The Green Door

The Green Door

DILLON HART FRANCIS is laying in a lush green meadow, centered in a field of daisies dressed in all white.

Though I'm not sure we're meant to be,

I'm sure that we could be;

Or have been—

But that's just me;

My memory expands further than the eyes see;

You're like me,

But likely,

Another lesson I need

So here I am

Rolling in the deep

Keeping secrets,

Sleeping with my grip

Tightly wrapped around the key;

A lock that doesn't open,

Another thing I don't need;

And I don't need you,

But I'm thinking that I probably shouldn't think

I need a drink—

(Of love)

Another drink—

(Of blood)

It's something wonderful, or was

A pigeon turned to dove,

And then a duck,

Right before my eyes

I'd be lying if I said I never cried so much

Over one




What? You woke me up for nothing

I was someone in my dream,

And now I'm up,

And I'm no one

I'm no one, huh

But funny, sometimes

Why me?

I just keep on writing,

I just keep on writing

I just keep on writing

I'm deprived,

I'm not alive anymore—

No one ever loved me before.

He certainly must be dead; he thinks; his bright blue eyes glisten in the light, and as they begin to change, one single daisy stands out to him–unmoving, he stares at it, her petals rustling in the light breeze of the wind, however–they, too, begin to change. He takes a slow, deep breath in, still, however unmoving, as the daisy seemingly begins to dance and glisten; now he seem curious at best, but still unmoved. The daisy begins to flutter and twinkle, dazzling as the light seems to move around it, the meadow fading into a picturesque blur as the flower blooms, now changing color into a swirling array of flashing colors, now emitting a lulling hum– a peaceful and calming lullaby of frequencies and tones, cosmic and otherworldly and yet somehow natural and familiar Dillon becomes flush with bewilderment and awe, as the daisy continues to flash strobing patterns of lights and colors, now opening and growing as its petals stretch out, reaching into a flush and glorious cascade of pure white light–as his eyes widen, he moves slightly towards it; it opens up and swallows him whole.


THOMAS WESLEY PENTZ is slightly stunned, still glued to his screen; his good friend DILLON FRANCIS, an actor, has invited him over to watch his newest movie.

What the fuck.

The daisy returns to its natural state, and a warm wind blows through the sunlit field.


What the fuck did I just see.

I swear, you're in the weirdest movies, dude –

He turns to his side to see an empty space on the course where Dillon had once been sitting.


He looks about the room confusedly, then pauses the movie, getting up from the couch and starting to the kitchen.

Dillon. Your movie's weird, bro.

However, the kitchen is empty. He approaches the counter, where GERALD is placed–he looks awkwardly at the pinata, staring into his eyes before turning it around.


He departs to search for Dillon in the bathroom.

Dillon! Where you at, bro? I paused the movie!

He checks the bathroom; also empty.


He turns down the hallway, hearing the sound of the shower running–

Are you in the shower?

No response.

I'm not about to come into your shower bro; it's weird and random that you're in the shower when you invited me over to watch your movie.

Still, no response.


Again, silence–the shower continues running.

Alright…you better not be naked.

He steps into the master bedroom, the steam of the hot shower crawling out of the master bathroom and into the bedroom.

Are you okay?

He winces as he looks into the master bathroom, shower running at full power and the room filled with steam, to the point that even the roof is condensating; a drop of water drips from the ceiling and into his left eye–


–rubbing his eye, he observes the room to be empty–his friend is nowhere to be found; He is in the house alone.


It's was incredible magic, even if it was my own—and I didn't exactly know that it was, or at least not surely, as my day had been anything but enjoyable, not that I was allowing myself to be convinced of such—The Secret had at best instilled the fake it till you make it technique of always being “good”, even when you were bad—and that there was no such thing as being bad, even if you were feeling it; and that if you were feeling it, you were just allowing yourself to feel it. Everything is always good all the time no matter what—bad thoughts and feelings were a result of something you were lacking—something you were doing wrong—though, really, there was no wrongdoing, as for the truly practical use of The Secret says that everything that happens is with purpose; the power the awareness of that purpose, and the consistent application of that purpose no matter what action or circumstance.


Describe this feeling.

I don't know.

Does it hurt?

Kind of. But—


Did you cry?

I didn't cry.


I wanted to.


There was no way I could finish The 48 Laws of Power and The Art of Seduction, or The 33 Strategies of War by Sunday; but, already knowing the 48 laws of power, I understood that even attending Dillon Francis's show would be an obvious forfeit to whatever game we were playing; it indeed was war, and as my fragile mind psychologically bent and twisted, wondering why it was I couldn't let Dillon out of my hindsight, foresight, or insight for much more than a brief moment; there was something powerful at play if not my own mind, crafting the world into a game which was fixed in my favor.

However, this day was odd, with no reason or rhyme—and now I was burning with a new sense; one with which I couldn't do anything, and though far from stalemate my next series of moves would have to be played well in order to peacefully withdraw from the match.

It was a different feeling entirely than with Kayla Lauren—and however fickle it may have seemed, it was still some sort of hurt— though, rather than a deep stab wound which pierced through my heart and straight into my soul, instead it was in fact a fire, which burned in my chest and, although in the place where my heart once might have been—an incinerator of panic and frenzy of chaotic, mischievous unrest had welled up inside of me.

There she was—

I assumed, the blockage I had sensed admirably, having prayed for peace and happiness, However—it was clear that in all the nonsense I had indeed become attached and outright infatuated with the idea of obsessively wanting Dillon Francis, which had, admítedly halted the overall creative action in anything including him in The Festival Project, and though there were still subtle hints of things maybe even going my way—I had to find something, anything that would help me cling to rational, stable thoughts. I had, after all—just wanted a [expletive]—and now with any luck or without any grief I could find one, without having the image of his face or his eyes burned into my mind. I had a healthy denial of having fallen in love with him; after Sonny, there was no love—and there certainly wasn't any falling into it, especially not with Dillon Francis.

Now I had to do everything I could to at least rid myself in the very least of everything I had written of him, I was looking forward to somehow disbanding the account and all things associated with it, as I was sure any monitors, trackers, or hacks were to be through there, and—as things seemed to have gotten serious in one way or another, with the “demon” coughs still following me everywhere I went, mostly possessing the bodies of white, skinny women—I couldn't trust that whatever was being done was being done to anyone but SupaCree—as no one yet even knew my true new name, besides the social security administration, and I had long since gathered that it it was indeed my own United States government trying to kill me, or rather, have me kill myself—they had by now realized I was more of a valuable asset to keep around in some way, if not just for my intellectual rarity alone.

The fact was, I wanted but not needed Dillon Francis—and as painful as it was to simply subsist in medocrity and corporate slavery, I knew myself to be powerful enough at least on my own to be constantly stalked, watched, and followed—and by Some standards or whatever other interests, I was valuable enough for consideration, but also replaceable enough to be let go. I had nothing else to live for, and so cared less either way, but having the weight of The Great Big Book Of Dillon Francis off my shoulders would at least allow whatever would take place thereafter to be duty-free.

She was long and frail looking, at least by the arms and the hands, and the shot was perfect enough that I could only know one thing about her, even watching the video multiple times. I didn't know why I was there, but something was scratching and gripping at me to look, and so I did—and to my atrocious delight, there was a woman beside him—stuffing the innards of a double double with hot fries—the kind I used to like: I was at least glad it didn't show her biting Into the mess, but I had already seen Kayla Lauren do so, minus the hot fries, in her very own In-N-Out commercial; this, however wsd just a hand model—a demon dressed as a woman showing off what she could do that I couldn't—and Dillon unremarkably making a statement, as if to say without saying “things I can do with her.”

The next slide, however, took and shook me, prompting me to realize I would have to change all of the names in my upcoming would-be novel, had I ever the time to finish it—of the means to put a middle or end to it, as it just seemed ever-never-ending.


The dog in the photo nearly distracted me from essentially the most shocking thing I could have ever fathomed seeing on Instagram, and actually rocked me at the core; nearly vomiting with excitement or confusion, neither of which I could place, and setting the aforementioned fire with a gaseous fume—I played the story over in a fit of rage, and for the next few hours I would come to again question my own being and existence, unable to place my feelings but however, fully aware of them, unable to understand what they exactly were and why they were there. Now, I had probably another album underfoot, and though I was as wordless as ever, there was something to be said about the fit of fury and rage that was inescapable, the tears I had been able to hold back in the early morning hours that same day finally pouring out, as now I was certainly again in the grips of deep growing pains, none of which were wanted or needed, nor was I ready for. It was a dangerous, disastrous love—or something enough like it to be equally as painful and destructive. Everyone had a Kayla Lauren, and here I was, trapped in a body too big and too black to be cared for in the way I had only ever wanted or needed; at least by anyone I was actually drawn to, which was in itself a rarity.

Hell indeed hath no fury.


Don't stop me now


I'm on auto-Matic




Daddy's home


I gota boner

Or bone in my body to roam

I'm going rio-to roam.

You do not know me

I am not lonely,

But no beef with my rice-aroni,

No cheese

Oh please don't need me

I was just sleeping

I am the king of kings

You see me, Jesus?

He be calling on me

We don't sleep

Where are you mr mau5

They call me mr mouth

They call me mr mouth

I'm here to eat you


The limit is 5;

Times it by 9

Now that's a new paradigm,

I blend it up with lime

A Diamond

Now you are mine;

I am your mind

I am time


I like what I like

I have to hype you up,

You have to buy me

Blimey, my—

you're suicidy.

Fuck. Grow up.

I just opened up a notebook,

Now I'm shook,

Don't look

And don't look me up,

I'm a muffin,


But no nuts


Shut up.



It's you again.

I think I'm in love with

Being In love with

Being in love

I think I'm in love with

Being in love with

Being in love

I think I'm in love with

Being in love with

Being in love

I think I'm in love with

Love with

Love with

Love with—

Being with—


Love is

Love is

Love is

Being in

Love is

Love is

Love is

Being with

Love js

Love js

Love is

Being in

Love is

Love is

Love js







Diplo & SIDEPEICE on your mind

Sometimes I

Try a little harder

Do a little more

Work a little longer

Thinking of you



One day I'll be perfect

One day I'll be famous

One day I'll be a shining star

You'll wish upon me;

But I'm far away now,

I'm far away now

“One day I'll be pretty”, she said

‘One day you'll be with me', she thinks

One day there will be no secrets, or regrets

But that's far away now,

Far away now

Here we go

Alright, alright

You all strapped in?

I'll be here all night, all night

One day I'll be famous,

Nameless said

I'm saying grace at picnic tables

Lady Faith ain't reading fables

I think I'm disabled, maybe

Run like a horse out the stable

This is unstable

This is unhealthy

This is unwritten;

This is a fairly tale!

Very well,

Very well written

Hot as hell isn't it?

Isn't it intermission yet?

I'm still on a mission;

I still haven't read the texts

I'm still sitting in smitten,

Drifting, but I haven't driven in centuries

Sifting and lifting my misery into Ascension

This my invention:

I need invitations for Satan's epiphany

What it is?

Skinny as Whitney,

Stiff as a skeleton

No more jello-or gelatin

Animal product again—

Hey this is my agent, or management;

Animal planet isn't as infinite as history channel

If I wear a flannel to funural

Call it a habit or programming—

Haven't I had it?

Goddammit, my dad is just


I miss him

I can't take advantage

I'm packing my bags for the promised land

Plane hasn't landed yet

I just made management

Damaged like can in the back of a

What the fuck is that thing?


What is THAT?

A semi truck.

What's it for?


Sometimes God asks questions

I can't answer

I gotta get to Alaska

I think I'm crashing rapidly

Yeah, I'd eat a can on spam for my dad

I'm having a panic attack

But I'm laughing out loud

Cause the law of attraction says

Disaster is

A product of imagination—

And mine is bigger than Disney's

If you're gonna miss me,

Admit it

Cause I'm disappearing

I mean it

I gotta get to Alaska

I gotta get to Alaska

I gotta get to Alaska

A flatline

Can't be

Gotta get back on time

Gotta sing like Whitney

Shit you not

I'm not kidding

This shit has got to be

Offa my rocker

Or rocking chair

Dad, I'm a rockstar

I'll be right there

A delayed reaction

A trap;

A plan to get me back to alaska

“I'm a trash can”

I'm a beautiful black man


This is savage,

I can't handle this madness

Where's my man

Where's my mantras?

I am a Grammy winner

I am an Oscar winner

I am an Emmy Winner

I am a Tony winner

Blow me

Get below me

You owe me

You don't own me

I'm the only one who knows me


I'll eat banana cream pie

Just don't die on me

Just don't lie

Like there's no time

Please believe me

The only Interaction with Jesus I need

Is pleading

Please don't leave me hanging, dang

I'm on my way

Don't hate me for praying

Don't hate me


Don't take this the wrong way

I only changed my name

To get away from

A murderer

I'm sorry

It's all my mistakes


I'm wasting away

I'm wasting away

I'm wasting my days procrastinating

And eating cupcakes

I'm a size 4

I'm adorable,

But what will I do with these legs

Eggs and bacon

Any day of the week

And some pancakes, please

Anything for my daddy


Underwater plays on the radio station

I'm an over eater, but not lately

Haven't been sleeping

Haven't been playing the game that I made up

I'm an alien

No, I'm an Alaskan

With black skin

Pity the fool,

But I can't pity you

Maybe time for the pool

But can't stop a panic attack

When it's happening

Dad. Wait for me.

Don't leave me with mom



Take it easy

The universe doesn't understand


Or know

But I hope she won't

Take him away from me

Before I see him again


I hate this

X-ray machine

A display of hate

I'm so mean when I'm hungry

Just trying to be as lean as I can be

Just want to be happy

Just want to be me, and I mean it

I see you see me

I see you see me, too

I see you in me, too

I see myself in you,

But I'm selfish boo, so unusual

So, so cruel

Eat a spoonful of

Fuck you, dude

Watch YouTube to get in the mood

I pity the fool

But don't pity you

You're just shitty

And I'm in your living room

Wishing to just end it

By admission, I didn't risk it all

Just to

Envy you

And I don't

And I can't

And I won't

Have it bad?

I don't believe you

I can't see through anything with the

Steam on my lenses

No steam room

Stream of consciousness says

Get out of bed,

From midnight to noon

I'm a human

I'm dead in the eyes

I'm dead serious

One minute to write

And I'm furious


Put me on ice;

This is ludachris

Losing my life to a human

Some bullshit

Digital love >< the veldt

Discoveries to Discovery

(That's Daft Punk)

I'm in no hurry;

Have a McFlurry

If life isn't wonderful

Isn't it wonderful

Isn't it dumb when you wonder what month it is

Isn't this physics

Collision of science and violent

One tiny violin, silence

Displayed as the sermon is read

Syrup with bread, or something

Guess I'm inbred, but well-read, or something

Guess we'll wear red, or something

Guess I'm just dead,

With no regrets

Surfing the internet,

or something

I'm channel tres

Let me express my regrets,

Or regression

Excersise to exsicion,


Express self check out

I'm wrecked,

Write a check out

To bounce

Where's Mr. Mau5

I'm still Mr. Mouth,

I'm sour

Didn't forget where this started but

It's been 5 hours and I'm just now feeling the power

I got you a flower,

Now I'm the man of the hour,

Turn the page

I'm starting to look my age, I'm

Starting to have nice legs, I'm

Starting to miss the stage a bit

I'm starting to see the deficit to my attention

Split the Bill, and fit the picture

Simply put, I miss her,

I miss him

I miss this

I miss that—

I'm miss América under this hat

I'm African American, yeah

I'm black—

Well, half

In the back of the pack

With a sandwhich

This is a masterpiece

Or just an album

Or just a - - -

Or just a problem

Or just another mistake I made

I'm starting to look my age,

I'm a raisin in the sun

Having fun yet?

Not without a flat stomach

And a gun,

To blow my head off,

Cause I never got it

That's raw, huh?

“I'm awesome”

“I'm so lost.”

I'm an apostle, Paul

You got it all wrong;

Imposter God with an awful lot of pasta

Without any sauce

Cause that's got carbs in it..

And I'm made of carbon or something

But not for long—

$10 an hour?

So wrong

Get me off this rock.

It's always too good to be true

It's always too good to be true

It's always too good to be true—

If you think so

It's always too good to be true

It's always too good to be true

It's always too good to be true—

If you think so

I'm always too me to be you—

Till you need me to;

Now there are two in this room,

And it's blu in full bloom,

I assume,

Make some room for me

Build a tomb for me, in your womb

Don't bury me

Burn me instead

If I'm worthy

“The earth,

My creation”

—she said.

The end.

(But it isn't,

It's infinite.)