01. OXYGEN. (Instrumental)

Track 01. OXYGEN Music VIdeo: The Leveling Up from Hotel Concierge to Superstar Sensation I'mma just like– Take one of those luggage carts and prolly dance with it, Like i used to. That shit is not gonna work. You were like It'll work. You were like mad fat, back then. SO. So it; luggage carts shouldn't spin like that; They don't just move like that. It's just centrifugal force. Watch. Alright, if you say so. Watch. Lol Runaway luggage cart. Fine. That's the video. All ya'll bitches gossiping I just can't do nothing right I should put some vocals in Channel surf from side to side I just got another job Concierge from 9-5 I just need some oxygen Channel surf side to side I get paid to go to work This shit hurts from 9-5 This shit hurts from 9-5 I just got another job— Concierge from 9-5 I get paid to go to work This shit hurt from Out of sight and out of mind; You are nothing but a problem I'm a prophet I'm a God Channel surf and then I prosper You just talk and gossip Photoshop and scrolling on your socials Mind my business, do my job, but On those eggshells I am walkin I get paid to go to work Paperwork from 9-5 I just need some oxygen -channel surf from 9-5 I been making profit Turning hours into dollars Went no drama I'm on oxygen While all you do is gossip You just clocked in— but my shift is fucking over Peace! All y'all bitches gossiping I m in another life Making money count it up Paperwork from 9-5 I just need some oxygen I just can't do nothin right I just need some oxygen Channel surf from side to side All ya'll bitches gossipin, I am not about that life! Now I'm doing vocals in the studio From 9-5 Package came from Amazon Guess I'm doing something right Now I'm in the studio, MTV from 9-5 Mind my business, do my job My shift done, but, You just clocked in K no non N—- Katt. What up Snoop . Ahh, Look what the pimp limped in. You think you're clever. You think you're at least 5 foot—but you're 4 foot 9 I'm STILL WINNING CHARLIE SHEEN relapses on the dance floor Oh shit. Relapses to which habit? All of them! 10-4 CALL RUSSEL BRAND. Csnt. Why not. He's blacked out. What? Another relapse?! No, he just— passed out KABLAM. “The Cockney Thug” He's just like that now. God What is it. Can I have ham in my spam samwhiches. —you want ham in your spam sandwhich. Yes. Roasted cantaloupe with Put your notebook On my throat-Scrotum I like your poems So I wrote you this one Oh. That's. Welcome—to the' creepy shit fans have done for u's backlogs. “Backlogs” Well, I have millions of fans, It would take me years to look at all this. [the festival project] Woah. Woah. Ok. Yo. Have you seen this. What is it. I don't know. Hm. Look. Woah: Yeah, it's— Wow Ok. It just goes on like this— For how long— For like GOH GOH GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO [Tales of a Superstar DJ] Six hours should have been enough sleep, but now I was feeling strange, almost as if I had woken up into a world where I didn't belong—not that I had ever felt I belonged anywhere before so much, but this world seemed strange and twisted, I woke up in a cold sweat, and although I had been struggling with a full bladder for sometime, at least semi- conscious enough to point my foot in the direction of the door, still dressed—or rather, almost dressed— well, dressed, by skinny girl standards, in shorts I wore as underwear, but smaller girls would wear for running, the only acceptable crop top I ever owned, a white top with black Chinese dragons, and athletic compression socks—best yet, I still had on my DJ hat, and things had been so outrageous lately that I always felt like I needed some kind of head covering, anyway—it was atrang how suddenly I noticed the difference with and without, but lately anyway had been sleeping strangely, usually dressed and atop the bed, rather than in it, or under the covers. I had been working tirelessly towards my albums, and had just finished an EP—well( the instrumentals; anyway, and had gone to bed in the early evening frustrated that suddenly, my microphone seemed not to be working—and though I often struggled with the interface, it had simply just stopped picking up audio, though I had been successful in at least doing the preliminary tracks, (before breaking to workout) after a mandatory rest and some obligatory indulgence—I always ate more than usual when producing heavily, or producing at all, at least music which was more complex, than just a simple beat or some kind of improvised work; If it was intentional at all that I should focus on music, I was always overeating—but, I had become quite small, running at least a mile a day for some time, and didn't nessesarily find the extra weight too bothersome… though I loved being skinny— and it became oddly difficult to sing and dance well when I was smaller, almost like I was living in a different body at that weight— like I was detached from myself and my voice, and also strangely, the ability to dance as fantastically as I wish I could ever do while recording myself or being recorded came with a couple extra pounds and some limited indulgence—very limited… —But, I did like being skinny. I awoke in a cold sweat, the lights still on—the dream hadn't altogether been a disaster or a nightmare, but strange enough to wake me, and vivid enough that I had become lucid, that talking to and looking at Dillon had made me realize I should wake up, especially given what he was saying and doing—in short, he was being a douchebag, which I nearly always expected of him, anyway, but somehow, within the dream, still felt close enough to him that I wasn't upset. Somehow, though, I had let him go entirely in the waking world, at all, actually—almost never even writing about him anymore, giving myself the time to grow and the space I needed to shake off whatever had been such a weird curse that had even lead me to think we could be an item; now, in the waking world, I was grounded in reality—I no longer fawned after celebrities really, although average men never piqued my interest or fancy at all—actually, no man in any way was quite piquing my interest indeed, and I had even stopped masturbating, after a particularly strong orgasm which had emerged from what seemed like a random vision of Sonny, not soon before that, maybe a week or so ago at best—and what had come thereafter had squashed any kind of sexuality I might have pondered or summoned up—the coughing people instantly returned after that orgasm, as if it were a direct attack on my soul to even think of him in such a way, which had however been by complete accident, in the final moments before release— and I realized it was probably some kind of magical protection, or hex from coughs, who might still, or in some girlish way be in love with him—Perhaps, even his own magical shield—and I could not anymore give my ex the power or ability to have maneuvered such a trick, that an orgasm would bring about such cruelties… as I realized that there were almost always present, as well as the coughing people, women who were petite and pretty—the kind actually suited for Sonny, would appear in my midsts, having anywhere to go, or anything to do—petite, blonde haired, blue eyed women—or just, white women in general, almost seemingly out of nowhere—And, to remain that I stay unchanged from my lack of violence towards the matter, I had left any man that wasn't mine entirely alone, even in my mind, but especially in my heart and soul. I had let everything and everyone go—which included Dillon Francis, who's apparent relationship, though no sign of such in the actual media, I had decided to overall respect; I always respected the woman or wife of a man, especially those that I admired—especially those who I was extremely attracted to, and especially those of whom I became bonded in some way, through my writing or otherwise, completely by accident and never intentional—and to that, I had moved into entire celibacy… though, it began to be a painful knot in the bottom of my back and at my spine, in my hips and even in my kneecaps, especially the weak one—after an outing full of coughing bodies and petite looking girls, I had thought it best to never even think of Sonny again, and had locked my obsidian protection stone out of my presence entirely—I wished not to know or think of a man who knew no bounds, and relinquished his spirit, if not for my own safety. It had been months since dreaming about Dillon Francis at all, and perhaps I was just sexually frustrated, however the dream in itself wasn't sexual in nature—just, informative. He was wearing a white t-shirt with a pretty brunette on it—with blue eyes, of course, and clad in a bikini—which I told him was the most beautiful woman in the world—he agreed, and strangely was able to zoom in the picture on his shirt, as if it were some kind of screen, focusing on her bosom and saying something along the lines of “yep, she's all mine—and no portal [to the underworld]!”, and though he hadn't said the part about the underworld, I figured and sort of agreed that his suggestion was, that my vagina had some kind of curse on it—which was probably true, anyway, and the reason I never even masturbated anymore. I responded by telling him that I was happy he had someone, that I was happy he was in love and that that's what I had wanted, but suddenly became filled with sadness—it seemed I still did have feelings somewhere for him after all, though I was dreaming, and he began to torment me with the words that made me decide that I had to wake up to escape the horrid feelings that came along with them. He said “you know when I first met you I really wanted you; I just wanted you.” And in the insinuating that there might have ever been some kind of chance between us, if I had only done something different, though— during my time being homeless everything had become out of control, it angered me that he suggested that I could have worked harder or tried harder and things might have been different—they weren't, and I decided that though it had been good to see him, and it would be hard to wake up, that I needed to wake up now, before I could cry inside my own dream, lighting an incense in the dream world, and making the wish to exit the dream; I immediately did, returning into my room, alit with blue, at around the time I had intended to wake up to presume making music, which now seemed futile—suddenly I didn't want to even try, realizing it had less to do with Dillon Francis than it did with the world in general. in fact, upon waking, I thought to myself that no matter the situation, it had been a relief to see Dillon, who I thought of as a kind stranger, an imaginary friend now, who had guided me through rough waters with laughter and the pleasure of music—who in my waking life had fallen back into the category of just another famous person, with no delusion of a romance between one another, no matter how much I had wanted it once. I had left it alone, out of respect to his own conscious, and out of respect to myself—who had fangirled enough that I had become damaged from it, deciding ultimately to just ‘leave the men alone', and wondered what kind of monster I might have been that I really only was ever interested anymore in someone if they were not only handsome, but talented, intelligent, and also somewhat famous. The auras of even the most beautiful common man, even the classy, well dressed and assuming well-to-do men of Manhattan just didn't shine the way the others did—and I could never see myself shine in a way that would make me like them—famous—though I had been working hard on my music, dangerously hard, actually—so much that I feared my ex's Jealousy and intent to kill had plagued and cursed now my machinery—I just couldn't at all get my microphone or to work and had forced myself to sleep—it had been over 24 hours that I had been awake with the focus to work anyway, and I needed to rest, but was mere hours away from the completion of another project, and suddenly, the ability to record vocals has just stopped. Now, upon waking, I clutched my chest, drenched in sweat realizing that I had fallen asleep with some stones tucked into my bra, which I never did anymore as the stones and crystals had been enchanted with intentions, and had become quite strong, each of them on their own, but particularly together in the way that some of them even clashed, and that I could not carry them all, or just didn't, out of caution—I assumed the one over my heart to be the Amethyst, which I very specifically never ever slept with or even clutched anymore—the stone was strange, and had began to vibrate in a way that I was unsure of, and so with that I alluded it to the probability that because its intention had always been set to be given as a gift to Dillon, no matter the stuatus of our actual relationship to one another, that it in some way had been bonded to his energy—and with respect to the presumption that he was taken, of course by some pretty, very skinny, perfectly capable white girl—perfectly capable of being functional in all the ways I was not, by circumstances of privelege and wealth, probably extremely well cared for and perfect in every way—I respected the dynamics of white world, in that it made more sense for him to always love someone like her, if not just her forever—if he truly had fallen in love and planned to make this woman his wife, which I had wanted alon learning that he was with someone—the notion which would have freed me from his grip, a still quite devastating attraction— And it was devastating, The loop which was so simple and certainly evident now, that it was an inevitable lust and infatuation that had drawn me to the conclusion that you just can't want a man like that. You have no business falling in love with a man like Sonny Moore, Dillon Francis—or anyone alike them, in that it would all be the same, tragic, eye opening experience of uselessness, disappointment, and the constant reminder that because of who they are, and because of who you are, you would never, ever be good enough for them—and even in a professional setting, had a long way to go up the ladder before a collaboration with Skrillex, Dillon Francis, or deadmau5 would make any kind of literal sense, but especially monetary, I was simply not rich enough yet for the music industry—and I was certainly not woman enough for any of them. It wasn't the amethyst at all, I realized upon returning from the restroom, that had been inside my brazier as I slept, but The Illuminati Stone, which had no incantation besides the explicit desire for wealth, knowledge, and skill within my given right to exist outside of the “underworld”, “the blackness” or the plague of poverty—the amethyst, with my other musical incantations had been left atop my drum machine, as they usually always were, next to my drum sticks and whatever mess I had abandoned in the studio before falling asleep, and though now I was quite awake, smudging with sage to break the feeling of helplessness and bitter sadness, slight sexual frustration which I had fallen asleep with, and of course now waken up with, quich had nothing to do with Dillon, thankfully—and at the very least I knew better than to think of him in anyway on purpose at all—or any man in anyway on purpose at all—as it was concluded I just simply could not be loved at all, and that if there were any curse at all placed on me, it was with that purpose—that I would never love or be loved again. I never slept with all my stones, but now I wanted to; I should have been working on music, but wasn't even moderately moved to do so—it was like I had lost the desire, and reminded me that perhaps my ex had become Dillon Francis after all, just to torture me, just as he had seemed to turn into Sonny before. Perhaps he would just turn into anyone I loved just to try to kill me kn the way that j could never be without him, no matter how much I wanted to, and would always have to suffer being reminded of him, his habits, and the horrible things he used to do to me; and for some reason, the scar on the inside of my lip, where my teeth had punctured entirely through from one side to the other, began to swell and throb, which almost never happened, but sometimes did, especially when k was upset or had flashbacks of the initial beating which had left me wounded in many more ways than i could ever count or imagine, but especially damaged—he had ruined my face that day, and suddenly I remembered it, the gash that had left it impossible to eat for sometimes, as even applesauce would sting, and stuck to the wound inside my mouth—and it was hard to imagine how I ever recovered from that.::or maybe I hadn't. Either way, there had been a strong, male voice lately which had been tormenting me with especially masculine, toxic and invasive thoughts, a voice which reminded me of a man who called himself Big O, who had once ruined my day by offering me a ride,'picking me up at a bus stop in front of the shelter—whom I assumed was doing so out of the kindness of his heart, of course, but was either some fed doing intel on the bizzare was surrounding my imminitely divine and extra terrestrial podcast series, or just some strange man attempting to illicit sexual favors in exchange for drugs, which I politely declined, however, he had spent my time, which was supposed to be a direct ride from queens into Manhattan, driving in circles, running errands, and asking questions about me, my past, and my own habits—all of which had been extinguished, and though I just wanted to go to the gym, he had kept driving in circles around queens, even stopping at what seemed like some kind of doctors office, his office, where he said he had some mushrooms “just lying around” and would give me for free—which I never believed anyway, but went along with it—as the bus almost never came when scheduled and on time and I had been at the stop nearly too long; and he had hovered in front of me long enough to realize that he was trying to get my attention. I had nothing to lose in the shelter anyway, and had been making a point to spend as much time at equinox as possible—and was still somehow naive enough at this point to actually believe that someone would actually just do such a thing—give someone a ride out of the kindness of their heart. But I paid for that ride, in unwanted touches, coughing, and the reminder that there was some demonic force which only ever wanted to hurt me, drive around in circles, and waste my time, just as my ex had— that just wanted to blow smoke in my face and remind me that I wasn't a beautiful woman, but just a woman—and that there were so many other to choose from that I should be so lucky just to have been offered a ride. It was this voice that had been torturing me lately, calling me a horrible mother, an ugly fat woman—unworthy of success. It was this voice that had been burgeoning me with reminders of what I had been before, almost enough to overlook what I had become—and though it was with some stroke of genius that I had done all that I had, it didn't seem to matter without the actual success or wealth, or any money at all to show for it—and so far, there wasn't any: I was literally down to my last dollar, once again— unmarked, albeit, with such a formidable respect to Jimmy Fallon and his family, besides the strangeness that had been surrounding the inspiration to suddenly begin to write from his essence characters I had never known or thought of, but had suddenly somehow been brought to life— I was too broke now even to get business cards, and though I had invested into a beautiful studio, the struggles with my interface altered me to the fact that all of my equipment was becoming rapidly obsolete, and that alone gave me a limited ability to create, let alone to make quality music which was good enough to compete with the likes of even the lower ranks at Insomniac , but especially far from a signature label, like Epic or Columbia, which I needed more than wanted—a record deal; my living room was still empty, and the only furniture was my studio equipment, which was at least a comfortable and beautifully well lit space, with a cheap full sized mattress on the floor—but it was everything in the world to be grateful for, to have an unshared space—which might have been perfect a couple floors higher up and without the distraction of either of my neighbors, both white women who seemed to act in demonic ways at random times, but especially in times were I wanted to relax, or be at peace—and though for at least a week or so they had been particularly calm, and I had been putting in overtime with heavy prayer work in order to protect myself and be rid of such a demonic energy, a force which seemed to intend to kill me and used other people as it's way to find me—there was still this voice, who had taken the voice of big o, who I hated for not only touching me, but wasting my time—I had missed equinox that day after a streak, arriving hours after he had picked me up in Manhattan, his attempts to lure me into some kind of party girl state failed; he dropped me off at 66th, Columbus circle, for my “gig”; I wasn't letting him know my true destination for any reason, and unstead bluffed that I had been hired as a musician to preform at this address, which happened to be, without my knowing, the Trump hotel, It was his voice that called me a liar and a thief, a horrible mother, a fat, ugly useless woman. It was his voice that told me to get a “real” job, that was useless in music at all—that I could not compete with the little girls which the music industry had pumped out on pure sexual appeal, rather than talent—girls like Tyla, who I knew were planted and selected with financial backing to be “successful”, not on hard work or determination, but by the looks of it, some kind of sick game—the body game, which the whole world had become, and I had lost long before I had become aware of it. Though beautiful in its way, my body was broken, hard, and tired— I drifted in and out of an altered consciousness, knowing my time had come to do or die, but unlikely to try my hand at anything that might become what the regular workforce always was—a hellscape of more reminders of my ex, of Sonny, the petite women suited for him— reminded of a Dillon , and his super white girlfriend—and the overriding factor that I was supposed to be focusing fully on music; and shouldn't be working some dead end job at all— Fuck this. I thought, placing the amethyst on my inter thigh. Fuck music. There was no way to let music go, but the possibility of actual success was dwindling—anything I loved became evil, and in the shattering of doing everything alone, I just wanted it to be over. Maybe if he didn't want to be a parent alone and be constantly reminded of me, He shouldn't have cheated But especially shouldn't have beat me He certainly had no right to take the rest of my life away just because I had walked out of his—he had ruined my baby to look and sound just like him; to act like him, and though I couldn't ever hate my boy I would never love his father again, or any man like him. Or maybe, any man at all. What is a man, but that, anyway? Destroyers of worlds, wasters of times Vengeful, pitiful, needy creatures— And though I thought also that woman might be worse… The worst of all things was that I had become neither at all, And therefore devoid of the ability to love or be loved, in the world which had become nothing but money, bodies, and material consumption. Suicide reared its head in a different way than usual—not with the burning sensation of absolute pain and destruction, but instead with a calm intent to not attach, to not conform, to not bond to anything, which might prove in itself be just another illusion: It was nice seeing Dillon. It was strange that in all of the horrible feelings that had come from waking back into the nightmare of my own existence—a nightmare which was at least now pretty, and sheltered properly, but still miserably alone—and I neither wanted nor needed friends, really. Who could you trust in such a material world, to have your best interests at hand! Who could you trust in man's world, if not man itself. His body was tall and strong, and felt safe— But nothing was safe about Dillon Francis, or his world. Nothing is safe in a man's world. Aristide o I am the god, if you want it The devil if you need it To be that Another Dillon Francis dream I had fallen asleep just to again dream of Dillon Francis—perhaps I knew I wouldn't be seeing him in waking life again, and took my chances, attacking him as he slept peacefully, or at least laid down. I knew he had a girlfriend and didn't care; I had my way with him anyway, though not going al the way—his penis was very tiny, which made the blowjob all the more enjoyable—he ejaculated quickly, and I was satisfied—at least his penis was small enough that it wouldn't have brought me too much pleasure anyway. I was pretty happy about it, but he felt bad and kind of freaked out. I pretended nothing happened and we stayed friends—I think we worked together or something so we were still around each other a lot—he made it a point to suppose his girlfriend with a $67,000 engagement ring, which for whatever made me jealous. It didn't matter kept my own secret, but he still seemed kind of mad or disappointed in himself. Then I got a new man—he wasn't my ideal, but at least I had somebody. I laid with him on the beach and for some reason Dillon's girl was there—she was so pretty. This version of his girlfriend was blonde—but of course still had blue eyes. Duh. She seemed to know that I had made Dillon cheat on her as I looked into her eyes, but it didn't matter anyway. The past was the past, I guess. My new man didn't seem to matter. He was like a faceless body and insignificant, but something went down and we were to run away to a cabin in the woods somewhere to hide. What a weird fucking dude. I wondered why he had begun again to appear in my dreams—and it wasn't as if I'd forgotten about, at all, but just hadn't been thinking about him, almost not at all, actually: I wondered what a $67,000 engagement ring would look like and figured that might be the actual case, so to just leave him or anything to do with him alone—especially doing something retarded like googling or looking him up, which would only hurt me. I was nice to have a penis in my mouth though—I missed penis a lot…felt bad for kind of mouth taping him but whatever. I had fun. I woke up in the morning with all the energy I had lost from staying up trying to push out my project by 4/20 or 4/23, hoping that constantly being reminded of my abuser would stop, but it seemed he wanted me dead and to suffer with the memory of him forever; I had missed my deadline, not out of laziness, but because of the unsurmounting amount of bullshit which seemed to come between me being able to actually do anything right in music, and I thought surely soon enough the EDM industry would find their own Tyla, hiring some black looking girl to make—or at least play dubstep, pretending to make it— realness didn't seem to matter to anyone at all anymore— And my passion for music became jaded as my body and mind were, in the money that it would take to become noticed. Sure, of course, I would still try but probably not as hard — the whites —or rather just—the heads of the entertainment industry as a whole, but especially music, seemed to have enough interest in me that maybe it did matter, but I would have to be groomed for their world, who they obviously didn't want penetrated by too much blackness—which was understandable; race aside, or at least the black culture was hard to stand in many aspects—though of course, rap, as any other genre, had become so horrible that I knew my music would excel— It was insane that the music industry had ruined music enough that even new music from my favorite artists began to sound robotic—and it must have been that the audiences were so brainwashed themselves that it didn't matter to the festival world—everyone just wanted to party to escape the clutches of capitalism and corporate slavery, which made sense. Of all the days to dream about Dillon stupid fucking Francis, it's the day of the eclipse, and I wondered whether I should even waste my time starting up at the sky like everyone else in the world would be, or if I was just better off hiding away, keeping safe from the disgusting, coughing, robotic demon people—- and just working on music, fighting this invisible monster who wanted nothing but my defeat— However—the more it pushed me to excel in anything besides music-my writing, which came naturally but second, as even that world had been washed with nepotism and unoriginality that had been hard to palette—it would be even harder to make it as a writer, as white woman always dominated white works, and I could bear to stand the thought of bowing to her. Racism is simply a game of control—to make the other party understand that they are in some or any way inferior to another, genetically, peofessionally, or otherwise. Not only had I come now to entirely fear the white woman, the face of white dominance and supremacy by proxy—that the world had come to worship as the most capable, attractive, and worthy of love and success, especially in dance culture, but just in the media in totality, anyway, and certainly in any workplace I had ever known, which drew me back to the story which my now-late 3-track EP, a teaser for my upcoming album— a story which told of the days I spent my time working at the Eureka Casino Resort, as part time deal person, and part time concierge-which was actually a hubrif position betwrrnbellhop and housekeeper, the job at which I had discovered my all time guilty pleasure, Bad Girls club, on a network oxygen— a tv channel which played lol sorts of reality shows, but of course—happened to be usually playing Bad girls club during my shifts, which made the shitty job a little less shitty, and maybe even worth it a little, to finish my work as quickly as possible, and hide away in one of the resort's rooms, clever enough to choose a ro still marked as dirty-/but was clean enough to enjoy an episode or two of what some might have called trash TV, but presented itself as high quality entertainment, for a 21 year old would-be housewife—or, yet-to-be. Or would have been, if the money had permitted, but of course, it never did— or, it never had— At least—not yet. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.