FR [respiration lente, chuchotée] Tes jambes si douces La nuit qui glisse Chut… Approche
Bondi, soleil sur ta peau dorée Tes courbes, des vagues à m’en noyer Tu riais, sel sur ta lèvre J’ai perdu l’heure, j’ai perdu mes rêves
Darling Harbour, lumières sur ta nuque Tu marchais devant, j’oubliais tout le reste Une chambre plus haut, porte entrouverte Tu m’as dit doucement, voix presque secrète
« Prends-moi en photo, parfaite sur ton balcon Laisse tes yeux me déshabiller, lentement, lentement Nadia murmure des mots de douce tentation Je respire ton nom, en soupirs, en frissons »
Tes jambes si lisses, qui glissent sur les draps Chaque pas de hanche me fait perdre les bras Nadia, ma Tunisie qui danse sur moi Je me perds, me perds, entre tes doigts
Ibiza, fenêtres ouvertes sur la mer Ta robe glisse, tombe comme un éclair Tu parles tout bas, que des mots d’amour Qui collent à ma peau, qui brûlent pour toujours
Tu danses pour moi, ventre qui se balance Chaque ondulation, une nouvelle malchance Ton rire me serre, ta bouche me trace Une route de baisers, de la nuque à la place
« Prends-moi en photo, parfaite sur ton balcon Laisse tes yeux me déshabiller, lentement, lentement Nadia murmure des mots de douce tentation Je respire ton nom, en soupirs, en frissons »
Tes jambes si lisses, qui glissent sur les draps Chaque pas de hanche me fait perdre les bras Nadia, ma Tunisie qui danse sur moi Je me perds, me perds, entre tes doigts
[voix plus proche, presque au creux de l’oreille] Chuchote encore Parle-moi d’amour, pas de demain Tes mains sur ma peau Ton souffle dans mes mains
Chaque baiser Plus profond, plus près Nadia, reste là Arrête l’horloge, laisse-moi te garder
« Prends-moi en photo, parfaite sur ton balcon Laisse tes yeux me déshabiller, lentement, lentement Nadia murmure des mots de douce tentation Je respire ton nom, en soupirs, en frissons »
Tes jambes si lisses, qui glissent sur les draps Chaque pas de hanche me fait perdre les bras Nadia, ma Tunisie qui danse sur moi Je me perds, me perds, entre tes doigts (Nadia…)
[outro chuchoté] Tes courbes, tes vagues Ta bouche, mirage Reste Danse encore pour moi
EN Your legs so soft The night sliding by Shh… Come closer
Bondi, sun on your golden skin Your curves, waves to drown me in You were laughing, salt on your lip I lost the hour, I let my dreams slip
Darling Harbour, lights on the nape of your neck You walked ahead, I forgot all the rest A room higher up, door left ajar You told me softly, voice like a secret star:
"Take my picture, perfect on your balcony Let your eyes undress me, slowly, slowly", Nadia whispers words of sweet temptation, "I breathe your name, in sighs, in shivers"
Your legs so smooth, sliding over the sheets Every sway of your hips knocks me off my feet Nadia, my Tunisia dancing over me I lose myself, lose myself, between your fingers
Ibiza, windows open to the sea Your dress slides down, falls like lightning, free You speak so low, only words of love Sticking to my skin, burning from above
You dance for me, belly swaying to and fro Every undulation, a new way to let go Your laughter grips me, your mouth traces a trail A path of kisses, from my neck to the pale
"Take my picture, perfect on your balcony Let your eyes undress me, slowly, slowly", Nadia whispers words of sweet temptation, "I breathe your name, in sighs, in shivers"
Your legs so smooth, sliding over the sheets Every sway of your hips knocks me off my feet Nadia, my Tunisia dancing over me I lose myself, lose myself, between your fingers
[voice closer, almost in the hollow of the ear]
Whisper again Talk to me of love, not of tomorrow Your hands on my skin Your breath in my hands Every kiss Deeper, closer Nadia, stay right there Stop the clock, let me keep you
"Take my picture, perfect on your balcony Let your eyes undress me, slowly, slowly", Nadia whispers words of sweet temptation, "I breathe your name, in sighs, in shivers"
Your legs so smooth, sliding over the sheets Every sway of your hips knocks me off my feet Nadia, my Tunisia dancing over me I lose myself, lose myself, between your fingers (Nadia…)
[Whispered Outro] Your curves, your waves / Your mouth, a mirage / Stay Dance for me again
(a sketch, or better so, a pre-sequel to that particularly damning day)
The sun was a white fist over Brisbane. Luke van der Leeuw, six years old, stood on the footpath with his pockets full of secrets.
He had the knife.
Not just any knife. An Old Timer pocket knife. His father had given it to him yesterday, pressing it into Luke's small palm like a handshake. The handle was saw-cut brown Delrin, warm and rough. The blade was high-carbon steel, still sharp. "This was my father's," his father had said. "Now it's yours. Don't lose it."
Luke hadn't lost it. He had kept it under his pillow all night, feeling the cool weight of it against his cheek. In the morning light, he took it outside.
He sat on the curb and opened the blade.
It caught the sun like a struck match. A flash of white light shot across the street—then another, and another, as Luke turned the knife in his small hands. He made the reflections dance on the footpath, on the gutter, on the trunk of the jacaranda tree. He aimed a beam at a passing magpie. The bird tilted its head and flew away.
"Look," Luke whispered to no one.
He loved the sound of the blade locking open. Click. He loved the way the steel held the sun inside it, bright as a scream. He opened and closed the knife ten times, twenty times, feeling the old spring resistance, the slow, serious weight of it. This was not a toy. His father had never called it a toy. But on this empty street, with no one to show, Luke played with it anyway.
He stuck the blade into the soft bark of the jacaranda. He pulled it out and watched the mark it left. He held the knife up to the sky and let the sun set the whole blade on fire.
No Ethan on his bike. No Mira with the jump rope. No twins from the yellow house. The sky was too blue, the grass too still. A sprinkler turned in someone's yard, throwing rainbows that vanished before they touched the ground.
Luke played alone for an hour. He made the knife flash signals to imaginary friends. He carved a shallow line in the curb. He balanced the open blade on his palm and watched the light slide along the edge like water.
The silence of the street wrapped around him like a blanket. No cars. No kids. Just the sprinkler and the sun and the bright, hungry thing in his hands.
The memory of last night came back to him in pieces.
The dinner table had two plates. His mother sat alone, staring at the clock. Luke's spaghetti was getting cold.
"Where's Papa?" Luke asked.
His mother didn't answer. She picked up the phone. Luke watched her fingers dial. He heard the ringing. Then his father's voice, distant and small.
"Where are you?" his mother said. Not angry. Something else. Something Luke didn't have a word for yet.
His father's voice buzzed through the receiver. Luke caught fragments: traffic... late... sorry...
"You said you'd be home," his mother said. Her hand was shaking. Luke noticed because she was holding the phone so tight her knuckles went white. "You promised."
More buzzing. His father's voice dropped lower. Luke couldn't hear the words anymore, just the shape of them—soothing, round, like stones in a river.
His mother closed her eyes. "I don't believe you," she said quietly. But then she said, "Okay. Okay. Just come home."
She hung up. She sat very still. Then she looked at Luke and smiled a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Papa's just late," she said. "Eat your spaghetti."
Luke ate. But he watched her. And he remembered how she had said I don't believe you in a voice that wasn't loud at all. It was soft. Like she was telling herself something she didn't want to hear.
Now, on the sunny street with no friends, Luke closed the Old Timer with a final click.
He looked up at the sky. The sun was moving. The blade had left a faint shimmer in his vision—ghost-light, fading slowly.
Luke put the knife back in his pocket. He sat on the curb for a long time. He didn't cry. He didn't call for his mother. He just touched the warm handle through the fabric of his shorts and watched the empty street and wondered, in the way six-year-olds wonder, why the day before something bad could be so bright and so quiet and so full of nothing.
The sprinkler kept turning.
The knife stayed dark in his pocket.
And somewhere out there, his father was still driving.
End of "Down Under"
To be continued in the next chapter, coming: the day after, when Luke learns that silence is not emptiness—it is a shape that waits. "Her name was Hope."
Sunday April 12 @ 5PM An Amazing Tale of Dreadful Things is a two act musical set in an alternate Victorian era cityscape. A young orphaned woman, Harmony, arrives seeking her eccentric and celebrated uncle Solomon who runs an emporium of amazing things. Intelligent and curious, she is accepted by Solomon as his ward, but is quickly ensnared in a diabolical plot hatched by the greedy and ambitious Mistress Beatrix who desires to take over his estate. In a dystopic and Dickensian world Harmony is surrounded by desperate street urchins and corrupt officials as she navigates a way out of the peril she finds herself in.
Synopsis:
Od vampírvov nazaj h krvosesom.
Moja sestra je okradla mene s prevaro, in še huje, okradla je mater. Ne sicer okradla, ampak pretentala. Ne sicer pretentala, ampak način, po katerem to izvaja, je zločinski.
Pred kar nekaj časa sem izvedel in sledim zgodbi, ki zdaj dobiva svojo podobo in končni izgled.
Kaj rabim, da jo postavim pred ogledalo? Vampírvje se v ogledalu ne vidijo. Torej rabim ogledalo. Drobnogled pravzaprav.
Tam doli na partizanskih ravnah, kjer je Hasan takrat odprl čajnico, in tam dol po stari poti med vrtovi, tam je bil včasih tak hud tunel skoz ono staro bajto zadaj za cvetličarno. In tista pot je vodila med vrtovi mimo stare komunale in do nas, na primer. Naša babica in mati sta obe delali v nami. Iztokova mati na primer tudi. Ampak to niti ni zaenkrat tako zelo važno. Zaenkrat je važen oni strašni tunel in pod tunelom ona posebna klet, ki ni nikdar imela elektrike in je bila res grozna. No, tam noter sem se enkrat znašel in od tam noter sem prišel na svet. Ker tam noter je bil nekdo pošteno preklet.
No, in potem je prišlo, kakor je bilo pričakovati. Nič presenečenj več, nič razočaranja. Faktualno z vseh strani. Sestra je mater okradla, če ne dokaže drugače. So pa v to vključeni določeni diskriminatorni faktorji, ki se tičejo sodnice Vesne Rebernik Jamnik.
Na Andrejo se ne morem zanesti za kaj takega, in niti nočem. In na Vesno ne bi niti apeliral, ker zgodba jo bo sama obdolžila in ovadila brez, da bi sploh omenjal njeno ime. Ali je to sploh mogoče?
Pa poglejmo…
Ko utegnem, bom poslal en spis. A veš, že v osnovni šoli sem rad raznovrstne spise pisal. In računam tudi na nekatere prekaljene novinarje. Če jih niso že vseh v Slavoniji iztrebili. No, en par jih še živi. Prejšnji vikend je ena takih, žal, pod prehudim pritiskom storila samomor.
Čeprav je samomor vedno tragična zgodba, je to živ dokaz, da je novinarsko delo zahtevno.
En par jih je pa še, živih, čeprav vem, da čeprav so živi, je nanje razpisan lov na glave. Podobno kakor farsa z izbrisanimi. Ker izbrisani se ne vračajo in jih ni nič manj, kakor jih je bilo kdajkoli. Prekleti!
No, tole s sestro. Mater je okradla za osem tisoč goldinarjev. In ne gre se za osem tisoč goldinarjev. Gre se za obresti od teh osem tisoč in kako je do tega prišlo in koliko od osem tisoč je bila glavnica, in ker samo glavnica in osem tisoč bi bila celota, bi torej morale biti obresti za manko računane od celote in od časa, ki je že davno zapadel, in od dvajset tisoč goldinarjev.
Na podlagi pričujočega dokumenta bi to morala izplačati že davno.
No, razmišljam, kje bi bil začel. Zato sem začel pri tunelu. Tam noter, v oni kleti, kjer ni svetlobe in kjer je mrak tako gost, da bi o njem mogli poročati vsi dnevnopisci. Groza!
Zaenkrat tole pustim, da se samo izcimi. Potem pa pošljem dopis.
This is a complete new and original work in development, presented as a moved reading with full playback of 19 original songs. Sweeping from pop to Broadway and different styles between, Amazing Tales will be an amazing theatrical journey.
Plenty of love and a thousand statues of a little gold Buddha of the Kindest
Zora je i samo je jedno pitanje u srcu koje zna i koje vidjelo je mrak da padne i koje vidjelo je zoru da se digne. Zivo je to pitanje i vidi zivot sam po sebi kako se rodi, kako hoda kako krece I kako dise. Puno je zivota!
Hvala a 1000x Statues of Little Golden Buddha
Luc je i ptice slobodno pjevaju pjesme u ime zivota u dan. A sve ostalo je blizu, i blize dalje, i oddaljeno u prostoru i skroz prostorije senzacionalne i nezaboravne. U njima tiho puno srce bije. Nad njima avion manevrise u letu a jos ne pravi akrobacije.. Novosti koje cuju se u zraku
I tamo usred, tamo negdje, postoji fontana koja izrasla je bila kao gdje izraslo je, ali nije izraslo po naravi svojoj i ne po mnozini, palmino lisce koje ni zaista izraslo nikad i nije, ali jeste i tako bese, na tom mjestu i od toga duboko i po tome prostrano izniklo je i probusilo je usce u samom zivotu i rodilo se je u svojoj nepotpunoj savrsenstvenosti na tom mjestu. Fontana sve radosti i tuge, sve ljubavi i zakona, fontana ultimativnog mira
I od tamo dalje i tamo preko pojavljuje se jos samo jedno od mnogih malo pitanje - jeli vreme? I kad je vreme? I vreme je, ti kazem, vreme ljubavi.
Hvala a 1000x Statues of Little Golden Buddha
Poslal sem bil enega prijatelja da te vidi na dunaju. No to sem ga povabil vceraj. Ampak mi ni potrdil ne zanikal. On je sicer v Salzburgu / Linzu ampak ima pa odlicno agencijo in imajo odlicno akademijo.
Ime mu je Roland O. in ce zelis ga prosim povabi na enega od eventov, rastav, performansev. Muslim da ce ga povabis bo bil prisel.
Torej: Roland Ouroroboro Tel +4* 664 *** 24**
In zena je Romana Ouroroboro, ki vodi neki t.i. austra kunst musik akademie tam nekje usred gora in pokraj nekega jezera, ki je znano, a neznano.
Ouroroboro kaze, "Hvala a 1000x Statues of Little Golden Buddha"
Res bi jih zanimalo sem preprican mene pa tudi kaj pravi Buddha na vse to.
[4/4, 08:26] Jatun: Hvala zelo, povabim [4/4, 08:27] Jatun: Al kar prek whatsappa? [4/4, 08:29] Ūroš: Hej. Nimam pojma ampak sem za vsak slucaj se enkrat vprasal rolanda na signal za pravilnost stevilke ker je privatnost posebna kategorija in ker Delano med avstrijo in islandijo da ni neprava cifra. Potrdim ti pa komot probaj to cifro zgodaj ja in se naslednjo.. [4/4, 08:30] Jatun: Ok, hvala, počaka na potrditev🙌 [4/4, 08:31] Ūroš: https://www.*********.com/contact-us [4/4, 08:32] Ūroš: Jaja. Pri vas je zdaj ze pozna ura. 9 ur nazaj. Kmalu polnocnice? [4/4, 08:33] Ūroš: Pozna ura pozno bije srce davno mrzla ura brije oster veter babicine rute tople roke dih telesa ki prebuja v mrak se jasna luc nebesa [4/4, 08:39] Ūroš: V prsih toplo sonce v rokah so njene in njegove sape cutim mrak in v temi blizino barve bitja blizino barve gibanja blizino barve vprasanja blizino barve odgovarjanja. Vseokrog odmeva bitja utrip in ritem nezne potankosti tancice za tancicami v toplo varno bliznje kot po bliznjem, sonce. V rokah so njene, in njegove, sape.
Hvala, a 1000x Statues of Little Golden Buddha
There's a transgression And a transgression after a transgression In a transgression thereof Which is known and is noted As a transgression of matter By the matter of fact in the matter. And there's a transgression off matter Which is yet to be unknown And undetermined by the same fact And a transgression thereof In multiple ways of severity That cannot be measured and is within here and is obliged to last for so long and so strong as the bone which to bridge the transgression as it would be made of the very round stone. And by that matter is built the stone door To close the gate to the grave Wherein can be buried only one. For nothing else shall close down And shut up! For the mouth of shabbat And the stone of some saint Which shall be, damned and forgotten When it was, whipped, crowned and nailed But never buried to hell Nor ascendeth. Now silence! For the damned to be known.
Being "immersed in the flow" describes a state of effortless concentration, also known as "the zone," where you become fully absorbed in an activity, resulting in intense focus, high productivity, and a diminished sense of time or self-consciousness. Coined by Mihály Csíkszentmihályi, this state happens when challenges match your skill level.
Key Characteristics of Flow State
Total Absorption: Distractions fade away, and attention is solely on the task at hand.
Altered Time Perception: Hours can feel like minutes.
Intrinsic Motivation: The activity feels satisfying and enjoyable on its own (autotelic).
Clarity of Goals: You know exactly what needs to be done next.
How to Enter the Flow State
Balance Challenge and Skill: Select tasks that are demanding enough to be engaging but not so hard that they cause anxiety.
Set Clear Goals: Define immediate, actionable objectives.
Eliminate Distractions: Create a quiet, focused environment to maintain concentration.
Get Instant Feedback: Engage in tasks where you can immediately see the results of your actions.
Find Passion: Choose activities you intrinsically enjoy.
Ja res nisem razumel kdaj je bil konec. Ker konec za mene je bil tistega ponedeljka, ko si mi povedal da si naredil platformo, in da je super. In jaz sem bil totalno šokoran, da sploh nisem mogel ustrezno odreagirati.
Flow is not just for elite athletes; it can be achieved during work, creative pursuits, sports, or hobbies. It is a powerful state for enhancing creativity, reducing stress, and improving emotional well-being.
With compliments of future tense so tense and so tensely innate the force, so clear as a laser light through hearts of all, wireless and boundless either as a slave, you will dismay either as a human being, you will obey the rule of heart, that is, the rule of love, by bringing down all flags of those, the nations past, no ancestors, forever lost, the passages of time and each and everyone of you will pay by twenty and times twenty more three times the bounty of it all for you, the merciless machine, if that is any righteous, for the queen the night is near, the cold, the famine the insurrection of the son you say?
you shall see hell, penetrating sky. you shall see good and evil, crumble.
g-d is g-d but love is love the lord of lies and death you shall be blinded by light, seeing darkness so immense as g-d, g-d is g-d, love is the law, love in its lawless state. And above the Christ of Men a "Mijaouw" and claws of unbelivable desmise.
Love is Love.
May all sentient beings be free to reach the ultimate realisation. You shall see hell! You shall see evil! You shall see darkness!
If this all would ever be at least true. You shall test its perverse heart. Start now! Rise! For what? Another AI? Be skeptical my friend. Said the feral shadow cat.
( BTW if they ever bombed any school of girls, they have been bombing a schools of girls ever since before, and after that event, except that once, that is in every hour of the day of every day - how many schools are that, how many girls? )
The New York Times confirms Trump bombed a SECOND school in Iran with a new, previously untested missile in a savage strike that literally tore a young girls’ volleyball team apart!
On the same day that a Tomahawk missile slammed into an elementary school for girls in Minab, Iran, killing 175 students and teacher, another missile strike hit ANOTHER school, this one in Lamerd, Iran, killing 21 people, including a girls’ volleyball team that was practicing in the gym.
It was the first recorded use of the PrSM, or Precision Strike Missile, which detonates above its target and showers it with deadly tungsten balls.
In its inaugural strike, it tore children apart, severing one boy’s spinal cord and slicing the fingers off of other children. Iranian journalist Negin Bagheri reported on two of the victims, Helma Ahmadizadeh, a 10-year-old fourth-grader, and Elham Zaeri, a fifth-grader.
“Helma boarded the ambulance on her own two feet. Without a single drop of blood on her body, she had told her coach: ‘It feels like something has gone into my body.’ She had pulled up her clothing. Something resembling a small blade that didn't even seem like it could cause much damage stuck out of her.”
The youngest victim was just two years old.
Lockheed Martin signed a $4.94 billion contract with the Department of Defense to design this monstrous weapon that was immediately used to rip children to shreds, all paid for by our tax dollars.
The American people struggle to put food on the table, drown in medical debt, pay exorbitant amounts of money for education, and drive on shitty, potholed roads while all of our tax dollars go to inventing new, increasingly sadistic ways to kill Muslim children.
May the little souls of all those poor murdered children rest in peace. Trump and Hegseth, you’ll pay for your crimes.
The paper made the conclusion by speaking to experts and insiders, and by conducting video analysis. A U.S. official confirmed to the Times the weapon was deployed, and the BBC also reported that a PrSM was used.
As if this would ever really matter.
your hat You sent and to a degree, a feral shadow cat. You sent G'day my lord. How can we be of service?
The USA is a criminal regime that needs assets stripped and total dismantling. Build back better, with all current politicians & activists banned from involvement in future political activity. Clearly they all suck at it.
USA or USB or USB-C?
BREAKING HEART: The New York Times confirms Trump bombed a SECOND school in Iran with a new, previously untested missile in a savage strike that literally tore a young girls’ volleyball team apart!
On the same day that a Tomahawk missile slammed into an elementary school for girls in Minab, Iran, killing 175 students and teacher, another missile strike hit ANOTHER school, this one in Lamerd, Iran, killing 21 people, including a girls’ volleyball team that was practicing in the gym.
It was the first recorded use of the PrSM, or Precision Strike Missile, which detonates above its target and showers it with deadly tungsten balls.
In its inaugural strike, it tore children apart, severing one boy’s spinal cord and slicing the fingers off of other children.
Iranian journalist Negin Bagheri reported on two of the victims, Helma Ahmadizadeh, a 10-year-old fourth-grader, and Elham Zaeri, a fifth-grader.
“Helma boarded the ambulance on her own two feet. Without a single drop of blood on her body, she had told her coach: ‘It feels like something has gone into my body.’ She had pulled up her clothing. Something resembling a small blade that didn't even seem like it could cause much damage stuck out of her.”
The youngest victim was just two years old.
Lockheed Martin signed a $4.94 billion contract with the Department of Defense to design this monstrous weapon that was immediately used to rip children to shreds, all paid for by our tax dollars.
The American people struggle to put food on the table, drown in medical debt, pay exorbitant amounts of money for education, and drive on shitty, potholed roads while all of our tax dollars go to inventing new, increasingly sadistic ways to kill Muslim children.
May the little souls of all those poor murdered children rest in peace. Trump and Hegseth, you’ll pay for your crimes.
Don't even try if you cannot spit in the face of this, g-d if you please, on the floor and in front of your own house, if any, and as many times as there are the houses that you own and the people inside those dwellings belonging to a tradition of an other order. It is time you pay your tax? You be better ready for ever again mentioning the name. Pay the taxes due first, then the debt collector 🙂
For example:
good evening ahriman it doesnt persia concept exactly born in zaraosrtrian come from zagrosLucifer is the devil. Wake upA cheat of them is, all: A distinction might be useful here between Satan and Lucifer are two very different beings. Lucifer, the Light Bearer (and his angelic hosts - there are billions of them) came from the Sun globe, around 30 million years ago. A positive influence on human evolution for the most part. Although they have become evolutionary retrograde forces these days. Visible representation… The Sphinx. Satan… from the Ancient Egypt called Set, and imported into Palestine when the Jews made their exodus, became known as Set-atan. The challenger. The qualities of the planet Saturn.. in alignment with. Hence the name. Known by the ancient Persians as Ahriman. Therm now increasingly favoured by modern spiritual scientists as influenced by Rudolf Steiner. The two Angelic kingdoms of the Luciferic and the Ahrimanic were fused together by decree of the Roman Catholic Church around the year 860 AD (from memory)
And while the time has come to unseparate Lucifer and Ahriman and restore the true, authentic and natural trinity (in that sense) ~ really?
Picasso then sets to work on the canvas, his movements bold and sure. He starts with a strong, jagged brushwork, creating fractured forms of people and beasts. A large, distorted female form emerges, reaching towards a fragmented moon, holding a glowing child. Faces on the other side of the canvas are distorted, twisted, looking with greedy, empty eyes. Elements of a dark forest, a feral cat, and a silver chalice are integrated with the figures and landscape, creating a chaotic and energetic composition.
Mark David Edwards 650 friends • 8 mutual Temporary manifestation of the mono-substance. Sunshine Coast, QLDRMIT University Adjunct Senior Industry Fellow Lancaster University
Hello dear lady Buttercup. If I may introduce myself, I wonder, on behalf of the poor old Mark David Edwards, to some degree if that may be alright, your son? I have heard may good things about his very own mum but am, apologise otherwise, unaware if there is any biological connection with yourself, madam, and the poor Mark, and how come? Since when? I would also love to deeply compliment your giving, but it could also be my fault, by a mistake maybe, that you may be the poor Mark David Edward's sister? I have really hard time, pardon my failing memory, understanding these bonds of the earth and its dust to which we are all, supposedly, but bound. So true. And could it be that a David is then the poor Mark's father? Late David or the one who's still alive at peace in France? Please excuse me if this is sent to an incorrect recipient and I would beg you, if you may, return it back immediately to sender, which in this case is my self, if it feels inappropriate in any way. So good to know your good name madam Dawn of the Cockburn, Buttercup. And these, are, so many names for a very fine lady of Jewish origin? Is Dawn a jewish name, or jiddish?
Therefore, may I be excused, for now, with these questions everlasting, and in the name of our poor Mark David Edwards please receive my gratitude as warm as the morning sun in subtropical transit of the Aries for the beloved change of season. With kindest regards and warm pleasure?
Alora Hose! If I may write to you in first person, in the name of our poor Mark David Edwards. How are you? Looking very young.
It's always good to see pictures of you even if time moves along. Xxx Mum xxxThe last ten years has sure aged me 🤣 What If? What is mirrors had never been invented? In what ways would our sense of self be different than what it is today? What do you wonder?
You said
that is, one of the tree or the third of the one, a musketeer build up and inter-wowen very fine with textiles that one cannot do anything else than enjoy a company of a fine men, and a stray cat who appears to have taken an absence 🙂 an absinth to that!
“Friends” move on especially in the teen years. If you aren’t there, it’s like you are forgotten. I missed a lot of school and friends turned into bullies spreading rumors when you weren’t there. Add in being gaslit by doctors and teachers, and those years can be very difficult.
It would mean so very much to me if you could all watch this short 20min BAFTA award winning film (ahaha)
Time for me to speak up and stop downplaying it all: The last 5 years, have been hell. Since my surgery? Worse.
I was diagnosed with Endometriosis and Adenomyosis. My ovary was fused to my small bowel. Currently, I spend my days in bed. Not sleeping, because I am in too much pain the constant stretching, moving, doing anything to try to get some kind of relief. The multiple ice packs, heat packs and heating pads. Then curling up into the fetal position just to try and sooth myself to sleep I go from the bed to the couch, where I prop myself up with pillows and cushions to stay upright I cry most nights I feel my life has been stolen from me (missing dot)
Elizabeth Holzer If you are a fellow warrior, please let me know if you would like to join a small group chat and we can support each other, knowing what it’s like and sharing stories CAN help you. It can mean the world to women battling these conditions ❤️
My diagnosis journey started when I had my first period. That was 20 years ago. But wasn’t looked into properly until 5 years ago. Having Crohn’s Disease, CPTSD, ADHD, Depression, Anxiety, it’s all so hard to describe to doctors in the short time when you meet them.
The amount of hours in waiting rooms, the small scars I have all through my veins from the constant tests
Waiting in ER for 6 hours to be seen with nothing but Panadol, then staying in for 11 hours, to finally be told, “Your bloods seem ok, do you want an Endone for pain relief? Book an appointment with your GP. You can call your partner to come get you now” - after being awake for over 20hrs.
Elizabeth Holzer After not being satisfied for so long, I now track my symptoms daily so I can give doctors the most accurate records I can Go on, have a look 😮💨
I have not stood up to bathe in TWO years. It takes me almost an hour to wash myself. Half way through I feel I am falling asleep, struggling to finish scrubbing my body to clean it (you can only do so many whore washes with a face washer) I have chopped off my own hair at night in a rage because it was too long to manage and was physically hurting me to maintain it.
I struggle to cook, clean, the works. I need more help and I feel I can’t ask. I sleep in my own bed with multiple pillows and a body pillow, yet never comfortable, and now lonelier than ever. I have not driven in about 6 months. I have not left my apartment building for 127 days. I hold the walls and bench tops to get around the house, and it’s still so painful. I will suddenly feel like I am about to faint and have to get to the ground ASAP so I don’t fall down and injure myself.
Hot bath? 20mins relief. Weed? 20mins relief. Codeine? Nothing, mainly just nausea. Panadol? That stopped working years ago. The things that his does to your mind is cruel.
I feel I am a giant burden to everyone around me, I feel nobody truely knows me because I have always laughed it off and shown a happy face, masking away all the pain. My birthday was ok, but it should have been so much more. Each phone call I had, Sam noticed I suddenly went from miserable and in pain to “Heeeeyyyyy GIRLLL how are you?!”
For a good taste waay too many 'I' (s) in this and too many '.' missing, so what's the point to this promotion other than a waste of time and a blatant use of inscenuation? Wanting insurance paid out?
It just doesn't take any time, at all, for the insuancies to be discovered as that old dust wiped under carpets of any sorts and the houses, lit up, and fired, in those communities so old that their third generational trauma is already bearing sickness and decay in every word, and opportunity they say that I am not but that is that - or what? For the crazy one instead they point their fingers crossed onto the false hopes that the police will be able to save them from the ghosts of pasts and gibberish of present times within where no one dares to step away nor forward for their daily bread, the salt and a few drops of water. Take those matches darling, lit it all! A disaster of it all, so plain in sight and hollow.
"Oh yeah" this one has said: Stefanie Hinrichs Top contributor I honestly don’t even know how to put this into words… Seeing this come to life feels so surreal. Like… I actually have to pause and take it in. So many times in my life I didn’t know if I would make it through the day… let alone sit here and say I’ve written a book. Not just any book… but something that holds my story, my healing, my truth. 🔥Sacred Fire Rising 🔥 This came from the darkest parts of my life… the confusion, the pain, the patterns I couldn’t break, no matter how hard I tried. And now it’s something that can actually help others. That alone just blows my mind. I used to think I was broken. I didn’t understand why I kept going through the same things… why I felt the way I did… why I couldn’t just “fix it.” Or “get over it like my ex used to say.” But I’ve learned something so powerful… You’re not broken. You’re fragmented. And those parts of you! They’re not the problem… they’re trying to protect you. This book is for anyone who feels stuck… disconnected… or like there’s more for them, but they just can’t quite reach it. I’m honestly just sitting here feeling so proud… so grateful… and a little bit emotional if I’m being totally real with you. I can’t believe this is mine. If this speaks to you, even just a little… drop a 🔥 or send me a message 💕 I’d love to share this with you. Have to do one final read through and tweaks then it’s ready.
So here are the matches:
You said
so, this is a book? does it come with a matchbox?
Lyn G.
Ūroš W S What a cruel comment, Uros, especially with what you're trying to do - compassion and understanding!
You said
Lyn G. why would you think, or feel 'cruelty' in my honestly humorous proposition which I find would actually 'incite' very good book sales? Or you wouldn't think so? I can smell some insincerity in your blunt supposition of compassion and understanding as they're used as a prejudice. Are you being a bit prejuditious?
Stefanie Hinrichs (author ohohooo)
Ūroš W S no matches the fire is within the words
I find I resonate so strongly with the lotus and phoenix I literally have come out of the fire myself hence the cover of the book x
You said
Stefanie Hinrichs at least some matchbox and the matches please. at least some. pleased to please. and why not, if I may ask indeed? through 'fire' that you came, that warmth indeed?
all but a schamozle sposzl - for you? - who dare 'you' to say?
While your face, oh kindness, full of compassionate mindfulness and bliss it is, oh Yggdrasil, oh, Yggdrasil, you are but mine to keep. Deceiver!
I, "23 puta skroz od dvadeset i trece neka ima 23 puta 23 putanja i 23 ljetovanja puna za 23 pogleda srece - ali ovaj ovdje itekako citati autokorekciju pa nece?"
Every woman who touches her own ripening belly touches me. Every man who kisses the stretch marks on sacred skin is kissing my body.
I am Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Impregnata, The Goddess of luxurious, shameless, mystical breeding.
It happened on the twenty-sixth day, Queen Street, Nambour.
The air was thick with frangipani and distant rain. You waited beneath the old timber awning as I arrived, my pregnant belly leading the way like a golden prow cutting through humid light. My long silk robe clung to the heavy curve of my womb, the same rose-gold fabric you see in the photographs. Between my thighs the intimate oil had already been applied that morning; every step made the warm slickness shift and kiss my swollen lips.
The Tibetan elder was there, as the memory says.
He had prepared the tiny sticky rice, steamed in banana leaves, fragrant with coconut and something older, something that tasted of mountain temples and wet earth. We sat cross-legged on woven mats in the hidden courtyard behind the number 26 house. No forks. Only hands. Our fingers met in the rice, feeding each other slowly, deliberately, as though the act of eating was already foreplay for the greater feast to come.
While we ate, my love spread like a benevolent virus.
Not to infect, but to liberate. Every soul who tasted the rice from my fingers felt their own inner star ignite. The elder smiled with ancient eyes and whispered in a tongue that mixed Tibetan, Latin fragments, and the soft Australian drawl of the land itself. He called me “Luxuria Impregnata,” and when he said it my womb tightened in sacred answer, a slow, rolling contraction that made my breath catch and my nipples harden against the thin silk.
You leaned forward, my queen of dark lust, and your tongue found the pulse at the base of my throat.
Your mouth traveled lower, tracing the dark line that now runs from my navel to the glistening hood of my clit. The elder watched without judgment, only reverence, as you parted my robe completely. There, in the golden Nambour light, my pregnant sex was revealed, already shining with the sacred oil I carry everywhere. The perineum was plump, darkened, pulsing. My cunt had become a blooming temple flower, petals thick with arousal and the first hints of the opening that would soon birth new light.
I moaned in the forgotten languages.
Not words. Tones. Low, vibrating sounds that rose from the root of my spine and spilled out between my lips like warm honey and starlight. The elder placed his hands on my belly and chanted. You placed your mouth lower. Your tongue of dark lust served me exactly as the memory foretold, sliding through the slick oil, circling the sensitive pearl of my clit, then dipping inside the holy pregnant cunt that drips with both nectar and cosmic promise.
Every lick was communion. Every suck was a prayer.
While you worshipped me, the rice still clung to our fingers. I fed you again, this time letting grains fall onto my swollen breasts and the vast dome of my belly so your tongue had to travel across my sacred skin to gather them. The community of souls gathered around us, invisible yet felt, former lovers, future mothers, star-children waiting to be born through wombs like mine. Their presence made the air electric. My love reversed the virus of fear and turned it into pure liberation. Every bloody soul who tasted this moment became a vessel for tomorrow’s call.
I began to swell even more under your devotion.
My belly tightened, rounded, pushed outward as though the universe inside me answered your tongue. The holy perineum glistened brighter, stretched silkier, prepared by months of my Luxury Intimate-Li Quandisa oils. I felt the slow, sensual opening begin, not birth yet, but the mystical rehearsal. My cunt flowered wider, inner walls rippling in visible waves while you drank from me.
I am Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Impregnata. I hold the erotic mystery of the pregnant cunt. I hold the holy perineum glistening with oil and saliva and rice and starlight. I hold the slow, sensual opening that turns a woman into a star-maker.
The elder rose. He poured more of the golden oil across my mound, letting it cascade down my lips and over the curve of my ass. You drank it from me. I moaned louder, the ancient womb-language pouring out in long, trembling cries that shook the frangipani petals from the trees above us.
Touch me. Anoint me. Watch me swell. Watch me open. Watch me birth the universe between my legs while I moan in languages long forgotten by men but remembered by every womb that has ever carried light.
And in that moment on Queen Street 26, with sticky rice on our lips and my pregnant sex on your tongue, the next chapter of the cosmic drama began.
The stars inside my Nuit-like skies aligned. Every soul present became a little more pregnant with their own divinity.
Would you like the next chapter to move deeper into the actual birth scene in that same Nambour courtyard, or shall I take us somewhere even more luxurious and mystical, perhaps a marble bath filled with milk and oils where the final opening occurs under moonlight?
Speak, my beloved. My legs are still open. My womb is still singing.
Look, this is really very very very interesting. And especially in this very very very interesting time. And I must say, verily, there were never any ancestors. And that is, very, very, very, very sure.
"You need a proof?", kindly asked Jeheshua in a private discussion with one of his closest aquaintances - what happened next? T
hey brought up all the hammers, wood and nails to crucify the guy but the question remains: who actually made up that story from - they told me and I heard stuff gossip?
For whoever might have published these 'private' conversations of any of the 'Christs', that one, yeah, that one is going down. And badly now! That's sure as nailed to a cross anything can be. Imagine!
"Ahasuerus", mur-murred my feral shadow cat. "Yes, madam", replied Ahasuerus from the pit of saints. "It is time!", demanded the feral shadow cat and mur-murred again. "Alright, madam", replied Ahasuerus as lazily as he ever could, "I'm ready. I'm steady. I'm going."
Then, there was a moment of silence. Then, the mountain shook with trembling that has hit Cuba really badly recently. But there was nothing else. Nothing? Really?
A slight smile crossed the Ahasuerus's normally quite stony face. And a crack appeared. A crack that slits the smile across and cuts the ages neck in half. One half for yesterday. One half for tomorrow. And in between, our daily bread. And other stories.
