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📸 Aerial Banner and Skywriting simultaneously Takes Flight Over LA! "Here 4 your Bini – USBlooms" banner soared above the Paramount Theater in Los Angeles while Skywriting BINI visible over 20 miles. Both turning heads and lighting up the sky with love and creativity. Cherry on top song 💐✈️... show more

TheSkyWriters

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USAAF 14th PRS Spitfire PR Mk XI gunned down at point blank range likely by a Luftwaffe Me 262 jet fighter in 1944 The incident pictured most likely involved Spitfire PR Mk XI PL782 flown by 2nd Lt Robert B Hilborn. The aircraft was intercepted over Lechfeld by Leutnant Alfred Schreiber of Erprobungskommando 262 in Me262 A-1a WerkNr. 110372 "White 3". This latter unit was the first to deploy the Messerschmitt jet and would later form Kommando Nowotny. Hilborn managed to bail out of his stricken aircraft and was taken prisoner. The USAAF insignia on the top of the port wing is clearly visible as the aircraft banks away and both the severe vibration on firing and size of the cannon shell impacts suggest 30mm gunfire consistent with the Me 262's MK 108 battery in the nose, and the jet aircraft would also have been able to comfortably keep up with the fast unarmed photoreconnaissance Spitfire variant at altitude. The 3cm Minengeschoss high-capacity shells were formidable projectiles each containing over 70 grams of high explosive and were designed to detonate within six or so inches of having penetrated the aircraft skin, destroying the aircraft structure in the process and rendering the aircraft unflyable after only a few hits. The amount of debris flying off the Spitfire after only three visible detonations is testament to the devastating effect of such fire. The US 14th Photographic Reconnaissance Squadron began to train with British-made Supermarine Spitfire Mk V fighters in July 1943 before equipping with the photographic reconnaissance PR Mk XI variant later that year. The squadron flew combat reconnaissance missions in the European Theater of Operations from August 12th 1943 until April 25th 1945. The squadron's Spitfires flew the majority of the target photography missions, including the first Spitfire reconnaissance mission over Berlin in March 1944, while the other squadrons of the 7th Photographic Group (Reconnaissance) equipped with F-5 Lightnings concentrated on photographic mapping. Deep penetration missions included reconnaissance of oil refineries to determine when repairs had been performed that could justify returning them to Eighth Air Force's target list. The Squadron earned a Distinguished Unit Citation for reconnaissance missions flown over France between May 31st 1944 and the end of June. The squadron flew over 300 successful sorties to support Operation Overlord, the invasion of Normandy. It flew missions over the Netherlands to support Operation Market Garden in October 1944 and conducted damage assessment of Germany until July 23rd 1945. In late 1944, the Spitfires, flying solo missions and relying only on speed and altitude for defense, began to prove vulnerable to the jet powered Messerschmitt Me 262 fighters entering service with the Luftwaffe. A squadron aircraft lost on September 5th 1944 was probably the first Army Air Forces loss to a German jet fighter. Erprobungskommando 262 had been formed in April 1944 at Lechfeld just south of Augsburg, as a test unit (Jäger Erprobungskommando Thierfelder, commanded by Hauptmann Werner Thierfelder) to introduce the Me 262 into service and train a corps of pilots to fly it. This was not Leutnant Schreiber's first go at an Allied reconnaissance plane, while flying over Munich on July 26th he encountered a Mosquito PR Mark XVI of No. 540 Squadron RAF piloted by Fl. Lt. A.E. Wall. Schreiber attempted to shoot down the unarmed Mosquito, though Wall evaded Schreiber's three attack runs and was able land safely at Fermo in Italy after what was the first air to air interception by a jet fighter in history.

USAAF 14th PRS Spitfire PR Mk XI gunned down at point blank range likely by a Luftwaffe Me 262 jet fighter in 1944 The incident pictured most likely involved Spitfire PR Mk XI PL782 flown by 2nd Lt Robert B Hilborn. The aircraft was intercepted over Lechfeld by Leutnant Alfred Schreiber of Erprobungskommando 262 in Me262 A-1a WerkNr. 110372 "White 3". This latter unit was the first to deploy the Messerschmitt jet and would later form Kommando Nowotny. Hilborn managed to bail out of his stricken aircraft and was taken prisoner. The USAAF insignia on the top of the port wing is clearly visible as the aircraft banks away and both the severe vibration on firing and size of the cannon shell impacts suggest 30mm gunfire consistent with the Me 262's MK 108 battery in the nose, and the jet aircraft would also have been able to comfortably keep up with the fast unarmed photoreconnaissance Spitfire variant at altitude. The 3cm Minengeschoss high-capacity shells were formidable projectiles each containing over 70 grams of high explosive and were designed to detonate within six or so inches of having penetrated the aircraft skin, destroying the aircraft structure in the process and rendering the aircraft unflyable after only a few hits. The amount of debris flying off the Spitfire after only three visible detonations is testament to the devastating effect of such fire. The US 14th Photographic Reconnaissance Squadron began to train with British-made Supermarine Spitfire Mk V fighters in July 1943 before equipping with the photographic reconnaissance PR Mk XI variant later that year. The squadron flew combat reconnaissance missions in the European Theater of Operations from August 12th 1943 until April 25th 1945. The squadron's Spitfires flew the majority of the target photography missions, including the first Spitfire reconnaissance mission over Berlin in March 1944, while the other squadrons of the 7th Photographic Group (Reconnaissance) equipped with F-5 Lightnings concentrated on photographic mapping. Deep penetration missions included reconnaissance of oil refineries to determine when repairs had been performed that could justify returning them to Eighth Air Force's target list. The Squadron earned a Distinguished Unit Citation for reconnaissance missions flown over France between May 31st 1944 and the end of June. The squadron flew over 300 successful sorties to support Operation Overlord, the invasion of Normandy. It flew missions over the Netherlands to support Operation Market Garden in October 1944 and conducted damage assessment of Germany until July 23rd 1945. In late 1944, the Spitfires, flying solo missions and relying only on speed and altitude for defense, began to prove vulnerable to the jet powered Messerschmitt Me 262 fighters entering service with the Luftwaffe. A squadron aircraft lost on September 5th 1944 was probably the first Army Air Forces loss to a German jet fighter. Erprobungskommando 262 had been formed in April 1944 at Lechfeld just south of Augsburg, as a test unit (Jäger Erprobungskommando Thierfelder, commanded by Hauptmann Werner Thierfelder) to introduce the Me 262 into service and train a corps of pilots to fly it. This was not Leutnant Schreiber's first go at an Allied reconnaissance plane, while flying over Munich on July 26th he encountered a Mosquito PR Mark XVI of No. 540 Squadron RAF piloted by Fl. Lt. A.E. Wall. Schreiber attempted to shoot down the unarmed Mosquito, though Wall evaded Schreiber's three attack runs and was able land safely at Fermo in Italy after what was the first air to air interception by a jet fighter in history.

hw97karbine

108,413 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce

Can a dragon become your best friend? Watch this legendary friendship come to life before your eyes. Made by using GPT Image 2 + Seedance 2.0 on Picsart prompt: Create a 15-second hyper-realistic live-action cinematic video in 16:9 with fast-paced, emotionally warm storytelling, spectacular action, and seamless multi-shot transitions. Absolute photorealism with feature-film quality, shot on anamorphic 35mm lenses, realistic camera physics, subtle handheld movement, natural lens breathing, cinematic motion blur, restrained film grain, and physically accurate lighting. The scene takes place entirely on a rugged alpine mountain summit with jagged gray metamorphic rocks, loose gravel, exposed cliff edges, dry golden alpine grass, distant mountain ranges, a deep blue sky with thin cirrus clouds and low white cumulus clouds, illuminated by crisp late-morning sunlight. Maintain perfect environmental continuity throughout every shot. The main character is a beautiful woman, approximately 25 years old, with long thick naturally wavy blonde hair, fair skin, bright blue eyes, and an athletic feminine build. She wears a weathered brown leather medieval explorer outfit consisting of a fitted leather tunic, dark trousers, tall leather boots, leather bracers, a travel satchel, a belt, and a medieval sword. Preserve her exact facial features, hairstyle, clothing, body proportions, and identity consistently throughout the entire video. Her companion is a gigantic biologically realistic pink-red dragon with dusty reptilian scales, amber eyes, curved horns, muscular limbs, powerful claws, a long tail, and large translucent wing membranes with visible veins. The dragon behaves like a real undiscovered animal, with subtle breathing, shifting muscles beneath its scales, moist reflective eyes, realistic weight, and physically accurate interactions with the environment. The dragon always remains vastly larger than the woman. A powerful alpine crosswind acts as a third character throughout the sequence, constantly influencing the woman's flowing blonde hair, clothing, satchel straps, grass, dust, loose gravel, and the dragon's wing membranes and neck spines. Every gust behaves naturally according to the terrain and camera angle, with believable delayed secondary motion. The sequence begins with an extreme ground-level camera hidden between dry grass and sharp rocks. Wind drives dust and gravel across the lens while the woman stands confidently on the exposed ridge. A gigantic dragon shadow sweeps rapidly across the landscape before one enormous wing passes overhead, dramatically darkening the frame and creating a violent pressure gust. Cut to a dynamic forward-moving perspective traveling low toward the woman as the dragon approaches at high speed. The mountain rocks rush past with strong parallax while her long blonde hair and leather clothing whip dramatically in the wind. The dragon's heavy breathing creates subtle camera movement. Transition into a fast lateral tracking shot racing parallel to the rocky ridge. Foreground boulders repeatedly hide and reveal the action while the dragon runs beside the woman with tremendous weight. Massive claws strike loose gravel, sending rocks toward the camera as dust trails behind. The dragon suddenly brakes beside her, carving deep tracks into the rocky ground while a sweeping cloud of dust fills the frame. Move into a close reverse circular orbit around both characters as the dragon gently lowers its enormous head. The woman smiles warmly, steps closer, and softly places one hand against the dragon's snout. Their foreheads gently touch in an intimate emotional moment as the dragon's folded wing temporarily shelters them from the wind. Focus shifts naturally from her fingers resting on the scales to the dragon's amber eye and finally to her genuine smile. Cut to an unusual snout-mounted close-up beside the dragon's muzzle. The dragon gives a playful snort, blasting a gust of wind that sends the woman's long wavy blonde hair, clothing, and satchel flying backward. Laughing naturally, she briefly loses her balance before affectionately pushing the dragon's muzzle away with both hands. The dragon playfully nudges her again while the camera receives a subtle physical bump, creating an authentic documentary feel. Transition to a perfectly vertical top-down aerial shot directly above the rocky clearing. The dragon unfolds its enormous wings around the woman, nearly filling the frame. A single powerful wingbeat creates a visible expanding pressure wave across the terrain, pushing dust, grass, gravel, and clothing outward in physically accurate concentric motion. The woman crouches, shielding her face while laughing as the dragon begins its powerful takeoff run. Finish with a dramatic cliff-edge aerial shot as the dragon launches directly over the camera. Loose stones fall past the lens while one translucent wing passes overhead, revealing veins, scars, and stretched organic membranes illuminated by sunlight. The camera dives backward along the cliff before stabilizing into a sweeping cinematic reveal of the mountain summit and expansive valley. The dragon performs one fast, low fly-by above the woman, whose hair and clothing are once again swept by the powerful wake. End with a wide composition of the woman standing alone on the exposed ridge as the dragon gracefully glides across the open sky above the vast mountain landscape. Maintain absolute live-action realism throughout with consistent lighting, geography, scale, anatomy, wind direction, environmental continuity, and character identity. Negative Prompt: CGI, animation, cartoon, stylized fantasy, magical effects, glowing eyes, fire breathing, supernatural particles, unrealistic physics, weightless movement, plastic textures, synthetic skin, morphing, duplicated characters, anatomy changes, inconsistent scale, extra limbs, deformed wings, inconsistent lighting, random landscape changes, HDR look, oversaturated colors, text, captions, subtitles, logos, watermarks, interface elements, low quality, blur, noise, artifacts.

Can a dragon become your best friend? Watch this legendary friendship come to life before your eyes. Made by using GPT Image 2 + Seedance 2.0 on Picsart prompt: Create a 15-second hyper-realistic live-action cinematic video in 16:9 with fast-paced, emotionally warm storytelling, spectacular action, and seamless multi-shot transitions. Absolute photorealism with feature-film quality, shot on anamorphic 35mm lenses, realistic camera physics, subtle handheld movement, natural lens breathing, cinematic motion blur, restrained film grain, and physically accurate lighting. The scene takes place entirely on a rugged alpine mountain summit with jagged gray metamorphic rocks, loose gravel, exposed cliff edges, dry golden alpine grass, distant mountain ranges, a deep blue sky with thin cirrus clouds and low white cumulus clouds, illuminated by crisp late-morning sunlight. Maintain perfect environmental continuity throughout every shot. The main character is a beautiful woman, approximately 25 years old, with long thick naturally wavy blonde hair, fair skin, bright blue eyes, and an athletic feminine build. She wears a weathered brown leather medieval explorer outfit consisting of a fitted leather tunic, dark trousers, tall leather boots, leather bracers, a travel satchel, a belt, and a medieval sword. Preserve her exact facial features, hairstyle, clothing, body proportions, and identity consistently throughout the entire video. Her companion is a gigantic biologically realistic pink-red dragon with dusty reptilian scales, amber eyes, curved horns, muscular limbs, powerful claws, a long tail, and large translucent wing membranes with visible veins. The dragon behaves like a real undiscovered animal, with subtle breathing, shifting muscles beneath its scales, moist reflective eyes, realistic weight, and physically accurate interactions with the environment. The dragon always remains vastly larger than the woman. A powerful alpine crosswind acts as a third character throughout the sequence, constantly influencing the woman's flowing blonde hair, clothing, satchel straps, grass, dust, loose gravel, and the dragon's wing membranes and neck spines. Every gust behaves naturally according to the terrain and camera angle, with believable delayed secondary motion. The sequence begins with an extreme ground-level camera hidden between dry grass and sharp rocks. Wind drives dust and gravel across the lens while the woman stands confidently on the exposed ridge. A gigantic dragon shadow sweeps rapidly across the landscape before one enormous wing passes overhead, dramatically darkening the frame and creating a violent pressure gust. Cut to a dynamic forward-moving perspective traveling low toward the woman as the dragon approaches at high speed. The mountain rocks rush past with strong parallax while her long blonde hair and leather clothing whip dramatically in the wind. The dragon's heavy breathing creates subtle camera movement. Transition into a fast lateral tracking shot racing parallel to the rocky ridge. Foreground boulders repeatedly hide and reveal the action while the dragon runs beside the woman with tremendous weight. Massive claws strike loose gravel, sending rocks toward the camera as dust trails behind. The dragon suddenly brakes beside her, carving deep tracks into the rocky ground while a sweeping cloud of dust fills the frame. Move into a close reverse circular orbit around both characters as the dragon gently lowers its enormous head. The woman smiles warmly, steps closer, and softly places one hand against the dragon's snout. Their foreheads gently touch in an intimate emotional moment as the dragon's folded wing temporarily shelters them from the wind. Focus shifts naturally from her fingers resting on the scales to the dragon's amber eye and finally to her genuine smile. Cut to an unusual snout-mounted close-up beside the dragon's muzzle. The dragon gives a playful snort, blasting a gust of wind that sends the woman's long wavy blonde hair, clothing, and satchel flying backward. Laughing naturally, she briefly loses her balance before affectionately pushing the dragon's muzzle away with both hands. The dragon playfully nudges her again while the camera receives a subtle physical bump, creating an authentic documentary feel. Transition to a perfectly vertical top-down aerial shot directly above the rocky clearing. The dragon unfolds its enormous wings around the woman, nearly filling the frame. A single powerful wingbeat creates a visible expanding pressure wave across the terrain, pushing dust, grass, gravel, and clothing outward in physically accurate concentric motion. The woman crouches, shielding her face while laughing as the dragon begins its powerful takeoff run. Finish with a dramatic cliff-edge aerial shot as the dragon launches directly over the camera. Loose stones fall past the lens while one translucent wing passes overhead, revealing veins, scars, and stretched organic membranes illuminated by sunlight. The camera dives backward along the cliff before stabilizing into a sweeping cinematic reveal of the mountain summit and expansive valley. The dragon performs one fast, low fly-by above the woman, whose hair and clothing are once again swept by the powerful wake. End with a wide composition of the woman standing alone on the exposed ridge as the dragon gracefully glides across the open sky above the vast mountain landscape. Maintain absolute live-action realism throughout with consistent lighting, geography, scale, anatomy, wind direction, environmental continuity, and character identity. Negative Prompt: CGI, animation, cartoon, stylized fantasy, magical effects, glowing eyes, fire breathing, supernatural particles, unrealistic physics, weightless movement, plastic textures, synthetic skin, morphing, duplicated characters, anatomy changes, inconsistent scale, extra limbs, deformed wings, inconsistent lighting, random landscape changes, HDR look, oversaturated colors, text, captions, subtitles, logos, watermarks, interface elements, low quality, blur, noise, artifacts.

Sharon Riley

67,220 görüntüleme • 1 ay önce

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.

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.

SiriusB

14,805 görüntüleme • 6 ay önce

THIS ENTIRE CINEMATIC ACTION SHOT WAS GENERATED WITH AI. AND YOU CAN SEE EXACTLY HOW IT WAS MADE. Higgsfield has just open-sourced its Originals, giving creators full access to the workflow behind some of its best productions. For every project you can inspect: → the complete prompt → every image and audio reference → the exact generation settings, including model, quality and resolution This scene combines a continuous one-take camera move, large-scale naval combat, realistic explosions, character consistency and cinematic pacing, all driven by a single prompt. Nothing is hidden. You can study it, copy it, recreate it or use it as the starting point for your own projects. Full prompt: "SCENE CONTEXT One continuous shot. The camera faces down the wrecked, burning deck toward the BOW of the ship — and Eduardo, blown off the raised STERN DECK behind the camera by a blast, comes FLYING IN from ABOVE AND BEHIND — leaping off the second level, sailing in over the lens on a forward arc, through raining seawater — slams onto the MAIN deck one level below, AHEAD of the camera, and rolls through a tumbling somersault, momentum carrying him toward the bow. Two crewmen flee past him — one leaps overboard. Eduardo fights his way toward the bow under incoming fire: an explosion bursts on his LEFT — he dodges away and is knocked down; he struggles back to his feet — a second explosion on his RIGHT — he ducks and shields behind debris; then he breaks into a sprint for the bow — the camera sweeps around ahead of him and settles OFF THE BOW, FRONTAL: he leaps over the bow rail TOWARD the camera, the ship filling the background behind him — and THE INSTANT he clears the rail, a COLOSSAL explosion consumes the ship behind him: the blast wall catches him MID-AIR and he VANISHES inside it — he never escapes. The cloud overtakes the camera; the frame floods to 100% smoke and dust. The shot ENDS inside the dust: no transition, no reveal — it holds to the end. ACTIVE REFERENCES >> — lean pirate captain, dark curly hair falling free from under a dusty mustard-yellow cloth bandana, a small white shark tooth pinned to the front of the bandana above his temple, thin moustache, gold hoop earrings, cream linen shirt under a worn brown leather waistcoat, cloth sash and leather belts. 100% matches the reference; the man fighting down the deck toward the bow. >> — Eduardo's galleon: pale square sails, tall wooden sterncastle. 100% matches the reference; controls the ship's exterior — sails, masts, rigging and hull; already battle-damaged in this shot — burst bulwark, smoldering rigging, debris on the deck. >> — the deck of the same galleon seen FROM THE RAISED STERN DECK LOOKING FORWARD TOWARD THE BOW: the great wheel and brass compass binnacle in the near foreground, an ornate lantern post, a carved balustrade, a staircase descending to the long MAIN deck — weathered planking, small cannons along both rails, black gratings, coiled ropes, the mainmast amidships, the forecastle and bow in the far depth, open sea on both sides. 100% matches the reference; controls the full on-deck geography, set dressing AND the shot's base viewing direction — from the stern toward the bow. >> — calm bright sea, glittering sun path, hazy horizon. Controls water and sky atmosphere only. >> — weathered pirate crewmen (bandanas, rough shirts, vests). 100% match the reference; TWO of them appear early in the shot, fleeing — one leaps overboard. LOCATION MAP The deck of >> aboard >> on >> — the raised stern deck (wheel, binnacle, balustrade) at the BACK, the staircase down, the long main deck with cannons, gratings and the mainmast running FORWARD to the distant BOW, exactly as on the reference — the main deck now a wrecked corridor of splintered planks, fallen spars, torn rigging and small fires. The camera sits at the forward edge of the raised stern deck, just past the wheel, LOOKING FORWARD along the whole deck toward the bow — the reference's own vantage; the wheel and binnacle may edge the near foreground. The bow rail and bowsprit are the destination, background-center, open sea beyond them. Sea and smoke beyond the broken side rails; seawater from near-miss columns rains down over the deck in the opening. FIRST FRAME / BLOCKING First frame: deck level, MS, camera facing down the wrecked deck toward the BOW in the background-center — the view of >>: from the stern-deck edge the long main deck runs away to the bow and bowsprit against open sea and sky, cannons along both rails, the mainmast mid-depth, smoke streaming across the frame, small fires burning left and right, seawater spray falling across the deck like rain, the deck listing, loose gear sliding; the wheel and binnacle just behind/beside the camera, edging the near foreground. Eduardo is NOT in the first frame; within the first half second he comes off that second level behind the camera — his body sweeping in OVER the lens from above and behind, boots crossing the top of the frame, flying FORWARD and DOWN one deck-height into the depth of the shot toward the bow. FORMAT MODE One continuous shot — the camera does not cut on its own. The shot ENDS inside the dust whiteout; there is NO location change and NO reveal after it. PHASE 1 — the landing and the gauntlet: >> comes FLYING IN from ABOVE AND BEHIND the camera — blown off the stern deck by a blast, his body sweeping in over the lens and arcing DOWN-AND-FORWARD one full deck-height onto the main deck below, arms out in front of him, back to camera — falling THROUGH a curtain of seawater raining down from a collapsed near-miss column; he SLAMS onto the wet MAIN-deck planks in the depth of the frame and rolls through a hard tumbling somersault AWAY from the lens, toward the bow, water bursting off him and the boards, scattering debris, coming up to a crouch facing the bow, soaked and shaken. TWO crewmen of >> bolt past him in panic — one sprints aft past the camera, the other vaults the side rail and LEAPS OVERBOARD, legs kicking. Eduardo starts working down the deck toward the bow, camera following behind. An incoming round EXPLODES on his LEFT — a burst of flame, planks and spray — he flinches away to the right and is knocked off his feet onto the deck. He struggles up, heavy and unsteady, one hand pushing off a fallen spar — and a second round EXPLODES on his RIGHT — he ducks hard, shielding his head behind a broken mast stump, debris raining over him. PHASE 2 — the sprint, the frontal jump, the blast, the dust: he shoves off and breaks into a desperate sprint at 12 km/h for the bow — and as he runs, the camera SWEEPS AROUND him in one continuous arc, ending positioned OFF THE BOW, out over the open water, FACING BACK at the ship: now Eduardo sprints STRAIGHT AT THE CAMERA, the burning ship towering behind him. He plants one boot on the bow rail and LEAPS OVERBOARD TOWARD THE CAMERA — body launching up and out over the water, frontal, face and reaching arms filling the frame — and THE INSTANT he clears the rail, mid-air, the ENTIRE SHIP EXPLODES behind him in full view: a colossal white flash silhouetting his flying body for two frames, the whole vessel going up in one blast — and the expanding wall of flame-lit smoke and debris CATCHES HIM IN THE AIR from behind, swallowing his silhouette whole before he can fall clear — he VANISHES inside the explosion, never escaping it — and the cloud overtakes the lens, the dust filling 100% of the frame. The dust churns, a deep orange glow pulsing inside it and fading. HOLD inside the full dust to the last frame — the generation ENDS here, inside the dust. He never reaches the water; the blast takes him mid-air. OPTICS 47° neutral through the landing, the gauntlet and the jump. No drift. Focus rides Eduardo throughout; in the final dust the frame is pure particulate with no fixed plane. CAMERA Handheld chase behind him for the entire shot, deck level, always looking TOWARD THE BOW — footstep energy visible, jolted by each explosion; in phase 2 it accelerates after his sprint, then arcs around him in one unbroken move and settles off the bow over the water, FRONTAL to Eduardo — he runs and leaps straight into the lens with the ship in the background of his jump. The final blast is the WHOLE SHIP exploding behind his airborne body — a colossal flash, then the wall of smoke bursting forward, swallowing him mid-air and then the lens — the camera stays buried, holding inside the churning dust until the end. ACTION Strict order of events: flying entry from above through falling seawater → hard landing roll (somersault over one shoulder, forward momentum carrying the roll toward the bow, ending in a crouch) → two crewmen flee past, one over the side → left explosion → dodge right → knocked down → a hard, clumsy struggle back to his feet → right explosion → duck and shield behind the mast stump → shove off → full sprint to the bow, camera arcing around to meet him head-on → one boot on the rail → LEAP overboard straight toward the camera → THE INSTANT he clears the rail, the ENTIRE SHIP EXPLODES behind him → the blast wall catches him MID-AIR and swallows him whole → the cloud overtakes the camera → dust to 100% → hold in the dust → END. He never escapes and never reaches the water. Each explosion visibly moves his body: the first throws him down, the second folds him behind cover. PERFORMANCE During the gauntlet: jaw clenched, eyes fixed forward, water streaming off his face after the landing. The fleeing crewmen are pure panic — arms pumping, one glance back, the vault over the rail desperate. In the final sprint: full commitment, arms reaching for the rail, eyes wide — in the jump: full commitment, arms reaching at the lens, eyes wide — and mid-air the world behind him turns white: his flying silhouette swallowed by the blast, reaching hands the last thing visible. PHYSICS The flying entry has true ballistic momentum: he arrives on an arc from above, and the landing roll absorbs it — impact compresses the body, the somersault carries the leftover energy, no weightless float. Falling seawater has real weight — it rains in heavy drops and sheets, splashing off planks, soaking cloth so it clings and darkens. The listing deck tilts his movement; debris has weight and stops his foot when hit. The two deck explosions throw real shockwaves — planks lift, flame flashes then roll into smoke, and Eduardo's falls carry true body weight, hard contact with the deck, no bounce. The overboard crewman drops with real gravity. The final whole-ship explosion obeys mass: the shockwave arrives first — cloth and hair snap flat, the deck bucks under his planted boot — then the fireball's light, then the wall of smoke and debris, heavy pieces falling short, fine dust travelling farthest and swallowing the frame. Dust churns with internal motion, dense, filling every corner of the frame. LIGHTING High sea daylight 5600K, hardened by fire-glow accents from the deck fires and smoke shadow sweeping the deck; falling water catches the sun as bright streaks; each of the two explosions throws a brief warm flash from its side of the frame. The final whole-ship blast: two frames of white-hot overexposure flooding from behind, then deep fire-orange glow inside the rolling dust, fading toward neutral grey-brown as the frame holds and ends. AUDIO Phase 1: a whistling whoosh as he drops in, heavy water raining on planks, a THUD and clatter of the landing roll, grunt, ragged breath; panicked boots of the fleeing crewmen, a yell and a distant splash as one goes over the side; then BOOM left, ringing ears, his grunt as he hits the deck; scrabbling boots; BOOM right, debris pattering down over him. Phase 2: sprinting boots hammering the deck, the wooden knock of his boot on the bow rail, half a beat of pure wind as he hangs in the air — then ONE colossal BOOM as the whole ship goes up behind him, the deepest sound of the film, cracking timber and folding masts inside the roar, everything collapsing into a muffled ring, sound buried with the picture — the ring and the churn of dust holding to the last frame. No music. STYLE Photoreal live-action, fine film grain, real pyrotechnic and particulate language, one unbroken take, 8K master. POSITIVE LOCKS One continuous shot; the camera stays at deck level, behind Eduardo, always looking TOWARD THE BOW. The shot OPENS with Eduardo NOT in frame; he flies in from ABOVE AND BEHIND the camera, over the lens, on a forward arc toward the bow, through falling seawater, and lands in a tumbling roll ahead of the camera — he does not walk into frame and never appears standing before the landing. Exactly TWO fleeing crewmen: one runs aft, one leaps overboard — they appear only in the opening beat. The deck explosions land in strict order after his landing: first LEFT of him (he dodges and falls), then RIGHT of him (he ducks behind cover), then the final blast — the ENTIRE SHIP exploding the INSTANT he clears the bow rail — three explosions total, no more. The jump is FRONTAL: the camera faces Eduardo from off the bow, he leaps toward the lens with the exploding ship behind him in frame. HE NEVER ESCAPES: the blast wall catches him MID-AIR and he vanishes inside the explosion before he can fall clear — no water contact, no landing, no survival beat; the dust swallows him and then the lens. The deck matches >> throughout the run — the shot holds the reference's vantage: from the stern deck forward to the bow, wheel and binnacle at the near edge of frame, never ahead of him; sails, masts and hull match >>. The dust reaches 100% frame coverage and the shot ENDS inside the dust: the frame stays fully dust-filled to the last frame, no clearing, no new location, no reveal. Eduardo's head: mustard-yellow bandana with the small white shark tooth at the front, hair loose." Made with Seedance 2.0 on Higgsfield AI. Full open-sourced prompts & assets below 👇

THIS ENTIRE CINEMATIC ACTION SHOT WAS GENERATED WITH AI. AND YOU CAN SEE EXACTLY HOW IT WAS MADE. Higgsfield has just open-sourced its Originals, giving creators full access to the workflow behind some of its best productions. For every project you can inspect: → the complete prompt → every image and audio reference → the exact generation settings, including model, quality and resolution This scene combines a continuous one-take camera move, large-scale naval combat, realistic explosions, character consistency and cinematic pacing, all driven by a single prompt. Nothing is hidden. You can study it, copy it, recreate it or use it as the starting point for your own projects. Full prompt: "SCENE CONTEXT One continuous shot. The camera faces down the wrecked, burning deck toward the BOW of the ship — and Eduardo, blown off the raised STERN DECK behind the camera by a blast, comes FLYING IN from ABOVE AND BEHIND — leaping off the second level, sailing in over the lens on a forward arc, through raining seawater — slams onto the MAIN deck one level below, AHEAD of the camera, and rolls through a tumbling somersault, momentum carrying him toward the bow. Two crewmen flee past him — one leaps overboard. Eduardo fights his way toward the bow under incoming fire: an explosion bursts on his LEFT — he dodges away and is knocked down; he struggles back to his feet — a second explosion on his RIGHT — he ducks and shields behind debris; then he breaks into a sprint for the bow — the camera sweeps around ahead of him and settles OFF THE BOW, FRONTAL: he leaps over the bow rail TOWARD the camera, the ship filling the background behind him — and THE INSTANT he clears the rail, a COLOSSAL explosion consumes the ship behind him: the blast wall catches him MID-AIR and he VANISHES inside it — he never escapes. The cloud overtakes the camera; the frame floods to 100% smoke and dust. The shot ENDS inside the dust: no transition, no reveal — it holds to the end. ACTIVE REFERENCES >> — lean pirate captain, dark curly hair falling free from under a dusty mustard-yellow cloth bandana, a small white shark tooth pinned to the front of the bandana above his temple, thin moustache, gold hoop earrings, cream linen shirt under a worn brown leather waistcoat, cloth sash and leather belts. 100% matches the reference; the man fighting down the deck toward the bow. >> — Eduardo's galleon: pale square sails, tall wooden sterncastle. 100% matches the reference; controls the ship's exterior — sails, masts, rigging and hull; already battle-damaged in this shot — burst bulwark, smoldering rigging, debris on the deck. >> — the deck of the same galleon seen FROM THE RAISED STERN DECK LOOKING FORWARD TOWARD THE BOW: the great wheel and brass compass binnacle in the near foreground, an ornate lantern post, a carved balustrade, a staircase descending to the long MAIN deck — weathered planking, small cannons along both rails, black gratings, coiled ropes, the mainmast amidships, the forecastle and bow in the far depth, open sea on both sides. 100% matches the reference; controls the full on-deck geography, set dressing AND the shot's base viewing direction — from the stern toward the bow. >> — calm bright sea, glittering sun path, hazy horizon. Controls water and sky atmosphere only. >> — weathered pirate crewmen (bandanas, rough shirts, vests). 100% match the reference; TWO of them appear early in the shot, fleeing — one leaps overboard. LOCATION MAP The deck of >> aboard >> on >> — the raised stern deck (wheel, binnacle, balustrade) at the BACK, the staircase down, the long main deck with cannons, gratings and the mainmast running FORWARD to the distant BOW, exactly as on the reference — the main deck now a wrecked corridor of splintered planks, fallen spars, torn rigging and small fires. The camera sits at the forward edge of the raised stern deck, just past the wheel, LOOKING FORWARD along the whole deck toward the bow — the reference's own vantage; the wheel and binnacle may edge the near foreground. The bow rail and bowsprit are the destination, background-center, open sea beyond them. Sea and smoke beyond the broken side rails; seawater from near-miss columns rains down over the deck in the opening. FIRST FRAME / BLOCKING First frame: deck level, MS, camera facing down the wrecked deck toward the BOW in the background-center — the view of >>: from the stern-deck edge the long main deck runs away to the bow and bowsprit against open sea and sky, cannons along both rails, the mainmast mid-depth, smoke streaming across the frame, small fires burning left and right, seawater spray falling across the deck like rain, the deck listing, loose gear sliding; the wheel and binnacle just behind/beside the camera, edging the near foreground. Eduardo is NOT in the first frame; within the first half second he comes off that second level behind the camera — his body sweeping in OVER the lens from above and behind, boots crossing the top of the frame, flying FORWARD and DOWN one deck-height into the depth of the shot toward the bow. FORMAT MODE One continuous shot — the camera does not cut on its own. The shot ENDS inside the dust whiteout; there is NO location change and NO reveal after it. PHASE 1 — the landing and the gauntlet: >> comes FLYING IN from ABOVE AND BEHIND the camera — blown off the stern deck by a blast, his body sweeping in over the lens and arcing DOWN-AND-FORWARD one full deck-height onto the main deck below, arms out in front of him, back to camera — falling THROUGH a curtain of seawater raining down from a collapsed near-miss column; he SLAMS onto the wet MAIN-deck planks in the depth of the frame and rolls through a hard tumbling somersault AWAY from the lens, toward the bow, water bursting off him and the boards, scattering debris, coming up to a crouch facing the bow, soaked and shaken. TWO crewmen of >> bolt past him in panic — one sprints aft past the camera, the other vaults the side rail and LEAPS OVERBOARD, legs kicking. Eduardo starts working down the deck toward the bow, camera following behind. An incoming round EXPLODES on his LEFT — a burst of flame, planks and spray — he flinches away to the right and is knocked off his feet onto the deck. He struggles up, heavy and unsteady, one hand pushing off a fallen spar — and a second round EXPLODES on his RIGHT — he ducks hard, shielding his head behind a broken mast stump, debris raining over him. PHASE 2 — the sprint, the frontal jump, the blast, the dust: he shoves off and breaks into a desperate sprint at 12 km/h for the bow — and as he runs, the camera SWEEPS AROUND him in one continuous arc, ending positioned OFF THE BOW, out over the open water, FACING BACK at the ship: now Eduardo sprints STRAIGHT AT THE CAMERA, the burning ship towering behind him. He plants one boot on the bow rail and LEAPS OVERBOARD TOWARD THE CAMERA — body launching up and out over the water, frontal, face and reaching arms filling the frame — and THE INSTANT he clears the rail, mid-air, the ENTIRE SHIP EXPLODES behind him in full view: a colossal white flash silhouetting his flying body for two frames, the whole vessel going up in one blast — and the expanding wall of flame-lit smoke and debris CATCHES HIM IN THE AIR from behind, swallowing his silhouette whole before he can fall clear — he VANISHES inside the explosion, never escaping it — and the cloud overtakes the lens, the dust filling 100% of the frame. The dust churns, a deep orange glow pulsing inside it and fading. HOLD inside the full dust to the last frame — the generation ENDS here, inside the dust. He never reaches the water; the blast takes him mid-air. OPTICS 47° neutral through the landing, the gauntlet and the jump. No drift. Focus rides Eduardo throughout; in the final dust the frame is pure particulate with no fixed plane. CAMERA Handheld chase behind him for the entire shot, deck level, always looking TOWARD THE BOW — footstep energy visible, jolted by each explosion; in phase 2 it accelerates after his sprint, then arcs around him in one unbroken move and settles off the bow over the water, FRONTAL to Eduardo — he runs and leaps straight into the lens with the ship in the background of his jump. The final blast is the WHOLE SHIP exploding behind his airborne body — a colossal flash, then the wall of smoke bursting forward, swallowing him mid-air and then the lens — the camera stays buried, holding inside the churning dust until the end. ACTION Strict order of events: flying entry from above through falling seawater → hard landing roll (somersault over one shoulder, forward momentum carrying the roll toward the bow, ending in a crouch) → two crewmen flee past, one over the side → left explosion → dodge right → knocked down → a hard, clumsy struggle back to his feet → right explosion → duck and shield behind the mast stump → shove off → full sprint to the bow, camera arcing around to meet him head-on → one boot on the rail → LEAP overboard straight toward the camera → THE INSTANT he clears the rail, the ENTIRE SHIP EXPLODES behind him → the blast wall catches him MID-AIR and swallows him whole → the cloud overtakes the camera → dust to 100% → hold in the dust → END. He never escapes and never reaches the water. Each explosion visibly moves his body: the first throws him down, the second folds him behind cover. PERFORMANCE During the gauntlet: jaw clenched, eyes fixed forward, water streaming off his face after the landing. The fleeing crewmen are pure panic — arms pumping, one glance back, the vault over the rail desperate. In the final sprint: full commitment, arms reaching for the rail, eyes wide — in the jump: full commitment, arms reaching at the lens, eyes wide — and mid-air the world behind him turns white: his flying silhouette swallowed by the blast, reaching hands the last thing visible. PHYSICS The flying entry has true ballistic momentum: he arrives on an arc from above, and the landing roll absorbs it — impact compresses the body, the somersault carries the leftover energy, no weightless float. Falling seawater has real weight — it rains in heavy drops and sheets, splashing off planks, soaking cloth so it clings and darkens. The listing deck tilts his movement; debris has weight and stops his foot when hit. The two deck explosions throw real shockwaves — planks lift, flame flashes then roll into smoke, and Eduardo's falls carry true body weight, hard contact with the deck, no bounce. The overboard crewman drops with real gravity. The final whole-ship explosion obeys mass: the shockwave arrives first — cloth and hair snap flat, the deck bucks under his planted boot — then the fireball's light, then the wall of smoke and debris, heavy pieces falling short, fine dust travelling farthest and swallowing the frame. Dust churns with internal motion, dense, filling every corner of the frame. LIGHTING High sea daylight 5600K, hardened by fire-glow accents from the deck fires and smoke shadow sweeping the deck; falling water catches the sun as bright streaks; each of the two explosions throws a brief warm flash from its side of the frame. The final whole-ship blast: two frames of white-hot overexposure flooding from behind, then deep fire-orange glow inside the rolling dust, fading toward neutral grey-brown as the frame holds and ends. AUDIO Phase 1: a whistling whoosh as he drops in, heavy water raining on planks, a THUD and clatter of the landing roll, grunt, ragged breath; panicked boots of the fleeing crewmen, a yell and a distant splash as one goes over the side; then BOOM left, ringing ears, his grunt as he hits the deck; scrabbling boots; BOOM right, debris pattering down over him. Phase 2: sprinting boots hammering the deck, the wooden knock of his boot on the bow rail, half a beat of pure wind as he hangs in the air — then ONE colossal BOOM as the whole ship goes up behind him, the deepest sound of the film, cracking timber and folding masts inside the roar, everything collapsing into a muffled ring, sound buried with the picture — the ring and the churn of dust holding to the last frame. No music. STYLE Photoreal live-action, fine film grain, real pyrotechnic and particulate language, one unbroken take, 8K master. POSITIVE LOCKS One continuous shot; the camera stays at deck level, behind Eduardo, always looking TOWARD THE BOW. The shot OPENS with Eduardo NOT in frame; he flies in from ABOVE AND BEHIND the camera, over the lens, on a forward arc toward the bow, through falling seawater, and lands in a tumbling roll ahead of the camera — he does not walk into frame and never appears standing before the landing. Exactly TWO fleeing crewmen: one runs aft, one leaps overboard — they appear only in the opening beat. The deck explosions land in strict order after his landing: first LEFT of him (he dodges and falls), then RIGHT of him (he ducks behind cover), then the final blast — the ENTIRE SHIP exploding the INSTANT he clears the bow rail — three explosions total, no more. The jump is FRONTAL: the camera faces Eduardo from off the bow, he leaps toward the lens with the exploding ship behind him in frame. HE NEVER ESCAPES: the blast wall catches him MID-AIR and he vanishes inside the explosion before he can fall clear — no water contact, no landing, no survival beat; the dust swallows him and then the lens. The deck matches >> throughout the run — the shot holds the reference's vantage: from the stern deck forward to the bow, wheel and binnacle at the near edge of frame, never ahead of him; sails, masts and hull match >>. The dust reaches 100% frame coverage and the shot ENDS inside the dust: the frame stays fully dust-filled to the last frame, no clearing, no new location, no reveal. Eduardo's head: mustard-yellow bandana with the small white shark tooth at the front, hair loose." Made with Seedance 2.0 on Higgsfield AI. Full open-sourced prompts & assets below 👇

roman

106,768 görüntüleme • 1 ay önce

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.

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.

SiriusB

15,437 görüntüleme • 4 ay önce

Seedance V2 prompt: visual_anchor: style: "Delicate oil canvas texture with thick-painted impasto brushwork. High-fidelity 2D digital anime aesthetic mixed with Triple-A CG realism. Low-saturation tones, cinematic haziness, and sophisticated lighting." character_description: "A young woman with a refined, doll-like face, large expressive eyes, and light brown hair styled in twin buns adorned with pink cherry blossoms and navy blue ribbons. She wears a Victorian-inspired maid outfit: a white lace blouse with sheer sleeves, a navy blue corsellette with gold lace-up detailing, and an embroidered apron over a ruffled skirt. White lace-top stockings and navy blue pumps." mecha_form: "The transformation wraps her in sleek, dark blued-steel armor accented with gold filigree and glowing red energy channels. The armor design is intricate and asymmetrical, maintaining her silhouette while adding aggressive mechanical edges." weapon_description: "A massive 'Sapphire Blossom' Saber-Staff. It features a long, blued-steel pole-arm body with a sharp saber blade at the tip. The hilt is ornate, decorated with pink enamel cherry blossoms and a large, glowing teardrop sapphire gem at the crossguard." environment_specs: setting: "Infinite high-altitude sky during peak daylight. Rapidly moving cloud layers and high-velocity air currents. Heavy motion blur, Tyndall effect (god rays), and floating red energy particles." camera: "A single, seamless long take. Panavision C-Series lens (35mm, f4) aesthetic. IMAX film grain. Dramatic camera shake during the high-speed descent to emphasize g-force." timeline_script: 00-02s: "Vertical free-fall. The character descends through the clouds with eyes closed, hair and ribbons whipped violently by the wind. Red electrical arcs dance across her skin as dark mecha plates begin to converge from the periphery, falling in sync with her body." 02-04s: "Lower Body Assembly. Camera glides to her legs. Large blued-steel mecha plates snap and lock onto her thighs and shins over her white stockings. Intricate mechanical parts extend and interlock with a heavy, metallic 'clack' and red sparks." 04-06s: "Torso Assembly. Camera tracks upward. A mechanical chest plate slams into place, locking over her embroidered apron. Asymmetrical armor components ripple outward from her sternum, snapping shut with fluid mechanical precision against the howling wind." 06-08s: "Shoulder & Arm Assembly. Dual shoulder pauldrons lock into place simultaneously with a heavy metallic impact. Mechanical components slide down her sheer sleeves, encasing her arms in blued-steel plating. Her eyes remain tightly shut." 08-10s: "Head Transformation. Tight push-in on her face. Fine mechanical segments extend from behind her ears, interlocking across her forehead and jaw. A sleek mechanical visor slides shut over her eyes, locking with a sharp red glow at the moment of contact." 10-13s: "The Stall & Pose. Character performs a 360-degree mid-air spin to cancel her downward momentum. She hovers in a low-angle hero shot. She draws the Sapphire Blossom Saber-Staff from her back with a flourish, pointing the blade at the lens. Red light erupts from the sapphire gem. A massive circular shockwave震散s the surrounding clouds. Violent camera shake." technical_execution: physics: "Realistic inertia and weight. Mechanical parts have visible thickness and collision. Smooth, non-floaty body mechanics." audio_profile: "Environmental SFX only: wind shear, mechanical locking, electrical hums, and the 'thump' of the shockwave. No BGM." negative_prompt: "Western architecture, text watermarks, distorted limbs, extra fingers, blurry facial features, low-quality VFX, choppy frame transitions."

Seedance V2 prompt: visual_anchor: style: "Delicate oil canvas texture with thick-painted impasto brushwork. High-fidelity 2D digital anime aesthetic mixed with Triple-A CG realism. Low-saturation tones, cinematic haziness, and sophisticated lighting." character_description: "A young woman with a refined, doll-like face, large expressive eyes, and light brown hair styled in twin buns adorned with pink cherry blossoms and navy blue ribbons. She wears a Victorian-inspired maid outfit: a white lace blouse with sheer sleeves, a navy blue corsellette with gold lace-up detailing, and an embroidered apron over a ruffled skirt. White lace-top stockings and navy blue pumps." mecha_form: "The transformation wraps her in sleek, dark blued-steel armor accented with gold filigree and glowing red energy channels. The armor design is intricate and asymmetrical, maintaining her silhouette while adding aggressive mechanical edges." weapon_description: "A massive 'Sapphire Blossom' Saber-Staff. It features a long, blued-steel pole-arm body with a sharp saber blade at the tip. The hilt is ornate, decorated with pink enamel cherry blossoms and a large, glowing teardrop sapphire gem at the crossguard." environment_specs: setting: "Infinite high-altitude sky during peak daylight. Rapidly moving cloud layers and high-velocity air currents. Heavy motion blur, Tyndall effect (god rays), and floating red energy particles." camera: "A single, seamless long take. Panavision C-Series lens (35mm, f4) aesthetic. IMAX film grain. Dramatic camera shake during the high-speed descent to emphasize g-force." timeline_script: 00-02s: "Vertical free-fall. The character descends through the clouds with eyes closed, hair and ribbons whipped violently by the wind. Red electrical arcs dance across her skin as dark mecha plates begin to converge from the periphery, falling in sync with her body." 02-04s: "Lower Body Assembly. Camera glides to her legs. Large blued-steel mecha plates snap and lock onto her thighs and shins over her white stockings. Intricate mechanical parts extend and interlock with a heavy, metallic 'clack' and red sparks." 04-06s: "Torso Assembly. Camera tracks upward. A mechanical chest plate slams into place, locking over her embroidered apron. Asymmetrical armor components ripple outward from her sternum, snapping shut with fluid mechanical precision against the howling wind." 06-08s: "Shoulder & Arm Assembly. Dual shoulder pauldrons lock into place simultaneously with a heavy metallic impact. Mechanical components slide down her sheer sleeves, encasing her arms in blued-steel plating. Her eyes remain tightly shut." 08-10s: "Head Transformation. Tight push-in on her face. Fine mechanical segments extend from behind her ears, interlocking across her forehead and jaw. A sleek mechanical visor slides shut over her eyes, locking with a sharp red glow at the moment of contact." 10-13s: "The Stall & Pose. Character performs a 360-degree mid-air spin to cancel her downward momentum. She hovers in a low-angle hero shot. She draws the Sapphire Blossom Saber-Staff from her back with a flourish, pointing the blade at the lens. Red light erupts from the sapphire gem. A massive circular shockwave震散s the surrounding clouds. Violent camera shake." technical_execution: physics: "Realistic inertia and weight. Mechanical parts have visible thickness and collision. Smooth, non-floaty body mechanics." audio_profile: "Environmental SFX only: wind shear, mechanical locking, electrical hums, and the 'thump' of the shockwave. No BGM." negative_prompt: "Western architecture, text watermarks, distorted limbs, extra fingers, blurry facial features, low-quality VFX, choppy frame transitions."

Emily

41,467 görüntüleme • 5 ay önce

🚨 MASSIVE ASTEROID ALERT 🚨 😱 5 ASTEROIDS TO STRIKE EARTH ON JANUARY 4! ⚠️On January 4, something unusual appeared on NASA’s tracking systems. Not one. Not two. But five separate space objects entered Earth’s monitored region of space — all on the same day. 🛰️ WHAT WAS DETECTED NASA’s Near-Earth Object monitoring network identified five asteroids moving at extreme speeds, each following its own calculated path around our planet. • Classified as Near-Earth Asteroids (NEAs) • Traveling at tens of thousands of km/h • Detected days in advance • Tracked continuously as they approached and passed. Their distances varied, but all were close enough to activate automatic observation protocols. 🔭 WHY THIS STOOD OUT Asteroids pass Earth often — but multiple objects on the same date always draw attention. Every trajectory was recalculated. Every data point rechecked. Ground-based telescopes and automated systems stayed locked in. No public countdown. No dramatic warning. Just silent monitoring. 🌑 WHAT THE SYSTEMS SAW • Stable orbits • No sudden course changes • No fragmentation • No interaction with Earth’s atmosphere. One by one, the objects passed Earth’s vicinity and moved back into deep space. 🌍 THE RESULT No impact. No damage. No visible sign in the sky. To most people, January 4 felt completely normal. But above our heads, space traffic moved quietly — and was watched closely. 🛰️ THE BIGGER PICTURE Earth travels through a solar system filled with ancient debris left over from planet formation. Most objects remain distant. Some pass close. A few demand attention. This was one of those moments. The universe didn’t slow down. Earth didn’t notice. NASA kept watching. 🌌 Five asteroids came and went. The planet remained untouched. And space moved on. #Asteroids #NASA #SpaceUpdate #NearEarthObjects #CosmicWatch #Astronomy #Universe

🚨 MASSIVE ASTEROID ALERT 🚨 😱 5 ASTEROIDS TO STRIKE EARTH ON JANUARY 4! ⚠️On January 4, something unusual appeared on NASA’s tracking systems. Not one. Not two. But five separate space objects entered Earth’s monitored region of space — all on the same day. 🛰️ WHAT WAS DETECTED NASA’s Near-Earth Object monitoring network identified five asteroids moving at extreme speeds, each following its own calculated path around our planet. • Classified as Near-Earth Asteroids (NEAs) • Traveling at tens of thousands of km/h • Detected days in advance • Tracked continuously as they approached and passed. Their distances varied, but all were close enough to activate automatic observation protocols. 🔭 WHY THIS STOOD OUT Asteroids pass Earth often — but multiple objects on the same date always draw attention. Every trajectory was recalculated. Every data point rechecked. Ground-based telescopes and automated systems stayed locked in. No public countdown. No dramatic warning. Just silent monitoring. 🌑 WHAT THE SYSTEMS SAW • Stable orbits • No sudden course changes • No fragmentation • No interaction with Earth’s atmosphere. One by one, the objects passed Earth’s vicinity and moved back into deep space. 🌍 THE RESULT No impact. No damage. No visible sign in the sky. To most people, January 4 felt completely normal. But above our heads, space traffic moved quietly — and was watched closely. 🛰️ THE BIGGER PICTURE Earth travels through a solar system filled with ancient debris left over from planet formation. Most objects remain distant. Some pass close. A few demand attention. This was one of those moments. The universe didn’t slow down. Earth didn’t notice. NASA kept watching. 🌌 Five asteroids came and went. The planet remained untouched. And space moved on. #Asteroids #NASA #SpaceUpdate #NearEarthObjects #CosmicWatch #Astronomy #Universe

UNIVERSE Now

23,575 görüntüleme • 8 ay önce

I was in the Oval Office today for the launch of the Invest America / Trump Accounts initiative. Here are my takeaways: 1. This program may have the most bipartisan support of anything I have ever seen. Everyone, regardless of political party, understands the power of giving young children money to compound over decades. 2. While the government and current administration should get immense credit for the program, there were many private citizens like Brad Gerstner, Michael Dell 🇺🇸 and others that persistently pursued the idea until it became reality. They quite literally changed the course of millions of lives with this idea. 3. It will quickly become a game of status for people to donate to fund the accounts. The Dell Family gave over $6 billion. SpaceX’s Gwynne Shotwell gave more than $300 million today. Brad Gerstner is adopting every child in the state of Indiana to give money to their accounts. The list goes on and on already… 4. Companies will begin making contributions core parts of their perk packages for employees. Corporations like Bank of America, JPMorgan, Robinhood and others have already announced these efforts. 5. The Oval Office is surprisingly small in size, but the historical significance of the room is palpable the second you walk into it. The President called it “the most important room in the world” today and I walked away thinking that was accurate. 6. This idea of Invest America accounts has become a magnet for the world’s most successful people. I saw Larry Fink, David Solomon, Lisa Su, and many other Fortune 500 CEOs in attendance for the Rose Garden lunch. It is hard for an idea to fail when this many people are behind it. 7. The Rose Garden was very nicely done. I had been to the White House before, but never to the Oval Office or the Rose Garden. Both seemed elevated compared to the rest of the White House and surrounding buildings. It sounds like the new ballroom will also be a modern structure that mirrors this elevated approach. 8. The staff and admin team in the White House are generous and genuine. Each person was kind, gracious, and seemed to be at the top of their game. Sometimes you go to places and are disappointed with the let down from your expectations, but this was not the case with the White House team. All professionals doing their job. 9. The media loves Trump way more than they let on publicly. Many of the mainstream hosts and anchors were joking around with him like it is one big club, while simultaneously laughing at his jokes and being much more friendly than I expected. He seems to be good for their business, so it makes sense why the public narrative and private interactions don’t appear to match. 10. I never thought I would see a day where NYSE 🏛 and Nasdaq collaborated on an event like this, including the ringing of both bells by one person at the same time. I guess anything is possible if kids are involved. Overall, this was an awesome experience. I know some people like this administration and some people don’t. I learned from Kevin O'Leary aka Mr. Wonderful to focus on policies, not politicians. And the Invest America accounts are objectively a great idea that will hopefully spread like wildfire in the years to come.

I was in the Oval Office today for the launch of the Invest America / Trump Accounts initiative. Here are my takeaways: 1. This program may have the most bipartisan support of anything I have ever seen. Everyone, regardless of political party, understands the power of giving young children money to compound over decades. 2. While the government and current administration should get immense credit for the program, there were many private citizens like Brad Gerstner, Michael Dell 🇺🇸 and others that persistently pursued the idea until it became reality. They quite literally changed the course of millions of lives with this idea. 3. It will quickly become a game of status for people to donate to fund the accounts. The Dell Family gave over $6 billion. SpaceX’s Gwynne Shotwell gave more than $300 million today. Brad Gerstner is adopting every child in the state of Indiana to give money to their accounts. The list goes on and on already… 4. Companies will begin making contributions core parts of their perk packages for employees. Corporations like Bank of America, JPMorgan, Robinhood and others have already announced these efforts. 5. The Oval Office is surprisingly small in size, but the historical significance of the room is palpable the second you walk into it. The President called it “the most important room in the world” today and I walked away thinking that was accurate. 6. This idea of Invest America accounts has become a magnet for the world’s most successful people. I saw Larry Fink, David Solomon, Lisa Su, and many other Fortune 500 CEOs in attendance for the Rose Garden lunch. It is hard for an idea to fail when this many people are behind it. 7. The Rose Garden was very nicely done. I had been to the White House before, but never to the Oval Office or the Rose Garden. Both seemed elevated compared to the rest of the White House and surrounding buildings. It sounds like the new ballroom will also be a modern structure that mirrors this elevated approach. 8. The staff and admin team in the White House are generous and genuine. Each person was kind, gracious, and seemed to be at the top of their game. Sometimes you go to places and are disappointed with the let down from your expectations, but this was not the case with the White House team. All professionals doing their job. 9. The media loves Trump way more than they let on publicly. Many of the mainstream hosts and anchors were joking around with him like it is one big club, while simultaneously laughing at his jokes and being much more friendly than I expected. He seems to be good for their business, so it makes sense why the public narrative and private interactions don’t appear to match. 10. I never thought I would see a day where NYSE 🏛 and Nasdaq collaborated on an event like this, including the ringing of both bells by one person at the same time. I guess anything is possible if kids are involved. Overall, this was an awesome experience. I know some people like this administration and some people don’t. I learned from Kevin O'Leary aka Mr. Wonderful to focus on policies, not politicians. And the Invest America accounts are objectively a great idea that will hopefully spread like wildfire in the years to come.

Anthony Pompliano 🌪

278,769 görüntüleme • 2 ay önce

🚨 xAI just dropped a massive upgrade to Grok Imagine! Now you can choose between two modes: Quality (new): Produces next-level images with jaw-dropping detail, realism, and creativity, generating four high-quality images at once instead of an infinite scroll. Speed: Delivers lightning-fast generations with consistently impressive results, just as you've experienced before. way more power. just select a mode, then type what you want to imagine. here are two prompts that you can try. prompt one: A dramatic low-angle cinematic view of a menacing knight in intricate ornate black plate armor and helmet with flowing dark cape, riding a powerful muscular black warhorse in full gallop charging directly toward the viewer across a vast field of tall green grass. The knight raises a long straight sword triumphantly high in his right hand. The horse has a wildly flowing mane and tail whipped by motion, ornate leather-and-metal barding, and tack. Foreground shows extreme radial motion blur streaks in the grass conveying tremendous speed and velocity. Background features towering jagged snow-capped rocky mountain peaks under a vibrant deep blue sky with voluminous dramatic white clouds. Epic dark fantasy atmosphere, highly detailed textures on armor and horse, cinematic high-contrast lighting, dynamic heroic composition. prompt two: A serene young woman with fair skin, shoulder-length straight dark brown hair, and a calm introspective expression gazing slightly downward stands centered in a vast barren white sand desert at night under a deep dark navy blue sky, with distant low dark rocky mountains on the horizon. She wears a long flowing translucent white hooded robe with subtle iridescent holographic shimmer and prismatic rainbow-cyan reflections across the fabric, the hood up over her head. In both hands at chest level she holds a single glowing bioluminescent blue cross, jesus in the middle is emitting intense bright cyan-blue light that illuminates her robe, hands, and face. Directly behind her head and shoulders is a massive luminous circular rainbow halo aura with concentric glowing rings transitioning from inner vibrant blue and cyan outward to turquoise, yellow, orange, and red, crowned by a brilliant white starburst light at the top center casting dramatic volumetric god rays downward. Cinematic mystical ethereal atmosphere, photorealistic yet fantastical style, sharp focus, high detail on fabric textures, rose petals, sand ripples, and light effects.

🚨 xAI just dropped a massive upgrade to Grok Imagine! Now you can choose between two modes: Quality (new): Produces next-level images with jaw-dropping detail, realism, and creativity, generating four high-quality images at once instead of an infinite scroll. Speed: Delivers lightning-fast generations with consistently impressive results, just as you've experienced before. way more power. just select a mode, then type what you want to imagine. here are two prompts that you can try. prompt one: A dramatic low-angle cinematic view of a menacing knight in intricate ornate black plate armor and helmet with flowing dark cape, riding a powerful muscular black warhorse in full gallop charging directly toward the viewer across a vast field of tall green grass. The knight raises a long straight sword triumphantly high in his right hand. The horse has a wildly flowing mane and tail whipped by motion, ornate leather-and-metal barding, and tack. Foreground shows extreme radial motion blur streaks in the grass conveying tremendous speed and velocity. Background features towering jagged snow-capped rocky mountain peaks under a vibrant deep blue sky with voluminous dramatic white clouds. Epic dark fantasy atmosphere, highly detailed textures on armor and horse, cinematic high-contrast lighting, dynamic heroic composition. prompt two: A serene young woman with fair skin, shoulder-length straight dark brown hair, and a calm introspective expression gazing slightly downward stands centered in a vast barren white sand desert at night under a deep dark navy blue sky, with distant low dark rocky mountains on the horizon. She wears a long flowing translucent white hooded robe with subtle iridescent holographic shimmer and prismatic rainbow-cyan reflections across the fabric, the hood up over her head. In both hands at chest level she holds a single glowing bioluminescent blue cross, jesus in the middle is emitting intense bright cyan-blue light that illuminates her robe, hands, and face. Directly behind her head and shoulders is a massive luminous circular rainbow halo aura with concentric glowing rings transitioning from inner vibrant blue and cyan outward to turquoise, yellow, orange, and red, crowned by a brilliant white starburst light at the top center casting dramatic volumetric god rays downward. Cinematic mystical ethereal atmosphere, photorealistic yet fantastical style, sharp focus, high detail on fabric textures, rose petals, sand ripples, and light effects.

tetsuo

6,013,480 görüntüleme • 5 ay önce

This post about bench press safety escaped containment and got a lot of people commenting in disagreement that safeties/spotter arms would've saved him. And in truth, my language below was a little too absolute: safeties MIGHT have saved his life (though even if so, would not have prevented all damage), but it's far from certain that they would have, so I stand by the overall sentiment. I will explain in detail below. The spotter arms have to be set below the top of your arched chest or else they’ll interfere with every rep - you'll clang the bar on the safeties, which not only severely interrupts proper technique and performance, but can also be potentially injurious in its own right as the clanging against the safeties takes you out of the rhythm of the rep and leads to uneven and chaotic force application demands mid-rep. The safeties can’t be set a mere milimeter or even a half inch below the chest: both because most racks have 2-3 inch hole spacings that don't allow such finely calibrated setting, but even if they do - also because as a gross movement pattern, not a fine movement pattern, you can’t control the movement of the bar precisely and accurately enough not to clang the safeties if they’re so close to your chest. Human beings performing gross movement patterns simply lack such fine control: on heavy sets, the bar might be slightly uneven on one side, you might lose a touch of your arch over the course of the set, etc... and end up clanging the safeties anyway, if they're set so close to the top of your arched chest. These issues are not form errors that can be prevented with proper training, but are inherent limitations in the human capability to control gross motor pattern movements at a heavy weight. Thus, the safeties have to be far enough below your chest in order to not interfere with the set itself, such that they can’t possibly catch the bar before it hits your chest in the case of a sudden catastrophic drop. The proper placement for the safeties is far enough below your chest so as not to interfere with the normal execution of the set and so the bar never touches the safeties at all during the set, even with the inherent human limitations of gross motor pattern control. But high enough such tha - if you find yourself unable to successfully press the bar to lockout - you can bring the bar under control back down to your chest, exhale and drop your arch, and the bar will ideally now rest on the safeties instead of your chest and you can crawl and slither out from under it. Worst case, you can roll the bar slightly upwards and the safeties will soon take it, well before it would lie on your neck. I have an example of using the safeties this way in the video below, with 485 lbs. The ability to set this position with precision and accuracy depends on the equipment you're using: Some racks/benches have 1 inch spacings for this purpose, which is excellent and allows greater precision in safety placement, but most common racks have 2-3 inches between holes and thus people must often have the safeties a little lower than they'd ideally be. The main point is the proper use and purpose of safeties in the bench press is not really to catch a very rare catastrophic sudden drop onto your chest, but to allow you to survive the much more common situation of a normal failed rep. Could they theoretically save your life in such a situation where you drop it? Yes, they might. They won't stop the bar before it hits your chest but they might reduce the impact by stopping the bar from going further down and reducing the impact. This may or may not save your life in this rare catastrophic drop situation - it's good to have them there, set up anyway, but it's far from a sure bet. The most important things you can do are to learn and practice good technique, which involves stiff wrists in a very slightly bent back position, and thumbs around the barbell - NO SUICIDE GRIP. The safeties won't catch the bar and stop it from hitting your chest, so it's best to reduce the chances of dropping the bar on your chest from almost zero to even closer to almost zero. I've been bench pressing regularly for well over 20 years, always put my thumbs around the bar, and have never dropped it on myself. Nor has anyone I have coached to the best of my memory, over tens of thousands of sets and hundreds of thousands of reps. I have used safeties to successfully avoid getting trapped under the bar after a failed rep. In the video below, I tweaked my pec while pushing through a rep at 485 and had to set the bar on the pins to avoid getting trapped under it. This kind of situation is the primary use for the safeties. It's good to have them set up regardless - they might indeed save you if you somehow still manage to drop the bar, but they also very well might not.

This post about bench press safety escaped containment and got a lot of people commenting in disagreement that safeties/spotter arms would've saved him. And in truth, my language below was a little too absolute: safeties MIGHT have saved his life (though even if so, would not have prevented all damage), but it's far from certain that they would have, so I stand by the overall sentiment. I will explain in detail below. The spotter arms have to be set below the top of your arched chest or else they’ll interfere with every rep - you'll clang the bar on the safeties, which not only severely interrupts proper technique and performance, but can also be potentially injurious in its own right as the clanging against the safeties takes you out of the rhythm of the rep and leads to uneven and chaotic force application demands mid-rep. The safeties can’t be set a mere milimeter or even a half inch below the chest: both because most racks have 2-3 inch hole spacings that don't allow such finely calibrated setting, but even if they do - also because as a gross movement pattern, not a fine movement pattern, you can’t control the movement of the bar precisely and accurately enough not to clang the safeties if they’re so close to your chest. Human beings performing gross movement patterns simply lack such fine control: on heavy sets, the bar might be slightly uneven on one side, you might lose a touch of your arch over the course of the set, etc... and end up clanging the safeties anyway, if they're set so close to the top of your arched chest. These issues are not form errors that can be prevented with proper training, but are inherent limitations in the human capability to control gross motor pattern movements at a heavy weight. Thus, the safeties have to be far enough below your chest in order to not interfere with the set itself, such that they can’t possibly catch the bar before it hits your chest in the case of a sudden catastrophic drop. The proper placement for the safeties is far enough below your chest so as not to interfere with the normal execution of the set and so the bar never touches the safeties at all during the set, even with the inherent human limitations of gross motor pattern control. But high enough such tha - if you find yourself unable to successfully press the bar to lockout - you can bring the bar under control back down to your chest, exhale and drop your arch, and the bar will ideally now rest on the safeties instead of your chest and you can crawl and slither out from under it. Worst case, you can roll the bar slightly upwards and the safeties will soon take it, well before it would lie on your neck. I have an example of using the safeties this way in the video below, with 485 lbs. The ability to set this position with precision and accuracy depends on the equipment you're using: Some racks/benches have 1 inch spacings for this purpose, which is excellent and allows greater precision in safety placement, but most common racks have 2-3 inches between holes and thus people must often have the safeties a little lower than they'd ideally be. The main point is the proper use and purpose of safeties in the bench press is not really to catch a very rare catastrophic sudden drop onto your chest, but to allow you to survive the much more common situation of a normal failed rep. Could they theoretically save your life in such a situation where you drop it? Yes, they might. They won't stop the bar before it hits your chest but they might reduce the impact by stopping the bar from going further down and reducing the impact. This may or may not save your life in this rare catastrophic drop situation - it's good to have them there, set up anyway, but it's far from a sure bet. The most important things you can do are to learn and practice good technique, which involves stiff wrists in a very slightly bent back position, and thumbs around the barbell - NO SUICIDE GRIP. The safeties won't catch the bar and stop it from hitting your chest, so it's best to reduce the chances of dropping the bar on your chest from almost zero to even closer to almost zero. I've been bench pressing regularly for well over 20 years, always put my thumbs around the bar, and have never dropped it on myself. Nor has anyone I have coached to the best of my memory, over tens of thousands of sets and hundreds of thousands of reps. I have used safeties to successfully avoid getting trapped under the bar after a failed rep. In the video below, I tweaked my pec while pushing through a rep at 485 and had to set the bar on the pins to avoid getting trapped under it. This kind of situation is the primary use for the safeties. It's good to have them set up regardless - they might indeed save you if you somehow still manage to drop the bar, but they also very well might not.

Deep Squats, Shallow Thoughts

924,853 görüntüleme • 9 ay önce

OFFICIAL: EASTER EGG GUIDE FOR TOTENREICH: Wonder Weapon: 1. Head to The Drydocks and lower The Crane, this will allow you to wall jump and interact with the tip of the ship to pick up the Chain Link 2. Next, Head to Storm Bridge and pick up Chili Chunks behind the truck next to Deadshot 3. Place Chili Chunks on the table in the middle of the Skalen Market 4. Next, Head to Burial Grounds left-side door and interact with the keyhole. 5. Interact with the door again and hold it to open the door and to unlock the underground area. 6. This will spawn a Zursa Bear during a special round (starting the second special round) you need to kill him and he will drop The Lantern 7. Place The Lantern in the center of the Underground Room in Burial Grounds. 8. Constellations will appear around the wall. Interact with them as they’re shown on the table in this order: left, right, back, front. 9. Once completed, Astrid will appear and talk, she will then travel to different areas of the map. She will occasionally stop and you will need to kill frost zombies next to her. 10. Once all the Soulboxes are completed an Obstacle Course will form on the outside of The Lighthouse, climb to the top by Jumping / Wall Jumping up 11. Once you reach the top, Listen to the Astrid talk and pick up The Jotunn Star Wundersignal: 1. After completing Jotun Star Quest Head to The Lighthouse and inside on a shelf there will be a Crowbar 2. There are Multiple Wooden Boxes around the map with red IDs on the bottom right corner of the front of the box in red (for example III-6) use The Crowbar on the Wooden Box that has the Roboterteile ID (the IDs are on the shipping manifest in the War Factory Admin Room), this will give Flak Gun Round War Factory Core Foundry Fjord Road Dry Dock 3. Head to Turret Gun beside The Lighthouse and place Flak Gun Round then melee with Jotunn Star 4. Next, Head to The Robot Head in spawn and interact with it to search broken piece to get The Transmitter 5. Go to Tyr’s Head and place it inside the Wall Machine thingy at the top of the Ladder 6. Next, whilst inside of Tyr’s Head underneath the balcony there are 3 white lights, 2 of these lights will blink, count how many times it blinks -Both lights will remain on, There is the sound of a light turning on to indicate the start of a new light flashing cycle where both lights will flash at the same time to a certain count (for example left 2, right 5). Both lights will be on and then it will flash another set (for example left 6, right 4). (Unsure if these 2 combos have to be put into console in order but correct entry will give two different voicelines.) After entering one correctly you will be kicked out to hear voiceline and can re-enter console to input the 2nd shortly afterwards. 7. Now head to Core Foundry, and use a molotov to burn the ascender to access the consoles. 8. Ascend and interact with the consoles, The next part is timed and has a cooldown if you fail - you need to Calibrate the Amplitude and Frequency using the flashing light code. 9. Once this has been done head to the room Next to the Radio Tower and pick up The Wunderbarrage Controller Atomkraft Core 1. Find three uraniums: Uranium #1 Find the Fishing Rod (Olaf’s Personal Item) locations: - Dry Dock - Storm Bridge - Fishery Island - Beacon island Look for a Glowing Green Fish jumping around the water at each Fishing Location and use the Fishing Rod at that location once you see it Fishing Locations: Eidskallen Landing x2 Beacon Island x2 Eidskallen Square x2 Dry Dock (found one so far) Fishery Island x2 Tyr’s Foot (found one so far) Once the fish is caught it will spawn an Irradiated Ravager (HVT) that will disappear and respawn somewhere else, chase it down and kill it (check your map to see its location, it shows up as an HVT). It will drop a Uranium. Uranium #2 Next, Craft an ARC-XD (there is one for free in Eidskallen Square on top of a box near the flame trap, you can get it by fishing as well) and melee the vent at Core Foundry to the left of the zipline to open the Secret ARC-XD Course. Blow up the boat full of barrels. Once the course is completed the 935 Genetic Lab room will be open and another Uranium x2 will be inside a Prison Cell There are several Jars with Heads inside in this room, all labelled A,B,C,D,E Look down the Hallway inside the Lab and note which numbered rooms have Nuclear Symbols 1 = A, 2 = B, 3 = C, 4 = D and 5 = E Take one Jar at a time that corresponds with the Numbers next to Nuclear Symbols and place them on the machine to the right of the cell door, once the correct jars are placed the Jar on the left side of the machine will glow purple and you can pick up acid There is a Big Chunk of Meat on a desk next to multiple drawings in the same Room, interact with it, then Pick up The Necrospike Once you have The Necrospike, use it on the Prison Cell Door, this will trigger a lockpick mini game. Spin the lockpick until the lock turns white 3x to unlock the cell, then pick up the second Uranium. Uranium #3 Next you need to craft or obtain the Glocke Drop, once you have one call it in, then shoot 20 mid-air zombies it throws up. This will drop the third and final Uranium. 2. At the Dry Dock, you need to call a WunderBarrage (unlocked by completing Wundersignal steps) in on the “02 Building” at Dry Dock (where there’s debris on the stairs), this will open the stairs to the Machine Workshop. 3. Inside The Workshop there is a Claw Machine which you can place all of The Uranium inside of and play a mini-game. -Have a big group of 7 cores and a small group of 2 cores. 4. Once you complete the Mini-game you will be able to pick up The Atomkraft Core (Note: you drop if you zipline, and cant sprint with it) 5. Head to Quick Revive and place The Atomkraft Core on generator next to quick revive. Go into the shed behind quick revive and turn on the generator. You must now defend the The Atomkraft Core until it’s charged. In interrupted you must turn on the generator again to continue. 6. Take the The Atomkraft Core to the barrel on the Storm Bridge and a Mini-Cutscene will play between the Giant and The Robot. Vegvisir 1. After the cutscene finishes, The Dravakar Shard will spawn at Tyr’s Foot, pick it up 2. Pick it up and place the Shard inside the Bloodheim Hall on the bonfire 3. Use WW range attack to light the fire 4. Use Disciple Injection (there should be a free one around the map) and throw zombies into the bonfire (I only had to throw four) 5. A lockdown will start. Kill the boss zombie and pick up the Sunstone from the bonfire 6. Put the Sunstone in the church and do a range WW attack on it. 7. Around the map, there will now be floating rocks and runes. Above the church there will now be a compass with runes and arrows. -Shoot the floating rune rocks with the ranged WW in the order of the arrow lines. If an arrow has 1 line, then that's the first one. If an arrow has 2 lines, that's the second one, etc. 8. Go into Tyr's Head and interact with the console to start the boss fight. Credit to Callum and the ZoneX discord

OFFICIAL: EASTER EGG GUIDE FOR TOTENREICH: Wonder Weapon: 1. Head to The Drydocks and lower The Crane, this will allow you to wall jump and interact with the tip of the ship to pick up the Chain Link 2. Next, Head to Storm Bridge and pick up Chili Chunks behind the truck next to Deadshot 3. Place Chili Chunks on the table in the middle of the Skalen Market 4. Next, Head to Burial Grounds left-side door and interact with the keyhole. 5. Interact with the door again and hold it to open the door and to unlock the underground area. 6. This will spawn a Zursa Bear during a special round (starting the second special round) you need to kill him and he will drop The Lantern 7. Place The Lantern in the center of the Underground Room in Burial Grounds. 8. Constellations will appear around the wall. Interact with them as they’re shown on the table in this order: left, right, back, front. 9. Once completed, Astrid will appear and talk, she will then travel to different areas of the map. She will occasionally stop and you will need to kill frost zombies next to her. 10. Once all the Soulboxes are completed an Obstacle Course will form on the outside of The Lighthouse, climb to the top by Jumping / Wall Jumping up 11. Once you reach the top, Listen to the Astrid talk and pick up The Jotunn Star Wundersignal: 1. After completing Jotun Star Quest Head to The Lighthouse and inside on a shelf there will be a Crowbar 2. There are Multiple Wooden Boxes around the map with red IDs on the bottom right corner of the front of the box in red (for example III-6) use The Crowbar on the Wooden Box that has the Roboterteile ID (the IDs are on the shipping manifest in the War Factory Admin Room), this will give Flak Gun Round War Factory Core Foundry Fjord Road Dry Dock 3. Head to Turret Gun beside The Lighthouse and place Flak Gun Round then melee with Jotunn Star 4. Next, Head to The Robot Head in spawn and interact with it to search broken piece to get The Transmitter 5. Go to Tyr’s Head and place it inside the Wall Machine thingy at the top of the Ladder 6. Next, whilst inside of Tyr’s Head underneath the balcony there are 3 white lights, 2 of these lights will blink, count how many times it blinks -Both lights will remain on, There is the sound of a light turning on to indicate the start of a new light flashing cycle where both lights will flash at the same time to a certain count (for example left 2, right 5). Both lights will be on and then it will flash another set (for example left 6, right 4). (Unsure if these 2 combos have to be put into console in order but correct entry will give two different voicelines.) After entering one correctly you will be kicked out to hear voiceline and can re-enter console to input the 2nd shortly afterwards. 7. Now head to Core Foundry, and use a molotov to burn the ascender to access the consoles. 8. Ascend and interact with the consoles, The next part is timed and has a cooldown if you fail - you need to Calibrate the Amplitude and Frequency using the flashing light code. 9. Once this has been done head to the room Next to the Radio Tower and pick up The Wunderbarrage Controller Atomkraft Core 1. Find three uraniums: Uranium #1 Find the Fishing Rod (Olaf’s Personal Item) locations: - Dry Dock - Storm Bridge - Fishery Island - Beacon island Look for a Glowing Green Fish jumping around the water at each Fishing Location and use the Fishing Rod at that location once you see it Fishing Locations: Eidskallen Landing x2 Beacon Island x2 Eidskallen Square x2 Dry Dock (found one so far) Fishery Island x2 Tyr’s Foot (found one so far) Once the fish is caught it will spawn an Irradiated Ravager (HVT) that will disappear and respawn somewhere else, chase it down and kill it (check your map to see its location, it shows up as an HVT). It will drop a Uranium. Uranium #2 Next, Craft an ARC-XD (there is one for free in Eidskallen Square on top of a box near the flame trap, you can get it by fishing as well) and melee the vent at Core Foundry to the left of the zipline to open the Secret ARC-XD Course. Blow up the boat full of barrels. Once the course is completed the 935 Genetic Lab room will be open and another Uranium x2 will be inside a Prison Cell There are several Jars with Heads inside in this room, all labelled A,B,C,D,E Look down the Hallway inside the Lab and note which numbered rooms have Nuclear Symbols 1 = A, 2 = B, 3 = C, 4 = D and 5 = E Take one Jar at a time that corresponds with the Numbers next to Nuclear Symbols and place them on the machine to the right of the cell door, once the correct jars are placed the Jar on the left side of the machine will glow purple and you can pick up acid There is a Big Chunk of Meat on a desk next to multiple drawings in the same Room, interact with it, then Pick up The Necrospike Once you have The Necrospike, use it on the Prison Cell Door, this will trigger a lockpick mini game. Spin the lockpick until the lock turns white 3x to unlock the cell, then pick up the second Uranium. Uranium #3 Next you need to craft or obtain the Glocke Drop, once you have one call it in, then shoot 20 mid-air zombies it throws up. This will drop the third and final Uranium. 2. At the Dry Dock, you need to call a WunderBarrage (unlocked by completing Wundersignal steps) in on the “02 Building” at Dry Dock (where there’s debris on the stairs), this will open the stairs to the Machine Workshop. 3. Inside The Workshop there is a Claw Machine which you can place all of The Uranium inside of and play a mini-game. -Have a big group of 7 cores and a small group of 2 cores. 4. Once you complete the Mini-game you will be able to pick up The Atomkraft Core (Note: you drop if you zipline, and cant sprint with it) 5. Head to Quick Revive and place The Atomkraft Core on generator next to quick revive. Go into the shed behind quick revive and turn on the generator. You must now defend the The Atomkraft Core until it’s charged. In interrupted you must turn on the generator again to continue. 6. Take the The Atomkraft Core to the barrel on the Storm Bridge and a Mini-Cutscene will play between the Giant and The Robot. Vegvisir 1. After the cutscene finishes, The Dravakar Shard will spawn at Tyr’s Foot, pick it up 2. Pick it up and place the Shard inside the Bloodheim Hall on the bonfire 3. Use WW range attack to light the fire 4. Use Disciple Injection (there should be a free one around the map) and throw zombies into the bonfire (I only had to throw four) 5. A lockdown will start. Kill the boss zombie and pick up the Sunstone from the bonfire 6. Put the Sunstone in the church and do a range WW attack on it. 7. Around the map, there will now be floating rocks and runes. Above the church there will now be a compass with runes and arrows. -Shoot the floating rune rocks with the ranged WW in the order of the arrow lines. If an arrow has 1 line, then that's the first one. If an arrow has 2 lines, that's the second one, etc. 8. Go into Tyr's Head and interact with the console to start the boss fight. Credit to Callum and the ZoneX discord

COD: Zombies News

82,267 görüntüleme • 4 ay önce

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!

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!

SiriusB

53,839 görüntüleme • 6 ay önce

$Grok Imagine text-to-video prompt: SCENE CONTEXT One continuous locked-off wide shot inside a cluttered high-rise gaming apartment at night. A fully clothed adult man sits at his desk facing the monitor, absorbed in a computer game. An adult anime woman (age 22 or older) carrying a metal frying pan sneaks up behind him from frame-left, swings the pan hard and fast into the back of his head with a single whip-crack strike that knocks him out cold instantly, his head dropping hard onto the desk with a small bounce. She delivers a short Japanese line, then runs off frame-right while giggling. LOCATION MAP Foreground: edge of the desk and chair legs. Midground: the seated man at the gaming desk with dual monitors, keyboard, mouse, RGB lighting, and scattered energy-drink cans. Background: cluttered apartment wall with posters, shelves of figures, city-window view at night. The anime woman enters from frame-left rear, moves behind the man's chair, then exits frame-right. Warm practical room lamps mixed with cool blue monitor glow and red PC accent lights. FIRST FRAME / BLOCKING Wide shot already framed and locked. The man is seated center-right, torso facing the monitors, head slightly forward. The anime woman is partially visible at the far left edge of frame, body oriented toward the man, frying pan held low in both hands at waist height. Spatial relationship readable immediately: she is behind and slightly to his left, outside his peripheral vision. FORMAT MODE One continuous shot, the camera does not cut on its own. The frame stays identical from first second to last. OPTICS 47° neutral wide FOV, eye-level height matching the man's seated eye line, deep focus so both the desk and the space behind the chair remain sharp. No drift for the full duration. CAMERA Locked tripod, completely stationary, frame fixed for the entire 15 seconds. The operator stays hands-off after the first frame. ACTION 0.0s–3.5s — The man clicks the mouse and taps the keyboard with natural, focused movements, leaning slightly toward the monitor. The anime woman advances on light tiptoe steps from frame-left at about 3 km/h, body low, frying pan close to her torso, eyes fixed on the back of his head. 3.5s–6.0s — She reaches the position directly behind his chair and coils into a short compact wind-up: pan raised above her right shoulder, both hands gripping the handle, weight loaded onto her rear foot, hips turned slightly away like a batter ready to swing. 6.0s–6.5s — She uncoils and swings hard and fast: hips rotate first, shoulders whip through, the pan accelerates through a tight horizontal arc and reaches roughly 30 km/h at the moment the flat of the pan meets the exact center of the back of his head. The full swing takes 0.4 seconds from launch to contact, a single clean whip of motion. 6.5s–7.5s — Knocked out cold, lights out on impact. On the exact contact frame his eyes shut and every muscle releases at once. His head drops hard and fast, driven forward by the strike, and his forehead smacks the desk surface with a solid thud, bounces up once about five centimeters, and lands again, coming to rest cheek-down on the desk. His torso folds forward behind the falling head, arms flopping off the keyboard and mouse and settling limp on the desk. He is out cold and remains completely motionless from this point through the end of the shot, head down, dead to the world. 7.5s–10.5s — She lowers the pan to her side, stands upright behind the slumped man, and speaks her line with clear lip sync while looking down at his knocked-out body, chest rising with a satisfied breath. 10.5s–15.0s — She turns sharply to her right, takes three quick running steps toward frame-right at about 10 km/h, and exits the frame still holding the frying pan, body leaning forward into the run, shoulders bouncing with a giggle. PERFORMANCE Man: fully absorbed in the game until impact, natural micro-adjustments of hands and slight forward lean. From the contact frame onward he is unconscious dead weight: face slack, jaw loose, eyes closed, zero muscle tension anywhere in his body. After the head bounce settles he is a motionless heap draped over the desk, held perfectly still through the end of the shot, clearly out cold. Anime woman: bright adult face with clean 2D cel-shaded features, mischievous grin, tongue pressed to the corner of her mouth during the wind-up. The swing is committed and athletic: full-body rotation, arms extending through the arc, a small follow-through past the contact point before she checks the pan. After the hit her posture opens into a brief proud stance, then she pivots and runs with lively bouncing steps and a visible giggle that lifts her shoulders. Eyes stay alive with micro-saccades throughout. Playful older-sister prank energy, posture upright and comedic. PHYSICS The frying pan carries visible metal mass and inertia: it lags a fraction behind her hands at the start of the swing, whips through the arc with accelerating momentum, and stops dead on contact with a small vibration through the pan face and her forearms. The man's head falls as pure dead weight accelerated by the strike: fast drop, hard contact with the desk, one small five-centimeter rebound, then final settle with zero further motion. The desk registers the impact: a nearby energy-drink can jitters, the mouse shifts a centimeter. His torso folds forward behind the head and settles as a limp mass, no residual muscle movement afterward. Her hair and clothing trail the swing rotation with natural delay and settle after the follow-through. Her footsteps show clear weight transfer on the sneak and the exit run. LIGHTING Primary sources: warm 3200K practical desk and room lamps from upper left, cool monitor glow illuminating the man's face and hands, red PC case lighting under the desk. Soft natural falloff into the background. The pan catches a brief warm lamp glint as it whips through the swing arc, and the contact shadow of the pan and her arms sweeps across the man's back at the moment of impact. AUDIO Clear adult feminine Japanese anime voice with accurate lip sync delivering exactly: 「おやすみなさい！」 A sharp air-whoosh as the pan whips through its arc, ending in a single bright comedic metallic BONK on contact, followed immediately by a solid wooden thud as his head hits the desk and a lighter second tap on the bounce landing. Continuous quiet keyboard taps and mouse clicks up to the hit, then silence from the desk. Computer-fan hum, faint game audio from the speakers, quiet room tone, distant city ambience through the window. Her light footsteps on the floor, then a short bright giggle as she runs. Only the listed sounds and the single spoken line. STYLE Photorealistic cluttered apartment interior combined with a crisp, clean 2D cel-shaded adult anime character. Warm practical lighting mixed with cool monitor and red PC accents, natural contact shadows, light cinematic grain. Wholesome slapstick gaming-comedy tone, the energy of a classic anime frying pan bonk. POSITIVE LOCKS Camera remains completely locked and stationary for the full 15 seconds, identical framing first frame to last. The man keeps facing his monitors until the strike and is knocked out cold on the exact contact frame: head drops hard and fast, forehead smacks the desk, one small five-centimeter bounce, then final rest, body limp and motionless through the end of the shot. Single pan strike only, swung hard and fast with full-body rotation, the arc completed in 0.4 seconds. Anime woman is clearly adult (22+), modest casual gaming-themed clothing, 2D cel-shaded style only. Only the one scripted Japanese line is spoken.$

Grok Imagine text-to-video prompt: SCENE CONTEXT One continuous locked-off wide shot inside a cluttered high-rise gaming apartment at night. A fully clothed adult man sits at his desk facing the monitor, absorbed in a computer game. An adult anime woman (age 22 or older) carrying a metal frying pan sneaks up behind him from frame-left, swings the pan hard and fast into the back of his head with a single whip-crack strike that knocks him out cold instantly, his head dropping hard onto the desk with a small bounce. She delivers a short Japanese line, then runs off frame-right while giggling. LOCATION MAP Foreground: edge of the desk and chair legs. Midground: the seated man at the gaming desk with dual monitors, keyboard, mouse, RGB lighting, and scattered energy-drink cans. Background: cluttered apartment wall with posters, shelves of figures, city-window view at night. The anime woman enters from frame-left rear, moves behind the man's chair, then exits frame-right. Warm practical room lamps mixed with cool blue monitor glow and red PC accent lights. FIRST FRAME / BLOCKING Wide shot already framed and locked. The man is seated center-right, torso facing the monitors, head slightly forward. The anime woman is partially visible at the far left edge of frame, body oriented toward the man, frying pan held low in both hands at waist height. Spatial relationship readable immediately: she is behind and slightly to his left, outside his peripheral vision. FORMAT MODE One continuous shot, the camera does not cut on its own. The frame stays identical from first second to last. OPTICS 47° neutral wide FOV, eye-level height matching the man's seated eye line, deep focus so both the desk and the space behind the chair remain sharp. No drift for the full duration. CAMERA Locked tripod, completely stationary, frame fixed for the entire 15 seconds. The operator stays hands-off after the first frame. ACTION 0.0s–3.5s — The man clicks the mouse and taps the keyboard with natural, focused movements, leaning slightly toward the monitor. The anime woman advances on light tiptoe steps from frame-left at about 3 km/h, body low, frying pan close to her torso, eyes fixed on the back of his head. 3.5s–6.0s — She reaches the position directly behind his chair and coils into a short compact wind-up: pan raised above her right shoulder, both hands gripping the handle, weight loaded onto her rear foot, hips turned slightly away like a batter ready to swing. 6.0s–6.5s — She uncoils and swings hard and fast: hips rotate first, shoulders whip through, the pan accelerates through a tight horizontal arc and reaches roughly 30 km/h at the moment the flat of the pan meets the exact center of the back of his head. The full swing takes 0.4 seconds from launch to contact, a single clean whip of motion. 6.5s–7.5s — Knocked out cold, lights out on impact. On the exact contact frame his eyes shut and every muscle releases at once. His head drops hard and fast, driven forward by the strike, and his forehead smacks the desk surface with a solid thud, bounces up once about five centimeters, and lands again, coming to rest cheek-down on the desk. His torso folds forward behind the falling head, arms flopping off the keyboard and mouse and settling limp on the desk. He is out cold and remains completely motionless from this point through the end of the shot, head down, dead to the world. 7.5s–10.5s — She lowers the pan to her side, stands upright behind the slumped man, and speaks her line with clear lip sync while looking down at his knocked-out body, chest rising with a satisfied breath. 10.5s–15.0s — She turns sharply to her right, takes three quick running steps toward frame-right at about 10 km/h, and exits the frame still holding the frying pan, body leaning forward into the run, shoulders bouncing with a giggle. PERFORMANCE Man: fully absorbed in the game until impact, natural micro-adjustments of hands and slight forward lean. From the contact frame onward he is unconscious dead weight: face slack, jaw loose, eyes closed, zero muscle tension anywhere in his body. After the head bounce settles he is a motionless heap draped over the desk, held perfectly still through the end of the shot, clearly out cold. Anime woman: bright adult face with clean 2D cel-shaded features, mischievous grin, tongue pressed to the corner of her mouth during the wind-up. The swing is committed and athletic: full-body rotation, arms extending through the arc, a small follow-through past the contact point before she checks the pan. After the hit her posture opens into a brief proud stance, then she pivots and runs with lively bouncing steps and a visible giggle that lifts her shoulders. Eyes stay alive with micro-saccades throughout. Playful older-sister prank energy, posture upright and comedic. PHYSICS The frying pan carries visible metal mass and inertia: it lags a fraction behind her hands at the start of the swing, whips through the arc with accelerating momentum, and stops dead on contact with a small vibration through the pan face and her forearms. The man's head falls as pure dead weight accelerated by the strike: fast drop, hard contact with the desk, one small five-centimeter rebound, then final settle with zero further motion. The desk registers the impact: a nearby energy-drink can jitters, the mouse shifts a centimeter. His torso folds forward behind the head and settles as a limp mass, no residual muscle movement afterward. Her hair and clothing trail the swing rotation with natural delay and settle after the follow-through. Her footsteps show clear weight transfer on the sneak and the exit run. LIGHTING Primary sources: warm 3200K practical desk and room lamps from upper left, cool monitor glow illuminating the man's face and hands, red PC case lighting under the desk. Soft natural falloff into the background. The pan catches a brief warm lamp glint as it whips through the swing arc, and the contact shadow of the pan and her arms sweeps across the man's back at the moment of impact. AUDIO Clear adult feminine Japanese anime voice with accurate lip sync delivering exactly: 「おやすみなさい！」 A sharp air-whoosh as the pan whips through its arc, ending in a single bright comedic metallic BONK on contact, followed immediately by a solid wooden thud as his head hits the desk and a lighter second tap on the bounce landing. Continuous quiet keyboard taps and mouse clicks up to the hit, then silence from the desk. Computer-fan hum, faint game audio from the speakers, quiet room tone, distant city ambience through the window. Her light footsteps on the floor, then a short bright giggle as she runs. Only the listed sounds and the single spoken line. STYLE Photorealistic cluttered apartment interior combined with a crisp, clean 2D cel-shaded adult anime character. Warm practical lighting mixed with cool monitor and red PC accents, natural contact shadows, light cinematic grain. Wholesome slapstick gaming-comedy tone, the energy of a classic anime frying pan bonk. POSITIVE LOCKS Camera remains completely locked and stationary for the full 15 seconds, identical framing first frame to last. The man keeps facing his monitors until the strike and is knocked out cold on the exact contact frame: head drops hard and fast, forehead smacks the desk, one small five-centimeter bounce, then final rest, body limp and motionless through the end of the shot. Single pan strike only, swung hard and fast with full-body rotation, the arc completed in 0.4 seconds. Anime woman is clearly adult (22+), modest casual gaming-themed clothing, 2D cel-shaded style only. Only the one scripted Japanese line is spoken.

tetsuo

12,738 görüntüleme • 23 gün önce

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 lighting

MrDejie

161,569 görüntüleme • 2 ay önce

$Seedance 2.5 is now available on Higgsfield AI 🧩 Prompt: Montage, multi-shot candid observational footage. Do not use a single camera angle or continuous take. Handheld documentary style with the feeling of accidental real-life capture. Slightly imperfect framing, subtle handheld shake, tiny reframing adjustments, gentle exposure breathing, and autofocus that settles half a beat late. Realistic skin texture, soft indoor natural light, film grain, shallow depth of field. Relaxed breathing, natural blinking, restrained and authentic performance. Total of 7 shots. The woman from @ Image 1 is wearing a matching cotton pajama set consisting of a scoop-neck sleeveless top and loose shorts made from the same fabric and design. Barefoot, she lies on her stomach across a lived-in, slightly messy bed in her bedroom, browsing a mobile shopping page on a black smartphone. A house cat jumps onto the bed seeking attention, and she affectionately plays with it. Moments later, a friend calls. She answers, chats, and eventually bursts into laughter. The doorbell rings, so she ends the call and gets up to collect her dinner. Shot 1 (0–2s): She is already moving. One thumb scrolls through a shopping page while she frowns slightly, thinking. She quietly mutters in Korean: "아, 뭐 살랬더라…" ("Ah... what was I going to buy again?"). Lips synchronize naturally. Her bare feet gently sway behind her. A low handheld camera glides along the edge of the mattress, with soft bedding partially obscuring the foreground. Shot 2 (2–4s): The house cat jumps onto the bed, compressing the blanket as it walks toward her forearm and lets out a single meow. The camera gives a slight jolt from the impact, then quickly reframes from the phone to an over-the-shoulder view that includes her face, hands, phone, and cat. Shot 3 (4–6s): She turns warmly toward the cat, stroking it once from its forehead to its shoulders. In a gentle, affectionate tone she says: "우리 애기 왔어?" ("Did my baby come?"). Lip sync is clear and natural. The camera pushes in briefly through the cat's softly blurred foreground toward her face and hand. Shot 4 (6–8s): A friend's ringtone sounds. She glances down, confirms the caller, swipes to answer, and brings the phone to her ear. The camera moves in a loose semicircle from a slightly tilted overhead angle, capturing the entire answering motion. Shot 5 (8–11s): Her friend begins talking. She responds first with confusion, then disbelief: "어, 왜? 진짜 거짓말." ("Huh? Why? No way, you're kidding."). Immediately afterward she naturally bursts into laughter. The cat kneads the blanket beside her. A close handheld side angle keeps both her phone and profile within the same focal plane. Shot 6 (11–13s): A clear doorbell interrupts the laughter. Both she and the cat turn toward the bedroom door. She braces one hand on the mattress to get up. The camera reacts a fraction too late, briefly turning toward the door before naturally correcting back to her rising movement. Shot 7 (13–15s): Still on the phone, she hurriedly says: "어, 나 밥 왔다. 끊어." ("My food's here. I'll hang up."). She ends the call with her thumb, gets off the bed, and walks toward the door while the cat follows across the blankets. The camera slides low beneath her elbow and tilts upward as she stands in one continuous motion. Sound: No music. Only raw production sound: bedding rustling, quiet breathing, finger taps on the phone, the soft impact of the cat jumping onto the bed, one natural meow, faint purring, a single short incoming ringtone, call connection tone, the friend's voice through the phone, the woman's four Korean lines with accurate lip sync, a genuine brief laugh, one clear doorbell, the tap ending the call, and soft cat footsteps. No subtitles, no on-screen text, no logo, no watermark. Never render a reference sheet or duplicate the subject.$

Seedance 2.5 is now available on Higgsfield AI 🧩 Prompt: Montage, multi-shot candid observational footage. Do not use a single camera angle or continuous take. Handheld documentary style with the feeling of accidental real-life capture. Slightly imperfect framing, subtle handheld shake, tiny reframing adjustments, gentle exposure breathing, and autofocus that settles half a beat late. Realistic skin texture, soft indoor natural light, film grain, shallow depth of field. Relaxed breathing, natural blinking, restrained and authentic performance. Total of 7 shots. The woman from @ Image 1 is wearing a matching cotton pajama set consisting of a scoop-neck sleeveless top and loose shorts made from the same fabric and design. Barefoot, she lies on her stomach across a lived-in, slightly messy bed in her bedroom, browsing a mobile shopping page on a black smartphone. A house cat jumps onto the bed seeking attention, and she affectionately plays with it. Moments later, a friend calls. She answers, chats, and eventually bursts into laughter. The doorbell rings, so she ends the call and gets up to collect her dinner. Shot 1 (0–2s): She is already moving. One thumb scrolls through a shopping page while she frowns slightly, thinking. She quietly mutters in Korean: "아, 뭐 살랬더라…" ("Ah... what was I going to buy again?"). Lips synchronize naturally. Her bare feet gently sway behind her. A low handheld camera glides along the edge of the mattress, with soft bedding partially obscuring the foreground. Shot 2 (2–4s): The house cat jumps onto the bed, compressing the blanket as it walks toward her forearm and lets out a single meow. The camera gives a slight jolt from the impact, then quickly reframes from the phone to an over-the-shoulder view that includes her face, hands, phone, and cat. Shot 3 (4–6s): She turns warmly toward the cat, stroking it once from its forehead to its shoulders. In a gentle, affectionate tone she says: "우리 애기 왔어?" ("Did my baby come?"). Lip sync is clear and natural. The camera pushes in briefly through the cat's softly blurred foreground toward her face and hand. Shot 4 (6–8s): A friend's ringtone sounds. She glances down, confirms the caller, swipes to answer, and brings the phone to her ear. The camera moves in a loose semicircle from a slightly tilted overhead angle, capturing the entire answering motion. Shot 5 (8–11s): Her friend begins talking. She responds first with confusion, then disbelief: "어, 왜? 진짜 거짓말." ("Huh? Why? No way, you're kidding."). Immediately afterward she naturally bursts into laughter. The cat kneads the blanket beside her. A close handheld side angle keeps both her phone and profile within the same focal plane. Shot 6 (11–13s): A clear doorbell interrupts the laughter. Both she and the cat turn toward the bedroom door. She braces one hand on the mattress to get up. The camera reacts a fraction too late, briefly turning toward the door before naturally correcting back to her rising movement. Shot 7 (13–15s): Still on the phone, she hurriedly says: "어, 나 밥 왔다. 끊어." ("My food's here. I'll hang up."). She ends the call with her thumb, gets off the bed, and walks toward the door while the cat follows across the blankets. The camera slides low beneath her elbow and tilts upward as she stands in one continuous motion. Sound: No music. Only raw production sound: bedding rustling, quiet breathing, finger taps on the phone, the soft impact of the cat jumping onto the bed, one natural meow, faint purring, a single short incoming ringtone, call connection tone, the friend's voice through the phone, the woman's four Korean lines with accurate lip sync, a genuine brief laugh, one clear doorbell, the tap ending the call, and soft cat footsteps. No subtitles, no on-screen text, no logo, no watermark. Never render a reference sheet or duplicate the subject.

Oogie

27,627 görüntüleme • 1 ay önce

Seedance V2 This used to take people month of study and practice on Adobe Flash, now it can be done with Seedance V2, not perfect but this is the worst it will be. 15 seconds, stylized 2D hand-drawn animation, overhead battlefield on aged yellow lined notebook paper, clear blue horizontal ruled lines and a red left margin line always visible, fine paper grain, pencil marks, ink strokes, minimal classroom-material aesthetic at the start. The entire video must preserve the same paper world from start to finish. No live action, no 3D rendering, no realistic human faces, no modern objects, no narration, no subtitles. Core concept: A childish classroom doodle of an ancient war gradually transforms into a legendary illustrated battlefield, then collapses back into scribbles after the climax. The escalation must feel smooth, intentional, and visually magical, as if imagination is taking over the page. Army design: Two opposing ancient armies drawn first as simple colored stick figures, one faction in red, one faction in blue. Dense infantry blocks with spears and swords, cavalry units with long lances, banner carriers, archers. At first they are crude doodles with simple line limbs and circular heads. As the battle intensifies, they evolve step by step into more detailed inked warriors with clearer armor silhouettes, horses, weapons, helmets, capes, and expressive movement, but still remain inside a hand-drawn 2D illustrated style on paper. Visual progression and timing: 0-3 seconds: Wide top-down view of a large notebook-paper battlefield. Rough stick-figure armies face each other across the page. The drawing feels playful and simple at first. The camera slowly glides forward over the paper as both sides begin charging. Tiny horses gallop, infantry rushes, arrows are sketched into existence and start falling. Everything still looks like rough schoolbook doodles. 3-7 seconds: The first major collision. Spears thrust, swords swing, cavalry crashes into cavalry, formations break apart. With each impact, the art style upgrades. Simple stick limbs become stronger ink lines, bodies gain armor shapes, horses gain muscular form, banners gain flowing detail, shadows and dust marks appear. The battlefield becomes denser, faster, more dramatic. Red and blue strokes smear across the page with the force of combat. 7-11 seconds: The battle reaches full transformation. The once-crude doodles are now a glorious hand-illustrated ancient war scene, still clearly drawn on notebook paper but far more detailed and cinematic. The camera pushes into a central duel between two opposing generals on horseback. Their weapons clash with a powerful burst of ink lines and paper tremor. Around them, infantry and cavalry continue fighting in layered motion, arrows rain down, fallen soldiers scatter across the ruled lines. 11-15 seconds: At the peak of the duel, one final strike lands. A shockwave ripples through the page. The detailed warriors, horses, banners, and battle effects suddenly break apart into loose pencil scribbles, sketch fragments, and drifting paper-line debris. The great war rapidly collapses back into childish rough doodles, then into scattered marks and unfinished lines, as if the imagination has burned out. End on the overhead notebook page with the battlefield reduced to messy hand-drawn remnants. Animation and motion: Smooth fluid motion, strong timing, readable silhouettes, at least 24fps feel. The escalation from crude doodle to epic illustrated warfare must be gradual and continuous, not abrupt. Impacts should feel sharp and rhythmic. Keep all action legible from overhead. Maintain strong contrast between the innocent notebook-paper setting and the seriousness of the war. Atmosphere: Starts playful and curious, grows intense and heroic, peaks as a mythic battlefield, then ends with a strange quiet after the collapse. The whole piece should feel like a child’s imagination turning into an epic war vision on paper.

Seedance V2 This used to take people month of study and practice on Adobe Flash, now it can be done with Seedance V2, not perfect but this is the worst it will be. 15 seconds, stylized 2D hand-drawn animation, overhead battlefield on aged yellow lined notebook paper, clear blue horizontal ruled lines and a red left margin line always visible, fine paper grain, pencil marks, ink strokes, minimal classroom-material aesthetic at the start. The entire video must preserve the same paper world from start to finish. No live action, no 3D rendering, no realistic human faces, no modern objects, no narration, no subtitles. Core concept: A childish classroom doodle of an ancient war gradually transforms into a legendary illustrated battlefield, then collapses back into scribbles after the climax. The escalation must feel smooth, intentional, and visually magical, as if imagination is taking over the page. Army design: Two opposing ancient armies drawn first as simple colored stick figures, one faction in red, one faction in blue. Dense infantry blocks with spears and swords, cavalry units with long lances, banner carriers, archers. At first they are crude doodles with simple line limbs and circular heads. As the battle intensifies, they evolve step by step into more detailed inked warriors with clearer armor silhouettes, horses, weapons, helmets, capes, and expressive movement, but still remain inside a hand-drawn 2D illustrated style on paper. Visual progression and timing: 0-3 seconds: Wide top-down view of a large notebook-paper battlefield. Rough stick-figure armies face each other across the page. The drawing feels playful and simple at first. The camera slowly glides forward over the paper as both sides begin charging. Tiny horses gallop, infantry rushes, arrows are sketched into existence and start falling. Everything still looks like rough schoolbook doodles. 3-7 seconds: The first major collision. Spears thrust, swords swing, cavalry crashes into cavalry, formations break apart. With each impact, the art style upgrades. Simple stick limbs become stronger ink lines, bodies gain armor shapes, horses gain muscular form, banners gain flowing detail, shadows and dust marks appear. The battlefield becomes denser, faster, more dramatic. Red and blue strokes smear across the page with the force of combat. 7-11 seconds: The battle reaches full transformation. The once-crude doodles are now a glorious hand-illustrated ancient war scene, still clearly drawn on notebook paper but far more detailed and cinematic. The camera pushes into a central duel between two opposing generals on horseback. Their weapons clash with a powerful burst of ink lines and paper tremor. Around them, infantry and cavalry continue fighting in layered motion, arrows rain down, fallen soldiers scatter across the ruled lines. 11-15 seconds: At the peak of the duel, one final strike lands. A shockwave ripples through the page. The detailed warriors, horses, banners, and battle effects suddenly break apart into loose pencil scribbles, sketch fragments, and drifting paper-line debris. The great war rapidly collapses back into childish rough doodles, then into scattered marks and unfinished lines, as if the imagination has burned out. End on the overhead notebook page with the battlefield reduced to messy hand-drawn remnants. Animation and motion: Smooth fluid motion, strong timing, readable silhouettes, at least 24fps feel. The escalation from crude doodle to epic illustrated warfare must be gradual and continuous, not abrupt. Impacts should feel sharp and rhythmic. Keep all action legible from overhead. Maintain strong contrast between the innocent notebook-paper setting and the seriousness of the war. Atmosphere: Starts playful and curious, grows intense and heroic, peaks as a mythic battlefield, then ends with a strange quiet after the collapse. The whole piece should feel like a child’s imagination turning into an epic war vision on paper.

Emily

35,023 görüntüleme • 5 ay önce

i don't think most people even comprehend how far AI has come in just the last year we went from 6 fingers, weird artifacts, and robotic voices to being able to become a full time youtuber without ever touching a camera full prompt: CAMERA: Handheld DV 16mm daily vlog footage. The video MUST begin with her holding the camera at arm's length in selfie mode, speaking directly to the lens while casually walking through the gym. The first 20–30 seconds are entirely handheld. Only later does she occasionally place the camera on a dumbbell rack, adjustable bench, stretching mat, gym bag, or water bottle for wider shots. Keep subtle handheld shake, drifting composition, autofocus hunting, rushed reframing, uneven zooms, exposure breathing, brief accidental face cropping, and imperfect framing throughout. The camera itself is never visible. LOOK: Warm analog tape texture with gentle film grain, slightly softened sharpness, subtle halation around overhead lights, realistic skin tones, low contrast, tiny exposure shifts, and natural motion blur. The footage should feel authentic and completely unstaged, like a real creator documenting her workout. STYLE: An intimate daily fitness vlog filmed in a mostly empty boutique gym. Casual, relaxed, and conversational. Small laughs, pauses, fixing her ponytail, wiping sweat with her towel, catching her breath, looking away while thinking, and talking naturally to the audience instead of delivering lines. **She speaks in short, natural sentences with frequent pauses. Never rush dialogue. Leave quiet moments between lines.** CHARACTER: A beautiful white blonde fitness creator in her early 20s. Long blonde hair tied into a loose ponytail, blue eyes, glowing skin, and a slim athletic figure. She wears a fitted black long-sleeve workout top, high-waisted black leggings, white socks, white sneakers, and a white towel loosely resting around her neck. SETTING: A modern boutique gym late in the evening. Dumbbell racks, kettlebells, medicine balls, mirrors, benches, stretching mats, resistance bands, a gym bag, shaker bottle, and warm overhead lighting. The gym is almost empty with only one or two people blurred in the distant background. SCENES: The vlog opens in selfie mode. She is holding the camera at arm's length while slowly walking through the dumbbell area, smiling naturally. "...okay." "I definitely earned dinner." She laughs quietly and adjusts the towel around her neck. "I almost skipped today." She briefly turns the camera toward the nearly empty gym before pointing it back at herself. "Glad I came." Still holding the camera, she walks toward the stretching area. "My legs are done." She places the camera on a nearby bench for a wider angle and sits down on a stretching mat. She stretches one leg and takes a deep breath. "I really need to stretch more." She smiles to herself. She switches sides and rolls one shoulder. "Tomorrow's gonna hurt." She picks the camera back up and walks toward her gym bag. She kneels beside it, pulls out a protein shake, and takes a sip. "...that's actually good." She laughs. The camera sits on top of the gym bag while she packs away her towel, headphones, and lifting straps. "Worth it." She throws the bag over one shoulder and picks the camera back up. Walking toward the exit in selfie mode, she smiles into the lens. "See you next workout." She gives the camera a small wave before ending the recording.

i don't think most people even comprehend how far AI has come in just the last year we went from 6 fingers, weird artifacts, and robotic voices to being able to become a full time youtuber without ever touching a camera full prompt: CAMERA: Handheld DV 16mm daily vlog footage. The video MUST begin with her holding the camera at arm's length in selfie mode, speaking directly to the lens while casually walking through the gym. The first 20–30 seconds are entirely handheld. Only later does she occasionally place the camera on a dumbbell rack, adjustable bench, stretching mat, gym bag, or water bottle for wider shots. Keep subtle handheld shake, drifting composition, autofocus hunting, rushed reframing, uneven zooms, exposure breathing, brief accidental face cropping, and imperfect framing throughout. The camera itself is never visible. LOOK: Warm analog tape texture with gentle film grain, slightly softened sharpness, subtle halation around overhead lights, realistic skin tones, low contrast, tiny exposure shifts, and natural motion blur. The footage should feel authentic and completely unstaged, like a real creator documenting her workout. STYLE: An intimate daily fitness vlog filmed in a mostly empty boutique gym. Casual, relaxed, and conversational. Small laughs, pauses, fixing her ponytail, wiping sweat with her towel, catching her breath, looking away while thinking, and talking naturally to the audience instead of delivering lines. She speaks in short, natural sentences with frequent pauses. Never rush dialogue. Leave quiet moments between lines. CHARACTER: A beautiful white blonde fitness creator in her early 20s. Long blonde hair tied into a loose ponytail, blue eyes, glowing skin, and a slim athletic figure. She wears a fitted black long-sleeve workout top, high-waisted black leggings, white socks, white sneakers, and a white towel loosely resting around her neck. SETTING: A modern boutique gym late in the evening. Dumbbell racks, kettlebells, medicine balls, mirrors, benches, stretching mats, resistance bands, a gym bag, shaker bottle, and warm overhead lighting. The gym is almost empty with only one or two people blurred in the distant background. SCENES: The vlog opens in selfie mode. She is holding the camera at arm's length while slowly walking through the dumbbell area, smiling naturally. "...okay." "I definitely earned dinner." She laughs quietly and adjusts the towel around her neck. "I almost skipped today." She briefly turns the camera toward the nearly empty gym before pointing it back at herself. "Glad I came." Still holding the camera, she walks toward the stretching area. "My legs are done." She places the camera on a nearby bench for a wider angle and sits down on a stretching mat. She stretches one leg and takes a deep breath. "I really need to stretch more." She smiles to herself. She switches sides and rolls one shoulder. "Tomorrow's gonna hurt." She picks the camera back up and walks toward her gym bag. She kneels beside it, pulls out a protein shake, and takes a sip. "...that's actually good." She laughs. The camera sits on top of the gym bag while she packs away her towel, headphones, and lifting straps. "Worth it." She throws the bag over one shoulder and picks the camera back up. Walking toward the exit in selfie mode, she smiles into the lens. "See you next workout." She gives the camera a small wave before ending the recording.

MAX

263,328 görüntüleme • 1 ay önce

Blog 265 Diamondbacks first pitch ◦6-9: Gym, called parents, posted walking videos ◦10: Reunited with MikeyBets and felt complete ◦10:45: Arrived at Chase Stadium and was welcomed by the awesome Diamondbacks staff (shoutout Casey Wilcox) and walked right through the dugout and onto the field ◦Also huge thank you to Mike Dellosa (VP of ticket sales) who answered my LinkedIn dm and helped get set this all up ◦10:55: MikeyBets setup his camera in the Diamondbacks dugout which was hilarious to watch (he was viciously hungover) ◦11: Met with lots of the Diamondbacks and A’s players and coaches while they warmed up on Chase Field. Frank was in his element cracking jokes and talking baseball with the fellas ◦Everyone was incredibly welcoming, humble, and fun. The Diamondbacks manager, Torey Lovullo, called Frank a fucking legend ◦We crushed walk 277 circling the field pregame as Frank tracked the Mets game ◦11:30: Practiced the first pitch. We needed to loosen up the cannon more than we did in Milwaukee ◦12: Took a little break behind the dugout for Frank to mentally prepare for pitch ◦12:40: Mets tied it up ◦12:43: Frank broke into a dance-off with the mascots ◦12:45: Frank walked out for yet another Ceremonial First Pitch at an MLB game. Solid pitch, not quite a strike but we are getting there. These moments are always surreal for all of Fleming Enterprises ◦To Frank’s surprise, Paul Sewald, a former Met who Frank regularly eviscerated caught the first pitch. Paul is clearly a great person with a tremendous sense of humor and he gave Frank a customized autograph saying “fuck your computer” 🐐 ◦Frank is living his dream for the world to see ◦1:06: National Anthem, they had Frank and me stand in line with the Diamondbacks which was insane ◦1:10: Game started and we were brought into a beautiful suite ◦1:20: Frank did a food review in the suite and everyone fell dead silent watching in amazement ◦1:45: Got full stadium tour which concluded with Frank watching some baseball from the pool in centerfield. Of course, MikeyBets jumped right in full body ◦2:22: Frank raw dogged in the stadium and mentioned the Mets were tied in a rain delay in the 9th ◦2:45: Settled into our seats and watched the Diamondbacks take the lead in the 7th ◦3:15: Finished filming with Bets behind the sticks ◦3:30: The game was an elite experience via the Diamondbacks red carpet treatment. We can’t thank you all enough and congrats on the win ◦3:45: Drove to raw dog in Phoenix laughing about the absurdly fun day ◦3:47: Mets game resumed and car got real tense real quick ◦4: Raw dogged in a small place with a loud strikeout, not awkward at all ◦4:16: Mets gave up three runs and died, as did the vibes. Frank lost it and the great day had turned ◦4:28: Connected with Notre Dame football 👀 #FrankWalks ◦4:45: Frank declared the Arizona state flag as the 🐐 ◦5: Said goodbye to MikeyBets (always hurts) who had a later flight and wanted to hit the casino. HIM ◦5:10: Went to Scottsdale Fashion Center to pad step count before the red eye home Walking now. After we hit 15K steps we’ll pop over to the airport for our red eye back to New Jersey. Thank you so much to Casey, Mike, and the Diamondbacks for welcoming Frank and delivering an unforgettable day. Weigh in 9 tomorrow morning after we land and go directly to Belleville HQ around 5-6 am. We are nervous. I already miss MikeyBets severely. Anudder adventure almost in the books

Blog 265 Diamondbacks first pitch ◦6-9: Gym, called parents, posted walking videos ◦10: Reunited with MikeyBets and felt complete ◦10:45: Arrived at Chase Stadium and was welcomed by the awesome Diamondbacks staff (shoutout Casey Wilcox) and walked right through the dugout and onto the field ◦Also huge thank you to Mike Dellosa (VP of ticket sales) who answered my LinkedIn dm and helped get set this all up ◦10:55: MikeyBets setup his camera in the Diamondbacks dugout which was hilarious to watch (he was viciously hungover) ◦11: Met with lots of the Diamondbacks and A’s players and coaches while they warmed up on Chase Field. Frank was in his element cracking jokes and talking baseball with the fellas ◦Everyone was incredibly welcoming, humble, and fun. The Diamondbacks manager, Torey Lovullo, called Frank a fucking legend ◦We crushed walk 277 circling the field pregame as Frank tracked the Mets game ◦11:30: Practiced the first pitch. We needed to loosen up the cannon more than we did in Milwaukee ◦12: Took a little break behind the dugout for Frank to mentally prepare for pitch ◦12:40: Mets tied it up ◦12:43: Frank broke into a dance-off with the mascots ◦12:45: Frank walked out for yet another Ceremonial First Pitch at an MLB game. Solid pitch, not quite a strike but we are getting there. These moments are always surreal for all of Fleming Enterprises ◦To Frank’s surprise, Paul Sewald, a former Met who Frank regularly eviscerated caught the first pitch. Paul is clearly a great person with a tremendous sense of humor and he gave Frank a customized autograph saying “fuck your computer” 🐐 ◦Frank is living his dream for the world to see ◦1:06: National Anthem, they had Frank and me stand in line with the Diamondbacks which was insane ◦1:10: Game started and we were brought into a beautiful suite ◦1:20: Frank did a food review in the suite and everyone fell dead silent watching in amazement ◦1:45: Got full stadium tour which concluded with Frank watching some baseball from the pool in centerfield. Of course, MikeyBets jumped right in full body ◦2:22: Frank raw dogged in the stadium and mentioned the Mets were tied in a rain delay in the 9th ◦2:45: Settled into our seats and watched the Diamondbacks take the lead in the 7th ◦3:15: Finished filming with Bets behind the sticks ◦3:30: The game was an elite experience via the Diamondbacks red carpet treatment. We can’t thank you all enough and congrats on the win ◦3:45: Drove to raw dog in Phoenix laughing about the absurdly fun day ◦3:47: Mets game resumed and car got real tense real quick ◦4: Raw dogged in a small place with a loud strikeout, not awkward at all ◦4:16: Mets gave up three runs and died, as did the vibes. Frank lost it and the great day had turned ◦4:28: Connected with Notre Dame football 👀 #FrankWalks ◦4:45: Frank declared the Arizona state flag as the 🐐 ◦5: Said goodbye to MikeyBets (always hurts) who had a later flight and wanted to hit the casino. HIM ◦5:10: Went to Scottsdale Fashion Center to pad step count before the red eye home Walking now. After we hit 15K steps we’ll pop over to the airport for our red eye back to New Jersey. Thank you so much to Casey, Mike, and the Diamondbacks for welcoming Frank and delivering an unforgettable day. Weigh in 9 tomorrow morning after we land and go directly to Belleville HQ around 5-6 am. We are nervous. I already miss MikeyBets severely. Anudder adventure almost in the books

Matteo Piper Jenks 🧲 🇮🇹

133,039 görüntüleme • 2 yıl önce