damaged goods.

'damaged goods' Collection 1.1 - 'actuality' Track 01. 'damaged goods' Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū (as Happy Accidents) Listen— —motherfucker— You should— Know— I don't — —give— No —kind of— —fuck— Whatsoever I love my own —but not the other Something - something son Get a gun and blow my candles out White power now bout Building towers up To tear you down —I don't give a fuck about flax; seek Black seed, back seat black candles Black cat, relax, Atticus. I don't give a fuck about a Fallon, I bought a gallon of water for two jugs, And a quarter On my daughter. Get it? (Fuck you) Or should I go back to spending Spin class looking at candid camera I could buy a mountain before I sit down on mounds White Diamonds, 9 time champ I'm just like ET, don't mind that I'm a dead beat dad camped out in a van With a 30 second tan on, oh man Redact that one —FUCK— YOU. Power play I should wait an hour For the Amazon van If the Amazon man can't hit this What makes you think you can? I just too fan(dom) (dumb) I drew fandoms on your Blū Barrymore, Don't carry that backpack, You might fall back I called my song —but I can't call back …fuck you, (Goddamn) If you don't believe me, I just scored two degrees Just from pleasing people Three of you count me, My MBA in saying I buy NBA team Damn. Can't even get an Instagram account Without getting hacked Just for being a half black Half Uncle Sam smashing red/*ted man Don't call red man, Just call Meth/ Seth back METHOD MAN …hello? Flip the bitch right back I flip the whip And grip the script, I pistol whipped Bristol back To — camp Oh, That's not Jimmy Fallon. It's not? No. That's Sim Jim. Sim Jim? Uh huh. You see, Sim Jim took over for real Jim a long time ago. Oh…I really like that guy! Everybody likes Sim Jim; he's just like the real Jimmy, but takes care of everything The Real Jimmy can't. …that's making sense. They're nearly completely identical—Sim Jim is just more — available. Wow! He must be really famous. Yes, exactly. So—what about The Real Jimmy? What about him? What does he do? At this point, I knew there was no way I could really get around it—getting the Festival Project ™ off the ground and running—actually into production—seemed almost impossible. The shell and ghost of Jimmy Fallon seemed to be everywhere, plastered on walls and screens in all this time and at every turn —but the real masked man/-The Real Jimmy Fallon—was a mystery— the mask he wore, his own face, and his entire namesake, his own address. What would you do? I would probably never see him again on the material plane, but he had instead soaked my dreams in mystery in illusion—his shadow figure having become enchanted, whispering with ease as the voice of my own subconscious. Like any celebrity, he was untouchable—-and like any of them before or sense the seven years time, had come and gone into my quarry of philosophies and cosmic murmurs, only leaving behind the pondering of thoughts, now dwindled down into a reconciling judgement that perhaps I was, after all, somewhat broken. Perhaps, once, I had fallen asleep only to never wake up—perhaps I had died in all truth and not known it and had become the ghost myself. Shattered mirrors and references to time only left me with more truth and less overall knowing—that something had happened here—something strange and otherworldly; Something mystical and cosmic that had left me in audacity and crumbling inwardly in calamity, though my outer spoke with the calm outpourings of a humbled and collected but weary traveler, once, too made of dust—but now seeped in skin and rushing with blood—at least, I thought…and I thought far too fondly and far too often of Mr. Jimmy Fallon to care at all without being frustrated, or giving weight to the reality which was simple, in that he had become a galaxy in his own, so distant that it seemed to rival any coincidings of rampant thought which might be logical in any sort of way or make actual sense at all. The Jimmy Fallon I knew was the Jimmy Fallon everyone knew— and nobody knew The Real Jimmy Fallon. Three entire solid decades of fame between my world, and whatever his might have been fashioned as— fabrication, any means—and none of my actual business, besides the business—I crept into a sacrificial surrender with the hopes of never being further harmed—the ritual torture of those around me fading into rupture; the rapture of all mankind had gathered at my doorstep, and outside my window, and rather than to wait and watch, I crept and closed into my fortress of servitude, in solitude, silently keeping the records of what I had known. “The Untouchables” Episode 1 ‘The Wrath of Stanhope' {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.