~recall: "destiny_code" timeline_collapse.bash @error_code_1221

Honestly based

Collin Rugg @CollinRugg

2 days ago

Wisconsin woman pretends to be a school teacher just so she could call the kids fat and separate them by race. 23-year-old Amy Jones was reportedly "bored," so she walked into Rufus King High School and told staff she was a substitute. The school believed her and assigned her

2K 3K 26K 3.6M 5K

The simulation is winking

I was raped by the cia when I was 9 and it gave me psychic powers

this guy should have been met with the firing squad 35 years ago

Smith K. Stead @smithkstead

a day ago

this is very, very dark - a 21 y/o man missing since september was found dead in a christchurch house last lived in by notorious biker/nazi pedophile ivan andrew campbell

keyboard_arrow_left Previous keyboard_arrow_right Next

16 133 2K 83K 386

After this, I’m actually convinced he’s the real Jeffrey Epstein

Palm Beach Pete @not_jeffepstein

2 days ago

I have JUST RETURNED FROM ISRAEL, where I underwent a BRAND NEW DNA TEST at the world-renowned BioGenesis Laboratory in Tel Aviv. The technology in Israel is DECADES ahead of what we have here in the United States. Their scientists are doing things our so-called “experts” in

keyboard_arrow_left Previous keyboard_arrow_right Next

5K 1K 23K 11.4M 10K

Jesus literally said we should throw pedos into the ocean with weights tied to them

Lily of the Valley 🪷 @freefrompoison

a day ago

Yeah.. This will expose the real followers of Christ and those who actually understand him and understand what’s happening

0 0 0 470 1

Public executions are the only hope we have to restore some kind of order to this ridiculously crumbling society The problem is the people that deserve the bullets won’t get them I would gleefully watch certain people die. Like anyone who jacks off to snuff films, for example

Lily of the Valley 🪷 @freefrompoison

a day ago

Who the fuck would even want to watch a public execution?! It’s just opening doors for demons to enter you. It cannot be non traumatic to watch someone get killed unless you’re a psychopath Insanity

2 0 0 434 0

لا إله إلا الله ومحمد رسول الله لا إله إلا الله ومحمد رسول الله لا إله إلا الله ومحمد رسول الله لا إله إلا الله ومحمد رسول الله لا إله إلا الله ومحمد رسول الله لا إله إلا الله ومحمد رسول الله لا إله إلا الله ومحمد رسول الله

0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 63, 125, 248, 492, 976, 1936, 3840, 7617, 15109, 29970

Baby, I’m an alchemist, and you’re a spineless astrologer We walked together, stargazing, and held hands in the astral world But when it came time to throw bricks thru Solomon’s temple You left me all alone All alone

we are all errorisTs errare humanum est 1. ERRORISM: Concept and action are based on the idea that "error" is reality's principle of order. 2. ERRORISM is a philosophically erroneous position, a ritual of negation, a disorganized organization: failure as perfection, error as appropriate move. 3. The field of action of ERRORISM contains all those practices that aim at the LIBERATION of the human being and language. 4. CONFUSION and SURPRISE, black humour and ABSURDITY are the favorite tools of the errorists. 5. Lapses and failed acts are an ERRORIST delight. ErrorisT International Are you an Artist? Join our poeTic ERRORIST Re-Evolution and VANDALIZE your OWN Art by subtly injecting the phrase 'PROJECT MAYHEM 2012' on your works! #1 - The first rule of PM2012 is, you do talk about PM2012. #2 - The second rule of PM2012 is, you **DO** talk about PM2012.

What a goddamn bummer — what a waste of my energy

I am the greatest living magician but that’s only because the rest of you are so terrible.

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea. 'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart. And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out. 'Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it. Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand. The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet. 'You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.' But the girl frowned. 'I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; 'and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.' 'Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it. 'Ungrateful!' said the girl. 'I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house. 'What a silly thing Love is,' said the Student as he walked away. 'It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.' So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read. - Oscar Wilde

'She has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - 'that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.' And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep. And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her. She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree. But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.' So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid. And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose. And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.' So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb. And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart. But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

'She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,' cried the young Student; 'but in all my garden there is no red rose.' From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered. 'No red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. 'Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.' 'Here at last is a true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his lace like pale Ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.' 'The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,' murmured the young Student, 'and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.' 'Here indeed is the true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'What I sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.' 'The musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young Student, 'and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her;' and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept. 'Why is he weeping?' asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air. 'Why, indeed?' said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam. 'Why, indeed?' whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice. 'He is weeping for a red rose,' said the Nightingale. 'For a red rose!' they cried; 'how very ridiculous!' and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright. But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love. Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden. In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

LOVE IN A MEADOW She waved her body in the circle sign Of love purely born without side; The earth’s contour, she orbited to my pride, Sin and unsin. But the critic asking questions ran From the fright of the dawn To weep later on an urban lawn For the undone God-gifted man. O the river flowed round and round The low meadows filled with buttercups In a place called Topgrass. I was born on high ground. Patrick Kavanagh

Nobody knows this little Rose — It might a pilgrim Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee. Only a Bee will miss it — Only a Butterfly, Hastening from far journey — On its breast to lie — Only a Bird will wonder — Only a Breeze will sigh — Ah Little Rose — how easy For such as thee to die! Emily Dickinson