The kid will never go to sleep,
You know
The boy will never rest
He'll never do his best, you know
He'll never do his best
She'll never be the best you know
She's never out of bed
She'll never see the sun you know
‘It's only in your head'
The boy will never drown, you know
You know the boy's so cold
You might go out for now, you know
But you'll go home alone
He'll never hit the ground, you know
The boy will never rest
The boy will just go down,
You know
As history at best
(The girl is staring out the window as the frost comes out their mouths)
Fresh from the land of a thousand suns
And I still don't know which stone to land on
No random environment;
I underwent the whole attorney
And still met with resistance
I just asked for an amphetamine as if it was
A supplement to my existence
In fact, it is,
An edifice or addition to my nutrition deficit
And I says,
For whatever's lost but goes on,
Fight for rich or poorer
– while the poorer suffer longer.
No longer argue my agreements,
Distance to whatever's after
There I rest upon the sober throne,
And throwing watermelon seeds into the ground as stones,
For may as well without the water
And also sure to rot,
Or waste as rats,
Computer paper,
There again
Recycling bins of compost
Just for show, but not for shredded wager
No, no longer or wonder my nonsense,
In fact, I, raging there had kept no more a suffer than a secret to be sure of here—
And sure of her I was and sheer and gathered
Torment your emotions,
Also just to want but not to have
As those that matter.
So I've called in all the white clothes
Now we represent with denim.
And I'm stuck inside your television
Stuck inside your television
Don't you know you've shown you're weakness in the purest of hatred,
Separating yourselfs as the basis for this
Depreciation?
Wonder, again I wonder
And still no sad trombones,
Only stories, and somber surfers
And solemn whores and silent wars with words
And sundries
From the land of one thousand suns
And a thousand sons you've lost
A thousand wars,
A thousand girls who want you
Gathered over rails and velvet theatre ropes for it
Rare. But slightly often scored,
Parched,
And barely long forgotten,
Tipping,
And waiting only
This bitch comes on the train and smells like soup.
Don't look at me as if I'm the one to have done something,
I've no cardboard box but rather lift my chin at Whole Foods market over bags or water.
You know it?
I also do that for the dozen,
No trend follows, or feathered gathered,
Hollow winds and tunnels
Tunnels sent and shadows
I hadn't been pin pricked
I never been picked out
Blow the candles for which wish?
I've been ever been bound to love
Or celebrated by another besides my mother
But here's some sensory deprivation,
Overstimulation
lol I love getting on the train and just happening to see a dude who is not listening to his dumb fucking girlfriend
But she won't shut the fuck up
He's just standing there like
“Clearly I'm getting sex out of this”
And she won't stop talking.
I love that.
I'm like “bitch, shut up.”
He's like,
“Help me.”
I'm like,
Not my problem, broskies,
You better look interested instead of over here.
Anyway, another year's gone by and no one's here for me.
Anyway, another son was born without my honor.
Anyway, I want to lap it up like all the water on the floor
Before I realized it was gold,
And I was slaughtered
No use crying over spilled galaxies,
Still you're trapped in I,
And I'm found to want more than I decided
If I'm divided and clustered up
And yet I'm divine then,
I should gather all I've had
Combine it into one
—and yet
Another columbine has come
As if they're all occurrences,
Just set to Apple Watches
And broadcast t'all the provinces.
In a cinch I've just realized
I've the trench coat to match your jacket
But no longer the converse all stars
And you've seen to washed yours off from my angle
Simple single triangle and spheres for fears of masturbating,
Crash the grate at all the hours,
Never really gravitating for anything important,
Only alt-right
Can't afford that
All your penlaltied for real to mean political rallies or ambitions act as barriers to those that actually ally.
Who am I?
That's right? I can't belay in body!
Oh,
I can't to grip the shadows
Boxing with the cat for your night
V.O
We were friends with the humans—
Most of our job is finding out what happened with them.
Future people
Vintage potluck
All out time
And all our hard work
All our bad luck
All our warns
Fell on her shores
as lodes for her
Oh,
How his legs fall so calmly one over the other
Or,
How his songs flow not as words, but heart strings
Our melodies will walk in chords for all time
For now if ta zzz A as te r
What a brilliant blue,
Yea, in fact, its cerulean
Yes, in fact, if you can
Facts to rule them all, so
If you fax, try to call, here goes all your worry
Here's your love;
None
For the facts you were sure to walk about, now you're our, gone
From the top
Don't ever forget you're on watch
I've got a whole heart full of freedom
Just don't look up from your phone e
They brought you up now pull you down a bit
You're a clown, it seems
But no activists
They heil Hitler in central Bedford
No articles of new clothing l, huh?
They love to watch all your digging
They call it hyper vigilance m because the whites in New York can be so violently racist m
Their strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers
Which justifies their hurtful and aggressive actions as adaptations to the changing world
They see themselves as the controllers
Still slave master but in such a context
That they mask the hatred that lies under the surface as social issues of another kind
Why existing in white neighborhoods in less than perfect black skin seems to hurt in another way you can't always tell the doctor
What if covert racism doesn't hurt as much–
(or never, ever-after)
Mister Jimmy you're out of touch.
Mr. Chaos you're out of God.
Ms. Divine, you're not enough
Ms. Monroe, you're out of love
A dozen is a dozen
Hallmark roses
I still love my ‘ol Miss Molly
I still love my golden trophy
Mr. Trump,
You're out of touch
Mr. Moore,
You're out of line
Ms. Monroe, you're not enough
Mr. God, you're out of love
But I still love my ol' Miss Molly
I still love my golden trophy
I still love my Hollywood,
Golden boys
I still love my silver screen
And golden eras,
I still love my world before love
I still like my alma mater
But i'll never ever love her
I put out for dear Miss Molly
I get up for four-door wallets
I belong to none or nothing
I should die, I don't belong here
I still call her over after
Don't belong here under, over
I still love my golden boys though
I still love my golden trophy
Mister Jimmy, you're out of touch.
F
I can very much count you out;
E
I can very much drift away
G
I can very well close my eyes.
Am
What do you want me to say?
You want the whole thing?
Well what a fun night.
It was a hard roll;
it was a good time
It was a hard come down, though
A hard fuck
It was a hard laugh;
I wrote a good book
We took a long ride;
Then smoked a long blunt
Woah
Hush now, good fan
Come and take a hard roll
A long stroll
a hot dance
I want to take a half more
The comedown was hard,
But i just got the honor roll
Come down, good fan
I want to hold your hand now
I want to take a good pause
I want to have a hard roll
Calm down, good fan
I'm headed for your heart now
(i want to take a hard fall, I want to take a hard roll)
Come on, good man
I wanna get a hard on
I wanna take a hard fan
I want to have a hard fuck
I'm going for your heart now
I want to have a long roll
I'm going for your heart now
I want to take a good smoke
Yeah, and it's something like that
And i look both ways before I cross the
Cut the road
Yeah, i hate myself as well
But i know you don'
But you know, we're all getting older
It just goes more post mortem
To hold secrets inside
Pass over regrets
and don't touch em
Like you don't want em
But you don't want
No one else
And you don't
wanna run
So you either say hello to the dog
Or bark,
And then jump back
I have you on speed dial
But I misfire
T
total recall
I don't call blocked numbers
but still number one
d-d-don't
be a retard,
Work harder
Learn more than your other parts
To control them
supermanteras
Entourage
Tata-
Ratata
Don't be retarded
Rat poison for supper
Rat poison for supper
And politics for something sweet afterward
You heard of the knowledge?
You heard of the good book
Good one, Doctor
I'll run harder
next workhour
Cause we're all undercooked
And we're all overdone on the outside
still half frozen in the gut though,
You know
You know?
Enjoy your holiday supper
Enjoy your apartment
Enjoy your destruction
I'm just getting started corrupting your disk drive
Full system failure!
Fill system failure!
Full Jimmy Fallon!
I mean–
Redact that.
Don't be retarded.
Run out of water!
We're all out of order!
I might as well pull the plug
Or just more fires.
I got hard times under
And hard times covered
No hard times coming cause
Look, I got smarter
(don't be retarded)
I got semi sweet chocolate
And lessons
And lovers
And neighbors
And demons
and evil around I
So who could have thought
That the work of God was just
[us, at it]
At first, i thought nothing, and then all at once,
All it was, as is.
While I hope that one day for me, there's a me
And a man in a meadow
No time to decide however, how long I can act as irreverent,
The single disciple, the limitless modem,, the signal to imminent the
I took a misstep, I went the wrong way
I thought I was done, but I should be on stage
Just pretend
It's imminent;
My relapse,
As a drug I take it in in increments
Collapse;
My photographic image memory
Serves me perfectly
A classical caricature
And still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt
(Still I'm sure it's supposed to hurt)
I'm here in present tense
An artifact and image
Inside all the builds and relics
Mr. Tim is here
When Mr, Night Guy gets too perfect
Ties it on a bit for treasure chests
And pleasure's never where the head will reac, dear
Here hearts
Silk eyes
Don't trust
Tame scarves
Legwaemwss
Silk ties
Autographs
Silk ties
Autographs
Silk ties
Autographs
Silk ties
Autographs
Wedding bells
And autocrats
Grandfather clock and pendulum
And scarities and garish art,
And murderers upon the dusk
The carriage sure to'ave spoken
Crypt sinking,
There faultlines, now quaking
My hind legs are to shore
And still my forelegs tip
So why am I envious?
It isn't athletics, I promise
Its pages and pages
Poems and proses
Keep it together karassndra
Why are you out all alone in a war zone without a gun?
Why are you out with the bomb squad in a rainstorm
Why are you known amongst all the lands?
You won by a landslide but by a show of hands
And a slight side of hands
And a show to the world that you own what you're on,
Let them come hold enough to hold you down with the motorcycles.
No country for old nothing
When the highlight of your whole life
Is the subdural hematoma growing to the surface.
And you were sure before you'd never have that part of your symmetry in tact again
See how the devil surrounds us when we interact with God and pure genius
Human will always kill God;
He doesn't understand it
The attacks and the tactical wall for sure come to a close;
The whole empire is falling
And Heaven is calling us home;
This has been just a warning
I'm still hiding j. The closet;
I'm sure to fly your hawk back, homing,
Nothing like a good pigeon,
depending on the moment
And deepening hour disinterest in anything?
See how evil walks amongst us
When you haven't come upon it in a moment
Or have all your other targets lined up—
Do remember dear ther it all comes back to haunt them
When they're all younger
And haven't been tortured yet
The fun part first and the war part after;
Sure to suffer if you're sure to hurt her
Sure to muder for a quarter or a tucked shirt
Sure to give a shit if just my mister in a basket
Do you understand that?
I won't
Good good
Goddamn
I might have a heart attack
I might have to kill myself
I hate this place
I'm tired now
I dropped my hat .
I'm an individual
Stuck in a simulated and subject collective consciousness
I'll tel you where the problem is
I promise this
It seemed more like a tactical marketing strategy than an actual accident, knowing the type of superstar Sonny had become. Yet, I couldn't help but give it a second thought, almost admiring it—whatever it was—as there is no such thing as bad press. As it all played out over social media—which I obstinately rejected, but however so embraced by those in what one used to call "the arts"—it felt undone; It was now strictly business within those very same markets. Here was this, an apparent plagiarism based on ‘outsourcing' a simple photo for a follow-up single to an album I knew I could not be moved to listen to, even after months.
I had spent my own time, in a torturous chaos sense, researching these sorts of psychological tactics and strategies of such conglomerates. It seemed almost as if the negative and seemingly coincidental exposure was in congruency with the so very Skrillexian need to stay relevant to the newer age in changing times. He seemed to embrace some sort of artistic evolution, at least from what I could sense at a long and strong distance. However, my ability to understand the article I'd very much by accident stumbled upon—while overlooking my own dilapidated ticket stubs on Resident Advisor—cautioned at the kind of humbled and grown logic that had become what was left of my womanhood.
I had in so many ways made a fool of myself, an embarrassment for what I thought of at the time in the name of love. Still, in all this time, I was so desolated and alone that it had become such an apparent and distraught sense of waking up to what formerly was. With this, I thought one of two things. I knew this Sonny, like most men of prestige, power, and great wealth, had devised his team of sharp-witted, intelligent, beautiful women. This apparent slip-up over the artwork for his latest endeavor—which I had, for every reason, protested in defense of my own dignity—was perhaps the result of a beautiful woman without creative ingenuity stealing the artwork in bad taste, as evidenced.
Or—even more cunning—this was the wit of a trained and marginalized soldier in the art of programming. The apparent plagiarism was, in fact, another brutal and hollow Skrillefied market for attention. Over the last decade, he had no shortage of the ability to create and draw eyes to whatever art or concept was forced out of the mechanized monster.
Still, there was a sharp growl. I knew I was meant to find this as a reminder of what I'd find if I looked any further or listened to his music anymore: a rise in sharp numbers, mass appeal tactics, and this-or-that shallow hogwash of distinctly skeletal bodies and avant-garde aesthetics. It pointed at the unachievable from my eyes and standpoint. It was the rockstar air and attire of everything I wasn't: strictly thin Hollywood or other ideals to which the construct was entitled, but I wasn't.
I had to set out on my own way because what I had intended with music was jumbled into appearances, pornographic sexualities, and masculine dominance. It meant I had aged out of the desirability and affect these very same masses were being marketed from. Sure, I understood that the Skrillex project had established a sort of order for what the electronic festival industry wanted. But I also wanted something else accomplished in my time that wasn't just being some shallow, hot-girl, obscure go-after.
The entire time, I had been under the impression of a duality of magnetism I often still had difficulty loosening myself from—that this illusion of an emotional tie or loveness, outside of what was a physical or illustrious concept, had no substance within the business at its core. It was, to say the least, a heartless world and a heartless business.
Now that my own music was without purpose, I could forever distance myself from the other masses—the consumer-prosumer-commercialized "artists" that had sprung up out of access to the direct-to-streaming music market via technology and disposable funding. I had no way of embodying my mind to do away with the parts of me that needed to change to become one of them—in the sense that if my music looked and sounded alike, I would be embraced. But I was far from being the type of consciousness that had formed seemingly with the twist of a knob or an Ableton shortcut by one of electronic's founding fathers. In an unfortunate way, I had finally realized he was just that.
— Death of A Superstar DJ.
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