in prayer and devastation; What had I done?]

—Esha's Memoirs, the journals from The Altar

You know what, kid—

You've got something.

I don't know what it is,

But it's something.

Kid? Aren't we like, the same age?

No.

I'll tell you what I've got

I've got a seven year old kid I haven't seen in two years;

I've got a sink full of dishes

I've got credit card debt and school loans

I've got racist neighbors,

An ex husband who swears he never hit me

With a brand new baby

I've got

Extreme back pain

I've got a body only God could ever love

And I've got something like

10,000 pages or more

Of stuff I barely remember writing

Just sitting in the Google algorithm

Pushing me closer and closer to suicide

Every single day

I've got

Sexual fantasies about celebrities for no given reason at all.

I've got

800 songs that are just words

I've got books I want to read just— sitting there

And I've got this pain

That just sits inside my soul

That never goes away, ever

I've got something, alright.

I've got something, sure

But when it comes to money

I got a dollar

One fucking dollar

And you know what I call that?

-Useless.

She's dead, isn't she?

You guessed it.

Well, what am I supposed to do?

What you always do.

What is that?

What is that?

Swear of the palm d ore

I Cannes,

Atop the Eiffel

You are the river that crosses my eye,

The scar across my heart,

The Eye, is

All we are

And all is one;

One is all,

And All are One

Well, I'm quite nervous.

Don't be nervous, at all, Johnny. Relax.

Another John—my first, in fact.

Indeed,

I was once relentlessly obsessed

With Johnny Depp

Infatuated, if you will

Whatever you want to call it.

Of course,

For a teenaged girl, however

This sort of obsession was somewhat normal

Somewhat.

I had always wanted to star in movies—

So much so that I began to write them.

I was about 7, maybe 8 when the stories in my headed started to form as narratives—

Not just stories, but words

Characters and conversations—

Plots.

I should leave this poor Fallon boy alone.

Some darkness inside of me wants him;

That thing that doesn't quiet, nor does it want,

Anything but what it wants—

And it is,

Darkness-m—

That thing that lives inside of me and what is does;

The thing it calls love, and calls our for

The something in someone that rises it up

From wherever it dwells,

Deep in my soul, and into my hear,

Into my thoughts,

It haunts all that I must and mustn't

Ponder upon

A woman's cause,

And a murderer of sorts,

The ugly swan , who dances on ponds,

Laying one one, but all of precious stones,

The egg,

The coveted stones of trust,

And wander,

Listing upon that which it feeds,

Not only the bod,

But its motor,

It's mind,

A hearty philosopher,

And willful warrior,

Of wit,

And of talent,

The strength of

Astonishment

A power above all,

A blindness of fate;

Judged by all

The spectacular amongst us

The famed and the damned,

Acquitted of warmth and dutiful,

Exquisite in awe

A rarity.

—The Fame Files.

V.O.

Coming to terms with one's death is always peaceful.

All harm caused will be returned by he/she who causes it or acts in such a way as to inflict pain and hostility towards peaceful persons.

Causing with intention psychological, physical, mental, or physical harm will result in the immediate karmic retaliation of such pain as inflicted on peaceful individuals; these acts of war will inhibit the actor from entering the transcendence, or developing expanded consciousness, gaining wealth, further material possessions–his own will is therefore weakened, and therefore unworthy of love himself, by the intent to cause one such pain as an act of violence or ill will. One's disruption of peace is thereby an act of cruelty, punishable beyond death–causing pain by intention to another individual in the attempt of control or manipulation, intrusion, and abuse is therefore against the laws by which the ascended abide by, and therefore cannot and will not exist beyond the ill fate of its perpetrator.

Please leave me alone; I'm asking you nicely.

Alright, fine.

Where is it!

Where is what?

You know what.

What?

From the fountain.

It wasn't me! I don't have it.

And this, is why Jimmy Fallon is impenetrable.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

'ACTION!'

Collection II - 'antithesis.'

Track 09. ‘ACTION!'

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

Previously on

(Whatever, I Give up. )

HALLE BERRY

is that how you spell it

It is for now. Fuck going online

“That ain't part of my day”

Shut up Drake, not now.

You'll thank me later

“If You're Reading This, It's Too Late”

[HALLE BERRY is taking A VERY PAINFUL SHIT, clutching her *favorite OSCAR award--

Which one's her favorite?

CUT TO:

BEFORE

HALLE BERRY looks over her OSCARS in the display cabinet, carefully scanning them, with a New York Times paper tucked under her left arm, sipping from the coffee cup in her right hand.]

—I like this guy.

The other OSCARS groan; they are often overlooked during this process.

Come on!

This guy!

AGAIN!?

UGH.

CUT BACK TO:

[HALLE BERRY clenches painfully, sweating audaciously—at the worst possible moment, her cellphone rings. ]

WHAT THE—COME ON

I THOUGHT I WAS IN AIRPLANE MODE.

(I just found out The Illuminati can still make calls go through in airplane mode

Or without cell service at all)

wtf my phone is ringing.

That's weird. You don't even—

—I don't even have a phone.

Right.

(Seriously, my phone is disconnected. I didn't even pay my bill.)

The fuck.

[it's JIMMY FALLON]

Damn. This dude has the worst possible timing ever.

Like fucking ever.

Always shows up at the worst

—THE WORST MOMENT.

[HALLE BERRY rejects the call. It rings again]

WHAT THE—

[She ignores the second call. A moment of subtly relaxed silence, until—

[JIMMY FALLON appears in the ceiling window of the bathroom. HALLE BERRY SCREAMS, still fluting her OSCAR.]

(Calmly, kind of)

Hey,

WHAT THE FUCK, JIMMY.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

I called first!

I KNOW THAT—

Went to voicemail.

YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE.

Just—calm down.

NO.

Look.

GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!

I'm not in your house, I'm outside your house. Technically.

—yeah, but your FACE is in my house—

—I hear that's the best part.

—What?!

Listen—

Get out—

No, look, listen—

I need to borrow your Oscar.

What?! For what?!

That's not important.

Oh really?!

Yeah.

It seems important.

It's not that important

Just—-

What!

Give it to me!

[He snatches the OSCAR and tosses her his GRAMMY.]

Just—trade me.

What! What for?!

Just—trust me—

I do not—

Just trust me—!

WHAT!

Congratulations.

As you were.

Kind of.

WHAT—JIMMY—

[She realizes the ridiculousness of her calling after him. She sits awkwardly with the Grammy in her lap, sighing]

—he was my favorite…

[SUDDENLY, though the other window

Why does this bitch have so many windows in her bathroom that are this penetrate?

For the sake of the joke, but probably not something any celebrity should have, are windows where anyone can enter your house from the outside.

Fans are weird.

CUT TO:

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

I LOVE YOU.

CUT TO:

What's this place.

It's my house,

Where are the windows?

They don't exist.

CUT BACK TO

[DANE COOK appears through the opposite window.]

YO.

WHAT THE FUCK!

Chill, Halle Berry.

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!

I'm the guy who wrote this.

You should have called first!

Who do I look like, Jimmy Fallon?!

NO. I LIKE HIS face.

Huh.

Is that what it is…

I GUESS

I DONT KNOW.

—who are YOU—?!

GET OUT OF MY HOUSE—

I am not in, technically—

I DONT CARE!

Ooh—

Is that a Grammy award?!

I didn't know you had a Grammy!

Gimmie!

[he snatches the Grammy]

HEY!

Is—what is this, for COMEDY?!

FOR COMEDY?!

WHY WASN'T I MADE AWARE THAT THIS IS A THING?!

I DON'T KNOW,

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?

WHAT THE FUCK.

It's not important.

What.

Anyway, thanks.

Toodeloo.

‘The equilateral triangle should always be centered.'

—use that vocal trick from compli—sometimes things get whatever

//

What's he reading?

Architecture?

‘Oh; that dude's fancy.'

Interior design?

Classy.

He's sexy.

That dude's fancy.

lol wtf is in my Amazon cart right now?

Uh—

Some yoga mats

Kettlebells

A record player that looks like a gramaphone

A Pilates machine

A peloton

Uhm

Frozen berries.

When did you become a ghost?

—I guess— I always was one.

This is wrong.

There must be a mistake.

You and I both know,

There are no mistakes

Made by us.

This is dangerous.

That, you are correct about, dear boy.

However,

The only one here mistaken,

Is you.

Oh God,

If I fall back into this dream again

Who knows how long it might be

Until I come out.

—or if you come out at all.

The pressure points

Besides my veins,

Or arteries,

For scientific purposes

Targets for thumb marks,

Thimbles and razorblazes

Misfortune to have found

Such a pain only grows,

Out of homeless,

And then once housed,

A lack of love from others

I've an entire cast of antiques

In the back of my mind,

Behind me, Manhattan

The coffee has cooled

And yet nothing such starts

Until I've gone and bulleted

All the sins of the father

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

That thing that you wanted is waiting.

Which thing?

Love?

Money?

Fame?

Power?

Protection?

Safety?

Wealth?

…Cream of Wheat?

Cream of wheat?

…it's probably cream of wheat.

{Enter The Multiverse}

…did you mean to do this?

Nobody ever really means to do this.

[The Festival Project ™ ]

CEREAL.
Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

Oh, I remember this now.

Lol I remember the video.

It's that little kid that wants pancakes but get cereal and then the prize in the box is a fucking robot that follows him to school and starts a dance party everywhere and then takes over everything—then the aliens come get the robot and start an even bigger party and keeps the kid up way past his bedtime—then he wakes up the next morning like “that was wild as f” and his mom serves him pancakes, but then he sees there's another new box of cereal on the counter that says “NEW and IMPROVED prize! EVEN BETTER!” And his eyes just stay wide with grief.

Lol I can't believe I didn't remember that song.

I was like

“wtf is this”

Well, there are still two other songs I straight don't remember writing, so…

Let's check those out.

—let's check those out.

Oh, it's beat my face

(Reminds me of 212)

Didn't it have a video as well.

Idk.

Damn. I still have the other half of collection two to finish.

Technically If you just out the beats from collection I.I into collection II it's finished.

No.

No?

Collection I.I is collection I.I and collection II is collection II

Facts.

Damn. Why the fuck is collection II taking so fucking long.

Maybe because it's called “antelhesis”

I might never get to fucking collection VI.

I sit here like I'm soaked in the rain

Let go your government

They got you working on Sundays

Trying to torture the future president

Fuck em then

Who to call when you ain't got no dollars

No godform

Nothing to cook with the oats

And sorry broke pork bellies

Let go of your homeless

Don't worry,

When I slit open my wrists

And it just keeps bleeding

Till it fills up the streets

From my open windows, in kitchen

To the roads, over motorcycles

And riverbeds

Until the oceans cover

All your dollars in my blood

—a martyrdom for poverty.

Don't call the barrel of my gun by the name of a friend

If th verse is not a sing song

Poor Johnny

Don't fit the roads for shoes of horses

If only to swallow the subsealed waves of demons

Watch these possessions

Be my witness

Of the serpent

Both programmed torturer

To forage these words

And misfortunate

Recipient of karma

Soul focus shifting from being de—

—-railed.

I never heard this

With a producer's promise

Money back garunteed

All that isn't nessecary

You're divorced

With no children.

And going on 40

Trying to fight a robot

For an ombré sew on

Thank you Gos for this.

Right on,

Who was that you decided not to call on

As. Requested in sarcasm

And on Opposite Day!

SLIIIIIIIIIIIImmmm

That's almost funny

If I didn't know it was a program

Here's a fake laugh

For your weak ass

But no orgasm

For your lost cause

Part of getting stronger is developing the strength to lower your weights, not just to lift them.

Now I know I'm not wrong

But these energy vampires

Are putting my writing on a live wire

Remember live wire?

We should hire her.

Stop confusing people for pedophiles

When all it really is

Is that a wedding band is a cage

And the world is made on those who pray

On weakness.

—so most people are weak, then.

What else do I got to do wrong?

I want breakfast at Tiffany's

Don't be mad

If I wasted my time being honest

Wit no reward

Like it matters

Pennies on the dollar

Billions of dollars.

Trillions of dollars

Sins of the father

Chinaman from Amazon

Don't care much

For politics

Something wrong with mom

Yo, she's gone son

And it's all her fault, too

She never wanted you

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

GOING COASTAL (EP)

Track 03. - GHOST MODE V5 (Instrumentsl Only)

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

'perfect.'

Collection II- 'antithesis.'

Track 02. -'perfect.'

Prod. by Blū Tha Gürū

Didn't you just say

I lost my entry

Or should I elate about

Becoming the president of Ohio

On hi hopes

Really, I'm signing my heart out

I don't care who you are

What you are

It's getting hot out

Fly by

The gym Dan wait, all I want is cupcakes

And a cheese grater

I should stay married

My face makes a great punching bag

And I've lost my mind

I should share airtime

With the finer ones

We're not freinds if

All I want is to fuck you

And we're not fucking

If I'm not models

Let's go shopping

I got so sick

Of being stalked and followed

For no money

I just stopped going

But woke up going full throttle

Anyway,

How are you?

I'm still recording

Just to prove my theory

On how

The world

Really does

Revolve around me

Whether I like it or not

I'm still not Fallon,

Or Adam—

But good one, goggles—

for trying a hard ball

It might have hurt to not for awhile,

But I've got no patience

For brainless.

I've got no games

And no players,

Just hatred

Let's think about real quick:

What the fuck do I care

If you win or lose?!

You'd better not!

I'm definitely disposable.

A total useless bombsell,

Mid grade,

Short order

Ugly by your standards,

So excuse me, Ms. Lopez,

I'm coming into hard times

Stupid blue suit wearing—

Where's season 9.

Up yours.

The voices in my head are God's

They haunt and taunt

But do not harm

cachapas

Lalalalala—

“Prolonging The Inevitable”

ENTER THE MUMTIVERSE: LEGENDS

That's two songs lost, they said the same name would destroy me

I don't know,

I'm not the same as I was

The songs are lost

But sometimes they come back

When I come around

And say

Fuck em

Should out Kamala

I don't mind the dark side

They got cookies

I don't mind the light side

They know my colors

I don't write no more songs

I sit silent and alone,

I get mad as fuck

RYAN REYNOLDS

you mean we're not really going to the mall?!

No, Ryan Reynolds's, we're not going to the mall!

You LIED.

It was for a good cause. Get in the car.

YOU LIED TO ME.

Shut up.

AHHHHHHHHHH

STOP CRYING

What if evil don't be evil on purpose

What if all this stuff

Is just bad timing

I might call the cops on my own soul

Imm tired though

It's dark and old

Riding round in circles

In motorcycles

No proof of purchase required

What's wrong at all,

I didn't call in no one's name

No Calvin Klein models in my entourage

— even the ones I want

Especially those in fact

No role models at all

Just college student

Motorcycles, motorcycles

Hurt her more, okay?

We'll pay you for it

The doors slam

And motorcycles

Whether I not

I go to the gym

So why pray about it at all

For it to stop if God's all back logged

I got decisions to make in the am,

Imm late on some deadlines;

I'm only talking to a dead guy,

If you're live, then,

Ride up

Staring at Manhattan

From the redlines

Mostly brown faces

Neon eyes

Brown bags

They say,

I could pay half price for a mansion

—it has somebody handsome in it

I should ask the crackheads

For forgiveness, simple

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

'damaged goods'

Collection 1.1 - 'actuality'

Track 01. 'damaged goods'

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

(as Happy Accidents)

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

blink. (instrumental)

Collection 1.1 - 'actuality'

Track 05. 'blink' (instrumental)

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

“Wonderful”, I mouthed silently, without the voice or the actual words for movement. I needed the laughter, and it had been long since I had actually laughed, or done much at all besides cry and wonder what the fuck I was going to actually do with my life, or what was to become of me.

I held the book out to my side with one hand, the page still held with my thumb at the end of the chapter and beginning of the next, contemplating reading more— it would be an unknown amount of time before I would be here again—having fasted and walked the equivalent of what might be about 8 or 9 miles, worked out for an hour, and sweated out whatever might have been left with a soak in the tub. I was empty, closer to the divine than not, and feeling okay—not painfully hungry, but I knew that forgoing food would mean missing out on work that needed to be done, that I had been promising for months would be done, and finally was, however at a pace which only further exacerbated my anxiety further; I would only be able to focus on getting some soul-sucking, meaningless dead end job once I knew it was finished—otherwise, I knew it would be impossible to do anything; the algorithm had deemed it so that whatever I was doing, whatever I was writing, was more important than money.

“That was it.” I confirmed with another silent thought, grasping the rose quartz in my left hand and raising the book with me as I crossed into the kitchen—the new addition of the couch saw to it that I had an actual living room, and though not separate from the kitchen, it was in fact a place that I could sit and read the many books I had collected one at a time—or two, for the moment. I couldn't wait to finish the page-turner I had been unable to put down for something like a week before I started this one.

The frozen banana that I had forgotten I removed for the teeter in preparation to eat after a day of strenuous exercise and fasting had melted—luckily, I had frozen two of them at once, suddenly with the life force of something forgotten after my first cup of coffee in nearly three days—three days too long, and I realized my dependence on caffeine was just about as unhealthy as what was normally a constant roar of illegal immigrants on even sufferably equally illegal mopeds, as so said by the NYPD themselves, who had been blatantly useless at actually apprehending the assailants—nevertheless, at least I knew that there was a reason for the heavy exhaustion in the first place, overcompensating from the noise and civil unrest below with additional pots of coffee throughout the late afternoon and even evenings, in an attempt to sort though what would even take some writers rooms weeks or maybe even months. However, my writing and various works were even yet unfit to behold by the eyes of others—that is, besides my shadow of a podcast audience, the cult following I had gained piggybacking shamelessly uncrossing a line that had been crossed by the notorious entertainment industry itself, probably as a foreshadowing of what potential I could have, if left alone, fed, and sheltered for the right amount of time.

I might have even finished by now if it weren't for the motorcycles; maybe that was the point. Maybe there was no point besides that most men are immature, useless babies; that their pride in destruction and chaos serves purpose for them to just as well be destroyed eventually themselves.

Either way, I had at the very least gained a few wholehearted laughs—and now it was time to break fast. 10:00 PM, prime time for making music, but there were other important tasks at hand in order to be able to do so—and I needed the focus of a full stomach and peace of mind to do so. The peace of mind, I wasn't sure where to find—but my fridge was stocked full of food to ease the ache of an empty stomach with fruits I had been craving for days and vegetables I had collected throughout the week; errands which tasked me even further with the time to sort through the massive endeavor of making my work somehow out of thin air create an income; I had been working tirelessly for months when my food stamps were cut for ‘not complying with worth requirements' without notice. I only had one pair of wearable harems and a closet full of fashionable outward I refused to walk around in; I was fussy, and looking for a mate, not some crispy fuckboy buzzing around on a motorcycle; those days were over. Besides, the guys on Harley's were potbellied slags at best—someone else's problem, and also mine, at least sometimes. Men and their incompetence had surely set the world into a state of imbalance so deep and so heavy, it would have to take God being a woman to correct it.

Nature needs Nurture.

Now 30 rock was the obvious choice.

—-

It's getting deeper.

Now I had to keep Tina Fey's book in the bathroom— the bathmat I ordered was actually more yellow than gold and differed drastically from the picture in the description, and it looked cheap and bizzare in contrast to the classy shimmering sequins silver and black curtain and stainless steel trash can which matched perfectly. I wasn't sure where it would end up—it did have the same yellow, and so I placed the book and the rug within sight of eachother, so that it gave the illusion of being matched.

The curtains I bought but had used separately for window coverings and as garnish for the makeshift bookshelf in the studio—I hadn't any real curtains—the windows and walls were lined with sound absorbing audio panels, even in the kitchen where I seldom recorded, but had been plummeting through assortments of other work nonetheless, not to mention my resting recipes which were meant to be entries into an eventual cookbook, which I'm sure would come together now more quickly. The cover of the book matched the strange yellow, and rather than silver and gold it was now mismatched and looked cheap; but the bathmat could at least stay until I finished the book— which would admittedly probably be quickly; I had made it to halfway through the first book in less than a week—my first near cover-to-cover read, which if I hadn't picked up Ms. Fey's book— Ms. Fey? It sounded weird— wasn't she married?

She did seem like some sort of a fairy though— a teeny, tiny pixie type lady with Godlike powers. She was some sort of God, to me, at least, I was sure of it—and probably to others. Weeks, or maybe even some months now before, reading tentatively though her Wikipedia page, I scanned over her numerous accolades—some which I hadn't even heard of, and within the first few chapters of her book, which I had picked up on an extremely strong whim to scoop out the little local library down the street, which I had admittedly decided to clear out the last two days selfishly so—but also according to Wikipedia, people weren't really reading anymore; besides that, the books seemed almost meant for me, intentioned at me with titles and colors that leaps out from the covers and pages, and some brand new. I took love in all the ways I could get—and this was one of them.

It was certainly yellow and not gold. I was disappointed, but otherwise didn't care much. Now I had a reason to keep the book in the bathroom— as there certainly wasn't really any room for anymore books anywhere—and this book was special. I just didn't know why.

I wondered often enough what makes someone so explicitly famous— sometimes, as it turned out, it was the effect or affect of hard work, talent, sheer grit, and an unknown amount of luck which seemed to vary from person to person.

With Tina Fey, though she had been written into my own project primarily as Liz Lemon some years ago, I never knew exactly what I was looking at— but now that I was reading word for words a book first handedly written by one of my own favorite people, I knew that it had been something of a personal favor from God herself— something I didn't know I wanted or even knew existed at all— and laughs I needed.

I shamelessly dangled and gushed at the book, and split my attention between the two I had so far been captivated by most— the other, memoir written by a twenty something uptown drag queen. Now I could try to collect myself into a proper person somehow, reading these works alongside writing my own, and conspiring to somehow finish not just the two originally intended music albums, but something that was actually altogether more like 4 or 5, if I could wrap my brain around counting them. I couldn't, though, right now. All I could do was soak in the tub, chugging water and reading a book, trying not to cry that the only money in the world I had were two crinkled up dollar bills in a coffee can and some change inside of a beautiful wooden box I had found on a jog through Brooklyn.

{Tales of a Superstar DJ}

Oh My, God—Tina Fey! Hi!

I—uh—yeah.

It's so nice to finally meet you.

Hm.

I—I was the hot water heater in your book!

what's that supposed to mean.

Did I read it.

Working on it.

Am I in it?!

Why would you be?

I don't know! Am I?

Just— give me a few—

How long is that?! What's a few?!

How about a montage?

CUT TO:

THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKEN.

And that's—JUST—what they'll DO!

And—

One of these—days—

These boots—

Are gonna WALKEN

Ova U.

Nancy Sinatra is still f#cking weird.

I must admit, i feel personally attacked.

OH, GOD.

OH NO.

This is certainly the thing you do not want,

When trying to erase someone entirely from existence.

Or at the very least…

Jesus fucking Christ.

…thinking about something in any sort of way.

This.

…and again.

Is most certainly what you don't want.

My walls are closing in,

full figured artifact of closure,

And in fact I exaggerated the fact of circumstance

Because I had to

Because I had to

What, am I on in the other room?

Supersonic as we all were,

By the millions and by the numbers

The simple heart attack was won,

The hearty breakfast,

Stripes were earned

And not a one tear shed after

–but my head hurts

But my head hurts.

You started it.

I did not; but I most certainly will finish it.

Quiet, they're coming.

Quiet the children;

Ready the talleys,

Count all the votes,

And stable your alters;

Didn't I warn you?

(I warned her!)

Didn't I warn you?

(I was warned)

Didn't I warn you?

(Why didn't you warn us?)

Cause I wanted to

I wanted to

I wanted to hurt you.

Well–dammit!

What. what happened?

#villain battle

I can't kill you.

What? Why not?

It's–it's in my contract.

lol damn what kind of contract did this dude sign?

Lol idk tho.

This could be progressive,

But instead it's cynical

A wizard and a mystic

should make some interesting kids, though

Another lesson timber, timbre all the violinists

And the brass section is fascinating,

Rather–

More percussion

DId you mean this?

I meant everything I ever–

*sneezing*

*DIDN'T*

Say.

Gazuntite.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

no vocals yet :( still having major issues with the noise. hopefully will be able to record soon- actual music lol more than just talking. hopefully.

take care tho. ^.^ more mixes coming soon.