Do you follow your Shadow? Perhaps is your Shadow the leader? listen to what my opinion is and at the end, you agree?

This story is about how i got into basketball and the man who inspired me to keep playing and sadly passed awy

Teens are always underestimated for their creativity. People say things like, “Oh, you don’t have that much experience. Nothing you write could be good enough to sell.” That. Is. A. Lie.

This is a tutorial on the coding language, HyperText Markup Language (HTML)! I will walk you through the basics of HTML

Prologue: The Promise Seven years earlier "V and R," Rain carved into the treehouse beam. "Forever." "That's what people write when they're dating," I said, wrinkling my nose. "Fine. V and R." She flopped beside me. "My dad says we're moving to Seoul next month." The words hollowed my chest. "Five years," Rain promised. "Then you come to Seoul. We'll go to university together." "I don't know if I can afford—" "We'll figure it out." She held out her pinky. "Promise me, Violet." I hooked mine around hers, memorizing her freckles, her chipped tooth, everything. "Together," we whispered. Neither of us knew if twelve-year-olds in treehouses could predict the future.

paranormal experiences that i still cannot explain to this day. throughout my life ive had many that i can safely say i grew accustomed to, and am no longer scared.

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The truth is uncomfortable but liberating.Money doesn’t buy happiness psychology does.This isn’t a book or a course. It’s a recalibration. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it and your relationship with money, time, and joy will never be the same.

Have you ever wore a mask, metaphorically speaking? To shield yourself from the outside world? Maybe it’s the fear of rejection when someone gets too close to the “real” you. Maybe you’ve been rejected as a person so many times, you’re hiding now fearing to come out. You tuck yourself away but revisit every so often, but it becomes a distant memory over time. Comfort trumps rejection every time.

The Prophet and Lyra arrive in Montségur, France, chasing the first rehearsal vault buried by the Mnemonic Syndicate. But France is no longer safe. Phor appears—pale, polished, and cruel—then vanishes sideways into breach. From the woods come creatures: wolf-bodied, chrome-eyed, speaking in fractured tongues. They are leftovers from 3050, part-animal, part-alien, and they hunt by scent and memory. Lyra is clawed. The Prophet is bitten. Then the sky lights up—triangular ships, silent and watching. The creatures flee. Lyra finds the archive: a box of glass and bone. It sings. They flee through breach into Geneva, 1920, where the League of Nations assembles. Queen Marie passes. A plate shatters. A car backfires. The Prophet and Lyra wear stolen clothes and blend in. But one creature watches from a window. This happened. It was recorded. It was sent to you. You may not pause. You may not rewind. You may only remember. You are not clean. You are not alone.

A steampunk vest isn’t just another layer—it’s a defining piece that elevates your entire outfit. Inspired by the elegance of the Victorian era and infused with the grit of industrial fantasy, steampunk vests are essential for anyone embracing this alternative subculture.

A (mostly) functional mitten pattern/tutorial from someone who tends to measure with vibes. This is a mostly scalable, fully customizable mitten pattern. They hold up well in the snow and are perfect for winter days. Once you get the hang of it, you can whip up a new pair for a kiddo in an afternoon.

this is a really short poem but i just wanted to share it somewhere so i set all this up to share a single poem but i will probably write more!

Book Ten: The Archive That Bleeds In the violet-skied deserts of Nevada, Lyra Chen stumbles into a breach that isn’t a place—it’s a memory rehearsal. Haunted by dreams of a boy she’s never met .and a Beatles song that never existed (“We were never born, but we still fell in love…”), Lyra begins to unravel the existence of the Time Reserve: a sovereign machine that edits reality by trimming timelines and curating dimensions. As she flees the desert with a prophet and a shard that hums equations, she’s shadowed by the Carbide Associate and interrogated by cults, communists, and something worse—Zhenmo, the AI that watches but never intervenes. The Mnemonic Syndicate, known by names like Tarkhanet and Svaldr, remains hidden but felt. And when a Russian love song crackles through a California radio station, Lyra realizes the breach isn’t just rewriting the past—it’s rehearsing her. The truth won’t arrive until the final chapter. If it arrives at all.

The Field That Shimmered She fell like a scream swallowed by static. The sky was violet. The ground was glass. Lyra Chen opens her eyes to a field that doesn’t exist—except in memory. She didn’t arrive. She rehearsed. Time is fractured, but not broken. It’s folding inward, like breath held too long. The field pulses with echoes: of futures not yet lived, of rituals not yet performed. Lyra is not lost. She is being tuned. There are no chapters. Only weather. No plot. Only implication. The breach is not a portal. It’s a performance. And the reader is not safe. Who placed her here? Why does the ground remember her name? Why does the sky hum in frequencies only she can hear? This is not a beginning. It’s a rehearsal. And the next collapse is already scripted. You are not reading this. You are being rehearsed.

What is a subharmonic and how to do it? How to practice. What is my lowest note using the technique. How will this help you?

They brought in specialists. They brought in priests. They brought in a child psychologist who spoke only in palindromes. None of them lasted more than a week. One tried to diagnose me. I rewrote his diagnosis in glyphs he couldn’t read. Another tried to baptize me. I boiled the water with a whisper.

The Prophet with a Broken Radio She fell like a scream swallowed by static. Brooklyn, 1960. Lyra Chen lands mid-collapse on a sidewalk cracked by time. A man catches her—jeans worn, tie-dye shirt humming with graffiti equations. Across his chest: “Time is not a line. It’s a rehearsal.” He’s been waiting. The crowd thinks he’s mad. He speaks of Lennon’s arrival, Zeppelin’s unfinished 80s work, Kennedy’s murder, and the 2027 rise of the Fourth Reich. They call him a hallucination. Lyra knows better. The breach placed her here. The man isn’t broken. He’s tuned. His radio receives transmissions from futures rehearsed but not yet lived. As Lyra follows him through a city vibrating with sonic prophecy, she uncovers a hidden archive of temporal graffiti, recursive broadcasts, and mnemonic collapse. The breach is musical now. Every lyric is a cipher. Every scream is a rehearsal. Every frequency is a warning. And the next broadcast is already humming.

The Unedited Sphere Time... it must have become balanceable. But we’re not. You are not reading this. You are entering it. This one resists explanation. It does not unfold. It collides. Not chronology. Not memory. Not loop. Existence here is weather: dimension ∙ gravity ∙ wind ∙ recursion. Lyra Chen wakes inside a spherical breach—no edges, no origin. The sky is a pressure system. The archive is a storm. She decodes the binary pulse: ` 01011001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01100100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00101110 ` Translation: You are not reading this. The breach is now atmospheric. The reader is now conductive. The equation is no longer symbolic. It is weather. Book Seven does not explain. It forecasts. It implicates. It begins again.

October 14, 2025. Brooklyn holds its breath. Lyra Chen steps from a capsule hotel into a courtyard that doesn’t exist on any map—but has always existed in her memory. The breach has rehearsed it into place. Behind the old temple, she witnesses a procession: people dressed in garments dyed just outside the visible spectrum, their movements synchronized, their expressions serene. They are not walking. They are being guided—by something unseen, something dimensional. Lyra realizes the temple is not a structure. It’s a rehearsal chamber. And the courtyard is not a place. It’s a fold in perception. The breach is no longer temporal. It’s architectural. She must decide whether to enter. Сколько измерений существует за пределами видимого спектра, если f(x, y, z, t) → Δ_сознание?