rave gone wrong. (ft. hyperfocus)

Do you hate me? Only a little. Like, really? I hate you. I knew it. Yeah. I knew it, too. At the end of the darkened stage, the two actors sit in matching overalls; red and white plaid shirts tucked underneath and brown work boots; another spotlight stage right opens on a third actor, who crosses the stage; she dawns the same attire. The train is coming! The audience begins to roar with applause as the third actor enters the stage, almost preventing her from delivering her line—she projects over the audience's upheaval. What the fuck is this? Whatever it is. Though we [the audience] are watching a film, this appears to be a staged play in a large upscale theater—a full house. {enter the multiverse} HANZEL HELLO PARTY PEOPLE. … I ZED HELLO PARTY PEOPLE. The boy walks in with 18 shotguns to his head, and I tell ya— he doesn't even blink. The best part. (Well, he does blink.) Well, yeah, but he's not— He didn't wince or anything. I didn't wince or anything, did I? I don't know, did you? Roll the tape. Just do it again. Take 1077. [The Festival Project ™] A man is submerged under the water in an oversized bathtub—the water crystal clear, he opens his eyes before beginning to emerge— as he reaches the surface, gasping for air; everything changes around him; he is no longer in a bathtub, rather in bed, drenched in sweat, and even his hair dripping. The time is 3 AM; he heavily pants and places his hand over his chest, trying to catch his breath for a moment before he grips his head in great distress; absolute silence in peril. The room is dark, a crude antique looking place; a gold framed bed adorned with blue sheets and maroon pillows, a matching taffeta comforter, which matches the drapes and the lace in the curtains, and the lamp, which he flickers on, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and pausing for a moment to collect himself before rising out of bed. He starts a bath, turning the knob for the most intensely hot water possible, and we can see that this place is very old—some type of early 19th century cottage. The water still running, he moves to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, the floorboards appearing as if they should creak but still otherwise silent besides the running tub— without a motion at all, however, nor even simply a shadow, a figure appears behind the man. Hello, Jimmy. The glass falls almost in slow motion to the floor, shattering with the water, though only half full, still in it. Lol what the fuck is going on in this movie. Oh, it's a movie?! Shhhh! I thought this was a show. Yeah, but there's a movie between seasons. How many seasons are there 4. 7. 10. ?! ‍♀️ ‍♂️ ‍ L E G E N D S I am an extraordinary artist. Oh. Hey Amanda. “Hey Amanda?!” “Hey Amanda?!” Yeah, hi. I've been trying to contact you for months, and all I get is a “hey Amanda?!” I've been feeling… off. OFF?! Very. I did this for us. …remind me the nature of our relationship exactly. Light and truth! Oh, the Illuminati. I don't know what you're talking about. Just making sure we weren't lesbians. Lesbians! How can we be?! You and I have been submerged in increasingly seperate dimensions entirely. How is that? I heard—you were getting famous. From a seperate dimention entirely? Yes, that. And otherwise! I take it you've been doing some time traveling. Yes, that! Careful of mirrors. You'll have to excuse me, I'm—obviously hallucinating. I'm also hallucinating, decently. That's..a facinating relief. Is it? Better than a diarrheal release. Okay, that's—disgusting. But also a fascinating relief. I'm astounded that out of any connection you could possibly think to be making. I don't think. I just—hallucinate. That's…just how I vibrating. This disasterous apathy is starting to unsettle me? Have you tried tap dancing? What. Works for me. What?! Just try it. [amanda bynes does a short tap number, ending in jazz hands and then pausing briefly] [beat] You know what, you're right. See. I do feel better. Time travel things. It would be you who knows things like these. It is. [she checks the cabinet] Where's the cake? You're baking it. Amanda checks her watch, then peering into the kitchen—it appears a seperate version of herself, perhaps even her future self has (or past self, considering she wonders where the already finished cake might be) read: alternate self— {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©