[Man On The Ground]

Put it on Spin cycle baby, That's right, I've got machines Your clothes need washing Come do laundry Imm One of a kind You're one of a kind , That's right Open me up Bring me my kingdom come When the walls down found I'll be holding you, always In the ark of your arms Will you hold me When the walls fall down After I won't contest that, I need it (When you creep into my dreams, When I'm sleeping) Heartbreak, I'm bleeding I won't contest that You need me (Even when you hold me close, You know you're going under Surreal Concentric, Karma central, Mama Sutra, Sentimental, Tantric, Esoteric Differential Chemistry Alchemical, Severence Hypothetical Irrelevance Revelry, or Consequences, considering the circumstances Backwards, or what have you. All men have alterior motives All mentors or motivators Contain untarnished reputations Irrefutably— Signal, the overused— (Or group them all together) Haven't you suffered enough, yet? I think I've suffered the longest— Have you been left in the dark yet? Is it you, who never goes hungry Aha, There you are again Curiosity killed the cat. However, as it were— Curiosity also m greatly enhanced the cat's ability to succeed in business. So there you have it—one man's trash is another man's treasure. I had recently trained myself out of the habit of picking things up off of the ground—save for a 64 Gigabyte SD card I had just so happened by a few weeks prior, in the same station where I found this— what appeared to be a very nice, sleek and modern briefcase, or portfolio of some sort. I couldn't help but pick it up and open it, and though I typically had specifically never wanted or needed other people's things, this almost seemed already to be mine, not to mention the fact that it was in the same station in which I had found the SD card, only feet away in fact—and it had been long since, it at all, that I had not believed in coincidences. I kicked it around a couple times, almost certain that I was supposed to—and it appeared to be empty—then, I picked it up, as I a voice down the platform even seemed to say “don't touch it@, and I very briefly put it down at the power station or something rather, before confronting my senses—I was sure that if I hadn't picked it up, someone else would, but also that I was intended toX anyway—that it was for me— and though I had let down much of my over aggrandized grandiosity or any sort of complex it did seem t times that I had some sort of following, or watchers—who seemed to put things into my path or just so happen to turn up where I would be, even if I hadn't known my very self that I would be in a certain place, almost assuring and asserting that somewhere along the line; in my lifetime, time travel beyond simply the astral had been succeeded—and perhaps even within my own belief system had it been possible at all. I did, after all, very decisively believe in magic and or magick, and, has recently more than before had committed myself almost religiously to the occult sciences, which, reflectively, I had been studying and perfecting for years, only of course to realize that there had been entire books written, entire civilizations built, and entire worlds of the type of magic I had practitioned naturally since the dawn of time—and though as I began to rationalize and even condition myself to be more normalized and mature in the way that society expected me to, I had become a firm believer and practitioner by proxy, only wishing to overcome and alleviate the severity of my own emotional toils—the loss of my children, the destruction of my marriage, and the ending of my closest friendships—unrequited love, homelessness, and the eventual body transformation which would in turn allow the development in an intrinsic sensitivity to trust one's universe—that so long as I was doing right to my body, my body would return the favor by assuring that in some how, some way, I would always have everything I needed, in one way or another. I had made it a point to be at the gym every day, for at least some time, if not an hour—and had finally broken the challenge I had set for myself quite by accident—the 8-minute mile, which I had achieved in the Bronx, once, running to Lin Manuel's opening number, the self titled In The Heights—a personal best whuch I had since broken, now running a mike in just over 8 minutes to my own mixes, and it didn't seem to matter which. But it wasn't enough—I wanted to be better—to run faster—to be better. I was motivated, of course, mostly by sex—and my insatiable need for it. Insatiable, of course, in the sense that I had been celibate going on years at this point—and had reached a tipping point in understanding the true nature of man—hardly ever meant to be monogamous; I intended to somehow remarry, and was certain that the more effort I put into self improvement, that perhaps I would—not that I expected a perfect man, but did intend a perfect father for my future children; I knew that my strong desires for a certain type of man could only be attributed to that of my own genetic attractions—as so say, that somewhere in my own consciousness, I knew and understood the type of children I wanted to design—even rather, the kind of children I knew I was capable of having—and truly intended my self improvement to design myself to be the ideal mate of my own. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©