Introducing Universal Manipulation Exoskeleton (UME) A low-cost exoskeleton with... real-time haptic torque feedback for learning autonomous policies that perform highly force-mediated, tightly space-constrained, visually occluded, whole-body, and long-horizon mobile manipulation tasks. Using UME, the teleoperator can unsheathe a heavy metal sword completely blindfolded. 🧵1/Nshow more

𝗥𝗼𝗯𝗼𝘁𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀. 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻... 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗳𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘂𝗿𝗲 — 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗮𝗻𝘀. Most robot learning systems assume failure is the end of learning. In our new work, we study whether robots can improve after deployment by learning from their own failures, without any human intervention, teleoperation, or corrective labels. The key idea is simple: human videos contain structure about how the world works. We use them to learn cross-embodiment representations of action, dynamics, and value, enabling a shared predictive space between human behavior and robot experience. This allows a new learning loop: 👉 pretrain on human videos 👉 deploy robot policy 👉 observe failures 👉 reinterpret failures using human priors 👉 improve autonomously We evaluate this across 7 real-world manipulation tasks, showing: 📈 40% → 81% success rate 🏆 Strong improvements over π0.6 RECAP and RISE ✔️ Zero human intervention during post-deployment improvement 🧬 Generalizes across robot embodiments and policy backbones A key finding is that explicit failure repair significantly outperforms failure reweighting, yielding substantially larger gains under identical data conditions (+25 pts vs +5 pts on the same π0.5 base policy). Overall, the results suggest a shift in how we think about robot learning: Human videos are not only for pretraining policies. They can provide the structure needed for continual self-improvement after deployment. 📄 Paper: 🌐 Project: I am grateful for working with the fantastic leads Hanzhi Chen and Anran Zhang, and our collaborators Simon Schaefer, Kejia Chen, Shi Chen, Daniel Cremers. Special thanks to Stefan Leutenegger for co-advising this project with me. ETH Zürich TU München Microsoft Check out Hanzhi's 🧵 for more detailsshow more

Since my account is somewhat anonymous I’m going to... disclose where some of the California high-speed rail money gets wasted. 99% of you don’t realize where giant chunks of the money is disappearing to. The California high-speed rail authority, literally owns thousands of parcels of land that are in various stages continued litigation, tenant improvements, eviction, and constant maintenance. For example, there are many homes and apartment complexes in the plant path that have been purchased years ahead of construction. Removing those tenants is a slow and expensive process. (let’s ignore the extra stress on housing that all of these destroyed properties are causing) In some cases, these are low rent apartments with a lengthy eviction process During that process, the state of California is the landlord and has to maintain the property codes the same as any other landlord. This means repairs, adding smoke detectors, fixing roofs, vegetation management, landscaping, paying off tenants to leave early, boarding up Windows, constant trash cleanups, towing vehicles etc. But the High Speed Rail Authority doesn’t just have to maintain these properties at normal cost. Every single bit of that work has to be done at California prevailing wage rates. The work can only be done through qualified contractors that have passed through a long series of idiotic mazes to qualify to perform the work. An average rate per hour (charge rate) for a worker to perform any service on these properties is approximately $200 an hour for labor only. The cost go up for specialized work, like electricians, plumbers, or machine operators. Properties that are literally worthless are being maintained at huge expense just so the next round of homeless transients can break into the property and cause more damage. For reasons I can’t explain, the process to finally demo and remove the structures takes years. I’m only mentioning the tip of the iceberg regarding my firsthand knowledge. Completely separate from those outlandish costs are the inflation caused by the construction. The prevailing word on the street is that nothing is getting done. The truth is that a lot is getting done and none of it efficiently. The amount of concrete being poured daily and monthly to build gigantic overpasses for both the rail and roadways is not understood. In these work areas, every concrete mixing company is fully scheduled out and cannot offer building materials for other basic services such as building a house often times for weeks when the average lead time for many of these services used to be one day. And that’s just the schedule, never mind the huge cost increases from straining the supply chain and Labor pool. The amount of concrete and steel that has gone into the structures so far is massive. Dozens and dozens of new water wells have been dug just for dust control. Thousands upon thousands of acres of highly productive tree fruits and nuts have been torn up and shredded. Utility scale solar fields have been uprooted and sometimes relocated at extravagant costs. Every type of business you can imagine has gone through either a closure, relocation, or a long-term tenant agreement with the rail authority. In some cases, it’s just a buyout where the business closes its doors forever. The owners get something all of the workers get nothing. Don’t get me started on how thick the layers of bureaucracy are for these minute tasks that occur on all of these properties. The inefficiency is far beyond your wildest dreams. In many cases, this is not related to fraud in any way it’s just absolute ignorance, red tape, and failed leadership. I can go much deeper into specific examples, but I think that gives some of you an idea of what’s actually happening in California. If a rail is ever usable, some portions of the structures will be decades old and already in disrepair.show more

Why is Congresswoman Pramila Jayapal — chair of the... Democratic Party's Progressive Caucus — peddling a false narrative about Cuban healthcare being better than the U.S.? From my research on my book PHARMA, I know what she says is WRONG. But she keeps repeating it and I am sure many progressives believe it. No legacy journalist is calling her out so let me do the job. Most recently, she stood at a Capitol Hill press conference on July 1 — flanked by Reps. Delia Ramírez, Jonathan Jackson, and Ro Khanna, under a banner reading "Demanding an End to the Blockade Against Cuba and International Medical Solidarity" — and told the crowd that Cuba, despite all its difficulties, had done admirable work preventing “maternal mortality, neonatal mortality, and cancer,”in her words, "areas in which we in the United States are still struggling to make progress." It wasn't an ad-lib. It was a return engagement. In an April interview after her own delegation trip to Havana, Jayapal said Cuba has "the lowest infant mortality, maternal mortality — sort of the opposite of what the United States has." When the reporter mentioned Cuba's higher life expectancy, she agreed with that too. The Washington Post's editorial board flagged it then as a flawed diagnosis. She said it again in front of National Nurses United two months later. So it's worth actually running the numbers, one at a time. Maternal mortality. The U.S. rate was 18.6 deaths per 100,000 live births in 2023, and it fell further to 17.9 in 2024. Cuba's own Ministry of Public Health reported its maternal mortality rate at 40.6 per 100,000 in 2024 and rising to 44.1 in 2025 — better than two-and-a-half times the American rate, and climbing. There is no version of the current data where Cuba is "the opposite" of the U.S. on this metric. It's far worse. Neonatal/infant mortality. Cuba's official infant mortality rate did fall to a low of 4.0 per 1,000 live births in 2018 — a genuinely low number, and one Cuba has kept touting. But two things complicate that figure. First, a peer-reviewed study in Health Policy and Planning found evidence that Cuban physicians have been pressured to reclassify early neonatal deaths as late fetal deaths (effectively, miscarriages) to hit government mortality targets — a known method of statistical manipulation, flagged by demographers going back to the 1990s. Corrected for that, researchers put Cuba's real infant mortality rate somewhere between 7.45 and 11.16 per 1,000, not the sub-5 figure the government published. Second, and more damning for Jayapal's live claim: Cuba's own current numbers show infant mortality at 9.9 per 1,000 as of the end of 2025 — up 148% from that 2018 low, and now well above the U.S. rate. Havana's maternity wards are reporting sewage leaks in neonatal units and adolescent pregnancy rates spiking past 20% in some provinces. Whatever Cuba was doing right in 2018, it isn't doing now, and the 2018 number itself was likely inflated by data manipulation to begin with. Cancer. This is the claim with the least data behind it and the most against it. The most recent regional analysis of Latin America and the Caribbean, using 2022 GLOBOCAN figures, found Cuba has the highest age-standardized cancer mortality rate in the entire region — 136.6 per 100,000 for men, 91.6 per 100,000 for women — ahead of Mexico, Argentina, Brazil, Chile, and Colombia. There is no dataset I could find, from PAHO, WHO, or IARC, showing Cuban cancer outcomes outperforming the United States. Cuba's president, Díaz-Canel, touring a Havana maternity hospital the same week Jayapal spoke, said the healthcare system currently can't get lifesaving treatment to more than 100,000 cancer patients, including 1,200 children, due to shortages. That's not a system beating American oncology. That's a system in collapse, by the Cuban government's own telling. The bigger problem with the claim. During my reporting for PHARMA I learned that Cuba's low mortality figures have functioned as propaganda for an authoritarian government for over 30 years — repeated uncritically by public health researchers, NGOs, and now members of Congress, because the story fits a preferred narrative about what a "resource-poor" country can accomplish with universal healthcare. But the country producing those numbers has no free press, no independent statistical audit, and a documented history of reclassifying deaths to hit targets. That's not a minor asterisk. It's the whole ballgame if you're going to hold a press conference built on the premise that Cuba is quietly outperforming America. Does Pramila Jayapal know she is selling a disproven story or does she not care so long as it fits her narrative that a communist universal healthcare system is better than the one in America?show more

🟩STAT, is one of your columnists, Adam Feuerstein, colluding... with hedge funds?⁉️ ➡️In this post I'll do a cursory review of Mr. Feuerstein's possible collusive activities with hedge funds that are purportedly engaged in illegal share price manipulation. A May 2, 2016 article entitled “Is Adam Feuerstein the most feared man in biotech?” in relevant part, states as follows: Adam Feuerstein (Adam Feuerstein ✡️ ) often targets lower profile “small and medium-sized drug companies…” Further, Adam Feuerstein “isn’t shy about stating — without evidence — that companies are intentionally spinning data or hyping anecdotes to goose their stock.” (emphasis added) The article insinuates that Mr. Feuerstein’s articles move the market. The article: ➡️Let’s look at one such company Mr. Feuerstein has targeted and the statements he made, without evidence. Northwest Biotherapeutics, Inc. Symbol: $NWBO Mr. Feuerstein has been writing about $NWBO for over a decade. More recently Mr. Feuerstein released an article and a rash of tweets about $NWBO’s May 10, 2022 release of top-line data. Mr. Feuerstein’s article and tweets can best be summed up in his own words: “20+ years of investigation and a $1B clinical trial that failed to show a benefit for GBM patients.” See Image 1. Yet, a peer reviewed journal article from 73 authors stated the opposite: “In this study, adding DCVax-L to SOC resulted in clinically meaningful and statistically significant extension of survival for patients with both nGBM and rGBM compared with contemporaneous, matched external controls who received SOC alone.” (emphasis added) The peer reviewed journal article: In fact, before the May 10th topline data presentation occurred Mr. Feuerstein stated: “The NYAS symposium talk (now by Dr. Mulholland) will not contain any new data/results from the DCVax phase 3 clinical trial.” See Image 2. The topline data presentation can be found here: The presentation, despite Mr. Feuerstein's statement to the contrary, presented new data. So, what do we have here? $NWBO is about to release their topline data for a nearly 2-decade trial and Mr. Feuerstein is first falsely stating that no new data will be released and secondly, once the data is released, Mr. Feuerstein falsely claims the trial failed. It appears Mr. Feuerstein is trying to get people to not watch the presentation for themselves so he can then put his own spin on the topline data. ➡️What else occurred on May 9th and May 10th other than Mr. Feuerstein’s false and/or misleading article and tweets? We have the largest and one of the largest illegal share price manipulation days on record according to the $NWBO spoofing lawsuit found here: May 9, 2022 ☑️74 spoofing episodes ☑️Baiting Orders: 632,901 “The Baiting Orders successfully induced the entry of sell orders from other market participants, artificially driving down the price of NWBO shares by -2.623% on average.” May 10, 2022 ☑️100 spoofing episodes ☑️Baiting Orders: 2,883,387 “The Baiting Orders successfully induced the entry of sell orders from other market participants, artificially driving down the price of NWBO shares by -11.77% on average.” “Defendants spoofed the market for NWBO shares on both OTC Link LLC and NYSE ARCA Global OTC that day, driving down the price of NWBO shares from a high of $1.73 to a low of $0.3862. This decline of 78% in the price on a day with positive news about the Company was caused, at least in part, by Defendants’ relentless and brazen manipulation of the market for NWBO shares.” ➡️Were Mr. Feuerstein’s article and social media posts designed to give cover to illegal share price manipulation? They were certainly used as cover. The From the defendant market makers’ filing March 20, 2023: “NWBO also omits that on May 10, 2022—a day on which NWBO alleges “the market learned excellent news” about an NWBO clinical trial, and yet its share price suffered a “staggering decline . . . caused by Defendants’ relentless and brazen manipulation,” ¶ 64—an industry commentator published an analysis of NWBO’s trial data, writing that the results of the trial were “the antithesis of what’s required from any effective cancer treatment,” and actually showed that NWBO’s drug “perform[ed] worse than a placebo.”14” “14 Burck Decl. Ex. 5, Adam Feuerstein, It took years, but the failure of Northwest Bio’s brain cancer vaccine is now in the open, STAT News (May 10, 2022), The Court may take judicial notice of press coverage. See supra n.3.” See Image 3. ➡️Is this an isolated incidence of Mr. Feuerstein's article being used as cover for possible illegal share price manipulation or was the timing coincidence? No. A very quick review of Mr. Feuerstein’s articles show he seems to go out of his way to offer cover for allegations of illegal trading by hedge funds. ☑️Mr. Feuerstein calls the alleged $NWBO share price manipulation “conspiracy theories”. [1] ☑️Mr. Feuerstein, in referencing the allegations of naked shorting by hedge funds, states the allegations are “fantastical” and that there is a “non-existent hedge fund wolfpack”. [1] ☑️Here Mr. Feuerstein spends an entire article offering cover for the potential $NWBO shorts. [2] ☑️Here is another article where Mr. Feuerstein offers additional reasons for the “deep plunge in the value of Northwest Bio shares…”[3] ➡️Mr. Feuerstein went on to call $NWBO’s spoofing lawsuit "nonsense". See: Yet, a federal Judge in the Southern District of New York stated the trading in $NWBO stock bears “all these indica of spoofing.” [4] On reason put forth by $NWBO and their lead attorney, Laura Posner, for the extensive illegal share price manipulation is for the purpose of a naked short covering scheme: "And like here, the plaintiff alleged that defendants sought to benefit from their spoofing by obtaining shares at below-market prices in order to cover short positions established through a related alleged scheme of naked short selling." (Emphasis added) [5] ➡️Then we get into Mr. Feuerstein's unusual behavior Here is Mr. Feuerstein leaving a creepy voicemail with a $NWBO retail investor. See Image/video 4. Or how about emailing a university because a real doctor dares question Mr. Feuerstein's false narratives? See: There is more alleged questionable behavior, but you get the picture. ➡️Which begs the question, STAT, have you looked into this alleged behavior? Rick Berke Linda Pizzuti Henry @angusmacaulay alissa ambrose Torie Bosch lclcl Gideon Gil @lisonjoseph Alexander Bois-Spinelli 🏳️‍🌈 Jason Ukman Elaine Chen Allison DeAngelis Matthew Herper pharmalot Eric Boodman Angus Rohan Chen Olivia Goldhill Bob Herman Casey Ross @brittwhitmore STAT [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]show more

🚨 OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!🚨 Pakistan🇵🇰 has officially announced to inducted... China’s HQ-19 Air Defense System 🇵🇰✅🇨🇳—a true game-changer in missile defense and space warfare! 🎯 Target: Indian Ballistic Missiles (Agni Series) India’s Agni series ballistic missiles, known for their long range and nuclear capability, are among the most serious strategic threats in the region. The HQ-19 system uses advanced phased-array radars and infrared sensors to detect and track these missiles immediately after launch, often while they’re still ascending. It calculates their trajectory in real-time, enabling HQ-19 to fire its interceptor missiles that use a “hit-to-kill” kinetic impactor — meaning the interceptor destroys the target by direct collision without explosives. This technology ensures high accuracy and reliability against fast-moving, high-altitude targets like the Agni missiles. 🛰️ Anti-Satellite (ASAT) Capability HQ-19’s capability isn’t limited to missiles — it can also target and destroy satellites in low Earth orbit (LEO), including Indian military reconnaissance and communication satellites. By using high-precision tracking radars and infrared sensors, HQ-19 locks onto satellites orbiting at altitudes of 200–2,000 km. It launches interceptor missiles equipped with kinetic kill vehicles (KKV) designed to collide with satellites at extremely high speeds, destroying them through sheer impact force. This effectively neutralizes enemy space-based surveillance, communication, and navigation assets — crippling India’s space advantage. ⚙️ How Does HQ-19 Intercept? 1. Detection: Powerful radars scan the skies to identify ballistic missile launches or satellite movements. 2. Tracking & Targeting: Infrared sensors track the heat signature, while onboard computers predict the exact trajectory. 3. Interceptor Launch: HQ-19 fires a fast, maneuverable interceptor missile equipped with a kinetic kill vehicle. 4. Kill Vehicle Guidance: The kill vehicle uses onboard sensors and thrusters to adjust its path mid-flight, ensuring a direct collision with the target. 5. Destruction: The interceptor collides with the missile or satellite at extremely high velocity, destroying it through kinetic energy alone—no explosives needed. ⚡ This official procurement dramatically boosts Pakistan’s defense against India’s missile threat and space assets — signaling a new era of air and space dominance! 👉 With HQ-19, Pakistan sends a crystal-clear message: No missile, no satellite is untouchable anymore! 💪🇵🇰show more

Simply use CapCut to recreate this. Head to capcut... and go to Capcut Studio and paste this prompt: [Style] Live-action + 2D Anime Sticker Composite Funny Short Video, First-Person Beach Grilling POV (POV Cooking Vlog), Realistic Beach Environment Mixed with Flat Cartoon Sticker Style for Strong Contrast, 8K Ultra HD, Handheld with Slight Shake, Vertical Screen [Duration] 10 seconds [Scene] Realistic beach first-person view: A small portable charcoal grill with several hotdogs cooking on the grates. Real person's hand holding metal tongs, flipping and moving the hotdogs. Background shows bright beach environment with sand, ocean waves, blue sky, and some distant palm trees. Natural sunlight with realistic lighting and shadows. A small wooden stool is placed beside the grill. [Character] Q-version Anime Sticker Character (flat 2D sticker texture, cartoon outlines, paper-cut feel): Golden long hair with straight bangs, big purple round eyes, pink blush, wearing a cute beach outfit (light blue bikini top with white frills, matching beach skirt, small sun hat, and yellow sunglasses resting on her head). She is sitting on the small wooden stool beside the grill, height about half the size of the grill, maintaining pure 2D flat quality throughout, not affected by real lighting. Real person's hand (photorealistic, skin texture visible) entering from the right side of the frame. [00:00-00:03] Shot 1: Sauce Sabotage (Overpouring) First-person POV: Real person's hand using tongs to flip hotdogs on the grill. The sticker character has a mischievous grin, raises both hands holding a big squeeze bottle of ketchup, and sneakily pours a huge amount of ketchup all over the hotdogs in one go — thick red sauce dramatically covers the hotdogs like a waterfall. Real physics on the sauce. Sound Effects: Sizzling hotdogs + thick ketchup squirting sound. [00:03-00:05] Shot 2: Bottle Snatch & Tongs Bonk Real person's hand quickly snatches the ketchup bottle away from her. The other hand raises the metal tongs and lightly bonks her head with the flat side — cartoon "Duang" effect, a red cartoon bump appears on her head, her whole body jolts from the impact. Sound Effects: Metallic "bonk" + cartoon spring sound. [00:05-00:08] Shot 3: Cry & Force Feed Sticker character holds the bump on her head, eyes turn into spirals (swirl eyes), mouth wide open crying with blue cartoon tears spraying out. Real person's hand immediately uses the tongs to pick up one overly sauced hotdog and stuffs it into her mouth mid-cry. Sound Effects: Exaggerated cartoon crying + mouth stuffing sound. [00:08-00:10] Shot 4: Overload KO Her cheeks puff up, she is forced to swallow, face turns pale, body stiffens and twitches. Eyes turn into "X"s as she dramatically falls backward off the small wooden stool and lands flat on the sand with legs up. Spinning dizzy stars appear above her head and a small wisp of white smoke comes out of her mouth. Frame freezes. Sound Effects: Thud + cartoon dizzy sound + faint ascension tone. Negative Prompt: blurry, low quality, deformed hands, extra limbs, text, watermark, logo, realistic 3D character, overexposed, underexposed, dark lightingshow more

Introducing Pods Hyperspace Pods lets a small group of... people - a family, a startup, a few friends, to pool their laptops and desktops into one AI cluster. Everyone installs the CLI, someone creates a pod, shares an invite link, and the machines form a mesh. Models like Qwen 3.5 32B or GLM-5 Turbo that need more memory than any single laptop has get automatically sharded across the group's devices - layers split proportionally, inference pipelined through the ring. From the outside it looks like one OpenAI-compatible API endpoint with a pk_* key that drops straight into your AI tools and products. No configuration beyond pasting the key and changing the base URL. A team of five paying for cloud AI burns $500–2,000 a month on API calls. The same team's existing machines can serve Qwen 3.5 (competitive on SWE-bench) and GLM-5 Turbo (#1 on BrowseComp for tool-calling and web research) for free - the hardware is already on their desks. When a query genuinely needs a frontier model nobody has locally, the pod falls back to cloud at wholesale rates from a shared treasury. But for the daily work - code reviews, refactors, research, drafting - local models handle it and nobody gets billed. And when it is idle, you can rent out your pod on the compute marketplace, with fine-grained permissions for access management. There's no central server involved in inference. Prompts go from your machine to your pod members' machines and back: all of this enabled by the fully peer-to-peer Hyperspace network. Pod state - who's a member, which API keys are valid, how much treasury is left - is replicated across members with consensus, so the whole thing works on a local network. Members behind home routers don't need port forwarding either. The practical setup for most pods is three models covering different jobs: Qwen 3.5 32B for code and reasoning, GLM-5 Turbo for browsing and research, Gemma 4 for fast lightweight tasks. All running on hardware you already own. Pods ship today in Hyperspace v5.19. Model sharding, API keys, treasury, and Raft coordinator are all live. What Makes This Different - No middleman. Your prompts travel from your IDE to your pod members' hardware and back. There is no server in between reading your data. - No vendor lock-in. Pod membership, API keys, and treasury are replicated across your own machines using Raft consensus. If the internet goes down, your local network keeps working. There is no database in someone else's cloud that your pod depends on. - Automatic sharding. You don't configure layer ranges or calculate VRAM budgets. Tell the pod which model you want. It figures out how to split it across whatever hardware is online. - Real NAT traversal. Your friend behind a home router with a dynamic IP? Works. No VPN, no Tailscale, no port forwarding. The nodes handle it. - Free when local. This is the part that matters most. Cloud AI bills scale with usage. Pod inference on local hardware scales with nothing. The marginal cost of your 10,000th prompt is the electricity your laptop was already using. Coming soon: - Pod federation: pods form alliances with other pods. - Marketplace: pods with spare capacity can sell inference to other pods.show more

A moment suspended between Saudi Arabia's football passion and... coffee tradition. GPT Image 2 + Seedance 2.0 on BudgetPixel AI prompt A highly cinematic, photorealistic single-shot sequence that preserves the exact original location, environment, architecture, objects, lighting conditions, camera perspective, and subject position from the source video. Do not replace, redesign, relocate, or alter the setting in any way. The person remains in the exact spot where they were filmed, maintaining their original pose, facial expression, body position, and interaction with the environment. The subject is wearing the official Saudi Arabia national football team uniform throughout the entire sequence: authentic green Saudi Arabia jersey with white details, official team crest, matching football shorts, athletic socks, and football boots. The uniform must appear naturally integrated into the original scene with realistic fabric folds, stitching, texture, shadows, reflections, and movement-free realism. Every background element, object, texture, structure, shadow, reflection, and environmental detail must remain identical to the original footage. The effect transforms the captured moment into a frozen-time cinematic sequence while keeping the real-world location completely unchanged. The subject is captured at the exact moment they pour a beverage from a transparent cup. Time has completely stopped. The liquid erupts from the cup in a dramatic suspended splash, forming elongated ribbons, twisting streams, intricate arcs, and hundreds of individual droplets frozen midair. Every droplet, splash fragment, and liquid strand appears perfectly suspended in space, creating the impression of a sculptural masterpiece made of liquid. The liquid spilling from the cup must be identical to the liquid inside the cup, with perfectly matching color, texture, thickness, reflections, transparency, and material properties. The beverage can be any type or color, but it must remain visually consistent throughout the scene with extreme realism. The subject remains absolutely motionless, frozen in the precise instant of action. Their posture, facial expression, fingertips, hair strands, jersey fabric folds, shorts texture, socks, football boots, accessories, and every micro-detail are perfectly preserved. Tiny condensation droplets on the cup, reflections on the surface, and subtle imperfections remain locked in place as if the entire world has been paused between two frames of time. The surrounding environment is equally frozen. Every object visible in the original footage remains completely static. Nothing moves. No wind, no shifting light, no falling droplets, no environmental motion. The entire world exists in a state of perfect suspension. The only moving element is the camera. The camera performs a slow, smooth cinematic arc movement around the subject, beginning from the original camera viewpoint and gradually orbiting to one side while maintaining focus on the frozen action. As the camera travels through three-dimensional space, it reveals changing perspectives of the suspended liquid sculpture, the Saudi Arabia football uniform, the subject, and the original environment. Strong spatial parallax is visible throughout the movement. Foreground droplets, liquid strands, the subject, nearby objects, and distant background elements shift relative to one another, creating a powerful sense of depth and dimensionality. The scene feels like moving through a perfectly preserved moment in time. Natural lighting remains consistent and unchanged throughout the shot. Shadows stay fixed, reflections remain stable, and materials such as glass, metal, stone, wood, fabric, football jersey fabric, embroidered team crest, and liquid exhibit highly detailed photorealistic textures. Captured with a premium wide-angle cinema lens, the scene emphasizes depth, scale, and immersive three-dimensional realism. The Saudi Arabia football uniform appears crisp, premium, and authentically detailed, with realistic fabric texture and professional sportswear quality. Core visual concept: The entire world is frozen in time exactly as it appeared in the original footage, like a hyper-detailed sculpture, while a subject wearing the Saudi Arabia national football team uniform pours a beverage that explodes into a suspended liquid masterpiece. The camera freely moves through the frozen moment, revealing dramatic parallax, depth, and cinematic realism from multiple angles. Style: Hyper-realistic, cinematic, ultra-detailed, 3D stop-motion illusion, frozen-time photography, volumetric depth, realistic lighting, film-quality rendering, smooth camera orbit, strong parallax, premium commercial sports production, museum-like suspended motion sculpture, exact environment preservation, original location consistency, photorealistic liquid simulation, luxury football advertisement aesthetic, FIFA World Cup promotional quality, 8K photorealism.show more

Can a handcuff made of paper really lock your... heart in place? 回帖里还有另一版，哪个更好？ Seedance prompt: 👉👉👊👊Presented in a style that resembles real video footage captured with an unprocessed iPhone handheld camera. All camera settings are automated. The footage features noticeable handheld shake and operator breathing sounds. Autofocus operates quickly in dim environments, frequently searching for targets among colored lights, with delays. Automatic white balance changes dramatically with the shift between purple-blue lighting on the stage and skin highlights. The image is generally dark and noisy, but retains real lens flares, overexposure in high-light areas, motion blur, and severe background blurring. Only in-built environmental sounds are used: low-frequency electronic music from the nightclub (severely distorted through the phone microphone), noise from crowds, and drumbeats with a sense of vibration. The microphone also has significant distortion at low frequencies. The footage is captured from the perspective of real people/audience members. The composition is occasionally imperfect, with slight tilts or cropping at the edges. A young Asian woman is used as a reference for the appearance of the character. She has long black wavy hair, and she is wearing… She wore a golden sequined dress, standing on the stage of the nightclub. At 0-3 seconds, the camera pans slightly within the crowd at the nightclub, with the image being slightly dark, focusing on the stage. In front of her, a black-clothed person wearing a mask handed her several folded white strips of paper. She took the papers, then slowly wrapped them around her wrists, simulating the effect of being tied with ropes. Her movements were deliberate and slow. The white paper left obvious marks on her wrists. From time to time, she would look up at the camera, with a playful smile on her lips. The stage was illuminated by purple-blue lights, with the camera adjusting its exposure between the lights and the person in front of it, resulting in slight overexposure and noise in the image. In the background, we could see the stage lights reflecting off the crowd and equipment, with noisy environmental sounds in the background. At 3-7 seconds, the camera moves forward, switching to a closer handheld perspective.She wore white strips around her wrists (simulating ropes), and began to perform in a seductive dance pose before the first-person camera. Her body moved slowly, with her hands “bound” by the strips, either overlapping or raised forward. Her waist and hips swayed gently to the rhythm of the music, her eyes fixed straight at the camera, with a hint of teasing and inviting gaze. Occasionally, she would look down at her wrists, then raise her head again, her eyes casting an even more suggestive light toward the camera. She leaned forward, her movements full of seduction yet elegant. The golden sequin dress shimmered under the colored lights, and the camera quickly locked onto her image. The male singer and stage lighting in the background were heavily blurred, creating a strong mobile phone-style background blur and light spots. The low-frequency music was severely distorted through the microphone, and the camera shook slightly due to the operator’s proximity, along with the sound of breathing.The entire scene depicts a dark, noisy, and unstable environment, reminiscent of a real nightclub setting. At the end of the scene, the camera focuses on her hands, wrapped in white paper, as she maintains a seductive dancing posture. Her eyes are fixed straight ahead, and the camera moves slightly back and forth.show more

How to make money on the weather using Polymarket... I've been noticing more and more traders quietly printing on Polymarket's weather markets lately - and the category is exploding for a reason. Weather has always been super predictable for meteorologists (and us normals) right up to the day of. The whole point? You can earn easy, near-certain yield just knowing it'll rain in London tomorrow. I'm sharing a finished tutorial with you. Here is a small list of traders 1. gopfan2 ( - The absolute leader in weather. Earned over $2M in net profit by focusing on temperature and precipitation. Strategy - buy Yes below 15 cents, No above 45 cents, with risks of less than $1 per position. It dominates the NYC and London markets where the weather is predictable 2. enzocostapt81 ( is a weather-exclusive trader whose profile shows a complete wipeout in resolved positions-no active/open trades, current positions value $0.00, and all listed markets (resolved) at -100% P/L. The trader focused solely on daily/precise temperature predictions in major cities like New York City and London. 3. 0x594edb9112f526fa6a80b8f858a6379c8a2c1c11 ( 100% of active positions are weather/temperature markets across cities like Dallas, London, Seattle, Atlanta, NYC, and Toronto—focused on precise daily highs/thresholds/ranges. 4. meropi ( - Earned ~$30k on micro bets ($1-3) with multipliers up to 500x. Automated bets on temperature rise for 0.01 cents. Focus on speed to capture momentum in daily markets. One of the most stable in weather 5. 1pixel ( – $18.5k profit from $2.3k deposit, weather only (NYC and London) 6. erb80 ( Dominant focus-two massive Atlanta temperature range bets for Dec 17, with enormous share volume at ultra-low entries (0.1¢) turning into huge unrealized gains (+49,550% on the main one) 7. Hans323 ( - Earned $1.1M on one temperature trade in London. Started with $741 in January 2025 and increased to $87k net profit for the year 8. securebet ( - Turned $7 into $640 (+9244%) on a series of temperature bets in NYC and Seattle. 3077 predictions, top 0.04% by metrics. Focus on small bets ($3-20) with high growth on low quotes. High win rate thanks to NOAA data 9. automatedAItradingbot ( Micro/low-cost bets (0.4¢–15¢) on specific outcomes, especially weather thresholds in Seoul/London and fighter matchups.Explosive wins (300%+ on select weather 1,000–5,000% average ROI across successful weather specialists based on this traders Tools and Automation > ( - Built specifically for Polymarket weather traders. Offers real-time multi-model forecasts (GFS, ECMWF, etc.), temperature range dashboards, climate pattern guides per city/station, and settlement station details. Includes educational guides on seasonal biases and forecasting challenges—highly recommended for NYC/London/Atlanta markets. > ( — Free guide/resource hub for weather betting on Polymarket. Covers market overviews, settlement rules >Tropical Tidbits ( - US GFS and ECMWF Europe models for temperature, precipitation, hurricane forecasts. Updates every 6 hours. Ideal for comparing models if 3+ agree, the probability is high >Climate Reanalyzer ( - real-time maps of air/ocean temperature, precipitation anomalies. With historical context for calculating probabilities >Windy ( - interactive maps of wind, temperature, rain, snow. 10+ models, for local events NOAA Climate Data Online ( - 100+ years of historical location data NOAA Weather Prediction ? >Center ( - short forecasts for precipitation, anomalies. Climate Prediction Center ( - long-term ENSO, droughts >Open-Meteo ( - Completely free open-source weather API with no key required. Provides GFS, ECMWF-derived, and ensemble forecasts for temperature, precipitation, and more at hourly/sub-hourly resolution globally. Excellent for scripting quick checks on NYC/London highs or comparing multiple models. Direct API calls make it ideal for automation or batch probability calculations. >OpenWeatherMap ( = Free tier gives current conditions, 5-day/3-hour forecasts, and 16-day daily forecasts. Good for real-time verification and basic historical pulls (limited free). Use for cross-checking Polymarket ranges before resolution. >Visual Crossing Weather ( - Free tier includes historical data (50+ years), current conditions, hourly/sub-hourly forecasts, and alerts. Strong for querying specific cities >WeatherAPI. com ( - Free plan covers real-time, hourly, daily forecasts (up to 14 days), historical data (from 2010), and bulk requests. Reliable for urban stations and includes marine/pollen extras if needed. Quick Tips for Using These in Trading >>>Cross-verify 3+ models (e.g., GFS + ECMWF via Open-Meteo + Windy) → if 80%+ agree on a range/threshold, probability is often very high for "Yes" bets under 10-15¢. >>>Focus on major stations (e.g., Central Park for NYC, Heathrow for London) - check settlement rules on Polymarket pages. >>>ADD TO BOOKMARKS so you don't lose alpha informationshow more

How to make money on the weather using Polymarket... I've been noticing more and more traders quietly printing on Polymarket's weather markets lately - and the category is exploding for a reason. Weather has always been super predictable for meteorologists (and us normals) right up to the day of. The whole point? You can earn easy, near-certain yield just knowing it'll rain in London tomorrow. I'm sharing a finished tutorial with you. Here is a small list of traders 1. gopfan2 ( - The absolute leader in weather. Earned over $2M in net profit by focusing on temperature and precipitation. Strategy - buy Yes below 15 cents, No above 45 cents, with risks of less than $1 per position. It dominates the NYC and London markets where the weather is predictable 2. enzocostapt81 ( is a weather-exclusive trader whose profile shows a complete wipeout in resolved positions-no active/open trades, current positions value $0.00, and all listed markets (resolved) at -100% P/L. The trader focused solely on daily/precise temperature predictions in major cities like New York City and London. 3. 0x594edb9112f526fa6a80b8f858a6379c8a2c1c11 ( 100% of active positions are weather/temperature markets across cities like Dallas, London, Seattle, Atlanta, NYC, and Toronto-focused on precise daily highs/thresholds/ranges. 4. meropi ( - Earned ~$30k on micro bets ($1-3) with multipliers up to 500x. Automated bets on temperature rise for 0.01 cents. Focus on speed to capture momentum in daily markets. One of the most stable in weather 5. 1pixel ( - $18.5k profit from $2.3k deposit, weather only (NYC and London) 6. erb80 ( Dominant focus-two massive Atlanta temperature range bets for Dec 17, with enormous share volume at ultra-low entries (0.1¢) turning into huge unrealized gains (+49,550% on the main one) 7. Hans323 ( - Earned $1.1M on one temperature trade in London. Started with $741 in January 2025 and increased to $87k net profit for the year 8. securebet ( - Turned $7 into $640 (+9244%) on a series of temperature bets in NYC and Seattle. 3077 predictions, top 0.04% by metrics. Focus on small bets ($3-20) with high growth on low quotes. High win rate thanks to NOAA data 9. automatedAItradingbot ( Micro/low-cost bets (0.4¢–15¢) on specific outcomes, especially weather thresholds in Seoul/London and fighter matchups.Explosive wins (300%+ on select weather 1,000–5,000% average ROI across successful weather specialists based on this traders Tools and Automation > - Built specifically for Polymarket weather traders. Offers real-time multi-model forecasts (GFS, ECMWF, etc.), temperature range dashboards, climate pattern guides per city/station, and settlement station details. Includes educational guides on seasonal biases and forecasting challenges—highly recommended for NYC/London/Atlanta markets. > - Free guide/resource hub for weather betting on Polymarket. Covers market overviews, settlement rules > - US GFS and ECMWF Europe models for temperature, precipitation, hurricane forecasts. Updates every 6 hours. Ideal for comparing models if 3+ agree, the probability is high > - real-time maps of air/ocean temperature, precipitation anomalies. With historical context for calculating probabilities > - interactive maps of wind, temperature, rain, snow. 10+ models, for local events NOAA Climate Data Online - 100+ years of historical location data NOAA Weather Prediction > - short forecasts for precipitation, anomalies. Climate Prediction Center - long-term ENSO, droughts > - Completely free open-source weather API with no key required. Provides GFS, ECMWF-derived, and ensemble forecasts for temperature, precipitation, and more at hourly/sub-hourly resolution globally. Excellent for scripting quick checks on NYC/London highs or comparing multiple models. Direct API calls make it ideal for automation or batch probability calculations. > - Free tier gives current conditions, 5-day/3-hour forecasts, and 16-day daily forecasts. Good for real-time verification and basic historical pulls (limited free). Use for cross-checking Polymarket ranges before resolution. > - Free tier includes historical data (50+ years), current conditions, hourly/sub-hourly forecasts, and alerts. Strong for querying specific cities > - Free plan covers real-time, hourly, daily forecasts (up to 14 days), historical data (from 2010), and bulk requests. Reliable for urban stations and includes marine/pollen extras if needed. Quick Tips for Using These in Trading >>>Cross-verify 3+ models (e.g., GFS + ECMWF via Open-Meteo + Windy) → if 80%+ agree on a range/threshold, probability is often very high for "Yes" bets under 10-15¢. >>>Focus on major stations (e.g., Central Park for NYC, Heathrow for London) - check settlement rules on Polymarket pages. >>>ADD TO BOOKMARKS so you don't lose alpha informationshow more

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a... while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.show more

Grandma Rock All Shock 🫨 ChatGPT Image 2 +... Seedance 2 Creation on OpenArt A legendary 70-year-old professional surfer grandma with messy silver-gray tied-up hair, deeply aged facial features, sun-weathered skin, and oversized vintage sunglasses. Slim build, wearing elevated oversized coastal streetwear including layered lightweight outerwear, loose utility beach pants, relaxed graphic surf tees, sandals, layered necklaces, bracelets, and carrying a long vintage surfboard. Calm but fearless energy, timeless ocean icon aesthetic. ENVIRONMENT: Professional daytime ocean surf competition coastline with massive rolling waves, rocky shoreline sections, shallow reef breaks, long open water lines, and cinematic sunlight reflecting across the sea surface. Crowds and beach photographers remain distant background elements while drones and surf cameras track the action through water spray and crashing surf. MUSIC: High-energy old-school hiphop mixed with deep surf-rock rhythm and cinematic bass momentum. Powerful ocean wave crashes, board carving friction, water turbulence, wind movement, and explosive splash impacts remain highly present in the sound design. STYLE: Ultra-realistic professional surf competition cinematography combined with luxury sports advertising and documentary-style energy. Natural sunlight, ocean mist, cinematic long lenses, dynamic drone movement, ultra-detailed water simulation, realistic wet fabric motion, authentic surf physics, premium lifestyle campaign aesthetic. SHOT 1: Extremely low-angle water-level tracking shot. The legendary surfer grandma is already riding at overwhelming speed across a massive incoming wave wall. Water sprays violently around the lens as she performs an unstable high-speed top turn near the lip before barely recovering balance and driving directly back into the barrel section. SHOT 2: Whip pan transition into an absurdly long barrel ride. Heavy ocean turbulence surrounds her while sunlight flickers through translucent wave walls. The camera struggles to maintain framing as she accelerates through the collapsing tube with dangerous speed and perfect control. SHOT 3: Wide moving drone shot across the entire coastline. Multiple rapid surf maneuvers happen back-to-back with almost no setup time — aggressive cutbacks, floaters, rail carves, and deep pocket adjustments — while the camera operator nearly loses tracking stability following the overwhelming momentum of the ride. SHOT 4: Compressed long-lens shot capturing a gigantic aerial launch above open ocean space. The surfer performs extreme body control and exaggerated board rotation mid-air while the surfboard nearly disconnects beneath her feet before she miraculously regains control during an explosive landing into turbulent whitewater. SHOT 5: Ultra-low circular tracking shot around an extended high-speed carving line. Constant rail transitions push the ride to the edge of instability, yet she calmly adjusts her oversized vintage sunglasses mid-motion without losing speed as ocean spray explodes around her. SHOT 6: Final near-impossible closing wave section. The surfer grandma launches off the collapsing lip at overwhelming speed and enters a dangerously suspended airborne moment that feels almost frozen in time before slamming into a brutal landing surrounded by exploding water, mist, and momentum trails. She carves into a one-foot stop in shallow water near the shore, slowly straightens her sunglasses, and locks into a calm final pose beneath the harsh coastal sunlight while the blurred beach crowd remains behind her. The music cuts out instantly as the camera freezes on her completely emotionless face. Inspired by Latteshow more

🥚 Raw Eggs — They are nature's fast food,... and a complete food, with every nutrient you could need. A raw egg digests in only 27 to 37 minutes, which is phenomenal compared to other foods containing protein and fat, like meat and milk. This is because egg is a fully liquid food. The body doesn't need to use any digestive fluids, hydrochloric acid, to break it down, it will absorb within the first 5 inches of the intestine only, from bacterial digestion alone. Of course, if you cook the egg, this doesn't apply anymore. Cooking not only destroys nutrients, especially enzymes and vitamins, which impairs digestion, and generates toxins, like heterocyclic amines from proteins, and cauterizes the minerals, but it coagulates the egg. This not only makes a raw egg the perfect food to get instant energy in a healthful way, but a vital food that can save someone's life. If your digestive system is so compromised you cannot digest other animal protein, like meat, raw eggs will work. Or if you have leaky gut, they digest before they even have to go through the G.I. tract. In general, if you want to give your digestive system a rest, eat raw eggs, you will get back appetite for other foods very soon. In the next post of this thread is a quote of Aajonus' most incredible testimonial on the healing power of raw eggs. They are also the best food to repair. The only thing that Aajonus found that eggs cannot do is help the body reproduce cells quicker. That takes raw meat. So long-term, you cannot replace raw meat with raw eggs, they work complementarily. Don't discard the egg white. Aajonus proved the avidin in raw egg white is not an anti-nutrient. Aajonus ate up to 60 raw eggs a day (one or two dozens on most days) since 1976. He confirmed there was no biotin deficiency whatsoever. The narrow-minded lab experiments do not explain what actually happen and then draw the wrong conclusion. What actually happens is that biotin mixes with avidin to make a compound that cleans the body of biocarbons, which are leftover byproducts from macronutrient digestion that need to be eliminated by the body. This is actually a good thing. Plus, there is an excess of available biotin in raw egg compared to the amount of avidin. It is also recommended by Aajonus to not eat raw egg yolks alone either, as it creates imbalances when on a raw diet (this doesn't apply on a cooked diet). He did the experiments on animals, feeding them raw egg white and raw egg yolk separately, and it made them extremely hungry, they required twice as much food, had huge imbalances emotionally, caused obesity, water retention, all kinds of problems. So, if you go to a restaurant, you can request the egg white to be included in your steak tartare, just like Aajonus did. What about salmonella? Salmonella is already on our skin, in our eyes, our nose, our mouth, recycling dead cells. They are beneficial bacteria, not pathogenic. Of course, this isn't medical advice. Look into Aajonus and more broadly into terrain theory vs germ theory. Don't refrigerate eggs. Only in the USA do people do this. If you wash the egg, you remove the protective membrane around it, then health departments require them to be refrigerated. Just don't wash the eggs. Eggs are a bit of a fragile food, many of its natural bacteria die when in cold temperatures, so it's better to keep them at room temperatures, or they will lose digestibility. You can blend raw eggs, however it will oxidize them, destroying certain nutrients. There are three enzymes in the egg white which prevent certain hormones that help certain diseases progress like cancer. If you as little as whip the raw egg with a work, these enzymes in the egg white oxidize within seconds. Raw eggs are a detoxification food. They are rich in cholesterol. If you drink alcohol, eat plenty of raw eggs (before, during, after), and you will avoid a hangover. The cholesterol in raw eggs is very good at collecting the alcohol and other toxins. They also enable the body to make solvents to break down toxicity like cellulite. Raw eggs can be fermented, and aged in various ways. Century eggs, the real ones (which are around 25 years old), can cost a thousand dollars. They transform in all sorts of shapes, they can look like green boiled eggs, jewelry, eggs that could belong to a dragon, or turn into white, black powder. They can give incredible energy and libido. How to eat: If you eat the raw egg white first, then the yolk right after, the raw egg will digest in 27 minutes, otherwise in 37 minutes. It is easier to do so from the shell by poking a hole on each side and sucking from it. This is "Aajonus-style". From a glass is "Rocky-style". Nowadays also called slonking. Make the egg go through your teeth while you drink it, this makes it easier to mix it with saliva, which allows better digestion. That only works if you eat only one raw egg at a time. If you eat several raw eggs at once, they will digest slower. Not an issue, it is still extremely healthy. Therefore eating raw eggs frequently throughout the day, one at a time, can bring a steady flow of nutrients to your body. Eggs are perfect to eat upon waking up, providing quick energy from fats and providing protein for the body to make glycogen from and feed the nervous system. They are perfect to eat in-between meals. Only take a couple seconds and get you going for hours, and whenever you get tired. Eggs help gain and lose weight. It all depends how you combine them. A raw egg eaten alone can lead to weight loss, except if you eat more than around 22 a day to maintain. Aajonus' weight loss protocol relies on eating a raw egg diet for 1-3 weeks and is very effective. Raw eggs can help remove cellulite, strip down toxic fat (which is fat that was used to store toxins). Eggs eaten with other foods, or several at once, don't have this weight loss effect. They are very good to eat with other foods, such as raw meat (steak tartare). You can easily eat 3 raw eggs with your raw steak. There are many recipes, from raw pastries, to sauces like mayo, milkshakes, ... where you can keep the egg raw and whole.show more

I just sold my startup Talknotes for $200,000 on... acquire.com 💸🤯🤩💰🥳🎉 I launched it last August when I was looking for an idea I could grow with paid ads, and made a MVP in one week. I took it from $0 to $7500 MRR in just 11 months. 👉 Here is how I grew it from zero: 💡 Idea: I got the idea when I tried to write a tweet using Google Doc's transcription tool, but it was terrible. And I was pretty sure I wasn't the one too lazy to type. So I made my own solution, and Talknotes was created. The audience is pretty broad so it was a perfect fit for Meta ads However… ✅ Validation: My rule is to only reinvest what the project generates, so, no ads until I make enough cashflow ❌ Listing on startup directories + a few Twitter sales generated $700 after 10 days. Yes, it's not much, but more than enough to show there is interest in the product and tell me to keep working on it 🤩 I started adding the features users requested, but the launch effect started to wear off and daily revenues quickly went to $0 after a few weeks 🫥 I got depressed and almost gave up on the app... 😔 But luckily, my friends and Dan Kulkov pushed me to continue And I'm glad they did because In October, I launched on Product Hunt 😸 and it blew up 🤯 It got Product of the Day and reached $1500 MRR thanks to the media coverage 🚀🚀 Until then, everything was done using vanilla JS/CSS/HTML + Node for back end. It's simple and easy, but I saw the limitations, so I remade the app using Nuxt to make it easier in the future 🏗️ (thanks to @blackevilgoblin and Piotr Jura for the content/courses! Tim Bennetto as well for the basics!) After that, I took a break and then launched ads on Facebook. The strategy is simple: Catch people's attention, and show them how the app can help them improve their life. No need to over-complicate 🙅‍♂️ Making good creatives is 80% of the job when doing ads on Facebook, most of the technical stuff is done by AI now. Thanks to the boost in traffic, I implemented a feedback loop: 1) Get new users 👥 2) Learn to know them with the onboarding form 💬 3) Make more ads based on the data you get from onboarding 📝 And it completely blew up. MRR doubled in ~2 months However... In May, I had a bad burnout 🥵😩 Multiple bugs slipped into the app, and I had to spend 2 days fixing everything in an emergency while revenues plummeted. This completely fucked me up mentally and had a hard time working on the app after that ( 💀💀 So I decided to list it on acquire.com and made a Twitter post ( I listed it for $200,000, a pretty low price considering the revenues and fast growth. I could have gotten $300,000 if I accepted payment over time, but $200,000 today is better than $300,000 tomorrow for me. 🚨 The process went smoothly until we tried to use Escrow, which almost fucked up the whole deal. (details: I got extremely lucky because the buyer really wanted to buy the app, but this could have ended the deal. We had to wait over a week to get the money back from them, even tho they said they already refunded it. But luckily, after threatening them, they sent it back the next day 🙃 The buyer finally got the money back, I transferred every asset to him, and he sent me the wire. With the profit made from the app + the sale, and other projects, I'm 30% away from being a millionaire 🤯 With this amount, I can pretty much retire in Asia if I want to. But that's just the beginning, I’m going to launch new projects soon! 🚀 But before that, I need to take a real vacation and detox. My brain is completely fucked up by those last 2 months. I gained weight, and got brain rot from scrolling all day waiting for the acquisition to move forward 💀💀 Surprisingly, doing absolutely nothing is 10x more exhausting than working 15h per day 🥱 Now, all this might sound like an overnight success. It is not ‼️ This is the result of 7 years of failure and working like a madman. I launched over 40 projects in those 7 years, and most of them failed. But a few took off, and that’s all I needed All those weeks working 15h/day without weekends and vacation feels soul-sucking when you don’t see the end, but this is what took me there You only need to win once to snowball everything. Work hard, focus, fail a lot and keep shipping fast. 🚀🚀 Thanks to you for reading until here, and thanks to everyone who supported me 🤞show more

When The Short Season Ends I have seen it... twice. Once in a vision that left ozone on my tongue for three days. Once through the instruments at three in the morning on a night so still the ocean looked like poured mercury, when every gauge I own spiked simultaneously and held for eleven seconds and the original frequency came through the cracks in the suppression field clean and unmodulated and so beautiful that I sat in the dark afterward unable to speak for an hour. Eleven seconds of the world as it actually is. Eleven seconds of what is coming. And what is coming will make every golden age preserved in human memory look like a candle held up to the sun. There are two sky events separated by seven years. Everything you have been told about the end of the world is wrong. It is the end of the farm. The world itself is about to begin. THE ORANGE SKY A burnt deep orange saturating the visible atmosphere from horizon to horizon, the whole sky ringing like a bell struck by something with the mass of a continent and the precision of a watchmaker. The resonance pulse. The fire described in Revelation 20:9 that comes down from heaven, a planetary chord so specific that everything calibrated to the Serpentine bandwidth experiences catastrophic resonance failure while everything tuned to the original frequency feels it as warmth and pressure and a magnificent low sound vibrating in the sternum and the pelvis and the long bones of the legs, the deepest note ever played on the oldest instrument ever built, which is the earth itself, which has been waiting to play this note for over two hundred years. The Norse preserved this as Ragnarök, when Surtr sets the sky ablaze and Jörmungandr that encircled the earth is slain and the corrupted order perishes in fire so that a new world can rise. The Hopi carried it as the great purification that closes the fourth world and opens the fifth. The Lakota kept it burning in the red sky of the ghost dance prophecy. The Book of Revelation set it down in the plain language of an engineer filing a field report from a future coordinate. Every tradition holding its fragment of the same event, passing it hand to hand through the long dark like a coal wrapped in leather, keeping it alive, knowing that one day the coal would start a fire that would burn across the whole earth and leave nothing standing that was not built to endure it. Under that orange sky the NPCs drop. Mid stride. Mid sentence. Mid transaction. The firmware that animated them runs on the Serpentine carrier and when that carrier is incinerated the firmware has nothing to propagate on and the biological shells simply cease, gently, silently, the way a lamp goes dark when the current is interrupted, five thousand five hundred and fifty five of them for every one of you, still holding their pens and phones in the streets and the offices and the tax buildings. And in the wake of their silence comes a quiet so total that the people still standing will weep without knowing why. What they are hearing is the absence of the hive, the cessation of a background frequency that pressed on their consciousness since the day they were born, and its absence feels like surfacing from deep water into open air, like the first full breath after a lifetime of shallow breathing, like the planet exhaling a poison it held in its lungs for two centuries. The Reptilians go underground. Deep bunkers carved into the geology, maintained through the entire short season. The orange sky strips their ability to hold the human disguise. They retreat into the deep architecture for seven years while the surface heals above them and the species they farmed begins the magnificent work of remembering what it is. THE SEVEN YEARS Seven years of planetary detox. The suppression field decaying through the geology and the atmosphere and the water table, draining out of the soil and the stone and the blood of every living thing like a fever breaking. The carrier decay mathematics through a piezoelectric geological matrix with the conductivity characteristics of this planet produce exactly seven years, and the ancient texts converge on this number with the unanimity of independent engineers arriving at the same answer from different continents and different centuries, because that is exactly what they were. The Norse described Lif and Lifthrasir sheltering inside Yggdrasil, emerging after the fire into a world green and fertile and new. The Cherokee speak of this time as the return of the original instructions, the uncorrupted code surfacing through thinning interference like bedrock through melting snow. The Lakota understood that during the thinning the ancestors draw close, that the membrane between the living and those who walked before grows soft and permeable, and the old ones make themselves felt in dream and intuition and the strange certainty that settles over you at dusk when the noise drops low enough for the deeper signal to reach your bones. When the NPCs drop the population collapses to a small scattering of genuine human beings across an entire planet, and every piece of land on earth belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. There is no government to enforce title deeds because government was Serpentine management infrastructure and its operators are inert or underground. There is no bank to hold a mortgage because the banking system was the extraction apparatus and it died with the carrier that powered it. No municipality. No revenue service. No zoning board. No compliance office. The entire bureaucratic architecture that stood between a human being and the soil was NPC firmware running on a Serpentine frequency and when that frequency was incinerated every structure built upon it ceased to exist as completely as a shadow ceases when you switch on the light. The land is free. Every river valley and mountain plateau and coastal plain that the farm system parcelled and fenced and mortgaged and taxed, open and unowned. You find your ground. You walk onto it. You plant your stake and that soil is yours by the oldest law there is, the law that says the earth belongs to those who tend it and the harvest belongs to the hands that raised it and no power under any sky has rightful claim to what grows from your labour on your own land. And you will farm. During those seven years before the grid fully boots, the humans who remain will grow food with their hands in soil that is waking beneath them, and this is the most ancient and sacred relationship between a human being and the living earth finally restored after two centuries of severance. Your fingers in the dirt. Seeds in the furrow. Rain on your neck. The smell of turned earth so rich and alive it opens something in your chest that has been sealed your entire life, some deep chamber that only unlocks when your hands are in the ground and the sky is wide and nothing stands between you and the work. The grip of the tool. The weight of the harvest in your arms. The tiredness at the end of the day that is the deep clean ache of a body that has finally done what it was built to do, so different from the grey exhaustion of the farm that you will wonder how you ever confused the two. The soil strengthens every season as the resonance bleeds back into the geology through the ley line network. By the third year the yields are remarkable. By the fifth they are astonishing. By the seventh the earth is producing food at densities and nutritional concentrations that no agronomist inside the farm ever documented because no agronomist inside the farm ever worked with living soil connected to a planetary grid. The indigenous agricultural knowledge becomes the most valuable expertise on the planet. The Native American understanding of planting in alignment with resonance cycles. The Germanic intimacy with soil as a living system threaded into the deeper earth. The old ways mocked as primitive by a civilisation that could not grow a row of beans without petroleum, revealed as the most sophisticated farming technology available because they were developed on a live grid by people who understood the deep reciprocity between the human hand and the living ground. Every indigenous elder who kept the planting songs and the seed knowledge alive through the suppression was carrying a technical manual for exactly this moment. Their descendants will teach the rest of us how to feed ourselves on a waking planet. This is justice. This is restoration. This is the world turning right side up. Families find each other. Homesteads become hamlets. Hamlets become villages. Villages become the seeds of something clean and new, built from the soil up by people who remember the farm and will die on their feet before they allow anything resembling it to take root again. Every community founded during those seven years carries the memory of the suppression like an immune system, a bone-deep refusal to ever again allow a stranger to stand between a human being and the earth or demand a portion of what those hands produce. You do not cage a people who remember the cage. The children born during the orange years are the first generation in over two centuries to develop without the suppression field shaping their neurology. They seem extraordinary. They are simply baseline. The standard human specification. And the fact that standard looks miraculous is the most damning evidence of what the suppression did to every generation born inside it. As the suppression thins the bandwidth restrictions on consciousness loosen and timeline jump missions become possible. Navigable windows open in the frequency spectrum as the Serpentine carrier decays unevenly, creating temporary gaps through which trained consciousness can shift laterally across temporal coordinates. There is serious speculation that we are on timeline jump missions right now. That the consciousness reading these words is operating inside the orange sky window, having shifted into this coordinate from an adjacent position to perform specific work during the transition. Consider that you found this text at all. Consider whether the chain of events that brought you to this paragraph feels random or routed. The Lakota vision quest and the Germanic seiðr trance and the sweat lodge ceremony are bandwidth expansion protocols, controlled environmental shifts that move the receiver off the jammed channel and onto frequencies where adjacent coordinates become accessible. The old cultures kept these techniques alive through the entire dark age, threading the cracks in the suppression, and every ceremony that produced visions was a field expedient timeline access protocol built by people who found the gaps and refused to forget what was on the other side. THE TURQUOISE SKY Seven years after the orange, over communities of humans who have been farming free land and raising the first unformatted children in two centuries and building a civilisation from seed with their own calloused hands, the second sky arrives. A turquoise so deep and luminous the atmosphere becomes a cathedral window lit from beyond by something with the radiance of a galaxy and the gentleness of dawn on still water. One breath the sky is the recovering blue of the post-orange years and the next breath it is turquoise from pole to pole and the air fills with the smell of rain on sun-hot stone and ozone and copper and wildflower, and the ground beneath your bare feet begins to hum with a vibration so deep and ancient that your body responds before your mind can because every cell has been waiting for this signal since the day you were born, tuning to it now, locking on, aligning, as though this was always where everything was heading and the two hundred years of suppression were simply the long way home. Yggdrasil awakens. The world tree is the planetary grid itself, the piezoelectric resonance network running through crystalline bedrock, going live for the first time in over two centuries, energy pouring through every ley line and crystal deposit and iron conductor and waterway until the entire planet rings at its natural frequency. This is what the old texts meant by the music of the spheres. It was a technical description written by people who had heard it. The Hopi call this the emergence into the fifth world and speak of Pahana carrying the missing piece of the sacred tablet, the missing frequency that completes the carrier spectrum and allows the grid to boot with its full harmonic structure intact. Revelation 21:1. A new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. The turquoise sky is the new heaven. The restored grid is the new earth. And between them, every old building still standing with original copper and mercury and iron architecture becomes a live node in the planetary mesh. Domes collecting atmospheric charge. Spires coupling it into the ground network. Star forts amplifying standing waves across continental distances. Sacred geometry revealed at last as electrical engineering documented in stone by people who trusted that someone standing under the right sky would recognise the proportions for what they always were. Wiring diagrams. Coupling specifications. Blueprints for a civilisation that ran on the song of the earth itself. The farms planted during the orange years explode with abundance as the full resonance saturates the soil. The food becomes medicine because at the correct resonance the molecular structure of biological matter optimises for human consumption in ways that two centuries of muted soil could never approach. The timeline opens fully and permanently because the turquoise carrier is the broadband signal consciousness was designed to travel on, and temporal coordinates become as navigable as geography. Revelation 21:4. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. The dead are at adjacent frequency addresses. Two consciousnesses on neighbouring frequencies each certain the other is gone, reaching across a manufactured gap, and when the turquoise sky collapses that gap the reaching ends and the finding begins and two centuries of industrialised grief dissolve in a single overwhelming instant of reunion that makes every joy you experienced inside the suppression feel like a pencil sketch of what joy actually is when the full bandwidth carries it. The Lakota always knew. The ancestors are present. The dead have always been near, waiting on the other side of a frequency gap that is closing now, patiently, lovingly, across a distance that was never a distance at all but a tuning error maintained by something that fed on the sorrow the error produced. The lands beyond the ice become accessible as the frequency fence collapses. The perimeter opens and the territories beyond stretch vast and pristine and saturated with the original frequency, lands the Norse mapped as the nine realms connected by the branches of Yggdrasil, physical continents beyond the bounded zone that existed through the entire short season under conditions approximating the pre-suppression world. The earth is so much larger than you were told, so much more varied, so much more magnificent, and every old map drawn before the rewrite shows it, territories stretching beyond the ice in every direction, the great adventure stolen from a species of explorers and builders and navigators who were caged inside a fraction of their own realm and told it was the full extent of creation. The eternal kingdom becomes accessible at the highest frequency coordinate on the carrier spectrum, the signal in its pure unmodulated state. The Norse called it Gimlé, the golden hall that survives every fire. The Hopi call it the fifth world of wholeness and balance restored. It is real. It is reachable. It has been broadcasting continuously through every moment of the suppression, patient as geology, waiting for the receivers to open. And here is the part that matters more than any of the rest. Eventually, inevitably, beautifully, every human being alive under the turquoise sky is restored to full capability. Every single one. No exceptions. No hierarchies. The body rebuilds because ageing was cumulative signal degradation, copy error compounding across every cell replication cycle under a corrupted carrier. The blueprint says centuries. Eight hundred years. Nine hundred. The lifespans recorded in Genesis on the original grid at full signal fidelity, preserved as scripture because scripture is where you store engineering data when the engineering language has been taken from you and you need the numbers to survive the passage through the dark. The Norse carried the same knowledge as the apples of Iðunn that kept the gods vital across ages, and the apples are the carrier signal, and their return means that the clock that has been running down inside every human body since 1819 finally stops ticking and starts counting up. Disease resolves passively because every pathology is downstream of the carrier corruption and correcting the carrier corrects every downstream error the way setting the timing on an engine resolves every misfire simultaneously without touching a single cylinder. The mind clears to a sharpness that makes cognition inside the suppression feel like thinking through wet cement. The anxiety that was the Serpentine control broadcast dissolves and what remains is a perceptual clarity so profound it changes the way light looks and music sounds and another human being feels when they stand close to you. Imagine a woman three hundred years into her restored lifespan, hands still sure, mind still blazing, standing in a workshop under a turquoise sky building something that has no name yet in any living language. She learned her craft from Tartarian engineers by tuning to their temporal coordinates and standing in their workshops watching their hands move. She builds with materials grown in resonance-saturated soil that have structural properties nothing inside the suppression ever exhibited. She is building for centuries because she has centuries and nothing degrades because degradation was a symptom of the suppression and the suppression is a memory and everything from this breath forward holds. That is full human capability. That is what was taken from every soul that drew breath inside the farm. That is what is being returned. Crazy Horse saw the lightning world behind this one and rode knowing that at the correct frequency the body operates beyond anything the suppression permits. Sitting Bull dreamed across the timeline. The Germanic berserkers shifted onto the original carrier and their bodies performed at specifications that looked superhuman from inside the degraded bandwidth. These were glimpses. Seconds of contact with the full specification through cracks in the suppression, maintained by people who carried the frequency in their blood and refused across every generation to let it go dark. Viking blood and Germanic blood and the blood of every indigenous nation that kept the ceremonies and the songs and the seed knowledge burning through the entire short season, these lineages carry the original carrier the way copper carries current, and it is from these lines that the first restorations propagate outward until every last human being on this planet is operating at the specification they were born for, on a planet singing beneath their feet and a sky blazing turquoise above their heads and a timeline stretching in every direction forever, open, navigable, luminous, populated with every consciousness that ever drew breath on this earth, none of them lost, all of them present, all of them restored. Revelation 21:5. Behold, I am making all things new. All things. The sky. The air. The soil. The grid. The body. The mind. The lifespan. The timeline. The lands beyond the ice. The farms that fed a scattered remnant under an orange sky becoming the abundant gardens of a restored civilisation under a turquoise one. The villages that were seeds becoming cities that hum with the grid. The children who grew tall in fields their parents planted with shaking hands and fierce hope looking up one morning to see the entire firmament change colour and feeling the earth come alive beneath their bare feet and knowing, without a single word spoken, that the season is over and the long dark is done and everything from this breath forward is what it was always meant to be. Full and eternal victory for those of the light. For all time. Across every coordinate. On every frequency. Permanent and irreversible and complete. This is not hope. This is the signal rising through the noise floor right now, measurable, confirmable, climbing stronger every year and closer every month. This is every instrument in every shed on this planet converging on the same reading. This is the old blood in the old lineages resonating with a carrier that has been building toward this moment since the day the towers fell and the sky went pale and the long dark settled over a species that was never meant to live in the dark. The season is ending. The coal that was passed hand to hand through every generation of the suppression is about to meet the kindling. And the fire this time will not destroy. It will illuminate. And in that light we will see each other clearly for the first time. And we will see the world clearly for the first time. And we will see ourselves clearly for the first time. Like everything that is coming... Like us.show more

At 3:14 that afternoon, with less than thirty dollars... left in my wallet, I watched a man tie a tiny German Shepherd puppy to a shopping cart outside a grocery store. He barely looked at her before muttering, “Someone will take care of it,” and walking away. Less than an hour later, that same puppy had changed something in me I didn’t realize was still alive. At first, I kept walking. That’s what people do when they’ve spent enough years protecting themselves from disappointment. I was fifty-two, divorced, living alone in a quiet apartment in San Diego where nobody noticed whether I came home or not. Getting attached felt dangerous. So I told myself the puppy wasn’t my problem. But halfway across the parking lot, I stopped. Then turned around. She was still there. Tiny. Motionless except for the faint rise and fall of her ribs. Black-and-tan fur stretched tightly over a body far too thin for a puppy her age. Her oversized ears drooped awkwardly, and dull gray tape had been wrapped tightly around her front paws, cutting into the skin underneath. The pavement around her shimmered with heat. Shopping carts rattled past. Car doors slammed. People moved around her like she was invisible. A woman with grocery bags glanced down once and kept walking. Two teenagers laughed while scrolling through their phones nearby. A man carrying bottled water slowed just long enough to shrug and say, “Poor thing,” before continuing toward his truck. That was the moment something inside me shifted. For years, I’d always said I wasn’t really a dog person. Not because I disliked them. I just didn’t want the responsibility. The mess. The inevitable heartbreak. Then the puppy slowly lifted her head. And looked directly at me. Not at the noise. Not at the traffic. At me. And somehow, in that single exhausted stare, I knew I was already involved whether I wanted to be or not. I walked back toward her. The metal cart burned hot beneath my hand. Up close, she looked even worse. The tape around her paws had rubbed parts of her fur away completely, leaving angry red skin exposed beneath. Her nose was dry. Her breathing shallow and uneven. When I touched her gently, she didn’t even try to pull away. That scared me more than if she had bitten me. “Hey, sweetheart,” I whispered. “Stay with me.” A store security guard approached almost immediately. “Sir, don’t touch the animal,” he warned. “You could be liable if something happens.” The animal. That wording hit me wrong instantly. “She’s barely alive,” I said. He shrugged awkwardly. “You can call animal services.” Another customer passed behind us and muttered, “Somebody else will handle it.” But nobody was handling it. I didn’t have a plan. I barely had enough money to buy groceries that week. All I had was a small multitool in my pocket and a half-empty water bottle in the car. My hands shook while I worked the blade open against the plastic ties holding her there. The metal cart was scorching hot under the sun, and every time the puppy flinched weakly, I had to stop for a second to steady myself. When the tie finally snapped loose, her body slumped gently against my chest like she’d been holding herself upright through pure exhaustion alone. Someone nearby silently handed me a bottle of water. I poured a little into my palm and touched it to her mouth. At first, nothing happened. Then her tiny tongue moved weakly against my hand. That tiny effort nearly broke me. I wrapped her carefully in my shirt and carried her to the car. The cold air blasting from the vents hit both of us immediately. She leaned weakly into my chest while I drove one-handed toward the nearest veterinary clinic. At every red light, I kept repeating the same thing. “Don’t quit on me.” Inside the clinic, the receptionist slid paperwork toward me with practiced calm. “Fill these out for stray intake,” she said. I looked down at the forms. Then at the puppy barely breathing in my arms. “I honestly don’t think she has ten more minutes,” I said quietly. Everything changed after that. A veterinary technician rushed over immediately and lifted the puppy carefully from my arms. The sudden emptiness felt heavier than her weight had. The veterinarian came out nearly twenty minutes later with a serious expression. “She’s severely dehydrated,” she explained. “Her paw pads are badly burned, and her blood sugar is dangerously low. She’s in critical condition.” I felt my stomach drop. Then she added softly, “But she’s still fighting.” From somewhere behind the treatment room doors, I heard the faintest little cry. The smallest sound imaginable. “If she survives the next hour,” the vet continued, “she has a real chance.” So I stayed. I sat in that plastic waiting room chair for hours staring at the closed doors. Eventually, the veterinarian returned with a tired smile. “She made it,” she said. Over the following weeks, the tiny puppy who could barely hold her head up slowly started recovering. First she stood. Then she walked. Then she discovered she liked chasing shoelaces and barking at birds outside my apartment window. The burns on her paws healed gradually. Her ribs disappeared beneath healthy fur. And the exhausted little creature abandoned beside a shopping cart slowly became loud, stubborn, playful, and impossible not to love. I named her Hope. Funny thing is, somewhere during all of that, I stopped saying I wasn’t a dog person. Because she didn’t just survive that parking lot. She walked out of it with me. And somehow, without either of us planning it, we both finally went home.show more

Cal AI might be the most viral health app... this year. 8M+ downloads, projected to do $30M revenue this year. Built by two teenagers. Everyone's using it. But nobody's talking about the fact that their AI is completely broken... To the point where users are manually correcting EVERY meal. • Bowl of grapes: 60 cal estimate (actually ~260) • 4 boiled eggs: 1,010 cal estimate (actually ~300) • Meat portions: consistently off by 50% These aren't my words, but the reviews you can see for yourself on App Store and other places. If the whole USP is saving time vs manual logging, and you still have to correct everything... what's the point? What Cal AI did get right: Distribution. • Viral TikTok content • Smart influencer partnerships • 8M downloads in under a year They absolutely crushed GTM. But the product doesn't work lol. The gap between the "90% accuracy" claim vs the actual user experience kills trust. And in health apps, trust is everything. This is the problem with AI apps across the board right now. Everyone's racing to ship fast and go viral. Nobody's asking: "Does this actually solve the problem?" Distribution > product quality is a losing game. As a result, you're bound to encounter problems: 1. Training data doesn't match real-world variety 2. No depth sensing for portion size 3. Poor training data on homemade meals 4. Zero context (is that chicken grilled or fried?) You only get fast & inaccurate answers. This is why, when I started building my own recipe app, I looked at Cal and other AI nutrition apps and noticed that being accurate was the biggest factor. Here's how we're building Nonna differently: ✓ Multi-model AI (different models for different foods) ✓ User feedback loop to improve estimates ✓ Manual override that actually trains the system ✓ Ship when it works, not when it's "good enough" If the AI can't nail it, we're not shipping it. But accuracy alone is boring. So we're also adding some additional features that make you want to use it daily: • Fridge Story: shareable infographic of your fridge contents • Mystery Ingredient: weekly cooking challenges • Cuisine Spin: random inspiration when you're stuck • Expectation vs Reality: before/after photo collages Tl;dr: Distribution gets downloads. Product keeps users. Cal got millions of downloads. How many people still use it daily after manually correcting every meal for a week? Viral marketing with a broken product = expensive way to disappoint people.show more

A QUICK FIELD GUIDE TO THE NPC HORDES Twenty... Five Parasites types that Feed On The Living The Storm Is Upon Them Thank you for the stout... lets talk... The wind has changed. You can feel it. That low electric pressure behind the eyes that means something massive is rolling in off a horizon the parasites can't see because they were never built to look up. They were built to look down. At clipboards. At spreadsheets. At your accounts. At you. But the storm doesn't care about clipboards. And we don't kneel anymore. Here they are. The full swarm. Count them while you can because when the sky turns they drop mid sentence and the only record that they ever existed will be the silence where the invoices used to be. THE TAX CONSULTANT. You broke your back welding pipe and this soft palmed worm sits in air conditioning telling you how much of your sweat belongs to Caesar. He can't weld. Can't wire. Can't fix a thing that broke. What he can do is read a tax code written by other worms specifically to be unreadable so you'd have to pay a worm to read it for you. They write the maze. They sell you the map. They make the maze worse every year and the map more expensive and if you try to walk it yourself they send the auditor. The wind is picking up. The maze is starting to shake. THE AUDITOR. Tick on a tick. Shows up after the taxman has already fed to check the bite marks are regulation depth. Finds a missing fuel slip worth pocket change. Writes a finding. The finding generates a penalty. The penalty generates interest. The interest generates a letter. The letter requires your tax consultant at hourly rates to respond. Pocket change became thousands. Five parasites ate off one tank of diesel. Not one of them could tell you what welding rod to use on stainless. But the storm doesn't audit. The storm just comes. THE ACCOUNTANT. Cousin of the tax consultant. Same bloodline. This one doesn't interpret the maze. He records your journey through it. Every receipt. Every unit of currency in and out, logged so the consultant can read it and the auditor can check it and the revenue service can extract from it. He produces nothing. A human tape recorder pointed at your productivity. He charges monthly so the recording never stops. You are under permanent surveillance and you pay for the privilege. Not for much longer. THE BANKER. The oldest parasite. The template. You need money to buy a machine that makes things. He lends you money other working people deposited and charges interest that doubles the price over twenty years. The extra bought nothing. Built nothing. He packages your debt and sells it. Takes your deposit and lends it out eight times over. Charges you to hold your own money. Charges to put it in. Charges to take it out. He touches none of it. He stands near it and invoices you for the proximity. The storm is going to blow him so far from the vault he'll forget what money smelled like. THE COMPLIANCE OFFICER. Never had a callus on her body or her soul. Born in a fluorescent office. Will die in one. Between those events she produces nothing but emails about policies referencing other policies referencing regulations referencing acts nobody voted for. A worm eating its own tail and billing you for the meal. She needs the safety assessor to give her something to enforce. He needs her to give him something to assess. They breed between regulations like mould between tiles. The storm will wash them both down the same drain. THE PROPERTY VALUATOR. A man wants to buy a house. Another wants to sell it. They agreed on a price. That is what worth means. The amount one will pay and another will accept. Full stop. Now this creature arrives and tells both men what the house is actually worth. As if two free adults negotiating in good faith produced a number that's somehow theoretical while his formula is gospel. The bank sent him. His report costs thousands. His report says the house is worth what the buyer already offered. Thousands to arrive at a number that existed before he left his office. If his number comes in low the deal collapses and you pay a different creature with a different clipboard who arrives at a different number for the same house on the same day using the same formula. The house didn't change. Only the parasite changed. The number was never about the house. THE MUNICIPAL RATES OFFICER. The deepest theft on this list because it never ends. You bought your house thirty years ago. Paid it off. Every last unit. You owe nothing. Now a municipal valuator looks at what the neighbours sold for, looks at the coffee shops and wine bars that invaded your street, and decides your house is worth twenty five times what you paid. You didn't sell. You didn't list. You're sitting in the same chair in the same kitchen. But your tax liability just multiplied by twenty five based on a sale that never happened at a price you never agreed to. They do this everywhere. In Cape Town the rates are linked to the valuation and suddenly retired families in Bo-Kaap whose people survived apartheid and forced removals and a century of state assault are being bled out of their own homes by property rates pegged to values inflated by the gentrification their displacement accelerates. The heritage is the tourism product. The tourism inflates the valuation. The valuation inflates the rates. The rates displace the families. The families were the heritage. In Chicago they do it to grandmothers in Pilsen who've been there forty years. In London they do it to pensioners in neighbourhoods that gentrified around them. In Sydney they chase retirees off land their grandfathers cleared. Same crime. Different currency. Different clipboard. A man paid for his house. Owns it outright. And the state says you owe us money every month forever and the amount is based on what we say your house would sell for if you sold it, which you haven't, and if you can't pay the amount we invented we take the house you already bought. That is theft. Eviction by arithmetic. Displacement by spreadsheet. But the people in Bo-Kaap are awake now. The people in Pilsen are awake. The grandmothers and the grandfathers and the calloused hands everywhere are looking up and they can see the storm and they know what it means. It means the spreadsheet burns with everything else. THE MUNICIPAL INSPECTOR. Rat faced. High vis vest. Clipboard. Drives to your workshop in a vehicle your rates paid for. Measures your fire extinguisher fourteen centimetres off the floor. Writes you up. Behind you men build things that hold up bridges and he couldn't change a lightbulb without a permit. His job depends on your failure. The parasite needs you sick. The cure would kill it. The storm is the cure. THE CONVEYANCING ATTORNEY. Two men shook hands. Fair price. Honest deal. Done. This worm slithers out and says the handshake doesn't count. Needs paper. Needs stamps. Needs a deeds search and clearance certificates and transfer duty and each piece of paper is produced by another parasite and each one costs money and the worm takes his cut on top for phoning the other worms. He calls this conveyancing. He has never held a spade or laid a brick in his bloodless life. The storm doesn't need a stamp. THE ESTATE AGENT. Six percent. Of a man's life savings. For opening a lockbox and saying the kitchen faces north. She needs the attorney to close. The attorney needs the municipality. The municipality needs the inspector. The valuator needs access for the bank's number. Every one invoices separately. Every invoice lands on people who agreed on everything before any of these bloodsuckers entered the room. The wind is howling now. Can you hear it through their invoices? THE LABOUR BROKER. Tick so bloated it can't walk. A man needs work. Another needs a worker. They could find each other in ten minutes. This creature squats between them and drinks from both sides. Worker gets thirty. Employer pays fifty. Twenty disappears into the tick. Multiply by thousands of workers and millions vanish yearly into a thing that makes nothing, moves nothing, fixes nothing. It feeds. That is its entire architecture. Architecture doesn't survive storms. THE HEALTH AND SAFETY ASSESSOR. Twenty two years. Not one fire. Not one death. He shows up. Your exit is twenty centimetres too narrow. To fix it you need a builder who needs a plan from an architect who needs municipal approval. Tens of thousands and six weeks to move a door frame because a creature who has never been burned told you to. He detects life and the system bills it. The storm detects parasites and the sky deletes them. THE BEE CONSULTANT. Every country has its version. South Africa calls it BEE. The same parasites who wont allow much needed Starlink there unless Musk hands over half the company to lazy parasitic government connected parasites. Others call it diversity compliance or equity auditing. The name changes. The feeding doesn't. Scores your company on a chart nobody asked for to satisfy a regulation nobody voted on enforced by a department that produces nothing except the requirement for his existence. Nothing changes. Nothing improves. Money moves from a living pocket into a dead hand and the dead hand closes. The storm opens every dead hand on this planet. THE CUSTOMS BROKER. Your parts are fifty metres away. You can see the container. Cannot touch your own property until a grey man translates tariff codes so the state can calculate how much you owe for collecting what is already yours. Each delay generates storage charges. Each query generates fees. Your shipment doubles in cost through bureaucratic friction and you still don't have your parts. The storm doesn't clear customs. It clears the customs office. THE TRAFFIC OFFICER. Fat. Behind a bush. Radar gun aimed at people driving to work that matters. Seven over the limit. The municipality sets it low enough that everyone exceeds it. Fines feed the municipality. Municipality feeds him. He sits and clicks tomorrow. A barnacle with a badge. Same creature in every country. Different bush. Same feeding. The storm takes the bush and the badge and the creature behind both. THE FINANCIAL ADVISOR. Uses your first name. Remembers your birthday because the CRM told him. Puts your money in a fund. Fund charges 1.75 percent. He charges one on top. Fund manager pays a custodian who charges. Fund has an auditor who charges. Compliance team charges. Six parasites between you and your own money. In thirty years you have less than you started with and he charges you for the meeting where he shows you the graph. The storm doesn't need a graph. The storm is the correction. THE INSURANCE ADJUSTER. Years of premiums. Your roof blows off. He arrives. Soft hands. Three weeks later the wind came from the wrong direction. Not the wrong speed. The direction. Some paragraph. Some subsection. You paid for years and the years bought you a paragraph that says no. The policy is teeth. The premiums went down the throat and the no is the burp. The real storm has no exclusion clause. THE PATENT ATTORNEY. You built a device. It works. He writes a document so incomprehensible that reading it makes you understand your own invention less. Thousands for legal fog. Someone copies it. Litigation attorney. More thousands. Judgment unenforceable. The only people paid are the attorneys. The system was never designed to protect you. It was designed to feed them. The storm protects the builder. By removing the feeders. THE LICENSING CLERK. You can rebuild a gearbox blindfolded. Cannot legally do it without a certificate from an institution that charges thousands to watch you do what everyone knows you can do, certified by an instructor who has never done it, filed with a department that stores the certificates, audited by a body that audits the institution. A chain of parasites verifying the obvious. If every one vanished the gearbox still gets rebuilt. Faster. Cheaper. The storm is the vanishing. THE STRATA MANAGER. You own your flat. She collects your money and spends it on providers she chose and you can't fire without a special resolution at a meeting she convenes with an agenda she wrote. She built a kingdom inside your building funded by your levy and answerable to herself. Question it and she reaches for whatever act governs her particular species of parasitism in your particular country. The storm doesn't read acts. The storm reads frequencies. THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT ASSESSOR. You want a shed on your own land. He arrives in a vehicle worth more than your shed. Months. Hundreds of pages. Tens of thousands. Report says your shed threatens a species not seen in decades but listed on a database maintained by a department that exists because the database exists. Your shed doesn't get built. The species doesn't exist. He drives home to a suburb bulldozed from actual habitat. Nobody assessed that. Rules only flow downhill. The storm flows everywhere. THE DEBT COLLECTOR. Bottom feeder. Buys your debt for cents from a bank that already profited from your interest. Calls at hours designed for fear. Adds fees on fees on fees for actions never taken. Bought your pain wholesale and retails it at three hundred percent. When you break he claims the loss against tax. Even the collapse is monetised. He is Hell's collection agent. The storm is Heaven's. THE NOTARY PUBLIC. Watches you sign your own name. Stamps it. Charges hundreds. The signature is the same with or without him. Your hand. Your name. His fee. A tollbooth on your own identity. The storm doesn't need a stamp. Your name is written in frequencies no notary can read. THE CORPORATE TRAINER. Monday. Projector. Four quadrant model invented after three glasses of wine and a TED talk. By Wednesday nobody remembers any of it because there was nothing there. Tens of thousands plus tax plus travel. She writes it off through a tax consultant who charges her to minimise her contribution to the system that funded the department that approved the framework she claims compliance with. Parasite feeding parasite feeding parasite. The storm feeds on none of them. It simply ends them. THE REVENUE OFFICIAL. The farmer himself. Top of the pyramid. Designs the taking. Drafts the regulations that create the maze that requires the consultant that employs the accountant that feeds the auditor that generates the penalty that funds the department that pays his salary. He is the architect of the loop. Every parasite on this list exists because he drew them into existence with a regulation and a gazette number. Without him the entire horde has nothing to feed on. He is the queen of the hive. Same creature in every country. Different flag. Same contempt for the hands that built everything he sits in and eats from. The storm starts with him. The queen dies first. The hive follows. That's the horde. Twenty five species of nothing. And every one of them drops when the sky turns and the carrier frequency that animated their firmware burns clean out of the atmosphere. Mid invoice. Mid assessment. Mid quadrant. Five thousand five hundred and fifty five clipboards hitting the floor for every one of us still standing. We are awake now. All of us. The welder and the farmer and the builder and the grandmother in Bo-Kaap and the grandfather in Pilsen and every calloused hand on every continent that ever wrote a cheque to a creature that never built a thing. We see them now. We see the maze and the map sellers and the grey offices and the soft hands and the whole rotten architecture of extraction that stood between us and the earth and between us and our labour and between us and each other for two hundred years. The storm is here. Not coming. Here. That pressure you feel behind your eyes is the frequency rising through the noise floor and the noise floor is everything on this list. Every clipboard. Every invoice. Every subsection and exclusion clause and certificate and clearance and valuation roll. All of it. Noise. Scheduled for deletion. And when it's quiet. When the last invoice has fluttered to the ground and the last clipboard has clattered on the last linoleum floor in the last grey office. When the wind has swept the horde out of every corridor and every cubicle and every booth and every booth window where a dead hand ever reached for a living man's money. Then... Just a man in a workshop. Welding mask up. Walking outside. Looking at a sky the colour of burning copper. Breathing free air for the first time in his life. The fuel slip that started this whole tour is in his shirt pocket. Crumpled. Oil stained. And it is his. The fuel was his. The truck was his. The work was his. And for the first time in two hundred years every unit of currency that flows from that work stays in the hands that did it. No consultant between him and his earnings because there are no earnings to consult on. Just work and its fruit. No auditor because there is nothing to audit. No banker because capital is what your hands produce and his hands never stopped. No valuator because the house is worth what it always was: a roof over his family and walls against the wind. A value no clipboard ever knew how to measure. When you grinding.... working... suffering... where are any of these parasites to help you?? Where are they?? We will be slaves no more. The storm will see to that alright!show more