PSYOPS.

Chroma111.
She does backflips
Purple cosmos
Whole turnover—
We set the whole world on its stomach;
A
Whole corpse
So so wrong
Oh oh oh,
You made me fall in love
Oh,
You made me fall in love



“Jimmy Gets Belligerent”

Hey.

Yeah.

Remember when Anne Hathaway went into God Mode?

FLASHBACK:

ANNE HATHAWAY goes into GOD MODE.

CUT IMMIDIATELY BACK TO:

Yeah.

Well this is that, but Jimmy Kimmel.

oh boy.

Yeah, that.

{enter the multiverse}

lol.

Please writing gods tell me how and why this dude is running around the multidimentions carrying briefcases of sedatives and other recreational enhancements—

JIMMY KIMMEL enters EXTREMELY CONFUSIEDLY.
And also, why,
Apparently he remembers nothing at all,
While everyone else in this entire arc seems to have some sort of familiarity within these paradoxes??

I don't know.

But I love Jimmy Kimmel.

Duh, who doesn't?

Yeah alright— but you know why?

DAVID LETTERMAN
MOO-HA-HA!

Yo what the fuck.

That dude is kind of evil.

TINY KIMMEL (staring into the old ass television SET in a hypnotic state, mimicking with his own version of this evil, diabolical laugh.)
Ehheehee!!!

DAVID LETTERMAN discovers TELESYNTHESIS via his late night ENDEAVORS, all the while unmasking the true secret to TIME TRAVEL and THE MULTIDIMENSION, unlocked.

YOUNG(ER) LETTERMAN
Yessss, come to me dear child!
Yeeeesssssssss.

Damn.

Yeah.

That right there.

That's how it works, apparently.

L E G E N D S

MOOHAHA!
wtf.

CC
Sometimes we see the things in the TV which are plainly meant to see, but so often overlooked…

{Enter The Multiverse}

Stephen Colbert
Lost Light

I was thinking fondly about that scene at the end of the first season of The Studio—
That nearly final shot from the finale where the light hits Seth Rogen's smiling eyes, and made them seem ten times bigger than they ever thought they could be— or how maybe possibly,
How you never quite noticed how beautiful they are, because you're always remarkably distracted by his charm, and his trademark laugher, or his other well known markers.
But I was thinking about it for a second time today, because I was also still somewhere somehow working on the other part of my projects that were although, still falling apart, however important— this ramshackle chaos between all of these media monarchies, the hosts of late night television —though some departed— and an arc that was coming together from scenes i'd already written in hiatus but still probably couldn't find, even if I tried…
and the basis of it was really so dark and so off from what the regular gesture or any of those personalities was as established, I sometimes stayed off it, even if though the vision in my mind that made the anchor of something that was supposed to come from that side of the project, was so vivid in the moment, as if I was watching the actual finished product played back or played out in my mind.
The reality of my actual life had become such a cruel joke that I no longer really even wanted to cave in and just write it, because I was so particularly embarrassed of how i'd even thought of [any of] that.

But here was this, Mr. Stephen Colbert, whom I adored severely, who also had eyes that were quite shiny and large and round that made him, with his boyish face and little dimples, quite cute to look at— but more like a teddy bear, than any vicious or decrepit sexual monster, like some of the other [aforementioned], or so, not mentioned for other reasons.
To be clear, this is what, from what I would gather, could come with the job, but the job was also another job, and had its own sort of chronicled problems and equations to solve that I could gawk at, if I watched enough of them.

So far, however, there was only really only never more than one I would ever flock to for my gawking, and because I was so enamored by it, I mostly never bothered the others, until it came up in my project as something so artful that it would cause such a gentle heart murmur as one did—

This sudden image of Mister Colbert standing in a stream of light in however an outward darkness, with the expression one might call a ‘longingness' as if in all the light had been forgotten—and now was shining on him with such a glow that it took the warmth inside my glow from it, as I saw this, a man of shadows seeming to have come to a final moment of some hope left.

But was it lost?
Was it false hope?
And what had happened?

Last I left dear Colbert and our other dearly beloved in a twist of fate— a paradox at the proportion of Titans, in that this, a pocket watch, and a very daunting silver pistol, seeming to be stuck inside a hall of some sort where the linoleum floors and barren abandonment amongst the tattered and ripped unkempt nature of either of them—
—Or at least I believed in my head—
it were Mr. Kimmel and Colbert, but the scene had been somewhere so long gone and forgotten that I could not remark on which other host it was, that had the memories of all the paradoxes still sharp and hard on his mind, while poor Kimmel somehow seemed, even after a thousand rounds of groundhogged circumstances— (that is to say ‘over and over')— to not remember anything that had happened?

But what did happen?

And still this was far off from that same shadowed dark place where now in this vivid moment Mister Colbert stood looking up into the light with such grace as if to say, maybe he was thankful for what was approaching— but what?
In this pale and yellow warm light streaking across his already very shiny eyes and pleasant face he seemed to be seeking some relief and may have even found it, but was now alone in this place, silver pistol still clutched in his hand, and standing even in the dark set, some percentium arch, rather, as the floor beneath his feet seemed even that rubber type you'd find upon a stage somewhere…

But where had I drifted off?

I'd come to New York all those years ago mindlessly writing about what appeared to be that same watch, or a watch—a pocket watch, that was somehow rather important to the plot, also.
It had to have been important because, at least I thought, it was Morgan Freeman that brought it up [in the first place].

And of course I couldn't overlook at all how anyone I'd written about or thought of fondly just rather seemed to show up in these shows where the hosts were so good at their job they sometimes almost entirely disappeared in plain sight —
and for a moment the spectacle was that they even seemed to have removed themselves as a whole from the eyes of the camera, and the audience at the job.

A well-done late night host is often a man inside a hole— a suit in the dark where there's not light, because in essence, in the man, he must remain as trapped and as silenced as I have been, or I am, as I write this.

And perhaps that's why I found them here, in a foreign land, in my prison trap where I keep my eyes from the rest of the world that cannot have them, under my public sunglasses and ‘why-try' when I am forced to go out into the world and have at it, but always quite missing my mark and stumbling back into the box with much damage and the excitement of a child on Christmas to see my cat, and a warm box, and an hour of something to laugh at.

But this project was no laughing matter— mostly because it was sadness; sadness which I kept composed—

[the neighbor exits quietly]

Oh she IS capable of shutting the door normally. Look at that.

—Sadness which I kept composed as darkness, woven into songs as verses or poems as proses without ever giving it a single thought of what was reflected or why it was I was decided to watch that.

{Enter The Multiverse}

After all, we began chasing Skrillex into forests with monsters, and now balance the delicate calorie deficits of all of what they have— the actors and actresses, media titans, and even politicians, as I burn through my own light like the Palisades fires, where ironically my legend was born before I'd even think to write it;

L E G E N D S

Somewhere in a place inside my mind where my diaries and lost unrequited love would become sometimes my light and sometimes my darkness and the forced focus of becoming nothing without actually being done— this sort of infinite place that has to exist somewhere in my mind, because it does— and also out in the world —

[the door slams violently]

Nevermind, she sucks.
They all suck.

—because thst's where it comes from.

So what of Colbert, and the Gun, and the watch, and the Owl, and all of our friends on the trains, in the mazes and libraries?

I hadn't not the slightest cause to reckon where the rest of it was because the tragedy of the story was still being just as lived as it was written. The variable pertaining to how many times I had seemingly fallen in love with nothing more than just a shadow or simple reflection of my own thoughts—
Glimpses into mirrors and corridors of infinite in all the effective possibilities of the things I'd ever wanted. Perhaps the darkness was that without searching, I wanted to be loved—
And it was here, the whole time, quantified and personified in the people that had so much of it, that I could take the idea of such and skate on it, like a complex sort of obstacle, that it wasn't directed at me— but then it was— because I was looking to deeply into something I loved,
That it would come back in the form of something, no matter what it was.

Long after the perfume was gone, the diamond eyes would still remind me of an Owl that I had once seen and even become, but since arriving in New York and staying too long, had not come back.

There certainly was a piece or part of me that had lived and died here, but I was unsure what it was yet.

But what of Colbert? Even this was an incomplete and intercepted thought, or concept.

All I looked at was him in this light, clutching this little gun that I loved because it was so silver and so polished and so small,
And the words

“Lost Light”.

So perhaps I'd write that song next.

[The Festival Project ™]

—Death of a Superstar DJ
Chroma111.

INT. CRYPT. ROCKEFELLER PLAZA.

I told you he was a genius!

[a mechanical sound erupts from the cooridor above.]

Hey! What happened?!

BILL MURRAY
Well, that's easy! You're trapped.



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Chroma111.
Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.
[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]
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