{ MK ULTRA SEX SLAVES DONALD MARSHALL CLONES}

“She's going through my bag.” I thought to myself– the warm running shower over the back of my neck returning me fully to my body; It had taken something like an hour to return to myself– still within and yet so far out of my body, that the twisting and turning cosmic purple light of my natural aura became all of me, as, whisked away through space and time, pushed and pulled through all of the trauma I had endured certainly over the last few years alone, but the entirety of my lifetime–it had all been part of something bigger and greater than I could have known–supposedly all in my control, and yet seemingly not-so at all. I could feel her in the other room, checking my bag–she would find the sage that I had meant to burn in the bathroom during my shower, and yet had been in such a state that I only grabbed my clothes, unwilling to go to the gym: my honesty had again betrayed my own safety–earlier, my roommate asking where I had gone in the late night/early morning before, and my response, which was honest, only confirmed why I had come to the conclusion not once but many times that honesty will only ever hurt you —I had learned well and under the excruciating pain of reality that any vampire, vulture, or entity alone would take honesty as weakness, only to be used against you; I had reached the tipping point in being taken advantage of—I was hungry, owed money, and out of sorts—my new roommate was off in a number of ways, but I was no longer willing to be subjected to whatever experiment at wlll—I had for years been a test rat, my suicidal tendencies, notions, and ideations often vilified, but justifiable nonetheless. ‘I tell the truth!” , the words of Bibi Bourelly, of course one of many of Sonny's suspected lovers, rang in my ears sometimes, as I teetered on the grounds of morality in the under relms of poverty, where people as often as ever lied, stole, or otherwise continually broke more codes and societal expectations in order to get by, or even get ahead – “It's deep, but it ain't that deep.”--more words apparently by the “wise” Bibi, one of the handful of the always-priviliaged, raised-rich spoiled brats Sonny kept in his arsenal, himself a mere tool of the psychological torture which I was certain would eventually end my life, but certainly had halted my affinity for any career or ambition in music whatsoever anyway–not that I cared much for anything. I understood now that I was being controlled and manipulated at nearly every corner–sorted into the overall trash pile of other miserable and useless slaves and subhuman beings marked unfit, and of course–after whatever had happened with my former roommate, now had an increasingly irritating annoyance of the pestering new roommate, who was otherwise nice and sweet, but of course to the point of suspicion. I had left my body long enough to think about anything and everything that night—and after the amount of wrong that I had endured, the meltdown bad been a longtime coming. I had been discarded as trash, thrown to the wolves, and completely abandoned by anyone and everyone but God itself, all other forms of love a sheer illusion—another form of attachment I had only learned to sever under the cruel injustice and inequality of the world. My body was merely a shell—all else formed around it a paradox. My roommate often at random brought up events or subjects from my own past that I wished not to talk about, at first altering me to the notion that she may be some kind of therapist or psychologist–maybe even military. She claimed to be Japanese and also have lived in Germany for 20 years–sad herself to have been in the Homeless system for over four years, and “trapped” in the united states unable to work due to a lack of social security number; There were many things about her story I found off or strange and very odd–and so I knew never to trust her or anyone else for that matter– but it was the fact that she had brought up Shamanism first and foremost without me having so much as a word about anything, of course, coupled with the oddity that she would grind her teeth throughout the night as did my estranged ex husband and former roommate: a disease which I learned only affected 10-30% of the population in total: I suspected of course for the entire program to be some covert operation: The State was in fact, the same regime responsible for, just after the death of my son, fueled by lack of sleep from grief – tied me to a bed (though I had bee cooperative and non-violent) overdosed me involuntarily with a strange medication and allowed me to urinate myself, then lay for hours soaked in urine–and only after days of psychological abuse and torture, forcing me to talk to a Mormon Bishop, and sedating me with heavy doses of lithium— which deemed me unable to talk, move, or speak for several days–and caused me excruciating migraines—all for the sake of psychological experimentation. Of course, this was still The United States of America, a Globalist Republic– and of course, I was still a black woman–the most demonized, traumatized, criminalized existence on the face of the earth. My new roommate had talked openly for days about being attacked by some kind of spirit or demon, which forced her to gain weight; a demonic type force that supposedly sat in her stomach for and implanted certain thoughts in the form of voice in her head– at the same time, she had been increasingly adamant that I never burn sage or palo santo–she had already proven herself to be a snitch, as in the early morning hours of my first morning as her roomate, the Operations team flooded in, opened my drawer, and of course confiscated my $8 sage stick, luckily overlooking the palo santo–she of course pretended not to have narced, but over the coming days would allow it to slip that she had indeed told the Operations team of the sage, which caused them to follow up and confiscate it. I found Sage to be crucial to my protection and part of my religious sanctity: That anyhow, I had been made to eventually kill myself or fall prey to the system which would in any other way ensure that I was made to become ill by way of poor nutrition– The system failed to provide vegan or even vegetarian meals, and of course the same system made sure that my food benefits were handed out irregularly–I often had no money to eat at all, and just as well drifted into the memory of one of my last conversations with the host of the air bnb I had stayed at, who also seemed to have been on some kind of agenda–he had also constantly brought up things that I didn't want to talk about, consistently forcing conversations about race relations, the race war, how oppressed black people are, The White Supremacy, and other nightmarish perception-altering and overall negative assertions, leaving me with this: “I had to steal food!”, he said, claiming having once been homeless himself–a story I neither wanted to hear or honestly belied. It had been long since I could trust anyone besides myself, but especially a man–not that color had much to do with it, besides of course my constantly being reminded that I was stuck black. ‘All the more reason not to care.' I thought, my apathy becoming an overriding factor. I was starving–and though not quite in the actual stages of starvation, which I had staved off by eating genetically modified fruit over the last couple of days– which didn't appear to have any nutritional value at all and certainly didn't give my body any energy I could use, especially not to take the grueling one-hour ride to the dirty, overrun gym–which at least had a sauna and was 24 hours–but useless, as the sauna was closed during the overnight hours when I wanted to go, escaping my new roomates controlling habits, forceful talks equipped with code words and subliminal messages, the pesterance of being unable to cleanse the room with sage, and, of course — her almost nightmarish sensitivity to everything, which included light, the music in my headphones being too loud (so much so that I could hear the city noise over anything I could in my headphones, and of course made it impossible to work in ableton, as everything I did as she tried to sleep was “too loud”--even writing was forbidden, as I one had had been typing away at the 7th season's script and she asked that I not type at al– nor could I use my mixer, as the button pressing was “too loud”, and while most of my musical inspiration came at night, I could see that for whatever purpose, this person was being used to manipulate and control me once more- No burning sage, no making mixtapes, no typing… “You have the whole day when I am gone, you can do whatever you want.”, she said As if I myself didn't have things to do during the day–just getting to and from the gym taking stretches of precious time alone–of course met with another method of psychological torture– the constant drilling, hammering, and knocking about in the room directly above mine–which sometimes of course felt like being opened from the inside out, my synestesia poking holes in my sanity-and while that should have been enough of an excuse to spend all of my days at the gym–the gym itself had become a way for the system to control and manipulate my mind, for even as my body grew stronger, my mind grew weak and muddled being followed around by little white girls swinging their hair in my face, people coughing all around, and trash everywhere I had fallen into a heap of despair, as the combination of the date alone, the research I had been doing, the work I wasn't getting done, the money I wasn't making, and the lack of nutrition set in–the night shift operations refusing to allow me to use the can opener, after I had left it atop the microwave and not “put it in his hands”-- a classic misogynistic, controlling black man, he always gave the residents a terrible attitude, but I had no reason myself to dislike him before this moment. “I don't have to let you use the can opener.” He said. My only food for days had come from the food bank, besies the free GMO-fruit the shelter sometimes handed out, which had been making me sick and lethargic; of course, because it had come from a food bank, they required a can-opener–as the luxury of a pop-top had rarely been afforded with such off-brand food, I might have considered myself blessed to have, if it weren't for the “no cans” rule at the shelter: Neither did they provide a kitchen to cook in, and so residents were expected to eat microwave TV-dinners–but of course, there were no vegan and vegetarian options, and even if there had been, I wasn't absolutely sure that I would trust by God to eat it, as the two microwaves buzzed for hours at a time to warm the food fed three-times daily to the zombie like residents, who I sometimes observed in passing on my way in or out of the shelter. “This is my only food.”, I balked. “That's not my problem!” he said. “My food stamps aren't coming regularly: I got this at the food bank and it's the only food I have.”, I explained. “SO?!” He said “You're not even supposed to have that on the premises.” “I know.” , I said. “But it's the only food I have.” The system had been so inconsistent with my food benefits that I never could expect when I would be able to eat again, or for how long–it seemed it was all a sham to force me into the mental health system. I was malnourished, lethargic, and still injured from the fight I had been in just weeks earlier. “That's not my problem.” He scoffed. “So I can't use the can opener?” I asked. He just ignored me, shrugging. On any other day, i might have just brushed it off–but on this night in particular, hunger forged a deep tear into my soul, the weight of all I had been through plummeting down into one nearly-fatal blow – the man was arrogant as always but on this particular night seemed increasingly evil. “Yo, this is fucked up! I can't survive on only bananas and you don't have any Vegan options: my food stamps don't come regularly and I can't eat! This is FUCKED UP.” Even with all I had been through, I had realized I barely blew up–though far from an actual saint, I had been gifted with at least the patience of one, really only ever doomed to explode after a buildup–and it had been months of being what seemed like strategically terrorized: my fight delayed, keeping me trapped in the United States, prone to corporate slavery and no privacy at all, my bills outweighing any income I had the ability to make, trapped inside of my too-fat, too-black body for too long, and of course, being tormented by Skrillex, trapped in the homeless system, hazed by White Supremacists, blacklisted by Insomniac, and sent into an otherwise chaotic and segregated world from which I did not come from–i had been bullied, physically attacked, made to fight, consistently followed and of course, ever-presently chronically reminded of an abusive marriage which had left me homeless, mourning and grieving two dead children, and estranged from the third–who had in the care of his father become morbidly obese, subject to neglect, and unaware of my presense–let alone the love I had for him left–the only love I really had for anything anymore–and not that it mattered; I could not afford to care for him, or myself–and had become uncomfortably numb, sober, cellibate, and brainwashed enough to have once believed that I could succeed in entertainment–though, as it turned out– I had just been another useless subject of mass manipulation, predictive programming, human experimentation, and psychological terrorism– my life, among many didn't matter. I had been deemed useless, and doomed to be discarded at the age of 30. My suspicions had been confirmed; As I had collapsed into a heap of flesh, returning to the room in hunger and fury and throwing the three cans of vegetables to the ground, tears gushed from my eyes as I considerably died in more ways than one, over and over– overcome by the years of torture I had endured from the system itself, for whatever reason, and of course, a breakdown I would have otherwise avoided entirely, had my annoying roommate not earlier reminded me “Is it the 23rd?” and it was indeed the 23rd of May, the anniversary of my son's passing – he would have been 7 or 8, but I had lost count, attempting to erase the memory of my broken, fucked up world. To think, in another world I may have had 7 or 8 year old twins and a husband–which was in fact, all that I even wanted to begin with in the first place; I had given up my dreams of being a household name–a broadway actress, a television star, a world-class musician–I had given up my own dreams long ago. I left my body entirely, curling into a huddled ball in the workchair, tucking my head between my legs and under the desk, my arms in a tight grip underneath my knees–my mind racing and soul ripping from its capsule, hovering above my body and enamored that I had become thin enough to fall into such a position, as if bracing for impact in a plane crash; and suddenly, there I was–all at once, in-and-out of body “Brace for Impact!” The plane crash, of course – and all the other scenes I had yet to write playing over and over in my head– the stories of my innermost imagination shattering and spread across the starlit sky which I became in a fuchsia purple wisp, space and time forming around me–I was neither dead nor alive, and though I could still feel my abdomen firmly pressed against my thighs, I was so far outside of and above it looking down at it, completely gone–and though I could feel myself still breathing shallow, hollow breaths, I could no longer feel the weight of the anger, the sting of the hunger, or the grip of evil around my neck. It was indeed a Holy War–constantly haunted by memories of a past I only wished to forget, followed and prodded by soldiers of an unknown force–military? CIA? I didn't know , but it was certain that I was being watched and studied, my psychic inclinations and seemingly supernatural gifts becoming exploited and exposed throughout my entire life; My roomate had initiated too many conversations that just so eerily suggested that indeed, she too, had been marked with a task– collecting information about my psyche, living habits, preferences, diet, and, of course–history–and though she seemed kind enough and did have brown eyes, i would probably never trust another human being again. She rubbed my back as I sat, still rolled into a fetal position and weeping, for the time having been unable to move; as she stroked my back and rubbed my hair, half dredlocked and th usually shaven side overgrown into a curly patch on my head, I began to feel the soothing touch of another human being for the first time in years–as I had realized only days before on the subway, squeezed so tightly between two other people during rush hour transit that I could feel them both breathing–i noticed the remarkable truth that I had not been loved or touched in so long that this, being squeezed between two breathing humans, was somewhat soothing–and as I breathed myself heavily in and out, I began to return to my miserable body, in the less-than-miserable room we shared, but not so happily that I would ever become comfortable or call it home. I needed space, but couldn't seem to speak– I returned slowly to consciousness as the tension in my back arose to it's normal pressure, as I lifted my head, my neck clicking from the injury from the fightt. “Do you want to talk about it?” I didn't, but i could barely stand to move my head, and I was, indeed “Barely Breathing”, which I noticed, and seemed to have to cry a little bit more, and a little bit harder after a brief moment thinking about Dillon Francis, and though as I had left my body for quite some time and sat scattered across in all the remains of what might have been pieces of The Festival Project I had written for him, or even in the very least which had been so inspired by–a dark crevice had opened up into a black void, which seemed to occupy the space where my soul had once been, and any of the feelings I had kept there with him–For indeed, I had returned to my body, however, part of me was long gone– and I knew I had indeed faced another spiritual death, cast somehow just in a moment into yet another, even deeper realm of the afterlife, with nothing left to do to submit to it. “I'm probably going to kill myself by summer!” , Alex said–and for some reason her words rattled around in my brain superimposed as some sort of code which probably meant: You're going to kill yourself by summer. It felt true, and though I hadn't been pressed so hard against the doors of suicide, my mind had often drifted to a place of remorse for all that had happened- perhaps I was indeed trapped in a shamanic stronghold–and though I myself had been for some time equipped with healing powers, I had been reluctant to use black or Satanic magic to fight whatever had been the cause of my consistent homelessness, isolation, financial ruin, intense hunger– and foraged bitterness towards whatever external forces that seemed to rule over every entirety of my existence; I had been pulled apart, tortured, tormented, and disfigured in such a way that I wished not to live in the greedy, materialistic money-driven world anyhow. One of the napkins I had balled up and tossed into the Whole Foods bag that my roomate had held out for me the night before had been placed in my backpack, atop the bag where I kept the sage I had replaced and had been hiding and two pieces of palo santo–I didn't care so much as what the punishment would be and had chosen religiously to keep protecting myself, and though my freedom had been threatened, “They'll take you a worse shelter!”, my roomate had yelled, after interrogating me about “smoking” in the room— and, not that I would have allowed her to know, I conceded that in the event I was moved to an even worse shelter, I would simply jump in front of a train or from somewhere high up enough that I knew death was imminent, as so many had before and did each day: there wasn't anything worth living for anyway, and I had given up the fight entirely. The Festial Project was a mockery–Skrillex had been used to terrorize me, and Dillon Francis was no different–there was nothing and no one in the world that I could trust, who would ever understand me. But, I kept waking up in my horrible, miserable body–unloved and unwell, and so at the very least, kept burning my sage, saying my prayers, and wishing something would change–though according to the book I had been reading, slaves such as myself were raised to be disposed of at the age of 30. “In that case…” I had used the modest amount of money I had earned to restart my podcast subscription, knowing that it would be on a limited basis: I wasn't making any money, and was still being followed around by demons–which the book stated, were used to control and manipulate my existence at every turn, and it seemed that the Hell that I had been in for years was entirely inescapable, anyway. I had felt that she would use my downtime as I showered and continued to return to my body to check my bags–leaving behind the balled up napkin as a passive aggressive tactic to let me know that she was aware that I had obstinately lied– But if there was one thing I had learned, is that in the Hell I had been born into and pulled through for 30 years, is that honesty will only hurt you–something someone pretty, rich, and privileged like Bibi Bourelly, Sonny Moore, or even Dillon Francis would never understand–or perhaps, for at least the latter two, being men of great influence and power–knew all-too well. Well enough, at least. ‘This means that they will be locked up in a crazy house for the rest of their life. Rather than be put in straight-jackets with other crazy people it would be better for the person to commit suicide.' ‘twice the normal dose of two kinds of lithium carbonate to put her into a lethargic stupor' ‘The programmers are very careful to have heart monitors on the victim, and to have paddles ready to revive the body. ‘ ‘Dissociation is used as a defense to protect a person from overwhelming pain and trauma. It is a natural ability of the brain. Hypnosis or hypnotic trance is a form of dissociation. There are a number of types of dissociation: amnesia, somnambulistic states, localized paralyses, anaesthesias, and hallucinations. Hypnosis can reproduce all of these dissociative states. The mind naturally hypnotizes itself under various conditions. Hypnosis is a valuable tool to move the mind to different neurophysiological states and to get the mind to different levels of the subconscious mind. Hypnosis can also play a role in working around amnesia, since both are types of dissociation. Hyperventilation helps a person induct into a hypnotic trance. Torture, depersonalization, fear and acute anxiety stimulate the body to hyperventilate. Common objects in a person's life that can be hypnotically given a programming meaning include music, tones, colors, the sight of a book or Bible, the pyramid on the back of a dollar bill, pictures of God, silk scarfs, jewelry, lights, 93 sounds, TV programs, and countless other things. The limit to this is simply the programmer's creativity. A common hypnotic device for washing away pain is running water. MK Ultra Subproject 128 Delta - This is a Greek letter shaped like a triangle which symbolizes change in calculus. It has become a favorite word to use in naming things for the occult elite. Delta teams are 4 person assassination teams which usually are secret teams. Delta Forces is an elite unit that operates under the Joint chiefs of staff that is made up of highly trained total mind-controlled slaves. Delta models are slaves whose sole purpose is assassination. Delta alters are alters within an Illuminati alter system which are programmed to be assassins. These alters are often some of the deepest in a system and in a Genie bottle or with Umbrella programming.