-At The Crossroads

Ugh I have to keep doing this dumb protection spell I guess this dude wanted me dead so he can't go to jail But for sure there's hell for em— A solemn prayer to the ones that can't protect themselves Shout out to my love of all loves Shout out to the son of all Suns. //return all hexes curses and demons to sender//>>return negative energy to sender>>return bear claw hex to Starr Michael Roberts>>return Phoenixx hair hex wifebeater curse >>karma effect to Michael John Roberts>>return negative energy to sender>>//aura protection//health regeneration//protection helm>>return curse to sender>>protect>>carrier>>supacree>>carrier>>Cree Dahavalynn>>protect carrier>> Sunni Blū>>return curses and hexes to sender>>return death curses to sender>> >>return coughs to sender// protext//protect recipient of coughing curse>>protect carrier><<return to sender// Now, I found all of them irresistible— But it seemed as though Sonny was playing with my mind, and as if I could ever just narrow it down to only him again as I had in the past might not only prove impossible, but devastating. As I tried my hardest to whittle down my figure into what seemed like nothing, the closer to celebrity size I drew myself in my daily gym routine and nutrition regimen, it still seemed wrong to try to even imagine, that even if he was perhaps my eldest counterpart and most compatible soulmate, that we would align at all anytime soon unless I were perhaps able to strip myself of any reminence of my old life—which of course included the leftover skin and stretch marks, the scars of bearing another man's children, which of course, though I had done well in the way of removing as much ugly as there was possible, was at the very worst and at best probably humiliating to even consider, the severity of my wit and talent aside, the emergence of a rare genius disregarded; I was used goods, and would probably have to be someone else entirely to even get along well in his circle of perfect-bodied and presitgious, elitist women—most of whom, as his own fan base had gathered, were ‘beautiful and intelligent', and with him he kept himself constantly guarded with and surrounded by— petite, gorgeous, rich and talented women, probably for all I knew who were all just as interested in bearing his children as I was—and had been, without at first knowing so—but in the years I had spend battling the innate and unweilding attachment through whatever explicit soul bonding we seemed to share—and we were, in fact, bound to each other in some kind of way, undoubtedly and unrelentlesly, I had learned what with Sonny had come with the territory of Skrillex—and it was, indeed—a lot of territory; territory, property, holdings, and whatever else you wanted to call absolute dominance and overriding ownership in an industry which I had only so recently become familiar with, and had learned that whether or not I wanted, I would end up dealing with him in his own realm in one way or another, more than probably along with the soul-stealing, mind numbing collection of competitive and ruthless women he seemed to need surrounding him at all times. Then, of course, there was the fact that I had deeply considered Dillon at the heart of it all for a brief moment, that is, before he had hinted and and then made a point to mention his girlfriend—at which point I had realized that the work accomplished within the project, and especially that which was in his namesake, was simply business, again, to not quite my demise and never to my detriment, the emotional pull of the wrath I had faced in mourning a cry to the universe to send an army of spiritual warriors and angles the likes of which I had never seen—the helping hands of Anandar, who though a self stated advocate of ‘The Devil' had also groomed my once-lost ability to create on a whim, and of course, a frenzy of Dillon Francis look-alikes that seemed to exist if only to remind me of my bizzare and intense, undying sexual attraction to the man, despite his supposed status as taken or ‘off-market', and though I had learned in various ways to cope with the loss or mourn what might have been, to grieve even just the budding friendship which had become of the very begginings of it all, Dillon seemed sly and straightforward in a way that still hinted at something else—and however in my own obedience to my moral laws of monogamy, respecting one's own self and others in the way that there could never be more than business between the two of us, there was also there an attachment to my soul, and in an ascended sense, a higher purpose for what too, had happened with Dillon Francis—and though there may not have been such an obvious slew of women at his feet at any given time, it was almost uncannily more heartbreaking that I knew there were just as many beautiful, perfect women in line to be the mother of his children—more the marrying type, precisely by Hollywood and the white Caucasian standards, especially held by those of Californian men, all of which he was—that is,— the marrying type, Caucasian, and Californian, all of which fit my ideal genetically-driven standards, however with a personality which suited mine (almost too well,) a music portfolio that exhibited genius in itself despite its critical appeal, and the ability to make me laugh in even just the mildest thought form, it seemed that the possibility that o could love this man had bloomed, and then folded just as quickly—something like a night flower; in the light to was clear to see all the reasons someone like myself could never be suited for such a man, especially to marry and raise his children—by anyone's standards, and that I, again, would have to become an entirely other person to do so—and perhaps, in time, I would—become enough of another person; however, still myself, and with the grips of age upon all of us, I settled into the knowing that a man like Dillon Francis would by now have found a perfect thorough-bread white women with whom to share his life with—in the way of a smart businessman, which I also knew he was. Perfect, either way, I was still somehow remarkably thankful to his parents for having brought him into the world, in which doing so they had colored my own with such warmth and smiles that I could not ignore. i had realized for some time that my own predisposition to designer children had become a prominent factor in my own mounting attraction; it appeared as though surely the father to my future children was indeed white, and thiugh looked down upon by the blacks for being so inconsiderate as yo even be attracted to ‘my own kind', I saw it as just that—‘my own kind, in that I could not so much be attracted to dark skinned men as I could be attracted to anyone in my own family—brothers, cousins, etc., and in my own mind it even felt wrong and strange to consider that my future children would be passed the considerable amount of genetic trauma and all the disadvantages that came with it—not to mention the cruelty and trauma in the waking life I had experienced with nearly every black man I had ever known, and it seemed almost as if all men of color were meant to be friends and not partners within this waking world—sexual partners, at least—as I wasn't by the hurt I had experienced yet intrinsically racist and afraid; in business, and of course, especially in music, I had become used to being classified by race and had become so familiar with the inner workings of the colored world and colored culture through music—of course, in a world where the rappers and producers of the hip-hop world never wanted to just be friends, or simply work on projects fluidly, without some kind of innuendo or connotation—which I had years ago, of course realized, could have skyrocketed me to success, playing this sort of game; using my sexuality and sensibility for studio time, or dating around in the circles of mini-stardom that came with the movement of money from the streets; it was simple to see and easy to know that most rappers came into money in other ways in order to afford studio time, producers, and pieces of the limelight, and with that, came the expectation that the women of the industry were typically expected to succumb to the misogynistic standards represented in colored culture; it had become apparent in the world of music, but especially in hip hop and R&B music culture, that women were seen as objects, possessions, and decorations—all of which was devastating to myself, of course, a semi-androgynous non-bianary post-racial indigent indigenous-American with more of a mind for integration and evolution than materialism and manipulation; all this to say, I simply wasn't fit to be controlled and contorted by the color-coded system within the hip-hop industry, and in which ways never considered myself ‘black' or ‘black enough' without some forceful habit forming, or movement within the system I had of course out of sheer dissemblance been sorted into. Then, I wasn't typically willing to give up on any of my ideals, and of course had set my sights on being the perfect woman for whatever future husband and father to my future children would have me; I had missed out on the Hollywood life by a long shot and it would literally take a miracle to make me into a star; something like Anandar, but with a lot more money and power to fix all that was broken with my body, my heart, and my mind to match the charisma and talent I knew that I had—and I knew that I did have it. I knew that with a perfect body I would have already been given the opportunity to be signed somewhere, probably a major label like I had wanted—because with the talent that I already did have to match a perfect body, I was marketable. I knew that given the right clothes, nails, and hairstyles I would become a magnet for attraction, as even know, roaming the streets of New York City in ragged harem pants and old Chuck Taylors, I still had a sense of undying magnetism about me in my presence alone; a stature which dominated and demanded respect from those with the right eyesight and mind frame to see past my worn and haggard appearance and into the untapped plethora of symphonies and sonic alchemism which had been so divinely gifted, the thing which I kept sacred and cherished most in myself—and I did love myself, actually, probably so much so that the hatred and darkness of the world which seemed to need me to end myself continued to follow me in the form of what one might call the devil, if one believed in such—the typically obese or otherwise empty, malleable broken and soulless bodies possessed by which I had named ‘the coughing demon', which seemed some kind of demonic or satanic force with no other aim than to have me dead at all. I was, in fact, some sort of genius—not of course that it meant anything to anyone probably besides my mother, and whatever lover could see past my obvious faults—a body which had been tormented and stretched, scarred by trauma, a seven year old son with whom his father I had forcibly become estranged from due to violence—who may have even gone far enough as to have me hunted by this coughing demon so that I may never know my very own son— and the rest of the baggage that came with being a broken soul, once homeless, with skin dark enough to be prone to racism and without the perfect body to make up for it; as, one thing I had noticed is that the men of my desire often could see past color—so long as the body which was painted in any way brown was perfect enough to suit him. I knew I needed to Fonda way to pay for that surgery, to remove the damage which had been done to my body in the 30 years I had spent on earth, most of which I had spent fighting in some way for freedom, and best of all love—which to now, only my sons had truly given me; perhaps I could take a lesson from Kayla Lauren after all—the reformed pornstar and personal trainer — I hated personal training with a bloody passion, but making enough money for that kind of surgery on a DJ's salary seemed impossible, and probably was. It would take almost no time at all to become certified, and after all, under all that excess skin and ugly trauma was the body I had wanted and needed all along, to attract someone like Sonny. The moment had gone, though—and all of my wants and thoughts were in the wash; I had almost taken the long route of possible love—and it was the longest road at all to have gone from Sonny, to Dillon, to Joel with nothing more than a plethora of songs and all that I had ever wanted to become; In fact, all I had ever really wanted was love—but at this point, the point of no return, I realized that there was no inconceivable way that that love would come from the top, especially at the bottom— and now, from the confines of a hotel room full of broken and lost souls, Grammy season upon us with the nomination for the Best Dance album or whatever it was seeming to come from the very bottom of my own misguided heart, I learned my lessons entirely wel—to let go, and to learn from everything I had gathered, to make a list of everything I had ever wanted, material or not, and to pay close attention to every song and album drop —to pull the pieces of The Festival Project together for my own good, and forget about love. There was no love in music business, just music—and perhaps the only father to my children was the father to my son, who I had brighter forgotten nor sacrificed in exchanged for whatever arrangement was expected; that with the demonic howling of racing cars and the satanic whooping coughs of the empty bodies which surrounded me at all times had indeed trapped me in this loveless region of Hell for no purpose other than being what I was— a ‘black woman', by society's standards, despite my own thoughts on the subject—and the subject simply was; Love. There was no reason to stay in a world without Love, and instead based on money, and so it was settled that though serving my purpose, whatever it was, my time became shorter with every cough—that I would much rather have love than money—and it almost seemed that one would not come without the other. —Tales of a superstar DJ [Return all RED negative energy back to sender— Return red energy to sender Return negative energy to sender; Return all negative m energy to sender m return red to sender] [When it] Turns out, The bottom of your heart Was the tip of the Ice Berg And the whole ship has [s]unk[en], [&] I[t]'s probably ice cold At the bottom of the ocean; I'll tell you where i'm from Why, I'll tell you anything for About one dollar Turns out, I've already got one eye on you; One eye'd sad heart I should probably roll out my art on you [I probably should not] One man bought a kiss, Another, a whole night from her– One man bought a whole farm The other, a Whole Foods Market –and you can't even franchise those Amazon's got a monopoly We were playing for corners of earth, All i got was some kandi, Subscriptions to candidly, Actually, I really liked the tree trial (I think i'll wait a week, sorry) When it turns out The world that you wanted Was actually hours already The dollar you got Was also borrowed And the money they wanted and got Was just actually stolen from someone else They bought all the food up And sold it for profits I promise this avocado Once costs nothing at all But you wanted that car for your daughter She's got a mercedes and don't even drive it My mom, on my honor Of all the garages in Lost Lands, I promise the owner of it was The first to go last, And the last to come home Now he's on his own alter And also the worshiper; How do you go back? Oh, you don't Oh you don't Oh, you don't wanna know that But i was of course, All of your rock bottoms It's bottoms and tops, and We don't let the top fall over, We're counting up crumbs And this muffin costs $24 dollars Pour a whole bottle of coconut water out on the sidewalks For the dead homies Not dead in the general sense But just in the head, the heart, And the soul The homeless are happier at McDonalds Than asking at crossroads and crosswalks For dollars I'd rather spend elsewhere I'll avoid the power struggle at operations for about 18 dollars and 56 sense (Please, keep the pennies) I'm feeling around in my 6th sense that there's Something indecent, or decadent Whichever it is Cause i'm better of with the memory of it Than actually dragging it in. –I'm a cat again. Ouch. Shut up. It HURTS. Of course it hurts, you just had heart surgery without any anistetics. YEah, but to be fair–that was a lot of acid. Yes, but lucily* for you– –or, for him– Lucily for us, there's no lethal amount of acid. –Ouch– –Shut up. That we know of. No, not the google documents! GET IN THE HOLE. Hm. What. Blood Shower All along the watch tower Do you feel good? Do you? Do you feel bad about this. I do. I feel bad about this. I forgot to tell you– I should probably let you know that I just want to MAN, FUCK THIS DUDE. MA. WAHT. IT'S ON. WHAt. THE SHOW IS ON. THEWHAT. THE– *suddenly self aware* …I gotta get out of Boston. What, first this was about war, now it's about bird people? It's about a war WITH the bird people. I should sleep. Hahaha. No. This isn't funny anymore. At least it's over. MA– Oh, it's far from over. Yo, i'm going through some crazy shit right now. Spur of the moment I'd never thought of it; This is gonna take forever. I don't have the patience To even write this I just want french fries right now But been up for two days with no gym and I'm on a diet. GUAC TIME. No, no burritos. GUAC TIME. Oh shit, this is getting real as fuck . NOw i see it three ways. I love it. I hate it. HEY, LET ME OUT. GET BACK IN YOUR HOLE, SKRILLEX. I'M DILLON FRANCIS. IN THE HOLE. Check it out. Huh. It's another DJ. *agrees* Should we pick him up. WEll, the good news is: I found your friend. Oh, that's good. The bad news is: He's dead. Oh, that–'s … nice. Yeah. It is. Uh. Kaskade. Yeah. We gotta find Ryan. Why. What's up? You're freaking me out. Why. What's up. Nothing IS it my eyes? I– *wild ass eyes* Yeah, it's probably that. Fuck dude, what did you do to deadmau5. NOTHIN. He's not the same. What the fuck is that. Holy shit I jus timejumped Where the fuck are you going. How the fuck could this happen?! It COULDN'T. Well, that's it then. *shrugs* Well, I guess we're just gonna have to go dig up Dillon Francis. I guess so. Do you think he's still alive. Like, probably not– Maybe… No, probably not @prodbywar& @Halmadeit This amazon order took me nine hours Alexa, I think i should fire her Like a arm I don't leave at night without armor Don't make me a martyr Your mom will be proud of us all If i make it outta here And i'll look after her Got the whole block coming up on my heels as I walk Wtf is it… Idk dude. Is it speeding up? I…i think so. There's no way this is 140 IT's 140. It's 140 . There's no way. Yes way. Nah huh. Let me see. No. Let me at the decks. Let me at the decks. NO. YO LET ME AT THE DECKS. You want deks. Yes. I got deks. Really. yeus . I never listened to it like this In ableton I read serato, synesthesia and rekordbox I talk a lot, I'm like a human music box I walk a lot I run my mouth a mile a minute (faster than i run around the track reciting rap words) Like they're passwords. Oh, I could do this forever.. I wish i had i microphone right now And was all alone With the lights off Lying on the floor I'd be lying if i said I could afford you Just to fornicate But may consider playing with a foreigner If you're all for her I'm unnerved, you know Cause i've been up so long My monster likes to play with boys and Make the bass go down below where Nobody does anymore Once I get a hold of things Or the hang of it You've got another hot ones on your hands I've another record under my belt Or in my roster, Whatever you'd call it But now I've got no time to bark about Wanting a dog and a daughter But none of the responsibility or Going through all the trouble to find her a father I'm still holding a fart in. Reaally–cause–it's been a really long time. WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT A LONG TIME, JIMMY FALLON?? Um a lot! You literally just saw me make the journey all the way up from nothing. I am nothing EXACTLY. I don't have time to fight with you Jiimmy Fallon. I did NOT write these games by myself you know?! Um, excuse me– “GAMES” ?! YES, GAMES. Uh, I've only got one game with you in it, my friend. Is that so! One game that I've written with the Great–formerly LATE Jimmy Fallon. Is that like a play on words cause i'm on late night TV YOu'RE ON ALL THE TIME TV, JIMMY. NBC SHIT IS PRACTICALLY AUTOMATICALLY SYNDICATED. -_- …are you alright. –_-_-__-_ Hold on, I think i've got it Nice, I found a growler. yOu still haven't got all the monsters and sprites Ive got all the big ones, but the little ones are harder to catch. GrO0Wl3rrr. Aww. He's so ugly. Yeah, but cute, though, right. I don't think so. Gro)WwlErrrrrrrrr. Aww. That's so fucking gross. lol . so what does this thing look like. Well, that't the thing about the monsters and sprites. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT. It's alright, it's alright–he's nice. WHAT. THAT'S A SPRITE. No, it's a monster. He's just scary. SUPACREE. David Bowie. What up. God, it took me ages to find you. Tell me about it. I'm still trying. We've been expecting you for a long time. You were expecting I'd die? Yes. So when she says she's “married to the music…” I'm married to the music. Oh, so. Yo, honestly if you een want to talk to this bitch, you'd better have like a musical instrument, or a mic in your hands, Otherwise– No, getawayfrom me. It's not even worth it. HI. –No. What's up? Tempo. SUNNI Cotour From the store I was poor Now i'm honorable In velour, Glamour (Snap) Forsure, Jesus Christs is making appearances in my abletons I'm not able to comprehend or understand exactly the message, But the evidence sire is mounting Get it Reached the temple, More of a sanctuary, Is that sacrilegious I guess it is, I'm stressed as ever Trying to get it together I'm way too tired for a remix; All i really want is some fries that are french And some thighs that are thick Like mine to sit on like five or six dicks Pick up up like chopped sticks A repost; No new matierial till the coughs stop, Or my ex drops dead, Not so off topic— The Devil's I charge of all of em The coughers The gang stalkers, No worries, though, I got this Go off grid, Stop the serpent The Shaman's curse Is in perfect reversal. Happy New Moon Don't let the bad things get you down. Love you guys Thanks for listening ^.^ Finally signed a lease, Got a nice apartment Your demons are released, Now they seek you who they sent To distort me, But could not Stating off from the top floor of my apartment, The penthouse You send death, And now you get it back. I'm moving on — But fast forward, to my words Turns out, a lot of them for Starr The distapes And mistakes No mistake of my greatness I made the whole snake Just to swallow himself Whole {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©