She stole my Rolex!

Why were you wearing a Rolex!?

… I wasn't.

L E G E N D S

You know I'm you, right?

Prove it.

What way.

How many jellybeans are in this jar.

406–

[he sneakily drops one jellybean—]

—407.

Unremarkable bitch.

I pulled the shows off the shelves faster than anyone else could get to them; I was being tortured in my own apartment— and for what reason, I was unsure— but I knew this: everything had to come down and out of the internet. Out of the cloud, and off the grid. Someone was attacking me, and I wasn't safe.

This wasn't just some paranoid or schizophrenic rampage— someone had used technology to hack into my life and make it a living hell. And for what? I had become nearly not useful at all. I wasn't writing or creating like I used to, I wasn't working out. I was catatonic with depression— but it wasn't just some mental disorder or something happening in my mind— other humans— multiple humans, actually, were being used to suffocate me into nothingness. Snuffing out and squandering my creativity and filling me with panic, thoughts of doom— slamming doors on one end and raving engines on the other, my life had turned into a sonic nightmare.

Furthermore, I had begun pulling down every instance of recorded history that had been part of the show; the pattern was remarkable. I had been chased around and tortured for years. This was more than just some rouse— this was a political tactic. Perhaps my once ambitions had been taken too seriously, but I was neither of any interest or threat. Those puppets were in their places and in all I didn't care what happened— unless it was directly to me or at me, which it often was. I stayed silent, knowing that everything was at risk. I was certainly being watched and listened to inside of and outside of my apartment and I realized that no matter how I tried to report or rationalize it with anyone else, it all made me sound crazy. Everyone and everything around was programmed to react as if the things were happening were not happening at all, or as if I was struggling with some sort of mental illness or delusions, but by now I was actually starting to struggle, because I had been tampered with an altered and tortured and sabotaged to the point of insanity— and there as no help, there was no one to run to. These were military tactics and strategies of war— anyone I could try to tell was being controlled by the entity that was conducting the system of control. The neighbor girl, the traffic sounds, the property management; it was no curse! It was a system designed to drive me crazy in order to limit my functionality and credibility in case I actually did decide to pursue politics.

But I was far from it, and closer to actually disappearing than ever because in a certain respect, I kind of could if I wanted.

What I tell you?

I'm not stupid.

I got trackers.

Fucking crackers.

What I tell you?

I got hacked.

What I tell you?

It's a trap.

Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ |

Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019-2025 ™ All Rights Reserved.

-Ū.

Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ | Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019 ™ All Rights Reserved.

-Ū.

Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ | Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019 ™ All Rights Reserved.

-Ū.