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Bitch, I'm sippin tea
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Story 25 Jun, 18:00
Ежемесячная подборка лучших литературных каналов телеграма для тех, кто не разучился читать в эпоху информационного шума. Присоединяйтесь!

@biblio - короткие рассказы от известных писателей для чтения в метро или автобусе.

@kartiny - интриги мировых шедевров. Галереи и рассказы о художниках.

@knijky - с книгой по жизни. У них всегда уютно.

@stihipoet - первоклассные стихи великих поэтов в одном месте.

@ibookstg - лучшее качество звука в сети.

@book_hit - найду любую книгу по Вашему заказу. Быстро и бесплатно!

@fifty_two_books - делимся бесплатно книгами. Только качественная литература.

@scripca - классическая музыка у Вас под рукой. Лучшие произведения мировой классики.

@brodsky_poet - стихотворения и высказывания Иосифа Бродского.

@stihoman - лучшие стихи великих поэтов! Есенин, Маяковский, Бродский и многие другие сделают Ваш день незабываемым!

@exponat - художественные экспонаты со всех концов света. Удивительные и известные вещи и люди.

@skazkiaudio - аудио-сказки для детей и взрослых. Тексты прилагаются.

@short_read - короткие рассказы любимых классиков с иллюстрациями.

@audistbrain - аудиокниги и лекции, развивающие интеллект. Попробуйте на слух канал Аудист!

@bagnenkotext - о книгах, текстах и вдохновении. Личный опыт автора, который пишет тексты 14 лет, написал книгу и обучает тому, как писать и вам.
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Story 25 Jun, 12:21
The Blind Men and the Elephant

[The SIX BLIND MEN stand by the roadside, begging.
The DRIVER comes with his elephant.]

BLIND MEN. A penny, sir! A penny!

DRIVER (throwing pennies). There, and there, and there!
Now out of the way with you! I must take my elephant by.

FIRST BLIND MAN. I have never seen an elephant, sir.

OTHER BLIND MEN. Nor I! Nor I!

DRIVER. Do you know what he is like?

BLIND MEN. No, sir! No, sir!

DRIVER. Would you like to touch him?

BLIND MEN. Yes! Yes!

DRIVER. Come, then, and stand by him.

FIRST BLIND MAN (placing hand on elephant's side). Well, well!
Now I know all about him! He is exactly like a wall!

SECOND BLIND MAN (feeling the tusk). He is not like a wall!
He is round and smooth and sharp. He is like a spear.

THIRD BLIND MAN (feeling the trunk). Both of you are wrong.
He is like a snake.

FOURTH BLIND MAN (feeling a leg). Oh, how blind you are!
He is round and tall like a tree!

FIFTH BLIND MAN (feeling an ear). Why, he is exactly like a
great fan!

SIXTH BLIND MAN (feeling the tail). This elephant is not
like a wall, or a spear, or a snake, or a tree, or a fan.
He is exactly like a rope.

DRIVER. Ha, ha, ha!

[He goes, driving elephant and laughing.]

FIRST BLIND MAN. Ha, ha, ha! Hear how he laughs at you!

SECOND BLIND MAN. He laughs at you and the others.

THIRD BLIND MAN. He does not laugh at me!

FOURTH BLIND MAN. I say he laughs at you and the others.

FIFTH BLIND MAN. You cannot say he laughs at me!

SIXTH BLIND MAN. He laughs at all of you! He knows
I spoke the truth.

[He goes.]

OTHER BLIND MEN. Hear him! Hear him!

[They go their different ways, shaking their fingers angrily
at each other.]
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Story 23 Jun, 11:30
Motherhood by Sherwood Anderson

Below the hill there was a swamp in which cattails grew. The wind rustled the dry leaves of a walnut tree that grew on top of the hill.

She went beyond the tree to where the grass was long and matted. In the farmhouse a door bangs and in the road before the house a dog barked.

For a long time there was no sound. Then a wagon came jolting and bumping over the frozen road. The little noises ran along the ground to where she was lying on the grass and seemed like fingers playing over her body. A fragrance arose from her. It took a long time for the wagon to pass.

Then another sound broke the stillness. A young man from a neighboring farm came stealthily across a field and climbed a fence. He also came to the hill but for a time did not see her lying almost at his feet. He looked toward the house and stood with hands in pockets, stamping on the frozen ground like a horse.

Then he knew she was there. The aroma of her crept into his consciousness.

He ran to kneel beside her silent figure. Everything was different than it had been when they crept to the hill on the other evenings. The time of talking and waiting was over. She was different. He grew bold and put his hands on her face, her neck, her breasts, her hips. There was a strange new firmness and hardness to her body. When he kissed her lips she did not move and for a moment he was afraid. Then courage came and he went down to lie with her.

He had been a farm boy all his life and had plowed many acres of rich black land.

He became sure of himself.

He plowed her deeply.

He planted the seeds of a son in the warm rich quivering soil.

She carried the seeds of a son within herself. On winter evenings she went along a path at the foot of a small hill and turned up the hill to a barn where she milked cows. She was large and strong. Her legs went swinging along. The son within her went swinging along.

He learned the rhythm of little hills.

He learned the rhythm of flat places.

He learned the rhythm of legs walking.

He learned the rhythm of firm strong hands pulling at the teats of cows.

There was a field that was barren and filled with stones. In the spring when the warm nights came and when she was big with him she went to the fields. The heads of little stones stuck out of the ground like the heads of buried children. The field, washed with moonlight, sloped gradually downward to a murmuring brook. A few sheep went among the stones nibbling the sparse grass.

A thousand children were buried in the barren field. They struggled to come out of the ground. They struggled to come to her. The brook ran over stones and its voice cried out. For a long time she stayed in the field, shaken with sorrow.

She arose from her seat on a large stone and went to the farmhouse. The voices of the darkness cried to her as she went along a lane and past a silent barn.

Within herself only the one child struggled. When she got into bed his heels beat upon the walls of his prison. She lay still and listened. Only one small voice seemed coming to her out of the silence of the night.
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Story 21 Jun, 13:33
Почему люди в Европе живут так хорошо, а мы считаем копейки?

В Европе каждый второй житель инвестирует, а у нас каждый 200-й. Финансовая грамотность оставляет желать лучшего.

Рекомендую канал инвестбанкира @creatorcash , где он простыми словами рассказывает:

1️⃣Как законно вернуть от государства 208 000 рублей
2️⃣Почему в 2014 подскочил доллар
3️⃣Как за полтора месяца заработать 600%

Кроме того автор @creatorcash даёт рекомендации по рынку и личным финансам, полностью бесплатно.
CREATOR CASH| Инвестиции
Как гаратированно получить 52% за месяц без регистрации и смс В преддверии длинных праздников я принес вам покушать. Пишу для ума, скажем так. А именно торговую стратегию. И называется она "Ступени". Одну вариацию такой стратегии я уже давал. Сегодня будет вторая часть. Посвящена она будет опять ИИС. Подойдет моя стратегия опять же тем, у кого есть отчисления НДФЛ. Ок, отчисления есть, что дальше? А ИИС есть? Нет? Тогда бегом открывай. На себя, подругу/жену/родителей да кого угодно, кто тебе близок. Я открыл на себя, супругу и родителей. открыл и забыл... На три года. И потом снова вспомнил. Как я получил эти 52%: 1. Положил на свой счет и вывел 2. Завел их на счет жены и тоже вывел 3. Завел на счет отца и опять же вывел 4. Завел на счет матери и вывел. Что я получил? Фактически, у каждого из персонажей, про которых я писал выше деньги лежали на счету несколько дней, после чего я выводил деньги. НО каждый из них получил право на вычет 52 тысячи, или 13% от 400 тысяч. Да, деньги пришли через 4 месяца…
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Story 21 Jun, 12:52
Pure English humor

Ru-Ru
Two guys get stuck on a desert island.They are soon caught by the natives and brought to a village and put before the cheif.

He says to the first guy, "As punishment for tresspassing I give you a choice, death or Ru Ru".

Not wanting to die he picks Ru Ru. He is then beaten and buggered to unconciousness right in front of his friend.

The 2nd guywhen asks says "I'd rather die than suffer that ". The chief says "Great,death it is,death by Ru Ru"!!!
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Story 20 Jun, 12:28
The Leap-Frog by Hans Christian Andersen

A Flea, a Grasshopper, and a Leap-frog once wanted to see which could jump highest; and they invited the whole world, and everybody else besides who chose to come to see the festival. Three famous jumpers were they, as everyone would say, when they all met together in the room.

"I will give my daughter to him who jumps highest," exclaimed the King; "for it is not so amusing where there is no prize to jump for."

The Flea was the first to step forward. He had exquisite manners, and bowed to the company on all sides; for he had noble blood, and was, moreover, accustomed to the society of man alone; and that makes a great difference.

Then came the Grasshopper. He was considerably heavier, but he was well-mannered, and wore a green uniform, which he had by right of birth; he said, moreover, that he belonged to a very ancient Egyptian family, and that in the house where he then was, he was thought much of. The fact was, he had been just brought out of the fields, and put in a pasteboard house, three stories high, all made of court-cards, with the colored side inwards; and doors and windows cut out of the body of the Queen of Hearts. "I sing so well," said he, "that sixteen native grasshoppers who have chirped from infancy, and yet got no house built of cards to live in, grew thinner than they were before for sheer vexation when they heard me."

It was thus that the Flea and the Grasshopper gave an account of themselves, and thought they were quite good enough to marry a Princess.

The Leap-frog said nothing; but people gave it as their opinion, that he therefore thought the more; and when the housedog snuffed at him with his nose, he confessed the Leap-frog was of good family. The old councillor, who had had three orders given him to make him hold his tongue, asserted that the Leap-frog was a prophet; for that one could see on his back, if there would be a severe or mild winter, and that was what one could not see even on the back of the man who writes the almanac.

"I say nothing, it is true," exclaimed the King; "but I have my own opinion, notwithstanding."

Now the trial was to take place. The Flea jumped so high that nobody could see where he went to; so they all asserted he had not jumped at all; and that was dishonorable.

The Grasshopper jumped only half as high; but he leaped into the King's face, who said that was ill-mannered.

The Leap-frog stood still for a long time lost in thought; it was believed at last he would not jump at all.

"I only hope he is not unwell," said the house-dog; when, pop! he made a jump all on one side into the lap of the Princess, who was sitting on a little golden stool close by.

Hereupon the King said, "There is nothing above my daughter; therefore to bound up to her is the highest jump that can be made; but for this, one must possess understanding, and the Leap-frog has shown that he has understanding. He is brave and intellectual."

And so he won the Princess.

"It's all the same to me," said the Flea. "She may have the old Leap-frog, for all I care. I jumped the highest; but in this world merit seldom meets its reward. A fine exterior is what people look at now-a-days."

The Flea then went into foreign service, where, it is said, he was killed.

The Grasshopper sat without on a green bank, and reflected on worldly things; and he said too, "Yes, a fine exterior is everything--a fine exterior is what people care about." And then he began chirping his peculiar melancholy song, from which we have taken this history; and which may, very possibly, be all untrue, although it does stand here printed in black and white.

THE ELDERBUSH
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Story 19 Jun, 13:30
@wow_english - изучение английского языка по темам.
Story 19 Jun, 12:55
The Fable of the Kid Who Shifted His Ideal
by George Ade

The Fable of the Kid Who Shifted His Ideal was published in Fables in Slang (1899). Reminiscent of works by his legendary mentor, Mark Twain.

An A.D.T. Kid carrying a Death Message marked "Rush" stopped in front of a Show Window containing a Picture of James J. Jeffries and began to weep bitterly.

George Ade, The Fable of the Kid Who Shifted His IdealA kind-hearted Suburbanite happened to be passing along on his Way to the 5:42 Train. He was carrying a Dog Collar, a Sickle, a Basket of Egg Plums and a Bicycle Tire.

The Suburbanite saw the A.D.T. Kid in Tears and it struck him that here was a Bully Chance to act out the Kind-Hearted Pedestrian who is always played up strong in the Sunday School Stories about Ralph and Edgar.

"Why do you weep?" he asked, peering at the Boy through his concavo-convex Nose Glasses.

"Oh, gee! I was just Thinking," replied the Urchin, brokenly. "I was just Thinking what chance have I got to grow up and be the Main Stem, like Mr. Jeffries."

"What a perverted Ambition!" exclaimed the Suburbanite. "Why do you set up Mr. Jeffries as an Ideal? Why do you not strive to be like Me? Is it not worth a Life of Endeavor to command the Love and Respect of a Moral Settlement on the Outskirts? All the Conductors on our Division speak pleasantly to Me, and the Gateman has come to know my Name. Last year I had my Half-Tone in the Village Weekly for the mere Cost of the Engraving. When we opened Locust avenue from the Cemetery west to Alexander's Dairy, was I not a Member of the Committee appointed to present the Petition to the Councilmen? That's what I was! For Six Years I have been a Member of the League of American Wheelmen and now I am a Candidate for Director of our new four-hole Golf Club. Also I play Whist on the Train with a Man who once lived in the same House with T. DeWitt Talmage."

Hearing these words the A.D.T. Kid ceased weeping and cheerfully proceeded up an Alley, where he played "Wood Tag."

Moral: As the Twig is Bent the Tree is Inclined.
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Story 18 Jun, 12:21
A Cold Greeting by Ambrose Bierce

This is a story told by the late Benson Foley of San Francisco:

"In the summer of 1881 I met a man named James H. Conway, a resident of Franklin, Tennessee. He was visiting San Francisco for his health, deluded man, and brought me a note of introduction from Mr. Lawrence Barting. I had known Barting as a captain in the Federal army during the civil war. At its close he had settled in Franklin, and in time became, I had reason to think, somewhat prominent as a lawyer. Barting had always seemed to me an honorable and truthful man, and the warm friendship which he expressed in his note for Mr. Conway was to me sufficient evidence that the latter was in every way worthy of my confidence and esteem. At dinner one day Conway told me that it had been solemnly agreed between him and Barting that the one who died first should, if possible, communicate with the other from beyond the grave, in some unmistakable way--just how, they had left (wisely, it seemed to me) to be decided by the deceased, according to the opportunities that his altered circumstances might present.

"A few weeks after the conversation in which Mr. Conway spoke of this agreement, I met him one day, walking slowly down Montgomery street, apparently, from his abstracted air, in deep thought. He greeted me coldly with merely a movement of the head and passed on, leaving me standing on the walk, with half-proffered hand, surprised and naturally somewhat piqued. The next day I met him again in the office of the Palace Hotel, and seeing him about to repeat the disagreeable performance of the day before, intercepted him in a doorway, with a friendly salutation, and bluntly requested an explanation of his altered manner. He hesitated a moment; then, looking me frankly in the eyes, said:

"'I do not think, Mr. Foley, that I have any longer a claim to your friendship, since Mr. Barting appears to have withdrawn his own from me--for what reason, I protest I do not know. If he has not already informed you he probably will do so.'

"'But,' I replied, 'I have not heard from Mr. Barting.'

"'Heard from him!' he repeated, with apparent surprise. 'Why, he is here. I met him yesterday ten minutes before meeting you. I gave you exactly the same greeting that he gave me. I met him again not a quarter of an hour ago, and his manner was precisely the same: he merely bowed and passed on. I shall not soon forget your civility to me. Good morning, or--as it may please you--farewell.'

"All this seemed to me singularly considerate and delicate behavior on the part of Mr. Conway.

"As dramatic situations and literary effects are foreign to my purpose I will explain at once that Mr. Barting was dead. He had died in Nashville four days before this conversation. Calling on Mr. Conway, I apprised him of our friend's death, showing him the letters announcing it. He was visibly affected in a way that forbade me to entertain a doubt of his sincerity.

"'It seems incredible,' he said, after a period of reflection. 'I suppose I must have mistaken another man for Barting, and that man's cold greeting was merely a stranger's civil acknowledgment of my own. I remember, indeed, that he lacked Barting's mustache.'

"'Doubtless it was another man,' I assented; and the subject was never afterward mentioned between us. But I had in my pocket a photograph of Barting, which had been inclosed in the letter from his widow. It had been taken a week before his death, and was without a mustache."
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Story 16 Jun, 12:30
Сейчас системное мышление и умение противостоять психологическим уловкам – важные качества успешного человека. В рекомендациях сегодня – канал @mental_models, его автор рассказывает про развитие мышления и полезные ментальные модели.

В @mental_models учат, как бороться с общественным давлением и не поддаваться уловкам рекламщиков и политиков. Заходите
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Story 16 Jun, 12:11
The Dog And His Reflection
by Aesop

A Dog, to whom the butcher had thrown a bone, was hurrying home with his prize as fast as he could go. As he crossed a narrow footbridge, he happened to look down and saw himself reflected in the quiet water as if in a mirror. But the greedy Dog thought he saw a real Dog carrying a bone much bigger than his own.

If he had stopped to think he would have known better. But instead of thinking, he dropped his bone and sprang at the Dog in the river, only to find himself swimming for dear life to reach the shore. At last he managed to scramble out, and as he stood sadly thinking about the good bone he had lost, he realized what a stupid Dog he had been.

It is very foolish to be greedy.
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Story 14 Jun, 13:06
The Gray Hare by Leo Tolstoy

A gray hare lived during the winter near a village. When night came, he would prick up one ear and listen, then he would prick up the other, jerk his whiskers, snuff, and sit up on his hind legs.

Then he would give one leap, two leaps, through the snow, and sit up again on his hind legs and look all around.

On all sides nothing was to be seen except snow. The snow lay in billows and glittered like silver. Above the hare was frosty vapor, and through this vapor glistened the big white stars.

The hare was obliged to make a long circuit across the highway to reach his favorite granary. On the highway he could hear the creaking of the sledges, the whinnying of horses, the groaning of the seats in the sledges.

Once more the hare paused near the road. The peasants were walking alongside of their sledges, with their coat collars turned up. Their faces were scarcely visible. Their beards, their eyebrows were white. Steam came from their mouths and noses.

Their horses were covered with sweat, and the sweat grew white with hoar frost. The horses strained on their collars, plunged into the hollows, and came up out of them again. Two old men were walking side by side, and one was telling the other how a horse had been stolen from him.

As soon as the teams had passed, the hare crossed the road, and leaped unconcernedly toward the threshing-floor. A little dog belonging to the teams caught sight of the hare and began to bark, and darted after him.

The hare made for the threshing-floor across the snowdrifts. But the depth of the snow impeded the hare, and even the dog, after a dozen leaps, sank deep in the snow and gave up the chase.

The hare also stopped, sat on his hind legs, and then proceeded at his leisure toward the threshing-floor.

On the way across the field he fell in with two other hares. They were nibbling and playing. The gray hare joined his mates, helped them clear away the icy snow, ate a few seeds of winter wheat, and then went on his way.

In the village it was all quiet; the fires were out; the only sound on the street was a baby crying in a cottage, and the framework of the houses creaking under the frost.

The hare hastened to the threshing-floor, and there he found some of his mates. He played with them on the well-swept floor, ate some oats from the tub on which they had already begun, mounted the snow-covered roof into the granary, and then went through the hedge toward his hole.

In the east the dawn was already beginning to redden, the stars dwindled, and the frosty vapor grew thicker over the face of the earth. In the neighboring village the women woke up and went out after water; the peasants began carrying fodder from the granaries; the children were shouting. Along the highway more and more teams passed by, and the peasants talked in louder tones.

The hare leaped across the road, went to his old hole, selected a place a little higher up, dug away the snow, curled into the depths of his new hole, stretched his ears along his back, and went to sleep with his eyes wide open.
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Story 13 Jun, 18:01
Bitch, I’m sippin tea

It’s amusing. For the first time of your life you think that you are doing right, that life is just amazing with what you have. Your fulfilled happiness doesn’t know the pain and shines as a golden handle in cathedral you visit every Sunday. But slowly you are starting to realize that something is not okay.
Everything shows up and you are no more on of those simple people who go in cathedral.
You close the doors and hide your heart deep inside. Soon all your friends become nothing but simple memories of your past, reminding you how hard everything was and still is. And you feel worse.
Stuck inside your head with thoughts that you are useless, they can’t go away. You are low on your money, low on your feelings, your relationship ends after a few years of being together.
And know things are clear, you are numb, you guess you don’t have any another choice, but the rope and the stool.

This is where I invite you to be a member of a club of hurt children. Nothing, but the pure pain and anxiety on its own. The place where you no more feel alone.

And now, you, my dear listener, ask me, what can I give you in the club.

Money? Secret schemes to earn them? Business webinars on being successful or football matches to bet on?

No, I’ll give you something that you crave for.

What is it? You may ask

Well, come and see by yourself
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Story 12 Jun, 10:00
Why I Wrote The Yellow Wallpaper
by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Why I Wrote the Yellow Wallpaper was published in the October 1913 edition of The Forerunner. Enjoy reading Gilman's ground-breaking story in feminist literature, The Yellow Wallpaper. Visit our Feminist Literature - Study Guide for more on this genre.
An illustration for the story Why I Wrote The Yellow Wallpaper by the author Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Johannes Vermeer, A Lady Writing, 1665
Many and many a reader has asked that. When the story first came out, in the New England Magazine about 1891, a Boston physician made protest in The Transcript. Such a story ought not to be written, he said; it was enough to drive anyone mad to read it.

Another physician, in Kansas I think, wrote to say that it was the best description of incipient insanity he had ever seen, and--begging my pardon--had I been there?

Now the story of the story is this:

For many years I suffered from a severe and continuous nervous breakdown tending to melancholia--and beyond. During about the third year of this trouble I went, in devout faith and some faint stir of hope, to a noted specialist in nervous diseases, the best known in the country. This wise man put me to bed and applied the rest cure, to which a still-good physique responded so promptly that he concluded there was nothing much the matter with me, and sent me home with solemn advice to "live as domestic a life as far as possible," to "have but two hours' intellectual life a day," and "never to touch pen, brush, or pencil again" as long as I lived. This was in 1887.

I went home and obeyed those directions for some three months, and came so near the borderline of utter mental ruin that I could see over.

Then, using the remnants of intelligence that remained, and helped by a wise friend, I cast the noted specialist's advice to the winds and went to work again--work, the normal life of every human being; work, in which is joy and growth and service, without which one is a pauper and a parasite--ultimately recovering some measure of power.

Being naturally moved to rejoicing by this narrow escape, I wrote The Yellow Wall Paper, with its embellishments and additions, to carry out the ideal (I never had hallucinations or objections to my mural decorations) and sent a copy to the physician who so nearly drove me mad. He never acknowledged it.

The little book is valued by alienists and as a good specimen of one kind of literature. It has, to my knowledge, saved one woman from a similar fate--so terrifying her family that they let her out into normal activity and she recovered.

But the best result is this. Many years later I was told that the great specialist had admitted to friends of his that he had altered his treatment of neurasthenia since reading The Yellow Wall Paper.

It was not intended to drive people crazy, but to save people from being driven crazy, and it worked.
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Story 11 Jun, 18:00
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Story 11 Jun, 09:48
What the Moon Brings
by H. P. Lovecraft

I hate the moon - I am afraid of it - for when it shines on certain scenes familiar and loved it sometimes makes them unfamiliar and hideous.

Annabel Lee: The Black Sea at NightIt was in the spectral summer when the moon shone down on the old garden where I wandered; the spectral summer of narcotic flowers and humid seas of foliage that bring wild and many-coloured dreams. And as I walked by the shallow crystal stream I saw unwonted ripples tipped with yellow light, as if those placid waters were drawn on in resistless currents to strange oceans that are not in the world. Silent and sparkling, bright and baleful, those moon-cursed waters hurried I knew not whither; whilst from the embowered banks white lotos-blossoms fluttered one by one in the opiate night-wind and dropped despairingly into the stream, swirling away horribly under the arched, carven bridge, and staring back with the sinister resignation of calm, dead faces.

And as I ran along the shore, crushing sleeping flowers with heedless feet and maddened ever by the fear of unknown things and the lure of the dead faces, I saw that the garden had no end under that moon; for where by day the walls were, there stretched now only new vistas of trees and paths, flowers and shrubs, stone idols and pagodas, and bendings of the yellow-litten stream past grassy banks and under grotesque bridges of marble. And the lips of the dead lotos-faces whispered sadly, and bade me follow, nor did I cease my steps till the stream became a river, and joined amidst marshes of swaying reeds and beaches of gleaming sand the shore of a vast and nameless sea.

Upon that sea the hateful moon shone, and over its unvocal waves weird perfumes breeded. And as I saw therein the lotos-faces vanish, I longed for nets that I might capture them and learn from them the secrets which the moon had brought upon the night. But when that moon went over to the west and the still tide ebbed from the sullen shore, I saw in that light old spires that the waves almost uncovered, and white columns gay with festoons of green seaweed. And knowing that to this sunken place all the dead had come, I trembled and did not wish again to speak with the lotos-faces.

Yet when I saw afar out in the sea a black condor descend from the sky to seek rest on a vast reef, I would fain have questioned him, and asked him of those whom I had known when they were alive. This I would have asked him had he not been so far away, but he was very far, and could not be seen at all when he drew nigh that gigantic reef.

So I watched the tide go out under that sinking moon, and saw gleaming the spires, the towers, and the roofs of that dead, dripping city. And as I watched, my nostrils tried to close against the perfume-conquering stench of the world's dead; for truly, in this unplaced and forgotten spot had all the flesh of the churchyards gathered for puffy sea-worms to gnaw and glut upon.

Over these horrors the evil moon now hung very low, but the puffy worms of the sea need no moon to feed by. And as I watched the ripples that told of the writhing of worms beneath, I felt a new chill from afar out whither the condor had flown, as if my flesh had caught a horror before my eyes had seen it.

Nor had my flesh trembled without cause, for when I raised my eyes I saw that the waters had ebbed very low, shewing much of the vast reef whose rim I had seen before. And when I saw that the reef was but the black basalt crown of a shocking eikon whose monstrous forehead now shown in the dim moonlight and whose vile hooves must paw the hellish ooze miles below, I shrieked and shrieked lest the hidden face rise above the waters, and lest the hidden eyes look at me after the slinking away of that leering and treacherous yellow moon.

And to escape this relentless thing I plunged gladly and unhesitantly into the stinking shallows where amidst weedy walls and sunken streets fat sea-worms feast upon the world's dead.
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Story 7 Jun, 15:51
"Наш ум ленивее, чем тело" - говорил Франсуа де Ларош Фуко, французский писатель.

Как тонко подмечено, не правда ли? Нам трудно следить за телом: к сорока мы с отвисшими животами и не влезающими в джинсы задницами, в складках подбородка можно прятать еду, а слово "спорт" приравнивается к просмотру хоккейного матча перед теликом, с бухлом и едой.

Только вот мы не учли одного - если мы не можем справиться с телом, то как справимся с нашим умом? Для того, что бы расшевелить его, надо в десять раз больше усилий, чем заставить себя поднять обрюзгший зад и отправиться на тренировку.

Заглядывайте на канал, будем исправлять ситуацию вместе - @shkolamishleniA
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Story 7 Jun, 15:50
Beware of dog!

Upon entering the little country store, the stranger noticed a sign saying DANGER! BEWARE OF DOG! posted on the glass door. Inside he noticed a harmless old hound dog asleep on the floor beside the cash register.

He asked the store manager, "Is THAT the dog folks are supposed to beware of?"

"Yep, that's him," he replied.

The stranger couldn't help but be amused. "That certainly doesn't look like a dangerous dog to me. Why in the world would you post that sign?"

"Because", the owner replied, "before I posted that sign, people kept tripping over him."
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Story 6 Jun, 11:21
Backstreet Boys.
I Want It That Way

текст песни Backstreet Boys
Видео песни

I Want It That Way

You are my fire
The one desire
Believe when I say
I want it that way

But we are two worlds apart
Can't reach to your heart
When you say
That I want it that way

CHORUS:
Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a heartache
Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a mistake
Tell me why
I never wanna hear you say
I want it that way

Am I your fire
Your one desire
Yes I know it's too late
But I want it that way
CHORUS

Now I can see that we've fallen apart
From the way that it used to be, yeah
No matter the distance
I want you to know that
Deep down inside of me
You are my fire
The one desire
You are, you are, you are, you are
Don't wanna hear you say...

Don't wanna hear you say,
Ain't nothin' but a heartache,
Ain't nothin' but a mistake,
(Don't wanna hear you say),
I never wanna hear you say,
I want it that way

Tell me why,
Ain't nothin' but a heartache,
Tell me why,
Ain't nothin' but a mistake,
Tell me why,
I never wanna hear you say,
(Don't wanna hear you say),
I want it that way

Tell me why...
Ain't nothin' but a heartache,
Ain't nothin' but a mistake,
Tell me why,
I never wanna hear you say,
(Never wanna hear you say it),
I want it that way

I want it that way
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Story 5 Jun, 17:00
Всем привет. Едва не прозевал настоящий изумруд в горе мусора. Изящный литературный блог а-ля интимный дневничок с аппетитным названием Лит. Кондитерская.

Короткие, но неизменно будоражащие тексты. Аллегорично и иронично, под любой напиток. Присоединяйтесь, друзья! Поможем проекту @proza_val