Ch.3

Stonecut was the place I was involved afterwards putting together pieces that have been carved by the architectural digest of Solomon’s worm.
Must be the craziest way to screw the stones. I suspected that earlier - way too complicated, especially considering the machine wasn't the Tube worked mechanism, but the living creature fed the granite , as ass extracted bricks to lay the temple of human realm.
Mystery orally transmitted by the elders of the race, that created the strong bond with the remaining worldly type costumed in the  consequences of self-undoing through the clearly staged theatrical mortal love affair. 
Triad of the morning Suns went up and I was closeted postmortem on the altar of sacrificial meat put in readiness to go further in my sodomized existence. Altogether, mister, that occupied the employment postmortem  went crazy nuts and we together could have been the best ever off and on along the winding paths to the final, for my present knowledge of affairs, stage - to play our Cromwellized parts. Could that be my last performance? I can state - yes. put it cuppertinningly. Cuppertinning possibility in act, and you are gone, porch-wize. 
Put that possible cuppertinning probability in act and you are here, there and altogether everywhere.
Put that cupertinning probability together and, my favorite goddess creatures acting sane will be taken as real life.
Must be logical conclusion to the insanity of real material pass by.
Kilauea is not a volcano any more in the view of passers by, but rather the clear staged intelligent design exuded from the depth of really dark world, to molest the atmosphere of clean air and water.
Millennium isn't even over yet, and my colleagues are contracting the locals to piss the meaningless acting crowd off. Leading lava must be getting old now and making my stage ready for use at the dawn of the world.
My loving mother was in that worldly affair as a clothed elemental spirit peering through the eyes of the available body, her love affair with that world lended her to inhabit. Slovak origin of her surname is my lovely last name, mister Cutting.

Ch 2

At once, I was employed by a white stranger who was atrophied mind of a possibly disadvantaged self - to make it sound realistically mort. Musky smell of that passed out pig faced Turk was felt far longer afterwards in my life than I tragically imagined.  Strong smell of that pasteurized screwdrivered beard was unbearable to make a day with. I was working in the secluded coverage my masterpiece required to have at, the may be logical place to choose - Astoria, Banking Quarters of paranormal existence money can create in the world we live in.
Sitting in the bathing tub nowaday may not be the better but actually the craziest word spitting act. Mister Maytag came after the meeting my stage company in August and asked what is the nonsense of noise I have to produce again for the public, writing that new piece.
Astoria. My lovely room. I am in the house of the most appropriate establishment  ever built for the company  of the similar  co-workers of the stage.
Astoria. My roof is not in place by suddenly getting into the state of creative writing mode to produce that piece of intelligence I conceived above the mere norm of theatrical presentation.
Astoria. My room. I walk back and forth peering through the curtains to the outside world of reality’s murky street lights. Gas was outsmarted by electricity and my clothes are now sawn by the machinery automatically set to the right size. And mortals in this world can enjoy themselves by staying in comfortably warm and dry, clothed in the dark comfort of plush and golden frames of art placed on the walls of the rental property. 
Astoria. My room isn’t the best available but the worst thought to be taken by my agent to make myself calm for the next few yards of fabric matter, polluted by my writing signs, representing significant portion of human history entangled in the ink-exuding pen held tightly by my right hand. Ostrich feathered pens are out of most the conventional techniques of passing the paragraphs on the paper. Occidentally I try to submerge into the aggravated state of remembrance of the events at once being part of my long lived life, or may be stranger way to present it - short flashes of memories putting the soliloquies together for the future presentation of my art project. Destiny was my primary code to decipher and appropriate events   have been put in place to present the improbability of the desired subject to present in worldly format. 
Conclusion was quite Seth oriented and my colleagues are quite inact to review and paraphrase the genuine meaning of the original idea I had few hundred years ago.
My roaming, spitting industry was quite uncooperative  to meander great example of good-mannered masterpiece. Pending closing was staying very clearly weak to continue that Delacroix mist of piece of mine, clearly  anagrammingly  stating my Neanderthal notion presenting theme exactly properly from the shit I had to work with as a source.
Least to say I had quite a time spent in the posh intestines  of the built-to-stay world of hospitality, assuming the all-possible part played of, than architectural writing colossus.
Altogether I can be entangled all over the play but remained very much detached, thanks to the mortality acquired through the regular birth.
Mystery will remain unknown until I am passed to the other place we call “Love affair of the worldly possessions”.
Coming from that point of view me and other people involved in the project can state the free will on paper and you are able to recreate the path of the works my mind has went through while traveling through the part of existence we call matter of the universal consciousness.

Taken From My Storytelling Tar Of Extraterrestrial Mornings.

Atrocities will  be atrocities until they are put to existence by stranger in that night.
Altogether my speaking involved different articles to be presented and few more that have been already done in acting.
Triassic period will be the best atrocity committed to the kind of human waste happened centuries ago on that fucking asshole world.
My story will never end until that waste managed by the correct set of troops involved. And Beatrices will never be stopped from enjoying the serenades sung by our mouthpiece put in action by the spinning mechanism of these, creative intelligent being, stopping for intermezzos, stopping for joy and happiness that comes to the existence after the deed has need closed and put to fucking usage by my friendly, put it in that way, twats. How’s that, my fucking love?
Opposites do not attract, opposites repulse rather than become one part of the whole, my love.
What is going in the poor state of consciousness will never be known, but experiences by the few elected professional accusers. My Havel tomb is going to be opened quite soon and will never be closed until all the remaining circles of that circus is out of my sight.
My fucking story will never end again because my steel cut paws have few atrophied fingers that cannot point to the right fucking direction. To move the troops into the right position requires few pasteurized bottles of stallions sperm to be spilled into that battlefield as the Greek fire will be invented later that millennium.
My fantastic story will never again be told by any, possibly put it this way, experienced talked but rather walked by inexperienced walkers all the way it’s tail up to the header.
Hot Asperberger stone will be laid to the head of the last battle survivor few centuries afterwards.
Men are strong individuals unable to recognize the danger lying in their family, but trying to project the surfaced strange feelings into the violence causing the warfare and other pertaining consequences entailed.
My fucking story is not going to be very strange, but very very , simply incredibly strangely creatively intelligent to my friendly admirers to the last drop of my conscience self.
My story starts in the future and ends in the past. My incredibly wrong admirers are ready to start warfare in the present. At that momentary second it was split into few part, to present to the reader of that journal. To make that story happened it took one millennium and to make that story happen again it will take the rest of the time of this creation.
Myself, is not in that story. I am out and watching what is going to be created for the next ‘good’ and ‘evil’ parts.
Great masters are working on the theme, great actors has picked the roles, great audience will never know that it is involved in the theatre of life until the last breath taken out of the body.
Myself, is not in the theatre, 
Myself, is rather going to be a souffler under the stage of the last play arranged in the place , where people are not aware, actors are paid and writers are invisible to the eye.
Myself, is not a man on that matters but rattling creature, which is not getting anything done but tries to be absolutely free from anything that gets my soul encaged in the router story of the put together acts and intervals.
Myself, is not reality but mostly strange surreal stoned Parisien clochard under the bridge of existence of the matter and timeline of the spirit path to the, could be the wrong place, at my personal responsibility. 
At once, I was employed by a white stranger who was atrophied mind of a possibly disadvantaged self - to make it sound realistically mort.