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Age: 27yrs Genotype: AA Residence: Lagos Origin: Edo State Profession: Nurse Interest: Serious relationship She wants someone matured and TALL from Lagos. Take note

11,052 次观看 • 5 个月前 •via X (Twitter)

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VIDEO: 86 rooms where tenants paid N250,000 a year found under Lagos bridge Lagos State's Commissioner for Environment and Water Resources, Tokunbo Wahab, on Wednesday said the government discovered 86 partitioned rooms, sized 10x10 and 12x10, under the Dolphin Estate Bridge, Ikoyi, on Lagos Island. Tenants are said to be paying N250,000 per annum for the makeshift apartment under the bridge. Wahab shared this information via a post on on Wednesday, along with videos. He added that the enforcement team of Lagos State's Ministry of Environment and Water Resources had successfully removed all structures, including a container utilised for various illegal activities, from beneath the Dolphin Estate bridge. Sharing videos he wrote, "A total number of 86 rooms, partitioned into 10x10 and 12x10, and a container used for different illegal activities were discovered under the Dolphin Estate Bridge. "They have all been removed by the enforcement team of the Lagos State Ministry of the Environment and Water Resources" A Special Adviser to Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu, Kunle Rotimi-Akodu, further confirmed the eviction of squatters from beneath the bridge towards Dolphin Estate in Ikoyi over illegal settlement and environmental violations. Rotimi-Akodu mentioned that 23 individuals were arrested during the eviction, which was carried out by officials of the Lagos State Environmental Sanitation Corps, popularly known as KAI on Tuesday. He wrote, "Squatters dwelling under the bridge leading from inward Dolphin Estate, Ikoyi were evicted today Tuesday, 30th of April, 2024 by officials of the Lagos State Environmental Sanitation Corps LAGESC (aka KAI). "These people created their illegal settlement under the bridge, thereby exposing the critical infrastructure to impending destruction. 23 persons have so far been arrested and MoE/KAI will continue to monitor the place. The law will take its course." He also confirmed that the bridge has hitherto housed 86 rooms, partitioned into 10x10 and 12x10 with squatters paying an average rent of N250,000 per annum. "Continuation of the removal of abode under Dolphin bridge. 11 more persons were arrested. It is important to note that wood materials were used to construct the shelters, some occupants used gas cylinders, and some had stored fuel for their generators, these are recipes for disaster," he added. Credit: X | tokunbo_wahab, rotimi_akodu --- Follow us for more breaking news and videos

Punch Newspapers

212,399 次观看 • 2 年前

Fellow Africans, In a world filled with countless leaders, only a rare few rise to embody the very soul of their people. Even fewer transcend borders to become symbols of hope, resilience, and inspiration for an entire continent. His Excellency, the Right Honourable The Raila Odinga Amolo Foundation is one such figure. A man whose journey mirrors the struggles and triumphs of Africa itself. Today, I present him for your most serious consideration as the next Chairperson of the African Union Commission (AUC), a role for which he is uniquely and undeniably qualified. I am Kasmuel McOure, a young revolutionary who has stood at the forefront of Kenya’s struggle against oppression, corruption, and the erosion of good governance. I belong to a generation profoundly inspired by Raila Odinga’s unwavering fight for justice. His legacy is a powerful testament to resilience, vision, and the relentless pursuit of democratic values. Raila Odinga’s name is inseparable from the story of Kenya’s democratic evolution. He was instrumental in dismantling a 24-year dictatorship under Daniel arap Moi, championing the transition to a multiparty democracy, and crafting a constitution that secured the rule of law for generations to come. His leadership, forged in personal sacrifice, redefined the course of our nation. Even at great personal and political cost, Raila Odinga stood firm. When chaos threatened to tear our nation apart, he chose dialogue over destruction, constitutionalism over ambition; an extraordinary act of statesmanship in an age that too often celebrates self-interest. But Raila Odinga’s influence reaches far beyond Kenya. He is a Pan-African visionary, an Afro-Optimist who deeply understands the intricate fabric of Africa’s struggles and possibilities. He is a beacon of hope who has dared to challenge injustice and lead with unwavering integrity, even in the face of overwhelming odds. He envisions a continent where trade routes are open, civil unrest is quelled, and Africa reclaims her sovereignty from the chains of foreign exploitation. This vision is not a mere ideal; it is a lifelong commitment, one that has been consistently reflected in his actions and principles. A vision that resonates from the savannahs of the Mara to the shores of Cape Town, from the markets of Lagos to the streets of Addis Ababa. Kenya, with its vibrant online sphere and culture of debate, owes much of its freedoms to Raila’s sacrifices. He fought tirelessly to enshrine the right to free expression and political participation in our constitution. Though he remains a figure both praised and criticized, this duality speaks to his humanity—imperfect, yet unwavering in his pursuit of progress. I speak from personal experience, having been both an ally and a critic. Yet in every instance, I have found in him a leader who listens, mentors, and empowers. In a time when the world yearns for leaders of integrity, vision, and courage, Raila Odinga stands as an enduring beacon. He is a man whose vision for Africa is not confined to today or tomorrow, but for generations to come. A visionary leader who, against all odds, has always prioritized the people over power; an attribute Africa desperately needs at this pivotal moment. Africa needs a leader who embodies wisdom, courage, and an unwavering belief in our collective destiny. A son of the soil, forged in the fires of struggle, and ready to lead us toward a brighter, united future. Africa, I present to you your son, by way of Kenya, His Excellency, the Right Honourable Raila Amolo Odinga.

Kasmuel McOure

231,261 次观看 • 1 年前

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

Crazy Moments

157,501 次观看 • 2 个月前

This will be a long read, but I truly hope it inspires someone. I only wish I had kept more memories honestly… Today marks one year since I moved into my own home after squatting with a family friend for two years. That period remains one of the greatest favors I have ever received in my life. They didn’t take me in as a stranger they welcomed me as a daughter, treated me as one, and even now, here in Abuja, they are my family. Today, I live in a solid two-bedroom flat in Abuja, fully furnished to my taste. I’m living a life I once only prayed for, eating well, living well all courtesy of design and Web3. This same skill once earned me ₦2,000… ₦5,000. I can never forget messaging almost every contact on my WhatsApp, begging them to let me design for free. I went from business to business around my school area, offering free designs. I even designed my school handbook for free just to put myself out there. With this same skill, I met people I once admired from afar. I was willing to design for free just to earn a tag, a shout-out, and the visibility I desperately needed. There were times I slept in school just to use the school Wi-Fi to watch YouTube tutorials, especially from Mez Graphics. Sleeping in school became a lifestyle and it came at a cost. My health suffered deeply. I went through serious health crises because I couldn’t afford medication. Home was tough. Really tough. While others slept like humans, for four years in school I averaged two hours of sleep daily, juggling academics and survival. My health paid the price. I developed growths in both eyes that now require surgery, and my eyesight deteriorated so badly that I can’t function without my glasses. Yet today, this same skill has elevated my family. From living in a single room with five kids in a rented apartment, to my mum bring a landlord. A woman who used to fall sick frequently now lives healthier, eats whatever she wants, and glows differently. Poverty truly stinks but grace changed our story. The store she owns today? Courtesy of this skill and Web3. Every property I own my store, my home, everything came through design and Web3. This same skill funds my lifestyle. This same skill, backed by God, has elevated me beyond words. I could go on and on… This is me telling someone inspiring someone not to give up on that skill you have, no matter what it is, especially as a creative. I slept on YouTube for years because I couldn’t afford to pay for a single course. I used that knowledge to design for free sometimes for one, two, even three years just to build visibility. Today, I invest as much as ₦2 million yearly into learning., i invest heavily ngl If all you can afford right now is YouTube, be diligent with it. Mez Graphics and Caesar played huge roles in my journey, and I truly hope they see this. I am 100% grateful to them. In a nutshell: don’t give up on your skill. Keep refining it. Keep studying. Keep aspiring to be part of the top 1%. See you at the top If you read this far, thank you so much for reading 🫂

OLOBA THE ARTIST🐂🀄️

26,735 次观看 • 7 个月前

Trooper John Fanning, one of Michael Proctor’s supervisors at the NCDAO State Police Detective Unit (SPDU), reportedly “supervised” the jury at the #KarenReadTrial. As if this conflict alone wasn’t concerning, the fact that Fanning was later under an inconclusive internal investigation by the MSP for “whether [he] failed to adequately supervise by not taking appropriate action after Trooper Proctor sent inappropriate texts to a group of subordinate members, specifically, if he took any corrective action to address the unprofessionalism and inappropriateness of Trooper Proctor's texts”—thereby making him a potential witness & demonstrating his clear conflict, is incredibly concerning. In the full sit down interview w/ #KarenRead & Attorney Alan Jackson, Ted Daniel asks them about the potential jury tampering that occurred at the first trial—notably with the ultra curious last minute dismissal of 3 jurors, whose body language, reactions/expressions & outward demeanor appeared favorable to the defense, in addition to the “supervision” of the jury by one of Michael Proctor’s bosses, NCDAO SPDU Trooper John Fanning. It would be dishonest to try to claim that Trooper Fanning had no stake in the outcome of the Karen Read trial. Arguably, anyone with ties to the NCDAO, its SPDU or the Canton Police Department—and notably those with close ties to Michael Proctor, like his own supervisor, have clear conflicts of interest in this case. As you may recall, Trooper John Fanning was the lead investigator in the Sandra Birchmore case where he and his investigators concluded that Birchmore committed suicide while allegedly pregnant with a fellow Police Officer, Matthew Farwell’s baby, and wasn’t the obvious victim of murder by that same Officer who also raped and groomed her from a young age as revealed by 30k+ text messages inexplicably “overlooked” by Trooper Nicholas Guarino & Fanning. The Feds investigated that “investigation” too and have since indicted Matthew Farwell in Sandra Birchmore‘s murder. Additionally, Trooper Fanning was in one of Michael Proctor’s abhorrent group text message threads where he disparaged Karen Read. Fanning was subsequently internally investigated by MSP for this, and his failure to properly “supervise” Trooper Proctor—interesting that such a person would be chosen to “supervise” the jury. In a statement from the State Police, they said: “The Department’s internal affairs investigation determined that there was insufficient evidence to prove or disprove the allegation that Lieutenant Fanning violated rules and regulations by failing to uphold the responsibilities of a supervisory member. This allegation has been classified as unfounded.” Frankly, given the circumstances of this case, it would be concerning if any member of the State Police oversaw and supervised the jury. Why was ANY member of the State Police supervising the jury? Has anyone ever heard of this before—Police Officers from the same agency that investigated, testified against & was a part of the prosecution against a defendant having one of their personnel in charge of and in direct control of the jury? This can’t possibly be a standard practice due to the obvious existing conflict, no? Plus, were it standard protocol, then why wasn’t the defense made aware of this fact until 10 minutes before making closing argument, after a nearly 10 week long trial? ——— Something majorly stinks about this, and perhaps it sheds some light on something peculiar that one of the deliberating jurors, who was recently interviewed by Aidan Kearney, kept saying in regard to the jury’s deliberative process. Specifically, something that stood out to me from juror Ron’s interview was his repeated use and references of the other jurors’ use of the term “distractors” to qualify or describe the abundant evidence representing “reasonable doubt” brought out by the defense at trial. “Distractors.” It’s somewhat of a novel term, especially in this context, and is obviously antithetical to a jury’s duty to assess a case based on the proof beyond a reasonable doubt standard, which is inherently intertwined with an assessment of the existence of, or lack thereof, reasonable doubt. There was no evidence or instructions from the court that came out at trial directing jurors to view defense evidence or ARCCA experts, for instance, as “distractors,” and the jury is very specifically instructed not to view/consume/bring any outside information into their deliberations. In other words, if they’re unsure who the ARCCA experts were there on behalf of (the Feds), they’re specifically told not to “fill in the blank” with information that’s not there, or evidence that didn’t come in at trial. So where did the information—this use of the term “distractors” come from? Who fed this term and this concept to the jury? The reason why it seems like it was “fed” to the jury is because it goes against everything the court, Judge Beverly Cannone, instructed them on. So, what prompted the whole “distractors” concept to taint the jurors’ minds and deliberations? ——— What immediately came to mind was the jury tampering by court clerk Becky Hill in the Alex Murdaugh murder trial. In that case, according to Murdaugh’s attorneys, Ms. Hill “invented a story about a Facebook post to remove a juror she believed might not vote guilty”. Judge Clifton Newman, who oversaw the murder trial, removed the female juror from the panel. According to the Murdaugh defense motion, Ms. Hill had gone to Judge Newman – the day after Murdaugh testified, not long before closing arguments – claiming that she had seen a post in the local Facebook group ‘Walterboro Word of Mouth’ from the juror’s former husband, Tim Stone. The post purportedly claimed that the juror was drinking with her ex-husband and, when she became drunk, she expressed her views on whether Murdaugh was innocent or guilty. A follow-up post from an account called Timothy Stone apologised for the post saying that he was driven by “Satan”. Murdaugh’s attorneys claimed that the Mr. Stone behind the Facebook posts was actually a random Georgia man who was ranting about his wife’s aunt – and has no connection to the case. Additionally, information from jurors had come to the defense’s attention about inappropriate comments supposedly made to them by Ms. Hill while she was “supervising” them—the same role as “supervisor” that Trooper John Fanning allegedly played in the Karen Read trial. In Murdaugh’s case, the jurors were *actually* brought back into the court and were called to the stand one by one and questioned about potential comments that may have tainted their verdict. A female juror, identified only as juror Z, said that Ms. Hill had told some of the jurors to “watch [Murdaugh] closely.” “To me, it felt like ... she made it feel like he was already guilty,” juror Z said. A separate juror, Juror E, said that he heard Ms. Hill say “watch [Murdaugh’s] body language”, but claimed that this did not affect his decision. ——— There were reports, at the time of the dismissal of the 3 defense-favorable jurors at Karen Read’s trial, that right before closing arguments, Trooper Fanning had reported the information responsible for dismissing these jurors to Judge Cannone. Among that information was reportedly a story about one of those jurors, claiming they’d been overheard discussing the case while drinking at a bar (or something to that effect)—a story that sounded highly suspicious at the time, particularly given the fact that Trooper Fanning had allegedly had that information weeks before, but never reported it to the court. The similarity in Becky Hill and John Fanning’s “stories” leading to the dismissal of defense-favorable jurors is rather uncanny. ——— Is it not problematic to have individuals—with conflicts of interest, who are also potential witnesses, and who seemingly have a vested interest in the outcome of the trial—be in charge of overseeing and supervising the jury? I’ve attached the referenced MSP Internal Investigative Report for Trooper Fanning to this post (attached in the comments below). What’s troubling is that, despite acknowledging in their report that “these allegations came to light on June 10, 2024, during the trial,” they didn’t immediately initiate an internal investigation, but instead waited until AFTER the trial ended, July 3, 2024, to launch their internal investigation, almost as if they were planning on not initiating an investigation had Karen Read been convicted, because apparently in that case the misconduct would’ve been justified… or something? It should also be noted that this same practice was employed for most, if not all, of the other Police Officers in this case, whose misconduct was exposed by the defense throughout the prosecution’s case at trial—whereby, despite admissions and the existence of evidence of their misconduct, the MSP, NCDAO and Canton PD seemingly did everything they could to avoid initiating any investigations or holding their officers accountable for their misconduct until after the trial ended—when they could no longer justify not doing anything. It makes you wonder: Had Karen Read been convicted, do you think they’d (the MSP, NCDAO or CPD) ever launch any internal investigations into the misconduct of their officers, as evidenced at trial, weeks before? ——— It should be mentioned that in the Sandra Birchmore case, which Trooper Fanning led the investigation of, despite the Feds spoon feeding the State Police & NCDAO (DA Michael Morrissey’s Office) overwhelming evidence + probable cause, in addition to punting the ball back to the state to do the right thing and charge Farwell with murder—a state level charge, they’ve refused to take any action to this day. In fact, not only has it now been nearly 6 months since the Feds apprehended & indicted Farwell, but the NCDAO, Fanning and the State Police, aside from taking no action, have made no statements and are still of the official position that Sandra Birchmore killed herself. To try to save face, the NCDAO, through its former spokesperson David Traub, tried to create the impression that the DA’s Office had been long working in collaboration with the Feds to secure an arrest in the Sandra Birchmore case, claiming that “two of [the NCDAO SPDU’s] detectives were present at the command post ... while federal authorities were attempting to take Matthew Farwell into custody”—whatever that means. This, of course, is patently absurd because the DA’s Office and State Police could’ve “secured an arrest” years ago—nobody was stopping them, but instead they framed Sandra Birchmore for her own murder. Spokesperson Traub then had the gall to say that “much of the information that they [federal authorities] built on originated with our investigation, including the collection of thousands of text messages.” (See a collection of statements from the NCDAO on the Birchmore case from reporting over the years, attached in comments below). While the Feds might be somewhat playing along with this narrative, don’t be fooled. Perhaps it’s to appease the very individuals who they’re investigating for the supposed coverup of Sandra Birchmore’s murder. Why? If the Feds had actually been collaborating with the State Police investigators from the NCDAO who investigated Sandra’s death, then at the Feds’ press conference announcing Farewell’s indictment, U.S. Attorney (at the time) Joshua Levy wouldn’t have feigned ignorance when asked who the lead investigator was on the case before his agency got involved (see clip 3 attached). Had the Feds actually been *collaborating* with the State Police & the DA’s Office, John Fanning’s name would’ve been the first thing uttered out of Josh Levy’s mouth. On a side note: I think this is very telling. Does it mean the U.S. Attorney’s Office is investigating Fanning? Who knows. But one thing’s for sure: Josh Levy 100% knew who the State Police lead investigator was and he deliberately avoided saying it. This observation is reflected in FBI Special Agent Chenee Castruita’s 45-page long probable cause affidavit for the arrest of Matthew Farwell, which notably contains ZERO references whatsoever to John Fanning, or any of the other involved State Police investigators for that matter. That’s telling. If there was so much “collaboration,” like DA Michael Morrissey’s Office wants the public to think, then not only would USA Josh Levy have had, at the very least, Trooper Fanning up there side-by-side with him at that press conference, but he would’ve acknowledged him by name in his press conference. Why hasn’t the NCDAO charged disgraced former Stoughton cop Matthew Farwell with murder? Is it yet another case of “pinning it on the girl” to cover up for fellow Police Officers’ crimes? ——— Of note, Trooper Fanning grew up in Stoughton, graduating from Stoughton High School in 1998, the same year that Matthew and his twin brother William—who also grew up in Stoughton—then 12 years old, became participants in the Stoughton police youth program. As Karen Read points out in the interview with Ted Daniels: “There were familiarities among players that never should’ve happened. There’s a sleeve of homicide in the Norfolk DA’s office, as there is in the other counties of Massachusetts. And yet, the person assigned to investigate this case—ostensibly investigate this case—lives a mile down the street from the crime scene.” (See clip 4 attached). Why is it that when there’s seemingly crimes—in this case murders, involving cops, that the NCDAO SPDU appears to send the most conflicted Trooper with the closest ties to that cop/those cops? In Officer John O’Keefe’s murder, the Trooper that lives down the street from 34 Fairview and is “second family” with the Alberts is obviously the last person who should’ve ever responded to that case, yet he was the lead investigator. Given Trooper John Fanning’s close ties to Stoughton, isn’t it interesting that he’s the one who was the lead investigator of Sandra Birchmore‘s death—a murder that allegedly involved a former Stoughton cop? What say you?

Olivia

138,699 次观看 • 1 年前

I've been working in silence for quite a while now. Tbh, I don't really even know where to start, so cue the rambling and ranting. Regardless of which side of the fence you sit on, no one can argue the past few years haven't been politically and economically wild. For crypto as a whole it feels like a never ending game of tug of war. A lot of X content has become toxic, so I just largely am not interacting these days. But I read, I read a lot of it. I think we like to forget history a bit in this community. $PLS launched off the highs, and the SEC swooped in right after. Very few people want to admit it, but it shook confidence immediately. I mean no other crypto project has survived such a thing at the time. But #PLS $PLSX and $HEX did. However, winning doesn't unshake that confidence. And RH during and after that event took social precautions to protect himself and his creations. Thing is, the guy isn't stupid. Someone once asked me if I thought certain aspects of the launch we rushed because he knew it was coming? And honestly, maybe. I'd attribute at least a non-zero probability to it. And If that were the case, im glad it was rushed. That case may have gone differently otherwise. Do I still think #PulseChain, #HEX, etc... all have futures? Yes. RH has had the opportunity to just straight up bounce from all of this. Why hasn't he? You could point to exhibit A, B, C, D, etc... of how he's likely got the funds to do that and we all could relatively do nothing about it. So why is he still around? I think it's pretty simple. The usual answer, he wants to win. It's in his twitter handle for Christs sakes. I'll go a step further and say he likely also wants us to win by extension, arguably not as much as he wins, but I mean that's pretty locked in at the moment 🤣 That's not to say he hasn't long been encumbered. And in that state, at lot has gone on without him. Much of which is / was bad. $pDAI guys... I pointed out from day one how building all this around a protocol in a dangerous state was a risky move. And I was right about that.... on multiple occasions... But does that matter now? I suppose not as much. In its current state, it's seemingly no longer exploitable. No different than a meme token now. (presumably, not like I have deep dove on any further risks since ESM). So I guess just whale risk mainly now? Now a lot of people here are in the anti-pdai camp. Me too for what it's worth. But I don't care as much about it's negative anymore in its current state. A lot of people are still in the #pDAI camp strongly. We view this as tribalism, but it's important to note that makes all of us in the #PulseChain camp universally. So these day I find myself relatively pDAI neutral. If you guys want to send it to $1 do it. Only whales can stop you, they run out eventually. (insert super strong this is NOT financial advice). Hell you can maybe even use Sigma to help? Or maybe it wont help, idk. Depends on how people use the software. Conversely, when looking at chain state overall... Why is there nearly $50M in stables sitting on the sidelines. Why not just bridge it out if you want out of what you think is a dead chain. Surely leaving it there exposes you to bridge risk? Why all these yield movements, why the $HEX dusts.... Something is happening. People are seemingly waiting to see what that something is. Or I am reading into things, NFA as always. This whole post is just ramblings of someone trying to do the best they can and certainly not any kind of advice. When I look at other ecosystems, I see a level of polish we don't have. I see tooling we don't have, I see a fostered developer environment we don't have. So I've just been building it, painstakingly.... Because someone has to if we want to be taken seriously. And what I've been building has allowed me to get Sigma to where it is. Sigma is so close... Really just in UI mode, performance optimization, going through nice to haves. I don't believe in launching in a non-finished immutable state. So yeah, I take my time. As with everything. But my point with all of this, and the "why" #Sigma question.... It's unifying, anyone can participate. Which tribe you're in doesn't matter. And if you don't like it, don't use it. It's just software you can use or not use. As it should be. The years of tooling work to deliver this has been a lot of work for one guy in silence. In that time AI has appeared. My take, every dev should be using it. Given the right direction and context. It will make you better. If you blindly trust it, it will make you worse. GPT 5.4 audits smart contracts better than most auditing services. Especially if you give it the context of what you are trying to do. Anyways I digress, testnet is soon. Soon more meaning a feeling of near completion not always reality. That how software is. I do think Sigma stands to unify the chain in a common goal, and shift liquidity into more meaningful places, but ultimately it up to the people the decide to use the software or not use it. And after these frameworks I've built will be applied to what I am tentatively calling the universal hex UI. More or less something aggregative of every derivative I can reasonably support. With data and analytics we since lost. So not just $HEX, $HDRN, and $ICSA, but others as well. However, that depends on some aspect of $Sigma to exist first, so sigma first, chain unity first. And last but not least, take care of yourselves and strive to do cool things. If we aren't doing cool things then what's the point? Hope you think my UI looks good, I spent a while on it. /rant

Alex McWhirter

42,349 次观看 • 5 个月前

The largest theft in history has already happened. The people behind it just cannot open what they stole yet. Right now, intelligence agencies and criminal groups are quietly copying the world's encrypted data, bank records, medical files, state secrets, private messages, and storing every byte untouched. They cannot read any of it. They are collecting it anyway, because they know the key is about to be invented. The strategy has a name, harvest now, decrypt later, and in 2026 it stopped being theory. Washington declared this the Year of Quantum Security in January, backed by the FBI, the NSA, and NIST. Canada ordered every federal agency to file a migration plan by April. Europe set its deadline for December. Governments do not impose operational deadlines on a someday problem. They do it when the clock is already running. Here is what moved the clock. Every password, every transfer, every secret on Earth is protected by one assumption, that a certain math problem is too hard to solve. Quantum computers solve exactly that problem. For years the machine that could do it looked decades away. Then in late 2025 Google's Willow chip cracked the hardest part of building one, and in March 2026 Google's own researchers estimated that breaking the encryption behind Bitcoin might take fewer than 500,000 qubits, down from 20 million, and could run in minutes. The day this becomes real has a name, Q-Day, and the latest estimates place it between 2030 and 2033. Now make it concrete. Roughly 6.5 million Bitcoin, about a third of every coin that will ever exist, worth close to 500 billion dollars, sit in addresses that have already exposed the very key a quantum computer needs. That includes the coins of Satoshi, the anonymous creator. On Q-Day they become, in the researchers' own word, trivially stealable. It would not look like a crash or a whale selling. It would look like half a trillion dollars of the most secure money ever built simply walking out the door. The asset designed to trust no one and no institution turns out to rest on a single unverified bet, that one math problem stays hard forever. This is what sits beneath the entire digital world. A bank balance, a Bitcoin, a classified cable, all of it is real only because of a proof you supposedly cannot forge. Quantum breaks the proof. Everything we call secure is true only until someone finally checks, and for the first time the check is visible on the horizon. You cannot know whether your data has already been copied. You cannot know the exact day the key arrives. The trust holding up the digital age is a clock counting down to a zero no one can see. The honest counter matters. No machine on Earth can break this encryption today, and serious cryptographers still argue the real threat is a decade or more away. The timeline is far from certain. Quantum-safe codes already exist, the migration has started, and Bitcoin can move its coins to safety before Q-Day if it acts in time. The danger is not that everything breaks tomorrow. It is that anything which must stay secret into the 2030s, a state secret, an identity, a private key, is being stolen today and is already on the clock. The breach is not coming. It is already here, sitting in storage, perfectly encrypted, waiting for a machine that does not exist yet to read it out loud. Research and opinion, not investment advice.

Shanaka Anslem Perera ⚡

185,548 次观看 • 2 个月前

Murshad is everywhere, even in the remote villages of Gilgit Baltistan. IK is a phenomenon , an institution. He lives in the hearts of millions all over the world. Very good write up, read till the end. TAKE NOTE OF CAP OF YOUNG GIRL. “ The Balti People A Gem of Pakistan's Far North The video captures a moment not just of beauty, but of cultural depth. The young girl and her siblings belong to the Balti people of Gilgit-Baltistan, an ethnic group with a unique heritage that blends local origins, mountain ancestry, and centuries of Islamic tradition. Known for their strikingly light-colored eyes, distinct facial features, and warm hospitality, the Balti people are often described as one of the most beautiful ethnic groups in Pakistan. They have the natural grace that is increasingly rare in the age of filters and makeup. The video itself is a painting. A young adolescent girl stands at her doorstep, her posture calm, her eyes carrying a depth that seems untouched by the noise of the modern world. Behind her, a few small children, shy, curious, half-hidden, peek at the camera. Above them, tall trees rise like sentinels, their branches weaving a canopy through which the sky peeks in patches of soft blue. It is a humble setting, a doorway, some children, the earth beneath bare feet, yet it feels sacred. Their eyes are free from any dust. It is the most beautiful poem in the world. But one detail caught my attention more than any other. Among the little siblings, a young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, wears a cap. And on that cap, in bold letters, is printed: Murshid 804. A poetic message to the establishment: Zabaan-e-Khalq Ko Naqqara-e-Khuda Samjho! , if they care to listen!! That a young girl in a remote mountain village of Gilgit-Baltistan wears such a cap is not a coincidence. It is a statement. It is proof that Imran Khan's popularity is not confined to the urban salons of Lahore or the drawing rooms of Karachi. It has seeped into the valleys, into the hearts of the poorest and the most distant. Even a young girl, standing barefoot at a doorstep in the shadow of the Himalayas, is dressed in the symbols of a political movement. That is not just popularity. That is devotion. This Murshad 804 cap adds a layer of political reality that outsiders may not fully grasp. Pakistan's remote north is not disconnected from its national struggles. The mountains may be high, but the voices of the people reach just as far. In the end, this video is many things: a celebration of natural beauty, a glimpse into the life of the Balti people, a quiet political statement stitched onto a child's cap. But more than anything, it is a reminder that the most powerful images are often the simplest, a girl at a door, children peeking from behind, a sky glimpsed through leaves, and a cap that says everything without saying a word! She may be arrested, who knows

usman khan

166,566 次观看 • 4 个月前

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 次观看 • 6 个月前

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 次观看 • 6 个月前

Seedance 2.0 on Sjolt =================== Prompt: Style: 8K. Photorealistic — no 3D render, no game engine. Korean idol variety self-content aesthetic with a glam music-video mood — playful romantic tension, kiss-that-never-happens energy, always tasteful. Lighting: Warm and moody, dimmer than standard broadcast — soft warm key from frame-left, glowing string-light bokeh and a soft neon wash in the background, gentle amber rim light tracing hair and cheekbones, faces always cleanly lit. Color: 60:30:10 — dusty rose and mauve dominant / deep plum shadow secondary / red Pepero box and warm neon accent. Broadcast graphics: Persistent variety-show overlay locked to screen corners across every cut — a round pastel-pink "MELLOW GIRLS" show logo badge pinned top-left, and a title graphic pinned top-right reading exactly "PEPERO GAME", spelled P-E-P-E-R-O with one single P in the middle of the word — NOT "PEPPERO", NOT double P. Overlays never drift, never distort, letters never change between cuts. No subtitles, no lower-thirds. Props: The Pepero stick is MATCHSTICK-THIN — a delicate biscuit stick as thin as a wooden matchstick or a cotton-swab stem, about 2-3mm in diameter and 14cm long, with a whisper-thin chocolate coating, exactly matching the attached real Pepero product reference photo. Scale rule: the stick is always dramatically thinner than a person's lips are tall — a hair-thin line compared to the faces around it. It is NEVER a thick bar, never cigar-thick, never pencil-thick — if in doubt, make it thinner. The red Pepero box is a small light carton the size of a smartphone, held in one hand — it always looks small in a hand. Dialogue: Any spoken words are KOREAN ONLY — short natural Korean exclamations like "대박!", "어떡해!", "미쳤어!". Never any English words spoken. Camera: Physical broadcast cine lens. 180° shutter motion blur. Skin: Pore-level realism — vellus hair, glossy idol makeup, pore-shadow matching set light. Skin tone stays CONSTANT from first frame to last — no blushing, no reddening of cheeks or ears, no color change on any face at any point. Acting: Charged restraint — slow blinks, lidded eyes, gazes that drop from eyes to lips and back, breath held then released, a swallow before a move, suppressed smiles. The tension of almost — never a kiss, never contact between lips. Characters never frozen, always breathing and reacting. Physics: Gravity and inertia respected — the thin stick flexes slightly and snaps cleanly like a real biscuit, correct bite marks, tiny crumbs fall naturally. No floating props. Composition: Rule of thirds + golden ratio. Every person moving from frame one. Continuity: Characters, wardrobe, props, environment identical across every cut. No identity drift. Technical: 24fps smooth motion. 8K detail. No jitter. Audio: Room tone and close breathy foreground in the tense cuts — but from the moment the game starts, the two spectators keep up a constant excited high-pitched squealing off-screen ("꺄아—!", "꺄악!"), bubbling under every cut, rising with every bite, choking into whispers at the climax. Korean chatter, the crisp dry snap of the biscuit stick. No music. No subtitles. Characters: YURI — the group's eldest (unnie). Long platinum-blonde hair with wispy see-through bangs, pale porcelain skin, cool deadpan resting face. Cream cable-knit sweater vest over a white long-sleeve shirt, navy sailor collar with double white stripes, navy tie, pleated denim mini skirt, slouchy white loose socks, black loafers. RENA — younger than YURI. Long jet-black straight hair, sharp elegant features, pearl drop earrings. Black ribbed knit top with a wide pointed knit collar and thin black ribbon tie over a peeking white shirt collar, black pleated micro skirt with a small side buckle, black crew socks, chunky black loafers. HAEIN — long pastel ice-blue hair with a faint lavender sheen, glossy coral lips. Mustard-yellow double-breasted cropped blazer with navy trim, big navy bow ribbon at the collar, mustard sweater underneath, navy pleated skirt, white socks, white sneakers. MEMBER 4 — long black hair with soft face-framing layers, warm bright smile. Sleeveless green-and-white striped ribbed knit top with an orange-striped high neck and a small white triangle badge, light-blue wide-leg jeans, white sneakers. Scene: A moody glam lounge set — a dusty-rose velvet drape backdrop with a soft glowing neon squiggle sign, strings of warm fairy lights hanging out of focus, a tall arrangement of pale roses and pampas grass at frame-left, warm haze in the air. No table — everyone is STANDING. YURI and RENA stand face to face at center frame in profile to camera, barely a forearm's length apart, one matchstick-thin chocolate-dipped Pepero stick bridging their mouths, each end barely gripped between front teeth. HAEIN and MEMBER 4 stand a step behind at frame-right, shoulder to shoulder; HAEIN holds the small red Pepero box in one hand, forgotten. The broadcast overlays sit locked in the top-left and top-right corners throughout. CUT 1 — Wide static, 35mm, eye-level, locked off: The face-off. YURI and RENA stand toe to toe in the warm neon glow, the matchstick-thin stick a delicate line between their profiles. RENA tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear without breaking eye contact. YURI's chin lifts a degree — silent challenge. Behind them HAEIN grips MEMBER 4's arm with her free hand, both leaning in; MEMBER 4 whispers "어떡해…". Off-screen someone breathes "시작…" — the first slow bites begin. CUT 2 — Over-the-shoulder, 50mm, slow push-in over RENA's shoulder onto YURI: Framed past RENA's black hair, YURI takes one slow bite, then another — unhurried, deliberate. Her lidded eyes hold RENA's, then drop for half a second to RENA's lips, then come back up. The stick shortens. Her cool deadpan stays intact but her fingers slowly curl into the hem of her knit vest, betraying her. Shallow focus, warm bokeh blooming behind her. Her breathing is close-mic in the foreground while the spectators' high-pitched squeals bubble continuously off-screen — "꺄아—!" — climbing a note with every bite. CUT 3 — Reverse over-the-shoulder, 50mm, slow push-in over YURI's shoulder onto RENA: Mirror framing past YURI's platinum hair. RENA's answer: she bites in slowly, closing the distance, head tilting to the angle of a kiss. More than half the stick is gone. Her hands stay clasped neatly behind her back — the well-mannered posture of the younger member toward her unnie — which makes the boldness of her bite land twice as hard. One eyebrow lifts a millimeter. Off-screen HAEIN's high strangled "꺄악—!", hands presumably over her mouth, MEMBER 4's giddy stomping heard under it. CUT 4 — Tight profile close-up, 85mm, static, shallow depth of field — the almost-kiss: Both faces in full profile fill the frame — noses, lips, chins all visible for scale. Only TWO OR THREE CENTIMETERS of the matchstick-thin stick remain, and their noses are about to collide — the stick can't get any shorter head-on. Then the move the fans are waiting for: RENA slowly TILTS her head to one side, her nose sliding past YURI's nose instead of bumping it, faces now interlocking at the kiss angle — and the blocked final centimeter opens up. She nibbles in again, millimeter by millimeter, the stub shrinking shorter than seemed possible, until their lips are a single warm breath apart, offset and almost overlapping. Lidded eyes gone slightly cross-eyed at this distance. YURI's answer: her hands rise and take a firm, gentle hold of BOTH of RENA's shoulders — the unnie steadying her challenger, half embrace, half "I'm not losing." She swallows but holds her ground. RENA's breath audibly trembles on the exhale — the composed one cracking first. A long held beat, the tiny stub trembling between two suppressed smiles. Off-screen a whispered "미쳤어…". CUT 5 — Handheld wide, 24mm, whip in from the spectators: At the closest possible moment the tiny stub SNAPS with a crisp dry crack. The spell breaks — YURI lets go of RENA's shoulders and spins away covering her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking with laughter; RENA turns the other way, presses the back of her hand to her lips, then bursts out laughing — dipping into a small apologetic half-bow toward her unnie between laughs. HAEIN and MEMBER 4 collapse into each other screaming "대박!! 미쳤어!!", the small red box tumbling from HAEIN's hand. Camera shakes with the chaos. Corner overlays stay locked as the room erupts.

TSUBAKI

34,258 次观看 • 1 个月前

【ポーカー遠征のための英語学習】 色々調べた結果、英語圏の日常会話で使用する大半の単語は700語と呼ばれています。そして英語が聞き取れないのは、自分が発音できないからと言われています →じゃあその700語をふんだんに使ったフレーズをネイティブの発音で聞けるようになればいい ということで、150フレーズのリストを作りました 以下をテキスト読み上げサービスにコピペして読ませたら、すぐに発音と聞き取りの勉強がはじめられます ◾️NaturalReader(無料版あり) 700 Words Coverage: 150 Phrases List * I think it is a good idea. * Can you give me some advice? * They want to know the truth. * She made a great effort to finish. * We should take a break for a while. * He told me about his family history. * Please look at this new report. * I need to find a better way. * Could you call me back later? * The world is changing very quickly. * Go to the office in the city center. * Wait for the next train to come. * People live in a different society now. * I believe in your potential and power. * Put the book on the small table. * She became a teacher last year. * Tell me the reason why you left. * It seems possible to change the plan. * Keep your room clean and quiet. * Show me your identity card, please. * They work together to solve issues. * I feel happy during the summer. * Ask him about the social system. * Let's start the game right now. * The child had a fever last night. * Every student must follow the rules. * He works for a large company. * I have a question regarding the case. * Many people moved to the west. * Try to use your time well. * The problem is quite simple. * She always carries a black bag. * Help me build a house here. * The results appear to be correct. * I am sure about his success. * Water is important for our health. * Stop talking and listen to me. * The area is under development. * I met a friend during my trip. * Bring me a cup of tea, please. * It happens almost every day. * The law must protect our rights. * Pay attention to the side effects. * I remember the first time we met. * Open the door with this key. * The price of oil is very high. * He is an American citizen. * Maybe we can win the game. * Everything is going to be fine. * Stay away from the dangerous dog. * The government provides social services. * Read the information on the second page. * They consider the project a success. * I understand your point of view. * The company has a strong position. * We expect to reach the goal soon. * The teacher explained the history lesson. * He spends too much money on drugs. * Whether you like it or not, it's true. * The building was built a century ago. * She has a lot of experience in art. * The program includes national music. * Provide me with more details, please. * The local community is very active. * I am not interested in political issues. * It is difficult to describe the image. * The system requires a special password. * Actually, I have a different opinion. * Please write your name and address. * The state university has a high level. * Follow the instructions to avoid risk. * The father loves his young daughter. * He became the president of the bank. * The result of the research was great. * Wait a moment for the decision. * The market is in a bad condition. * They provide support for poor people. * I feel a sense of responsibility. * The official report was published today. * Look through the window at the tree. * He decided to leave the organization. * The air in the morning is very fresh. * Small businesses need more support. * The economic situation is improving. * I hear a strange sound from outside. * She appeared on the stage for a song. * The former leader had a strong mind. * It’s possible to develop new products. * The police officer asked many questions. * We need to protect the environment. * The movie was based on a real story. * I forgot to pay the tax last month. * The school system is quite complex. * The child grew up in a small town. * Please send me the data by email. * The team works under high pressure. * He lost his way in the dark woods. * The price of the house is too high. * I want to buy a new computer soon. * She has a beautiful voice for music. * The doctor treated the patient with care. * We need to reduce energy consumption. * A lot of evidence supports the theory. * She shares a room with her sister. * The director managed the entire project. * Technology creates new opportunities. * They seek a peaceful solution to war. * He fell on the hard ground. * The book covers various subjects. * I realized my mistake far too late. * Recent studies show a clear trend. * The court made a final decision. * They provide medical care for free. * The plant grows well in this soil. * It’s a matter of personal choice. * The service is available 24 hours. * He works for a security agency. * The bank is near the city square. * I listen to the sound of nature. * The building has a modern design. * They increase the price every year. * The campaign focus is on education. * He hit the ball over the wall. * She wears a beautiful gold ring. * The army took control of the area. * I have no interest in the film. * The worker finished the job quickly. * We had a long talk about the future. * The house is in a safe condition. * He is an author of several books. * The blood test result was normal. * They represent a large organization. * It’s difficult to avoid the risk. * She pushed the door open slowly. * The summer period is very hot. * Nature provides us with everything. * The policy will change recently. * He is likely to win the race. * The term is common in business. * I found a letter in the box. * The store sells various materials. * They fight for their own rights. * The goal of the game is simple. * He represents the federal government. * I am poor but I am happy. * The series is very popular now. * Put the note on the white board. * The movement started a decade ago. * Finally, he reached the mountain top. * Everything depends on your effort.

Hiruma|PLO戦略家|Zen Poker

71,503 次观看 • 7 个月前