[[The Exit Strategy.]]

Sell my soul, for what? I need money up front Not no $20 bill on the floor at Equinox Apartment on the top floor, Looking down at sports club “Good Morning Manhattan,” Said the batter— “Are you happy?” Are you flat and sloppy? Stop McDonald's on your way to All the way out of options? I'm just popping the question And you're just poppin a Xany, Cal it insanity But outta ACID I just listen to trance and fast for a second Pick up right where I stopped off the last one At the crosswalk Or the crossroads, Where I nodded off to Scary monsters on the corner, Like, Watch this: Time stamp I write backwards and time travel Bystanders with flat asses laugh at me But lack glasses to see in 9-D Eat 1993 Whatever that means. Dillon's glamour was in full effect, probably at the absolutely strongest it had ever been—and I couldn't help but wonder why, as I tried my best to maintain focus—it was double downs, and the trek between boroughs to Equinox was long and trying, the anxiety of the Manhattan algorithm shifting quickly between the train's passengers—a draining energy altogether, the sad and downtrotten working class, and though I had been offered an apartment in Queens, or at the very least been scheduled to attend the open house, I hated the borough altogether, and it had already been tainted with sufferable memories. I most absolutely did not want to stay in a mostly-black neighborhood, just as I hadn't wanted to be restricted to dating only black men or playing only black music—fully breaking the strictly enforced racial barriers would mean finding my very own piece of Manhattan, even if it meant creating my music through the dilapidated walls of a pre-war apartment swarming with unmentionables, it seemed somehow somewhat better than being forced to stay In the hood; all black people seemed to do was complain about their white counterparts— a way of living in the past I refused to succumb to, as tried my best to forget, overlooking the snubbery and snobbery from the upper classes at Equinox itself— and while the white woman did seem to force smiles, or at least the older ones, almost seeming apologetic—it was the Asian women who acted most aggressively and outwardly rude and vicious, and while I suspected it might have had something to do with the recent satellite launches, nothing for sure could be said. I was surely being stalked and probably even hunted; people in Champion sportswear seemed to be following me, and on thisnparticular mornkng, a reminder that it could have just as well been the meat and dairy industry, or sugar manufacturers that just as well wanted me dead. “Just kill yourself” Show me something I can believe! Tell me something good— You got it I don't wanna live your lies, Give me vices— Give me time The same device What's yours is mine What's yours is mine What's yours is mine Woah, I've got to go t Put my my head on ice The same device What's yours is mine What's yours is mine The colonizers fight to hide What will be seen in time What's mine is yours, Is yours is mine {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.