04. s l y t h e r i n.
Fresh from the land of a thousand suns
And I stil don't know which stone to land on
No random environment;
I underwent the whole attorney
And still met with resistance
I just asked an an amphetamine as if it was
A supplement to my existence
In fact, it is,
An edifice or m 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 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 paper
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 be ever been bound to love
Or celebrated by another besides my mother
But here's so 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 provences.
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
( I love when i get off the train and that happens)
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 jo now pull you don't 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 because racism in New York can be so violent
That its strength lies not only in money and power but nearly balanced numbers
Which justifies 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
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.