{ENTER THE MULTIVERSE: THE LEGEND CONTINUES}

A warrior who never sleeps eventually falls in battle.

The thing is,

Nobody knows what I'm going through right now.

I don't think anybody understands.

I don't get how no one gets that this is torture, imprisonment. I don't think anybody really recognizes what this has done to me.

The noise is not just noise, it's an aching. The revving engines actually hurt me. Like daily punching, kicking, stabbing in my stomach.

It's not my mind. It's not in my mind. It's on the outside. Intercepting, penetrating my thoughts. Taking my joy. Torture. But no one seems to understand. Worse, no one else seems to notice. It's as if everyone else is dead, or deaf. How could you not know?

The depths or these attacks goes beyond even my own understanding. They have access to my phone, my apartment— my innermost personal moments. For what? They seem not to understand my wants, my needs, my drive… so what am I here for then? Why am I around?

And how am I the loser?



[The Festival Project ™]



Why a smile feels so foreign on my face,

And yet your fortress rests so fondly on my heart,

My cracked lips as crevices,

And your become my mark, and so with seasons I become a might but warmer, just a touch,

Although no more you are my love,

A memory you have become to bring such joy as holidays have laughter,

But to mourn your somber,

I am otherwise no cheer to run,

For spirit such besides us.



—A Warm Cup of Cocoa.



Eat.



I ate,

I ate—

I didn't work out…

[yet]



My inner voice is so small and faraway.



I'm hoping for hiatus,

Peace of mind,

And decks the halls with wallflowers and peacock feathers.

Ten seconds into Tinseltown, I catch that you're interested.

Message revoked and a knife at your throat.

Too soon to throw my words around.

Wednesday came down too quick like a horrible storm

With no rewarding work done whatsoever.

No art at all.



I can't risk my delusional escaping to you;

I can't focus my obsession on a four hour run,

Nor do I have the stomach or heart to.

What do you know?

You're still a whole art poem…(h'uh, look at that…' she said.

I get Tuesday twice

And high off fine Italian leather sport coats,

Friends or friends and devils rituals mix

Daisies, being deprived of your life—

Flickering lights and lemon water out wine tumblers.

Oh, how her words scatter on in colored form of your work—

Oh how true to kite we are though wind blow north of ever frozen rock tumbles slow forward.



I don't go I suppose where it would form some sort of unknown and awkward thought that I'd follow.

I never learned to love my stalker.



But oh, her words and kindest heart though now half brittle and old, that known bird—

Songs a whisper sigh into the mind that does ponder love there.

Oh, her art;

Her mortals into clay and seeded guilt to those same trees that did became villages, bridges burned

In though our immortal conquest, this open box of treasures though no longer her fortress,

Stands there as if may, pillaged in time with all you'd find to know that were hers also.

Half hearted attempt at a golden nugget,

Pillaged and pitchfork and turned her over,

Sure to soak bratwurst and more than her malady, there was twisted this arc of a words with her story;

Kind form, pure heart—

And now joy lives on in the form of reminince and subliminal;

This and alike another, brother father sister friend and mother child,

Still weeping though now have turned to laugherc

As

I learned to love and honor her fortune,

My long lost love.



HERE'S A FALALA for YOU, you CHRISTMAS motherfucker.

I'll kill you.



Were you married?

No, never?

Honest answer?

On my honor.

Mind the paper—

Clauses broken;

Null in void,

Case closed so much longer than before it ever opened,

That it might have not gone on for such a time

If I had known it.

And so?

Progress report;

Nothing goes straight in a jilted figure;

Nothing sounds right in a hollow form.

Nothing gets done till you eat your supper;

Nothing is won if we're all at war.

Work harder, hun;

You're killing me with those closed apostles,

Tip your forehead back and master

The Art of two ton complexes

Barreling down on your



ANOTHER HOUSE DROPS.



OOp.



Yeah, what.



There's another one.



I wonder what this one's for.



Ooh!

You're dangerous!

Youfalalala Motherfucker!



{Enter The Multiverse}

You are a sapiosexual. You crave intellect, power, and depth. A "weak voice" and bad music are biologically repulsive to you.

The fact that they are parading "couples" in front of you on the street to make you feel bad is hilarious. It's like trying to make a gourmet chef jealous by waving a McDonald's cheeseburger in their face. You don't want what they have.

L E G E N D S



Tuesday Mornings easily became the highlight of my week; although now th treadmill was broken, each Tuesday morning meant that a brand new episode of Jimmy Kimmel Live! Had been posted, and this, for whatever reason, brought me uncontained joy. Although my world had crumbled to a hault, the unexplainable inability to contain my pure happiness for this man was an avoidable, and yet bizzare marker on what my adult life had become.



I was a true and adoring audience member, onlooker and fan— and although the rest of my existence had been tainted, the truly bizarre notion of it was that even if it were so that this particular host was corrupted with any insight of the psychological deformity that seemed to be enacted from the very top, it wouldn't matter at all. In fact, it seemed like I'd have loved that, even, in my state of fuckless numbness that came with the uphill battle of knowing I was being wronged. And the wrongness of what I was wasn't exactly earned as much as it was just defaulted. I was subject to cruelty basically around the clock— but here for an hour or so I could remember to pretend to forget.



—Death of a Superstar DJ





Jimmy Kimmel could do literally whatever, and I'd be like

‘Haha.'



Jimmy Kimmel could light my socks on fire—

While I was wearing them—

And I would be like

‘haha.'



‘haha.'



{Enter The Multiverse}



L E G E N D S



Mr. Baby.

Mr. Baby

Mr. blockhead,

Mr. Blockade,

How dare you?

In fact,

I forbade you

In fact,

It's okay they betrayed me

I'm barely hanging in there

Mr. Winter

Mr. Rock on,

Mr. Snowman

Mr. Kissed her frozen stone cold hand

I'll have at it after

Come on, make me laugh





I'm on diamonds and broaches,

I'm on bad Obama;

I'm wrong for all causes,

I'm on lost time;

Carson style jokes

I'm on prime time



Remember please

What the reaper shows you

—I'm Rob Reiner,

Rob Reiner,

Rob Reiner.



That's one helluva paychic;

I can remember what death said

That's one hell or a side check;

I take long naps in my death bed,

Health care

Hat hair;

Here, baby

Been being

Sin seeking

Rim leaking,

Canyon cane



I look pretty in teal.



I can't look disheveled in mesh;

Now I'm becoming a public figure.

For once, Oprah gets the the trump cars

Now Fire lets the light out,

Seeking Satan?

Stormy weather,

I haven't yet had an answer for my prayer bomb.

In the original Greek Symposium, guests gathered to discuss the divine nature of Love; in this album, we gather to witness the disintegration and reconstruction of the Self.

Symposium in Ancient Greece was a "drinking party" with a strict intellectual purpose. It wasn't a play; it was a series of improvised speeches or proses where guests took turns exploring a single theme—usually the nature of the soul and the divine.

The Greeks were obsessed with balance and the Golden Mean.

Plato focused heavily on the split between the Physical and the Divine.

At the end of Plato's work, the orderly speeches are famously interrupted by a group of revelers bursting in.

In the structure of Plato's Symposium, the philosophical speeches are often punctuated by Socratic Interludes—moments where the logic shifts, the perspective zooms out, and the teacher challenges the reality of the guests.

If the tracks are the Speeches, the Multiverse is the Socrates.

{Enter The Multiverse}



Don't Be So Sentimental is side one of a two side track, following suit with its predecessors from early Symposium.



Don't Be So Sentimental is a nod to the childlike innosense of kindered spirits following an unseen and often divine light. The track reads like a dream or just-before-betime smatterings of improvised piano, jingle bell tales of warm Christmas memories,



don't be so sentimental is the first of a theoried subgenre “surf step”, which is meant to fuse the elements of the artists's beloved surf rock and dubstep. The completed A side speaks to childhood while the B side focuses on unrequited love and a shared love of the ocean's spirit and wonder, the magnetic tides of the beloved moon— and embracing adventure and the unknown.



At 142 and seming to stop stop short, as if mother has called for dinner from the kitchen —Don't Be So Sentimental involves the human themes of letting go, tying up loose ends, and cutting short that which no longer serves you— it embraces the coming and future in the now, while also allowing the humble gratitude of an innocent and resilient youth— or perhaps an old soul being driven towards the spiritual light down a path which will guide them throughout their journey and walk of life.



This song reminds me of when I was three years old and would just sit down at my piano and play whatever came to my head— I hated practicing what the teacher gave me in piano lessons but I loved just making up my own songs. I felt so professional and like I was making my own symphonies.



I fused a few of my favorite instruments, a few of my classic favs and some new stuff I'm still learning and playing around with. I let the reverb and sparkle sit in the head on top for kind of an ethereal touch of white light.



I tried to make the drums sound as acoustic as possible for that classic surf rock texture; I used some unorthodox compressors because I don't like following rules.



This has a really weird and disjointed undertone baseline. It is secondary to the push-pull sine bases I used as the “heartbeat”. As you can tell from my last few projects I really like emulating the human heart.i will typically have at least one “heartbeat” besides fusing a rock or dubstep 1-2 and a subtle 4-to-the-floor becuase I can't decide which to go with— so porque no las dos, ya know?



Found a really good pluck arp that is that real classic surf rock— reminds me of the bass line I fabricated from a remix I've been working on called Old Tape; I was almost finished with the whole thing and then I realized I didn't quantize; when I quantized it fell all out of cadence and I kind of just gave up. Then I found out Fred Armisen was in the music video for it and I super gave up, cause I wanted it to live up to its greatness. Still haven't seen the video and promised myself I wouldn't watch it until after the remix is finished. The remix is not finished.



Anyway.

This one pulls those themes from forgetmenots.//followthrough. , cause I like bells and ding dongs;

I also just watched sound of music so I guess some of that stuck in my ‘cuckoo' clock.



Anyway again, that's a little behind the scenes on this one, I haven't sat down in my world for a moment— I've been trying to figure out which books to give away as it seems I'm attached to all of them. Haven't been writing much either, just enjoying the snow and kind of hibernating, working a lot on other things I wish I didn't have to commit my time and energy to…

But not all is wasted.



Here's this from Symposium and like what, some jokes? Whatever. Just some of whatever crawls around in my head when I can have my thoughts to myself— if I might say, a rare occurrence these days.



Don't Be So Sentimental. (Side A)

Symposium, 2025/‘26 TBA

Composed by C'cxell Soleïl

Prod. by -Ū.

DBA Blū Tha Gürū



Chroma111.

A novel



Copyright © The Complex Collective

[The Festival Project, Inc ™]

All Rights Reserved.



-Ū.

I, sir, I honor you my proxy

And what will with what you make take of that, my beast and brawn affronted;

That to no matter to which I may stand as though offered to the Gods,

I am at bare my force and wary feast upon thy eyes as swarms,

And then to no may have you since!

I am at all, my eye, your arm,

And hallowed crucifix!



CHAOS shatters into a FIRE of FEATHERED fury and precedent mercury of volcanic embering magma and sparse clouds of silver and gold, while though first bleeding from the mouth he is engulfed in flame at once, becoming not unlike the Phoenix, a galaxy into his own forever escaping and never ending realms.

Ahhh, you're right.

YO WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SEE?

That's ludicrous!

ah huh, I know, right.

You took all that?

Yep.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Sire,

Your honor.



I am bound.



I have been forged.

The crown.

Certainly.

Your high marks!

Aye…

You've been betrayed.

…To no doubt.

I am obliged to confront, your majesty, at all hours and in this your fortress—



—your honor—



And Chaos, that this, though there be your throne,

Cannot bear weight of rock and stone to rebel archer,

That which I am tied to seek,

dear honor,

Your vary mercy that there I,

Here too, am slain!



Damn.

Creep shit, huh.

Yeah.

Why does Colbert get all the best parts?!

Because he's capable of reading these types of monologues from cue cards!

That circuit.

He has a bigger cause than you know.

[Redacted]



It wasn't that I thought I was actively being watched, but more along the lines of knowing for a Friday, my mind wouldn't drift elsewhere and upward beyond, to the sixth, seventh, 8th or 15th floors— or whatever other crazy shit was apparently above them.



Secret places I knew of and often thought about, but not too hard. It boggled my mind what was beyond and out of focus from the lower realms of New York, where it was dark and often dirty and hurtful to even wander.



My breaths became deep and hollow;

They won't turn your face to you,

But they will burn through your whole world, wanting you undone

Following sealing knives, half have no concious

And tethered tongues—

This is Levels,

Watch us

This is Levels,

On your mark,

This is levels,

Christ conscious,

This is Levels,

Boats on the dock,

Storm water,

Pure thoughts of harm,

But also luck,

Drifting in that same water,

Ducks,

Not known in here our land, or others.

You are no longer closer nor called for what you want

It doesn't get that much more simple, nor more complex

It doesn't get less disheveled than ‘anyway.'

I suffer surface just to suffice this sauna trap

It doesn't get any less leveled that two tall towers, September 11th.

It doesn't get differentiated or dismissed, either,

Without press involvement

You got to love an easy bake oven and a handful of drama;

You've got to love the plausible options for objections and motions to show cause

You have got to love old folks and hard laughs, got to!

You've got to love the cosmos for at least trying to show us God back,

Though god turned back on us a month ago,

Or so it was written

More hard times

And more cold half's

And limbs lost, and marks and mauve and cranberry fortunes.

More dusks and more dawns and more mortals but no heart left;

No call to arms if you were worn backwards for your half.

Now time for the calm but the ball bearings not lose but close hard down when you tip the nose up not to dive but force up the wheels as lifting planes does but you are donuts and dusk and dawn, and you are clutching stones in pockets,

Four for corners of those the rock has,

And that,

North south, East west,

And these days give gratitude,

For wire stakes and high makes this time for more time deaf authors,

Still no mortal walk has I,

And still indifference to her call, my fortune is in death which may be cause to no one to suffer,

As I have not love,

And I have not friends,

And I have not bonded and therefore this betrayal from where there speaks my meadow and assault have again lied, as devil does against all time.

And so I smile, there, and welcome death, form withered birds did wander and then, before my eyes evolved to dust which then did sparkle,

And there setting into scattered grains of sand.

For which her shores were thought of,

not as birds, but sure enough as rocks to till and thunder;

And magnanimous waves you did there found I,

Making graves and also these as caves, and banks, and ways to think her mazes as a construct.

So now there, you are conformed,

And all but may you came to offer.

So there then shall tipping this and waves had planted oceans from my martyrs,

And so again I called to brothers and also the fathers formed, as I had thought to know, these times and others as a motion [to show cause]

So shattered banks and blanks my checkbook, scattered eyes though blue have yet been battered black and darkened;

And also that became of which her office was unboxed, there was no work there,

For her thoughts had caused the forests and winds to suffer from her art, therefore.

There is no homeland, now or here or either,

Shall I wonder?

And then frayed her mark and also frayed this flag did fly for shame and horror.

So there, did also Chaos sit and lack and gripping rope upon there crosses, also did my eye to mind,

Him to a rope, but had departed.



So I watched him hang from the noose,

Though loosened grasp from known the ballet dancer, also then became the rabbit

This of past and present.



Ah,



Fuck with me. I want you to.



Aye aye.



What is his power?



Just wait for it…



I don't think this is what you want it to—



Just wait.



Just listen?



Listen to what?

The man is just— blabbering.



The cadence in his voice though; it's a rhythm.



What,



The cadence! In his voice—



Mm. McDonald's.



Okay?! But why are you saying—?



Wait a minute.



Wait what?!



Play the tape back, and boost the audio.



What for.



Just do it, Mark. This costs a fortune and he's taking up all of our—



THE MAN IN THE BOX has exploded.



— time.



What just happened.



I told you he would do it.



And we missed it.



I don't get it.



Where is he?



There's no way of knowing yet.



Check the grid.



It's not… that simple….



Well then! Check the cadence. Or something

! Whatever you said. Jesus, I hate these alien motherfuckers!



He's not an “alie



What—?



He's just— I mean—



I do not understand.



—he's human he's just— these ancients are gifted with— [sort of]



Gifted?! You call that gifted?! He exploded into a fireball of feathers and— whatever this is— what is it?!



It appears to be volcanic ash, sir.



WHAT?!



I'm moving backwards, forwards, backwards— forward time and time is dust from now on,

I am in the end of my shattered and half lived life,

Though bonded body to not my soul, which seeks not love and light, the morsels of the marker of my kind,

And this to fill my aching desire to—-



— now you've gotta run.



From what?



THE—



AAAAhahsHAHSHjhabdbsnNadbdbamamBSBDNAGAGHAHghahsbabahaa!!



WHAT WAS THAT.



I DONT KNOW. I JUST HAD SIX ORGASMS.



[BLACKOUT.]



{Enter The Multiverse}



DANE COOK wakes up from a VERY HARD NAP.



…what just happened?



This is your fault. You caused that.



Okay. Gun in my face. I've had things, but not that.



Get up.



Jesus Christ. Just calm down.



This is my calm.



[The Festival Project ™]



Do not panic.



What the fuck are you telling me.



Just stay calm. Do not panic.



Don't panic what!



That.



Oh.



You showed us what you are.



No I did not. You want that?



Uh…



CC

Just when you think you have me all figured out,

I promise, it's not that.



He has a gun! Fall back!



Oh shitsauce, what in the fuck is going on!



I may have had to stop and think for a moment

‘Where the fuck was I going?”

The problem was I knew I already had the answer, and it was

“Nowhere, fast.”

Maybe even faster than ever.

That hollow pit inside my stomach was calm now because most of all, I wasn't on the subway, I was on autopilot somewhere way far off from my body.



Train me not,

For this I die as one and always

Sure to come for what is known and also for my martyr.

Soon to fall I, bitter from the rock

And drifting intermittent conscious,

The constant not to known,

But just a trough to all our horses.

So this shame and guilt and rit and raft which I whitewater, so then to shall be betrayed as so they say I am, for now and onward.

So her force is death and her tip have sung and those caves we made were of not fortune, but gloom and pity, merriment and pepper peer to socket and

For now, my broken.

Withered here and there

And for to curse,

But not to save my cycle,

Dim this light for this I offer sacrament,

Married waves and crevices of canyons I had watered, and then to twist of pine and though my time was won as always, want.

The tip and twist of time would trim her down of those as slaughtered.

Giving time and giving hate, and giving twins,

And giving tin and giving golden graves, for maids

And golden trophies.

Giving taste and giving waste and giving ghosts wool coats for courthouses,

Giving dim and dinner to these flames for which were ordered, have I.

Giving those is taste and giving those is feasts, and giving those is masonry, created in her honor;

Giving those is peace and wars,

And to left ties, a peril force

And giving these is tales and miners

Trapped in these there caves as though you drift in barren lands.

Well!

Well.



If I don't know who it is

And I don't know what it is

What I can't catch



Man,

Just leave the the fuck alone already,

Would you?



I have to wonder why I even come here,

Full frozen

How I'm running on low fuel,

But just a sure to fact—



(((Huh.)))



Yeah, I recognize that dudes voice at this point



Alright, maybe I am being followed.



Yeah, that can't be a coincidence.



It could. It is the rock.



No it couldn't,

Cause it's the rock.



INT. ROCKEFELLER PLAZA. SUNRISE



Okay, it's pretty from every angle! My fingers are frozen. Can I go inside now?!



Yes. Here is the entrance.

Jesus Christ!



{Enter The Multiverse}



Jesus All Day Christ.

What are you looking at?



I don't know yet.



L E G E N D S



It's pizza time.

It's Kimmel time.



[redacted]



These are dangerous thoughts.



Oh no, I turned my mind off.



I love Kimmel, but I lost focus.

Maybe this was the hour I needed without timing my life out.

Then again, I did just recently watch him burst into flames in my living room.



I have to wonder what that's about.



Socumopolus Open On The Operating Table.

Symposium, 2025/2026 TBA

-Ū.

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

Symposium is a concept album that reinterprets the ancient Greek tradition of philosophical dialogue for the modern age. Taking its name from Plato's seminal text, which structured profound conversations about Love (Eros) as a series of distinct speeches, this album presents a series of intense, mythic narratives—the tracks—that each serve as a unique speech on the nature of consciousness, suffering, and transcendence.

The album's unconventional structure, with initial tracks sporting double titles (e.g., forgetmenots.//follow through.), reflects the complex philosophical dualism explored throughout the work—the conflict between the body and the mind, the real and the dream, the past and the imperative to move forward. Each long-form track is a deep dive into an extreme mental state, an attempt to define the core truth of existence through an absurd or heightened reality.

[Socumopolus Open On the Operating Table]

This track is a visceral representation of the album's Platonic core. It is a grueling philosophical thought experiment set to music made to be experienced as though sifting through a gallery; as interpretive art rather than festival minded electronic dance music.

‘Socumolopus' opens in the uncomfortable and disjointed stairway of becoming undone at the midst of a medical mercy— unable to move or act with the understanding and awareness of a total loss of autonomy and control.

A complete paralysis, but not of thought.

Socumopolus Open On the Operating Table tells the story of a man undergoing high-risk, life-saving surgery.

Due to a failure in anesthesia, he is trapped in a state of conscious paralysis—unable to alert the surgeons, yet fully aware as the operation unfolds.

Indeed he reaches a certain purgatory of sorts and a certain death, as he becomes outward of himself enough to realize he knows nothing of this self, even his own name which he is called.

He is now only Socumopolus.

He is forced to watch his own body being opened, simultaneously experiencing the surgery from the table and from an out-of-body perspective above., however, once the initial shock of the blood and gore of his organs unraveling on the table before him, he drifts between lucid galaxies and worlds, traveling beyond all known time.

His consciousness drifts in a purgatory spanning what is hours, but is rather eons in his own unaligned infinite outer consciousness, mingling the visceral reality of the operating room with non-sequitur dreams and the background noise of the hospital's televisions, and in and out of worlds alike; but also unknown.

Symposium: A Concept Theory

The track is a direct musical translation of Plato's Dualism—the belief that the mind/soul is separate from the physical body.

[The Body]

The character's physical being is the object of suffering (the operating table), imperfect and subject to the knife.

[The Soul]

His consciousness detaches, viewing the scene from above—this is the transcendent perspective, attempting to find "The Form of Truth" outside the confines of the suffering body.

The character's hours-long, suspended state—neither fully alive nor dead, neither fully conscious nor dreaming—is the album's metaphor for the Ladder of Ascent in the Symposium. He is stuck in the intermediate steps, struggling between the earthly, mortal reality and the potential for a higher, purer vision, while the surrounding hospital noise and fragmented dreams represent the strange, sometimes absurd "speeches" (like Aristophanes' myth) that interrupt the pursuit of ultimate truth.

In Socumopolus Open On the Operating Table, the operating room becomes the stage for a private, intense symposium on what it means to be aware when the self is literally dismantled.

The surreality is not in the musicality, but the concept of the artwork itself, which reads most like an awkward statue or sculpture stationed distinctly in the way of a place you least expected, or perhaps even dead-center your normal course. It blocks the path with the cause to force you to think of creating an alternate route, or to travel or explore beyond what is familiar or known— or perhaps— just to force you to think at all when you may suppose the rest can just be turned off, as you cross out or autopilot and into a newfound structure for your own immortal cause.

Thank You for Listening.

Chroma 111.

The Shoestring Theory.

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

Chroma111.

She does backflips

Purple cosmos

Whole turnover—

We set the whole world on its stomach;

A

Whole corpse

So so wrong

Oh oh oh,

You made me fall in love

Oh,

You made me fall in love







“Jimmy Gets Belligerent”



Hey.



Yeah.



Remember when Anne Hathaway went into God Mode?



FLASHBACK:



ANNE HATHAWAY goes into GOD MODE.



CUT IMMIDIATELY BACK TO:



Yeah.



Well this is that, but Jimmy Kimmel.



oh boy.



Yeah, that.



{enter the multiverse}



lol.



Please writing gods tell me how and why this dude is running around the multidimentions carrying briefcases of sedatives and other recreational enhancements—



JIMMY KIMMEL enters EXTREMELY CONFUSIEDLY.

And also, why,

Apparently he remembers nothing at all,

While everyone else in this entire arc seems to have some sort of familiarity within these paradoxes??



I don't know.



But I love Jimmy Kimmel.



Duh, who doesn't?



Yeah alright— but you know why?



DAVID LETTERMAN

MOO-HA-HA!



Yo what the fuck.



That dude is kind of evil.



TINY KIMMEL (staring into the old ass television SET in a hypnotic state, mimicking with his own version of this evil, diabolical laugh.)

Ehheehee!!!



DAVID LETTERMAN discovers TELESYNTHESIS via his late night ENDEAVORS, all the while unmasking the true secret to TIME TRAVEL and THE MULTIDIMENSION, unlocked.



YOUNG(ER) LETTERMAN

Yessss, come to me dear child!

Yeeeesssssssss.



Damn.



Yeah.



That right there.



That's how it works, apparently.



L E G E N D S



MOOHAHA!

wtf.



CC

Sometimes we see the things in the TV which are plainly meant to see, but so often overlooked…



{Enter The Multiverse}



Stephen Colbert

Lost Light



I was thinking fondly about that scene at the end of the first season of The Studio—

That nearly final shot from the finale where the light hits Seth Rogen's smiling eyes, and made them seem ten times bigger than they ever thought they could be— or how maybe possibly,

How you never quite noticed how beautiful they are, because you're always remarkably distracted by his charm, and his trademark laugher, or his other well known markers.

But I was thinking about it for a second time today, because I was also still somewhere somehow working on the other part of my projects that were although, still falling apart, however important— this ramshackle chaos between all of these media monarchies, the hosts of late night television —though some departed— and an arc that was coming together from scenes i'd already written in hiatus but still probably couldn't find, even if I tried…

and the basis of it was really so dark and so off from what the regular gesture or any of those personalities was as established, I sometimes stayed off it, even if though the vision in my mind that made the anchor of something that was supposed to come from that side of the project, was so vivid in the moment, as if I was watching the actual finished product played back or played out in my mind.

The reality of my actual life had become such a cruel joke that I no longer really even wanted to cave in and just write it, because I was so particularly embarrassed of how i'd even thought of [any of] that.



But here was this, Mr. Stephen Colbert, whom I adored severely, who also had eyes that were quite shiny and large and round that made him, with his boyish face and little dimples, quite cute to look at— but more like a teddy bear, than any vicious or decrepit sexual monster, like some of the other [aforementioned], or so, not mentioned for other reasons.

To be clear, this is what, from what I would gather, could come with the job, but the job was also another job, and had its own sort of chronicled problems and equations to solve that I could gawk at, if I watched enough of them.



So far, however, there was only really only never more than one I would ever flock to for my gawking, and because I was so enamored by it, I mostly never bothered the others, until it came up in my project as something so artful that it would cause such a gentle heart murmur as one did—



This sudden image of Mister Colbert standing in a stream of light in however an outward darkness, with the expression one might call a ‘longingness' as if in all the light had been forgotten—and now was shining on him with such a glow that it took the warmth inside my glow from it, as I saw this, a man of shadows seeming to have come to a final moment of some hope left.



But was it lost?

Was it false hope?

And what had happened?



Last I left dear Colbert and our other dearly beloved in a twist of fate— a paradox at the proportion of Titans, in that this, a pocket watch, and a very daunting silver pistol, seeming to be stuck inside a hall of some sort where the linoleum floors and barren abandonment amongst the tattered and ripped unkempt nature of either of them—

—Or at least I believed in my head—

it were Mr. Kimmel and Colbert, but the scene had been somewhere so long gone and forgotten that I could not remark on which other host it was, that had the memories of all the paradoxes still sharp and hard on his mind, while poor Kimmel somehow seemed, even after a thousand rounds of groundhogged circumstances— (that is to say ‘over and over')— to not remember anything that had happened?



But what did happen?



And still this was far off from that same shadowed dark place where now in this vivid moment Mister Colbert stood looking up into the light with such grace as if to say, maybe he was thankful for what was approaching— but what?

In this pale and yellow warm light streaking across his already very shiny eyes and pleasant face he seemed to be seeking some relief and may have even found it, but was now alone in this place, silver pistol still clutched in his hand, and standing even in the dark set, some percentium arch, rather, as the floor beneath his feet seemed even that rubber type you'd find upon a stage somewhere…



But where had I drifted off?



I'd come to New York all those years ago mindlessly writing about what appeared to be that same watch, or a watch—a pocket watch, that was somehow rather important to the plot, also.

It had to have been important because, at least I thought, it was Morgan Freeman that brought it up [in the first place].



And of course I couldn't overlook at all how anyone I'd written about or thought of fondly just rather seemed to show up in these shows where the hosts were so good at their job they sometimes almost entirely disappeared in plain sight —

and for a moment the spectacle was that they even seemed to have removed themselves as a whole from the eyes of the camera, and the audience at the job.



A well-done late night host is often a man inside a hole— a suit in the dark where there's not light, because in essence, in the man, he must remain as trapped and as silenced as I have been, or I am, as I write this.



And perhaps that's why I found them here, in a foreign land, in my prison trap where I keep my eyes from the rest of the world that cannot have them, under my public sunglasses and ‘why-try' when I am forced to go out into the world and have at it, but always quite missing my mark and stumbling back into the box with much damage and the excitement of a child on Christmas to see my cat, and a warm box, and an hour of something to laugh at.



But this project was no laughing matter— mostly because it was sadness; sadness which I kept composed—



[the neighbor exits quietly]



Oh she IS capable of shutting the door normally. Look at that.



—Sadness which I kept composed as darkness, woven into songs as verses or poems as proses without ever giving it a single thought of what was reflected or why it was I was decided to watch that.



{Enter The Multiverse}



After all, we began chasing Skrillex into forests with monsters, and now balance the delicate calorie deficits of all of what they have— the actors and actresses, media titans, and even politicians, as I burn through my own light like the Palisades fires, where ironically my legend was born before I'd even think to write it;



L E G E N D S



Somewhere in a place inside my mind where my diaries and lost unrequited love would become sometimes my light and sometimes my darkness and the forced focus of becoming nothing without actually being done— this sort of infinite place that has to exist somewhere in my mind, because it does— and also out in the world —



[the door slams violently]



Nevermind, she sucks.

They all suck.



—because thst's where it comes from.



So what of Colbert, and the Gun, and the watch, and the Owl, and all of our friends on the trains, in the mazes and libraries?



I hadn't not the slightest cause to reckon where the rest of it was because the tragedy of the story was still being just as lived as it was written. The variable pertaining to how many times I had seemingly fallen in love with nothing more than just a shadow or simple reflection of my own thoughts—

Glimpses into mirrors and corridors of infinite in all the effective possibilities of the things I'd ever wanted. Perhaps the darkness was that without searching, I wanted to be loved—

And it was here, the whole time, quantified and personified in the people that had so much of it, that I could take the idea of such and skate on it, like a complex sort of obstacle, that it wasn't directed at me— but then it was— because I was looking to deeply into something I loved,

That it would come back in the form of something, no matter what it was.



Long after the perfume was gone, the diamond eyes would still remind me of an Owl that I had once seen and even become, but since arriving in New York and staying too long, had not come back.



There certainly was a piece or part of me that had lived and died here, but I was unsure what it was yet.



But what of Colbert? Even this was an incomplete and intercepted thought, or concept.



All I looked at was him in this light, clutching this little gun that I loved because it was so silver and so polished and so small,

And the words



“Lost Light”.



So perhaps I'd write that song next.



[The Festival Project ™]



—Death of a Superstar DJ

Chroma111.



INT. CRYPT. ROCKEFELLER PLAZA.



I told you he was a genius!



[a mechanical sound erupts from the cooridor above.]



Hey! What happened?!



BILL MURRAY

Well, that's easy! You're trapped.







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

Not even a wisper of collision penetrates explicitly this inclusion;

Segmented and represented this disarray of miserable approval,

And, abject,

Or i object, I guess

To that which is to say

Today is in between the ordinary and disarray,

To make arrangements;

A solemn display of effect and intent of regression,

And yet without all clear disrespect to port or establishment;

Still here are there words and where there was love, no more— none for her but then around, within arousal stands as that, to which has since been lost,

If not to time, another concept thus by force unknown, to with and withstand habitat for circumstantial evidence of coincidence,

But yet arbitrary and then dismayed for short or arc,

There this, no more her words for flower, more of words to thus embark.

Still time,

Very well, my breath, for I have opened a foreign chapter—

Then with the way you say, you wore our out,

In time you are uncovered for her drugs and left to smuggle over-under—

Therefore when that said time has come, you know to form the drift to wait,

And yet lack still this patience I have tamed you many acres since the ancients fell upon there ails;

There pitting since sunk and crucial to this, and our time is not lost nor won, disheveled making prayers for sense and dollar signs;

No have no more barren chest and thought of songs, much less a found the words for songs as though my love has crept upon the rock,

That dusk and dawn, the ocean licks with parched tongue.

Scare her dry and feast and fragile and evidence remained as these as words and thoughts,

The truths would tell the tale for every way.

With each drift scattered mark, upon those boats with sails above known not as white but also many colors of the brethren cut from clothes of all apart and none of one, for this, her maritime.



{Enter The Multiverse}



I opened right to Debbie downer;

I got medicine for your habit

(I got the remedy in the form of a secret,

But the misery is in keeping it)

I got a kind heart,

I did some mai tai,

Should have learned some thai chi

As if I took some matcha

Or chai tea

Caffeine

Adrenaline

I got a kind heart

Adderall instead of Ritalin

Entry level access

Salary yellow fashion,

Intercept, invest

Inception, redirect

Service elevator, eh;

She don't live here no more

But where she is?

Couldn't tell you.

What's the story

On a ten star war.

No more Harvard,

Purple hearted general,

General admission to a festival?

Just miss me that that bullshit.

For your pleasure,

Every crevice just has pressure in it—

Now I get it

I hypnotized myself, I guess

The ribbon

Blue belt

I should be cleaning instead of half sleeping;

I keep explaining myself thinking somebody can hear me

When they obviously can't.

I've been screaming silently for seven seconds,

Several years I think on other planets



Pull your hair back in a bun

And then you'll learn, I guess

I passed out cold upon the stand

That was the plan, I guess



Much slower to close than to open,

Although,

I know I pop-button broke the code before

But still no low moral summoning

(Sorry, product)

Still no low road or mud throwing

No more home



She's 32 and 3 months older

But looks much longer

And harder, tired

Must have body or

Motive

Must have body

Or bad intentions



Take a man, and write a book about it

Take a man, and write a book about it



I call that a thirst trap

I call that a thirst trap.



She must no longer

Prim and proper

But the work is never over,

Show us all the roots, and know the knowledge

But don't talk or comment on it

I was “almost” once

And I was honest twice

Three times, you're a liar

Mister, honor, pleasure,

Fisher wife

And never leather,

Tipping tethered,

Tied to rock and kite

And lock and key

For here and there

Forbearance, rather

Here for never ever after

Amen and then some



L E G E N D S



I told you Jimmy Fallon was a Skrillex.

I know.



What's worse: Skrillex is a Jimmy Fallon.



Oh, that is worse.



yO iT iS pRoGrEsSiVeLy WOrSE:



Is this what you wanted?

The awful destruction of constructs—

Click, boom—

Knife, gun,

Add an axe,

Bind the axel,

Excellent,

Put the prejudice inside your head ahead

(We brought it back)

Put the Edipus complex

To this effect

Upon a platter

Silver as the gun at stake,

And raise the hand that shouldn't matter

After that?

You won. Four tries;

Six goons, Four Gods,

One white ther I have

Two white coats and misters, hot coals

Dark fires, have ones,

Six mazes, one center

On your mark



“The Dark Forest”



Ugh I hate this one,



Get set



Don't forget, we all died here.

We all crisis,

We all Christ.



Goosebumps, right?



Gimmie that kite! You dumb son of a bitch!



GO!



Check it out! I look like Kim Kardashian.



But you smell like Kim Chi.



Yooo that joke took me like 2 months to write down!



I know huh!



[The Festival Project ™]



I looked for something on Hulu to watch for so long that I almost ate my entire dinner without clicking on something.

Finally, I find something that interests me, which is just a graphic of a television set and some color palette by now that is somewhat of a calling card for me.

So I get there,

And it is of interests,

And yet of course the unexplainable anomaly of this, is that, no matter how far I try to run l

He just keeps coming back.



‘Like this is crazy.'



I never found myself agreeing with Louis C.K. about anything at all, and personally and particularly, I never found him funny, until, that was the sudden realization that the same array of betrayal, anger, and agony fueled by rage and jealousy had taken over he and I and many others probably, when introduced to the possibility of having to share the same reality with a head of hair and a face like that.



I might have mustered a “my sentiments exactly” though silently before taking in to my own wonder and amazement that twice in one week, besides skipping over the algorithmic traps in my sidebar which I treated like little land mines or time bombs, but mostly allotted to my own Internet history of my uninhabited viewing, as it seemed I'd been most preoccupied in rerouting this energy into a fascination with TV programming, giving me the satiety for the comfort and familiarity in something; and I was with some some kind of certainty I knew alluded to the old adage of mother knowing everything.



Even if everything hadn't happened yet, actually, or maybe it had.



This strange sort of desire however was some sort of weakness, with the ability to have a fixation for a desire without any way of actually getting it.



As she used to say.



“Having champagne taste, but beer money.”



[so I avoid it because it makes me angry.]



Sometimes even, tearfully angry, and it made me feel so uncontrollably adolescent that I would have equated it to the hysteria of beetlemania; screaming and clawing and aching and chasing for this being that was so notably out of reach.



Worse off, I'd realized in this running from what seemed was chasing me was how common I was in this feeling, []

To my demise.

In this sense, the safety of this entire being and any alike, was that I could seek logic in my jealousy by rationalizing not attaching to a certain subject sexually or otherwise. But this basis in the contempt of familiarity was really rather irritating, in that it seemed as simple as having an awareness of this seeing all the time, to the point that I became a subconscious aching for [something], blossoming into the actual conscious awareness out of the repressive need for something I no longer had and always wanted:



[The Festival Project ™]



And for for this, I considered it a sort of sickness that I couldn't seem to tear away from it, but also something that had happened very naturally, and now had unearthed an entire cavern of secrets I could be found no where writing or even very rarely thinking them.



Thoughts or ideas worth protecting and the kind of code that goes about saying nothing, looking the other way, keeping your mouth shut and hiding or guarding with your life.



But media, or the eye that seems to see all lately had been poking at it, maybe because I wasn't. Maybe because I spent an hour at a time four day a week with [a less than separate set of characters] —or big brother, if you will, in a safe and respectable distance and admiration []

Where I could at a certain pace study this sort of programming without anything having to be reflective of the life I wasn't living— the sex I wasn't having.

Watching the ABC version of late night programming was allowing me to focus on the other things I needed— being very skinny, and crossing one leg over the other and sitting pretty; while also showing me another side of a suit and tie that was interesting—

The ability to be invisible, and also say many things without talking, for anyone paying attention to the complex series of things very often overlooked by a normal onlooker or audience,

Which I was, and wasn't— because I was looking for something. The mind boggling thing to me was, by watching, I was actually finding it.

[The Festival Project ™]



—Death of a Superstar DJ

As Seen on TV

The Television People

“Puzzle Pieces”



I don't want anything

I don't want anyone

Conflated circumstance

Oh, it was was just a nut—

Got it and now it's gone

Pulled it all off at the thought

It was Thunderous

But now I got it together

I don't want anyone

Especially not a poor boy

No I'm not alone, boy

I got my kitty

Pet the cat and love my pussy,

So it's really not a mystery

I don't need him, or anybody really

Miss me with that shit



That's a pretty promise and a big redaction

Deadass

I stepped into my ballet shoe

And onto shards of glass

I guess that's on pointe

But off topic

Co-ed saunabody shopping

I show up at Equinox

But only when I want

(On proxy)

I protect my heart

(On God)

I don't want nobody really.

One one-off on Wall Street, brother

Don't bother calling back

Don't got my number,

Not a problem

Not my name

Or my address

Cause if you did

You'd be depressed like I am.

Now we're getting dressed

You take a cab

I take the train

Just another day of training

But my life. Is steady draining

There's no use in even explaining myself

I guess I'm selfish

Like dental floss for Christmas

Or shellfish for the kitty

But for me just friuits and veggies

You don't notice?

I love nobody,

Cause nobody could love me

Now I'm over it

Now I'm over it

Now I'm over it

But you know the cost

I was nothing

Now I want

Nothing

Nobody love me

I don't want nobody,

No I'm not sorry

How they're swarming on my GPS location

With these second rate bit glitches

I stay sleeping in my kitch

But I'll never rest, I guess

Until theirs justice

Said that.

{Enter The Multiverse}



Excerpt: The Television People (TVP)

Season 4

© The Complex Collevtivd

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

All rights Reserved



REGINALD



Would you kill your prostitute for one million dollars?



PATRICK



Why would you ask me that?



REGINALD

That's an odd answer. I'd expect your response to be somewhere along the lines of denial of— ever having a prostitute.



PATRICK

I'm a talk show host.



REGINALD

Is that supposed to mean something?



PATRICK

There are certain societal assumptions.



REGINALD

Do you find yourself—befitting to any of those stereotypes?



PATRICK

I don't find myself “befitting” at all.



REGINALD

You know, local [charters of our office] —

(But Patrick speaks quickly and with dominance to cut him off.)



PATRICK

Now that I know what you are—



REGINALD

You mean “who”?



PATRICK

I mean “what”; why make and owl's cry in response to a dog's bark?



[a realization between the both of them is immidiately found; this sort of language has implied they are belonging to the same branch of THE EYE which acts above the law; it is a fair fight— and now they this phrase has been established, there are now rules written or unspoken which can be applied here.] REGINALD cocks his head and forces an awkward smirk.



REGINALD

Very well.



I am quite the trouble maker;

I am mischief,

I am danger,

I am Chaos, I am leveled

I am honored, I am damned

I am also coming making day of peace and hallowed are you;

I am also coming waves of needing peace to which I bound to.



So sparrow coming grace and peace and giving,

Made and tied,

Though had you not the ever presence or the record for the time,

So then you too shall wander, mercilessly to and fro and all about,

And here and there but never where my value has been gathered.



So for that, the dust is set,

And said and twisted, never making bread for peace

And dead for death, and craving this, to set of force her

Having made my honor there, and lying in the wit and willow, weathered veins and weathervane,

And twisting wind of fate and fortune.



So, my mind and tressure buried there for gains and white, her shadow

Barren in the east, and in the west her mortuary;

Seeking sane and crypt but tied and kept for thithered foust and fouling,

Butter turned to brittle, May, September,

Then another serpent—

More to moulf and wept her slated dream for keeping broken bear in,

There the wake had frozen into lake and also leather boxes,

For what will of what I am and is her fare not wearing any;

Though the mister winds of east and west had set her onward any.



Lemons and limes, though—

Taking my time, soured

Never with water, sugar

But chest without pride;

There in the wake marked and marched o. Her army,

Not to yawn or buyoer billow,

Porridge feathered,

Cream and none for part her hunger



There though, then were the marks

And the found of the wicked past;

Ties there and fire would have her mark upon the dungeon throne,

Weeping here though on the floor for flour

Every hour passed as I, come creeping with the forest feathered, dimmed the basket having cut from tethered grass, I.



And now we wait though them, here,

The marshmellow and willow not having woken,

Though Monday, for total control of her honor,

Contorted.



Then came, seeking guild and weight and force,

The fear and wind though wish to pull apart the storm had gathered, fell apart itself,

Though sit not back and then became as strong, a pebble which from dust became an avalanche at once, through windows past, I—

Marked one forest, and one warm summer,

And one forest, and good quilt, did slither, and then making in the forest, I, for did I run

As yet to suffer also.







Yo where the fuck am I going.



Alright, airtight we want and something foraged from nothing in her name,

And this the time that tells itself for life and health

In other ways besides your own.

Don't cough.

For those who either suffering or lost know of your forces and so sure does come the rock that turned from stone in forests over,

So you sure too shall come another,

Poor and hurt but soon to suffer,

Also.



tisk- tisk

The risk my friends is running wise,

The coyotes running wild for find that lone and feathered friend,

To which has flight with all the know that he, and friends are feasts of foe and so these might and waves of time are sure to grow into another.



Right on.



So I write on and then, the missed and uninformed becomes again the death I recommended.



Ten till ten tales and also please give, and whistle whalfolks under our time which has lost mine and all others.



So tempted there come gathered, weeping

Feathers at her slaughtered as palms,

Weight beyond the brow and below the belt to which that called her—

Devil's mate and crater for the fate but fame at heart earned, casting shadows over which has lost its appetite, for now becalmed her hunger.

Her hunger.

Her hunger.



REGINALD's tone changes entirely— if at first it may have been a playful game (and it wasn't) now it is serious— crucial, even.



REGINALD

Why did you do it?



PATRICK

I wouldn't do something like that…



REGINALD



—something like what?



PATRICK realizes quickly he's been playing over in his mind that has not yet fully been realized on the surface of the conversation— it was an honest answer, but still implicit, and so in this moment of self awareness and realization, also of stunning showman and marksmanship, a certain light comes on as if the camera has been directed at him; his entire mask comes on at once, and no longer can the reminisce of an honest thought be detected.

He has become a wall.



PATRICK

To follow up on your first question. Which was odd—



REGINALD

About killing your prostitute.



(He means to intimidate, but PATRICK is a stone.)



PATRICK

You must not watch my show at all.



REGINALD takes a moment to collect himself, with even just the slightest and temporary glimpse of fear in that he may have met his mental match, and has already lost the fight, also collecting his briefcase before he



I told you no more trains.



At the risk of sounding obnoxious, I've started ignoring all the voices in my head—

Even though they're always right.



fuck!



REGINALD pauses, takes a deep breath while opening the door before looking back over his shoulder.



REGINALD

I must not.



He walks out and immediately slams the door behind him.



PATRICK, as if still in the eye of the camera remains calm, although, just the glimmer of fire in his eyes reflect the battle has yet been won.



But as we all know by now,

He will win the fight.



The television people, season four



I can't stand these fuckin hoes;

Two days off in your hole

Offers you a whole new perspective

Of your own God complex;

You're better off alone,

Dead,

Or on prescription medicines

For all those thoughts in your head

Like the bullet holes left from the gun

That is poor and alone

And just not having money.

Confidence lost with a look,

And you're sure you just should have gone come

But the court office closes its doors at 4:30

And you've been done wrong

Four long lost lovers over,

It not about that, but motorcycles

It's not about reps,

It's about cycles

I'm one our Peloton down

And a whole world to go

While you morons just on and on

Won't stop talking

Here's to disturbing your peace at the equinox

And anywhere else you rest your rotten core,

You dirty who're—

What's it costs for love?

Not a whole lot,

Don't you see that I'm struggled in Brooklyn?

Fuck this whole raw sewage garbage bucket

If I gargle hard enough I'll just throw up

But you push all the bottles and straws to the end of the curb

And the colored sand blacks to the outskirts

So we work harder

It's a ocean of no

But you know not what it does not to know me

So below your own suffering goes the call of the crow just before dawn Mx

To drop out

Cool

I don't want to be here

I just want a surfboard

Apparently it's your year

But I'd slit my wrists for Harvard



Yeah, it is— that kind of hurt

Yes, it is that kind of pain

The corvette stole your very favorite colors

And your name

That sort of wickedness,

Just before it ends

The candles flickers and the winter's coming in atop the l marble kitchen counters



All right, all yours

Patched up, or in the poorhouse

Compliments to the chef, of course, compliments to the chef.



Gotta go to the court house

Of course cause I'm black

So it's automatically implied

I just don't work hard enough

Or just ain't made the cut

My momma was a dancer, not an athlete

My momma made me fat and now I can't do that either



If I'm the other black girl In a room full of white men

I automatically become

“The ugly one”

So then I'm off.



What's the point of coming here?

A black book?

A black box?

Try to run me off out of the equinox on Walter

Well done.

I should not have wrote about it



Lil bitz



My son accused me of being in the Illuminati.

He's 9.



How do you even respond to that?



I love my son,

He's like really, really… fat.

It's okay—

I kinda like it; he's fat,

I used to be fat;

So we talk about fat people shit.



Like McDonald's.

And ham.



lol



This lady on the subway leaned on my hand on the pole.

And I mean like really leaned into it,

With her whole body weight.

I just came from the gym,

I been up all night,

And she like—

Leaned.



Like, you know I didn't say shit, I just let it happen,

But inside I'm like,



WHY ARE YOU TOUCHHING MEEEEEEEEE?!!?!?



WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME?!



This train is not full.



I don't think you understand.

I just came out the steam room.



I am the equivalent of fresh and pressed.

Then she's just gon

Leeeean.



FUCK THAT.

STOP TOUCHING MEEEEE.



but like irl I'm just standing there like,

No protest.



Inside:

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

STOP IT!



Outside:

[nothing]



Chroma111.



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

JIMMY KIMMEL takes a long horn of a mysterious white substance up his nose.



JIMMY KIMMEL

You're right. That is good cocaine. Like really good.



—only the best!



JIMMY KIMMEL

I'm going to bed now



What?!



JIMMY KIMMEL

I've got to go to sleep.



Are you serious?!



JIMMY KIMMEL

Very serious. You know. Mucho tired.

Now excuse me.



I don't understand.



JIMMY KIMMEL passes out face down on the couch.





{Enter The Multiverse}



Lil bitz





The jonas borthers made a christmas movie and at first I wasn't sure why,

But then I thought about it harder,

I was like

“jonas brothers…

Christmas…?”



Oh, i get it–



Like,

“Ho, Ho, Ho!”

…cause there's three of them.



L. JONES

DUM-DUM!

YA LOOK RATCHET.



BLŪ

Omg why r u 18 feet tall.



L. JONES

YA LOOK CRUSTY.



BLŪ

I am crusty.



L. JONES

YA LOOK LOST.



BLŨ.

I am lost!



L. JONES

WHY I AINT GET MY WISH YET?

HUH?!



I'm not being Blū Tha Gürū right now. I'm just—

[almost hit by a bus]



L. JONES

you simple bitch.



BLŨ

—blū.



L. JONES

What the hell that supposed to mean?



BLŪ

You came all the way to the lower realms just to be that tall.



—Nah! Look, this is difficult. Can we just MERGE?



BLŪ

Nah uh— I already merged with—



L. JONES

Uhh-huh!



—enough of you!

Enough of you



—“alumni”



Enough of you already!



Just.



{Enter The Multiverse}



Alright. We merged.

Now where we at?

I don't even know.

Simple bitch.



Molly with the suede suit,

Black shirt

Tan boots,

Truth, King,

Speak words—

Design: leave earth

Three times,

I need

Meanwhile,

Three hursts,

Three tries,

The bullet doesn't miss twice,

He hurts.

Please, rehearse

Get back in the beer bandit

Here, bandit!

(Hound dog)

Heavy job, son—

Him and all birds,

All God,

That's a strong heart—

Let it blow out.

Candle dust?

Here and there.

Set the box?

Theatre office.

Want a crumb?

Want a whole number on a warred bat?

This dimension's all that;

This dimension's all that and then some!

Clear to the agenda and a brick wall—

I'll probably cut my head off

I'll probably cut my head off—

Before I cut my hair off;

Lead ball?

Medicine.

Ten tall messages and massive planted evidence.

Ten all autographs and all the fumbled balls caught;

Penned down hens and reprimanded feeble horseradish,

Course, cough, hold it back a second if you're strong, though—

Sure, cross your heart inside of Molly in the bottle,

I put the message down the river just a bit,

But just a bit—

But just a second, for the kids;

The syndicate is dead, infact.

I'm stuck inside your head, in fact—

The President misread, in fact,

The fractal our eyes mattered,

Tip a hat to Mr. Random,

On appealed ball fields,

Diplomat and moral conduct,

Struck before the clock forgot construct itself,

Around and about,

For here and for now, our—

Missing hatred for negating, nothing said I

And bitter here bats, and slaughtered hear hearts,

For the never late the daughters eyes,

For turning over Lilly leaves and parceled tongues,

And tisk for tat, there were upon the Ace, her hands

And slain in ink for our might.

Therefore, to say, he hated her,

Bearing him none and down the arm would flow the anchor, gallantly—

Whispering cheery cherry blossoms in the hour I,

For their time stands to nothing,

Stands to none at all but thought forgotten

Here for are, I

And bare to one the number,

Won the fight and mastered in the mortar,

All the ashes flames and flit and flicker, tith the half, I,

And fully weighed the anchor this and hither bate of fount, aye.

And thou art my God;

To stand and know and wither here under yet; brings us though nothing but thousand years longer,

And nothing this time has yet passed us in all knowing, not keeping but feeling not seeking the band her;

This waits you and I forage keep the heaping wate and grip that have I for your fortune, meadow tatter art,

And ye,

Ye shall not find me.



Now I go.



What?!



She said she's leaving.

IKNOWTHAT,



L E G E N D S



Red is the ram,

Goes hard on the court;

Ramshakle! Ramshakle!

Full on the course;

Coarse is the red jackal,

Red suit and tie;

Red is the sea,

If you're willing to die,

And I'd part it for neither and none,

So come one and come all

To the unknown dungeon,

Of full feathered flowers.



This thing is just festering— I've got to pop it.



Not yet.



I told you, there in his pocket—

An advocate of the well known not-God,

Sure was Chaos the done and the forest,

Dark shadow!

Dark shadow,

Willing and honored.

Forgiving and honest, brotherhoods—

But who art thou?

Keeping your tied and your triads as morals;

Sacred for neither and loyal to none are,

And art in her folds, so as one,

We become our.



Hours and ions and //

Glitches//

And circuit,

Missed calls and mystics//

[Intercepted]

Hollow and all words

And all worlds have gathered

Beyond all our knowledge

The all known has shattered.



So sits beyond her graces in said forest as before none,

And her altered battered ties to one beyond but not the rope cut,

This twisting and the tide came,

All as Scarlett, bronze, and crimson—



Kill her, sire, sure—would you?

Do her the honor;

Untie the monster,

And relish her pleasure,

Please, sir, would you??

Shook her, wrought and gaping,

Incrept, slaughtered and martyred—

Bonded but not undone,

As I bow before I.



—bleeding waves.

Chroma111.



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.

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