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.