The Secret Life Of Sunnï Blū

'boxed' (Instrumental)

Collection 1.1 - actuality.
track 05.- boxed.

prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

Listen—

—motherfucker—

You should—

Know—

I don't —

—give—

No

—kind of—

—fuck—

Whatsoever

I love my own

—but not the other

Something - something son

Get a gun and blow my candles out

White power now bout

Building towers up

To tear you down

—I don't give a fuck about flax seek

Black seed, back seat black candles

Black cat, relax,

Atticus.

I don't give a fuck about a Fallon,

I bought a gallon of water for two jugs,

And a quarter

On my daughter.

Get it?

(Fuck you)

Or should I go back to spending

Spin class looking at candid camera

I could buy a mountain before I sit down on mounds

White Diamonds, 9 time champ

I'm just like ET, don't mind that

I'm a dead beat dad camped out in a van

With a 30 second tan on, oh man

Redact that one

—FUCK—

YOU.

Power play

I should wait an hour

For the Amazon van

If the Amazon man can hit this

What makes you think you can

I just too fan

I drew fandoms on your

Blū Barrymore,

Don't carry that backpack,

You might fall back

I called my song

—but I can't call back

…fuck you,

(Goddamn)

If you don't believe me,

I just scored two degrees

Just from pleasing people

Three of you count me,

My MBA in saying

I buy NBA team

Damn.

Can't even get an Instagram account

Without getting hacked

Just for being a half black

Half Uncle Sam smashing red/*ted man

Don't call red man,

Just call Meth/ Seth back

METHOD MAN

…hello?

Flip the bitch right back

I flip the whip

And grip the script,

I pistol whipped Bristol back

To — camp

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Where am I?

What?

What city is this?!

—seriously?

Why do I see boats?

You don't remember?

And bridges?! What city puts sky scrapers on the waterline?

What? Lots of cities have that.

Well which one is this?! Are we in America?! Who goes sailing at this hour?! What time is it?

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

'beat my face. '

Instrumentals for a Higher Purpose

Collection 1.1 - Track 01-

'beat my face' (bad girls club) (Instrumental Only)

prod by Blū Tha Gürū

Now I can chill and do fun things—

What fun things.

Like this:

And *you* can go do the tonight show.

Aw what?! I'm not doin the tonight show!

SUNNI BLU is doin the tonight show.

There's this woman at work… I've been thinking about just l sticking it in her.

Do it!

Really.

Yeah, go for it. You might as well— thinking about it m so much is just as bad as doing it to a woman you would call your wife.

Hm.

Thinking about it so much anyway, means that you already have.

Does it?

Besides actually doing it?

You already have.

I write about white america

Then listen to Billie Ellish

Isn't it ironic

Remember when Billie was niggas

Remember her speaking Ebonics

And talking like not from highland park

God bless Los Angeles

Like the animals not on Noah's Ark

God bless Brooklyn New York

On a walk I saw a copse on rigamortis

It's gotten worse

Saw a bunch of disco balls mu never noticed

Blessed the lord

The global war on politics

Is actually over water

And skin color

One time

What's trap is I'm just out for bananas

Truth is, I don't even want it no more

That's when it start comin

I don't want no drama,

I'm still dumpster diving lord

At least walk your dogs l

Scooping people and poop off of the sidewalks

God I hope I die today

Almost got hit by a semi truck

Didn't even slow down and shit

Didn't even see me

I must have been 27

Been up in the parts of Brooklyn ain't nothing beautiful but the baby's breath

Only maybe

Why why

Saw my life in the back of the old Volvo

Bring my words and my worlds to the waterfront

I found Trader Joe's after all

I only came out for bananas and coconut water on markup

Call mark wallberg I smell burgers

Sweatingbmybhuns off

Another small dumb blonde barbie.

White people gon steal everything from a nogga

Even a name

I'll tear down your poster

You fuckin poser

You not Soleil

Your name Kayla or Kaylie

You stole it

They say a heartbeat at 18 days

What difference does that make.

I don't have a heartbeat sometimes

I'm 30 years old

I'm sick

He says

It's this

But that's not sickness

She says

And if it is,

We share it

Well, it's a beautiful day in

—THE WORST RAVE OF ALL TIME.

Damn. That would be

Hierovnmus Bosch, The Garden of Eathly Pleasures

Oh GOD,

What is this place!?

YOOOOO.

wtf.

I realized, at some point— that as long as I wasn't being paid, that there was no need to prioritize anything or anyone—that I could do what I wanted and write what I needed, and do things as I pleased and on a whim because simply put, that nothing else had benefit to it; there was no income in the work that I was doing, and it seemed more for show than my actual benefit, so much so that I felt like a circus act when being made to work out in front of people, and almost entirely unwilling to keep dragging myself out of bed in the middle of the night to ensure that I wouldn't be followed to the gym. It wasn't that I was afraid or paranoid, but that I felt like a circus monkey, especially when the same few people seemed to show up to workout whenever I did, regardless of what time I chose to. As long as it was day time, the same few people showed up almost on que when I was ready for a workout, and I grew tired of the charade at all. I had lost all my weight, and anything leftover was from the stubborn and unfortunate circumstance of having once been so large that I was almost entioy certain that I was in fact a different person.

I was at any tigivrn time no more than 48 hours away from being able to see my ribcage through my upper chest by simply drinking water through the day or taking a walk to Trader Joe's; I was no longer in fear of regaining as much weight as I had, lost, and in any sense was so astonishing healthy and clean eating, that even on days I indulged and gorged there was no seeing past the fact that m even bloated, all my extra and extra-extra smalls still fit: I was skinny.

Continuing to push myself was a disasterous and pointless charade.

I wasn't being paid for being at the gym—and nor had I attracted anything other from what I could see than men already in relationships taking a side eye from their often bland and uncoordinated girlfriends—usually white girls who never learned how to dress or match clothes because they didn't have to—and I often thought of how great it must be to live at the top of the food chain; to be born into a world that loves you and revolves around you and your kind, while the rest subsist under you and fight for survival.

Besides the always eager black man, my time in the gym had not resulted in any other suitors that Immight actually arouse my inner beast at all in the way that I thought it might by now— stretch marks at all, as I often realized much larger women with perfectly suitable men enough times to realize that simply put, sometimes it didn't matter. I wasn't going to allow myself to get fat by any means, and was still so fit that the smooth and firm, toned lines of my abdomen often facinated me so much so that I had to touch it to realize that it was true—that even under the skin that I needed removed, there was some kind of six-pack-type abdomen carved out and hidden, defined enough that on the days I did fast, it almost scared me. I squinted in the mirror, even on days that I gorged on whatever I wanted and indulged, bloated from overeating without care—I was still so small that I was proud of myself, and reduced my training schedule to basically whenever I wanted, which was whenever was truly needed. I was nobody's fucking show monkey—I had done more work than most people at all and had achieved more than the average man or woman struggled with, realizing that things such as removing animal product from one's diet, avoiding processed foods, and following a gym ritual at all, never the less 6-7 days a week for a period of years— were things average people said they were going to do over and over, but never did; or started and then quickly stopped upon realizing it was hard. Normal people made New Year's resolutions to do what I had done every year without doing it—and I had.

It had taken me this long to realize that most people never escape abusive husbands, or lose 250 pounds— they most people never have to. Most people have never suffered the loss of two children and recovered enough to function properly in the world—and though I wasn't myself ‘in the world' for the time being, I owed myself realizing that I didn't owe the world anything at all besides what I wanted to, or what I could do. That even though I wasn't picked from a Petri dish and born into an industry family like Billie Ellish, I was made just the same to sing and dance around in stage and tour the world doing what I loved as she was— and not being allowed to do that —what i had always wanted— warranted this, an indifferent and almost apathetic protest to whatever it was that was ‘expected' of me, to go out into a world that was rigged against those of my ‘type' and play a game that was harder for me and people like me than It for people born without having to work, sacrifice, and who defined struggle as something so far from what I had come to know as such, that it was almost two different enough things to have been placed in two different worlds at all. Alas, it was all the same world, and all the same game—though some of us with less pieces than others.

I had been used all my life, and had finally decided upon some sort of revelation, that I should absolutely not do anything at all, unless I was being paid; not in incentives or windfalls of material things—but cold, hard, cash. The thing that had turned the world evil and dark—but allowed me to get the things that I wanted, when I wanted—without relying on some cheating scumbag loser to provide them for me.

Men wanted perfect bodies and the ideal traits to match—and so since I hadn't been gifted such such that would allow it without nearly killin go myself working it away to the bone, I'd find a way to earn a new body myself, so that the world that I had done could be seen.

I had a six pack, and nothing was moving at all until I was being paid enough for the world to see it. I was going to wear a bikini, and bask in the sunlight, and do all the things I had been prevented from doing by being poisoned by trauma and processed foods for two decades. I was going to find a job and save for a body that men wanted—the freedom I needed to end the hell that had been 32 years of being a fat, ugly nigger.

New York City had made it clear that the world was against us and that Karen, Becky, and Kelsey had ruled in such a way that was meant to destroy us, but I could not be destroyed;

If I had to kiss Karen's ass working some bullshio job at some place just to earn the admiration and desire I had always craved and never received, so be it. There was nothing in the world left at all besides money, vanity, and the truth of it all—that men didn't love souls—

They loved bodies.

All of my time would be spent figuring a way to earn mine.

Maybe my mother should have had that abortion after all.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Make a mockery of myself;

wear smock to work

I don't talk too much no more

I just gossip somedays,

Dark on mondays;

The forgotten apostle

With just enough rope

To jump off and hope

It all stops, soon

The motocross and the terror stalkers

Just across from the starbucks at the Rock

–it got awkward

But God Loves me

Might start a talk show

Some chef, with a pop tart

A pop up club, a long night

Some broke shards of glass,

the yards of all the scars on stars and stripe

Feels like a long night–

Got coffee and tacos

A long talk with your blonde wife

To bypass the psycos

Right, though?

Bro, it's so over;

I won a whole asshole and a four leaf clover

In a game of poker

Now, brush your shoulders off

Brush your hair,

Pet the dog,

And kick the cat over and over

Till he turns back to a robot

“You're so gross.”

–don't i know it.

The whole world is over

–you jump first,

I'll follow

Lets keep talking

About the letters I penned

To the false Gods,

Painted them scarlett, of course

Scattered em from here

to Scarboro Fair,
I was right there,

then out of nowhere

a new nightmare

with nice hair

Here we go again

Lines out the door;

We got lines out the door

Out of Order

The world is at war

The whole world has run

Out of water

The four is the for

Theres no five

But the V for vendetta

Theres lines out the door

The whole world

Is a mom

And a daughter

My jokes get better,

The buildings look bigger

I pretend this seltzer is alcohol

Cause i want it

To make me forget

I've got all my–

Huh

There's a line out the door.

What if–

Me,

And all of your friends

And all of my

Wait, I don't have any friends

I'm getting a cat.

I was just thinking about Mila Kunis.

Oh yes, why's that?

SETH MCFARLENE

YEEEEE. YEEEEEEE. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

WHAT, GODDAMMIT

GIGGITY!

OKAY, ASSHOLE

Eyes on eyes,

and tears on tears

All the years ive cried

On ears on ears

Why am I even here?

It's been too long, since i've been touched

I don't love love

but i dislike lust

I don't trust anyone

I don't have a number

I crawled up my arm,

Danced with the blood drawn

BLŪ wakes up famous.

[The world swirls into a plume of dark blue sky; BLŪ awakens suddenly from the blackness of a deep sleep in the middle of a road, a group of people, friends, swirling around her.]

YO.

What?

BLŪ.

What's up.

PARTY FOUL, BROH.

…

Billie Ellish?

Billie Pirate Ellish.

Uh.

That's why the rum–

Is gone.

What.

Guess i'm Jack Sparrow, now.

Hey wait–are you even legal?

Uh. I'm a mad fucking genius; are you legal?

I don't know.

Besides, this was your idea.

What–what?

Exactly. Get up.

Wtf is going on in this scene.

Idk i might a have to play the song again

Fuck that. I'm about to slit myfucking wrists.

HAVOC.

Where are we going?

You still got that NDA in your wallet?

I–yeah.

Then we're gucci.

“Waking up Famous”

I don't know exactly what happened.

[Looking in the mirror, confused.]

This is a nice leather jacket.

I wonder if i'm still Vegan.

Damn. I look mad rich.

BLŪ hurry UP!

[toilet flushes with foot]

Alright, I'm coming.

[Blu checks her pockets to find a wallet, the contents including numerous cards–metal ones, with copious amounts of cash, and pre-filled NDAs which have been folder neatly and stuffed into the corner pocket of the trifold wallet]

Billabong. Classy.

I'm never gonna finish that other project, am I?

Whatever.

Leave Fallon alone.

I did.

–it came back.

Cut lil blonde

Hot as Finneas O' Connell

Possible homosexual, but god love him

Cause I'm hungry

Lookin for lunch

Somebody as scrunches

Pull up and crunches

Cause my monster is

Lookin to

Humpty Dumpty

Fuck, I forgot Rosie O'Donnal!

I cant get no Satisfaction— The Rolling Stones

What's wrong, Saint Jimmy?

Lucius?

What is it.

Percius would like to see you.

Oh.

The Prince Lucius hasn't left his chamber in days—however, as his brother Percius has just returned from war, he quickly emerges from his resting place, an alter of sorts.

Damn, I'm getting a headache.

I almost never have headaches.

It was true, and of course, as I started to write about this prince and his so said brother, Lucius and Perseus, I was reminded once more of Athens, where I had just been however briefly, in a short astral trip of sorts, wandering about in the dreamworld, looking for something or someone in place of my pillow to hold.

Did you want to walk to Trader Joe's?

I mean, kind of, but no.

My muscles were sore and I had just spent some two hours in the gym, not on purpose but quite by accident, though only having run just under two miles, though at least uphill, and spending the rest of the time lifting—I had been bound to mostly beans and rice, and so however was bloated and gassy, quite slow and not as strong, my regular protein just out of reach…

Dang. I have so much to fucking do today.

I hadn't realized that somehow it was Saturday, although just a couple days before had been a Wednesday that felt like Sunday, and now again time was all out of sorts; it was a “holiday” weekend, and I was without a doubt, drowning in my own having-to-do's, and as such, weekends and days off were entirely not a thing, besides in ways that those bustled around me—and I was sure that some days had been lost, as I was planning to visit the food bank on Friday, but had somehow skipped over the end of the week entirely—somehow, that is, and I was sure sometimes that in skipping days, meditating and fasting about, however intermittently, that time itself shuffled in all the ways I had, between cross dimensions and parallels such as I—I had been hovering somewhere between the 6th and. 10th dimensions, for the most part, and none with having to understand the undoubted shifts in my own perception of time that were bound to happen, as I sprawled across the astral plains looking and searching for a sign that the tragic poverty, restlessness, and lack of peace wound end.

Bound to your alter, my dear brother?

Aye.

So perhaps here there was another unfounded Kingdom within the realm of Ascencia—Lucius, a prince, and Percius—seemingly slated the King, and yet I had unreached such a conclusion as to assimilate an entirely factioned world, as of yet.

What did you write last night?

Uh…I don't know.

Well, let's see

Something had shaken me from my almost-sleep, laying sprawled across my bed, in the middle of the mattress, rather than to either side, which was rare; I typically preferred the left side of the mattress, anyway, but as I waited to launder my bedding, after a sweaty and sweltering almost summer day of lounging, smothered in shea butter and lackadaisically scrawling about what recordings had been buried in my phone, between the collection of books I had practically all found in the streets of New York and the rising temperatures of the tepid summer weather, my room was starting to smell funny—and without being able to burn sage anymore, for fear of being thrown back into the streets like a dog, I with every hope in the world figured that washing my thick bedding, comforter included, would restore the crisp and rigid, almost factory clean that I found satisfactory.

Songs buzzed in and out of my head as if I hadn't enough already much to do—and still, I added into my growing pile of notes and mounds of work, even more songs—this time, The Rolling Stones.

I can't get no

Satisfaction…

…but I try—

—and I try—

—and I try—

And I try!

I can't—get no—!

God, I wish I could write something like that.

The rock Gods had at the very least been accompanying me, and in a certain sense, so had the Gods of The Rock;

I had been forced up out of my dormant state by a voice which urged me away from my near sleep—I had been up since six AM and it was something past midnight, and still the voice said—

“Get up and write!”

And though I had words tinkering around in my head like little coins in some sort of metal box, none of them quite made so much sense that I had to get up and write—however, still the voice, though not angry, but firm, insisted.

The voice, for once, sounded female— a welcome change, and though I had become quite fond of males in general, in the solemnly celibate sense, it was a difference and yet none at all— a voice of wisdom had projected itself at me, and as I dragged myself about, reaching for a notebook and flipping through the pages, finding that the notebook was practically full…

‘great, more shit to do'

I held the words that had tinkered around in my mind like little whispers until I found a page to make them full formed, and the words which fell into my hand as scriptured by the pen—my favorite writing utensil, nearly out of its cherishable gel ink, danced upon the page nearly on its own, channeling the words written as such:

Once prosperous to throw

The stone asunder

Glisten whispers of water

Tears of al tears |ter|

Of the altar,

For follow for fello,

A felon of Antigone

Grace, with shield

A tattered tail,

So flew with feathered Phoenix

? Feared,

Foreshadowed not,

Agreed upon however,

Was the velvet woven path of us,

So honored in her fortress .

Yeah, something about Rockefeller Plaza.

Well there were all these hooded figures in like weird, brown velvet robes—

That's true, I saw that.

Yeah, I was there,

You WHAT?

Look what I got.

Fuck me, man.

You know, there's a lot more to this story.

I was hoping so, but however also, hoping not.

Man, Jimmy Fallon's wife is super hot.

Gee!

Yeah man, she's so cute.

W0W.

I like her,

They're Gods.

I think they're Gods.

yuh.

What else did I write?

There was something else?

What the fuck is wrong with that guy?

Somethin.

Yeah.

The pages of the notebook were all full, something of a book of shadows and protection spells I had used in an attempt to ward off my ex husband—how of course, that they were done with, I should very well have been jotting them into with all the notes, into the documents—later to burn them, unable to afford the parchment book I wanted.

For what a withered way would call an honor for fortunes duty,

Glorified wherein in as shadows,

Cast upon reflections in redacted incantations and enchantments, foreword come, theone who waits

Believing darkness be his fate

Whatever, man.

Fuck Jimmy Fallon.

If you really feel that way!

I feel a lot of ways.

Well, don't.

I'm so, so hungry…

So, so lonely…

So, so fuckin broke.

Man—I learned all this dumb ass magic just to protect myself from this guy, and all this still happens!

I think it's just Satan.

[Satan Appears]

Man— she is JACKED.

Try this one.

Follow me, boy!

Uh— okay.

I'm staying single forever.

Don't look at me.

That's my girl.

Don't look at me.

What the fuck. Stop looking at her:

Don't look at me!

Men are hopeless.

Fuck dude, like, the worst thing imaginable is that this Jimmy Fallon dude actually hates me so much for this—

What? Uh oh.

And is so fucking powerful.

He is. A very, very powerful—

Well, what is it!?

We don't— know.

*gasps*

He's a—

SHHHHHH.

[Redacted]

Well, that's not doing much, is it?

Seriously, just kill yourself again.

Might have to!

Fuck, why do all these robot demons SMELL like him?

Satan?

Yep.

Satan

?!

I'm—

Seriously, save him.

Seriously, God really loves Jimmy Fallon—

(He's one of my favorites.)

Favorite what's?!

Just—favorites.

Damn. This is getting to be like Greek Theatre.

Great. Now everybody's gonna fucking die.

It could be a comedy.

Holy shit, yeah—

This has mad good production value.

I love it!

Strange shit

I just did give my OWSLA tat a kiss

Smile for the camera,

Pageantry of mattresses,

A master of the MagicIan's chance at

Chancellors dance,

Look at Harrison trance

Can I run a mile for President?

A toy chest,

A boy, just Obama

I'm so much older

Been through such trauma

What the Willy wonka

I should apply for Harvard

New York over Boston

So Columbia or Juliard

I wish

Son of a bitch, this is tragic

I'm too old for scholarship

Diploma's in another name

I just got protective orders on

I should start over

But the world war is another

Trump drama

My Amazon cart is full of karma

What you want from God?

A trophy husband,

Let's call him

Oscar

-undefeated.

All this is weird

I think imm married to the music

Think of growing a beard

Opening a beer

And getting out of here

All of my fears is

Mommy dearest mommy dearest

All of my hell is

A body

Imm a seed in a forest

Been buried

Bipolar,

Supposedly,

So tell me,

Faery;

How could I love you

The way I I do

If my mood

Were restablized

My blu life

Gave me blue eyes

Clean tub of water

I don't belong here

It's too late for me too

Swapping Vogue for the People

My people who hate me

But I been so played,

The hatred betrays me

I walk both ways

Down a one way street

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Mad Men is an American period drama TV series that aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. The show follows the lives of the people who work at a New York advertising agency in the 1960s, and focuses on the professional and personal life of Don Draper, a talented but mysterious ad executive

{Enter The Multiverse}

{Mad Men}

(A Happy Accidents Mix)

GET—OUT OF MY WAY.

What are you doing?!

MOVE.

Is this a code four?

Far beyond code four!

Oh my!

What could it be?!

Move! This is a serious matter!

The NBC pages are in a frenzy, pushing and shoving one another frantically, turning 30 Rockefeller plaza into an animalistic jungle of confusion and chaos.

What is going on.

The games—sir.

The—games?

The. games. Sir.

I–m– afraid I don't know what you're talking about

You should be afraid! Be very afraid. Because the games.

What “games”

The GAMES have begun.

CUT TO:

Seth Meyers stands in the mirror comparing two exactly identical ties— he appears to be talking to himself, asking

SETH MEYERS

how do you like this tie?

—to no response.

He uncomfortably shifts and switches to the other, exactly identical tie.

Or this?

Yo. What a creep.

Again, to no response, he waits a moment and switches to the first, exactly identical tie, with an assertive nervousness.

SETH MEYERS CONT'D

You're right, the first one. Yeah.

He completes tying his tie, then placing his hands in his pockets, still facing the mirror—quite enamored with himself. He leans up onto his toes and then back onto his heels, admiring himself before spinning around to face the anterior of the room;

SETH MEYERS

It's showtime.

He points his fingers animatedly at his mock audience—now we see that the room is filled top to bottom with stuffed animals, puppets, dolls, and other strange likenesses…

Hold up, i'm distracted

Just stick to what you know.

Most of the Saturday Night Alumni and Late Night hosts had long, noteworthy careers in comedy, hefty writing backgrounds, and tons of experience in television. I found myself out of place and grasping at straws, letting something come for a moment between myself and my sanity. I did know music—but wasn't the girl with her shit together enough to have made any kind of dent in my obviously gaping music career, with the additional workload of what may have been the work of a genius, but also a madwoman—or mad man, depending on whose essence or presence happened to take hold of my weary and feeble soul, or

Distracted again

[the news] (the actual news)

Whatever (Wednesdays) - your weekly dose of whatever.

The Audio Files (for Audiophiles and Music Producers/ Engineers)

That was all I could remember off of the top of my head, not that it mattered at all, actually. I was grasping as strings and between worlds— the winner of the contest had beautiful pictures, and had played festivals—her website was flawless, and I liked her, later finding that she was Greek. I didn't seem to mind women, so long as they weren't the hateful, competitive, and typically racist—even on both sides—American type, and I scanned the list of participants that had been American to see if any of them were black women—doubtable, though in the New York scene some black women had seemingly out of nowhere taken to techno, and with that I had shifted gears to make my production more focused in bass and dubstep, if I were ever to return to my state of producing at heavy volume. I hadn't, with so much on my plate to juggle or rather spin, and I had been in quite the bubble of for whatever reason l trying to solve the puzzle of what had suddenly become what seemed like an NBC sponsored charade through the inner workings of my mind, only to find that not only was I not qualified, but also not entirely capable of doing any of the jobs I wanted to, and with that notion had settled once again comfortably in the cradle of suicide, hating everyone and everything around me—and using Tina Fey's book as an alter to light my prayer candle, all the while knowing someone had left it there—the book, along with a collection of surf themed relics, especially for me.

I had been thoroughly warned about Jimmy Fallon. He was an impressive egotist—- walked amongst rightfully the elite, was highly competitive, and powerful. He was not the kind of man you tell ‘no', even if you were, like me, entirely unsure as to what the question was—his eloquence had been understated, the design of it all, unique, in a way that it all seemed to speak of a time before time— I was immovably always fond of the Greeks

Lost, was the old world,

Our own,

Bound by candle light;

Marked by wisdom,

Enrichment,

Cherished times,

Beseeched the throne,

A mask of wands,

The arch of Tryerdom,

I am the arms of therefore

What was once,

The whole of body,

As a man or womankind,

Seeks to know a God—

They are as one,

And all of us,

Beyond the shroud of time,

A whimsy befallen, like leaves upon us

Overgrown the garden of Adam,

Wrought with fruit,

Which rotten lies upon the tide,

So soaked with formidable ocean

She or he therefore has lost

The touch of truth,

The seekers wisdom,

All are none again,

And so shall fall the empire

They called us upon as ours.

—in God we Trust.

Amen.

Fuck, man.

How am I supposed to—

What do you call it?

—summon.

Summon a fucking—

What's it?

God.

—God…up on this fucking soundstage without the entire audience or anyone else noticing.

You figure it out.

How, though?

What the fuck.

It takes a lot of impressive achievements to get into the page program.

Yeah, but .

I would assume your studies in practical magic to be at the very least—

—Doing what now?

Adequate—if not satisfactory.

You are weird.

This is weird.

I paid cash, and I expect results.

Whatever.

Now, be careful with those tablets.

We wouldn't want anyone dangerous getting a hold of them.

Anyone like who?

{Enter The Multiverse}

Do your job;

I'll do mine.

When we go, we go—

And when we go…

The man emerges from below the surface of the water, gasping for breath; as the water drips down from his hair and face, back into the water, as the splash echoes into a dull chorus of dripping, his mouth open, gaping, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare; he breathes deeply as something in him recollects before the blur of the world sets in to become a clear and crisp, colored world.

We go the way we came—

At once, and Alone.

As if no one could no where we've just come from—

Or where we must go.

But we must go.

“Cosmos Factory”

This could be fatal.

—but isn't everything.

He's not breathing.

Call an ambulance.

nurse!

Call a paramedic.

The paradigm shifted as I departed one world and entered the next.

In a fit of blind rage and fury, also came an excitement; I was accomplished.

The man is distinguished, late 40's to early 50's, with dark, lush hair.

Soon, you know, it will all be grey.

It can't be.

What do you mean it's ‘empty'?

This is not the place!

What place?

This is not the place that it was!

Ah, so this is Cosmos Factory.

I thought that was a comedy.

I was hoping it would be.

Here it is.

I was wondering what was in there.

I'm still waiting to see what's in Mrs. Gillipsie's refrigerator.

Well, keep waiting. I've got a few more chapters in this memoir and I can't be bothered with trying to figure out why Johnny Depp is the narrator in the voiceover—

My God, how you've changed.

Well, yes— I am a changeling.

Not to mention your improvements in shapeshifting.

Actually, let's not mention it.

very well.

Whatever, man.

Tom.

Is it?

It should be.

Whatever. Come in.

Oh. What a lovely portal you have.

—shut up.

But the man reemerging from his practical baptismal submergence is none other than —

I don't think he's capable of a role like this.

He isn't—which is why I wrote it like this.

You know, by the time the actual writers get their hands on this, there will be so many rewrites it will be hard to imagine or recognize you even wrote it.

That's—already becoming a sort of paradoxical challenge.

Of course it is. You shifters never have any idea the kind of repercussions coming, or, the endless— and I mean —endless realms—

—infinite—

Endless. Things are rarely infinite actually besides the things that always were, henceforth—infinite—

Of course,

Always having been and always will be.

Got it.

So. Do you understand the kind of effort it takes as a collective to have come up with a work like this?

I understand the benefit of having opposable thumbs and an iPhone,

You think you're smart;

—when I'm thinking, at all—

But you're actually a genius; that's right, without thinking at all.

Have you thought about the characters you haven't yet created?

There are more?

The worlds you've yet to build?

I've got all my money on blowing my head off before ever actually making it as a stand up comic.

And I've got all mine on you blowing your head off, after you've made it as a stand up comic.

Now, which is it going to be?

[beat]

Statistics don't lie.

Actually, they do—

Especially in America.

North America?

South America?

You know as good as I know, I mean the Good old Goddamned USA.

That's a lot of good old goddamned, Uncle Sam.

—aha,

And Sam, I am.

Now, suit up as Dr. Suess and make sense of this.

Nothing makes sense—

If everything did, what would be the purpose?

[agreeing, simultaneously]

Puzzle Pieces.

[a moment of solidarity]

Now, pick the old man up off the ground,

And get to it.

He's not that old…

You only say that because you're older.

Let this trickle down into the body of success that I should be born at least two decades left than half a century ago.

Any less and you'd be begging for some kind of pardon for all the crimes against humanity you've caused to solidify the theoretic concept of consciousness within the occult, instead of humbly accepting the consideration for an honorary doctorate at any given Alma mater whose brotherhood of trust has bonded us through this unjust monologue to seal such in blood as a relic.

That's a lot of words.

I have hairs on my chest.

They are grey.

Congratulations,

Some of them silver.

Is that a riddle?

If it were, would there be so many puzzle pieces?

I think that would take this whole thing out of balance.

Manage your axis.

Bid you well.

Severance.

“The Occult Classic”

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Make the old man laugh–

–make The Old Man break a sweat

Make the old man dance

(Make The Old Man Young Again)

Make The Old Man dance, I said

Wise Owl

My server be your server;

My proxy, thine proxy…

WHOOPI GOLDBERG (as The Cosmic Owl) sits crouched over a nest of stone and earthen metals of precious kind, enchanting within the thick smoke of incense and fragrant oils, with a whispered chant, evoking with spirit and summoning with force–a spell of all spells; a worldly ritual. Her golden turban matches the embellishments; the royally fashioned robe and chains around her neck, bangles and ribbons of gold and silver draped with the hooded cape of which the grand sleeves, falling into the grand purple flowing train of the cascading draperies.

Meanwhile…

Come on, we don't got all day…

–”we”?

I don't got time!

MEANWHILE,

CHRISTOPHER WALKEN awaits at the corridor of an unknown marker, inside of a train station–which appears altogether to be in a different time; altogether a different place; the period of his dress appears perhaps late 1800's; his pocketwatch, which he checks sporadically–also golden.

ALSO MEANWHILE

So this is Casper, huh?

This–yeah.

The friendly ghost.

Well–

AGH.

He used to be, anyway.

Why are you not making any sense!?

I asked for PROTECTION!

I gave you LIGHT!

That's not a protection! It's a target!

What the fuck ar eyou talking about?

*vampire*

{instant kills vampire}

*demon*

{Instant kills demon}

THESE THINGS EAT LIGHT.

Well. I don't know how to help you.

Get me out of here!

I can't do that!

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

Speak now, or forever hold your peace.

Damn.

Patrick is one cold ass motherfucker.

It was all still rumbling around in my head somewhere…

How could i forget something like that.

Why even come to the ceremony if you were going to make a big scene like that

I didn't.

Why even show up?

Appearances.

Are you serious?

–it would look bad if I didn't.

It looked bad that you did and then exited during the ceremony.

–the end of the ceremony.

Specifically at the objections.

–I wasn't paying attention.

You stood up!

I had to use the restroom.

As an objection?

Merely a coincidence.

You don't believe in coincidences.

I don't believe in marriages, either.

Oh, please.

I begged you.

That's your excuse.

It's not an excuse.

Is it an objection?

And if it was?

I got married anyway.

–So it wouldn't matter.

Thanks for the toaster oven.

–I didn't get you a toaster oven.

Yes you did.

Uh–no, I didn't.

Then what did you get us?

Nothing, I forgot.

Well, the card was from you.

Hm

Maybe you forgot to forget.

Maybe.

Thank you, anyway.

–Congratulations.

There's leftover cake.

Where?

Everywhere.

__

LATER.

Hazel is practicing her guitar; her glasses rest at the edge of her nose, as she focuses on the instrument, almost as if her father in the doorway is a shadow, or an afterthought. She carefully tunes the strings as he leans into her bedroom.

Hazel.

Hm.

Did you buy Esha and Mark a toaster oven with my credit card?

She stops for a moment and peers over the brim of her glasses briefly addressing her father.

–I knew you'd forget.

Oh. I–I did.

I know.

Thank you.

You're welcome.

He pauses for a moment before making his departure, turning into the hallway.

There's leftover cake.

She seems genuinely excited.

There is? Where?

[beat]

…everywhere.

Ugh. This show blows my mind.

Yeah. Sometimes almost literally.

Happiness is a warm gun.

You're the Hatter, and the rabbit, Alice and The Cheshire!

You're The Rabbit, The Hatter, The Cheshire, and Alice!

Did I ever write that scene about the liquor store?

Maybe, probably. I don't know.

Now every time i go to the store where I saw that scene, I see it again–although not quite as clearly, and I can't help but wonder if I ever wrote it down, or, like so much of whatever and somesuch–it was all just in my head.

No, Patrick exists.

Clearly.

I had been fasting for an extraneous amount of time, though for how long i couldn't say. And the words repeated over and over in my head for me to fetch a book from the cabinet I had been interested in by its cover alone, but had put away weeks ago. I had stopped reading, and had become more focused on creating something that could generate revenue. I needed money, almost desperately enough to sell my already outdated DJ equipment and some of my studio gear, and yet–there was still work to be done. There wasn't much that I could do with my aged equipment, but there wasn't much I could do without it, either. Luckily, winter was coming forward faster, with heavy enough rain throughout the week that it kept some of the cyclists at bay, however, the same evil energy seems to have moved inward; now the doors just outside of my own slammed continuously throughout the day, without any logical explanation as to why; there were only six apartments on the floor, and most of the other people on the floor used the elevator to go about their tasks, so I couldn't much understand the constant door slamming–and though I had put in a maintenance request, being well aware that the doors could be fixed not to slam, my request had been ignored. It seemed as though the property manager had grown tired of my requests, but I had grown tired of having to make them. THe neighbors were inconsiderate, and I desperately wanted to move to a cleaner and quieter neighborhood–and though I knew by New York city standards what I had was a blessing–the noise had become depressing, and so had being followed by the same group of people during my gym regimen–enough so that I avoided nearly all human contact. People seemed to be increasingly toxic, in such a way that I intended to find a suitable enough position that I could save money and be able to one day escape. New York was not a clean, quiet, and friendly place. I disliked my newfound bitterness, hostility, and anger which the city had characteristically put into its place.

My creativity meant nothing–I would need to earn money to be respected, or even well liked–

Not that I cared much for being accepted or admired, however, in the way Californians upheld high standards of vanity, New York never overlooked the value of a dollar; it was a money game, and so far, I was losing.

‘Guncle. Guncle.'

A faraway voice seemed to say.

‘Uh, okay.'

I continued about my ritualistic deep cleaning, which always seemed to automatically take place towards the end of a fast.

‘GUNCLE!'

The voice was loud this time, almost as if it was being yelled.

“Jesus Christ, alright.”

I reached up onto the high shelf where the book was stored and retrieved the book; I had almost forgotten the pink and blue letters which had drawn me to it in the first place. I had figured the colors to be some sort of code, as they were often used in media–but I wasn't sure besides what meaning I had assigned to it all my own what it was supposed to mean, besides being somewhere along the right path–

‘G U N C L E'

I had no idea what the book was about, but flipped to the middle as I often did to get a glimpse at what the book might fortell.

Low and behold, there it was–

Not a massive sign, but a sign at least. I myself no longer believed in coincidences, especially while fasting, and all incidences of a certain nature lately seemed in fact to be somewhat Divine;

I opened up to find that the main character of the book was named Patrick–

And of course,

He was some kind of actor–

A television personality.

I had nearly abandoned The Television people with Fallon and his–whatever-he-was–

and being entirely honest with myself,

I wasn't sure.

What I was certain was, though, was that he was whatever I was, and whatever I was, was dangerous, volatile, prone to both implotsions and explosions and a little bit whimsical–I'd have liked to think, some sort of artist, or creative, however,

Obviously not vibrating at the speed of celebrity status, at least not consistently–

And, of course,

remarkably tamed, for the kind of creature in my nature to have stumbled upon quite a discovery so ‘casually.'

But there was really nothing so casual about it– it was formally divination, this specific puzzle piece, in that I had been fasting for no reason or purpose at all with no end in sight until being directed with such pertinence to pick up this book, only to find that the first word my eyes would see, was not at all just a word, but a name.

I couldn't remember why he was Pat Kirkpartrick, at first, at all; then I remembered that for some reason–there was some kind of teaching i was supposed to have remembered about these people–the television people–and the Irish, especially; but then, there were also, strangely with some of the same ties, the Greeks, the….

Suddenly the back of my neck cause a warm wind, which I always thought to be strange sitting in the middle of my apartment with no air conditioning on at all. I had been fasting on this day as well and had gotten a second wind after eating, completing as many instrumentals as i could before continuing to look for a normal ‘slave job' so that I could earn money to travel and visit my loved ones. I didn't want for much else, not that I wanted to be normal, because I knew already at this point that I couldn't–but I needed to be paid in money I could choose what and where to spend on things I needed without relying on anything or anyone else. I couldn't keep taking my chances in entertainment; I was aging, and growing tired, and wary of the whitewashed and over-politically correct world that was sure to be pursuing entertainment anymore, especially television–I thought that perhaps I was best suited for desk work at a gym which would motivate me to show up every day; otherwise, I would probably quit or be fired almost immediately.

It was time to retire to bed, with protective stones strapped to my chest to protect myself against whatever that awful, evil thing was–now that it was rainy for motorcycles, the doors slammed all day long and ached in my bones as if someone were hitting me; I knew that this thing only wanted to hurt me–it could be no other force but the force of evil that continued to lurk around me whatever way that it could–whether I meditated or prayed, fasted or exercise, ate or didn't–there was always someone or something unpeaceful happening; something which allowed me to understand that perhaps I was in a world that I could leave sooner than later.

Often my wrists ached with the throbbing sensation of a dreary and thoughful wish for freedom; a suicide which would end all things once and for all–but–I also knew there was more art to leave behind than I had made, and so for that, I continued to be; I let the motorcycles and slamming doors stand as a reminder that all things that would seek to harm me would also be harmed in doing so–not in the least a calming sense of knowing, but a sense of something known nonetheless.

Damn I keep forgetting Trevor Noah.

How do you do?

How do I do what?

Fuck man, America is so fucking racist.

It's like,

We'll kind of almost fuck with South Africa–

But only cause it's dominated by white culture;

And the prominent blacks that come from south Africa are light skinned

And have accents, so they're not as scary.

“Oh, South Africa”

“Right.

How's the water?

That ought to tip your elections in the right direction.

“I'll say!”

(Ours too.)

The only time racists accept anything colored is if its beautiful,

(read:flawless)

Or overly accomplished.
I've realized that if you're either one or the other,

You can eventually be both.

Anything else with color is basically just for entertainment purposes.

Or general warfare.

“Multi-use niggas”

White people are like:

“Entertain me;

Or else you're a threat.”

“Yessir”

Yo.

The late night guys are mad weird.

Somehow, the hosts of late night television have all mysteriously been locked into an unfamiliar mansion, without their suits—and pants—unable to find an exit. All of the doorways are blocked—and all of the windows have been altered—they do not open, nor can anyone see out of them; in fact, they are doctored with the same illusionary backdrops that can be seen on the sets of their own shows—the televisions, which, have seemingly been programmed to only play reruns of their own shows.

Why— why aren't you wearing pants!?

I don't know.

Where's your suit? You should be wearing a suit!

I know, right?!

Who the fuck even are you?!

Depends whose asking.

YO, CONAN. WOAH.

You're not a late night host!

Thank God! That seems like an awful job—your demographic fucking sucks.

My demographic does suck. But to counter that— I'm a Republican.

Who knew?!

Not my demographic.

Okay, everybody calm down.

(Everybody was already calm, but for the most part just confused, and pant less; most of them wear the same classic boxers, though in different patterns/ slightly varying colors—but of course, nothing too crazy, while only one host sports boxer briefs, and one (I'll let you guess who) ladies panties.)

At least we all have our own rooms.

I don't! I'm stuck in a twin bed and Leno has the other.

Before:

JAY LENO

Good Morning, bright eyes.

CUT BACK TO:

Aren't you retired?

I do moonlighting.

LENO and FALLON seem somewhat comfortable and non-biased (read: unbothered entirely) over the morning paper and coffee at opposite ends of the large breakfast table, a continental style breakfast of croissants, seasonal fruit, with an assortment of cereals arranged in the kitchen. FALLON occasionally looks up from his paper to laugh at himself on the television, playing in the kitchen. The other hosts squint with allied disgruntlement of FALLON'S nonchalance and slightly narcissistic egotism.

FALLON

(reading paper, watching self; eating croissant, sipping coffee)

Haha.

Nobody has pants, and as the hosts will soon discover—this is with purpose. They have been trapped here as part of an experimental game show, in which the unrecognized and uninformed guest will host, as part of a test shoot aimed at the demographic of the late night hosts combined audience, to test whether or not this demographic will be positively receptive to a late night host who is also a woman of color (read: black) —without a white male counterpart co-host to soften the blow.

Really? This is why they're doing this?

Who is “they?!”

The network.

We all work for different networks!

I'm pretty sure the only reason I have a demographic is because of my accent.

It's true.

They accept you.

Right.

Where are the women.

An overhead voice:

(They are coming)

Oh, so I will have co-hosts.

Guest co-hosts; they will vary and change from episode to episode.

Oh. Thank Goodness.

Don't thank me yet.

Uh, okay—overhead voice…

Let's just say I'm the narrorator..

Narrorator for what

[this is also a movie]

Uh. In what genre?

[a host opens the cabinet to a bloody chuckie- like doll, which pops out from a mechanical arm with a high pitched scream; the host lets out a squeal, abandoning his coffee— we see a hidden camera pov from the camera's perspective, and then slow-motion replay footage of the host's reaction— he runs frantically pantless into a corner and then up the stairs.

—Depends on the host.

FALLON, who has been sitting at the table behind him, is still unaffected/unmoved. Himself makes a joke on the TV screen above— he giggles at himself, sipping coffee and looking back to his newspaper the other hosts groan; LENO shrugs and continues, delightfully finishing smearing a bagel and biting into it— he trades FALLON the comics he's been reading for the RELIGION section he's been scoping under the magified lenses of his readers, quietly and sweetly, like an old married couple, without even exchanging a glance or speaking to one another.

Ugh.

Suddenly, from the floor above.

OH DEAR GOD.

CRAIG FURGUSEN has just realized his worse nightmare.

The hosts still standing at the bottom floor in the kitchen all look up, wide eyed.

[Cursing in unintelligible Scottish]

———-

They said that you were one of us, but you're not one of us. But you're not one of us.

Of course not, I'm not a comic— I studied philosophy in college.

That should be funny, but it's not.

I would repeat what I just said, but I don't want to.

Still not funny.

What if I farted?

Bubbles—water—maybe—

some potential.

But probably not.

Shame.

What are you reading?

I'm not, I'm having banter with a crazy-eyed late night host in a bathrobe.

Well how's this for a book mark?

He opens his robe.

(Unimpressed)

Aren't you married?

Arent we all?

I digress.

Embarrassed and nervous, he quickly closes his robe.

Yes. To a blonde.

Congratulations. Where should I send the card.

I'm not giving you my address! Creepy fan—stand up, wanna be…

He frustratedly begins to exit

You're the one standing, technically

—And I'll be the last one standing. At the end of the week, it's gonna be me in those pants! Me!

Clearly, this show of affection has all been an attempt to bribe “CC”, into being persuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”.

The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges

I want them gone.

But sir.

Out. starting Monday; and I want you out of my office, starting now.

Now, get Troublemaker on the line so I can finish my breakfast in agony, like the red blooded American I'm supposed to be.

Sir.

Troublemaker is the top secret code name assigned to the President of the United States; the true President of the United States, the only surviving member of the cabinet after a series of successful infiltrations and assassinations by the enemy, after a covert mission revealed that the succession of the US presidents had been predetermined; not chosen by “The People”, but descendants of a Royal bloodline. Pinocchio the code name for the senator chosen as the stand in— the face to America's eyes and ears, listens intently to the President's every move, daily happenings, and assertions, as to best convey the ideas as his own; meanwhile, the Secret President is heavily guarded, controlled, and is acclimated using a series of secret codes and messages and decoded, including several secret languages and symbology hidden within her daily routines, which become more challenging and versatile, adapting her to her role as Commander In Chief of the United States armed forces, and consequently, the world around her, as the US forces seek to broaden their horizon as the a world superpower, to a Global entity, which powers and controls the heavily overpopulated planet which lies in imminent demise by like likes of war, plague, and diminishing resources.

The actual President of the United States must remain hidden as so, as to remain safe until the intercontinental breech has been sealed, and national security has been restored.

Viewer indescretion is advised

It's not ME.

Okay, okay:

I'm not the president!

I'm not running for president

I don't even know who the president is.

The president is dead.

GOOD .

Madame…

I mean—not good.

You—

No.

So like—-

It's automatically racist to just outright say that the migrants are for the most part not well behaved or orderly—-

They leave trash everywhere and don't even watch their kids!

Some of them.

I think they're just assuming this is okay?!

IS THIS OKAY?!

No! What the fuck!

That is racist.

Have you seen it from where I stand?

The strength is in numbers!

Look,

I don't hate human beings.

Are they—

Yes they're humans.

They're just.

Our imminent demise is in allowing this to continue to happen.

I hope you realize that from how high up you are.

I know you can't see it from up in your shiny townhouses or from the blacked out windows of your town cars, but...

They're good people.

SOME of them

I mean a lot of these 3rd world people are very primitive thinkers.

Don't count on them being brought up to speed in consciousness and morality when they're basically brought here as luxury slaves.

That's putting it nicely.

Well, if you're not going to pay Americans living wages, you're going to have to counter it somehow.

I can't have three jobs.

Oh, that's nice. The terrorists are attacking their own people.

For what purpose is any of this, actually?

Check it out. I found the leak.

Alert the mayor.

He's on the Mayor's books.

What in the actual fuck.

Gross.

Is there not a screening process for this?

Too late: anchor babies.

“The Secret President”

So you just dropped like 2 million pregnant 3rd world—

You realize that.

There must be some kind of compromise.

Yeah. Send them back.

Ew, fucking gross.

I don't understand—

What you don't understand!

[A SAGA]

What don't you understand?

My land is your land!?

Yeah, and now the economy's in the trashcan.

I figure that's an upgrade from a black hole!

You don't understand that we're like leaking—

—like bleeding—-

Money!

Half of this money's not even being recirculated into the United States!

Send for uncle Juan, Camilla, and all of my pregnant nieces.

Dalè.

ARRIVA

STORM THE GATES.

Yo, lady.

What the fuckz

At least put shoes on the baby.

PUT THE DIAPER IN THE TRASHCAN.

Where's your mother?

I am my mother.

Goddamn!

What is the United States?!

Racists!

Trust me

I'd rather die than not

Either way,

I'll love you all the same

It's unfortunate

The wicked ones

Atop us, with the fortunes

With no one to love

But piles of bodies,

Power plays and flaccid phalic

Valid fantasies and tragic

Dissatisfaction

All those bottles

And all those bodies

And all those models

You still can't mount a horse.

All that power

And all that money

And you don't want me

But she doesn't do much

But want to love

Pity no one up there seems to know what is does

Love, is for us

The ugly under you

Trust me, I'd rather die tonight

Than wake up alone

Foaming in the mouth

With no one there to froth with

Trust me

I'd rather die than not

Either way,

I'll love you all the same

I guess I'm slag bro

Another attack

It's fine;

I'm just not attractive

Not even fit for his

Side piece of ass

How's that go?

What's that life

Just take a knife to my back

Cause I can't go back bro

I went black bro

Flatline

He caught my eye,

Then I went flat broke

If I could draw a line up my spine

And unwind the entire world

I would, though

If I could tie a knot to the knot in my back

And then just jump rope

Off a long rope

From a strong pole

Here's hoping

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Hey look.

Jimmy Fallon knows you're a targeted individual—

And wants you to like,

Stay the fuck away from him.

Uh huh.

[redacted]

Don't you mean censored?

No.

I know that.

So I'm going to make it real nice and crystal clear that I'm determined,

That when I kill myself,

Everyone knows I was writing this completely divinely inspired saga

Not for attention,

Or even entertainment

—but with the complete acknowledgment that something has gone tragically wrong in this country

That its own people can be tortured and followed, led on by the media in an attempt to control and diminish the psyche in order to promote a politicized agenda —

But also that I find his puppetry and obedience to the eye of the media fascinating enough that nothing could stop me from writing this—

I mean nothing at all—

Could keep me from translating whatever was channeled and deviated to me through the stream of consciousness.

That's fucking tragic.

This is a betrayal of everything humanity was supposed to stand for in the first place.

Mankind has sold us out to the highest bidder.

It is puppetry.

But have you met the puppeteer?

I own 8% of the conglomerate medias

That's not so much.

That's more than none.

Hey,

What the fuck do you want?

Give me a dollar.

Does this serve any purpose other than to prove your disability to function in modern society and further support the claims towards your emotional and mental instability?

Go offline.

For what.

I want to show you something

They're using 5G.

What.

Your phone signals.

What are you talking about?

They're transmitting data using your vibrational frequency using your cell phone.

That's why the weird dreams.

Yes, that's why;

And why your phone keeps turning off and on randomly and toggling the controls.

Okay.

Okay?!

Okay. What the fuck am I supposed to do about it.

Look, just go offline; and stay offline.

I gotta find Fallon before the rest of this shit hits the fan.

Oh, it hit.

Hits harder.

[beat]

Thank God I'm not attracted to you.

Likewise.

[pause]

Wait.

PREVIOUSLY

Fuck,

Idk what era of SNL this is.

A pencil…

That should do the trick!

You're a weird dude. You know that?

Yes.

Alright, as long as you know that.

Wait, wasn't the 5G band the 8G band.

Idk, fuck this place.

{Enter The Multiverse]

If you hang yourself, I get free nachos.

Don't bet on it. I can't afford the rope.

Darn.

Did you ever stop to think—

No. I don't stop to think. That's your problem. You stop to think, and I just do.

Alright, alright.

Yeah. Shut up.

Why are you mad at me?

Because God gave you everything and you're still—

Why are you angry?!

All I wanted was a family. .

6 lines later and I still can't *not* feel my face.

What are you doing?

Readdressing my cocaine dependency.

With more cocaine?!

I said readdressing. Not intervening.

Don't you mean reassessing?

No.

*snorts another line*

Maybe.

Just jump already.

Actually, I was thinking about bleeding out in the bathtub.

(That sounds nice. )

—but if I kill myself my son will inherit everything and you know what happens then?

He gives some of my earnings to his father.

Fuck that fat wifebeating piece of shit.

Seriously?! That's your plan.

That's the plan.

I kill myself, he makes bank.

So—your reason for not completing your mission, is out of complete spite–

—contempt—

–Spite–for the man who beat you?

Beat me and took my son from me.

I just can't.

Neither can I. Now—

Where's that asshole.

MEANWHILE, in THE BLACKLANDS.

Do. Not. Care. About. You.

I know that,

No one does—

That's why I'm deprived.

You mean depressed.

You're a psycho.

Most legends are psychos.

That's why we write—

And then don't survive.

I confided in you.

You shouldn't have.

You sold me out.

You realize the media was playing us against each other this whole time, right?

This bitch is crazy.

“She lost her mind.”

I listened to the show—

If all that happened to me,

I would be losing my mind.

Well what if I did happen to you?

I can't understand what you're asking.

I need you to listen to me.

I am listening. To everything.

I need you to listen to me, and I mean really listen—because if you don't

I can't keep any guarantee that you will be safe:

Whats safe in this world anyway.

Almost nothing.

Amen,

I'm being serious.

What's serious, anyway?

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Canon (one “n”) refers to a collection of rules or texts that are considered to be authoritative. Shakespeare and Chaucer are part of the canon of Western literature, so you might read their work in an English class.

noun a collection of books accepted as holy scripture especially the books of the Bible recognized by any Christian church as genuine and inspired
see more

noun a set group of works that are considered to be high quality and representative of a field
see more

noun the collection of works by a writer or artist that are considered to be authentic
see more

noun a rule or especially body of rules or principles generally established as valid and fundamental in a field or art or philosophy
“the neoclassical canon”
“canons of polite society”
see more

noun a complete list of saints that have been recognized by the Roman Catholic Church
see more

noun a priest who is a member of a cathedral chapter
see more

noun a contrapuntal piece of music in which a melody in one part is imitated exactly in other parts
see more

noun a ravine formed by a river in an area with little rainfall

synonyms:

canyon
see more

Meta Writing is a type of writing that draws attention to itself as writing, or that is about writing. It has been around since the time of Don Quixote and Tristram Shandy. Jill Talbot's Metawritings: Toward a Theory of Nonfiction is a collection that includes metawriting in both fiction and nonfiction, such as personal essays, short stories, and a film script excerpt

Porque no las dos.

That's true, but if I slit my wrists and nobody reads this, is it scripture or just a win for the white supremacy and endless material for the entertainment industry thereafter?

Total Post Mortem.

I almost feel like I would enjoy anything infinitely more post mortem.

Abort! Abort!

Why—I like writing in this color.

I love it,

All of it should be this color.

It should.

All of it.

Yes.

What would you call it.

dark periwinkle.

That's fucking gay.

It is, kind of faggy.

You can't say that.

I… can say whatever I want. I love [redacted]

But I guess if the line is being said out out it's

I love faggots.

HEY.

I mean.

Fuck.

I love [censored]

It's true. Jesus loves homosexuals.

Correct.

When is this fast over?

Like, never.

Still strategizing a way to beat Satan.

Have you considered a baseball bat?

No, that won't work. There's too many possessions.

Have you considered repossessing them?

The—what?

The possessed humans. Have you considered repossessing them?

How do I do that?

You take their souls.

You—they don't have souls—

Then get them.

[beat]

Hm.

Thanks. I'll make some arrangements.

No biggie. Anytime.

What is that? Anyway— tell the big guy–

Tell him yourself

[Me, Myself, and I]

I fucking hate saving mankind.

Best of luck.

Have you considered trying a woman this time?

That's preposterous.

It is. But also—

Oh, God—

OH GOD.

Fuck man, I should have never fucked that asshole.

I would do anything to get inside that woman,

…you don't say.

I love you.

You're gay. I'm a boy.

That's fine.

Wait, really.

Yes. I don't care.

But that's gay!

So I'm gay, okay! Just for you though.

Jesus, you shouldn't be driving.

Take the wheel! Take the wheel!

Well, why not.

Because you never learned how.

two;

Where's dad?!?

Being an asshole,

What else is new?

YEET.

Fuck.

What.

I left my hat in—

Was that Rome or Athens?'

It all blurs together these days—

Imm telling you there's something wrong with this picture

If I get a tattoo of a puzzle piece to commemorate my very own destruction, will you still consume me entirely, or—

It's out of my hands at this point

He's got the whooooole world

In his hands!

MAYDAY

MAYDAY

BUT ITS FUCKING JULY.

MAYDAY.

ABORT, ABORT.

The simulation has been infiltrated.

By what.

I'm basaaaaaaaaaack.

Oh s—

Shhh! Quiet.

QUIET ON SET.

You had to do it, didn't you.

WHO LET HIM IN HERE???

Whoever.

I told you already.

You're not God!

I know that! I'm his son!

Josiah!

Who what.

No, it's Hoziah

Who, what?

The dog.

Of FUCK. Was I fasting this long when I wrote all that?

I don't know what drug does that.

Love!

No, it's not but

GOD

I want you to watch [Redacted]

What. [redacted]

For what?

we'll see,

Kill him.

OH, shit .

Gimmie my monster!

GET IN THE TRUNK, DICK.

WHO ARE YOU.

SHUT UP.

OW, BE CAREFUL. I JUST HAD A COLONOSCOPY.

Of course you did!

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Suicide is not a mental illness

When the world is a disease

When the motorcycles go,

So will the warm weather.

It's almost as if I should not have ever tried to live at all.

Smells like bacon.

Do you miss it at all?

I miss thinking I had ever been loved.

Turns out that was all false.

Love is all false.

God made my body all wrong.

The world is simply just a computer, gone corrupt.

I was never loved, and never truly wanted.

Of course—

The literal definition of fucked up.

besides my lost fortunes,

Literary works kidded from the eye of the public—

The sun I forgot

—I'm a literal fucking genius.

Still, no one seems to care;

The world does not run on genius.

It runs on consumption.

Impulses.

Stupidity.

EXT. NEW York City, NIGHT

New York City.

The great melting pot.

So melt already.

What if I don't want to.

What if what I crave is fresh cut grass, home made pie, and good old American fucking English?

It might be too late for that.

I'm just the same as anybody else.

But instead of twiddling away at my phone searching for some sort of social validation or false sense of security from the outside world— nothing more than a programmable bot fed by the media….for none other than consumer purposes.

Some mind numbing, brainwashed hazard of a toxic waste dump, ravaged by war both destructive to the psyche and marked.

The stupid people deliver the drugs to the slightly less stupid people with slightly more money.

A pecking order I could almost never stand to be apart of—

However

Hi—

Order for CC.

In my case,

I can afford the groceries, but not the rolling cart to put them on.

Uh…

Are you Xing?

You don't know if this man is stupid—

He could be a doctor.

He very well could be.

Earlier:

Be a good girl and say:

“Thank you, and Good Night”

Thank you and Goodnight.

That's wrong. Again.

I'm an obedient subordinate.

Your will is good, but mine is still stronger.

My conscious must be getting the best of me.

I warned you this wasn't going to be easy.

Transference.

I've been recently promoted from Delta Alter.

The circumstances have become quite dire and the full purpose of my mission unclear.

You should have kept more secrets.

Any more secrets and I might have exploded;

Any less and you'd have ended up dead.

Am I dead, or just a spark in my mother's eyes yet to be born to another world?

You seek abandonment, and instead encounter chaos.

You're unremarkably talented and the irony of it is that it's worth the remark in the first place.

I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors.

What are they?

Arthur.

A top level sorcerer.

Higher up in the hierarchy—

Almost at the top.

Almost.

PAUSE.

I told you getting a preworkout with the lionsgate logo on it would lead to bad blood.

Maybe bad blood is what it takes to be a good man.

What?!

ALRIGHT. UNPAUSE.

dammit, Sunni— give me the channel changer!

Damn. This just got meta… or is it cannon?

Apparently, it's John Wick, but with a black woman.

Who the fuck would watch that?

CATWOMAN

Excuse me?

Wait, which catwoman?

Both of them. I don't give a fuck.

HOLLYWOOD PEOPLE

Well. Can she fit the outfit?

Probably, but there's another problem I might not have mentioned.

If she can fit the outfit, she gets the part.

Previously on..:

ENTER THE MULTIVERSE, LEGENDS.

[Literally eats entire box of Cheerios in one sitting. ]

God, that's awful.

I am…finally.

[literally burns off an entire box of Cheerios in one training session.]

I love these montages.

Finally, peace and quiet,

Let us pray.

LET US FEAST.

Should we watch hot ones?

Probably not, yo.

I think we should watch hot ones.

I'm having a strong feeling we should not.

How close are you to being done with the next album.

I want cornbread.

Okay, so it wasn't the entire box.

I saved half for tonight.

Wtf it's just pure sugar.

And OATS.

Heart shaped oats,

Fuck.

Did we ever let Cobain out of the heart-shaped box?

HEY,

This is gonna piss off some folks.

Whatever.

Hey.

LET ME OUT OF THIS BOX.

I'm seriously gonna slit your throat in the next chapter.

I hope that you do that.

And then drink the blood after.

What is wrong with you.

For the most part, just other people.

I want to be alone.

ALONE?

FOREVER.

FOREVER?!

Yes.

So let me guess

That means—

Rat poison.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.