moving on.

I'm inside of the machine– Santa Monica– As Seen On TV It's just a game to me Life's a beach Skip the tent This ain't Venice (I'm on Celebrity Apprentice) BURBANK. VENICE. WESTWOOD PANTAGES. HOLLYWOOD. CENTURY CITy MARINA DEL REY Lol i might never finish I _ NY cause i'm too busy fucking hating how fucking noisy and rude it is over here. At least it's not homeless and tents under bridges over here. yeah but it's segregated as fuck tho. At least there's affordable housing! That's correct. —And transit. Also true. And everyone's not so fucking perfectly pretty that I like, need to slit my wrists over it. I mean, there are perfectly good reasons to slit my wrists on the East Coast. Yeah, but it's not dying of “why don't I look like that” (no, it's definitely not that) The fruit fly sighed, “When I die, I'd like to be a butterfly– Admired in the wild, Just for flying by And I replied, “Well, so would I” It was a wonderful sentiment. I thought about killing him just so that he'd make it more quickly to butterfly Maybe that's why white supremacy is out here killing niggaz. “You'll be better in the next life. promise!” “Maybe” *blat blat* “Lets hope” Probably immediately recycled into a better existence. Lets hope. (I didn't kill the fly, I just figured both our lifespans were just about the same length and hoped the best for either of us to be recycled into something beautiful and admirable by others–instead of seen as ‘pests'.) –it became less of a beautiful sentiment and more of a crises when a few days later, I thought of the fruitfly again as a beautiful butterfly fluttered across my window, and as I admired him, a bird swooped down and ate him. That shit was raw. Yep. Nature's a GOAT. –and you expect me to believe that less than 200 years ago we were still brutally fucking murdering people publically just for fun and that all of a sudden that shit is over? Fuck outta here. These people are natural born fucking killers with the equivalant sadism as a fucking lion that likes to play with its food before he kills it. BBQ'n The Spider alienz. Kool-Aid. “The 6th Saint”--whatever the fuck that is. anonymity . (VI) Book I: Secrets // Seekers Book II: Lies // Lights Book III: Shadows// Values A car full of caskets An ear full of oxymorons –A cat full of questions Wallets full of oxycodones Fountains of cocaine Romance on obstacle of fortune, Lust, And emotionless reconciliations –”Illuminatus.” This fucking trap won't open. did you put the password. Yeah, like six times already– I'm scared if I try again and fail, I'll have to restart the level. Did you try saying it? What do you mean? Say the password. Say it? Did I stutter? Like, out loud? Yeah, out loud. Why would I do that? It might work. It's not–there's no mic. Try it. … … “Illuminatus.” [unlocked] huh . What's up. It opened. Huh. For Your Consideration Unfamous Whatever LEVELS (Or Lack Thereof.) Explorers of The Multiverse The Wonderful World of Series Q10 (A Sociological Experiment) Flux Capacitor Every time that door slams I swear to GotT I get fucking richer I swear to GOD every time that door slams I become a fucking icon I fucking swear every time that door slams money is added to my fucking metaphorical piggy bank I swear to God Every time that door slams Karma crawls up the ass of whoever the fuck slammed it and waits there Until it becomes the most painful everliving shit that door slamming piece of fucking shit ever has to take In their life I fucking swear This beat is made of cotton I picked it, But i didn't want to (I didn't want to pick it) Then the master made me Nobody even paid me To do: lol [never in my life and all my gods would i ever] —fuck these f*gg-t motorcycle door slamming ass… The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.