OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL, LTD.The infinite Skrillifiles: Next Generation— Quantum Force cover art

OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL, LTD.The infinite Skrillifiles: Next Generation— Quantum Force

OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL, LTD.The infinite Skrillifiles: Next Generation— Quantum Force

Written by: Skrillex
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OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL, LTD.The infinite Skrillifiles: Next Generation— Quantum Force

[Series V.V]

Following: The Infinite Skrillifiles - SERIES V)

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.


™ The Original.™

Copyright 2025 by Skrillex Music
Episodes
  • Don’t Be So Sentimental. (Side A)

    Don’t Be So Sentimental. (Side A)
    Dec 18 2025
    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 As 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. ...
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    6 mins
  • Socumopolus Open On The Operating Table

    Socumopolus Open On The Operating Table
    Dec 13 2025
    I, sir, I honor you my proxy And what will with what you make take of that, my beast and brawn affronted; That to no matter to which I may stand as though offered to the Gods, I am at bare my force and wary feast upon thy eyes as swarms, And then to no may have you since! I am at all, my eye, your arm, And hallowed crucifix! CHAOS shatters into a FIRE of FEATHERED fury and precedent mercury of volcanic embering magma and sparse clouds of silver and gold, while though first bleeding from the mouth he is engulfed in flame at once, becoming not unlike the Phoenix, a galaxy into his own forever escaping and never ending realms. Ahhh, you're right. YO WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SEE? That's ludicrous! ah huh, I know, right. You took all that? Yep. {Enter The Multiverse} Sire, Your honor. I am bound. I have been forged. The crown. Certainly. Your high marks! Aye… You've been betrayed. …To no doubt. I am obliged to confront, your majesty, at all hours and in this your fortress— —your honor— And Chaos, that this, though there be your throne, Cannot bear weight of rock and stone to rebel archer, That which I am tied to seek, dear honor, Your vary mercy that there I, Here too, am slain! Damn. Creep shit, huh. Yeah. Why does Colbert get all the best parts?! Because he's capable of reading these types of monologues from cue cards! That circuit. He has a bigger cause than you know. [Redacted] It wasn't that I thought I was actively being watched, but more along the lines of knowing for a Friday, my mind wouldn't drift elsewhere and upward beyond, to the sixth, seventh, 8th or 15th floors— or whatever other crazy shit was apparently above them. Secret places I knew of and often thought about, but not too hard. It boggled my mind what was beyond and out of focus from the lower realms of New York, where it was dark and often dirty and hurtful to even wander. My breaths became deep and hollow; They won't turn your face to you, But they will burn through your whole world, wanting you undone Following sealing knives, half have no concious And tethered tongues— This is Levels, Watch us This is Levels, On your mark, This is levels, Christ conscious, This is Levels, Boats on the dock, Storm water, Pure thoughts of harm, But also luck, Drifting in that same water, Ducks, Not known in here our land, or others. You are no longer closer nor called for what you want It doesn't get that much more simple, nor more complex It doesn't get less disheveled than ‘anyway.' I suffer surface just to suffice this sauna trap It doesn't get any less leveled that two tall towers, September 11th. It doesn't get differentiated or dismissed, either, Without press involvement You got to love an easy bake oven and a handful of drama; You've got to love the plausible options for objections and motions to show cause You have got to love old folks and hard laughs, got to! You've got to love the cosmos for at least trying to show us God back, Though god turned back on us a month ago, Or so it was written More hard times And more cold half's And limbs lost, and marks and mauve and cranberry fortunes. More dusks and more dawns and more mortals but no heart left; No call to arms if you were worn backwards for your half. Now time for the calm but the ball bearings not lose but close hard down when you tip the nose up not to dive but force up the wheels as lifting planes does but you are donuts and dusk and dawn, and you are clutching stones in pockets, Four for corners of those the rock has, And that, North south, East west, And these days give gratitude, For wire stakes and high makes this time for more time deaf authors, Still no mortal walk has I, And still indifference to her call, my fortune is in death which may be cause to no one to suffer, As I have not love, And I have not friends, And I have not bonded and therefore this betrayal from where there speaks my meadow and assault have again lied, as devil does against all time. And so I smile, there, and welcome death, form withered birds did wander and then, before my eyes evolved to dust which then did sparkle, And there setting into scattered grains of sand. For which her shores were thought of, not as birds, but sure enough as rocks to till and thunder; And magnanimous waves you did there found I, Making graves and also these as caves, and banks, and ways to think her mazes as a construct. So now there, you are conformed, And all but may you came to offer. So there then shall tipping this and waves had planted oceans from my martyrs, And so again I called to brothers and also the fathers formed, as I had thought to know, these times and others as a motion [to show cause] So shattered banks and blanks my checkbook, scattered eyes though blue have yet been battered black and darkened; And also that became of which her office was unboxed, there was no work there, For her thoughts had ...
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    9 mins
  • PSYOPS.

    PSYOPS.
    Dec 11 2025
    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...
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    9 mins
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