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柳外輕雷池上雨 Beyond the willows there is light thunder #jingheng #景恒

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松子

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176,055 просмотров • 2 лет назад •via X (Twitter)

Искусство#jingheng#景恒
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网友投稿： 罗老师你好，今天（2026年3月29日），广西多地出现突然天黑（乌云密布、雷暴云团快速移动）、短时强降雨、雷暴大风，并伴随冰雹现象。降雨云团自西向东移动，已经影响西部和北部地区，部分地方天空迅速变暗，犹如黑夜！ 百色、河池、崇左、南宁、贵港、钦州、玉林、梧州等市及柳州市北部有8级以上雷雨大风或冰雹！ 老人都说，从来没见过如此景象，此乃天道不祥之兆！难道真的王朝末年已至吗？
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Beyond the quiet walls of the Garden of Forking Paths lies the first circle of Violence in 7-2: LIGHT UP THE NIGHT. HD: In the grim darkness of Hell, there is only war. #screenshotsaturday #gamedev #indiedev
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Beyond the quiet walls of the Garden of Forking Paths lies the first circle of Violence in 7-2: LIGHT UP THE NIGHT. HD: In the grim darkness of Hell, there is only war. #screenshotsaturday #gamedev #indiedev

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Out there, beyond what we can name, there is more than darkness. There are vast arcs of space and light, shaped by forces we can’t see but can measure. Mysteries of the universe stretch farther than our understanding can reach. And sometimes, just sometimes, the sky answers back in colour, reminding us that “empty” was never the right word. Northern lights in Iceland. 📹Martin Giraud/ tinmar_g

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Simply beyond words! ❤️🇮🇱❤️ The mother of fallen IDF soldier, Yohanatan Yitzchak Samu, listens to her son’s heart, as it continues to beat. No matter how dark the situation, no matter how much evil there is in the world, the light of goodness will always prevail. Never lose hope; never give up; just keep pushing forward and try to spread as much light as you can. Am Yisrael Chai!

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Sometimes it feels like my life started when Hannah Montana was born. But before Hannah there was Miley. My fantasy was to light up the world with laughter, music & iconic moments that last beyond my lifetime. Decades later I continue to fulfill my purpose because of the love provided by my fans. This “Used To Be Young” series is inspired by my new single. Looking back on my life & sharing untold stories from 1992 until now. Let’s start at the beginning…. Forever, Miley
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Sometimes it feels like my life started when Hannah Montana was born. But before Hannah there was Miley. My fantasy was to light up the world with laughter, music & iconic moments that last beyond my lifetime. Decades later I continue to fulfill my purpose because of the love provided by my fans. This “Used To Be Young” series is inspired by my new single. Looking back on my life & sharing untold stories from 1992 until now. Let’s start at the beginning…. Forever, Miley

Miley Cyrus

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Beyond the clouds is a fascinating world. What you see here is a picture of a red sprite over a thunder cloud that I took as part of the Thor-Davis experiment from DTU Space ⚡Red sprites are part of the rare phenomena known as Transient Luminous Events, often shortened TLEs, that can appear over thunder clouds. The red sprites form around 40 to 80 km above ground and as you can see in the video from the Davis camera, the red sprites appear after the thunder has struck and much higher up. The Davis camera is special in that it does not take a picture like a regular camera, but like the retina in our eyes that is sensitive to changes in light, allowing it to take up to the equivalent of 100.000 pictures per second. This brings back memories of the blue jet I caught on camera on my first mission in 2015. / En verden over skyerne Det her er et billede af en rød fe over en tordensky, som jeg tog som en del af Thor-Davis-eksperimentet fra DTU. Røde feer er en del af de sjældne fænomener kendt som Transiente Luminous Events, ofte forkortet TLE'er, der dannes over tordenskyer. De røde feer dannes cirka 40 til 80 km over Jorden, og som du kan se i videoen fra Davis-kameraet, kommer tordenen først, hvorefter den røde fe opstår højere oppe. Davis-kameraet er specielt, fordi det ikke tager billeder som et almindeligt kamera, men som nethinden i vores øjne, der er følsom over for ændringer i lys og med det kan Davis kameraet tage op til hvad der svarer til 100.000 billeder pr. sekund. At se en rød fe minder mig om det blå lyn, jeg tog et billede af under min første mission i 2015.
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Beyond the clouds is a fascinating world. What you see here is a picture of a red sprite over a thunder cloud that I took as part of the Thor-Davis experiment from DTU Space ⚡Red sprites are part of the rare phenomena known as Transient Luminous Events, often shortened TLEs, that can appear over thunder clouds. The red sprites form around 40 to 80 km above ground and as you can see in the video from the Davis camera, the red sprites appear after the thunder has struck and much higher up. The Davis camera is special in that it does not take a picture like a regular camera, but like the retina in our eyes that is sensitive to changes in light, allowing it to take up to the equivalent of 100.000 pictures per second. This brings back memories of the blue jet I caught on camera on my first mission in 2015. / En verden over skyerne Det her er et billede af en rød fe over en tordensky, som jeg tog som en del af Thor-Davis-eksperimentet fra DTU. Røde feer er en del af de sjældne fænomener kendt som Transiente Luminous Events, ofte forkortet TLE'er, der dannes over tordenskyer. De røde feer dannes cirka 40 til 80 km over Jorden, og som du kan se i videoen fra Davis-kameraet, kommer tordenen først, hvorefter den røde fe opstår højere oppe. Davis-kameraet er specielt, fordi det ikke tager billeder som et almindeligt kamera, men som nethinden i vores øjne, der er følsom over for ændringer i lys og med det kan Davis kameraet tage op til hvad der svarer til 100.000 billeder pr. sekund. At se en rød fe minder mig om det blå lyn, jeg tog et billede af under min første mission i 2015.

Andreas Mogensen

67,151 просмотров • 2 лет назад

If you really want full disclosure, you must raise your perspective beyond dualistic 3D thinking regarding human suffering and death. There aren't secret battles happening to free humans from evil because humans aren't prisoners. There is only spiritual warfare, and what humans do to each other. Those who are truly awake understand we're souls choosing temporary incarnations that agree to forget in order to overcome challenges. We're so powerful on the other side that we welcome it. Angels and demons aren't literally fighting for control. The power dynamics between light and dark forces behind the scenes are so mismatched you'd find it amusing. The dark leaders are already confined and a handful of demons run amok. Compared to fleets of Galactic Federation motherships and millions of our soul family standing by with god-like powers. There's nothing to be worried about. Reject victim mentality. Regulate negative media. Make self-empowering choices. The concept of evil won't be defeated it duality, it will be left behind. #AYA - "You Are Here Now To Show Love By Your Own Effort. Walk Through Madness And Rise In The Light Of Infinite Love!"
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If you really want full disclosure, you must raise your perspective beyond dualistic 3D thinking regarding human suffering and death. There aren't secret battles happening to free humans from evil because humans aren't prisoners. There is only spiritual warfare, and what humans do to each other. Those who are truly awake understand we're souls choosing temporary incarnations that agree to forget in order to overcome challenges. We're so powerful on the other side that we welcome it. Angels and demons aren't literally fighting for control. The power dynamics between light and dark forces behind the scenes are so mismatched you'd find it amusing. The dark leaders are already confined and a handful of demons run amok. Compared to fleets of Galactic Federation motherships and millions of our soul family standing by with god-like powers. There's nothing to be worried about. Reject victim mentality. Regulate negative media. Make self-empowering choices. The concept of evil won't be defeated it duality, it will be left behind. #AYA - "You Are Here Now To Show Love By Your Own Effort. Walk Through Madness And Rise In The Light Of Infinite Love!"

Kab

87,432 просмотров • 1 год назад

中国でコブラを含む毒蛇が大量脱走し、とんでもないことに... 中国広西チワン族自治区の衡州市で悪夢のような光景が広がっている。 台風マイサックがもたらした記録的豪雨で貯水池が決壊 →濁流が街を飲み込む →養殖場が破壊され毒蛇約900匹が一斉に脱走した。 コブラを含む毒蛇の群れが、浸水した街を悠然と泳ぎ回る。住民は恐怖に震え上がった。 既に1人が咬まれ治療を受けている。当局は抗毒素の備蓄を強化し、住民に厳重な注意を呼びかけた。 この豪雨による死者は中国全土で39人、うち衡州だけで26人。広西全域で9人が行方不明のままだ。 近隣の動物園ではシマウマ2頭、ヤマアラシ4匹を含む動物100匹以上が行方不明となっている。 天災の爪痕は、いまも水面を這う毒蛇の群れとなって街を覆い続けている。 This video is for illustrative purposes only. Created with AI (Grok)”
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中国でコブラを含む毒蛇が大量脱走し、とんでもないことに... 中国広西チワン族自治区の衡州市で悪夢のような光景が広がっている。 台風マイサックがもたらした記録的豪雨で貯水池が決壊 →濁流が街を飲み込む →養殖場が破壊され毒蛇約900匹が一斉に脱走した。 コブラを含む毒蛇の群れが、浸水した街を悠然と泳ぎ回る。住民は恐怖に震え上がった。 既に1人が咬まれ治療を受けている。当局は抗毒素の備蓄を強化し、住民に厳重な注意を呼びかけた。 この豪雨による死者は中国全土で39人、うち衡州だけで26人。広西全域で9人が行方不明のままだ。 近隣の動物園ではシマウマ2頭、ヤマアラシ4匹を含む動物100匹以上が行方不明となっている。 天災の爪痕は、いまも水面を這う毒蛇の群れとなって街を覆い続けている。 This video is for illustrative purposes only. Created with AI (Grok)”

TotalNewsWorld

45,406 просмотров • 1 месяц назад

"My dad passed away two summers ago, and his old Irish setter, Ruby, still swims out from his dock every evening. Dad had a little place on the lake, and every night after dinner, he would walk down to the end of the dock with a cup of coffee and Ruby right behind him. They would sit there together and watch the sun disappear over the water. She was his shadow for 11 years, and wherever he went, she followed. After the funeral, we brought Ruby back to my house in town because we thought keeping her close to the family was the kindest thing to do. But she never settled in. She stopped eating properly, paced through the halls at night, and spent hours standing at the back door as though she were waiting for someone. After a couple of weeks, my mom finally said what the rest of us had been avoiding. “That dog needs to go back to the lake.” Ruby lives at the lake house now, and my mom stays out there with her. Almost every evening, around the same time Dad used to take his coffee down to the water, Ruby walks slowly to the end of the dock. She stands there for a moment, looking across the lake, before carefully stepping into the water. Then she swims one slow loop beyond the end of the dock, passing the same stretch where Dad used to cast his fishing line. When she comes back, Ruby climbs onto the boards, shakes the water from her coat, and walks over to the place where Dad always sat. She lowers herself down in that exact spot and faces the sunset until the last light disappears. The vet says there is nothing physically wrong with her. She is simply an old dog keeping an appointment she has kept for most of her life. We still drive out there most weekends. Sitting on that dock at sunset with Ruby’s gray head resting in my lap is the closest I ever feel to my dad now. Do you think dogs understand that someone is never coming back, or do they keep waiting because love has become part of their routine?
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"My dad passed away two summers ago, and his old Irish setter, Ruby, still swims out from his dock every evening. Dad had a little place on the lake, and every night after dinner, he would walk down to the end of the dock with a cup of coffee and Ruby right behind him. They would sit there together and watch the sun disappear over the water. She was his shadow for 11 years, and wherever he went, she followed. After the funeral, we brought Ruby back to my house in town because we thought keeping her close to the family was the kindest thing to do. But she never settled in. She stopped eating properly, paced through the halls at night, and spent hours standing at the back door as though she were waiting for someone. After a couple of weeks, my mom finally said what the rest of us had been avoiding. “That dog needs to go back to the lake.” Ruby lives at the lake house now, and my mom stays out there with her. Almost every evening, around the same time Dad used to take his coffee down to the water, Ruby walks slowly to the end of the dock. She stands there for a moment, looking across the lake, before carefully stepping into the water. Then she swims one slow loop beyond the end of the dock, passing the same stretch where Dad used to cast his fishing line. When she comes back, Ruby climbs onto the boards, shakes the water from her coat, and walks over to the place where Dad always sat. She lowers herself down in that exact spot and faces the sunset until the last light disappears. The vet says there is nothing physically wrong with her. She is simply an old dog keeping an appointment she has kept for most of her life. We still drive out there most weekends. Sitting on that dock at sunset with Ruby’s gray head resting in my lap is the closest I ever feel to my dad now. Do you think dogs understand that someone is never coming back, or do they keep waiting because love has become part of their routine?

Crazy Moments

196,705 просмотров • 17 дней назад

神奇APP 又更新了? (3/4) -- 神の機能、天気操作?! 香港の雨の夜の街。激しい雨が降り注いでいます。寧寧はファイルケースを頭にかざして雨をしのぎ、体はすでにびしょ濡れです。彼女は水溜まりの道を歩き、疲れた表情を浮かべています。一つの手がスマートフォンを掲げ、画面には太陽のアイコンが表示されています。ボタンを押すと強い光が爆発し、雨が瞬時に止みました。雲が晴れ、明るい満月が姿を現します。彼女は驚きで顔を上げ、安心した笑顔が広がります。 もしこの神奇APPを持っていたら、どんな天気を操作しますか？ この9秒の短い動画をご覧になり、返信であなたのアイデアを教えてください。雨を止めたい、雪を止めたい、その他どんな天気現象を作りたいでも、シェアしていただけると嬉しいです。中国語、日本語、英語のいずれの言語でも歓迎します。 「神奇APP 又更新了?」シリーズ (3/4) は継続中です。最終回が近づいています。どうぞお楽しみに！ ================= Magical APP Updated Again? (3/4) — God-like Function: Weather Control?! On a rainy night in Hong Kong, heavy rain pours down the streets. Ningning holds a folder over her head to shield herself, her clothes already soaked. She walks through the flooded pavement with a weary expression. A hand raises a smartphone displaying a sun icon. The moment it activates, a burst of light appears and the rain instantly stops. The clouds part, revealing a bright full moon. She looks up in surprise, a relieved smile spreading across her face. If you had this magical APP, what kind of weather would you control? We sincerely invite you to watch this 9-second clip and share your thoughts in the replies. Whether you want to stop the rain, stop the snow, or create other weather phenomena, feel free to share. We welcome replies in Chinese, Japanese, or English. The “Magical APP Updated Again?” series (3/4) continues. The finale is coming soon. Stay tuned! ===Check the full prompt and story in comment=== Please tap the post😁
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神奇APP 又更新了? (3/4) -- 神の機能、天気操作?! 香港の雨の夜の街。激しい雨が降り注いでいます。寧寧はファイルケースを頭にかざして雨をしのぎ、体はすでにびしょ濡れです。彼女は水溜まりの道を歩き、疲れた表情を浮かべています。一つの手がスマートフォンを掲げ、画面には太陽のアイコンが表示されています。ボタンを押すと強い光が爆発し、雨が瞬時に止みました。雲が晴れ、明るい満月が姿を現します。彼女は驚きで顔を上げ、安心した笑顔が広がります。 もしこの神奇APPを持っていたら、どんな天気を操作しますか？ この9秒の短い動画をご覧になり、返信であなたのアイデアを教えてください。雨を止めたい、雪を止めたい、その他どんな天気現象を作りたいでも、シェアしていただけると嬉しいです。中国語、日本語、英語のいずれの言語でも歓迎します。 「神奇APP 又更新了?」シリーズ (3/4) は継続中です。最終回が近づいています。どうぞお楽しみに！ ================= Magical APP Updated Again? (3/4) — God-like Function: Weather Control?! On a rainy night in Hong Kong, heavy rain pours down the streets. Ningning holds a folder over her head to shield herself, her clothes already soaked. She walks through the flooded pavement with a weary expression. A hand raises a smartphone displaying a sun icon. The moment it activates, a burst of light appears and the rain instantly stops. The clouds part, revealing a bright full moon. She looks up in surprise, a relieved smile spreading across her face. If you had this magical APP, what kind of weather would you control? We sincerely invite you to watch this 9-second clip and share your thoughts in the replies. Whether you want to stop the rain, stop the snow, or create other weather phenomena, feel free to share. We welcome replies in Chinese, Japanese, or English. The “Magical APP Updated Again?” series (3/4) continues. The finale is coming soon. Stay tuned! ===Check the full prompt and story in comment=== Please tap the post😁

Peter Lam

15,830 просмотров • 1 месяц назад

The best really is yet to come. These aren’t just words. I am here to tell you that there is an unstoppable plan in motion. I'm talking about something bigger than new financial systems or mass arrests. We are soon to experience 'heaven on Earth' with beauty beyond imagination. I believe many truth seekers are unprepared for what's coming before the Shift because they're being told white hats are in control of world events and are about to rescue us from evil. This is dangerous thinking. This is the great tribulation and we're not at the end yet. There will be continuation of what we're already seeing, which will escalate drastically by the next election. Freedoms will continue to be taken away, brainwashing of children will continue, globalist agendas will expand, more clones, trans-humanism, bank collapse, climate blackouts, power grid attacks, food shortages. I believe a US war with China is being planned. Galactic Federation won't stop every bad thing from happening but we are being continually assisted in ways we can’t see. They will weaken pandemics, they will stop nuclear weapons and they won't allow any fake alien invasions. It's okay to be aware of dark plans but don't dwell in negative thinking. This lowers your frequency and allows for astral attachments. Be mindful of your thoughts and actions because this creates your experience. Keep your Light. Don't lose hope. We are not prisoners and everything is temporary. Continue standing for truth but know what is within your control to change and have peace about what you can't change. Focus on the big picture and ignore the daily noise. Go within to connect with your Higher Self to find peace. Never be afraid, just be prepared.
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The best really is yet to come. These aren’t just words. I am here to tell you that there is an unstoppable plan in motion. I'm talking about something bigger than new financial systems or mass arrests. We are soon to experience 'heaven on Earth' with beauty beyond imagination. I believe many truth seekers are unprepared for what's coming before the Shift because they're being told white hats are in control of world events and are about to rescue us from evil. This is dangerous thinking. This is the great tribulation and we're not at the end yet. There will be continuation of what we're already seeing, which will escalate drastically by the next election. Freedoms will continue to be taken away, brainwashing of children will continue, globalist agendas will expand, more clones, trans-humanism, bank collapse, climate blackouts, power grid attacks, food shortages. I believe a US war with China is being planned. Galactic Federation won't stop every bad thing from happening but we are being continually assisted in ways we can’t see. They will weaken pandemics, they will stop nuclear weapons and they won't allow any fake alien invasions. It's okay to be aware of dark plans but don't dwell in negative thinking. This lowers your frequency and allows for astral attachments. Be mindful of your thoughts and actions because this creates your experience. Keep your Light. Don't lose hope. We are not prisoners and everything is temporary. Continue standing for truth but know what is within your control to change and have peace about what you can't change. Focus on the big picture and ignore the daily noise. Go within to connect with your Higher Self to find peace. Never be afraid, just be prepared.

Kab

349,382 просмотров • 3 лет назад

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.
0:10

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 просмотров • 5 месяцев назад

东方玄幻武侠电影级特效大片📺📺 万剑归宗🆚霸道一刀斩 除了剑搞反了其他绝对完美，一次生成效果！无抽卡 Seedance 2.0文生视频 prompt 👇 【风格】东方玄幻武侠（Wuxia Fantasy），电影级特效大片，史诗感，慢动作与快剪结合，粒子光效炸裂，4K超清。 【时长】15秒 【角色】剑圣（白衣飘飘，仙风道骨）VS 刀魔（黑甲重铠，霸气外露）。 【场景】云海之巅的破碎古剑台，残阳如血。 [00:00-00:05] 镜头1：剑意·万剑归宗（The Sword Storm）。 剑圣悬浮半空，双手掐诀。他身后的一柄古剑瞬间分化出成千上万把散发着幽蓝光芒的能量光剑。 【特效】无数光剑在空中汇聚成一条巨大的发光巨龙（Vortex of Light Swords），遮天蔽日，带着刺耳的破空声向刀魔倾泻而下。 [00:05-00:10] 镜头2：刀意·一刀斩（The Domineering Slash）。 面对漫天剑雨，刀魔纹丝不动，双手握住一把厚重的赤红巨刀高举过头顶。 【特效】地面在他脚下龟裂破碎，岩浆涌出。巨刀瞬间凝聚出恐怖的赤红火焰刀芒，周围空间都因高温而扭曲。他怒吼一声，极其简单粗暴地挥出这毁天灭地的一刀。 [00:10-00:15] 镜头3：极致碰撞（The Final Clash）。 一道横贯天地的半月形赤红刀气撞上迎面而来的蓝色剑雨长河。 【特效】红蓝两种能量瞬间对撞爆炸，产生巨大的环形冲击波，将周围的云海和山峰瞬间震碎。画面在能量爆发的极亮白光中结束。 #seedance2
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东方玄幻武侠电影级特效大片📺📺 万剑归宗🆚霸道一刀斩 除了剑搞反了其他绝对完美，一次生成效果！无抽卡 Seedance 2.0文生视频 prompt 👇 【风格】东方玄幻武侠（Wuxia Fantasy），电影级特效大片，史诗感，慢动作与快剪结合，粒子光效炸裂，4K超清。 【时长】15秒 【角色】剑圣（白衣飘飘，仙风道骨）VS 刀魔（黑甲重铠，霸气外露）。 【场景】云海之巅的破碎古剑台，残阳如血。 [00:00-00:05] 镜头1：剑意·万剑归宗（The Sword Storm）。 剑圣悬浮半空，双手掐诀。他身后的一柄古剑瞬间分化出成千上万把散发着幽蓝光芒的能量光剑。 【特效】无数光剑在空中汇聚成一条巨大的发光巨龙（Vortex of Light Swords），遮天蔽日，带着刺耳的破空声向刀魔倾泻而下。 [00:05-00:10] 镜头2：刀意·一刀斩（The Domineering Slash）。 面对漫天剑雨，刀魔纹丝不动，双手握住一把厚重的赤红巨刀高举过头顶。 【特效】地面在他脚下龟裂破碎，岩浆涌出。巨刀瞬间凝聚出恐怖的赤红火焰刀芒，周围空间都因高温而扭曲。他怒吼一声，极其简单粗暴地挥出这毁天灭地的一刀。 [00:10-00:15] 镜头3：极致碰撞（The Final Clash）。 一道横贯天地的半月形赤红刀气撞上迎面而来的蓝色剑雨长河。 【特效】红蓝两种能量瞬间对撞爆炸，产生巨大的环形冲击波，将周围的云海和山峰瞬间震碎。画面在能量爆发的极亮白光中结束。 #seedance2

John

33,444 просмотров • 6 месяцев назад

【那須烏山市の魅力】 💫7月24日・25日・26日に開催される「山あげまつり」はユネスコ無形文化遺産および国指定重要無形民俗文化財に登録されており「日本一の移動式野外歌舞伎」として知られ450年以上の歴史を受け継ぐ那須烏山市最大の伝統行事✨ 絢爛豪華な巨大な山を街中に組み上げ、道路そのものを舞台に変えてしまう壮大な野外歌舞伎は圧巻のひと言。 受け継がれる伝統、地域の絆、そして迫力ある演舞は、一度見れば心に深く刻まれる感動があります。 📌山あげまつりPV✨️ 🏮祭りの感動をさらに深く知るなら『山あげ会館』へ。 山あげまつりの歴史や文化、迫力ある映像展示で祭りの魅力を一年中体感できます✨ さらにここは、日本を代表する名車「メグロ」の歴史にも触れられる“バイクファンの聖地”。 伝統文化とモーターサイクル文化が交差する、全国でも珍しいスポットです🏍️✨ 🌱そして、心を癒やす絶景へ。 名瀑『龍門の滝』は、豪快に流れ落ちる水しぶきと四季折々の自然が織りなす絶景スポット。 滝の迫力と澄みきった空気は、訪れた人の心を優しく洗い流してくれます。 滝のすぐそばにある『龍門ふるさと民芸館・龍門カフェ』では、美しい滝を眺めながらゆったりとした時間を満喫。 木の温もりあふれる空間で味わう一杯のコーヒーは、まさに贅沢な癒やしのひととき。 自然・歴史・グルメが一つになった、那須烏山ならではの特別な時間が流れています☕🌿 🍃さらに、日本の伝統文化を感じるなら『和紙会館』へ。 職人が受け継いできた手漉き和紙の技術に触れ、自分だけの和紙作り体験も楽しめます。 一枚一枚に宿る温もりと美しさは、日本人の繊細な感性そのもの。 世界に一つだけの作品は、旅の思い出としても特別な宝物になります。 🌸伝統が息づく山あげまつり。 歴史を未来へつなぐ山あげ会館。 メグロが語るバイク文化。 豪快な龍門の滝。 癒やしの龍門カフェ。 日本の美を受け継ぐ和紙会館。 那須烏山市には、心を震わせる感動と、ゆっくりと流れる癒やしの時間、その両方があります。 歴史に出会い、自然に癒やされ、文化に触れ、人の温かさを感じる旅へ── ✨ぜひ一度、那須烏山市の魅力を体感してみてください。 きっと、また帰って来たくなる風景がここにはあります🌈🚙💨🎶Nasukarasuyama☆ 🇯🇵#NPO団体集団ｽﾄｰｶｰ組織犯罪撲滅推進連合会⭐② ✨ Discover the Timeless Beauty of Nasukarasuyama, Japan ✨ Step into the heart of Japan, where ancient traditions, breathtaking nature, and rich culture come together. 🎭 Yamaage Festival – A Spectacular Outdoor Kabuki Held every year on July 24–26, the Yamaage Festival has over 450 years of history and is recognized as a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage tradition and an Important Intangible Folk Cultural Property of Japan. Watch enormous handcrafted mountains transform the streets into a magnificent open-air Kabuki stage. Its breathtaking performances and living traditions create unforgettable memories. 📌 🏮 Yamaage Kaikan Experience the festival all year through immersive exhibitions and historical displays. It is also home to the legendary Meguro motorcycle heritage, making it a unique destination where Japanese tradition meets motorcycle culture. 🌊 Ryumon Falls Feel the power of one of Tochigi's most beautiful waterfalls. Surrounded by stunning seasonal scenery, it's a place to relax, refresh, and reconnect with nature. ☕ Ryumon Folk Craft Center & Café Enjoy freshly brewed coffee while overlooking the beautiful waterfall. Nature, local culture, and warm Japanese hospitality create a truly peaceful experience. 🍃 Washi Kaikan Discover the beauty of traditional handmade Japanese paper. Learn from skilled artisans and create your own one-of-a-kind washi masterpiece to remember your journey. 🌸 A Journey You'll Never Forget Experience the grandeur of the Yamaage Festival, the history of Yamaage Kaikan, the legacy of Meguro motorcycles, the beauty of Ryumon Falls, the tranquility of Ryumon Café, and the timeless craftsmanship of Washi Kaikan. ✨ Nasukarasuyama is where history inspires, nature heals, and Japanese culture comes alive. Come and discover a place you'll always want to return to. 🇯🇵🌸
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【那須烏山市の魅力】 💫7月24日・25日・26日に開催される「山あげまつり」はユネスコ無形文化遺産および国指定重要無形民俗文化財に登録されており「日本一の移動式野外歌舞伎」として知られ450年以上の歴史を受け継ぐ那須烏山市最大の伝統行事✨ 絢爛豪華な巨大な山を街中に組み上げ、道路そのものを舞台に変えてしまう壮大な野外歌舞伎は圧巻のひと言。 受け継がれる伝統、地域の絆、そして迫力ある演舞は、一度見れば心に深く刻まれる感動があります。 📌山あげまつりPV✨️ 🏮祭りの感動をさらに深く知るなら『山あげ会館』へ。 山あげまつりの歴史や文化、迫力ある映像展示で祭りの魅力を一年中体感できます✨ さらにここは、日本を代表する名車「メグロ」の歴史にも触れられる“バイクファンの聖地”。 伝統文化とモーターサイクル文化が交差する、全国でも珍しいスポットです🏍️✨ 🌱そして、心を癒やす絶景へ。 名瀑『龍門の滝』は、豪快に流れ落ちる水しぶきと四季折々の自然が織りなす絶景スポット。 滝の迫力と澄みきった空気は、訪れた人の心を優しく洗い流してくれます。 滝のすぐそばにある『龍門ふるさと民芸館・龍門カフェ』では、美しい滝を眺めながらゆったりとした時間を満喫。 木の温もりあふれる空間で味わう一杯のコーヒーは、まさに贅沢な癒やしのひととき。 自然・歴史・グルメが一つになった、那須烏山ならではの特別な時間が流れています☕🌿 🍃さらに、日本の伝統文化を感じるなら『和紙会館』へ。 職人が受け継いできた手漉き和紙の技術に触れ、自分だけの和紙作り体験も楽しめます。 一枚一枚に宿る温もりと美しさは、日本人の繊細な感性そのもの。 世界に一つだけの作品は、旅の思い出としても特別な宝物になります。 🌸伝統が息づく山あげまつり。 歴史を未来へつなぐ山あげ会館。 メグロが語るバイク文化。 豪快な龍門の滝。 癒やしの龍門カフェ。 日本の美を受け継ぐ和紙会館。 那須烏山市には、心を震わせる感動と、ゆっくりと流れる癒やしの時間、その両方があります。 歴史に出会い、自然に癒やされ、文化に触れ、人の温かさを感じる旅へ── ✨ぜひ一度、那須烏山市の魅力を体感してみてください。 きっと、また帰って来たくなる風景がここにはあります🌈🚙💨🎶Nasukarasuyama☆ 🇯🇵#NPO団体集団ｽﾄｰｶｰ組織犯罪撲滅推進連合会⭐② ✨ Discover the Timeless Beauty of Nasukarasuyama, Japan ✨ Step into the heart of Japan, where ancient traditions, breathtaking nature, and rich culture come together. 🎭 Yamaage Festival – A Spectacular Outdoor Kabuki Held every year on July 24–26, the Yamaage Festival has over 450 years of history and is recognized as a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage tradition and an Important Intangible Folk Cultural Property of Japan. Watch enormous handcrafted mountains transform the streets into a magnificent open-air Kabuki stage. Its breathtaking performances and living traditions create unforgettable memories. 📌 🏮 Yamaage Kaikan Experience the festival all year through immersive exhibitions and historical displays. It is also home to the legendary Meguro motorcycle heritage, making it a unique destination where Japanese tradition meets motorcycle culture. 🌊 Ryumon Falls Feel the power of one of Tochigi's most beautiful waterfalls. Surrounded by stunning seasonal scenery, it's a place to relax, refresh, and reconnect with nature. ☕ Ryumon Folk Craft Center & Café Enjoy freshly brewed coffee while overlooking the beautiful waterfall. Nature, local culture, and warm Japanese hospitality create a truly peaceful experience. 🍃 Washi Kaikan Discover the beauty of traditional handmade Japanese paper. Learn from skilled artisans and create your own one-of-a-kind washi masterpiece to remember your journey. 🌸 A Journey You'll Never Forget Experience the grandeur of the Yamaage Festival, the history of Yamaage Kaikan, the legacy of Meguro motorcycles, the beauty of Ryumon Falls, the tranquility of Ryumon Café, and the timeless craftsmanship of Washi Kaikan. ✨ Nasukarasuyama is where history inspires, nature heals, and Japanese culture comes alive. Come and discover a place you'll always want to return to. 🇯🇵🌸

平山 弘知 Khoshi Hirayama

16,608 просмотров • 1 месяц назад

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

SiriusB

15,437 просмотров • 3 месяцев назад

🚨 太讽刺了！中国出生女演员Poppy Liu（柳波）在美国赚了几百万，过着奢侈生活，却骂“资本主义是世界上最大的邪恶”！ 背景：Poppy Liu，1992年出生于中国西安，2岁随家人移民美国。她毕业于Colgate University，在好莱坞参演多部剧集，靠美国资本主义体系赚得盆满钵满，过着优渥的上流生活。 结果她在宣传新电影时居然公开说： “Capitalism is the greatest evil on earth.”（资本主义是地球上最大的邪恶） 马斯克直接神怼： “Then she should move to North Korea.”（那你应该搬去朝鲜啊！）🫳🏻🎤 吃着碗里骂着锅里，白眼狼本狼！ 靠美国自由市场和资本主义赚了大钱、住豪宅、拍电影、享受一切，却回头就骂资本主义是邪恶？ 这种人我们美国真的不欢迎！你这么恨资本主义，就立刻打包滚回你喜欢的社会主义天堂——去朝鲜体验真正的“平等”和“没有压迫”吧！ 马斯克这句怼得太解气了！ 🇺🇸🔥 作为华裔，我感到非常羞耻跟这种玩意儿同类🥲 关注Helen 🇺🇸👉PASS THE SAVE ACT，Helen MAGA❤️💪🇺🇸 天天带你看爽剧
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🚨 太讽刺了！中国出生女演员Poppy Liu（柳波）在美国赚了几百万，过着奢侈生活，却骂“资本主义是世界上最大的邪恶”！ 背景：Poppy Liu，1992年出生于中国西安，2岁随家人移民美国。她毕业于Colgate University，在好莱坞参演多部剧集，靠美国资本主义体系赚得盆满钵满，过着优渥的上流生活。 结果她在宣传新电影时居然公开说： “Capitalism is the greatest evil on earth.”（资本主义是地球上最大的邪恶） 马斯克直接神怼： “Then she should move to North Korea.”（那你应该搬去朝鲜啊！）🫳🏻🎤 吃着碗里骂着锅里，白眼狼本狼！ 靠美国自由市场和资本主义赚了大钱、住豪宅、拍电影、享受一切，却回头就骂资本主义是邪恶？ 这种人我们美国真的不欢迎！你这么恨资本主义，就立刻打包滚回你喜欢的社会主义天堂——去朝鲜体验真正的“平等”和“没有压迫”吧！ 马斯克这句怼得太解气了！ 🇺🇸🔥 作为华裔，我感到非常羞耻跟这种玩意儿同类🥲 关注Helen 🇺🇸👉PASS THE SAVE ACT，Helen MAGA❤️💪🇺🇸 天天带你看爽剧

Helen 🇺🇸👉PASS THE SAVE ACT

69,423 просмотров • 2 месяцев назад