Martyrs.

Don't you see, sensei

I'm just as disappointed in myself

And ready to die

Just as I relay the message,

Spray me with your morbid essence

Don't, croak, you fool,

You've only a spoon ful of sugar left to go

The dose is coming up your throat,

— you didn't know to throw up

Grab the rope and go up

Before gravity has crushed your

—thought:

Stupid boy, you don't want to die—

Nor to do, but oh, do we have it coming

Silly mortal, overlords and governed,

Short of morals, steady coming at your doorstep

So goes our concert!

And so goes our concept for divorce,

And sure of course,

Your four corse meal, and/or dessert

This is just devastating, genetics made me

The sort at sorting words, but surfing,

Sure.

Ever temporarily the cadence changes,

Still they say “you've been betrayed”

But never had a friend I made made

As good as death and God have been to me

For everything you're meant to be,

Plus everything you're meant to me,

I go, unwanted, troubled and disgusted at my own immortal outcome.

Sure.

My back hurts and I'm wounded,

Heartbroke,

Thrust in every cardinal direction

Also, honored at the mark of magic wand

Upon her shoulder;

And so,

Just as soon as the sun and moon,

Does the fire escape set a perfect path

For outward destruction of the bricks and mortar

Or your alter

(This we talk about, to some effect

Is your repression and affective form of supernatural perfection)

But forget the makeup;

I can make you up to be a star

And not of wars and other worlds,

But those that come before us,

Carson, and the others

Paar before that.

But,

I think not dear sir

How wrong you are,

A wretched bird,

Set not to fly, but O father

Wit and relay messages,

The passage said, and set to clocks,

The past was won and so the future altered,

But dear feathered father,

Mortal you are not

But just another triumph

Of my god;

And set the mirror to the magnets

Camera, lights and action,

Magic—

All the signs of the dawn, and the mad don

Red Dawn came upon us, called the Red Man Tom, from other, over, under

Still was my mistake to mumble such

Or put upon the tongue

As such assumption

Still— wonder?

Bird, shut up;

Love I dusk

And lust I soak

In all the frittered dust and feathers,

Colors, coming up as mister

Chuck and wood, and wait and ponder

Slithered this to wonder, not a rock,

But potted fern,

Asunder

Thunderstorm

And wicked rain

And fair the back

A tide had come

And sitting there upon the shore,

Was us, and 12 apostles

She's a Brick—

Seemingly out of nowhere, A RED BRICK HOUSE falls very perfectly from the SKY and into OZ.

oh good, my house is here.

House.

[the festival project ™]

But I don't want to make house!

Then play it!

I don't want to play house it is BORING.

You play it— they want it.

But I don't want it.

Then forget it!

What!

Listen kid, a job's a job!

{Enter The Multiverse}

Wrong, this is wrong— everything is wrong.

What's wrong, Rob?

I'll be back.

ROB LOWE has just played TRUTH OR DARE

L E G E N D S

if I could get inside your head

For just a second

Bread and butter

Heaven, hell,

And other places I have wandered

But oh, wonder

This is never what I wanted,

Was it?

No sir.

Sure, I set you off,

No sooner had you got a gun and shot me.

Handsome fucker.

I'll bet.

Wrong act.

Wrong award show.

Wrong hat and a baseball bat,

Peanut butter and a nice cold cheesecake,

Don't forget to order cheesesteak

For your cat.

A carnivore at odds with the other worlds,

And also fused to us;

This drifting back and forth

Between the Rock

And Hollywood

Has got to stop.

((The world is toxic.))

the legend of…

L. JONES

It's you!

BLŪ

AH, crap.

L. JONES

Listen, I got something for you.

BLŪ

Where did your bird go?

L.JONES

What bird?

CUT TO:

Now open that.

No wait! It's a trap!

THE VAULT inside THE CRYPT at 30 ROCK has been opened.

I keep looking down at my phone

As if I'm expecting a phone call

Or incoming message from God

But the worlds to a song

Are all jumbled up in my

Concious

I don't want to talk about it

I feel

Nauseous

Everyone is being obnoxious

Even my own blood

I don't want to function

I just want some French toast crunch

For lunch

Nostalgia

I got a whole inch taller on the peloton

Holla

Now I got a body,

Broader,

So close to Broadway

But I never go there

That's a tall order

Of “gotta have money”

I mean live theatre

It's fine

I'll eat here

And repeat these things till they just rhyme

Line them all up like a context,

Story

Someday I'm gonna cut my own check

Watch me

lol none of this rhymes without a hard Brooklyn accent ;

Guess you can't hack it!

Send you ass packin!

I said

“That's whack son!”

Then I went back blonde

Now they want

Backend,

Contract,

Off the top,

Royalties

Residuals

I'm an individual with insidious syntax

And yet

I'm ridiculed

Truly I'm a tit-for-tat

Or particle of all you are

Circular centrifuge, I trickle down your tentacles

(Eugh)

Choke the chicken just to give the cat a chicken bowl,

Chick fil et and pret a tair just to get a ritual

Espresso and a quick snack

So I can get my dick wrapped

In chocolate and licorice because the shit is edible

Damn that

I guess they set a damn trap

By putting out the welcome mat,

Then strapping

Like a mothafuckin' straight jacket

Matter fact, I look a nap in it,

Then magic tricked the slip effective

Compliments of Michael Jackson

Or was it tech nine?

Maybe I should get my

Mind right

I lost it once

I guess I've better find it

If I am, in fact,

A diamond in the rough

It's probably blooded it up enough

That you should dig it up and shine it;

Better yet,

Somebody outta pick it up

And sign it,

Cause I write enough

To put a vision

To a blind man

It's Fran Fine, man

I'm behind, man

The shadowgov had put me on a diet

My bad

I noticed that they tried to shut me up

But couldn't stop the words or other stuff

That just keeps coming out of my head

I put coconuts as butter onto my bread

And thinking thoughts of Carl cox

As I drift off in my bed,

I said,

“It shouldn't be a problem, officer”

As I reached for the gun

And he aimed it at my death.

That's an impossible apocalyptic suicide—

Did you invite the devil in?

I said

“Nah, but that guy did.”

The problem is, I pointed over yonder to a ghost

Who also knows that I'm a well respected psychic;

Nevermind a sidekick, side bitch in a sidecar,

Psych ward,

Sike! We spike war on your kind!

So far,

If I make history tonight,

The other side decides their psalm is just as likely

The third reike.

Okay, strike one:

I'm gonna turn your lights off.

Strike two : you do and say what I do:

Strike three: we're gonna make you suicidal

I specialize in denying rights for high profits

But big brother, or boss—

What if my glove fits?

The instance it does,

We lock you up with no service,

Your world becomes dark

And your words become worthless

Oh shit. This is not a good rap song.

Like, at all.

I must say, I do agree,

You lose your trust, but silently

Denied is all your trouble,

Till it just begins to bubble up

Until the cookie crumbles—

See that feeling in your stomach?

This is bigger than the money, girl —

They want your soul, and then the world!

I told you never call him.

I didn't!

Then explain this:

[Skrillex]

*sharp inward sigh*

CUT IMMIDIATLEH TO

STAN

You know what! That's it! I don't care how handsome or rich and famous he is! This has to stop!

KYLE

Hey, wait just a minute—

STAN

SHUT UP KYLE.

KYLE

You shut up!

STAN

You're starting to sound just like him!

KYLE

Take that back!

STAN

I won't take it back! You all might have forgotten who you are, but I haven't!after of fact, I bet to Cartman, you're still that stupid little Jew kid!

KYLE

That's IT.

KYLE takes out his phone.

what are you doing?

…I'm tweeting about this.

I thought it was X now…

It is, but you can't ‘x' anything, it's still calledl tweeting.

I guess youre right.

—and I'm tagging Cartman !

STAN

Are you serious?

Oh shit, this is social suicide.

…did I ever explain this storyline?

…I don't know, did i?

I'd gotten so focused on this impending doom looming over me with this whole lawsuit that I'd forgotten entire worlds and whole documents. Even more terrifying, was the sudden quiet and the onset guilt that came over me for getting distracted. But I couldn't remove myself from it entirely—- it seemed to have ruined everything. It wasn't just motorcycle noises, it was like a nervousness and angst twisting in my stomach for months and months, until finally, as the court dates started approaching, it was peaceful, or rather, normal, all of a sudden. It couldn't be peaceful because now that the extreme noise was gone, I knew it had been planted all long— but what was the purpose? I'd lost two years not knowing, and though there were albums, they were never what I wanted. Now I was sorting through the documents of the show like it was the rubble of a decimated building— completely demolished, and I hadn't the slightest clue the contexts or the storylines anymore. It was pain and suffering, but not in the legal context. It was a creative disaster— I hadn't any idea in the slightest where I'd left my audience before I was forced to abandon them. But I was forced to choose, at times, between soap and toilet paper, or eventually, food, and water— or a phone. Eventually, this too became a pattern of the impossible— trying my hardest to do what I thought had been my purpose, but for far, being so endlessly sabotaged, even ridiculed and humiliated, and still, I couldn't understand why. I was tired— and somehow, even though I'd wanted to be left alone, I was the target. Worse was that I assumed it to be bigger than I thought and completely out of control— I thought immediately back to how my best friend from middle school had been attacked, and how she was made to think that it was me…to the point that she'd become obsessive about it to call my mom over it. And as far as the court was concerned, to the wrong ears or wrong eyes, anything I'd published in the festival project could look troublesome, like the ramblings of a mad mad, or schizo, or uncontrolled obsessive thoughts— because the biggest secrets of all, the things that tied together these fictional worlds and plots, were my own real life experience. The inability in a court of law to detail the podcast, which had started as meltdown some would call grandiose over an almost long forgotten rockstar and a porn model — and the entries into the festival project that followed, which included high concepts, off-kilter comedy, politics, and even fringed on social justice. Nothing I ever would have wanted and especially over money, but the lawsuit wasn't about money at all. In fact, at any moment I would have chosen to die and have it all stop if it weren't for my very young son being left alone. Though recently the dread had overcome with a sense of unbearable loss and agony, encrypted with suicidal thoughts and wants, reeling for human touch, the overbearing factor seemed to be that if I killed myself, I was giving someone what they wanted. I was really much too tired to go on, but leaving behind the world in entirety, in my very own way of beliefs wasn't just “shitutting it off”, it was starting it over. Understandably and undeniably immortal in its nature, the instances of God I had left spoke with a reminiscence of being born again, and having to remember which is it I'd wanted to start off. It was an unachievable overload of chaos and disruption, a level of corruption that spoke to something so dark and sinister it seemed biblical — then, again, I tried to wrap my mind around a way to rebuild a positive world from hope and thought, or manifest reality, but this is the very experience I'd felt was intended all along. The motorcycles weren't merely meant to destroy my career, or my will power, or force— they were, but also they were made to play upon my most valuable asset, the power of thought, to make it impossible to become something other than what was wanted; to use my own mind against itself and destroy my way of thought by using vibrations that could not be shut out, or stopped— they followed me to the sound collective, to Shakespeare in the park, the bank, the doctors office— it was as if they knew and understood my very thoughts, my process. It was of nothing at all to corrupt every single body and brain who would surround me or come close— by using the power that seemed supernatural enough, but indeed were powered by money, and technology. Perhaps, in this essence, I thought, was the purest display of defective intention itself; the mere thought that this indeed was rather Good Vs. Evil or God and The Devil would easily be written off as a diseased way of thought. The social world and constructs had been built around being open minded to a system of psychology that was intrinsically rather corrupt. I knew this could only be fought with what I knew, and what I could draw from as logic.

I didn't want to go to court because I knew the people I would be fighting were liars, and well trained psychological masters of manipulation, well hidden terrorists dressed as public servants and systematic corrupters all for simple profit margins, to whom I was not so much a person or a mother, or a daughter, but a number.

Because I was poor, and had once or four times chosen to love the wrong person in an unorthodox and uncontrollable form of torture, dismissing each and every social construct or physiology that was by the book, by embracing that there was a reason for change I quickly became quite the antagonist of sorts and hopefully not some sort of martyr —for the kind of people that had money and property, and perhaps even socially constructed circles to camoflage their own self doubt and hatred, but absolutely also had no morals.

–Death of a Superstar DJ

If I lose my mind

At least I know

I'm right on time

This time—

I meant that,

I had it bad this time

MCBADBAT

I had it bad this time,

And the last.

Perchance for you,

Hour or folded,

Hair my weight

And glassed upon thy,

This upon now,

Feathered waking,

And there barely weathered

Shaking.

Dear, dear,

Tis is fair truth,

To fare that I have gasp

And fated at thy doorstep;

And yet, care to force,

Her breaking waves and saving tinder,

Fit there slithered in as yet astonished,

Then another;

And I hated.

So, then, slower now.

All there, gathered none.

And show to show thy force

What then became and withered after,

None to bark or beg

But birds and feathered creatures, pander

The tides did Quake,

And the heart did grow ten fold and steady saying

None upon us but one left to shiver in the depths

That yet remain as undiscovered

For now never there was another world,

Undone,

And also another becomes,

My death—

And therefore all the worlds I kept,

To travel on and travel

As becomes one, does another onward

As the first is glass to dust,

And last is born there.

So,

Then,

I,

Crept,

In my dress,

Kept for clothes that church did water

I, met,

My mark and there the doors of shadows open

Wilted and wake?

Hear you;

A star was born

In other cosmos tied with our own nurture

So,

Kept,

The weight of clasp and bone

That holds the crept and precious alter

Goddamn cat!

Where are you.

AAtticus Caaticus

Oop. Gotta go.

Toonces! Tooooonces! Where are you?

Omg remember that one where that couple has a magic toddler and they just let him like,float away.

Yeah, barely.

Yeah.

So I do.

CUT TO:

TOONCES focuses intently on the task at hand; he's sure he can manage to drive the human vehicle to his own home— to where he's assured he will find the actual body in which he belongs.

Now… let's see, if I can just

Wait, I who?

ATTICUS CATTICUS,

An ancient alien sorcerer must relay a series of important messages.

Unfortunately.

YO WHAT THE FUCK.

None of them seem to be getting through.

CUT BACK TO:

TOONCEEESSSS. here kitty kitty kitty!!

{Enter the Multiverse}

I would dedicate, but honestly I've not time to waste

And I'm craving wedding cake

I hate to destroy you

But for now, you know

I can't employ you;

This implies my eyes are also murder

And I'm sure of her departure

From another world,

Perhaps across the border.

Also, quite the dark sorcerer himself LORNE MICHAELS has well hidden himself under the guise of having become one of the most successful television producer of all times—

And even in his own very small world,

Nobody quite seems to know why.

JIMMY FALLON

Lorne, I have to tell you something.

LORNE MICHAELS

This had better be good, Jimmy, I've just made popcorn.

[the festival project ™]

Don't worry, for now,

The risk remains hidden,

As sure as an asset is an advantage,

I can't have the classes counting

Heads of cabbage as accomplishes,

The masses are honestly astonished

And impossible, but what was wrong with

Boredom in the first place?

Nonsense

More words

And still no dollars

Hunger strike,

And burning harder,

California deficit, lack of bread,

Heaven sent interventions and scissors,

Mistresses, disasters and divorces

But who says the whole story has to suffer?

You're a surfer under water,

Remember that when you finally catch your breath above the surface

Can you clear her?

He who?

Back to work!

Or back to the future!

My super brain is dead but I think I'm next

I think heaven swallows whole the blooded laugher

From the constructs I've come from.

Remember that.

Remember not to fall from too far up,

God would give you wings

With time to spare

Before you ever wondered where

Your mark was

On the plaza

Don't let me up to the very top.

I will at the very least

Best scenario jump off

And rid the world myself,

Just for a dozen donuts over

Crossing hearts and Hollywood

And Griffith park

To also soft my foot

Upon red carpets.

You ever shave your armpits!?

…no.

Hm.

Catholic.

Of course.

Get in.

Destination.

—Rotterdam.

You idiot.

I made it.

Whatever, get in the boat.

DI NERO

Give her your shirt.

What.

Your shirt.

Why my shirt.

Just—

Fine. Here.

[he hands over his shirt— in an instant, the woman becomes an exact REPLICA.]

…my shirt.

Relax. Nothing's gonna happen to it.

Okay?

—in fact, you're still wearing it.

Alright!

She's right, Jimmy, relax.

I can't, that's—

It's simple.

There is nothing simple about this whatsoever.

You're right. It's not, so get over it.

[The Festival Project ™]

BILL MURRAY

There's a compartment at the end of the left corridor—

Alright.

In that hatch, there's a chamber.

Okay, what'll I do?

You'll open it?

How?

I'll tell you how, just get there.

Suddenly, a barrier falls; it appears as though there are booby traps set here.

Uh— that might be a problem.

There might be a few of them. What just happened?

Booby traps.

—ah, I know what you're talking. Those aren't booby traps— they're Bobby Traps.

What in the Hell are you talking about?

For whatever reason

Jimmy Kimmel Is important

Now I'm scared of him,

I know he knows the devil

Come to think of it,

Might even be an advocate

Have an avocado

But don't know the half of it

These are, as it stands

Comes what may

Special circumstances

I could circumvent an intervention,

Never second chances

I've been setting rat traps,

Trapeze artists,

Bampheramph camp,

And also trampolines over the plaza

That seems dangerous.

Yeah.

AHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Damn.

Know it's plausible,

That I also am an alcoholic,

Though dysfunctional,

Professional,

And underrepresented

So I stand myself,

Let's just say pro-se if you will

I could add Prozac to my snacks

But I'll be delayed, if you still

Don't get my messages

I'm sick of having heart attacks;

A hard advantage

I was looking back on “fully packaged”

A six pack of abs

And nothing left to eat but cabbage,

Haven't had a mouth,

But I've been counting on my ass

To get me back up north,

I'm coming from the South

Out West, there's a word for that

At best, you're a four and a half

My body double stunts and stumbles

Struts at nothing

Struck before the one,

And so between high noon and

Somewhere around 30 in

I'm never turning 30,

30 Rock is in the wind—

So count that up,

That's what my income is.

That's what they said?

“Too late, you've been betrayed”

If that's how it is,

Then I request “beheaded”

You know your mother says

That ugly face just becomes permanent

If you keep making it,

And so I did,

The second that it ended

I'm

Trying so hard

Just to be

What they want

That it hurts

Just to stop

And relax

For a moment

INT. THE LAIR. NIGHT

What is this? Where am I?

You're— Alive.

Why?

…I changed my mind.

You're not ugly

You're just not mine

I changed my mind

I changed my life around.

I skip line after line,

But the message ain't right,

I have time a chance

No challenge accepted

No exceptions or

Expectations

Expand this racism vocabulary

Set the rat traps back

To February

Stamp the weather's getting

Better with the postage clearing

Abstr–

My cat is so cute

I can't stand him;

But he's pretty bad,

That my only friend;

Animal.

I blacklisted deadmau5,

And my whole set sucked.

Presently, however I'm a peasant

Plucking pheasant feathers

Guess I–

pppftt.

Like it never even happened

But I'm sure we're all to war,

Like a fear I never grasp it,

What's l before, uncertain of your l words—

My dear, were tattered and the masters heavy handed,

Oh, my dear, we're marching on a battered

Wit, to all your fan mail

I tel you, I was I tortured,

Let me show you

And also,

No one forced my hand at magic,

Questioned prestidigitation,

Or went back to every second,

Land you think you owned as time

In fact, my crucial very hard earned gossip column

Asks the reader to reform his or her thought

Before a judgement can be made

How fascinating.

The bag says ‘poems' so I wrote one,

But I'm sure since my marker's toggled on

I'm being stalked,

It's like a magnet,

Punch the clock

And here they pour into the coffin

So I won't be pouring coffee for the puffin;

Maybe someday I'll look back at this as all I ever wanted,

But for now it's just a horror show,

Where I belong the murder—

Yet a thriller,

Best,

The audience is captivated,

Yes

This is evasive,

Cause I can't been captured yet

By either masses or

Mass murderers.

At last, a cadence comes clean of its

Breaking waves and rhythms,

Tides and ties,

Becomes another—

Then, I'm whisked away

Not back to slumber, but of subtle thoughts

Of Californian water

Lapping up across our surfboards;

I often wear them tides,

The undertow

As pull of greater waves

I sit aside as all that passes

[The Festival Project ™]

When I see Calvin Klein,

I think of you;

Not what you used to be

But turned in to

So it's mutual—

Pay attention, fool

As does moss grow on a rock

And this to you—

It is unfortunate, my dear

You miss with every twist,

Adjustment of attention span,

The glances I foreshadowed

(Here you are, inside your past)

It's just affective of the effect,

You've been levitating,

Yes, I find it devastating

Every second kept is just a fortune

But you pause before you post—

You reap before you even think

Of what you sow,

You don't belong,

Agast,

(True)

Set the tone,

Classless,

But I'm Art, you are a

Daunting folk song,

Mistletoe and marker.

CAMERA ASSISTANT

Marker.

…what is this for again?

CAMERA ASSISTANT

(Annoyed, mumbling)

Shut up.

Ten minutes passes and still, I'm awake

But the tragedy of the mistake has just set in,

I'm sure I've been tortured,

I'm paid in mistakes, but I'd rather be shattered with Mortimer's curse.

To the tune of

Ten by ten by ten

I will never be lover, nor friend in the end.

{Enter The Multiverse]

DRAKE concentrates heavily on a very long , seemingly very angry message— a frowning face plastered as he writes that is so noteworthy, it catches the attention of many a passerby— still this focus unwatered, as he bashes heavily away at the text message with the thumbs of fury for over 30 minutes while sitting at a booth in a well-loved pancake restaurant.

As a tall stack of pancakes is served before him, and he, still unbreaking this angry texting streak or eye contact with his phone sits before them, history is made in what internet culture has now deemed as “the most meme worthy face in history”

The world wonders what he could possibly be writing— and more importantly—-who he could be texting.

Tears come to his eyes but do not fall as he raises his thumb with reserve, to finally press

[RETURN.]

CUT TO:

SUNNI BLU receives a text amidst a wild party. Almost without so much as a reaction, SUNNI BLU pings the message to a projector and cuts off the lights, and music.

A VERY LONG, ANGRY TEXT is projected on the wall.

I slept from 10-2

There was nothing else to do

My name is Devin DeLouise

And I am not supposed to know these things

Seven are dead and three are left

I know what's next

I'm also often known as

And referred to as coyote ugly;

Suffering a tantra wall,

Yo, you son of a bitch!

You dirty, dirty son of a bitch.

I must admit, I had a lot to do with this…

I had no part in it!

Relax… soon enough, the both of your realize— this is how the unimaginable gets written.

[he loads the polished sterling silver pistol and glamours over it]

You have our memory.

—all memory.

And as soon as it ends, before it can begin again. The slate is wiped clean.

Good riddance.

“A Different Kind of Monologue”

Is this what you wanted?

Ooh— you should try me!

I wish you would try me!

Try me!

I wish you would.

Be calm, Grand Master.

This will all be over momentarily.

What's going on.

Deprivation chamber.

Crypt?

—Encrypted?

A lockup.

Ah.

Thought so.

That ought to show us what he's really made up.

We can all hope.

[he pounds on the glass, the one way mirror acts as a camera which the maj aresses, rabid and wi the anger of a dangerous animal, both we, n audience, and the small group of men gathered a the other side of the room.

This could be the basis of a lot of lawsuits.

So now I have your tears and agony

A wilted throne and wand

Which which would grant a wish of comedy,

And therefore ever after,

Not pain and guilt, but laughter

So heavy is the hat that acts as crown,

And so foolish is the King to think ‘imself as not one,

Creaks the crow and also of the feathered guilt that follows, I

Kept and bashful, wishing not the show as throne but sorrow,

Kept to wick and wake and bones to shatter from tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Do you fear us?

…do you wish to be feared?

What of us?

I seek to cause the wish that stands as though you may as granted.

So shallow, fair child.

And brother and my son also.

Gross!

Stop.

You are weird!

Dude, you are fucked.

In the withdraw, my shadows and darkness

Are there always, never resting

Stories and gathered images,

Visions of betrayal and archaic wants.

In time,

I've abandoned them all and betraying that which I've lost,

For I know, and not ponder on

That I shall never know love,

As all standing tal over me

Have eyes;

And all I want

Knows not what hides under my ugly.

Alright.

I followed your spiral, downward, and down wind and down wood,

Into a place where I also aspired to show your mark

Upon my rotted corpse or coarse crossifix;

Sure worded and down trodden.

Now, worse, I'm also sworn

To mourn all my own losses,

Kind folk.

Kind hearted and now my eyes also sudden to wander—

And there goes my miles and triumphs

And morals and war songs,

And sure, swallowed the barrel of a gun

But also departed with honor,

I tell I.

Glimpses of wither and winter and whittling pain,

And I slither my back to the center of

All I am, in this, and shadows,

Fairtails,

And grains of rice and sand to twist away

Into the rain as I lay dying.

What a fortunate!

Don't make my mark up and out, few for short times,

Aye, conspire to warthog,

Remember so force your spirit onto ours,

And shake, sandbox!

There aiming at you were the snakes of six liars,

And the stakes of empires lost and won over,

Also one solemn subtle Star of David

Worn upon the neck of six monks,

Ragtime

Six popes, pass I;

Six fathers and streaks solemn and

Care tan teared salamander,

Having weight and wake to cheer

For our slaughter.

Then, you,

Having gained and also lost should reap to sow,

What you'd have wanted;

Though the tongue so convexed having way to guild your complex,

Shaking as I hunger fruit that not but hangs

Before l wanted

I know,

I could knot be consoled

I know,

I could not be consoled

I know

I could not be consolidated either

Bought, or purchased

I know I'm not consoled at all,

I know

I'm not confirmed at all

I know, I know

I'm not confronted, nor immortal

— but your glorified affliction.

Poor infinity.

Of poverty, perhaps, but never poor at all.

For your were warned of all the doors as opened at your calling.

Not to walk though,

But to ponder at them, wondering.

he's gone

Maybe I should go

Too

Heavy weight hanging on my

Shoulders

I'm just star struck

I don't know

You

I don't really like saying

What I go through

Talk an hour,

Fake it

All day show

Monologue Improvisation

Now i'm on a roll,

But my thoughts got darker

I like adderall and a real smooth talker

I like a husband-father ,

Doctor, Actor,

Tall and handsome,

Doesn't matter

I'm alone, so i feel hopeless

Aggie's gone,

So i might as well go though

Oh–

She's gone

((I think i'm past my time))

I think i should go to

She's gone

(so long)

Right on, man

I might as well go to

It's been a long time,

Gotta turn my light off,

Overtime,

That's a long ball game

Season's over;

On my back in the middle of the ball court

She's gone,

So i might as well go too.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025

The Festival Project, Inc. ™

All rights reserved.

Chroma111.

Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights reserved.

UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR

DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW.

INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism

Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.

The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.

This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.

The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror"

"Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms."

The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus.

The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual.

Artist's Note:

This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture.

The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual.

As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day.

"The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants.

The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus.

The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat.

The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons.

This is a living document.

In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture.

This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.