-Post Season Soliloquy.

Here, they call with disco balls Stars in my eyes, but stars do fall First true love dies hard after all, No star shines bright as morning comes —(for) Sonny Five seconds of poop in my ears. ‘Strange' I had been listening to the same thing nearly every day for months; All of a sudden, it scraped against my senses in the worst way possible; ‘I don't want to hear this.' –and, I really didn't. For the first time in a very long while, I didn't want to hear deadmau5–worse than that, I didn't like the way it sounded, all of a sudden—-and it was, very sudden, as I had just been listening to it earlier in the night (and earlier through the week, month, year–so on.) It was astonishing to actually have found something I could listen to with infinite replay value; though I'd decidevely been spending my peaceful moments in silence, or as close to silence as I could possibly ever come, deadmau5 was a close second-to-none wash away of whatever I was thinking or feeling, and into a trance-like state of autonomy, without doing much else than moving in any direction or another, monotonously functioning at minimum capacity. Perhaps it wasn't only that I didn't want to hear anything around me, but perhaps also that I didn't want to think or feel much of anything, and somehow his music was good for that. Over the PA system at work rang a tune I may or may not have heard before, but was yet somehow familiar–perhaps my sudden onset aversion to deadmau5 was programmed for none other than this, either to quickly jot down my experience, or even this–to have finely focused on the song playing over the loudspeakers in that moment, as I often used my headphones to distract from whatever it was that was playing at the gym–more often than not, either way-too-happy or way-too-sad white girls singing about whatever the result of their circumstances were, and not that the rules were any different for the songs played by boys, but it all always did irritatingly remind me of the out-of-placeness I always felt being myself, excluded from being the muse or the ingenue in any musician's world, and yet also typically offset by the crude and off putting hip-hop or rap which was occasionally played, where black or brown girls were on display as artifacts, rather than women–or perhaps, a combination of the two–which my untraditional body typ forbade me from being, and so was bread a distinct jealousy and bitterness stemming from anything which might have been played besides Beyonce, who I ha begun to admire with a shimmering bedazzlement, or anything which might catch my ears production wise–typically Dj/producer's I'd heard of, but sometimes hadn't–and this particular rift, which gripped me in a different type of way than usual, pulling and persuading me to reach for my phone and hurriedly Shazam it, before it changed back into something less attractive. Low-an behold, it was finally the angel I had asked for long ago, perhaps a stretch or perhaps a sign because I needed it to be– It was Avicii's collaboration with Imagine Dragons, Heart Upon My Sleeves–which I knew nothing about, but pondered whether it was made before, or after his death–I half-smiled, and as I had just so happened to have finished an entry of The Festival Project outlining a shapeshifting competition throughout the inner-and-outer realms, a gentle nudge to keep moving forward, whether coincidence or not–the next person to walk through the door just so happened to look enough like Tim to force a begrudging nod to my own imagination's power, and whether or not it meant anything in that moment, I knew that my plea into the cosmic heavens to help me make sense of the massive and altogether unprintable, vastly chaotic and seemingly organizable Festival Project as a whole was somehow being answered–somehow, but I knew neither the some or the how, and rather effectively hated the entirety of my existence, which was just to work and workout with no one and nothing of my own as of yet to make anything worth it, in the name of love or otherwise. The title of itself was reminiscent of the tattoo I still owed myself, for one reason or another, but the biggest reason being something about it was crystalized into my being as was the stone I had forgotten to carry on this very night; It hadn't mattered much in awhile–I didn't need any totems to be constantly reminded of Dillon Francis, or of anyone or anything I loved for that matter– it was a a serious enough affliction that it ad at least crossed the barrier between obsession and into a mere infatuation, though listening to any of his music was out of the question, just as it was so to attend any of his appearances. Gazing into the depths of my Google Documents, however, it was duly noted that he had somehow weaseled his way into my infinite creativity, forever immortalized in the very least sense as a character to the never-ending Saga which was The Festival Project–still, something lurking deep within me glossed and glamored on finding a suitable distraction from having to involuntarily fall prey to my own fantasies, and victim to my own hormones rushing towards peak-fertility and growing in my celibacy and abstinence, ever more painful with each passing day. Without being too attached to the idea of attachment itself, I was on the prowl for anything that was anything, without having to use Tinder as a disastrous medium; I wanted a real-life person, to meet in real-life and have real-sex with–knowing that as soon as I did have a distraction, these lucid fantasies and sexual obsessions would fade away into a laughable, delusional afterthought. My baby fever could easily be traded for a passable career in entertainment, working hard enough at anything that I loved that it would seem silly to reproduce in the midsts of any of it–it was a raw and solid fact that the life I truly craved was one that Dillon Francis and any of his romanticized counterparts had already lived, besides what I was sure was a million-mile long list of women in every city on every continent imaginable; I knew by this point in my life, that I would always be startlingly monogamous and prone to falling in love with love itself, wanting really just to be best friends with benefits which would solidify the foundation for a perfect marriage, however–the entertainment industry lifestyle provided endless opportunities for polyamoury and experimentation, none of which I felt like I really wanted, but also hadn't had the chance to experience–while a closed-marriage with children seemed like a priority, I had always been less than ideally attractive, and poor to boot–were I to reach into the realms of actual success and wealth, would I be as unmovable a force as I felt I was? I thought so, but I thought too much– and therefore the infinite fabric of the world I was constantly building up and breaking down around me was just-so crucially-that–infinite–as were any other creative divinity's exploration through time and space that I knew of, and therefore I carefully abandoned the notion of being anybody's ‘One', r my awful ex, who I considerably might end up back with, once whatever dumb girls he was preoccupying time with got the same lesson I had. And while I prayed to find a love as deep and as pure like that as it had been in the beginning, I knew to a certain extent that after all was said and done, it couldn't exist. I was too old, too grown, too broken to believe in fairytales, even if I was living and writing in one–I had to separate myself from the protagonist princess, just as I finally had separated Dillon Francis and Sonny Moore from their respective anti-hero Kings. He's a beautiful person (That doesn't exist) You see: It erases the picture All by itself An etch e sketch Kalideacope Ant farm disaster— If this is what you're after, Call back next Saturday, (Or ever after) After I've said enough After supper, After the weather passes, After the sabbath, After never collapses, After an autograph, I swear to laugh, I laugh just to forget I ever practiced math, Or magic, Never purchased meth for mattresses, Remember what a pastor is, But not the taste of Grass fed— Brass candle lit dinners or Tin roofs and Tinder Or dinosaurs, Gore at the core, It's no wonder you're broke And so miserable Ah, look; I broke it Remember the world that you're on; It revolves all on nothing, Removing an uncle from cousins or Curse marks on eyelids or, Wonder what Billie Ellish did to deserve it , Or is it just the white supremacists lasts hurrah, What a bargain: The world all at war over dollars and water I stopped at Applebees frozen and wondered “How long has it been since this all fell apart?” After PETRUTHEIO kills FARRO during the triad lover's quarrel, ending its swift and unpredictable categorization as a briefly onceprofezied courtiers quartetC'EET Iin a fit of forceful grief and rage unleashes an undiscovered trasnformation into an omniscient and devastating diety—a Goddorce which unearths the deadly forces of C'esme't's true powers, overruling the ascended mastery and dividing the kingdom of ascensicia from the higher realms of truth and knowledge; the divides the resulting underworlds into The Upper Realms, The Lower Realms, and the outer realms—casting the inhabitants of the kingdom into unknown and unseen dimensions of darkness, and defending the world into chaos; she Binds Gían and Petruthieo together to suffer the tragedy heartbreak and pain of her existence together, before banishing them respectively to the upper and lower realms, then vanishing without a trace into the unknown; Unbeknownst to the now defended and divided kingdoms, now on the brink of destruction war, famine, and chaos—she journeys into unknown realms in search of Farro, his last words having professed his true and pure love for C'esme't which would allow him to rest peacefully; however, betrayed and deceived by both Petrutheio and Gían, pursues Farro to create and build a new world from their once deeply hidden and newly discovered passionate love for one another. Woah. Yeah, I know. This is what you get writing deadmau5. I get a lot writing deadmau5; But this was deadmau5, 4 days with no sleep, 6 hours a day at the gym and roughly 1000MG of caffeine in a 24 hour period. Trademark. You doing ok? NoX. SometimesC, things get complicated. Is the C silent in Skrillex? that was deadmau5. Is that a language, too? 010000100001000010001 No, I'm just fucking tired. Where's Dillon Francis? I—uh— DILLON FRANCIS IS TRAPPED INSIDE OF A GIANT DISCO BALL. I nearly forgot about the disco ball piñata. Was it a piñata? GERALD WHOSE THE PIÑATA NOW, BITCH?! Gerald is the masked banana?! Idk anymore, I want a houseX. HOMELESS, USA. Is this hell? YesZ. What did I do?! You're just—shittyZ OhZ And nobody loves youS Ok. SOS 911! EMERGENCY. Shit, is Skrillex ok? What's that look on his face? [skrillex] Oh no. Hm. Something is Wong. Mmm Sweet tangerine citrus Cherry mist twist in He said, “I'm just a man” But you're a god, from where I stand You're. God, from where I'd standing You're a god, from where I am {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.