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.