“The New Adventures of Old Supacree”

This is not what I intentioned.

Well, what had you intentioned,

dammit , how do you spell her name?

Spell it? I can barely say it!

“C'cx–

WRONG.

How would you say this name.

Axel?

Thas' a stupid name

Not for a Rockstar.

That's already a rockstar

Is it?

Whatever, man.

The Rock must have been buzzing in some sort of special way on this day; because for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I had finally rearranged the remainder of my seemingly new surroundings— the miniature Keurig— a status symbol, of course— looked handsome on the work desk— the cat tree seemed to match, though with no actual feesible monetary income,, no actual cat, and no end in sight— the tree itself would have to be enough to lift my spirits. It was a nice cat tree, almost untouched and looking very brand new— though the couch had a few scratches, though easily hidden with the decorative use of a couple throws—at least I had a couch, and all that was left to accomplish before fully enjoying was to arrange an order of Febreeze to rid it of its previous owner's dandruff smell, and general mismanagement—besides that, it was itself almost brand new as well, and it seemed a strange new world to wake up in, after sleeping in a nearly empty apartment for 6 months; there was 6 months left in my lease, and I was getting nervous that they would try to push me out—hopefully I would find someplace better, or at the very least higher up—with the same amenities intact. Still, I was working as diligently as in could on organizing—at least the recordings, to put together the next group of projects as quickly as I could— nevermind the writing—and there was so, so much of it, I hadn't a clue what to do.

I had been avoiding Rockefeller Plaza like the plague for quite sometime—it always made me nervous in a sort of way I didn't understand, in that I would pulsate and vibrate differently, and more often times than not, was upset and concerned that I had yet to go to the top—a costly feat—nor could I afford to entertain or enjoy any of the amusements at the bottom—not that I wanted to, as the older I got, and especially the longer time spent in New York, the more off putting the public and large crowds were—particularly after a remarkably disgusting respiratory infection I caught on new years, battling a crowd which became impossible to move through at all—let alone see the ball drop—and I had learned my lesson, especially after The Macy's Day parade; the crowds in New York were disgustingly unbearable, and in order to get a good view of anything, you would have to arrive nearly a full day early, and simply camp—now I knew why people packed around collapsible lawn chairs on holiday weekends.

I had been blindsided by Fallon towards the end of the Macy's day parade—I hadn't any clue at all that he apparentlyboarticipated annually, as it had been years since I had watched the parade myself with my parents—and still, it was iconic—I always wanted to go. Still, and even though I had only written very little of him up to that point, I found it disasterous that as his name was announced and the float which carried him and The Roots, the best late night band on Television, not by opinion, but by fact—as I had most recently been studying and researching as thoroughly as I could all of the late night hosts since the dawning of Television in preparation to write this pilot, The TV People, short handed to TVP—and just then I recalled a dream from the night before, about Pat Kirkpatrick—for the first time in the dream world, it wasn't Fallon at all, but Pat Kirkpatrick.

I couldn't remember the dream, nor could I seemingly work myself out of the rut that had been the plateau in writing the show—the show itself was heavy, with so many characters, all of which each had been given detailed and specific personalities, livelihoods, and backgrounds—in fact, I hadn't written anything in such a way since college, with detail—actually, I had never written anything so detailed at all, so character oriented that the character analyses filled entire pages of documents with excruciating vividness, as if these people were real. Well, now they were—and Fallon was neither Patrick as I was Esha, and the story has taken its own form, still however birthing an incredibly awkward and romanticized fascination and near obsession with the TV people themselves—not that I would feed it to be so. I blocked out the news outlets, the media, the alrogithm's suggestions to watch bits and pieces of Fallon, though, however, I refused, and somehow, I didn't need it. Fearfully so, he was somewhere lodged deep somewhere inside of me—and I was even sort of embarrassed to have written some of the things I had of his essence, however prophetic it seemed to be, that for about a three week period between April and May, I seemed to have gone off into a trance of sorts, writing for hours and experiencing vivid visions of this show, The TV Prople, alongside writing The Festival Project ™ And all of its markers—there were so many worlds, so many ways throughout them—and now as I had realized, I had actually been writing about Fallon nearly as long as I had been writing about Sonny, but differently. I had never of course come face to face with Fallon as I had the latter—and still—found it somewhat nessecary to hide my face beneath a mask as his float passed my viewing spaf , an elevated view from the staircase of some church, which had happened to be perfect—and although I was certain it's not as if he was looking for or at me—I had just then been writing of this Cosmic Avenger, and hadn't any idea at the time of Fallon in reality having been an actual magician, and still— with cameras everywhere, and knowing even what I had written—I didn't want to be caught by any passing cameras with any sort of blush or worse—a smile on my face as the float passed— a smile which would flash my atrocious gap-tooth and crooked smile I was sure was permanent, by then having been in the homeless shelter nearly a year. As soon as his name was announced, I promptly pulled up my mask, hiding under my sunglasses. I had already been caught on camera earlier in the parade gawking at some float—now was not the time to be caught gawking again.

He, like Rob Lowe seemed impeccably professional and well-rehearsed, like a cartoon character— he was, after all, kind of a cartoon character, however now, even if it was partly due to my own writing, I took him more seriously. There was a darkness about him— a sometimes glassy-eyed, almost scary darkness that told me, even a world away, not to fuck with this dude—some kind of animal or monster I was sure we both shared, however mine more the type and category of insatable and undernourished and his more peaking its head out in the form of a multi-millionaire network puppet, which housed an untamable powerhouse of musicianship, manhood, and wit— it's true, I was finally scared of him, knowing after all what the true tears of a clown could be, a dangerous man in a uniformed suit, the Everyman for the programmed masses, and the funny man with a jig to dance, a story to tell, and an indoor life— secret realm within I was sure no one knew. I fed the monster with respect to the home, happy wife, and children— I, after all, loved love, and only wanted it for myself, leaving alone the parts of a man I had found and was sure was broken enough to have left me puzzled and star studded rather than struck as I always was, tears welling up at the thought of it that something should be mended neither I or anything I was could not fix—I continued to write, however, knowing I was walking on glass barefoot and tiptoeing on eggshells around the mass media conglomerate of the network that stood between my feeble world and his, the higher ups— and beyond: it was, after all, a level system— and now with a beautifully decorated and fully apartment, besides my mattress on the floor instead of the space saving loft bed I had wanted—though it looked just right with the piano bench as a headboard, housing my crystals and new globe, plus a colorful collection of books I could crack open as I awoke to the morning light, no longer so early but increasingly later, as I shifted into the insomniatic habits of a true DJ and music producer, still writing and reading in the mornings, however— I had to wonder what level I was truly on.

My apartment looked like a home. The decor was better than I could have imagined myself even, the tasteful furnishings and modern elegance shifting my reality— no longer an empty apartment, now a fashionable hub for art and creation. I assumed the cat would come along in the winter, with any hopes that I would finish my albums by then—and also looming over me— my last life, and the people in it struggling to call up to me in this very ascended realm, which I was lucky to inhabit.

‘Thank you God for your many blessings'

My wishes it seemed, had been granted— magic did indeed seem real, and though I had an Amazon return packages and ready to go— there wasn't a time and place I could see myself as ready to even be near The Rock, some festering bulletwound in my heart, all that I had written, not just of Fallon, but of the rest of the people I had honored by word mark but had not yet the status or wealth to have ever known as human at all, but more products of the program; with intention, however, it was the path I had followed to be destined here somehow though small codes and doorways, signals and symbols which called to me and seemed only I could see—but were there in plain sight, and with the right eyes, had meant more than I ever dreamed anything could— open doors to a world I had indeed created myself, and in turn, the world in which I lived had also been created around me. I had to, in my mind, find the light inside all of whom I studied, to humanize myself—nurturing some fascination of fame and celebrity inside which still stood unanswered, the question of why and how one becomes so high up that without trying, that I might continue to find them in my mind's eye and in my world, on the outside, time after time.

—tales of a superstar DJ.

The men with the littlest dicks

Drive the loudest bikes

And they talk too much

About nothing

To no one

The men with the littlest dicks

Do the littlest things

I call it niggardly

Dispite the color

Follow the leader

To instill fear

Within earshot

The men with the littlest dicks

Want the skinniest women

The chicks who remind them of

Innocence lost

A childhood spent

Getting boredom for freedom

And allowences for doing nothing

The men with the littlest dicks

Do the littlest shit

Like make everyone miserable

Yes, it is a miserable existence,

Never being wanted, however

I should know better than this

TINA FEY

SON OF A BITCH.

(Everyone's still drunk)

What.

Why, what happened?

He got here before us.

What?!

How do you know?

[pause]

Okay.

This weird detour is paying off in some kind of way—

I'm still heavily obsessed with the fact that Johnny Carson referred to his weird drunken jacking off as “cranking it”

ON TV.

On something close to live television in like—

The 80's

Was it the 80's?

I don't know,

And apparently even Johnny Carson doesn't know, because he was “sauced”,

So let's just go ahead and add that to the list of ghosts I have to track down for making me squeal like a little fucking schoolgirl.

However,

I'm half convinced,

He's still around—

Oh yes.

I do believe these—

THIS MAN—

Oh, holy shit here it goes.

HERE'S JOHNNY!

Aw, fuck.

I told you not do.

What was I supposed to do—?!

Not do it

It was a blood oath—

I told you—

Mi had to do it.

*shrugs*

Well, now, you're fucked.

STAY DOWN, MOTHERFUCKER.

Ooh. This is gonna hurt.

I swear to god,

Every day of my life:

I will KILL YOU

YOU CANT KILL ME.

AND EVERY DAY THAT YOU DO NOT DIE;

I WILL

JUST STAY DOWN, MOTHERFUCKER—

DIE, MOTHERFUCKER—

GO. TO. SLEEP.

aaaaaGGGGHhHHHHHHHHHHHH.

—I WILL KILL YOU

.

Don't give up!

Seriously!

Seriously,

I got money on this.z

Really?

What. How much.

Just $10.

Oh.

That's good

Yeah, but it's the only cash I've had in months!

I forgot what it was.

I'm rich,

Everything's cashless.

Tickets! Get your tickets!

Ze are cheaper here on ze black market.

“The Black Market”

How much for this one?

$9

I'll take three.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

I WILL KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP.

I'M A DJ, BITCH. I DONT SLEEP.

Have you ever thought about .

What you're gonna be—

When you die?

Yeah. I've been thinking about it a lot.

Okay, what is it.

I get three right?

Right, yeah.

1. A Superstar DJ.

Okay, that's good. What else?

1. A rockstar

Okay, what else?

1. A mom.

That's it?

Yeah, man. I die and gone to heaven, right?

Right.

So that's it.

What's the wager?

Four horses.

Got it.

What exactly brings you here to bargain?

My fat and heavy nuts.

No questions asked.

—tales of a Supersrar DJ

VO

I didn't know he called back.

I didn't even see the message.

I feel like such a piece of shit.

I am a piece of shit.

Worthless.

My eyes itch,

My nose bleeds

My heart hurts now,

I'm all gone

Dark on Mondays

All gone

Gone till Sunday

All done

I was never an good mother

No

Just a ghost with a gun

I was never on top of the world, son

Just under it

Now I'm all out of something I can't put my hand on

And I'm all out of love,

No one wants me

Imm washed up

One hand on the guitar

One foot in the door

And one head in the oven

I'm all done

I'm all done

My eye itches

My nose bleeds

The noose loosens,

I fall down

I'm so stuck on an old number

I'm so lost that I'm found now.

—I'm so sorry

But no one else is

Tie me to the bed

And watch me bleed

So full of disinterest and vinegar

Remember to tie me to the crossword

In the times tomorrow

Four rainbows for your dumb luck

A forced fuck from one goat

The other still doesn't row well

It's a long boat

It's a long story

It goes untold

They all turn to the one who wants to hurt me

In the long run

Nobody will ever love me again

So I'm told

Might as well find a bottle of ferment

To grow up in

Swallow bottles of old wine

With a sour tongue

Unremarkable

SHOUT!

Defamed you,

Heroism in the—

Never hatred, but indifference,

Circumstances. Circumcisions

Misdirection,

Big decisions

Defense strategy?

To exit—

Just as quickly as it all begins to fade away

Nearly as quickly as it started,

Newfound freedom near the exit,

After happenstance,

Never afraid to admit to neglect

Selected supplies,

For fear of the eye

Goddammit it, late night people

Of course; when was it last you saw letterman on a surfboard?

Almost never?

Forget to fear them,

The men in mirrors,

The sharks in surfboards,

The writer's block, over

The rockstar on opioids

Does it hurt anybody else this much to just stand here

If Tweety's the Canarybird,

When who am I to call myself a cat,

Sylvester!

The silver streaks in his hair,

The glaze in his eyes

The break in his heart

The health of the hoax

FUCK YOU FALLON

I hope your ratings went up

Just a bit

Just a bit

I hope you CRANK THIS

Up in your car

While I forgot about you

I hope the peanut butter goes with the jelly

The couch fits with the vision covers

The cookies go with the coffee haven't mopped the floor yet, of course

All out of Pablo santo

For your information

I just didn't make the grade

Cause teacher hates me

I still haven't found a mate

With every amen

I hate me

Almost as much as I hate myself

And I

So I can't be

God itself

Cause I love that thing

Alright?

Amen!

Can I have a can opener or three to set the record straight

Can I scratch as fast as I sniff up every tear

Every line of cocaine

Every autograph?

No you can't.

Just know that my landlord has a thougsand bathrooms

I can't find my hat, my gun—

And where the fuck are the bananas

CONAN O BRIEN

EXCUSE MY FRENCH,

BUT

FUCK YOU,

WOAAAAAH, CONAN!

WOAH!

WHAT DID I DO?!

You—

You fucked up the entire fucking ecosystem

With CUMSLUTS!

WHAT THE FUCK, BRO!

Can you even SAY any of that?!

I just did!

Which network do you work for?!

Where's Fallon at?!

he's dead, bro!

He's dead?!

Yeah!

For what?!

I don't know. I just found out.

Well. What happened.

Someone shot him.

Again?!

Yeah, but like, way worse this time.

So they finally got him, ah?

No, he died of a heart attack.

What!

Then they shot him.

What. That doesn't make sense.

Nothing makes sense.

This scene is running long.

I thought so.

DIRECTOR

CUT.

That was great.

Thanks.

Except—Conan.

Yes?

You're too tall.

What?

Next. Take I want you to try it—

Like—

Just the way you just did it—

Uh huh

But smaller:

What do you mean?

Like, less tall.

Oh. Alright.

BREAK FOR LUNCH.

“The Everymans”

01

I'll know why soon I'm sure

It hurts with every word

You're sleeping on my floor

I'm fuming in the north

My foot goes through the door

Where were you then,

When the mystery ends

When the miser's the minister,

Mistral and instrumentalist

Ah

Magic; illusion

Illustrious industry

Interdependent television

Radio signals, Satelites

Entropy

Trophy wives,

Fight clubs

Back at nine

Nick at night

Every time is every time

Time is all you need, and

Time is on your side, if

You just follow me

Reader's remorse

Writer's digest

Try to sit still for a moment,

Take a lesson

From your friends here

So when, then should I trade my

Brand new pants in for a suit

The bird said

The cat damaged

(I can't yet)

Can of soup to open,

Oh yes

Cambells is it?

Warhol knows best

02

I thought I told you

I don't want to

Owe you

Are you

Over it

Somebody once told me

You were holy

Somebody once told me

To hold onto

Somebody once said

Turn the light off

But I've been trying

To buy fire

Someone's in the box, God

Someone once told me

Someone let me out—God?

Someone once told me

Fuck it,

I just want to hold you

I don't want to own you

I just want to

Someone once told me

Beware of you

Someone else told me

Be there for you

Someone once told me

The hair of dog

Ought to get you along

I got handfuls of songs

With no worlds yet

Someone once told me

Someone once told me

Someone once told me

Someone once told me.

Someone's in the box, God

Someone once told me

Someone let me out—God?

Someone once told me

Somebody once told me

You were holy

Somebody once told me

To hold onto

I thought I told you

I don't want to

Owe you

Are you

Over it

03

I'm a multidimensional wordsmith

Sike! I'm a psychopath wrecking your whole home

Won't you wound my womb?

(I won't go )

Won't you hold onto my world?

(Why won't you?)

Sorry,

I slipped on the mat this morning

Stumbling over you

Thought it was afternoon

Don't want to give you

The news, cause you wrote it all

Causes for dollars

Indifference, disasters, sons

Why won't you hold me like you used to?

Why don't I know the answers to the crosswords?

Why don't you meet me at the crossroads with your—

No, no,

Don't do that

Don't call it home

To be continued

Where were you this morning,

When I stumbled in

To love you?

She said

At the forefront of your honor's worth

If all you are's a wordsmith, m

god unlock you

Pen and paper

Gun in holster

Officer,

Pull down the trigger

Don't want to give you

The news, cause you wrote it all

Causes for dollars

Indifference, disasters, sons

No, no,

Don't do that

Don't call it home

To be continued

Once upon a time,

All my eyes were brown

(The money, the power, the respect)

Now those days are gone

The world is still round

(At least I thought)

The misery set in again

They said the lows would come

I did hate Mondays, after all

With no sun to come up

And look forward to

Fast forward—

Did you ever see that?

Well, that is technically the back door.

I almost forgot about that place.

That's because it doesn't exist.

It had to exist. Now I've seen it at least twice

Hey!

How'd you do that.

Christ, he is a magician

Oh yeah, Cosmos factory.

They said the lows were coming.

Maybe I needed them to finish that thing—

I swear I missed

Something

The ghost

(The other one, anyway)

Dillon was a ghost, once

No, ghost was the ghost, but we were

—close.

Good friends.

Imaginary friends.

Anyway.

Fuck this nonsense.

Nonsense, is it

Just—

Don't make me slit my wrists again.

I remembered this day for something

Wonder what.

Maybe nothing

I hate Mondays

Guess this is the job,

This is the job,

I was wondering about the suit.

So, are you a parrot, a puppet, or a mimick.

I swear to god that's him.

Good,

Now I don't ever have to watch him.

Oh shit,

Fuck this playlist

Are you sure

“saved by the cowbell”

God, I feel like shit,

And I shouldn't be hungry

But I'm starving inside

For some loving

Someone help me

Somebody, something

I'm suffering, suffocating

Need him,

Reeling,

Reading

Sinking,

Feeling

—but shouldn't be crying.

I digress, however

It was an interesting

Day to digest

God, I forgot about this—

A whole soundtrack

Jesus Christ,

Bring it back;

I like who your wife is

—would you write that?

Would you admit to dying on the cross once?

Would you admit to admiring Ms, Robinson

Would you wash out the Robin in Williams

Look at Carson

I defect to default

Cracked asfault, to decadence

Desire or what have you

I haven't,

I promise

I would not admit to wanting,

Something like a cupcake

Something else is in there

Figure it out

Danger

The five pointer approaches

With heroic intolerance

Suddenly, it's gone, God

Mustn't be the Republicans,

For the most part,

I would want that

For fear of the liberals,

And my rent controlled apartment

I've got two thumbs, too,

You know

I've got Jews up my ass for the asking

I've got mom up my spine for the others

Fucking assholes

—so this is what it means to be married to the music, huh

No one to really hold you,

But I told you, I've got golden globes and Oscars

Every morning

Motorcycles for the morons

I've got daughters for your doorknobs

—Know you're sorry now

Catch the drum pattern

Your heart should stop fluttering

With butter on it

Weren't we all once prostitutes

In foster care

The others wouldn't dare

To call a fountain out

For the fountains—

Busy training you

Safe to say a savior says

I do,

And then doesn't

For the most part

I'm a woman

With the wants

And the body of a

God

FUCKING WATCH IT, CARSON

but you got that all on a card, love.

All on a card, fuck.

What was your wish,

You dumb motherfucker?

Look what I got the other ones.

Hi Cosmo.

Hi Wanda.

Awww. I love them.

Dead drunk by tomorrow

I hope,

I choke on sunsets.

He keeps taking you away someplace,

Where is it?

Does nobody else know this place?

No. Nobody else can see this!

Well, that's fucked up.

I had a dream I was at your wake.

That would be great.

I wrote a scene where your obituary just said

“lol”

“lol”

What! That's it?!

Yeah.

And It's not even capitalized!

That's it,

I've had enough.

Throw the whole world away.

What.

just throw it away.

Damn dog,

You okay?

No. I'm homeless.

That's okay.

You smell like a whole ass alien.

What?

Come to my place.

I figured this would have more depth.

I—

Nevermind.

It is, like torture, you know— this thing.

I didn't do it on purpose.

get oFF of me.

getawayfromme.

Okay, I'm taking my bread out of the freezer.

You sure are eating a lot today .

You sure are sounding like a pain in my big, fat, ass.

I—

That ought to shut you up.

Look! CUMSLUTS!

NICE.

Get off of my boat.

What.

Aye-aye, captain.

(Duck dives)

Wait. What just happened?

Mi think I might have—

Great,

Now there are things about this—

I can't even write.

This secret dies with me.

Kill that bitch.

Fucking great.

So,

Where were you on 9/11 again?

I'll deal with this later.

I gotta go.

Wait, where are you going?

Fuck you, that's where.

Wait!

If you saw me hanging from the rafters

Would you ahoot to kill

Or come to shoot me down?

At long last,

Disaster

Are there tears in your denial

As the memorandum sets in?

Neither there or neither farther am I

Father,

Can you call again?

I haven't heard you yet

Besides the heart drops

When the beat falls out

If I hang myself

Like pendulum

From the old bank walls

Would you watch me swing

Or come to cut me down

Don't doubt the alter

If it were the birds

Coming for the crumbs

Would you ponder any longer

Whether they were all of one feather

Come now

Don't doubt the alter

Don't fear the weapons

Don't worry, mother

I'm coming to kill you

Uh, I'm gonna wait on dinner.

FUCK,

What the fuck was I saying?

FUCK.

I hate this dude.

FUCK.

Come on, you stupid —biiitch!

I hate this dragon.

Almost as much as I hate—

You know what?

What?

Forget it. I'm not doing this.

What why not!?

I'm gonna get killed for this.

You're in the Illuminati; you're gonna get killed anyway.

Yeah, but not for this!

Let's hope!

Who know, though!

UGH; SHUT UP.

GET IN HERE.

I hate the sound of your name

Like an unheard whisper

Unanswered

I could never call to

A cavern

Righteous,

Unwanted

What was is, though.

Something about a wheelbarrow'

I just went surfing

Hit the surface from underwater

Shook out the slumber

What was it worth, God?

What were the words for?

Fuck,

A shapeshifter and a telepath?

How many people have that?

Not that many.

How many people know about this?

Enough.

FUCK.

Oh, look whose swearing.

I solemnly swear—

Don't tell NOBODY.

I ain't telling nobody about this.

Good.

Now get out.

I'm gonna kill this sonofabitch.

SON OF A—BITCH.

That's it. Kill him.

Where's my gun?

Did you check the fridge?

No.

[THE IMPENETRABLE TEN ENTER the KITCHEN]

What?! All ten of them?!

I fucking guess.

—but

DANE COOK

*kicking down door*

FUCK!

Goddammit it

We missed her.

OR—him.

Her?

Him?

I don't know.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST

What is it?

It's a pilot!

Oh shit, should I shoot him?

Not a helicopter pilot!

A TV pilot,

For what?!

Tv is dead.

Streaming is where its out,

It's for me!

I'm in it!

Oh!

What!

Let me see.

(In the fridge)

…what is this?

[from the bedroom/studio]

Hey you guys!

What.

What happened?

What's up!

YOU SHOULD SEE THIS.

Love is not blind,

And neither am I

It's like that sometimes, always

Tip of the tongue,

The art of the lie,

It's like that sometimes,

Always

A tale of all tales

A sign of the times

It's like that always, sometimes

I forgot to forget I saw you;

I forgot to forget I know you

I forgot to forget I love you

I forgot to forgive,

I want you

Shut the door,

Let the lights turn off

Turn the page

—till the sun comes up

Something real

Something wrong

I forgot

Something strange

Something weird

I'm in love

Write the song

Love is not blind,

And neither am I

It's like that sometimes, always

Tip of the tongue,

The art of the lie,

It's like that sometimes,

Always

A tale of all tales

A sign of the times

It's like that always, sometimes

I forgot to forget I saw you;

I forgot to forget I know you

I forgot to forget I love you

I forgot to forgive,

I want you

Shut the door,

Let the lights turn off

Turn the page

—till the sun comes up

Something real

Something wrong

I forgot

Up is up

Down is down

Right is right

Wrong is wrong

Black is white

Dark is light

Right is wrong

I love you

My house is normal now,

With a table and chairs

But I don't call it home

Cause I know

They'll throw me to the curb

Leave in in the road

Like the animal I am

You don't know what the world does

When she's off work

You don't know how the world acts

When she's off her axis

It's okay to take hiatus

Instead of medication

It's okay to call the cops on motorcycle

It's okay to die

Before you see your son

When Sunday comes

Just call your mom on Monday

Doctor visits

EMTs and emergencies

Epics and Epochs

Long lost love songs to god

And Cardinal Directions

Reflections in mirrors

Table toppers for all the dramas

All the months you lost

On muttered mantras

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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