The megascript is written by the people who lived through the era, but died just before they grasped the true concept of what life is really all about. Then, during that last era, they die before they get a chance to actually write it down on paper and reveal it to a young person who has the rest of their life to apply the meaning so as to get the most out of life. Then, after the person is dead, he then sits and ponders the thoughts and this leads to the entire schematics of Eras, which are divisions of times spent in a certain mode, area, frame of mind, or wager with soul searching and selling. He becomes then obsessed with the idea that he has to somehow write this through the hands of a living being. Sometimes they actually succeed at this task, but the MegaScript ends up coming out of the living writer in his own words, and influenced by his own opinion of what the MegaScript really is. More than a few living men have ended up in institutions because of the inner battle between what the dead man was trying to write and what he interpreted as what should have been written. Men have also become very rich and famous, or just one, or just the other - by putting the words on paper and then getting the work published. To the dissatisfaction of the dead man because not only is he denied the pleasures that come with his host's fame and fortune, but he has also failed to get the true meaning of the MegaScript through the mortal.

So the MegaScript continues to float around in some plane between the live people who are about to come to a startling realization and the dead men who know. They say that the MegaScript is called the MegaScript because it is a million pages long, and when page 1,000,001 gets written, the first page (or the page in that position) drops off for all eternity never to be read or attempted to be written again. This is true because of the fact that those lessons no longer apply - in the land of the living and in the land of the dead. There is also living men who claim to have a way to access the Script itself, using strange devices and powerful concentration. Their claims seem null and void because it would seem like, if they had that kind of insight, they themselves would be quite capable of adding to the MegaScript. All in all, it is safe to say that no living person will ever know the lessons contained within the bindings of the MegaScript. Furthermore, even if a person was to read all one million pages, there is hardly a chance that the person would have enough life left in them to gain anything from consuming the knowledge. Yet, men have died seeking that knowledge by traveling to the far reaches of dilution and fantasy, by breaking through the layers of reality and surreality, by tempting the powers that they have no control over, hoping to get some kind of glimpse at the pages, ready to sacrifice all and every just to touch the bindings and stroke the text which protrudes above the surface of the pages because of the thickness of the inks used. The book itself, bound in the most expensive and time tested materials, hand crafted by the slaves of the netherworld.

Provided here is a glimpse that was passed on to me in my moment of pure Exile. There are times during Gulag and Exile when the subject remembers times in his life when death seemed better than life. Those times are distant and unreachable, however, when in exile, one breaths those moments with every breath and tastes them with every bite of food. And when you get that intimately aquatinted with Death, you begin to see the MegaScript. In fact, once you begin to see it, you also get a feel for it, and you begin to understand it. You also begin to hear the echoes of those before you who have came as close to the MegaScript without actually touching it. The MegaScript isn't a collection of the texts that living men were used as puppets to write - it is the actual scripts that the dead men intended to write. And all of the men chasing the MegaScript, searching and sacrificing, begging the forces of the soul, body, and mind to push further and further until they can achieve total unity with it - they never even hear a whisper. Yet, those, like I, who never have any intention what so ever to invest their life into a mission that might lead them to it: it is we who find it in the most obvious places. It is us who hears the ramblings of the true authoritators of it - undistorted and uninfluenced by our own preconceived notions of what the MegaScript should be and it is us who never write a single word on paper in the name of the MegaScript. And ironically, it is us who the dead men never even consider commissioning for the task of writing the texts in the living world.

The visual representation came to me in a dream: the world, and nature - through it's own means, balancing the various species that reside on the living world. Nature has a way of balancing out everything, and from the human perspective - a lot of balancing is needed. There are three basic categories of humans: those who just go through life like any normal person, doing what they have to do to reproduce and live a normal, mostly care free life. Then there are those who try to achieve this, but cannot for one of many many reasons. Then there are those who don't look at life in this manor. They are the enlightened ones, the artists, the self serving pleasure seekers, and the worshippers of a higher form of existence.

The way that nature balances the content of humans on the planet usually falls on the first and second categories of humans, due to the fact that they are the majority of the population. From the living world's perspective, the means in which nature does this takes many forms: famine, war, epidemics, natural disasters, and genetic inferiority which breeds psychopathic homicidal tendencies in the weak minded. From the perspective of the dead, however, the balancing looks much much different . . .

In the form of a giant meat grinder. The meat grinder is fed from the top, like any normal flat surface mounted meat grinder. What happens, is people are randomly selected from the living world. They are then dropped into the top shaft of the grinder, which continuously churns. People inside the loading shaft climb atop of one another, attempting to climb out, only to slowly descend into the grinder's core cylinder, where there is a threaded shaft that advances them forward until they are packed tightly all throughout the threaded shaft in the main core all the way up the loading shaft and out. At that point, bones start to crush and skulls start to split as the bodies of flesh, bones, brains, hearts, guts, and blood begin to seep through the grate at the end of the main core. The ground up meat then collects in a giant pit that just keeps filling until it too becomes packed tight. At the bottom of this pit is another treaded horizontal shaft that churns, and when it is packed tight, it pushes the already ground up and decomposing meat into an even finer grate that eventually spills off into an ocean of gore. It is in this ocean that some dead people are forced to tread in if they violate certain codes that are understood by all dead men.

The next portion was shown to me from atop of a tall building in what looked like a New England docking town. There was a small boy on the roof, probably nine or ten years old. He was the son of a hippie family who raised him in this down trodden portion of town. They were peaceful people, and the young lad had long brown hair that was greasy. I don't know how I knew all of this by looking at him, it was as if I had the divine perception to focus on anyone or anything and instantly know everything there was to know about it or them. This boy was a quiet boy as well. He paid me no mind - or might not have noticed me approaching from behind. Whichever the case may have been, he continued doing what he was doing.

Before I got close enough to really see what that was, I took notice to the grayness about everything. It was a misty day, where it could have been raining on and off for a week, and everything had a strange clean but dull glow to it. The actual air had a gray haze hanging in it that was especially thick on the ten or twelve story roof. The boy's clothes were mere rags, dull in color as well - duty blue jeans and a hastily cut up vest made from what looked like an old varsity jacket, as it was about four sizes too large for the small boy.

I was directly behind him now, and I could see that he was working on something. The crude set up looked like it might have been crafted by the boy himself - a wooden crate overturned with an old iron meat grinder mounted on it by means of old bent and rusty nails being driven through the mounting holes and into the crate. A tool that wouldn't hold up under normal working conditions, but with the boy's help in holding it as he turned the crank, it worked nicely. It took a second for me to actually look at what it was he was grinding, and it didn't dawn on me until I was focusing in on it for many moments. It was a pure white dove, and he had fed the head of the peacefully harmless bird through first. I was shocked to the point where I not only feared the small child in a demonic repelling way, but I was also feeling physical titillation's flow though my body and soul. This was one of the freakiest things I had seen with my own eyes in all of my life.

I was then somehow given the power to look even deeper into the surface of the grinder itself. I guess before the boy actually stopped because of me, I stared deeply into the pits and pores that characterized the surface of the iron meat grinder. The small bumps on the surface were actually the contours of tiny skulls, and the pores of the iron's surface was actually the eyesockets and the nostril holes of the skulls. As the boy turned the crank, the skulls appeared to be screaming and wincing, as if it caused them mental anguish to perpetuate the child's morbid desire.

The boy turned around to meet my gaze in a slow and apparently calculated way. is eyes were as empty as the gray sky with its endless sea of gray nothingness. His eyes had large dark rings around them - not dark enough to indicate black eyes, just the kind of darkness that people get when they are deprived from sleep and food for days on end. His mouth was closed in the way that indicates expressionless in the present, past, and immediate future tenses. A fixed sort of closed that showed me I wasn't going to get any kind of answers to any questions I might have concerning the act that was being played out before me. His skin was the same gray color that everything else was - and if it were a sunny day, it would be a bright white color, because there was no color in his flesh, much the same as a corpse. Stranger than the boy's appearance and more disturbing was the fact that - as he acknowledged me and kept eye contact with me - he continued to slowly turn the crank. I could see the remaining bulk of the bird slide down into the cylinder and one claw foot sticking out, flicking around in the cylinder. He was even applying extra effort to make sure the thickest part of the bird went through the grinder at the same pace as the rest of I did before it. I looked back at the grinder - particularly at the depositing end. There was a steady line of blood running from the bottom of the cylinder, and small pieces of feather was trying o sift there way out of the grate itself. In the center of the grate, there was a small broken pat of what appeared to be the bird's lower beak. The grinder's surface was still as alive as it was from the moment I first noticed the skulls and their agonies. That aspect of it reminded me of those visual puzzles that you take many minutes staring into it before you see the true design, but then, after you have seen it, you can never look at it again without the true design popping right out at you. I lit up a smoke, and offered one to the boy, who took it with a bloody left hand. He had his own lighter, lighting his at the same time as I lit mine. I had knit gloves on my hands which had the fingers cut off of them. I was also wearing a long rain jacket and a knit cap. I had a pint of bourbon in my pocket, which I took a long drink from. The boy just sat on his makeshift stool and smoked his cigarette, having finished the morbid job he was doing.

I thought that was the extent of the vision, but it was only the introduction. I took another hit from the bottle, screwed the cap on, and put it in my pocket. The boy was walking towards the fire escape, waving an arm to me to follow him. I tagged along behind him. My pace was like the pace of a bed ridden old man, and his was the pace of an excited young boy, but somehow, he never got more than twenty feet ahead of me. I began to notice something surreal: this place he was leading me through - the streets of this docking town: the place was a mix of Neverleave and the new town that I was in Exile in. I could see faces that resembled people from Neverleave and I could also see personalities and identify them with the same types of personalities that I remembered from Neverleave, however, the faces never matched the personalities here in this strange and distorted town. The elements of the town of Exile were also tarnished with a sort of teasing appeal that made me almost believe that the Exile place was really a dream place - a place I would love to spend the rest of my life living in. I knew that this couldn't be true and there was some kind of trickery at play going on!

The kid lead me through dark alleys and old cobblestone streets that housed run down factories and abandoned buildings. There were drug dealers and whores standing in mass numbers up and down these streets, to the point where I almost lost sight of the boy, even though he was still only a few yards ahead of me. He broke down a side street, and before I knew it, we were walking through a dirt path that trickled off into a trail that lead into a thick lush forest of emerald green beauty - freshly revived by the misty weather. He took me through a series of fern banks along the side of this massive river that had the blue colors of a river reflecting a perfectly clear and sunny summer sky. The trail became harder and harder to make out until there was no trail. We were walking along through the forest, which was decorated with tall trees that had vines growing up each one. Vines also hung down everywhere, and they swayed as if there was a breeze - but there wasn't one, unless there was, but we just couldn't feel it through the thickness of the undergrowth.

He stopped at a place where there was a trapdoor placed right on the sandy banks of the river itself. The trapdoor was made of the same kind of iron that the meat grinder was made out of - the kind with the small skulls dotting the surface. He bent down, grabbing the handle with both hands and using all of his weight and might to open the massive trap door. I was amazed at what was beyond the door itself. As you looked down into it, there was a whole other world. Way down at the bottom was another river, larger than the one we were on the bank of. There were tall trees that just about reached the ceiling which was the floor of where we were kneeling, looking down at the tops of them. There were also large birds flying around, in and out of the trees, directly under the trapdoor, and on different levels of altitude al the way to the actual ground that was hundreds of feet below.

The boy made a brave move - he jumped down onto the top of one of the nearby trees. I felt fear watching this - fear for his life, but more realistically, the fear that I was about to follow this bold move. And I did, without even giving it a second thought. Using physical strength and skill I know I didn't really posses, I followed the kid as he rapidly descended from vine to treelimb to vine to treelimb until we were both at the bottom. Again, he picked up the pace of a vigorous young boy, and I kept my pace of a stumbling drunk man, but he never got too far ahead of me. I followed him through this place, which was pretty much virgin land, meaning that there was absolutely no evidence that mankind had ever touched this place. For some reason, I kept thinking about the vultures and their song to me as I trekked across the desert on the back of my gulag mule. The birds that were flying around in this place were actually doves, only there were much larger than any dove I had ever seen - in fact they were about as large as German shepherds with wings. These birds seemed to give us no mind, which was a trend I hoped would continue.

We ended up in a strange little shelter that reminded me of a giant beaver dam, complete with an inner dwelling. The boy took me by the arm of my jacket and lead me inside. We hid behind a pile of debris and watched what was surely the summation of this whole vision. There, in the center of the room, was a huge meat grinder - about six feet tall. There was one of those giant doves working the lever with one of its clawed feet while it balanced itself with the other and its beak against the side of the grinder. Another bird fed the cylinder: it grabbed up a small kid (probably the same age as the boy who lead me here) out of a make shift cage and tossed him in by the beak. The grate at the end of the grinder dispensed blood, different colored tissues, and small pieces of crushed bone. These materials fell into a hole in the bottom of the floor, that undoubtedly fell directly into the river itself.

I was pretty mesmerized by the whole vision, and couldn't do anything but focus on the grate and the crude way in which the human matter worked its way through the tiny square holes. The skulls on the surface of the iron grinder wincing and screaming their silent screams. The mechanical way in which the bird turning the lever kept a steady pace. Then, as the vision began to break away, the boy who lead me to it was hanging out of the beak of the bird that was feeding the cylinder end of the grinder . . .

I stood up from behind the pile of debris, only to then look at the debris and realize what it was: a pile of clothes that was probably once worn by the children that were fed into the grinder, because on the top of the pile was the dusty blue jeans and hastily cut off vest that the boy was wearing, for he was naked as the bird lowered him into the grinder. The boy went without protest, and the birds only took a second's notice of me before getting back to the focus of what they were doing - as if they knew I couldn't do anything to stop it. There was also another mutual feeling: the one of me not being afraid that they were going to grab me up and toss me into the grinder. Like a snake won't eat something that it can't get its mouth around, the grinder was not big enough for a man of my size. I seen the boy's right leg make the same back and forth thumping motion on the side of the cylinder that the dove's clawed foot made in the boy's grinder on the rooftop. My eyes could only open wider and wider as I took this all in. From the bird's mechanical motions to the grate, back to the bird, and back to the grate - every once in a while, the birds would make eye contact with me, and reveal that same empty look that I seen in the boy's eyes on the rooftop when I looked into his eyes as he continued his mechanical motions of grinding away. Something told me to look at the grate in a last instance, and I just KNEW that what I was looking at was, in fact, the remains of the boy oozing out of the small square holes at the end of the iron grate. Suddenly, I was smoking a cigarette and the bird turning the lever had a cigarette hanging out of its beak, and as I hit my bottle of Jim, the bird that was feeding the cylinder leaned all the way across the room and stuck his beak far enough into the bottle to draw out a shot for itself.

The vision, like I said, just sort of broke apart as all of the parallels just evaporated with the last drop of the boy's blood passing through the grate. "That's fuckin' crazy . . . " I heard myself say over and over, without moving my lips or making the sound, the sound was louder. I looked at my hands, which were free from the knit cut off gloves, and I was wearing the same old flannel and not a long rain jacket, and I didn't have a knit cap on my head either. I thought about how insane I must have looked to the other patrons in the bar, looking at my hands, jacket, and then feeling the top of my head with both hands. I thought that someone heard me talking to myself, saying, "that's fuckin' crazy" over and over, and what if I was saying other things, during the time the vision was overwhelming me? And how the fuck did I get in the bar anyway? I had no recollection of leaving the house, walking through town, ending up at the bar - nothing. The last thing I remembered before the visions started was playing a few games of Quake2 online with a bunch of losers who had nothing better to do every Friday night but toy with me while I was in exile. I was looking down at a full beer to boot. I shrugged my shoulders and began to drink it. The scene at the bar was no different than any other time I have ever been there, so most of the thoughts that occurred to me while sitting there was trying to justify staying. The counter thoughts to those were the thoughts of justifying going back to the house. There was basically nothing of interest in either location, and a gulag desert in-between that could easily suck anyone in.

Having those kinds of precautions, I just let my mind spread out over the haze of smoke that floated just above the heads of the patrons of this place that I have grown to loath so much. "It's what you make of it . . . " somehow bounced around in my head in the form of a female's voice. I just shook my head and drank my beer, wishing it was Jim Beam, and wishing my cigarette was a fat ass joint. Furthermore, wishing that the napkin that my beer was sitting on was actually a fat pile of crushed up Vicoden, and the ashtray was really a waterbong. I was hearing the music from the jukebox, wishing it was one of the many songs I have written with one of the many combinations of musicians I have played with - something I feel very fortunate to have the fond memories of in this place of perpetual lameness.

I looked down into my beer, and then took the final drink. I smoked another cigarette and thought about making that trip up to the bar to get another drink. I was certain that I wanted a Beam and Coke this time, regardless of however many Molson Ices I drank prior (a number I couldn't account for). I went up to the bar, which was like a mechanical system always at work. There was two humans running the bar - which is really just an elaborate way to profit from the weaknesses of lost souls. These two men handled the task of filling glasses with beers and mixed drinks, washing dirty glasses to cycle them back through, and collecting the money for the drinks as well as their own tips. I knew I was in for a wait, as is always the case at most bars where there is a lot of misguided patrons hanging directly on the bar itself like some kind of life preserver in the ocean of eternal loneliness.

I stood in a three party line for a few minutes, long enough to smoke a cigarette. Then I was at the front of the line, leaning up against the bar, gazing at the many artifacts that the bar had acquired over the years. This always seems to interest me for some odd reason, and that particular moment was no exception. I was either having real bad flashbacks, or a real true moment of cognitive projections on the walls! I noticed that one of the bar's artifacts was an antique meat grinder - a wrought iron one! It sat right next to the cash register, and glowed it's dull reflections at the patrons of the immediate area. This kind of made me wonder about the visions and their validity . . . then I turned my head ever so slightly towards the end of the bar and noticed that there was a crazy picture of a dead dove hanging on the wall.

I woke up the next morning thinking about the way that the bartenders politicized the order in which they served drinks according to the tipping capacity they either knew from experience or estimated on a case to case basis. I was really amazed that they had as much talent, but then thought of my own talents, and wondered for just a waking moment what my potential as a bartender would be if I applied that talent to that profession. I figured there was reasons laid out in the cards why I wasn't a bartender - but the thought was really nothing new, just a variation of previous realizations of the same flavor.

All I did from that point was to think about the MegaScript, and how it was boiling over in the pot on the stove of human life. Era for era, life is just a string of eras, and to think that one can control the outcome or the overall tone of an era is ridiculous. The megascript itself is truly a guide to show people who are still alive how to optimize each era in order to get the most out of life. People who have drank wine from the same glass as death know that life is short, and they don't subscribe to any precautionary beliefs that would impede them from enjoying life to the fullest. You meet these people in bars, retirement homes, prisons, asylums, and break rooms at universities. They are the philosophers of the modern era - which is really just one gigantic collection of multicultural eras combined in a way that somehow molds them all together in an identifiable pattern: like people associate the sixties with peace loving hippies doping it up in the park. That's funny, the numbers of people that do drugs today far surpasses the numbers of people that did them back then, yet we look at the era in a way that made drug use and free love out to be fashionable. Even despite the threat of AIDS and the widespread proportions of other social diseases, more people are doing what people called "free love" today then back then: in fact, homosexuals no longer hide their sexuality, even in the face of a population that largely blames them for the spread of AIDS. The surface of the meat grinder continues to wince and scream silently.

Sitting in the corner of a pretty much empty room, I type away, letter after letter, word after word, faster than the days in which I religiously wrote everything by hand (to include the first three chapters of this book). I feel the emotion and words fly onto paper - words that reflect the emotions, not words that describe them in a definition type formal way. This is how the authoritators of the MegaScript intended the writers of the physical, earthly version of it to go about writing it. Was that too hard to ask? The problem with that is easy to identify. The writers had too many inner emotions that prevented them from projecting the emotions of the true crafters of the emotions and lessons. This, of course, is in addition to the simple fact that these writers walk the material wold hoping that their interpretation of their segment of the MegaScript would somehow make them rich and famous. That is the essential walls that bar most truly creative individuals from producing true masterpieces - true works that are 100% reflections of the innards that is their emotions. Their emotions slowly take their tolls out on the inner physical organs of their bodies until their minds are so warped that they are no longer sanely chasing a dream. That is where there are a lot of truly identifiable problems in the industry of making something out of nothing. A musician that can write a song in his head, remember it for months until that drives him insane enough to sacrifice something in order to buy an instrument, and then it just spirals from there. No one really knows the true nature of the creative forces within those who feel these forces and have to deal with them on a regular basis. Much like the way in which the boy continued his turning of the crank that was grinding the bird as he turned his attention towards me. The way that he kept up the same pace, even though the girth of the bird's torso was giving him, perhaps, more resistance than the rest of the bird. And that is just like the way the birds did the same thing as they were trading glances with me while grinding away at the boy.

Each era is another bird getting fed into the grinder. What one gets out of the grate depends on what is put into the receiving cylinder, and how long it takes or how consistent the results depends on how steady one keeps the mechanical motion of churning the grinder. Creativity is the only thing left that has total reliance upon the era's influences. In relative theory, the influence is one way or the other: it's either the innocent little sinless boy on a secluded rooftop grinding away at innocent doves in an old meat grinder, or it's a couple of giant birds in a fantasy world below the Earth's crust grinding away at an innocent little boy in a gigantic meat grinder. And the surface of the meat grinder reflects the agonies and pain the creative person must endure if he is trying to maximize his creative potential.

After writing my chapter of the MegaScript and then sealing it into an empty Jim Beam bottle, I guided my mule over to the nearest oasis - which was a virtual ocean of tears that people were crying in a dying foreign land where they were being overtaken by hoards of rapists, murderers, lunatics, and child molesters. It was the kind of ocean that just stank of pain and suffering. These tears had as much blood in them as they had anything else. This ocean bred the kinds of monsters that you see on old pre-Christopher Columbus maps of the Atlantic. These monsters were not afraid of coming close enough to the shore as to snatch someone off of the beachhead and drag them into this sea. There were seagulls that circled over head, screeching at me as I tossed the bottle into the giant ocean. As soon as it hit the surface and made a splash, some hideous creature rose to the surface to test it and see if it was organic and edible. Then, as I looked out into the horizon which met with the sea that never ends, the sea began to fade back into sand, and the bottle went with it - just as the dead men who commissioned other living men to write parts of the MegaScript would have wanted.

I went back into the corner of my little room and listened to the sounds of people in my past talking, telling about eras, reflecting on the good things and denying the bad things. In short, I really didn't learn much from the whole experience - for there was nothing new in these lessons that LSD had not already taught me many, many times. I continued to think about Neverleave and the fact that it was too late to combat the ridicule I always lived with from "normal" people who shunned at me for not wanting to get married, not wanting to have children, not wanting to quit smoking dope, eating pills, dropping acid, drinking booze, and having wild sex with whoever wanted it. There were also the voices of others - those who stood by and observed my evil ways, afraid to participate full fledged, but yet willing to stand side by side with me in the face of total diversity. More intrigued than into the lifestyle, and even they had times in which they wanted to intervene with supposed concern for my health, both mental and physical - yet they were never there when I was close to mental insanity or physical death, so they couldn't possibly know what my true levels of tolerances were in all the aspects that they were so concerned about. In short, in all my travels, I have found it nearly impossible to find someone who can go to the depths I am willing to take them day in and day out. In fact, most of my past lives ended shortly due to the fact that the body or mind that my soul was traveling in was simply too weak to accommodate all the grinding away I put them through.

I thought about he MegaScript a few more times that day, realizing that I now had exclusive rights to view it and to even alter it if I so chose to do so. If the real true MegaScript were available in its purest form, no man could truly afford the price tag - because changing there life from a careful approach to a carefree style costs more than any wealth in Earthly terms can pay for. And that is really too bad.