[The 3-2-1] / {Reliability - Plausibility - Denial.}

For the first time maybe ever, New York reminded me of LA. It was a beautiful space in almost entirely gentrified Brooklyn, though I wasn't the only brown face— the Adidas running club was hosting a clean-up at Public Records—a beautiful event space, which boasted, upon entry and investigation, two turntables, 2 CDJs, and some strange mixer I had never seen before. The knobs and buttons were in foregn places, but not altogether unfamiliar— it would be an adjustment, but a welcome one. The buttons were large and smooth looking, but having sneaked into the corner to view the booth in almost secret, I quietly only admired the setup, and in my dream world, would have something much of the same in my own apartment one day, perhaps even soon. It was my second time in the exact neighborhood that week, and a it seemed like a sure sign—it was always CC a DJ something, somewhere, and I was always a DJ—however, today it was more than music that had made the call—Adidas Running be a club had piqued my fancy, and although I had showed up proudly and promptly on time, to busily chattering socialites, all without an once of fat to spare between the handful of them. Dressed in all black and clutching my skateboard in one hand and my book and high liter in the other, another mix blared through the singular earbud of my Powerbeats, just having left Equinox for the second time in 24 hours—still, I was out of place, as I found my way promptly to the nursery, full of desert plants I personified primped as if they were my very own, waiting in the court yard for the festivities to begin, bedazzled by the runners bodies who had always been running and reflecting on my measley one-mile-a-day—but more recently two, of course, which felt like forever. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.