{-sunset over manhattan.}

Just the thought of it was making my stomach churn–and though I was far off the thought or hope of stardom, especially from that of The Festival Project, there was something pulling me towards it; I had been planning to watch at least one episode of Drake and Josh with the hopes of any inspiration whatsoever to pull through connecting all of the dots and plotholes of seasons 6 and 7 of Enter The Multiverse–however, something low and deep inside of me had been stricken with such grief in the aftermath of the chaotic twists and turns of the past 3 months that my heart began to hurt, my stomach bubbled into knots, and the sick and twisted feeling of impending doom sat at the helm of my throat, still aching and sore from the grips of what might have been a demon, or something even far more sinister–and this was no different. This was the gripping hands of the Illuminati itself–the organization which had left its very own mark in every fibre of my being, programming that would otherwise appeal to the greater masses–and though I was sure I was being punished for all of the silly and whimsical things I had done as a child, it had been a torturous adulthood otherwise- I could for certain never be trusted, by man or any other creature, and had likely been marked for death, presumably slow and sure–still dancing with the thought of a quick though never-painless suicide, conquored by the lower realms of another world, unseen by those I merely dreamt about and ever hoped to be alike. “Fuck, I'm sad.” I had finally eaten, which did feel better–though I hadn't managed to return to the gym as I had planned–I had at least gotten some work done, not that it made a difference or any dent in the massive workload I had myself compiled to do–but it at the very least was done and over with, and one-less worry on my mind–but I was worried. Filled with stress and anxiety, I wondered how I might escape the penniless nightmare I had once again found myself in–this time, unable to even look for work, as it seemed something in my entirety was bound to reject such expectations, even under such sufferable circumstances–my hair in shambles, forming dreadlocks, my clothes falling away into rags–and of course, my bills overdue and unpaid. Everything I happened to do seemed like a waste of time and money, mine–or anyone elses, and I had been restricted just out of sheer fear and financial restraint to never even visit Manhattan, seeming to always end up stuck long enough that I became irritable. Still, no minimum wage job seemed worth showing up simply to hate myself and everyone else I would possibly interact with in an eight-hour time span for literally nothing in comparison to whatever corporation or employer's profit margin might have been. The Bloomberg's list of billionaires had ruined my entire drive to make anything less than at least one million dollars– which still seemed a small amount, and it was that or nothing at all, which I would have been happy to die at literally any moment having. I thought of suicide For the second time since I opened my eyes Why, what a wold world What wild times Why am I even alive, (If I am?) {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.