The Secret Life Of Sunnï Blū

I can't fall for this again—

Another rich and handsome man—

A dream he wants to be my friend

A dream he wants to hold my hand

Oh look,

Another dance for anthem

Look,

I'm just another fan

No, I can't fall for this again

—but they would go against the plan

A simple programming error,

Lips the color of a pomagranite

Circle on the palm,

And then , of course,

We press the center

And look, here we are again

Another life,

Another love

A new wife—

Another husband

Honest?

I'm just good with fucking

—aha

I just want to fuck you

I got love, but what it good for

Look at me, or look at nothing!

Look,

I'm just good with fucking

Check the news for new engagements

Fucking sick and fucking tragic

Nothing more than actors,

DJs, drinks and addicts

Look,

I'm just a happy accident—

I still hate Dillon Francis

And I never wanted Skrillex:

That shit never even happened!

Have you had enough yet?!

Carrot cake does sound good

Ten karat long engagement ring—

Is that a lot?

I'm just a homeless

Look, I'm just another DJ

Some fake model stole it

Some would call it occult Magic

—honest?

I just want some dick, man

Fuck it

—aha

I just want to fuck you

I got love, but what it good for

Look at me, or look at nothing!

Look,

I'm just good with fucking

You know why you like me?!

Yes, I know why I like you—

Cause I'm rich!

—no, actually—it's because you're smart.

Where in the fuck are you going?

I don't know yet.

Well, know faster—we have company.

Fuck.

Destroy every bit of evidence.

Ok.

—and make sure nobody sees you.

Yeah, right!

YO.

Why the fuck are you here, Timmy?

I told you, I'm not Timmy.

I don't give a fuck who you are—where's my money?

It's— it's on the way, I promise.

I'm don't take well tk promises, Timmy.

What do you take well to?

Money.

FUCK.

What!

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!

What?!

We're too late, she's gone!

Goddammit.

—She was already here!

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCK!

>>> FUCK!

How do you know?

—there's glitter, everywhere.

Is it gone?

It's gone?

ALL OF IT.

TIMMY TRUMPET plays a SKRILLEX.

Etto, Timmy?!

Oh shit, another Timmy.

That's weird. I was just thinking he about Skrillex.

Why.

Timmy, put a shirt on.

That's it.

What.

You can't be hot and play the trumpet.

Why.

One thing's gotta go.

THE DEVIL takes away Timmy Trumpet's ability to play the trumpet.

WHAT.

Can't have both.

Well, I don't really need both now, do I?

When I'm in a tough spot I have to listen to deadmau5

—something about the precision and frequencies out my brain somewhere between auropilot and dead space.

I don't know.

I've done just about everything you can think of listening to deadmau5.

Almost.

But, I noticed—

Working out to deadmau5 is strange.

It puts me in some kind of vibration where people notice me—

Not just notice me.

People are suddenly “impressed” with whatever it is I'm doing.

And it's usually something regular as fuck—

I'm just doing it to deadmau5.

And for some reason, people are like

“Wooooow!!”

Okay, whatever.

I used to work out to Skrillex.

Actually.

I used to work out to only Skrillex.

I don't know if its just because I was fat, or cause I liked Skrillex.

Now its like running a serrated knife up my spine.

I started to figure out I was kind of famou—

Kind of—

When I showed up at the gym and Skrillex songs kept coming on

I'm like

“This is what I get for doing nothing but free trials”

But hey,

You try finding a gym in the shitty areas of New York worth paying for.

It's very hard.

The crazy thing about this story is—

There's a lot of crazy things about this story, actually.

EXT. BASKETBALL COURT. DAY.

Alright— shirts and skins —Shirt—Skin Shirt,Skin—

Uhh! Nah. I wanna be “shirts”

Why dude?! Your girl's mad hot!

So?!

So I know you got it goin on! Look at you!

I'm mad rich!

Yeah—but girls always cheat on flabby rich dudes! With hotter dudes.

My girlfriend might be cheating on me!

Yeah—She's not, though.

How do you know?

Cause I tried!

Yeah. Take your shirt off.

No—uh! How do you know she's just not into you!

Because! He tried—

HE tried!

You sell out.

And Andre tried—

[ANDRE is tall (about 6'9 dark, and handsome]

—you too, bro?

[ANDRE shrugs nonchalantly]

That's an NBA player—

What the FUCK, YO.

—and she said NO.

ANDRE

Yup. Shot me down.

Oh really—from all the way up there?!

Face it, man! You're fuckin hot!

I don't like the way that sounds coming from you—

Take your shirt off!

Were you this aggressive with my girl?!

Don't be like that…

Nah— fuck you!

Yo! C'mon, man—

And you three!

You're holding up the game getting mad over nothing. It's Hollywood!

It's Beverly Hills!

—Exactly my point!

You're new here—you'll catch on.

You know what!

I'm shirts—you're skins—Game on.

[SUNNI BLU goes beast mode and plays the dirtiest, most whoopass game in history—out of spite and anger of the toxic masculinity; this of course earns SUNNI BLU even more respect as a “man's man”]

Later: as the owner of the clippers, sunni BLU trades “Andre” to the worst basketball team in history.

For,

As soon as the moon is full,

She also begins to wane—

And as sure as we are to shine,

We also fade away

I had one slice of red velvet cake, one slice of cheesecake—which of course only reminded me of Sonny Moore—the decadent, delicious red velvet—and Dillon Francis—the spiced and ecclectic trademark carrot cake—if only not to sooty the pain of joe much I wanted both of them, but probably didn't need them—how I craved them so, but they probably weren't good for me, nor would they last—

—but they would both be delicious, anyhow.

The seagull said.

“To the sea, we go!”

Overhead, he flies

As the day goes by me

Idly, I wait—

I could take a ride,

But i'd rather be

By myself,

By my…

INT. EMPIRE ENPANADAS. NIGHT

You gonna order?

What you got?

Empanadas.

Just empanadas?

—Yeah.

Okay, that's weird.

Lol the only thing funny about this scene is that their New York accents are so atrociously heavy.

Right.

—weird.

INT. SUBWAY STATION. DAY.

Sunni BLU is passed out in the subway station.

Ew…

Yeah, my god.

Wait—is that—

—sunni?!

SUNNI drunkenly groans.

Sunni! Get up!

Ughhhh.

What are you doing?!

I'm drunk.

I know that.

You're always drunk.

Yeah.

What are you doing here.

What.

In the subway.

I do this sometimes.

What. For what?!

You never know who you're gonna meet.

In the subway

On the floor?!

YeH! I met R- Kelly down here!

What!

When was this

Not at this station, though, but yeah.

To think,

It was all just an awful game, to make you write more songs—

And in the end, if you don't make the cut

They just make you kill yourself, anyway.

Love isn't real, but money is;

And all men want is money,

So they can buy the love—

And all women want is love—

But it has to come with money

Or it all just falls apart

It all just falls apart

It all just falls apart

“Illuminatus”,

Open, close

Illuminaudio, for starters

Cross a crucifix for sons, and wanted daughters

What's a brother to a sister—

Or a mother to a father?

What's a stop sign to a car,

If no one's driving?

In the end, they kill you off

In the end, they kill you off

With every cough, they kill you off—

But there's always another

Who wants to be a star—

Or just

The mother of his child,

Maybe both

Genetic lotto luck

—the cut off.

Agatha…

A far cry, out into the distance–a wind, almost a whisper; A lover, long gone and almost since forgotten, unseen since the very dawn of time and first ever glimpse of light–

…We Meet Again.

FUCK. WHAT IS THIS.

I know, man.

FUCK.

Fuck.

Well, are you gonna tell this story or not?

This isn't possible.

It is possible.

This isn't happening.

–

This dude has a radio tower in his front yard.

That's his front yard?!

I fucking guess.

What is that.

That's a satilite.

Nice.

Yep.

Alright, you son of a bitch.

Hey! My mom's nice!

Not that nice–bringing you here.

How do you know that's how I got here?

Exactly my point.

[cocks pistol slowly.]

You're dead, mouse.

OH.

I GET IT.

kill that motherfucker.

Wait. Hold up.

Hold the phone!

Holding.

How did we get to this point?

I mean– a few ways.

What are you watching.

SHH.

Wedon'tknow.

SHHH.

OK!

SHHHHHHH!

IT' getting good.

Ya. It's getting deeper.

So much deeper.

WAit.

…

Who are you?

I'm a fan.

No.

How did you get in my house?

It's my house.

It's–

–no.

No, it's not.

YEs. this is my house.

No.

What.

GEt out.

SHH.

What.

DUde–

No.

Ze show is on and it is getting one deeper. Be quiet.

IT's getting two deeper.

–like nine deeper.

SHHH.

Oh, I get it.

She really wants to fuck Dillon Francis.

#FuckDillonFrancis

Uh, no–

I already did that.

Gross.

Excuse me.

You are excused!

I mean, I beg your pardon.

Please, don't beg.

Er, uh–

Could you repeat that last part?

Woah, this gets multidimensional as fuck.

I have a time machine.

Are there any loopholes?

There are loopholes.

THere better be loopholes.

Sorry, we're out.

GodDAMMIT.

What.

I was really looking forward to those loopholes.

Well, they're gone.

FUCK.

HEre, have some

Oh-Noh's.

I don't want–

Just SHUT UP and EAT YOUR CEREAL.

Don't worry–I'm still Team Skrillex.

There are TEAMS?!

Oh, yeah, bro.

Oh, so–it is a love story.

I don't think that's what this is.

I'M GONNA MURDER YOU.

Ok.

WITH MY DICK.

A-1.

There's something I need to tell you.

What.

But i'm sworn to secrecy

Then how am I supposed to–

Just–shh– follow my lead.

“The Magic Effect.”

Did it work?

Don't know yet.

You nutted to this girl 36 times in the last 20 Calendar days.

Ok…

36 Times. One Girl. 20 Days.

…What's your point.

This is ferocious.

I have your entire internet history.

All of it?

Oh yes. All of it.

Welp.

Well.

THat's it for me.

I've had enough.

There's no Skrillex Deepfake.

Aw. that sux.

Why would you look at this?

…why not, though?

You're a disturbed man.

I'm pretty regular.

REGULR TO WHO?

*shrugs* Me, I guess.

TURN THIS OFF.

I can't take it anymore.

Whatever happened to the–

SHHH.

Fuck. I'm so wasted.

So what do you think is gonna happen?

Listen. I have a lot to get through. THis is all just nonsense.

I think we're avoiding some heavy subjects, here.

Well, there are a lot of discrepancies.

Kill yourself.

I just did.

Kill yourself–again.

I–GodDAMMIT.

Just do it.

NO.

Come on.

Congratulations, you got the job!

Yes! Thank you!

…What's the job?

I need you to get the fuck out of here in the next five seconds–before I blow my head off, and take you with me.

Don't do that.

Five…

Yo, i'm serious.

Four…

Jesus Christ, dude.

YOu don't think this hits a little close to home.

Home? what is home?

For the Record, Skrillex, Dillon Francis, and Deadmau5 respectively are all getting their dicks sucked on yachts right now in some foreign exotic country–

You're not wrong.

That is correct.

Standard music business.

And People are living in tents under bridges.

I'm just saying.

If you think this project is reckless and bizarre, check your own simulation.

So.

So.

Where were we?

Somewhere between blowing our heads off and getting our dicks sucked?

I'm sure there's a striking correlation somewhere.

‘My Candle Burns At Both Ends…'

Oh, More Occult Magic

God Bless The Illuminati

GOD

I Am The Illuminati

Glad that's settled.

Three.

Goddamit, don't do this.

Two– [cocks pistol]

Why just pistols.

Cause shotguns are messy–

–and for dramatic effect;

I love that sound.

[the other party quickly removes his handgun from his waistband, shooting the other man and then himself quickly; They now both lay dead.]

How do I write this

Just write it.

I need adderall.

You need Jesus.

By goD, youre right. [iPhone]

What are you doing?

Calling on Jesus.

Are you serious.

He's the plug.

Ugh.

I need adderall.

What did I do?!

YOu know what you did.

∆

Well, alright then.

∆

Must be something.

∆

I got it.

“The Legend of Supacree”

L E G E N D S

“Tales of A Superstar DJ”

To do: Cut Freaky Friday 001

Cut Throwback Thursday 001

Cut SOM III

Part I {God Is God]

Part II [Clockwork]

–Pull 212 Remix

It's far beyond my control

I get out of my head and into my soul

In one ear, never out the other

If the wind blew down your door,

How would I call for you?

—Through her, I suppose

And the silk of her hair,

Or the satin of her dress,

—

Oh, it's almost admissible,

Surely admirable,

Worth a smile or not,

That all the world is words,

In the end,

As I tear down my worlds,

and start over from One

And I've already stopped enough once for today,

I think

Surely, what you'd like is just

The time to get it all to nothing

(Never had I wanted it or needed it)

The phone was ringing,

But I'll never be off the hook again,

If you look for the proper way to move forward,

You'll never find it,

Especially looking behind you

(Always looking behind you—

Head in the past

Just like you

It's just like me,

Too,

To sit down and decide a whole song about you

While taking it all down.

I'm never distraught with the thoughts of a stranger,

Oh, on the contrary;

You should be mad about battle,

But I'm all for the veterans and

And never off if we were not at war with one another, but

Then again,

That's all we've ever done

It would be

Devastating

To even think of

Something more clever

“Clever and splendiferous confectionary efforts,

Just spectacular concessions my dear; I'll have another.”

Hadn't I deciphered once or twice the rhyme for riddles down to dollars and cents?

I did, I thought, once.

I never hindered Heaven from pondering over my shoulder once or twice upon a full lit moon, which under I predicted my own fortune.

Once— or twice, but—

Nevermind, or nothing;

Indifference, for instance, instantly inscessent ancestral insimination incriminating risidual visuals uhh—

—From the festival.

Right.

The festival project.

[—Parallels.—]

GOD: So you want to be The “Glass Animals”

*nods*

Glass Animals.

That's what I said. Glass Animals

There's no “The”

Context.

Ok.

So–”Glass Animals”

*nods*

Are you sure you don't want to be made of something else?

*nods*

*shrugs* Okayy. Glas Animals.

I'm lost,

But don't remind me

Running out of time

But time can't find me

Open up my eye 10 times in 9 days

I should probably fall away

Back to the bay,

No baby, don't cry

No baby, don't cry

No baby, don't cry

[Midnight Request Line.]

Sleek black corvette.

Not a dent, not a scratch

And I am feeling better,

Since you asked

What a warm and welcome

Pleasant, wet suprise

What do I owe you the—time

I guess it made me smile for awhile, now

I'm sad again—

Wow, that was quick…

Only took a second, but don't mind my arrogance

‘—I play this and it puts me in a trance.'

I want to dance with you

I hope someone holds my hand like that, one day

Where are you taking me?

“Away, my dear, away…”, he's saying…

I lie awake midday and taking shallow breaths,

I drift away

A weapon for my empathy,

[Midnight Request Line.]

I have no idea what happened.

‘Ambiguous Ambitions - The Crossing ‘

A shiver up my spine

I don't really mind,

I'm still trying to find the word for it—

But tongue in cheek it is

That's—if it fits

You but me once,

And I liked it

Come bite me twice

If you buy it;

Alright, Ryan—where is it?

Where is what?

You know what I'm talking about.

I don't know anything!

“Ryan Remembers Everything”

Goddamn it, wake up.

I need silence.

GET UP, GODDAMNIT.

Okay—

Okay—

—I just need you to tell me where it is—

Where what is?!

I don't think this is very funny.

This got serious.

Ouch.

I don't want to watch TV anymore ever again.

I really wish you'd tell me

Oh, you wish?

Watch this.

I'm sorry, Ryan.

Hello.

I—hello.

I'll have a tall order of whatever's in that box.

You want what's in that box?

Yessir.

What is happening?

I dunno.

I'm afraid that's going to be a problem.

*gasp* can we have ninjas?

*NINJAS*

NINJA FIGHT.

—oh sht rly.

*lmfao*

Sometimes imm set in my ways,

Sometimes days go by—days,

In the blink of an eye,

Ever since I decided,

I might have had love with you.

I think we have some things to figure out, about it

—it being ourselves,

And washing my hands never felt so right

In my life

Somebody told me the stars in the sky were spirit guides,

And it stuck,

I'm up all night,

But iMm the only star I see

In New York City

Don't look up to see me—

Don't look up to me please, kid, really

I mean, why, my baby?

I mean,

Hi lady—

You so fly tonight, just my delight

I —

Like the way I look by you

I—

You know,

If I sit in the city every night like this,

And write,

It just might

Be the end of me

Be the end of me

Be the end of me

You know,

If I did get the limelight,

Right on time to soothe and

Satiate my need to be an idol LC

Even this late in life,

Like—

—fuck

‘8I just want him to like me'

I shouldn't even think about

Superstardom like that,

But I'll be right back,

I gotta get the rabbit out the

White hat,

What a habit to have, huh

What an idea that we might all get along

Or a lot done

Or be better off alone

Than just to fuck off

And write another song—

Because the audience will like it

But we're all over it;

It's all done, isn't it?

“The Running Game”

I don't know what you want to hear from me. \

How about, “I'm sorry.”

Ok, I'm sorry.

You don't do much, do you?

I guess I don't.

Sabotage//Salvation

Idk what thisis supposed to mean.

This is my demise.

You're completely a ticking time bomb.

You're not wrong.

Salvation, from the doldrums.

A sound to soothe my soul,

I sink beneath you,

South and under smoky water

Open mouth, and barely thought of,

Although often,

Walk or waltz, would I

To fall, my love,

So becoming of a flower;

forth and outward over fountains;

Leaps and bounds,

Of course–

Well, this is dope af.

What are you doing.

What.

What happened.

THis is really good.

So.

So, i gotta turn this one off now–

And listen to that one insead.

All the time?

Yeah.

Oh.

For, like ever..?

Well, no.

I gotta put it in the vault.

Noooh.

Yes.

YEs.

Yes.

Forever.

FOrever, no, for now– yes.

That could be almost forever.

Yeah. Almost.

“Almost Invisible.”

Take out my eyes, for now

(If i could, would you want them)

To beg or to barter for,

I offer them up, as

Ritual sacrifice

(it's just a)

Ritual Sacrifice.

These two eyes.

__

He was the boy who owned the world;

Hailing from the land of a thousand suns,

He said,

“I'll give you a dozen roses, honey,

If all you ever do is,

Smile for me,

So, go ahead,

Smile for a dozen roses or more,”

And the irony is that she did it–

Not for the roses,

–but for the attention.

(Just for the attention.)

It was she who birthed the worlds;

Building the land of a thousands suns,

She said

I'll give you a dozen horses,

“If you could just–

Pick the winning one”

And the irony is,

that he did it–

Because he loved horses,

And now he had twelve of them!

(--And any one could be the winning one,

no matter what she does;

He's got a dozen of em,

Anyway.)

Fuck.

What.

Well, that went off the deep end.

Fuck.

Well, this just got dark.

This guy comes off your blacklist tonight.

No, this person

Guy.

PErson. Most certainly does not.

I promise if I love a=a=A=a

What is this

That's a making no complese sense equation.

Think about it in a multidimensional–

Oh, that makes total sense.

Just remember, when using this– this has been around for a really long time.

It's been A long time.

I died in your bed,

But woke up in your arms;

Oh when you love, love–

Love me harder,

Love me harder–

Oh, baby when you love,

love me harder

Love me harder

Love//Love Me Harder

Love//Love Me Harder

Love//Love//Love

Love Me Harder

Love//Love Me Harder

Love//Love//Love

Love Me Harder

I woke up in your bed,

And then died in your arms;

It was a work of art, I suppose

What we were, or are

(Or aspire to be.)

Please. Give me your iPhone.

No!

No?

(Takes I phone.)

Is there a reason you don't want me having this?

…no.

No?

—it's full of stuff.

“Stuff.”

Yes. It's—

“Stuff.”

Yes.

—

—and things.

I know.

Look.

We had a deal.

We had no “deal”

We had a deal.

This train just goes on forever, you know;

Whether you're on, or off it—

So get off, and back on at the wrong stop

Once, if not just for the discovery

Of another supermarket,

Where you shop for strawberries and

Groceries

Good flex, God;

I got a gang of em

I'm gonna explain it as straight as it gets

Sometimes,

You just got to know where to go

If you don't trust your gut,

You'll just never get,

Never get it right.

Alright, alright,

I started it

Alright, right—

I gotta get it right,

I gotta get ;

I'm the worst at introductions

Oh and,

So bad at

Goodbyes

Oh, why'd you have to leave me by my idol

Why,

Why'd you have to lead me by my eyes

By my eyes

God, I love the way

I love the way,

I love the way you

Love me

God, I love

The way you

The way you

Love me

You forgot about me, didn't you?

You forgot all about me

You forgot all about it—

All about it

Al about it

It's not the same, anymore

Since you gave it a name, is it?

There's nothing I can do

To help me, help you

This is all I can do,

To help me, love you

I have to remove you;

I have to remove you

In a room—

Full of beauty—

In a world,

Full of woes

I lose the last dose of you, on my tongue

Nobody ever wanted it, like I do—

Like I do

I lose the last dose of you on my tongue,

And I'm all full of love again;

I never saw anything like it,

I was a modem, still plugged into the wall

An anonymous post partum unremarkable

Post-party proclamations

and eternal damnation for ordering breakfast

Evading transportation authorities

Unworried the informant sleeping under me

Oh,

Now she wants to song—

Oh, look—

And now, she has a song to sing

A point to make,

A wrong to ring;

The man she brings along

Is bad for her

Oh, she's gotta work

(She loves to work,

She's got to work it)

What kills her makes her stronger

What doesn't kill her makes her stronger

All she does is

Carry on

And

Carry on

And

Carry on.

Mrs Sheffield left flushing queens, for this.”

Mrs Sheffield left Flushing, Queens, for this?!

Mrs Sheffield left Flushing, Queens for this!

Mrs, Sheffield!

-1flushing queens, fah ‘dis.

Very well worth it,

I got all the way to broklyn

And way beyond my means for this

It's well outta my means.

It's out of my hands, now.

That boy called you “grandpa”

How is it all over?

When I bet to God I was,

Just in your lap at this party,

And you were under me slippin on some sort of

Lager or

Something

Weren't you?

Yeah,

I was just there, too

I was just there, too—

I was just there, too—

Oh, now she has a song…

All of a sudden.—

But it's not all of a sudden at all

It's not all of a sudden

There's nothing, is there?

Oh,

There's something, surely

I went to bed late;

But I'm getting up early.

I see the way he looks at me—

—take it easy, baby

We could have the whole room waiting

Like a stoner at a stop sign

My bad,

My eyes lie to me

All the time

Driving me mad

Telling me

I want you inside me

My bad

My bad

Well, I want you in my bed

But I haven't had one yet

I'm thinking Purple Mattress;

Or is that mids, to you kids

Like Timmy ho's

Or my mustang civic

It's a custom, yeah

Nobody has it yet

It's a hybrid

Like I am

—I am a bit off subject, now

(My bad)

We never had sex in my bathroom

(That was your house)

I took a mouse to the mountain

(My bad)

My writing is getting more

Acid-centric,

Lysergic acid diethylamide;

I didn't buy any,

But I haven't the need anymore,

Really

I just wake up like this:

That is, when I wake up

(I have long nights, kids)

My bad

I want to see you very briefly

Without your briefs,

You know what I mean?

Me neither—

Sexual delinquency in meditated frequencies

Repeat this sequence

I keep my deepest secrets

Where I need it

Right up my slime,

Where my spleen is—

Dreamed it, and I haven't cleaned since

(Or dreamed since)

In this

Endless emission,

Ignition sequence begins

When The Lean splits

Under the blood moon;

An eclipse.

I drift off a lot—

Just thinking of your penis

My daydreams are not very safe for the public

I think they're X-rated or worse,

Even thinking of you as a person,

Or worse:

As my husband

once, as my lover—

Lovers have all the fun, anyway

Hm

All the things that I'd do to you

After you put me through—

What are you looking for, exactly?

A synchronicity.

Just any synchronicity?

There's no such thing as “just any” synchronicity.

Does “laying low” mean nothing to you?

I'm laying low!

On a city tour?!

It's a big city!

[From Afar]

IS THAT HER?

Aw, fuck.

Well, well, well–here we go–0

I don't have time for this.

Here it is.

I don't know what you're doing.

We're going on an adventure!

NO.

I. Cant. Enjoy. Anything.

WELCOME TO HOLLYWOOD.

I hate this.

My creativity had become merciless–inspiration pouring from the world as if all that it wanted wast o be collected and captured in any way I could see fit to create–

What do you want?

Out of life–or in this store?

Out of life.

Lets start with this store.

A Living Lion;

The eyes inside,

I smiled, declined to act on impulse

He'll admit,

She's less complex, cause she's basic

Everthemore complacent, blatantly lazy--

and crazy adorable.

Whatmore could any man want?

Whatmore could any man need?

Whatmore could any man have;

But the best friend who needed therapy,

Several Plastic surgeries,

A fading glass menagerie--

If she knew what that means.

(Basically, they're both nobodies.)

‘What on God's awful green earth

makes you think I would

ever want

anything

to do

with either of you two

Losers?

Beggars can't be choosers.

His plan B was Annie;

But she was never like me

Enough to be

Happy with

Sonny;

Let alone anybody.

What is happening?

Do you have an explanation of what's happening to me.

Every realm of reality and possibility. This is infinity.

What is this all supposed to mean to me?

You can see everything and nothing;

You can be anything.

So what would that mean?

What does it mean to you?

That Love is Love, then.

I've been half of a wide-open bleeding heart,

Since the Goddamn start of it.

He started it,

Or someone did

I didn't ever ask for it

I was only ever always on the dancefloor when it mattered.

I was always looking past him, but not ever looking at him.

It was always just at random, but i'd never thought to ask him

A question,

Or to greet him--

I just.

Adjust.

They're watching us, from above.

Adjust.

They just don't trust us

Adjust.

Look what we've done, look what we've done to the planet that gave us all the light that we come from.

Look, there.

It appears to be ‘shimmering'

What exactly is happening.

The entirety of its surface is Auquous.

Oceana.

If i learn all the planets,

In the everlasting galaxies--

And learn how to explore it…

I just might get to Skrillex.

I might fully need a Xanex bar if I ever see this kid in person.

He's olden than you.

By like, a minute.

Still.

I mean, really. I don't think this is ever going to work.

It might not work, I mean--

What?

If you had to actually--

Oh God, no; I'd be far too nervous.

So what are you going to do when it comes time for festival season

Run.

Hide.

Run + Hide.

Fight or Flight; A Natural Response to Skrillex

There is no natural response to Skrillex, because it's unnatural

Be civil.

I am I ‘m trying to figure out how to protect this species.

Oh now, you're acting as if he's not human

Of course he is. But i'm not.

Of course.

All it is, is science, a bit of misunderstanding.

Experimental sorcery, possible exploitation.

I'm not exploiting Skrillex.

No, he's exploiting YOU.

No.

Wake the fuck up.

No.

(Stop repeating yourself)

Wake up; you're being manipulated.

By Skrillex? Cool.

By whatever's manipulating Skrillex.

Alright.

Alright? You're part of a machine.

So?

“SO?” You're this comfortable having given your soul up to the devil.

I haven't done that.

Do you know what it takes to achieve that of which you so covet.l

Money.

And?

Power.

Go on.

Fame.

So, calculate.

It adds up the same either way.

Skrillex isn't real.

Maybe not, but Sonny Moore is--

Is, what--

Is “who”...

“Who…”

I love.

What?

--But that's all I know.

That's it?

Yes.

Elaborate.

Can't.

What do you mean?

Well, it goes like this: This is insanity. I've been through every wormhole, every parallel, every revolutionary subconscious thought, every world, every realm, every lifetime...and at the end of the day--or the beginning, depending-- it's really all the same question, and the same answer--over and over again; From the Beginning to the End. It is infinite. Everything is Everything.

Quickly, tell me--

What, now?

What goes on a Skrillex Pizza?

Nothing, because it's not a thing!

It is not.

It isn't!

Stop arguing at get to work.

On what?

On building

Building What

[The] Skrillex.

How in the fuck am I supposed to do that?

How in the fuck did you get to be a vegetarian?

It just happened.

So.

So…

Are you really a vegetarian?

___

Why did you do this?

I didn't do this! You did this!

I didn't do this! Why would I do this?

How could you!

I didn't!

What the fuck is HE doing here?

What the fuck.

You need to stop this.

I can't stop.

What did you DO.

Exactly what I had to.

Shasta!

Who the fuck is that?

That's that bitch.

I told you it was Shasta.

Who the fuck is Shasta. What show is this?

Where is Skrillex?

FUCK SKR—

Wait, what show is this?

INT. THE VOID. DAY & NIGHT.

I remember the first time I ever realized, I could love anyone in the world, if they needed me to—or, if they just gave me the chance. Or if I got the chance. Or, if there was a chance.

And, if there was a chance, and it was supposed to happen, it always would—especially if I wanted it—

But definitely, if I needed it.

But, what is is “if”?

And, what is “supposed”?

What is it to “want”?

And what's a “need”?

Now I know— or at least pretend to.

Because, the more it is I think I know, the actual less I feel that I actually do;

None the wiser, I am what I always was—

And God is, as I am.

Sunni Blu becomes a popular androgynous rapper, as as s/he rises to fame is forced to take on a mre masculine persona to monetize thiher music.

After releasing a series of Skrillex diss-tracks, and music aimed at OWSLA's top dogs, a feud between Skrillex and Sunni Blu, or rather their ‘teams' breaks out into the media.

After Skrillex is hacked and left with his entire music collection missing, it is presumed the attack and disappearance of his hard drives was orchestrated by Sunni; After his unreleased music is leaked and the damage is deemed ‘irreparable' The Skrillex Project is forced to close, and the artist himself disappeared into obscurity-- after hearing one of his unreleased tracks used for one of Sunni Blu's hits, he( ‘*the fictional Skrillex*) secretly attends one of Sunni's concerts; Sunni Blu spots him in a large crowd and the two brawl; Skrillex with the upper hand after Sunni draws back from a bloody nose and retreats; It is revealed that the unreleased Skrillex track which was ‘gifted' to her came from the stolen collection, unbeknownst to Sunni Blu

Although Sunni Blu's true identity has yet to be revealed to more than Dillon Francis, beside the publicity and management who have been helping to keep her secret;

Dillon Francis and Sunni Blu are cornered by paparazzi, revealing to the public that she is, in fact, a female;

As allegations arise that Sunni Blu is a transgender, rumors put a strain on Sunni Blu and Dillon Francis's collaborations…

TBC.

All of a sudden—or maybe, even, not so suddenly—I was Clark Kent—or whatever Superman's name was. I had been without contacts or glasses for quite some time, and had quite explicitly in one of my many letters to God—or really any holy power in a realm which might have received my charred requests—all the things I needed, and some of the things I very badly wanted—tightly bundled and wax-sealed with intention for nothing besides that of the greater good, or course, for myself or anyone else—set ablaze in the unforgiving streets of New York City, in secrecy at odd hours of the night; it hadn't been my actual intent to have to practice any magic at all, especially under the circumstances, it it seemed that someone nearly unmentionable at all, had hexed a nasty attack on my psyche—a satanic, demonic possession of the weak and feeble bodies around me, and unable to isolate in completion, I became vulnerable to such a wicked curse that it had altered my psychic morality—as one does not practition a counter-curse or attack , in my medicinal expertise, without first being provoked—as one military typically mustn't bomb another, or even it's own enemy without being first considerably attacked—and it was, at this point, indeed a terrible holy war.

I pulled the stars into order

I put the water to fountains, in mountaintops

I don't know who I am either

But you call me God,

Agree, I'd not—

But at least I love you

I believe I was you once

I'm awful sorry that I broke you

I might have put the sun

Just to far up and out of reach

Believe me, see—I see you

Doesn't matter what we try to do

Unity is beautiful

I live on the 8th floor

I don't intend what I'm there for

It doesn't feel bad though

It doesn't feel bad though

I don't know what you're after

-Blū

Do I scare you?

Only a little.

Huh.

What?

Nothing..

I hate you.

ihateyou.

Eventually, The Ascended Masters will intervene.

They already have.

Oh, Christ Almighty.

He's not coming.

[Answering Phone] Jesus Christ Almighty

–WHERERU?

I TOLD YOU I'D GET THERE GODDAMNIT.

Fascinating.

Do my eyes deceive me,

Or

Is there a secret between us:

A secret illusion;

Should I bury it,

Or keep it neatly

And unseen,

Between my knees,

And where you need me?

Is there a thing that I should need,

But never speak–

I'll keep it in my sweet release

To dream beliefs of evil

Seen, aquamarine revines,

And pulsing veins,

–and stolen hearts,

Not passing judgment,

But just passing by

To hide, to pass the time

To find a high,

Align in color

Fly,

Write another rhyme,

Or wire fireflies a transfer of light,

Like the eyes reflect to mine.

WHY would you write this?

WHY.

I hate blue eyes.

That's racist.

No it isn't.

Congratulations on making it into my aerospace, unscathed

A coincidence, this is not.

I have something for you.

I don't need anything from you.

That's because I gave you everything you need.

Right. I have everything.

RIght.

So you should know whatever you need comes at a high price.

What makes you think I need something.

You said you have something for me?

Yes I do.

You don't seem the gift giving type.

I'm not.

So, what do you want from me?

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

Oh. it' s another one.

What's he need?

Probably nothin, really

Oh, it's something.

This shouldn't be happening.

I agree.

why is this bothering me.

Google it's self had deleted half my entry, which was admittedly sloppily thrown together, at nearly a full episode's length; probably for the best, as I was becoming more intolerant of my societal responsibility by the moment, and increasingly self destructive asa result. It was still chaotic; fame kept coming closer towards me and then leaping away, but not out of reach or out of sight, but rather than chase it, I merely calmly strode forward in a never-changing pace, not rushing and always careful to remain calm, even when filled with fury. I had become unrecognizably fit, chaste, and a remarkably healthy eater; I was all together well, besides in the areas of romance and sexuality of course. I was ready to pounce, but timing would be key, and patience the virtue;

UH – “hehe”

…I beg your pardon.

“Hehe”

Um…

Fuck.

Or “haha” “haha”

…

Just admit it.

…

Admit it already!

–haha.

Admit WHAT.

This gets Levels.

Nobody thought Patrice O Neal was a woman!

I thought Patrice O Neal Was a Woman.

Ah, fuck, I'm nobody.

“Nobody”

Is that Bob Saget?

I swiped right on this dude, just cause he looked exactly like Bob Saget.

Omg. Bob Saget!

Fuck, that's right.

EXT. THE W HOTEL, BEVERLY HILLS, DAY/ EXT . PODSHARE WESTWOOD ROOFTOP, DAY

OH MY GOD, GUYS, LOOK: IT'S BOB SAGET.

No it's not!

Oh My God! Yeah IT IS!

Fuck, really?! Bob Saget?!

BOB SAGET!

YO GUYS, IT'S BOB SAGET.

It was, in fact, Bob Saget.

Bob Saget's dead, right?

Oh yeah, bud.

That's it guys! No more dead celebrities!

I'm coming with you!

NO MORE GHOSTS.

Look, I have something to tell you.

UGH. COME ON.

This is a weird superpower.

EXT. GRAVEYARD, QUEENS, NY. DAY

…

…

…

Having fun yet?

Alright! I have a question!

What?

When do I get to–

Get to what?

You know.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Sunni Blu becomes a popular androgynous rapper, as as s/he rises to fame is forced to take on a masculine persona and fully male identity to monetize "their" music.

After releasing a series of Skrillex diss-tracks, and music aimed at OWSLA's top dogs, a feud between Skrillex and Sunni Blu, or rather their ‘teams' breaks out into the media.

After Skrillex is hacked and left with his entire music collection missing, it is presumed the attack and disappearance of his hard drives was orchestrated by Sunni; After his unreleased music is leaked and the damage is deemed ‘irreparable' The Skrillex Project is forced to close, and the artist himself disappeared into obscurity-- after hearing one of his unreleased tracks used for one of Sunni Blu's hits, he( ‘*the fictional Skrillex*) secretly attends one of Sunni's concerts; Sunni Blu spots him in a large crowd and the two brawl; Skrillex with the upper hand after Sunni draws back from a bloody nose and retreats; It is revealed that the unreleased Skrillex track which was ‘gifted' to her came from the stolen collection, unbeknownst to Sunni Blu

Although Sunni Blu's true identity has yet to be revealed to more than Dillon Francis, beside the publicity and management who have been helping to keep her secret;

Dillon Francis and Sunni Blu are cornered by paparazzi, revealing to the public that she is, in fact, a female;

As allegations arise that Sunni Blu is transgender, rumors put a strain on Sunni Blu and Dillon Francis's collaborations…

TBC.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

She actually reaked of death— the putrid smell of something rotting filled the room any time she occupied it — the tepid springtime air an unwelcome match for the unglorified and shabby surroundings that the hotel offered—but at least it was something. I knew that she couldn't be trusted almost immediately— that her “nice” was too nice and that the falsities of her supposed kindness alluded to something greater; she had been for the most part almost heroic in her gestures—offering some of the comforts I craved, but without any of felt affection; she was increasingly suspicious, from the moment I began my short-lived stay with her—I immediately thought her to be some kind of narc, and probably was; the psychological torture I was used to was so familiar, that in fact, it seemed programmed—indeed it was, and the more they wanted to know—whoever “they” was, about my energy and supernatural abilities—the less they would.

But, here I was—again, up against another demon, this time in nearly the exact same fight; disgusted by a sleepless night full of haunting moaning, jerking, and teeth grinding, I promptly got up to count the night's takings and clean my half of the room, in shambles after the rush of the weekly having-to-do, plus some extra endeavors which may have turned out more remarkably than planned—then again, I knew something magical would always happen when I recorded—or was being recorded, which was this very morning the case; my roommate had just earlier produced a tape recorder and actually asked if she could record me talking about what would happen at night—grinding her teeth, moaning, and thrashing about—and emitting a horrible smell: the putrid and nausiating smell of death, which was at times strong enough to actually force bile up and out of my stomach and into my mouth, almost vomiting just from the smell alone; I had always been a peaceful sleeper, with a strong stomach albeit—but this smell was disgustingly bizzare, and it had become stronger and stronger from the day I had started my stay in this room, 637, opposite the room that I had occupied previously— though not much had changed— there seemed indeed to be a demon following me, and it seemed to have something to do with my past life— a life I was remarkably happy to leave and finally been done with, and had even recently admitted i would most probably remain single for the rest of my life, if lived long at all— of course, the grinding and gnashing of the teeth was haunting, but paired with the smell and utter unsettling aura of this nasty woman l, I had felt it more than nessesary to protect myself, using magic or otherwise—prayer alone seemed not to be cutting it, as I begged and pleaded God to keep me from this harm—but it seemed the harm intended was against God itself, and with every fibre of my being I kept as quietly as I could, remaining as calm as possible—and remembered that for every bit of hurt and surffering I saw, that my attacker would see worse. I had never wished death on someone so—than again, death would be an absolute relief from any of it, or at least from what I understood; and with such, it seemed like I was on the other side of it, at least for the most part, and though I even rather believed it myself that I would never truly love again or was loved, i knew that mostly somewhere to be untrue— perhaps my worst fear, and just as expected—the most insulting thing she could possibly think of to say flew from her bitter, lopsided mouth, as I grasped at her recording device—just as I had grasped at the TV remote just weeks before—with an absolute iron grip, unwilling to let go from what I knew to be an absolute violation of the shelter's code: she pulled at my hair and yanked at my arm as I walked calmly into the hallway, with her around my arm screaming rabidly as the demon itself took over her small and quite fat little Asian body— and though she said herself to be Japanese, she could have been Chinese or from anywhere else, and I wouldn't have known or cared the difference at all—she was a guest in my country, supposedly, anyway, though she could have been an ambassador from anywhere else or just as likely part of some bruxism study—it seemed that remarkably so, the two roommates I had been housed with were selected specifically to torture me—perhaps even trying to provoke or coax an episode of some sort, but that was as far away from happening as anything—I had made the conclusion that, without having first been beaten and abused, none of the strange behaviors that initially resulted would have arised ; in fact, I was quite healthy, mentally and physically, now, and whatever forces were targeting me and initiating my demise were idiotic at best, and satanic at most— with my suspicions certainly nowhere in between to speculate; it was nice being in New York City, with the comfort of knowing I could always jump in front of the fastest moving train, rather than to board it.

It was a sickness, not with myself, but with the world. I had discovered too much about the secrecy of the elite, safeguarding nutrition by overpricing whole and healthy fare and creating an unaffordable and almost unattainable beacon of health; there was nothing much that I could do beyond speculate what kind of body I might be able to live in to do the kind of self care and maintenance the wealthy did; on my own, I was at least halfway there, but of course always having to backtrack due to financial constraints—and there were so many. Still, I was for the most part unwilling to trade my time for money in the worst ways, and sucked it up to make $50 an hour weekly working for one day a week—which, by the way—as a professional DJ, earned me about the same salary I had once earned working at McDonalds for 40 hours a week, after taxes —I recalled my checks almost never being a full $500, even putting in overtime—and once between two jobs, working around over a hundred hours a week or so, give or take, almost never breaking $2,000 per pay period—and having no time at all, not even to rest, or clean—and before I had even been aware of the notion that I would have a daily and mostly mantadory gym ritual, certainly no time to work out.

In fact, I barely saw my son. I worked nights, and mornings, and afternoons—and sleep was rare enough, besides the constant having-to-do of normal life; he was two years old, and would be placed right beside me just in time for me to have to wake up within the hour, guzzle down a couple of energy drinks, and head to work, where I would most likely be for the next 16 hours—if not 8, devided by a few hours off, then another 8; sometimes, it was 8 and then 6, and then another 16 before I would even see the bed we all three of us shared—and sometimes, the scent of another woman's shampoo stained the pillow I would lay my head to try and sleep on, but couldn't — things had grown entirely disasterous, and I was working overtime to afford my own apartment. I had selected a beautifully remoldeled unit close enough to both of my jobs that it was reasonable, with two bedrooms—one for myself, and one for my son. I had begun picking out new silverware and shopping for beds and toy boxes—one with a slide for my baby boy, who, of course, then was still a reasonable weight for his age. He was sweet, just beginning to talk, and was a handful—of course—but as the higher earner, and having absolutely had enough of the mind games, evil trickery, lies, and absolute neglect—having existed with limited sleep and even more limited patience for the unhygienic conditions I would return “home” to, I could no longer exist in the world that had become what it had.

—but, of course, the thing knew now, looking pitifully at my roommate as I guarded my belongings, making sure that her sneaky and strange, suspicious behavior didn't tamper with my expensive musical equipment as she showered, which didn't alleviate the smell at all, but even almost exacerbated it—I reflected, how I wish I had known then: never let an insecure man know that you're planning to leave him, and take his child into a better home, across town in the place he grew up in.

I had already lost about 100 pounds and male attention was no issue, though I had never wanted as much as I had gotten and I wasn't exactly getting the attention from the kind of men I wanted; of course, now I knew that white men were for the most part not really racist, but classist—and also prideful—usually only keeping us, colored women on the side, as secrets, or fetishes—save for those, of course, built well, without the affects of age, brutality, trauma, and abuse to show on our bodies—supermodels, singers of the like—and of course, the ever-wanted light-skinned girls, white passing enough not to piss off any family members.

So it was safe to say, back then, that I hadn't ever really wanted any of the men that wanted me— and even now, here, looking over this pitiful somewhat human so prone to being controlled and possessed, thought about words that could have cut deeply, if anything could, that she had sputtered as I stood quietly, using the morning light to fold my clothing;

“This is why nobody loves you.”

The demonic possession had been relentless and gotten worse and worse—she jerked, scratched, moaned, and arched all night long, tossing and turning and thrashing about so much that even with my earplugs nestled deeply in my inner ears, the foam pressing into a painful pressurized migraine by the morning, the jolting, scratching, and screeching sent bursts of haunting and soul-sucking energy across the room; it truly was a demon, or even Satan himself, and as I sat up one night praying and contemplating, the demon laughed evilly as if the villain in a movie—it was indeed some kind of hell, but of course Hell I hadn't deserved; I had been punched in the face nearly to death in front of my own two children, and everything since then had become strange and unreal—I thought “suicide wasn't my first death—it was my second.”

Something in me had died that day; My newborn son flung across the room and onto the couch as my then-husband, the very first love of my life swung to hit me, pinning me down and losing l control—and even years later, between six and seven of them—I would still run my tongue over the scar on the inside of my bottom lip, thinking “that really happened” and it really did—but it was still hard to believe—that was the first but that wouldn't be the last time he would put his hands on me to harm me. I now had a couple scars, but none were really visible, besides to me—the eye-shaped scar that would light up on the right side of my head—the raised marking on the inside of my lip—and of course, the reckless turmoil and boiling in my stomach every time I heard someone grinding their teeth—and now I knew that it was indeed a demonic possession, or a carefully planned psychological experiment planned and paid for by the government itself.

It seemed that for the most part, the attack was meant to keep me homeless; I had not had a peaceful or suitable, steady home since leaving my ex husband, and it seemed that everywhere I did go something dramatic would happen that forced me to move or leave, often relating to the people that I shared the spaces with, or even the space itself—despite at some points keeping two or three jobs, the places I would have to live would be disgusting and sufferable, which of course lead to poor work performance, and the eventual abandonment of whatever income I did have—it seemed that the people I would meet and friends I would make weren't really friends—especially men, who would turn evil after learning of my cellibacy, or, of course, would turn to predators if I happened to have fallen asleep around them—which was likely, as being homeless and without a bed, I was always tired. The people that I lived with would turn cruel and hateful, and now that it had happened over and over, I had learned that it was the same demon.

“This is why nobody loves you.”

“Everybody loves me.” , I responded— one of my mantras, and for the most part, true— until I had the unfortunate circumstance of having to live with or with with them too long; indeed, all of my would had been temporary for quite some time, and though one would think the travel and ambiance alone to be exciting and inspirational (which it admittedly was, incredibly so) , i was tired from having to constantly move around, almost never having more than enough money than I needed to the effect that I was always anxious and worrisome, and though lately I had decided that I was somehow very devinely protected, and that abundance and financial independence would be provided through my itretractably intimate relationship with God, or The Source, that I needle worry any longer. However, the coughing, grinding of teeth, and overall decay of my psyche had become dauntingly irritating, and I was again becoming annoyed enough to sometimes drift off into fantasies about letting the blood leak out from my favorite vein; the artery where The Insomniac Logo crossed over the center of The Eye—a tattoo I loved and hated, as nothing I did really seemed to be good enough for Pasquale, or whoever was really in charge of selecting the lineups at The Insomnisc events; it had actually become almost torture scrolling through the mounds of music I loved but couldn't play at my paid shows, and though I received rave reviews, I was far from a rave at all— actually, I was so far from everything, I felt stranded, left out of an entire world and bound to the bus for hours a day, just to do Simple things—then, of course; to return to a hostile environment, where the mostly-black population did nothing but bicker and squabble in negetivity and misery, ruminating in hatred—and the fake niceness of my second roommate becoming almost impossible to bare; she had become phony, and I was having none of it.

The gritting and grinding of her teeth caused me an anxiety that made me want to eat; the more she twisted and turned and moaned and gritted, the more my stomach would become so furiously empty that it sometimes hurt—and when it was full, even to the brim, the nausiating stench that would arise from her body would seep into my nostrils and into my mind and body, forcing me nearly to vomit more than once, but almost violently at least one particular time. I hoped for someone, anyone to occupy the attackers mind from sitting and ruminating on the hatred he held for me; living in the past, with our dead children, the l deciet and the lies, the cheating and the chaos circling in a hateful spew of energy that cast a spell over my entire life; I wanted to love, but knew I could not, I wanted to live, but hadn't so far—and the worst think I could do was kill myself, which would allow whatever his version of the story was to be true.

He had never admitted to hitting me, besides to me, and was scared to be prosecuted; he had run away in a fit of suicidal fury, threatening to kill himself long before I ever did, my lip still gushing and leaking blood all over the floors and the walls—blood I myself cleaned up, and still found spatters of for days on end after—the days where everything changed in my mind, and something else took over my body; something about survival which had pushed me into the world I was in today—which was still strange and loveless, but none the less I was grateful for; Love had been ruined in all but music, and my $50 an hour one day a week was far more valuable to me than even the high-salary corporate nightmare that had afforded me a trip across the country to Ultta music festival—where on the night of my 25th birthday I stood in the dead center of the crowd and stared into the U hoisted above the MainStage—never even dreaming of being on it, but just enamored that I had earned a check off off my bucket list.

“You're possessed by a demon.” I calmly informed her—something she had informed me of upon my arrival, also bringing up shamanism in the same breath; the first tell-tale sign that this woman could never be trusted, ever—she had either been told what to say by someone who had been listening to and reading along with my podcast series and was a paid informant, selected specifically because she had bruxism—or she was demonically possessed—of course, with the alternative possibility of being selected BECAUSE she was programmable and prone to possession, which any skilled magician can practice; Occultists for centuries had used these practices I was only just now learning to protect myself, to program and control people—none of which I was against, besides it being used against me, however, I now believed that it had been some sort of strategic test to see if I would be in any way violent—and I hadn't; I never punched, hit, or attacked either of my roommates in either struggle— I simply held my ground, and with a firm grip, would not let go—in fact, in both struggles—one being a full-out brawl and the other being just a simple scuffle, my roommates had acted out in petty, girlish violence that seemed not to bother my somewhat strong and warrior-like inner companion—the inner-companion who enjoyed strength training, and proper conditioning—the tiny and gross Asian woman pulled my hair and yanked at me furiously, eyes wild as she called me “Crazy”, which would eventually be one of my album titles, alongside “Retarded”, “Fat” and “Lazy”, if I could ever properly create something that I was actually proud of without being disturbed— and though I wasn't sure—the main purpose of this demon did seem to be to stop me from creating things, usually acting up as I began to write or configure my music, besides during live performances—where of course, besides the overtly-drunken rambling, requests for music I didn't want to play, and the super-salty-black-girl-stares I would receive from scantily dressed women rappers always referred to in their songs and videos as “hoes”, it wasn't anything that I hadn't become used to by now—but by now, I had become used to this weird and strange demon, who seemed to be following me just to make me go insane and eventually kill myself, which I supposed I would do once I felt that enough evidence was published so that my son, now weighing about as much as I did or even more after being kept from me—would understand that I never wanted to leave or abandon him.

My ex husband had ripped my keys from my hands as I darted for the door, picking me up and then pushing my face into the floor, where some woman had either urinated or ejculated on the carpet at some point before, rubbing my face in it like a Dog, then removing my house key from the keychain and carving something into the side of my face—before picking me up, as I had become rather small without gaining any muscle—and throwing me out onto the porch, keeping my phone and my glasses inside the house—but more importantly, my son, who I had planned to take with me to the women's shelter—

It was the beginning of winter in the harsh tundra—with a frigid wind stinging the still bleeding wound over my right eye, and though I couldn't see nor did I have a place to go, I drove quickly away in my new car, which he had of course dented in the first week or so after it's purchase; he had begun to do all sorts of things once I decided I was leaving; he would allow women into my bed as I worked, or even—sometimes upon coming home during a break, I would discover that he was nowhere to be found, our two year old son all-alone and myself unable to return to work until he returned; sometimes hours or not at all—and I could never then or ever now in good concious leave my son alone, even at six years old, let alone two:

I waited patiently for my roommate to vacate the premises; she was dead set on changing rooms, and I was dead set on allowing it—although i was sure I would be stuck with someone intolerable in some way, as long as they didn't grind their teeth or weren't impossibly messy, I would probably be better off; the woman had many times now shown herself to be evil and conniving, and though I hated to place any old-fashion stereotypes onto her, she fitted Hollywoods “untrustworthy, Asian rat” to a T; she had taken the liberty of asking for permission once and then continuing to record our conversations, had began her introduction with talks about demonic possession and shamanism, and had even taken things of mine and hidden them in her things, only to throw childish and unsightly tantrums when I retrieved them; she had opened my water and replaced it with tap or fountain water, pouring the expensive electronyte infused water into her own bottle and perhaps not thinking that I would neither taste the difference or notice that the seal had been broken on the brand new bottles— and she often said hurtful things which may have been true and less hurtful coming from her, after having self-stated that she had been demonically possessed—things that I took with a grain of salt, that were disgusted with false niceties.

She often brought up things out of my own past without being prompted; talks about dead babies, failed marriages, twin flames, and spiritual awakenings—she often asked questions that seemed to come out of my own internet history, and indeed, all of her conversation seemed to be in some way scripted—I still couldn't tell if she was programmed, possessed, or a combination of the two, but was more assuredly a combination of the two, as the fat around her midsection alerted me to the deeper issue at play, that obesity itself acts as a pathway for bodiless creatures of the lower realms to find their way in, eventually turning to cancer and even more slowly and eventually death, but first arising as rapid aging, lethargy, aggravation, and maliciousness—all of which are contagious, and whether or not she was the result spiritual curse or a government psychological experiemnt, I didn't care—she smelled bad and was psychotically fake-nice in just the way my mother would be when she would turn one way and then another—or just as my ex husband had, the cycle of abuse so clearly patterened and laid out before my eyes that it almost bored me with its cyclical, almost-never-ending relentlessness.

But it wasn't never ending. I had broken the pattern. I had asked God and all the spirits for protection and guidance, and even, some weeks before, with open eyes and ears about the sincerity of my roommates intentions—and within moments of asking God itself, the truth had begun to unfold, just as I had asked God to by any means protect my son, and he had—by allowing him to live with his grandmother—and as I still struggled with escaping the grips of poverty as a black woman in racist-sex-driven-capitalist-America, I knew it would only be moving backwards to run to him as I had before. In fact, every time I moved forward in music at all, some drama would happen so that all of a sudden my old life needed the old me—and like the old me, a gullible, people-pleasing lover-and-doer, I would rush back into the cycle of abusive patterns, behaviors, and terrors—becoming sick in my old ways with obesity, anxiety, and trauma—However, now that the pattern was so much easier to see, I failed to return to the old cycles, or even my old self at all—there was almost no part of that person left at all besides my son, who sadly I had learned to detach from; once I understood that my own baby was being used a means to control me—I had to let go. My motherhood began to be a secret, piled on top of other secrets I began to collect, almost even with pride. It had been remarkable that I could keep them, in a certain way, and also not—this fueled the fire for shame and even more torture, but nothing had or could be done about it, as far as I was concerned. My boy had been ripped from me, kept intentionally away, and even as once I kept him as the soul reason for continuing to try, I had let that go—I knew that the curse or hex and the terrible burden that came with it had more to do with the potential that eventually the truth would surface; ‘Mommy didn't run away from you— she ran away to you.' But either way, i'd be a better parent than I would anything else, especially better than a DJ— but if the point was to use my own children against me to get me to behave in a certain way—

I had to let the idea or notion of being a mother go. I had to let the romanticized idea of recreating my family with anyone else go. I had to let everything go, especially the things I wanted— because the things I needed had been taken so much from me that I was no longer human. I had been prone to abuse, trauma, psychological terrorism, cyber attacks, Dillon Francis— and the handful of other actors that only seemed to drive me further forward committing the final act of suicide once more; but it wasn't final, and I knew that—and the worst part about it was, that with all the coughing, grinding, homelessness, being dragged through the mud, compared to others born with silver spoons, and even put up against musical moguls and tycoons—coming face to face with fame and the famous, diving into an intimate expansion of conciousness and having my basic human needs dried up into almost nothing—being stripped of my rights, my privacy, and my comfort, my perception shifted and under constant scrutiny and attack—I was famous without any of the benefit of being wealthy with it at all and growing tired, older, and all the more heartbroken with every clinched jaw and fist tossed at me…

“This Is Why Nobody Loves You.”

‘A good name for an album but not as catchy as ‘crazy,'' I thought— the sniveling woman throwing a tantrum as she stormed in-and-out-and-about preparing to leave; I was relieved. She was a snake, my dreams had grown dark and I had been jolted awake by her terrible night mannerisms and her new roommate would be too; it was a disgusting sound and a disgusting smell—and her new roommate would just as likely be just as putt off by it as I was.

“He's going to continue to use you—you'll just get fatter and fatter…”

I couldn't remember all of what I had said, but I told her the truth; whatever was using her body, even if it was just to get to me, was going to continue to use her—even if not the same force, she had proven herself programmable—buying a personal blender to match mine after observing me; planting obvious notions about what I should or shouldn't do—notions that I had reflected; in fact, I had reflected everything. That was my strongest power, and always brought the most adversity; showing people themselves, from the outside in. Most people hate themselves, and it becomes painful—as I began to since the increasing hostility, I began to leave the room messier, not taking the time to clean up—my half of the room representing the subliminal damage she had been playing on my psyche with; Infeed, what she was doing was wrong, and easily recognizable from the start: my mother had acted in the same way, as well as my ex, and I knew immediately that she was attempting control, as she would complain about any light at all when I most felt like working on music; sensitivity to light, also the sign of a demon —and hers was severe enough that she had changed all the light bulbs.

The morning light of the curtain opened merely ¼ as she angrily barked

“Azul! Azul!”

I ignored her.

She had started calling me Azul after seeing it on the roster, and though it was my name no one called me that. I had never made any gripe about it, however, it did bother me—neither had I, though, confronted her about the water she had stolen, or the laundry sheets, or any of her bizzare behavior—in fact, she had made up arguments to bring up those things herself and then tried to pen things on me I actually hadnt done, like “stealing her soap” and “opening her drawers”—the latter of which I had only done looking for something she had stolen.

It was all strange, but all familiar, too— now that I understood the function of a tool for possession, I rather became enamored with it, as if a subtle mysterious voice spoke “look how easy this is”. And though I did for some reason poses the natural ability to influence, often watching the bodies around me change to wear clothes more like I did, do their hair more like I did, their nails more like I did, talk more like I did—or overall, become somehow more like me in some way everywhere I would go for as long as I could remember— but I had never wanted nor needed to fully possess another human being, especially for selfish or asenine reason—and although this did feel much like war, I didn't care to fight in it, nor would I surrender; I would simply continue to hold my ground and defend myself, for whatever was at stake—which so far was nothing.

Possession was simple, but a far cry from Shifting, which I had learned to do with ease and at will—it was more useful of course than any of the other skills I had learned; the telepathy I kept command of was used simply only as a means of relinquishing all of the secrets I did keep—and though I had first-handedly published by selection a small percentage of my very intimate and personal writing and experience to the public eye via my podcast, there was much more for the first time in my life that I knew and kept to myself—even and especially with people close to me, even by default and without choice, I only ever said or mentioned things that I wanted people to know; I knew now that I was always at the mercy of technology, and was more than likely being recorded than not—it didn't matter, now at all. The point was, I did have a son—and as far as he sadly was, I had technically done my job; He certainly did possess his own range of powers and magical abilities, and with or without me would grow up to be a spectacular and wonderful person. There wasn't anything I could do about his father; I decided to remain single and celibate, finally happy to be so—Sonny was a tough act to follow and Dillon had all been a plot—part of a ploy to destroy my mind, body, and soul; Perhaps if it weren't for deadmau5, it would have—I learned to self-soothe using the melodic frequencies of musical hypnotism, understanding programming only enough to program myself to continue to survive—and I had, at the very least survived, but I was some sort of machine now; my love was in the music but with money tied up in it, never to be freed

The devil was ever-presently on my shoulder pointing out all of his demons and wishing to dance, but I had yet to oblige.

God and I were at odds and ends but never on-and-off; my faith unyielding and unwavering as a shield and magical ally, as I thought there not to be a force of whimsy and wonder that wasn't by her hand.

The world was weird and strange; I had been hacked, beaten, starved, robbed, fought, tortured, followed and taunted— recorded and photographed at all ends and angles— drawn to men I could never dream to touch—or could dream, but could never touch— punished by being born in to a body they could never love—

And realizing, that in 30 years the only people who had ever loved me had learned how to love from me—or so they said, without ever knowing what love was.

“This is why nobody loves you.”

If the wind blew down your door,

How would I call for you?

—Through her, I suppose

And the silk of her hair,

Or the satin of her dress,

—

Oh, it's almost admissible,

Surely admirable,

Worth a smile or not,

That all the world is words,

In the end,

As I tear down my worlds,

and start over from One

And I've already stopped enough once for today,

I think

Surely, what you'd like is just

The time to get it all to nothing

(Never had I wanted it or needed it)

The phone was ringing,

But I'll never be off the hook again,

If you look for the proper way to move forward,

You'll never find it,

Especially looking behind you

(Always looking behind you—

Head in the past

Just like you

It's just like me,

Too,

To sit down and decide a whole song about you

While taking it all down.

I'm never distraught with the thoughts of a stranger,

Oh, on the contrary;

You should be mad about battle,

But I'm all for the veterans and

And never off if we were not at war with one another, but

Then again,

That's all we've ever done

It would be

Devastating

To even think of

Something more clever

“Clever and splendiferous confectionary efforts,

Just spectacular concessions my dear; I'll have another.”

Hadn't I deciphered once or twice the rhyme for riddles down to dollars and cents?

I did, I thought, once.

I never hindered Heaven from pondering over my shoulder once or twice upon a full lit moon, which under I predicted my own fortune.

Once— or twice, but—

Nevermind, or nothing;

Indifference, for instance, instantly inscessent ancestral insimination incriminating risidual visuals uhh

—From the festival.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

[The Festival Projext]

“The Running Game”

I don't know what you want to hear from me. \

How about, “I'm sorry.”

Ok, I'm sorry.

You don't do much, do you?

I guess I don't.

Sabotage//Salvation

Idk what thisis supposed to mean.

This is my demise.

You're completely a ticking time bomb.

You're not wrong.

Salvation, from the doldrums.

A sound to soothe my soul,

I sink beneath you,

South and under smoky water

Open mouth, and barely thought of,

Although often,

Walk or waltz, would I

To fall, my love,

So becoming of a flower;

forth and outward over fountains;

Leaps and bounds,

Of course–

Well, this is dope af.

What are you doing.

What.

What happened.

THis is really good.

So.

So, i gotta turn this one off now–

And listen to that one insead.

All the time?

Yeah.

Oh.

For, like ever..?

Well, no.

I gotta put it in the vault.

Noooh.

Yes.

YEs.

Yes.

Forever.

FOrever, no, for now– yes.

That could be almost forever.

Yeah. Almost.

“Almost Invisible.”

Take out my eyes, for now

(If i could, would you want them)

To beg or to barter for,

I offer them up, as

Ritual sacrifice

(it's just a)

Ritual Sacrifice.

These two eyes.

__

He was the boy who owned the world;

Hailing from the land of a thousand suns,

He said,

“I'll give you a dozen roses, honey,

If all you ever do is,

Smile for me,

So, go ahead,

Smile for a dozen roses or more,”

And the irony is that she did it–

Not for the roses,

–but for the attention.

(Just for the attention.)

It was she who birthed the worlds;

Building the land of a thousands suns,

She said

I'll give you a dozen horses,

“If you could just–

Pick the winning one”

And the irony is,

that he did it–

Because he loved horses,

And now he had twelve of them!

(--And any one could be the winning one,

no matter what she does;

He's got a dozen of em,

Anyway.)

Fuck.

What.

Well, that went off the deep end.

Fuck.

Well, this just got dark.

This guy comes off your blacklist tonight.

No, this person

Guy.

PErson. Most certainly does not.

I promise if I love a=a=A=a

What is this

That's a making no complete sense equation.

Think about it in a multidimensional–

Oh, that makes total sense.

Just remember, when using this– this has been around for a really long time.

It's been A long time.

I died in your bed,

But woke up in your arms;

Oh when you love, love–

Love me harder,

Love me harder–

Oh, baby when you love,

love me harder

Love me harder

Love//Love Me Harder

Love//Love Me Harder

Love//Love//Love

Love Me Harder

Love//Love Me Harder

Love//Love//Love

Love Me Harder

I woke up in your bed,

And then died in your arms;

It was a work of art, I suppose

What we were, or are

(Or aspire to be.)

安全地帯 IV

Anzen Chitai

FUCK YOU SO HARD, IT HURTS TO STAND UP.

FUCK YOU, DILLON FRANCIS.

FUCK DILLON FRANCIS.

Still?

YEAH.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

“The Running Game”

I don't know what you want to hear from me. \

How about, “I'm sorry.”

Ok, I'm sorry.

You don't do much, do you?

I guess I don't.

Sabotage//Salvation

Idk what thisis supposed to mean.

This is my demise.

You're completely a ticking time bomb.

You're not wrong.

Salvation, from the doldrums.

A sound to soothe my soul,

I sink beneath you,

South and under smoky water

Open mouth, and barely thought of,

Although often,

Walk or waltz, would I

To fall, my love,

So becoming of a flower;

forth and outward over fountains;

Leaps and bounds,

Of course–

Well, this is dope af.

What are you doing.

What.

What happened.

THis is really good.

So.

So, i gotta turn this one off now–

And listen to that one insead.

All the time?

Yeah.

Oh.

For, like ever..?

Well, no.

I gotta put it in the vault.

Noooh.

Yes.

YEs.

Yes.

Forever.

FOrever, no, for now– yes.

That could be almost forever.

Yeah. Almost.

“Almost Invisible.”

Take out my eyes, for now

(If i could, would you want them)

To beg or to barter for,

I offer them up, as

Ritual sacrifice

(it's just a)

Ritual Sacrifice.

These two eyes.

__

He was the boy who owned the world;

Hailing from the land of a thousand suns,

He said,

“I'll give you a dozen roses, honey,

If all you ever do is,

Smile for me,

So, go ahead,

Smile for a dozen roses or more,”

And the irony is that she did it–

Not for the roses,

–but for the attention.

(Just for the attention.)

It was she who birthed the worlds;

Building the land of a thousands suns,

She said

I'll give you a dozen horses,

“If you could just–

Pick the winning one”

And the irony is,

that he did it–

Because he loved horses,

And now he had twelve of them!

(--And any one could be the winning one,

no matter what she does;

He's got a dozen of em,

Anyway.)

Fuck.

What.

Well, that went off the deep end.

Fuck.

Well, this just got dark.

This guy comes off your blacklist tonight.

No, this person

Guy.

PErson. Most certainly does not.

I promise if I love a=a=A=a

What is this

That's a making no complete sense equation.

Think about it in a multidimensional–

Oh, that makes total sense.

Just remember, when using this– this has been around for a really long time.

It's been A long time.

I died in your bed,

But woke up in your arms;

Oh when you love, love–

Love me harder,

Love me harder–

Oh, baby when you love,

love me harder

Love me harder

Love//Love Me Harder

Love//Love Me Harder

Love//Love//Love

Love Me Harder

Love//Love Me Harder

Love//Love//Love

Love Me Harder

I woke up in your bed,

And then died in your arms;

It was a work of art, I suppose

What we were, or are

(Or aspire to be.)

安全地帯 IV

Anzen Chitai

FUCK YOU SO HARD, IT HURTS TO STAND UP.

FUCK YOU, DILLON FRANCIS.

FUCK DILLON FRANCIS.

Still?

YEAH.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

FUCK YOU SO HARD, IT HURTS TO STAND UP.

FUCK YOU, DILLON FRANCIS.

FUCK DILLON FRANCIS.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

The Suite Life Of Sunni Blū

I have no idea what happened.

‘Ambiguous Ambitions - The Crossing ‘

A shiver up my spine

I don't really mind,

I'm still trying to find the word for it—

But tongue in cheek it is

That's—if it fits

You but me once,

And I liked it

Come bite me twice

If you buy it;

Alright, Ryan—where is it?

Where is what?

You know what I'm talking about.

I don't know anything!

“Ryan Remembers Everything”

Goddamn it, wake up.

I need silence.

GET UP, GODDAMNIT.

Okay—

Okay—

—I just need you to tell me where it is—

Where what is?!

I don't think this is very funny.

This got serious.

Ouch.

I don't want to watch TV anymore ever again.

I really wish you'd tell me

Oh, you wish?

Watch this.

I'm sorry, Ryan.

Hello.

I—hello.

I'll have a tall order of whatever's in that box.

You want what's in that box?

Yessir.

What is happening?

I dunno.

I'm afraid that's going to be a problem.

*gasp* can we have ninjas?

*NINJAS*

NINJA FIGHT.

—oh sht rly.

*lmfao*

Sometimes imm set in my ways,

Sometimes days go by—days,

In the blink of an eye,

Ever since I decided,

I might have had love with you.

I think we have some things to figure out, about it

—it being ourselves,

And washing my hands never felt so right

In my life

Somebody told me the stars in the sky were spirit guides,

And it stuck,

I'm up all night,

But iMm the only star I see

In New York City

Don't look up to see me—

Don't look up to me please, kid, really

I mean, why, my baby?

I mean,

Hi lady—

You so fly tonight, just my delight

I —

Like the way I look by you

I—

You know,

If I sit in the city every night like this,

And write,

It just might

Be the end of me

Be the end of me

Be the end of me

You know,

If I did get the limelight,

Right on time to soothe and

Satiate my need to be an idol LC

Even this late in life,

Like—

—fuck

‘8I just want him to like me'

I shouldn't even think about

Superstardom like that,

But I'll be right back,

I gotta get the rabbit out the

White hat,

What a habit to have, huh

What an idea that we might all get along

Or a lot done

Or be better off alone

Than just to fuck off

And write another song—

Because the audience will like it

But we're all over it;

It's all done, isn't it?

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

[—Parallels.—]

GOD: So you want to be The “Glass Animals”

*nods*

Glass Animals.

That's what I said. Glass Animals

There's no “The”

Context.

Ok.

So–”Glass Animals”

*nods*

Are you sure you don't want to be made of something else?

*nods*

*shrugs* Okayy. Glas Animals.

I'm lost,

But don't remind me

Running out of time

But time can't find me

Open up my eye 10 times in 9 days

I should probably fall away

Back to the bay,

No baby, don't cry

No baby, don't cry

No baby, don't cry

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

I can't fall for this again—

Another rich and handsome man—

A dream he wants to be my friend

A dream he wants to hold my hand

Oh look,

Another dance for anthem

Look,

I'm just another fan

No, I can't fall for this again

—but they would go against the plan

A simple programming error,

Lips the color of a pomagranite

Circle on the palm,

And then , of course,

We press the center

And look, here we are again

Another life,

Another love

A new wife—

Another husband

Honest?

I'm just good with fucking

—aha

I just want to fuck you

I got love, but what it good for

Look at me, or look at nothing!

Look,

I'm just good with fucking

Check the news for new engagements

Fucking sick and fucking tragic

Nothing more than actors,

DJs, drinks and addicts

Look,

I'm just a happy accident—

I still hate Dillon Francis

And I never wanted Skrillex:

That shit never even happened!

Have you had enough yet?!

Carrot cake does sound good

Ten karat long engagement ring—

Is that a lot?

I'm just a homeless

Look, I'm just another DJ

Some fake model stole it

Some would call it occult Magic

—honest?

I just want some dick, man

Fuck it

—aha

I just want to fuck you

I got love, but what it good for

Look at me, or look at nothing!

Look,

I'm just good with fucking

You know why you like me?!

Yes, I know why I like you—

Cause I'm rich!

—no, actually—it's because you're smart.

Where in the fuck are you going?

I don't know yet.

Well, know faster—we have company.

Fuck.

Destroy every bit of evidence.

Ok.

—and make sure nobody sees you.

Yeah, right!

YO.

Why the fuck are you here, Timmy?

I told you, I'm not Timmy.

I don't give a fuck who you are—where's my money?

It's— it's on the way, I promise.

I'm don't take well tk promises, Timmy.

What do you take well to?

Money.

FUCK.

What!

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!

What?!

We're too late, she's gone!

Goddammit.

—She was already here!

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCK!

>>> FUCK!

How do you know?

—there's glitter, everywhere.

Is it gone?

It's gone?

ALL OF IT.

TIMMY TRUMPET plays a SKRILLEX.

Etto, Timmy?!

Oh shit, another Timmy.

That's weird. I was just thinking he about Skrillex.

Why.

Timmy, put a shirt on.

That's it.

What.

You can't be hot and play the trumpet.

Why.

One thing's gotta go.

THE DEVIL takes away Timmy Trumpet's ability to play the trumpet.

WHAT.

Can't have both.

Well, I don't really need both now, do I?

When I'm in a tough spot I have to listen to deadmau5

—something about the precision and frequencies out my brain somewhere between auropilot and dead space.

I don't know.

I've done just about everything you can think of listening to deadmau5.

Almost.

But, I noticed—

Working out to deadmau5 is strange.

It puts me in some kind of vibration where people notice me—

Not just notice me.

People are suddenly “impressed” with whatever it is I'm doing.

And it's usually something regular as fuck—

I'm just doing it to deadmau5.

And for some reason, people are like

“Wooooow!!”

Okay, whatever.

I used to work out to Skrillex.

Actually.

I used to work out to only Skrillex.

I don't know if its just because I was fat, or cause I liked Skrillex.

Now its like running a serrated knife up my spine.

I started to figure out I was kind of famou—

Kind of—

When I showed up at the gym and Skrillex songs kept coming on

I'm like

“This is what I get for doing nothing but free trials”

But hey,

You try finding a gym in the shitty areas of New York worth paying for.

It's very hard.

The crazy thing about this story is—

There's a lot of crazy things about this story, actually.

EXT. BASKETBALL COURT. DAY.

Alright— shirts and skins —Shirt—Skin Shirt,Skin—

Uhh! Nah. I wanna be “shirts”

Why dude?! Your girl's mad hot!

So?!

So I know you got it goin on! Look at you!

I'm mad rich!

Yeah—but girls always cheat on flabby rich dudes! With hotter dudes.

My girlfriend might be cheating on me!

Yeah—She's not, though.

How do you know?

Cause I tried!

Yeah. Take your shirt off.

No—uh! How do you know she's just not into you!

Because! He tried—

HE tried!

You sell out.

And Andre tried—

[ANDRE is tall (about 6'9 dark, and handsome]

—you too, bro?

[ANDRE shrugs nonchalantly]

That's an NBA player—

What the FUCK, YO.

—and she said NO.

ANDRE

Yup. Shot me down.

Oh really—from all the way up there?!

Face it, man! You're fuckin hot!

I don't like the way that sounds coming from you—

Take your shirt off!

Were you this aggressive with my girl?!

Don't be like that…

Nah— fuck you!

Yo! C'mon, man—

And you three!

You're holding up the game getting mad over nothing. It's Hollywood!

It's Beverly Hills!

—Exactly my point!

You're new here—you'll catch on.

You know what!

I'm shirts—you're skins—Game on.

[SUNNI BLU goes beast mode and plays the dirtiest, most whoopass game in history—out of spite and anger of the toxic masculinity; this of course earns SUNNI BLU even more respect as a “man's man”]

Later: as the owner of the clippers, sunni BLU trades “Andre” to the worst basketball team in history.

For,

As soon as the moon is full,

She also begins to wane—

And as sure as we are to shine,

We also fade away

I had one slice of red velvet cake, one slice of cheesecake—which of course only reminded me of Sonny Moore—the decadent, delicious red velvet—and Dillon Francis—the spiced and ecclectic trademark carrot cake—if only not to sooty the pain of joe much I wanted both of them, but probably didn't need them—how I craved them so, but they probably weren't good for me, nor would they last—

—but they would both be delicious, anyhow.

The seagull said.

“To the sea, we go!”

Overhead, he flies

As the day goes by me

Idly, I wait—

I could take a ride,

But i'd rather be

By myself,

By my…

INT. EMPIRE ENPANADAS. NIGHT

You gonna order?

What you got?

Empanadas.

Just empanadas?

—Yeah.

Okay, that's weird.

Lol the only thing funny about this scene is that their New York accents are so atrociously heavy.

Right.

—weird.

INT. SUBWAY STATION. DAY.

Sunni BLU is passed out in the subway station.

Ew…

Yeah, my god.

Wait—is that—

—sunni?!

SUNNI drunkenly groans.

Sunni! Get up!

Ughhhh.

What are you doing?!

I'm drunk.

I know that.

You're always drunk.

Yeah.

What are you doing here.

What.

In the subway.

I do this sometimes.

What. For what?!

You never know who you're gonna meet.

In the subway

On the floor?!

YeH! I met R- Kelly down here!

What!

When was this

Not at this station, though, but yeah.

To think,

It was all just an awful game, to make you write more songs—

And in the end, if you don't make the cut

They just make you kill yourself, anyway.

Love isn't real, but money is;

And all men want is money,

So they can buy the love—

And all women want is love—

But it has to come with money

Or it all just falls apart

It all just falls apart

It all just falls apart

“Illuminatus”,

Open, close

Illuminaudio, for starters

Cross a crucifix for sons, and wanted daughters

What's a brother to a sister—

Or a mother to a father?

What's a stop sign to a car,

If no one's driving?

In the end, they kill you off

In the end, they kill you off

With every cough, they kill you off—

But there's always another

Who wants to be a star—

Or just

The mother of his child,

Maybe both

Genetic lotto luck

—the cut off.

Agatha…

A far cry, out into the distance–a wind, almost a whisper; A lover, long gone and almost since forgotten, unseen since the very dawn of time and first ever glimpse of light–

…We Meet Again.

FUCK. WHAT IS THIS.

I know, man.

FUCK.

Fuck.

Well, are you gonna tell this story or not?

This isn't possible.

It is possible.

This isn't happening.

–

This dude has a radio tower in his front yard.

That's his front yard?!

I fucking guess.

What is that.

That's a satilite.

Nice.

Yep.

Alright, you son of a bitch.

Hey! My mom's nice!

Not that nice–bringing you here.

How do you know that's how I got here?

Exactly my point.

[cocks pistol slowly.]

You're dead, mouse.

OH.

I GET IT.

kill that motherfucker.

Wait. Hold up.

Hold the phone!

Holding.

How did we get to this point?

I mean– a few ways.

What are you watching.

SHH.

Wedon'tknow.

SHHH.

OK!

SHHHHHHH!

IT' getting good.

Ya. It's getting deeper.

So much deeper.

WAit.

…

Who are you?

I'm a fan.

No.

How did you get in my house?

It's my house.

It's–

–no.

No, it's not.

YEs. this is my house.

No.

What.

GEt out.

SHH.

What.

DUde–

No.

Ze show is on and it is getting one deeper. Be quiet.

IT's getting two deeper.

–like nine deeper.

SHHH.

Oh, I get it.

She really wants to fuck Dillon Francis.

#FuckDillonFrancis

Uh, no–

I already did that.

Gross.

Excuse me.

You are excused!

I mean, I beg your pardon.

Please, don't beg.

Er, uh–

Could you repeat that last part?

Woah, this gets multidimensional as fuck.

I have a time machine.

Are there any loopholes?

There are loopholes.

THere better be loopholes.

Sorry, we're out.

GodDAMMIT.

What.

I was really looking forward to those loopholes.

Well, they're gone.

FUCK.

HEre, have some

Oh-Noh's.

I don't want–

Just SHUT UP and EAT YOUR CEREAL.

Don't worry–I'm still Team Skrillex.

There are TEAMS?!

Oh, yeah, bro.

Oh, so–it is a love story.

I don't think that's what this is.

I'M GONNA MURDER YOU.

Ok.

WITH MY DICK.

A-1.

There's something I need to tell you.

What.

But i'm sworn to secrecy

Then how am I supposed to–

Just–shh– follow my lead.

“The Magic Effect.”

Did it work?

Don't know yet.

You nutted to this girl 36 times in the last 20 Calendar days.

Ok…

36 Times. One Girl. 20 Days.

…What's your point.

This is ferocious.

I have your entire internet history.

All of it?

Oh yes. All of it.

Welp.

Well.

THat's it for me.

I've had enough.

There's no Skrillex Deepfake.

Aw. that sux.

Why would you look at this?

…why not, though?

You're a disturbed man.

I'm pretty regular.

REGULR TO WHO?

*shrugs* Me, I guess.

TURN THIS OFF.

I can't take it anymore.

Whatever happened to the–

SHHH.

Fuck. I'm so wasted.

So what do you think is gonna happen?

Listen. I have a lot to get through. THis is all just nonsense.

I think we're avoiding some heavy subjects, here.

Well, there are a lot of discrepancies.

Kill yourself.

I just did.

Kill yourself–again.

I–GodDAMMIT.

Just do it.

NO.

Come on.

Congratulations, you got the job!

Yes! Thank you!

What's the job?

I need you to get the fuck out of here in the next five seconds–before I blow my head off, and take you with me.

Don't do that.

Five…

Yo, i'm serious.

Four…

Jesus Christ, dude.

YOu don't think this hits a little close to home.

Home? what is home?

For the Record, Skrillex, Dillon Francis, and Deadmau5 respectively are all getting their dicks sucked on yachts right now in some foreign exotic country–

You're not wrong.

That is correct.

Standard music business.

And People are living in tents under bridges.

I'm just saying.

If you think this project is reckless and bizarre, check your own simulation.

So.

So.

Where were we?

Somewhere between blowing our heads off and getting our dicks sucked?

I'm sure there's a striking correlation somewhere.

‘My Candle Burns At Both Ends…'

Oh, More Occult Magic

God Bless The Illuminati

GOD

I Am The Illuminati

Glad that's settled.

Three.

Goddamit, don't do this.

Two– [cocks pistol]

Why just pistols.

Cause shotguns are messy–

–and for dramatic effect;

I love that sound.

[the other party quickly removes his handgun from his waistband, shooting the other man and then himself quickly; They now both lay dead.]

How do I write this

Just write it.

I need adderall.

You need Jesus.

By goD, youre right. [iPhone]

What are you doing?

Calling on Jesus.

Are you serious.

He's the plug.

Ugh.

I need adderall.

What did I do?!

YOu know what you did.

∆

Well, alright then.

∆

Must be something.

∆

I got it.

“The Legend of Supacree”

L E G E N D S

“Tales of A Superstar DJ”

To do: Cut Freaky Friday 001

Cut Throwback Thursday 001

Cut SOM III

Part I {God Is God]

Part II [Clockwork]

–Pull 212 Remix

It's far beyond my control

I get out of my head and into my soul

In one ear, never out the other

If the wind blew down your door,

How would I call for you?

—Through her, I suppose

And the silk of her hair,

Or the satin of her dress,

—

Oh, it's almost admissible,

Surely admirable,

Worth a smile or not,

That all the world is words,

In the end,

As I tear down my worlds,

and start over from One

And I've already stopped enough once for today,

I think

Surely, what you'd like is just

The time to get it all to nothing

(Never had I wanted it or needed it)

The phone was ringing,

But I'll never be off the hook again,

If you look for the proper way to move forward,

You'll never find it,

Especially looking behind you

(Always looking behind you—

Head in the past

Just like you

It's just like me,

Too,

To sit down and decide a whole song about you

While taking it all down.

I'm never distraught with the thoughts of a stranger,

Oh, on the contrary;

You should be mad about battle,

But I'm all for the veterans and

And never off if we were not at war with one another, but

Then again,

That's all we've ever done

It would be

Devastating

To even think of

Something more clever

“Clever and splendiferous confectionary efforts,

Just spectacular concessions my dear; I'll have another.”

Hadn't I deciphered once or twice the rhyme for riddles down to dollars and cents?

I did, I thought, once.

I never hindered Heaven from pondering over my shoulder once or twice upon a full lit moon, which under I predicted my own fortune.

Once— or twice, but—

Nevermind, or nothing;

Indifference, for instance, instantly inscessent ancestral insimination incriminating risidual visuals uhh—

—From the festival.

Right.

The festival project.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.