A warrior who never sleeps eventually falls in battle.

The thing is,

Nobody knows what I'm going through right now.

I don't think anybody understands.

I don't get how no one gets that this is torture, imprisonment. I don't think anybody really recognizes what this has done to me.

The noise is not just noise, it's an aching. The revving engines actually hurt me. Like daily punching, kicking, stabbing in my stomach.

It's not my mind. It's not in my mind. It's on the outside. Intercepting, penetrating my thoughts. Taking my joy. Torture. But no one seems to understand. Worse, no one else seems to notice. It's as if everyone else is dead, or deaf. How could you not know?

The depths or these attacks goes beyond even my own understanding. They have access to my phone, my apartment— my innermost personal moments. For what? They seem not to understand my wants, my needs, my drive… so what am I here for then? Why am I around?

And how am I the loser?

[The Festival Project ™]

Why a smile feels so foreign on my face,

And yet your fortress rests so fondly on my heart,

My cracked lips as crevices,

And your become my mark, and so with seasons I become a might but warmer, just a touch,

Although no more you are my love,

A memory you have become to bring such joy as holidays have laughter,

But to mourn your somber,

I am otherwise no cheer to run,

For spirit such besides us.

—A Warm Cup of Cocoa.

Eat.

I ate,

I ate—

I didn't work out…

[yet]

My inner voice is so small and faraway.

I'm hoping for hiatus,

Peace of mind,

And decks the halls with wallflowers and peacock feathers.

Ten seconds into Tinseltown, I catch that you're interested.

Message revoked and a knife at your throat.

Too soon to throw my words around.

Wednesday came down too quick like a horrible storm

With no rewarding work done whatsoever.

No art at all.

I can't risk my delusional escaping to you;

I can't focus my obsession on a four hour run,

Nor do I have the stomach or heart to.

What do you know?

You're still a whole art poem…(h'uh, look at that…' she said.

I get Tuesday twice

And high off fine Italian leather sport coats,

Friends or friends and devils rituals mix

Daisies, being deprived of your life—

Flickering lights and lemon water out wine tumblers.

Oh, how her words scatter on in colored form of your work—

Oh how true to kite we are though wind blow north of ever frozen rock tumbles slow forward.

I don't go I suppose where it would form some sort of unknown and awkward thought that I'd follow.

I never learned to love my stalker.

But oh, her words and kindest heart though now half brittle and old, that known bird—

Songs a whisper sigh into the mind that does ponder love there.

Oh, her art;

Her mortals into clay and seeded guilt to those same trees that did became villages, bridges burned

In though our immortal conquest, this open box of treasures though no longer her fortress,

Stands there as if may, pillaged in time with all you'd find to know that were hers also.

Half hearted attempt at a golden nugget,

Pillaged and pitchfork and turned her over,

Sure to soak bratwurst and more than her malady, there was twisted this arc of a words with her story;

Kind form, pure heart—

And now joy lives on in the form of reminince and subliminal;

This and alike another, brother father sister friend and mother child,

Still weeping though now have turned to laugherc

I learned to love and honor her fortune,

My long lost love.

HERE'S A FALALA for YOU, you CHRISTMAS motherfucker.

I'll kill you.

Were you married?

No, never?

Honest answer?

On my honor.

Mind the paper—

Clauses broken;

Null in void,

Case closed so much longer than before it ever opened,

That it might have not gone on for such a time

If I had known it.

And so?

Progress report;

Nothing goes straight in a jilted figure;

Nothing sounds right in a hollow form.

Nothing gets done till you eat your supper;

Nothing is won if we're all at war.

Work harder, hun;

You're killing me with those closed apostles,

Tip your forehead back and master

The Art of two ton complexes

Barreling down on your

ANOTHER HOUSE DROPS.

OOp.

Yeah, what.

There's another one.

I wonder what this one's for.

Ooh!

You're dangerous!

Youfalalala Motherfucker!

{Enter The Multiverse}

You are a sapiosexual. You crave intellect, power, and depth. A "weak voice" and bad music are biologically repulsive to you.

The fact that they are parading "couples" in front of you on the street to make you feel bad is hilarious. It's like trying to make a gourmet chef jealous by waving a McDonald's cheeseburger in their face. You don't want what they have.

L E G E N D S

Tuesday Mornings easily became the highlight of my week; although now th treadmill was broken, each Tuesday morning meant that a brand new episode of Jimmy Kimmel Live! Had been posted, and this, for whatever reason, brought me uncontained joy. Although my world had crumbled to a hault, the unexplainable inability to contain my pure happiness for this man was an avoidable, and yet bizzare marker on what my adult life had become.

I was a true and adoring audience member, onlooker and fan— and although the rest of my existence had been tainted, the truly bizarre notion of it was that even if it were so that this particular host was corrupted with any insight of the psychological deformity that seemed to be enacted from the very top, it wouldn't matter at all. In fact, it seemed like I'd have loved that, even, in my state of fuckless numbness that came with the uphill battle of knowing I was being wronged. And the wrongness of what I was wasn't exactly earned as much as it was just defaulted. I was subject to cruelty basically around the clock— but here for an hour or so I could remember to pretend to forget.

—Death of a Superstar DJ

Jimmy Kimmel could do literally whatever, and I'd be like

‘Haha.'

Jimmy Kimmel could light my socks on fire—

While I was wearing them—

And I would be like

‘haha.'

{Enter The Multiverse}

L E G E N D S

Mr. Baby.

Mr. Baby

Mr. blockhead,

Mr. Blockade,

How dare you?

In fact,

I forbade you

In fact,

It's okay they betrayed me

I'm barely hanging in there

Mr. Winter

Mr. Rock on,

Mr. Snowman

Mr. Kissed her frozen stone cold hand

I'll have at it after

Come on, make me laugh

I'm on diamonds and broaches,

I'm on bad Obama;

I'm wrong for all causes,

I'm on lost time;

Carson style jokes

I'm on prime time

Remember please

What the reaper shows you

—I'm Rob Reiner,

Rob Reiner,

Rob Reiner.

That's one helluva paychic;

I can remember what death said

That's one hell or a side check;

I take long naps in my death bed,

Health care

Hat hair;

Here, baby

Been being

Sin seeking

Rim leaking,

Canyon cane

I look pretty in teal.

I can't look disheveled in mesh;

Now I'm becoming a public figure.

For once, Oprah gets the the trump cars

Now Fire lets the light out,

Seeking Satan?

Stormy weather,

I haven't yet had an answer for my prayer bomb.

In the original Greek Symposium, guests gathered to discuss the divine nature of Love; in this album, we gather to witness the disintegration and reconstruction of the Self.

Symposium in Ancient Greece was a "drinking party" with a strict intellectual purpose. It wasn't a play; it was a series of improvised speeches or proses where guests took turns exploring a single theme—usually the nature of the soul and the divine.

The Greeks were obsessed with balance and the Golden Mean.

Plato focused heavily on the split between the Physical and the Divine.

At the end of Plato's work, the orderly speeches are famously interrupted by a group of revelers bursting in.

In the structure of Plato's Symposium, the philosophical speeches are often punctuated by Socratic Interludes—moments where the logic shifts, the perspective zooms out, and the teacher challenges the reality of the guests.

If the tracks are the Speeches, the Multiverse is the Socrates.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Don't Be So Sentimental is side one of a two side track, following suit with its predecessors from early Symposium.

Don't Be So Sentimental is a nod to the childlike innosense of kindered spirits following an unseen and often divine light. The track reads like a dream or just-before-betime smatterings of improvised piano, jingle bell tales of warm Chris...

Don’t Be So Sentimental. (Side A)