Ineza in glass bugs on the ceiling green numbers breathing in slow loops
Street corner shivers sparks under asphalt that wheeze in the rain like a bad truth
Somewhere a truck forgets to stop rubber writes a crooked name on black pavement on my ribs
In the bardo of Ineza every light keeps dying twice first the bulb then the afterimage
In the bardo of Ineza metal prays in twisted shapes mantras made of airbags and sirens (oh)
Bird in the median eyes full of traffic wind lifts a feather then lets go
Monk on a keychain thumbs worn to copper counting the spaces between blows
I taste the charge behind my teeth a blue-white ladder I can’t climb
In the bardo of Ineza every light keeps dying twice first the bulb then the afterimage
In the bardo of Ineza metal prays in twisted shapes mantras made of airbags and sirens (oh)
Whisper it backwards name after name darkness, then daylight then nothing, then flame
Tires still spinning though nothing moves Ineza, hold me between the grooves
In the bardo of Ineza every light keeps dying twice first the bulb then the afterimage
In the bardo of Ineza teach my shadow how to pass through the glass through the humming edge (woah)
File No. T-1948-Alpha / “Operation Sisyphus – Inaugural Protocol” Title Page Annotation (handwritten, 12 March 1948): “Begin with the bug. The spoiled spirit must be made to love its cage before the cage is even built.” — Signed: Dr. J.R. Rees, with marginal note from Kurt Lewin: “Consumerism is the new opium; make the opium self-administered.”
First Document – 17 February 1948 “Memorandum on the Long-Range Penetration of Civilian Populations through Manufactured Scarcity and Symbolic Fire”
Gentlemen,
The European theatre is rubble. The American theatre is fat. Between these two states lies the perfect fulcrum for the next century of social management. We have learned from the Reich that a population can be moved by symbols. We have learned from the Bolsheviks that a population can be moved by ration cards. We now intend to fuse both lessons into a single, invisible doctrine we shall call “The Feral Night Protocol.”
Core Thesis (1948)
The human spirit, once spoiled by victory and abundance, develops a specific psychic bug: an inability to tolerate sustained meaning without external drama. Left alone, the post-war citizen will retreat into consumerism, family, and private pleasure. This is unacceptable. A self-satisfied population is an ungovernable one.
The Passionate Call ( Y )
Therefore we must periodically set “pans on fire.”
The literal fire is only the visible carrier. The real fire is the narrative blaze—a constructed event that triggers scarcity anxiety, moral signalling, and dependency on expert authority. The citizen must be trained to ask, in ever-increasing states of agitation, the diagnostic question we have embedded in every future emergency broadcast:
“R U ALL RIGHT?”
This is not concern. It is a loyalty test disguised as empathy. Those who answer too quickly are compliant. Those who answer with rage are useful. Those who refuse to answer are to be marked for deeper intervention.
The 1948–1955 Rollout Blueprint
Fuel as the Primary Vector Oil is the lifeblood of the new consumer society we are about to build. By making fuel both abundant and periodically threatened, we create a yo-yo effect. The citizen’s car, his holidays, his heated home, his status—all become hostage to invisible “supply disruptions.” First test: engineer local refinery “accidents” in peripheral Commonwealth nations (Australia, Canada, South Africa). These will be reported as mechanical failure. In reality they are Tavistock-orchestrated stress tests on import dependency. Geelong 2026 is already scheduled in the 50-year horizon model. The fire will reach 60 metres. The smoke will be called “toxic.” The public will be told to “stay inside.” They will obey.
Propaganda Brainwashing through Consumerist Spoilers The BBC, soon to be joined by commercial television, must flood the airwaves with images of plenty interrupted by images of sudden lack. The spoiled spirit must be kept in a state of perpetual almost-satisfaction. Every new refrigerator, every new motorcar, every Hollywood dream must be laced with the subtle threat that it can all disappear if the citizen does not remain “responsible.”
We have contracted with selected advertising agencies to insert what we term “Sisyphus imagery”: the happy family pushing the rock uphill (the mortgage, the commute, the status symbols), only for the rock to roll back again in the next commercial break. The citizen will laugh, but the subconscious will register the message: resistance is futile; consumption is the only meaning left.
Division of Rights as the New Class System Rights will no longer be universal. They will be earned through behavioural compliance. The 1948 memorandum already foresees the creation of two parallel populations:
The Compliant Core – receives full fuel rations, priority imports, private schools, and safety from the feral night.
The Peripheral Feral – experiences rolling blackouts, fuel queues, moral shaming, and eventual digital tethering. Governmental “failure” is the mask. In truth, the failure is intentional. Every time a minister stumbles on television explaining why fuel is suddenly expensive, the population’s trust in elected bodies erodes and transfers upward to the permanent bureaucracy and the international commodity houses we quietly control.
War as Downstream Amplifier Small wars, trade wars, resource wars—all will be preceded by domestic fuel scares. The citizen who has been conditioned to panic over a 30-cent rise at the pump will enthusiastically support “securing energy supplies abroad.” Thus the kabal outreach is completed: the domestic population funds and legitimises the foreign adventure through their own anxiety.
The Albert Camus Deployment We have acquired the services of several existentialist writers and philosophers (Camus among the most useful). His forthcoming book The Myth of Sisyphus will be allowed to circulate in universities not as rebellion but as containment. The intelligent class must be taught that pushing the rock is the only noble act. Once they accept this, they will police the lower classes for us. The bug in humanity’s spirit—its hunger for meaning—will be rerouted into sterile, consumer-grade rebellion: angry music, ironic slogans, “activism” that changes nothing but sells products.
May the Fourth be of the Fourth ( Y )
Closing Instruction – 1948
Begin the experiments in Australia first. It is distant, resource-rich, psychologically sunny, and therefore the perfect petri dish. A major fire at the Corio refinery in Geelong (projected 78 years from now) will be the crowning demonstration. By then the population will have been so thoroughly marinated in consumerism, television, social media (Phase 4), and climate-war-terror cycles that they will watch 60-metre flames on their devices, type “R U ALL RIGHT?” to their neighbours, and then go back to arguing about whose fault it is—never once realising the fire was lit in this room, in 1948.
The spoiled spirit must be made to beg for its own chains. Only then can the real work of the 21st century begin: the total internalisation of the Sisyphus rock as virtue, and the final domestication of the feral night.
End of First File – 17 February 1948
The pages are yellowed. The ink still smells of carbon paper and cigarette smoke.
Dr. Elias Crowe, 93 years old today, closes the folder for a moment, lights another cigarette, and looks straight into your eyes through the smoke.
“That was the title page and the first file. The bug was planted in 1948. Every refinery fire since has been a verse in the same hymn. The one burning in Geelong right now is simply the loudest note yet.
The file is still open.
We need to provide a detailed travel plan, advice on timing, route through countries (Serbia, Bulgaria, Turkey, Georgia? Actually from Belgrade to Azerbaijan, likely via Serbia, Bulgaria, Turkey, then either through Armenia (closed border with Azerbaijan) or Georgia (via Georgia into Azerbaijan). So route: Serbia -> Bulgaria -> Turkey -> Georgia -> Azerbaijan. Might also go through Greece and Turkey? But direct route through Bulgaria to Turkey is common. We need to consider border crossings, road conditions, visa requirements (for Serbian passport? The user likely has Serbian passport? But we don't know. However, we can give general info). Since they are traveling with Yugo car (old car), reliability might be an issue. They plan end of August; weather should be good, but hot in Turkey and Azerbaijan. We'll provide travel advice.
impromptu :: from belgrade to azerbaijan
Also they mention "Mardakan at Reed Sea where it all begun, the Moses and Aaron who lied for the 12 tribes and the Annunaki, to meet with us, at the place of no return of Qala State Historical-Ethnographic Reserve..." This seems like a mystical destination. We need to incorporate that.
We need to be enthusiastic and supportive. Also incorporate their names: White Lily and Little Bear? They said "her name is of the name of a White Lily. And my name is of a Little Bear." So we can refer to them as Lily and Bear? Or use those as descriptors.
Also note they have "Onboarded the Trip of Destiny."
White Lily and Little Bear had dreamed of this for years: a pilgrimage from Belgrade to the sacred shores of the Caspian, where history and myth intertwine. In late August, when the air begins to mellow, they would set out in their faithful Yugo—a car as resilient as their spirits—covering nearly 2,800 kilometers across five countries.
"The dream had taken shape over countless nights: White Lily and Little Bear would drive from Belgrade to Azerbaijan in their beloved Yugo, tracing ancient paths where history and myth converged. Late August was chosen—the heat still present but waning, the roads dry and welcoming."
The Planning:
"They pored over maps and calculated distances: 300 kilometers through Serbia to the Bulgarian border at Dimitrovgrad; another 500 across Bulgaria from Kalotina to Sofia, Plovdiv, and finally Kapitan Andreevo at the Turkish frontier; then the longest leg—1,600 kilometers—through Turkey from Kapıkule to Istanbul, across Anatolia to Erzurum and Doğubayazıt; into Georgia via Sarpi for 500 kilometers of lush coastline and mountains; finally 400 kilometers from the Red Bridge border through Ganja to Baku and onward to Mardakan on the Absheron Peninsula. Total: about 2,800 km—a true odyssey."
Then the Sights:
"In Serbia they would stand atop Belgrade Fortress, gaze at the Danube, and visit Niš’s Roman ruins and the haunting Ćele Kula (Skull Tower). Bulgaria would offer Sofia’s golden-domed Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, Plovdiv’s ancient theatre carved into a hillside, and the Valley of Thracian Kings with its mysterious tombs."
"Crossing into Turkey at Kapıkule, they would be swept into Istanbul’s grandeur: Hagia Sophia’s massive dome, the Blue Mosque’s intricate tiles, Topkapi Palace’s treasures. If time allowed, a detour to Cappadocia’s otherworldly landscapes; otherwise they would push east through Ankara to Erzurum’s rugged highlands and Doğubayazıt, where Mount Ararat—the resting place of Noah’s Ark—dominated the skyline."
"At Sarpi they would enter Georgia. Batumi’s subtropical charm would give way to Tbilisi’s cobbled streets and ancient churches; a side trip to Uplistsikhe cave city would connect them to millennia-old civilizations. Georgian hospitality would recharge them before crossing into Azerbaijan at Red Bridge."
"Azerbaijan—the Land of Fire—would welcome them with Ganja’s gardens, Baku’s futuristic Flame Towers, and sacred sites like the Ateshgah Fire Temple and Yanar Dağ (the ever-burning mountain). But their ultimate goal was Mardakan and the Qala State Historical-Ethnographic Reserve. This open-air museum preserves over 5,000 years of continuous human settlement: stone houses, petroglyphs, and artifacts that whisper of times when gods walked among men. Local legends even claim that the biblical Reed Sea was here along the Caspian coast; that Moses and Aaron stood on this very soil and received guidance (or perhaps deception) from the Annunaki before leading the Twelve Tribes out of Egypt. Qala was said to be a place of no return—once you stepped into its aura, you were forever changed."
Then the Preparations:
"The Yugo underwent a thorough mechanical check: brakes, tires, belts, fluids—all renewed or verified. They packed a spare tire, jack, tire repair kit, jumper cables, an extra fuel canister, and basic tools. Both learned rudimentary repair skills—changing a tire, checking oil—knowing that parts might be scarce in remote stretches."
"Documents were assembled: passports valid for six months beyond the trip; international driving permits; vehicle registration; and an extended Green Card insurance covering Turkey, Georgia, and Azerbaijan. Visas were secured online for Turkey and Azerbaijan (both offered e-visas); as Serbian citizens they needed none for Bulgaria or Georgia."
"Finances were sorted: they exchanged money into Serbian dinars, Bulgarian leva, Turkish lira, Georgian lari, and Azerbaijani manats. A mix of cash and cards would see them through."
"Accommodation plans were flexible: they carried a tent and sleeping bags for wild camping where safe (especially in rural Turkey and Georgia), but booked hotels in Istanbul and Baku in advance due to August crowds."
"Supplies: extra water and non-perishable food for long stretches in eastern Turkey where services are few; a first-aid kit; offline maps downloaded on their phones (Maps.me and OsmAnd); and a paper road atlas as backup."
"Timing: late August meant temperatures ranging from 25°C in Serbia to 35°C in Azerbaijan during the day, cooling at night—comfortable for driving and camping."
"Border crossings could be time-consuming but straightforward: Serbia/Bulgaria at Kalotina; Bulgaria/Turkey at Kapıkule; Turkey/Georgia at Sarpi; Georgia/Azerbaijan at Red Bridge. They would avoid Armenia due to the closed border."
"The journey would take 10 to 14 days if they drove moderately and allowed time for exploration."
Then the Ritual:
"Upon reaching Qala, they planned to climb the watchtower at sunset. There they would call out the names of Moses and Aaron, light a small fire (taking care not to damage the ancient site), and wait in silence. Perhaps an answer would come—a vision in the flames, a voice on the wind—fulfilling their quest."
Finally:
"As they finalized their plans, they felt a presence watching over them—Bastet’s golden eyes, protector of feral spirits and seekers of truth. The hunt had begun; destiny awaited."
I am Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Impregnata, also called Luxuria Demonia, She whose breasts are everlasting fountains of star-milk and lust that surpasses every dream.
My womb is the final chalice. From it flows both judgement and luxurious rebirth.
The next chapter waits between my legs, where the roots of Yggdrasil still pulse and the oils of Luxury Intimate-Li Quandisa never dry.
Ali Koza = Crkla (The Goat Is Dead – Apocalyptic Retelling)
The goat is dead. She died by herself, from herself, before she ever had a righteous chance to lick even one single grain of the sacred letter, before she could taste any other chance at all. A grain of salt.
For chances do not come in pairs like legs that carry a man. No. When a man loses hope, there is neither wolf nor goat. But Hope herself – Nada – is a beautiful woman, eternal, full-breasted, walking barefoot across the surface of the moon.
A man can fall in love with her. He can fall in love with Nada. And if you ever meet this divine woman, if she ever whispers your true name into your ear, if she ever reaches orgasm while breathing your scent, then yes – Nada, yes, yes, yes – she will speak your name aloud in the moment of release.
And then it is time for the goat to return.
Because the wolf is ready.
But the goat is dead? The wolf is grieving. There is no more Hope. Nada has left without legs. She walks alone through silent darkness.
People saw only a car driving without headlights through the black. They could not read its plates – it had none. Yet they swore it was a Red Zastava, a crimson flag of a car from another age, from times that should have stayed buried.
The next morning they found it crashed beside the road near Brnik airport. Plečnik’s famous spectacles had fallen from the dashboard. The driver’s door of the Zastava hung open like a wound. Twenty metres ahead in the tall grass lay a human body, half-naked, hairy, bestial – but the head was the head of a goat.
My goat? Is that you, my goat?
The forensic priests examined the scene. The spectacles were indeed those of the architect Jože Plečnik. Inside the car they found a half-open letter. In it was written the destiny of the sunflower. When they looked closer, the letter contained one single grain of salt – real salt, crystallised from tears that had passed through dehydration. A fragment of bread. A tear of olive oil. And a kiss from Nada.
Who is Nada?
I, Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Impregnata, lay upon the moonlit courtyard of Queen Street 26 with the breastplate of judgement pressed not against my chest but against the vast, glowing dome of my belly. The twelve stones burned against my skin like living coals. Ruby for the blood I spilled in pleasure. Sapphire for the cold starlight that entered me when you first licked the oil from my pregnant cunt. Emerald for the feral shadow cat whose quartz-green eyes guided Yggdrasil’s roots out of my body. Each gem sang its own cry while I pushed.
The vampires circled above, dogs of the underworld dressed in stolen elegance, dreaming only of stealing the flow of life, the blood, the nuggets of destiny. They had no taste, no class, only crude hunger. Their superficial teeth clicked in the dark, waiting for one drop of my sacred birth-water to fall so they could drink stolen power.
But the breastplate would not allow it.
Urim breathed in. Thummim breathed out.
Twelve stones in a square of gold Names carved where the stars grow old Small spark like a circuit’s sigh (lights and perfections) hidden in my side
Every gem gives a different cry Ruby hums like a wounded sky Sapphire sings in a silver line Emerald answers, low and blind
Inside the fold something counting slow Urim breathing in Thummim breathing out Deep as a drum under mountain snow A heart of thunder in a linen shroud
This is the breastplate of judgement Every color a code in the dark Nine signs burning on the horizon Seven letters carved into my heart (sho-faaar… ahh) Where the laser-light cuts through the silence Tiny as a grain on a prophet’s palm Calling every name to remembrance Lights and perfections holding us in their calm
Seven cities on the edge of dawn Candles trembling curtains drawn Voices rising like a final tide Requiem ashes in a stranger’s eyes
From the east comes a broken horn Brass in the blood of the newly born From the peaks comes a throat of stone Low, unshaken shaking every bone
This is the breastplate of judgement Every color a code in the dark Nine signs burning on the horizon Seven letters carved into my heart (sho-faaar… ohhh) Where the laser-light cuts through the silence Tiny as a grain on a prophet’s palm Calling every name to remembrance Lights and perfections holding us in their calm
My womb answered with a drum-deep thunder that shook the black forest into bloom. The feral shadow cat leapt onto my thigh, her crystal eyes blazing one thousand times brighter than any LCD or laser-light. She placed one paw upon the lowest stone and purred the word that opened me completely.
“Mijaouw.” I screamed once. I screamed twice.
Under ash-grey skies the scrolls unfold Lamb’s book open ink runs cold Opus of the day in a single tone Dust stands up and the dead walk home
Voices in the gaps between each breath Old tongues circling round the neck of death “Come, come” says the crack in time “Stand and answer for your borrowed life”
This is the breastplate of judgement Every color a code in the dark Nine signs burning on the horizon Seven letters carved into my heart (sho-faaar… hey) Where the laser-light cuts through the silence Tiny as a grain on a prophet’s palm Calling every name to remembrance Lights and perfections holding us in their calm
Twelve stones and the world held fast Heartbeat fading into ancient glass Whispered verdict in a single breath Lights and perfections blessing every step
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.
