Le pasa lo mismo que a mí. Parecen vidas paralelas. Al gay Enrique de ocho apellidos madrileños, cuando está en Madrid, le confunden por otra cosa. Las mujeres ppopulistas salen corriendo despavoridas pensando que las va a atracar, las mujeres voxeras huyen corriendo llamando a la policia, los hombres directamente le gritan que regrese a su tierra. Como todo ese rebaño va a sumar para mangonear en nuestro país.. pensó en votar por correo con toda tranquilidad y que el desastre de resultados le pille de vacaciones en Turquía. De paso, aprovechará para algún implante capilar y así dejará de salir en los selfies con la cabeza cubierta. ¡Suerte con tu tranplante de pelo, Enrique!

Tela marinera *"AYUSO" (Jorge Bustos, El Mundo). A Ayuso se la ama o se la odia, y la razón de que la derecha la ame es que la izquierda la odia. En una España deforestada por la apisonadora de Sánchez, con la oposición reducida a objeto de condescendencia cuando no de mofa, el instinto de supervivencia liberal o conservador corre a cobijarse bajo la única figura que desquicia al sanchismo. La máquina que ha triturado sucesivamente al PSOE, a Rajoy, a Rivera, a Iglesias y a Arrimadas topa con una inexperta actriz de cine mudo, según el pincel de Raúl del Pozo, y no logra arrollarla. Primero la ignoraban, después se burlaban y por último la cubren de insultos. Sería más inteligente disimular su aversión, porque son los golpes de la izquierda los que están esculpiendo la estatua de Ayuso, pero no pueden contenerse. ¿Por qué? Agotado el suspense catalán en su bucle de reflujos amarillos, el gran psicodrama político se traslada a Madrid. La izquierda plurinacional se afana en nombrar a Ayuso fundadora del supremacismo madrileño. La caricatura que sus enemigos trazan de ella oscurece sus rasgos genuinos, que ella misma ni siquiera sospecha: el don intransferible de haberle robado la bandera del pueblo a la izquierda. Basta con salir de las moquetas de la élite y poner la oreja en los bares que Ayuso ha dejado abiertos para constatar su natural conexión con eso que Podemos llamaba la gente. Gente jodida que ve a una presidenta como una igual en plena crisis. Veamos. Ayuso no encaja en el vestido de pija pepera ni en el hábito de monja voxera. Ni es una meapilas ni viene de familia bien, y su último novio conocido fue un peluquero. Madruga mucho y se acuesta tarde, lo que amplía la probabilidad de que a lo largo de una jornada incurra en más aciertos que errores por puro estajanovismo. Aprende rápido porque sabe que no sabe, pero ha renunciado a la gloria que reparten los árbitros de lo correcto y los críticos de lo aparente. Igual que los columnistas que triunfan escriben para los lectores y no para el gremio de columnistas, Ayuso hace política para los madrileños y no para el gremio de tertulianos*. (en Errentería, País Vasco, Spain) https://www.instagram.com/p/CmBbvEPqLXvloV-RVZBTuZi2S9lnunar4rQwo00/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

thirteenth

his father was a king and the son of kings. he did not care much for a child who would not be his heir, and his mother— they say brides do not smile on their wedding day, only the foolish ones. he was plucked from her arms and replaced with a pillow by a midwife the day of his birth. she did not notice. only hugged it closer.

almost as stupid as him.

his stupidity stemmed from hope. the kind that took root in your heart, manifested itself as a child’s wide-eyed curiosity. he wanted to be just like them— his siblings adorned in jewels and furs. the way they carried themselves like fluid gold, graceful and poised and respected. it was never to be.

the youngest of the family, born into an ivory palace soaked in crimson. the bloodbath had already begun long before he was born, screaming, into the world. he was sure, for awhile, that he would leave the same way. another son, another rival to the throne. the weight of the crown though hefty, would never outweigh the greed of its bearer. he wanted to be like them— his brothers— but they looked to him with nothing but scorn and fear. they never spoke kindly, and he was alone.

quickly, he grew to be a disappointment; lean, lanky. his limbs too long for his body. he was not graceful. he was not poised. he was not respected. the best that could said about him was his smile. but that, too, faded over time.

princes did not smile, you see. not with their eyes. they tipped their chins up and looked over their subject’s heads. how would you smile if you never were to meet their gaze? jhin, however, was different. he’d look even the servant, who worked to take care of his every need, in the eye, befriend the gardener who maintained his favourite daisy meadow, taste-test everything in the kitchen with the chef laughing by his side. no, he wasn’t like the other princes and princesses who carried themselves with a sort of grandeur that was stifling to the royal servants. not how they often walked around stiffly, like a dolly stick was glued to their spines. where they were rigid, he was free-spirited, and friendly and everything a prince should not have been. maybe if they had cared enough to drill the youngest into the deep-seated discontentment the monarchy seemed to thrive off, he would not have been adored. instead, he was loved, and not feared. he was not a prince.

that only made them hate him more.

simple avoidance turned into degradation. they had the decency to start slow. he was never in the public eye to begin with, the people of his kingdom oblivious to an heir such as him. they did not care, he would think. not as long as the harvest was plentiful and their pockets full. so when he disappeared from knightings and other public ceremonies, no one quite noticed. even if they did— like the servants of the monarch— they remained silent, for they were powerless. who were they to question the rulers of the land? it was always better to keep their mouths shut to things the gods battled over. the royal family was to itself its own.

his siblings were every bit as cruel as they were ambitious. they never did anything in his presence. they were like that— the monarch— the hilt of their sword to your back, never your front. they never revealed themselves. he was naive, then. it was a simpler time. life had not taught him enough for him to understand why they shunned him. hid his prized possessions. blamed him for mistakes he never committed. he would cry himself to sleep at night, empty stomach doing nothing to coax his indignation. why would a boy of six years deserve the harshness of his own siblings? what had he done, exactly, to warrant such duress? the answer was uncomplicated, in retrospect. it was simply because of who he was born to, the silver spoon in his mouth.

in some ways, maybe they beat the hope out of him. his skin bled purple, blue and light. they never had the guts to do it themselves. it was gullible of him to think that they found it hard to lay hands on their baby brother. it was probably their fear. perhaps they found it a chore. they never had to pick up a finger to do anything in their life— this was just one of the many things they outsourced to servants who were terrified to act against their orders.

he hoped, and he hoped, and he hoped. and one day, he stops hoping. what good was a king who did not hear his son’s cries? what good was a father who always had more important things to do? a mother, who knew of nothing, and cared so much less than what she knew. of siblings who despised him, wanted him dead. what good were the friends he made in the castle who cowered at higher power. became deaf to his pleas, blind at the atrocities, mute in comfort. jhin did not smile anymore. he did not talk. he did not leave his room. he was not afraid, but he was tired.

the only thing that eased him was the sea. his palace wing perched on a huge jagged rock along the coast. it overlooked the stormy blue ocean, and he would spend his days barefoot on the lower rocks where his toes could feel the sand. they had once called him prince Ōkeanós. an old time word for the ocean. now, they barely called him at all. perhaps it was better like this, to be alone. to feel the waves lap at his toes, the salty mist drawn over his face, unruly hair strewn backwards. to hear the tide crash in silence. he was at peace. the loneliness was as gritty as the sand beneath his feet— he supposed this was their way of teaching him. only the monarch was capable of feeling melancholy in such power. a gilded cage made from gold and adorned with jewels was still a cage. was it right for a boy, a mere ten years of age, to be so mournful? not for a simple fisherboy, but for a prince in waiting, it was all too normal. he was starting to understand them, maybe. his brothers. all this could only have been born from a place of complete isolation and despair. it was not hard to imagine them in such a position. it did not make what they did forgivable, but it eased jhin enough for him to shed his outer garments and wade into the tide. he half-expected his favourite guard to hold him by the elbow and guide him out, that one maid that felt like a mother to chide him into stepping back ashore. it’s too cold for swimming, little prince. she’d say in that tone of hers. today, however, there was only the sound of howling wind. it seemed they had turned their backs on him too.

the garments he kept on soaked through in a second. they clung to his skin in a way that should have been uncomfortable, but all he felt was warmth. they used to say he had an affinity with the ocean, that he had been born on the first day the tide retreated and no longer crashed noisily over the coast. that poseidon, himself, had watched over his birth. old time myths were never lost on him. he treasured the stories as he would a person. now, with his eyes closed, he let himself drift off to these tales, of a god with a trident who ruled over the seas.

he stayed like this for a good while, water lapping at his shoulder blades, and tried not to fall asleep. he didn’t know how far from shore he had drifted, pulled in by the current. he could only tell it had been awhile by the way the sun scorched the skin of his nape. the salinity of the sea water made his new wounds sting, but he had remembered a servant once telling him that the pain would help it heal. a remedy as old as time, he had said. jhin allowed himself to be swept away in the things of the past, ever so often. it was to be his downfall.

the hands that grabbed him were familiar. sinewy things that he had seen more than a few times. it did not matter when he was pushed underwater, all the same. with his head submerged, he could barely make out the silhouette through his half-parted eyes. the saltwater stung, but this felt like his chest was on fire. it was only a game, was it not? just another one of their pranks that would end in him being near death, but never quite dead. when he struggled, he was pushed further down. he felt his head getting lighter, foggy with the amount of water he had swallowed. his mouth felt like sandpaper and his throat throbbed, raw with his screaming. it dawned upon him that this was their last effort. he was not going to live this time. more than anything, they wanted him dead, and they always got what they wanted. there was no way he would survive this— they had thought so, at least. enough to send one of their own to trip on their power and finish the task. his brother smiled above him, drowning the boy. it felt right for him to die in a place he loved most. where he felt safe. jhin let his limbs fall loose, no longer resisting, and with his body light, his eyes fluttered close.

the hands he had grown up worshipping finally let go of him. he felt the current shift as the man waded back to where he had came from. jhin pushed himself into a spot where he could keep his head above water with his feet on the ground, stuck his head up and breathed in greedily. his lungs still felt heavy with salt, and the water made him choke and splutter, but he was drowned out by a loud wave crashing over the rocks. the sea was truly on his side. he acted before his brother noticed. it would be a lie to say it was a mistake. not with the way he lifted the man’s bleeding head and slammed it against the sharpest rock again, and again, until his garments were soaked with more blood than water. he did not just want him to die. he wanted him to feel pain. he wanted them to pay. he wanted to be feared. the water around his feet washed him clean, but the sea bled crimson. he was at peace.

the fourth prince to the throne had died, and suddenly he was a murderer being tried for treachery to the crown. it mattered not that he had been attacked first. or that he had almost died and acted upon self-defence. perhaps this had been their plan all along; two birds with one stone. it was not enough for him to die. they wanted jhin to suffer as much as he had wanted the fourth prince to cry out in mercy. that was his sin to bear. they would have him strung up in the public square and stoned to death. made a joke out of by his own people before his inevitable passing. maybe it would have worked out as planned if it weren’t for the thin circlet that mostly stayed hidden amongst his curly locks. they, as he did, sometimes forgot he was a prince. he did not act like much. 

his status kept him from execution, but it did not change the fact that he was a murderer, branded a criminal and a permanent stain on his family’s lineage. they could not look divided to their neighbours. it would make them look weak and easily overthrown. his father had spent his life scrambling to keep his kingdom and would not risk losing it over a son like jhin. he had to be erased from history.

this is how he became an orphan. with no parents, no family name and no inheritance.

he was to be sent away. exiled to a kingdom far from sight. the death of his brother had been announced as an accident, and his trip, a diplomatic one. it was not uncommon for lower princes to marry women of noble birthright in allied kingdoms. the people did not seem to care. in a few years he would be forgotten completely, his name removed from writing. there would be no thirteenth son of ezekiel. he would not have existed.

no one came to see him off. he had become a prince, had he not? the remorseless killing, the hollow eyes, his melancholy. it seemed this would not be enough for them either. the thought alone made him chuckle. they had finally gotten what they wanted.

the trip spanned forty days and forty nights on sea, and another eighteen moons on horse. they wanted him far away, away from sight to be forgotten quietly. he did not speak to the messengers who guided him along and they did not move to engage him in any way. he could tell they were afraid.

when he arrived, he was brought before the king, whom he refused to bow to. the royal guard forced him to his knees and he laid prostrate against his will, but he did not struggle. he had no family, no king, no god. the act meant nothing; not respect or fear or submission. rather, he was glad to be able to lay down after weeks of travelling.

“what is your name?” jhin had been exiled to be fostered in this man’s kingdom, yet he did not know of his name. 

jhin ground his teeth and kept silent. the grip on his shoulders tightened and he felt panic rise in his throat. it was too soon.

“jhin.” his reply breathy.

“do you know why you’re here?” what a foolish, pointless question. he had been sent with a bag of gold in exchange for being kept as a servant. surely, the king knew. he was the only one aware of his prior status. this was a pitiful attempt at trying to humiliate him.

“to live in servitude.” jhin did not see why he should have to answer, but he also did not want them to push him down by his shoulders again. the king seemed satisfied by his answers, and with a swift flick of his hand, jhin was dragged away from the throne room.

he did not have much in ways of personal belongings, but was forced to dump whatever he had in the servant quarters before being ushered away from the empty room again. all he wanted was to lay down on the uncomfortable looking pallet and sleep. instead, he was now in a hall full of servant boys around his age. they all wore the same expression— fear— one jhin knew too well. they looked terrified as they fidgeted in their spots, afraid to speak or even let their backs touch the wall behind them. like they would be reprimanded if they were an inch out of line. before he could turn to the boy next to him to ask, the doors at the head of the room swung open and the air grew cold.

“his royal highness, crown prince, ahn baekhyun.” he swore he heard the boys beside him stop breathing entirely. jhin never understood the need for such practices, but at least now he knew who he was looking at. while all the other servants in the room immediately had their heads bowed in respect and trepidation, jhin looked around the room in pure boredom. he had seen enough. the prince was nothing but a boy, his age, wearing a cape too big for his shoulders and a crown that weighed heavy on his head. jhin nearly pitied the boy, until it became clear that he was just like them, perhaps even worse. this prince did not seem to care for pleasantries. he used fear to his advantage, twisted these poor boys around his pinky and watched them snivel in terror. his gratuitous cruelty became clear in an instant. jhin was not surprised in the slightest. it seemed the heavier the crown, the more vicious they became. his heart still ached for the strangers he saw scorned and kicked to the ground, but he did not flinch. it was as to be expected.

he barely notices when the prince stops in line before him, too busy tracing out the intricate lines on the ceiling. they were fascinating, the patterns. he had never seen things of the sort from his native land. it made him wonder how far away he was from the kingdom.

“look me in the eye.” the prince had a piercing voice, the kind that commanded complete and utter submission. jhin felt as bored as he looked, staring determinedly at the clock. he wondered, briefly, if the guards were going to push him onto his knees again. maybe he would be able to take a nap while he laid on his knees.

“i, his royal highness, the crown prince, ahn baekhyun, order you to look me in the eye.” jhin nearly laughed. what boy his age spoke like that? was that normal here? it sounded ridiculous.

for that alone, he was forced down to the ground by his collar. the prince was stronger than his slight stature would suggest. it took jhin by surprise, but he was yet to make a sound. he would have to work a lot harder to break jhin. there was little that scared him now. yet, the boy kept trying. “would you rather stare at the mud on the floor for the rest of your life?!” jhin considers it impassively. maybe. if it meant that he would not have to endure such meaningless brutality.

his silence had only made the young prince more angry. it was clear that he was lashing out on the servants in his already foul mood, but jhin had made things worse. he did not care much, but the foot on the back of his head was starting to hurt and he could not fall asleep in this position. he grunted, and finally, the prince moved away, satisfied in what he thought to be power over him. jhin would not let him have that pleasure. with his arm stuck up in a way that he knew would cause the boy to fall, or at least trip, he waited, head up to see that it was fulfilled. it worked and the prince stumbled, and jhin had to stop himself from breaking out into fits of laughter at how stupid he looked— the realisation, shock and anger clear on his features. there was a moment where he seemed consumed by rage, like he was going to turn on his heel and finish the job, crack jhin’s head open on the marble floors. instead, he did something that left jhin confused— he spoke again, before walking away.

“this one!”

before he could gather his thoughts and catch his breath, jhin was pulled back up onto his feet roughly and dragged into yet another room with no explanation.

it was certain that this would be his life now. here, fallen from grace and stripped of glory, he was but a servant. it would take awhile for him to realise the weight rags could carry. until then, he would continue to suffer, retaliate in his silly pride, before that was taken from him, too.

¿CÓMO AHORRAR + DEL 50% EN TU FACTURA DE LA LUZ Y QUE NO HAYA MÁS MÁXIMOS HISTÓRICOS DE LUZ COMO EL DE AYER EN 140€? SOLO NOS QUEDA VOX Y SOLIDARIDAD.

Gobierno sociatacomunista es culpable y no tiene perdón. El 65% del precio de la factura de la luz son PEAJES E IMPUESTOS. Vox pidió que los quitasen y gobierno sociatacomunista se negó. Ni siquiera los han quitado a los consumidores vulnerables. Mucha gente pobre tiene golpes de calor en Verano y se quedan congelados en Invierno. Gobierno sociatacomunista no hace nada por ellos. Ni siquiera el Gobierno ha quitado el impuesto de dióxido de carbono, que dijo la UE que quitara. Los altos impuestos y la falta de industria energética son las razones para tener la luz más cara de Europa. Sólo Vox eliminará PEAJES E IMPUESTOS y volverá a poner las nucleares para poner baratos los recibos de la luz. Si queda algún juez valiente tendría que enviar a los miembros del Gobierno Sociatacomunista a la cárcel por millones de incumplimientos que hacen con las leyes de la Constitución Española. Nuestro partido Vox y su sindicato Solidaridad son la única solución que hay para bajar el recibo de la luz. Sólo con Vox habría suficiente energía española limpia y barata. No habría que comprar la energía contaminante de Marruecos. Vox abriría centrales nucleares que ha cerrado PPSOE, y Vox lo haría con seguridad y limpieza. Hay que derrotar a este gobierno de la mentira, del fraude, de la ruina y de la desmemoria histórica. Podemos miente, con decir que quiere bajar la luz. Si tuviera dignidad, haría caer el Gobierno y se convocarían nuevas elecciones. Lo que dice de nacionalizar las compañías eléctricas no se puede hacer, porque España la ha dejado este Gobierno Sociatacomunista en quiebra técnica. No tendría dinero para indemnizar las compañías. Además del fracaso que ha habido en otros países haciendo eso, como con la dictadura de Maduro en Venezuela, que ha batido récords de luz con precios máximos históricos. Sólo Vox ha reclamado que se dejen de poner puertas giratorias, reparto de sillones de políticos del PSOE, PP, Podemos como consejeros en las compañías eléctricas con grandísimos sueldos millonarios y que la mayoría lo único que hacen es ir una vez al año a la Junta General. Quitando a esos energumenos se abarataría el recibo de la luz. Nuestro sindicato Solidaridad, único que no recibe subvenciones públicas y que lucha por la bajada de la luz en España, saldrá a las calles a defender nuestros derechos el 18 de Septiembre. Los sindicatos sociatacomunistas subvencionados por PPSOE con dinero público de España y que se han gastado muchas veces el dinero de todos en chicas de compañía, mariscadas, droga, fiestas de lujo, no reclaman nada al gobierno para que baje la luz. Si tienen dignidad los medios de comunicaciones, saldrá la información en todos los sitios, de que la ruina de mucha gente que vive en España, es por culpa del Gobierno sociatacomunista. Si no hacen caso, la gente honrada en España, saldremos todos los días a manifestarnos y a rodear el parlamento democráticamente para que los políticos de los otros partidos nos escuchen nuestras reivindicaciones voxeras de que queremos energía española limpia, barata y quitar peajes e impuestos de la luz. Los obreros patriotas españoles nos queda la patria y tenemos que luchar por ella, tenemos que derrotar democráticamente a los oligarcas globalistas que hacen presuntas especulaciones ilegales en bolsa, para forrarse mientras este gobierno nos envió a España a la quiebra técnica. Si no salimos a la calle, este Gobierno Sociatacomunista, cada vez hará más máximos históricos porque su ideología sectaria quiere cerrar todas las centrales nucleares, térmicas y carboníferas, cuando la mayoría de esas centrales tienen total seguridad y limpieza. Si salimos a la calle, tendremos facturas ahorrando + del 50%. Ustedes deciden. Sólo Vox ha puesto iniciativas en el Parlamento para bajar el precio de la luz. Gobierno sociatacomunista recaudó desde que subió la luz 3300 millones de €. Con la subida de la luz muchos autónomos pagan 300€ más al mes, además de la gran subida de la cuota anual de autónomos. Muchos han tenido que cerrar sus negocios y han quedado con deudas. Algunos se han

suicidado. DEP. Lucharemos para que este gobierno sociatacomunista sea juzgado como presunto criminal.

Voxera: جهاز يتيح إجراء واستقبال المكالمات برقم هاتفك عند السفر مجانا

Voxera: جهاز يتيح إجراء واستقبال المكالمات برقم هاتفك عند السفر مجانا https://goo.gl/bRB1PC لمتابعة آخر الأخبار العربية والإقليمية، وأخبار رجال الله في الميدان عبر التليجرام: https://t.me/arabipress2 لإعلاناتكم عبر موقع العربي برس ولمدة 3 أشهر من دون اي مقابل يرجى التواصل معنا عبر الرابط ادناه: https://wp.me/P7LJxY-6

tell them it didn’t hurt, tell them you’ve grown teeth. that no boy can hurt you, not those with smiles as soft as the canines embedded into your tender flesh, not those with love in their gentle eyes.  

tell them you run with the wolves, tell them you’re not the boy they once knew. that you didn’t give your heart away, not to him, who held you like you were something precious, not to him, who kissed you breathless, like his existence depended on it.

tell them you’re not in love, tell them your heart died, suffocated in his perfect deception. that you aren’t capable of love, not anymore, not ever, not with him.

tell him you have no heart left to break.

حاضنة أعمال “ابني” تحتضن مشروع لشركة Voxera الموفر لرسوم التجوال

حاضنة أعمال “ابني” تحتضن مشروع لشركة Voxera الموفر لرسوم التجوال

استقبلت حاضنة الأعمال “ابني” Ebni Incubator، وهي إحدى مبادرات جمعية اتصال، 13 مشروعًا جديدًا لشركات ناشئة فى مجال إنترنت الأشياء وهو التخصص الذي تقوم بالتركيز عليه “ابني” في العام الحالي كأحد الاتجاهات الحديثة لتطبيقات واستخدامات تكنولوجيا المعلومات والاتصالات فى الأمور الحياتية فى العالم خاصة بعد انتشار خدمات وتطبيقات الجيل الرابع.

وقال الدكتور حازم الطحاوي، رئيس مجلس إدارة جمعية اتصال إن “ابني…

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En menos de un mes hay elecciones en Galicia y en la Comunidad Autónoma Vasca. En Galicia Vox no saca buenos resiltados, ni siquiera regulares, pero en el País Vasco Vox apenas es votado por un puñado de seguidores que comprenden a los candidatos, sus familiares y algunos exaltados que pertenecen a lo más furibundo de ciertas fuerzas de seguridad. Sus seguidores por tierras vascas son una ínfima parte del electorado que corresponden a un insignificante número porcentual precedido por varios ceros. Los estrategas de Vox piensan...¿Cómo podemos sacar rédito a esta situación ridícula? Y se les ocurre que, como van a cagarla a expuertas en los resultados desfavorables del País Vasco, cosa normal, por otra parte, ya que acuden allá para llamar terroristas y asesinos al conjunto de sus ciudadanos, lo cual ya es un insulto en sí,  deciden lo único que puede darles algo a cambio, que es mostrarse víctimas, como sea, y sacar voto de furibundos exaltados de fuera del CAV que se tragan toda esta cantidad de patrañas goebblesianas, como no podía ser de otra manera. Los líderes de Vox deciden ir al País Vasco a darse el pisto escoltados por las fse como ocurre con todos los políticos en todo lugar del Estado a donde van. Eso no es especial. Pero hay que publicitar el miedo que provoca la hostilidad de los que van a ver pasar al rebaño, porque congregación para escuchar sus mítines, como que no hay. Allá van, a Sestao, pueblo obrero de la margen izquierda del Nervión. Un conato de bote de humo, un momento de tensión, un objetivo de cámara que se interpone en la ceja de una voxera y en pocos minutos el golpe de la cámara es una pedrada de los hostiles asesinos vascos. Personalmente no me molestaría ni en pasar delante de la calle donde celebren el mítin y mucho menos lanzarles nada. Es lamentable aparecer por allí porque eso es precisamente lo que quieren. Sacar  un momento de tensión es fácil con la poli en medio. Acusar de agresores a los que no tienen los medios de comunicación a su favor, fácil.  Interesados dicen que es una pedrada. Tiene que ser una piedra. Necesitan que sea una piedra. Ni siquiera es original. Le copia la mentira al aspirante Albert Rivera que parecía tener un imán para fragmentos geológicos cuando venía por las mismas latitudes. Al día siguiente, en Irún, la contusionada que sangraba profusamente la víspera no muestra señales de laceración alguna. ¡Milagro, hermanos! Tanto rezar por la iglesia católica tenía que dar sus frutos. El lídl (Porque es un líder barato) del partido facha presenta a los tres días un informe médico en el que en su anamnesis se centra más en situar la agresión en el mapa que en el cuerpo de la paciente. Lo mejor es la firma. No conozco ningún médico interno residente que firme como tal y que se olvide de poner el preceptivo número de colegiado. El número de colegiado es sagrado tanto si es adjunto como si es residente. Diferencias tipográficas aparte, falta el preceptivo número de colegiado. El hecho es lamentable y mentiroso pero consiguen lo que quieren: Ya que no van a conseguir un puñetero escaño, al menos, presentándose como víctimas ante el resto de furibundos seguidores de su cuerda ideológica que no muestran ni un ápice de sentido crítico, conseguirán mantener el rescoldo de odio que tantos votos les dan en otros lugares. Eso y la propaganda mediática que hace que un coscorrón con una cámara cambie a agresión filoterrorista, pena de muerte ¡Ya! Es nauseabundo.

حاضنة أعمال “ابني” تحتضن مشروع لشركة Voxera الموفر لرسوم التجوال

استقبلت حاضنة الأعمال “ابني”، وهي إحدى مبادرات جمعية اتصال، 13 مشروعًا جديدًا لشركات ناشئة فى مجال إنترنت الأشياء وهو التخصص الذي تقوم بالتركيز عليه “ابني” في العام الحالي كأحد الاتجاهات الحديثة لتطبيقات واستخدامات تكنولوجيا المعلومات والاتصالات فى الأمور الحياتية فى العالم خاصة بعد انتشار خدمات وتطبيقات الجيل الرابع.

وقال الدكتور حازم الطحاوي، رئيس مجلس إدارة جمعية اتصال إن “ابني تعد حاضنة الأعمال الأولى من نوعها المتخصصة في مجال الأجهزة والمكونات فى مصر والشرق الأوسط”، وأعرب عن سعادته بالتواصل مع شباب صناعة تكنولوجيا المعلومات والاتصالات المبتكرين ووعدهم بالدعم الكامل لإنشاء شركاتهم.

وكان من ضمن المشروعات الفائزة فكرة رائدة لشركة Voxera وهي واحدة من الشركات التي سوف تُحتضن خلال العام الحالي، والتي انتجت جهاز Voxera الذي يوفر فى تكاليف رسوم التجوال التي تُدفع حول العالم، وهو جهاز يسمح للمسافرين باستخدام شريحة الهاتف المحمول المحلية الخاصة في جميع أنحاء العالم دون أي رسوم للتجوال.

ويقول المهندس عمرو الجبالي، مؤسس شركة Voxera إن أبحاث جونيبر تؤكد أن مشغلي شبكات الهاتف المحمول حققت إيرادات قدرها 57 مليار دولار في عام 2013، وستصل إلى 90 مليار دولار في العام القادم 2018، وكان هذا هو الدافع لتقديم حلول تقوم بتوفير بديل لهذه الخدمة اعتمادًا على الشريحة المحلية واستخدامها خلال السفر للخارج بدون سداد رسوم التجوال المكلفة والباهظة فى كثير من الأحيان خاصة للأشخاص الذين تتطلب أعمالهم التواصل المستمر عبر الهاتف سواء من خلال الخدمات الصوتية أو البيانات.

ومن خلال الحضانة سيتم التركيز على إنتاج أفضل للجهاز والترويج له وإيجاد تطبيقات وحلول أفضل، تقوم بتغيير شكل الاتصالات خلال السفر لمن يستخدم هذا الجهاز الجديد.

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- Repost from: aitnews Post

Repasando mi artículo un año después: por qué la izquierda no gana las elecciones (II)

Hace casi un año -joder, cómo pasa el tiempo- escribí un artículo sobre por qué la izquierda no ganaba las elecciones (www.meneame.net/story/izquierda-no-gana-elecciones). Creo que es de los artículos más meneados de esta web -edit: gracias #1 por la corrección-, y no porque mi prosa sea dúctil y bella o porque mis análisis sean sesudos y certeros, sino porque coincidió que, al igual que yo, muchos se preguntaban qué estaba pasando.

Podría escribir este artículo dentro de un mes y pico, aprovechando las elecciones. Pero sería un análisis a toro pasado, y me mola mojarme para que, si no acierto, podáis meteros conmigo lo que queráis.

En el artículo original, para quien no lo hubiese leído o tenga pereza de releerlo, establezco mi tesis: la gente vota por valores antes que por intereses; esos valores generan una identidad política; la izquierda ha perdido el control sobre su propia imagen pasando de ser peligrosos y ofensivos a pusilánimes ofendidos.

Algo ha cambiado en mi opinión desde que escribí ese artículo. Criticaba (y critico) la política identitaria, y es la principal disonancia que tengo con Lakoff; sin embargo, sí que creo al final en una identidad contingente y momentánea.

Puesto que yo creo que los valores generan una identidad política y únicamente política, aunque luego no sea una "identidad social". Por poner un ejemplo, los valores que tenemos los provacunas nos dan una "identidad política" similar a la de las mujeres feministas; sin embargo, dicha identidad se extingue prácticamente una vez votado en función de dichos valores o ejercido un acto de reivindicación puntual, mientras que la "identidad feminista" permanece durante todo el tiempo. Una persona bien puede autodefinirse en pocas palabras como "feminista" o "transexual". Pocas personas se autodefinirán como carácter esencial en su personalidad "provacunas" o "proaumentodepartidaspresupuestariasafavordelacienciaylainnovación".

En resumen: ha habido un partido que ha concentrado unos valores desdeñados y dormidos y les ha dado una identidad política. Así que...

Así que hablemos de VOX.

Ya van muchos mensajes de gente realmente sorprendida con su pujanza. Incluso a mí me extraña. VOX sólo tiene valores. Irrealizables en gran parte, contrarios a la ley en otros, brindis al sol. Sus medidas económicas y sociales probablemente jueguen en contra de sus votantes. Y sin embargo, "critican el feminazismo". Y eso está decantando votos. Muchos votos.

Me sorprende hasta que me recuerdo que la racionalidad pocas veces influye en el voto. Y que VOX está realizando la política más identitaria que recuerdo en este país. Y yo personalmente no desdeño del todo aquellos mensajes tan raros de "Fui votante de Podemos y ahora votaré a VOX". No son tan extraños si lo pensamos bien.

Tal vez les sorprenda a muchos seguidores de UTBH que encaje a VOX dentro de políticas identitarias. El año pasado, cuando escribí el artículo, hubiese puesto sin duda a Podemos como principal partido identitario. Yo mismo soy un apasionado crítico de la política identitaria. Lo asociamos por lo general al identitarismo feminista, racializado, transexual, LGTBI. Pero eso son solo identitarismos en el espectro de la izquierda. La derecha tiene unos cuantos, bien grandes y colganderos.

Y VOX ha cogido esa retórica de identidades y la aplicado a la derecha dura. Los ofendiditos de derecha, como decía David Bravo, no sólo dicen gilipolleces en Twitter sino que además una de sus asociaciones o fundaciones se querellan en el juzgado. La identidad voxera se basa en lo siguiente: nacionalismo centralista, caza, toros, tradición, heterosexualidad, antifeminismo, antipolíticamente correctos. Poder. Mano dura. Hostiacojones ya.

VOX ha cogido la identidad del "muy español tradicionalista" y le da alpiste, de la misma forma que Podemos cada vez se refugia más en la identidad de la mujer moderna feminista.

Y esto está diametralmente claro: jamás he leído aquí a ningún futuro votante de VOX alabando medidas específicas y concretas. Toda frase que empieza por "Votaré a VOX" termina con "es la única alternativa al policorrectismo/feminazismo/separatismo". Cuando te defines mediante oposición a valores, te defines mediante valores.

La derecha (el PP) seguía ganando elecciones en base a valores, y eso que no se centraba tanto en ellos (y es algo que Casado ahora intenta enmendar). VOX lo vio claro: aplicar una estrategia postmoderna a la derecha. A la gente se la sudan los indicadores macroeconómicos. Las relaciones internacionales. El déficit. El PIB. La deuda. Dirán que sí, les interesa, pero la estadística prueba que su voto lo decantan otros factores.

La imagen

Joder, la imagen. Qué bien ha hecho los deberes VOX. Tienen mi retorcida admiración, como la que César Borgia le provocaba a Maquiavelo. Mirad, cojones, a Abascal. Buscadlo en Google Imágenes. Abascal a caballo. Abascal firme y serio. Abascal cachas de senderismo. Cojones, mirad esa barba y esa mirada afilada. Fijaos que siempre mira al horizonte. Sus pocas sonrisas son paternalistas o de suficiencia.

Mirad ahora a Iglesias y llorad.

La imagen no es sólo la planta de su líder, sino su actitud y la de su partido. Iglesias parece haber dejado el mando en la lugartenientesa. Sale a la palestra en contadas ocasiones, y esto ocasiona un ninguneo en redes sociales e internet. No sé dónde se han dejado la retórica de nacionalización de eléctricas y banca, de arriba y abajo, de casta y vasallos. ¿Sus mayores repercusiones? Cuando salió a defender su postura con "alerta antifascista". Cuando salió a defender su partido de la escapada de Errejón. Cuando salió a defender la labor de su pareja.

¿Veis el patrón?

Y VOX es el ataque constante. Provocador, subversivo en su carácter retrógrado. Me paso la vida leyendo sobre la última ocurrencia voxera. Brindis al sol y onanismo mental del departamento de relaciones públicas de VOX directamente a tu cabeza. "VOX acusa". "VOX amenaza". "VOX declara". VOX va a por ti, me cago en Dios. Y te vas a cagar.

En el otro artículo hacía referencia a las caricaturas de izquierda y derecha. ElJueves, para mi gusto, sacó una caricatura poco favorecedora de Abascal, enviando bulos por Whatsapp y murmurando con cara maníaca: "Votadme, gilipollas, votadme". Y, como dije, esa imagen acojona. Abascal es malo, cabrón, manipulador... pero temedle. Temedle, putos insensatos.

Buscad ahora la portada dedicada a Iglesias y llorad.

Conclusión

Este artículo no es un gigantesco OS LO DIJE. Es una reflexión sobre qué acertó, qué no supo ver y cómo ha cambiado mi perspectiva; y sólo se puede entender repasando el artículo original, donde mi tesis está más explicada. Paradójicamente, a la única persona a la que he oído algo similar en su carácter profético fue al inefable UTBH, cuando dijo que la política identitaria posmoderna de la izquierda tendría su contrapartida por la derecha si no parábamos. Razón tenía y hay que reconocérsela.

La sensación que tenía hace un año (la izquierda va con miedo, y chilla muy alto y muy fuerte como un perro patada que realmente está asustado) se ha mantenido. Peor, se ha intensificado. La derecha ha aprendido y subsanado errores. Antes había pesaos que tenían el "fascistas" en la punta de la lengua siempre. Ahora hay otros pesaos que no dicen dos palabras sin decir "progre". La derecha, me cago en Dios, viene, a menos que un cambio en el discurso (respetuoso con los votantes contrarios, duro y a la cabeza con los políticos rivales) cambie el paradigma actual.

pd: Os lo dije, cojones.

pd 2: No he podido evitarlo.

etiquetas: artículo

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VoxEra is a tiny device that makes international calling and texting essentially free http://ift.tt/2mOYGnv

VoxEra مشروع عربي جديد ينجح في كيك ستارتر

منتج VoxEra من ابتكار وتطوير فريق مصري وفكرته باختصار هو جعلك تتصل ببلد بحرية تامة أثناء السفر بدون دفع أي مصاريف نهائياً في التجوال. فأي شخص يسافر خارج بلده في رحلة ما أو حتى لأداء الحج والعمرة فإنه يتعرض لصدمة بسبب فاتورة التجوال عند عودته. أو يقتصد كثيراً في الاتصالات. لكن مع VoxEra انتهى هذا […] from VoxEra مشروع عربي جديد ينجح في كيك ستارتر

they meet a second time, unsurprisingly in the exact same spot behind campus where jhin is once again high on some sort of joint and making out with a faceless stranger he’s not quite sure he knows the name of. easy how he slips back into deplorable habits— not so much the drugs part, but the inexplicable need to chase after bodies of a certain stature, with a particular curve to the cupid’s bow that’s so hard to replicate. he’s never felt them beneath his, besides the harmless kisses against ten-year-old-jhin’s bruised knees. the lucky bastard. it’s a fantasy he really shouldn’t be trying to recreate, especially with the speed at which he goes through these boys, who do nothing to quench his curiosity. too tall, shoulders too narrow, lips that curve at the wrong angle; he’s beyond frustrated with his lack of progress. 

meeting baekhyun has let loose a whole spectrum of repressed emotion that he had been ( keywords: had been ) so sure he lost with the pitchiness in his pre-pubescent voice. his persistence can only get him so far, and even with the reprehensible number of men he’s kissed in the past six days, he’s yet to find someone that’ll take his mind off a pair of lips he yearned to kiss over mugs of hot coffee. his logic is all kinds of fucked up, but maybe, just maybe, kissing someone with similar lips will convince him that it’s as uncomplicated as lusting over another body part, and not because he has, god forbid, feelings for a person. maybe if he kisses enough boys he’ll stop thinking about rectangle shaped smiles and quietly distant eyes. so far, his plan doesn’t seem to be going very well. trying to kiss the attraction away makes him feel like human trash, and he ends up longing to see baekhyun again. not to say he wasn’t absolute garbage before, but wanting to kiss baekhyun feels so damn wrong, yet so, so right. they lost contact for twelve years, he should be over this, goddamn it!

so when the man he’s been silently pining after rounds the corner to the alley, his heart all but stops in his chest. their eyes meet over the brunette that jhin’s kissing, and he doesn’t stop or pull away, only staring baekhyun down as he continues ravishing the lips that have been set in front of him. there’s the familiar clatter of books falling to the ground, and jhin doesn’t know what to make of it; one second too late for it to be out of shock, like the day prior, and too early to be a conscious effort to get his attention. he finally gets around to pushing the boy away from him, watching baekhyun’s expression, only to find nothing in the carefully vacant stare that he wish he wasn’t acquainted with. the boy jhin’s been kissing stammers a goodbye and runs in the opposite direction. even as the land of freedom, america’s still not very keen on same-sex anything. but as it comes to most things, jhin hardly pays it any mind, only wiping his kiss-swollen lips with the back of his hand subconsciously, like it pains him to have kissed another person. 

baekhyun averts his gaze subtly, and again, he’s left with more questions than answers. it seems to always be like that with baekhyun: a labyrinth, a maze of convoluted paths that never seem to converge. every time he thinks he’s making headway, he walks into a dead end with nothing to do but to backtrack over all the progress he thought he made. it doesn’t help that baekhyun always seems so close, yet painfully out of reach. like jhin could reach out and touch him, make sense of the boy with the same eyes and lips, only to fall short; all hollow eyes, and even hollower smiles. baekhyun is not the boy he used to know. and for someone who’s so adamant about forgetting everything that’s happened in the past and leaving it behind him, jhin’s indescribably melancholic when he thinks about twelve years of lost time. with baekhyun, he finds himself clinging onto the past, grasping on to any semblance of what they used to have with aching fingers and gaping breaths. he thinks maybe if baekhyun just extended his arm to him they’d be able to piece together whatever’s left. he doesn’t.

baekhyun looks antsy beneath the facade of indifference— jhin’s proud of himself for picking that up, at least— and he looks like he wants to say something. watching your ( ex ) best friend shove his tongue down another man's throat after only having met once in the last decade is probably a lot to handle, so jhin hardly pays any of his hesitance mind. he's used to judging looks. something tells him the look in baekhyun’s eyes isn’t quite the same, but he’s too busy being completely shell-shocked at the fact that baekhyun’s here. even though they had promised to meet sometime again, he didn’t think it’d happen at all, let alone this quickly. although korean comes more easily now, talking to baekhyun is still like trying to navigate a minefield. he’s terse and unspeaking when it comes to most topics, only offering a placid smile in return to jhin’s excitable attempts, but when jhin manages to hit home with a particular topic, baekhyun engages in conversation willingly and blusters out a thousand questions at once. it’s still awkward, and there are more than a handful of painful silences that makes jhin want to suffocate himself ( baekhyun, on the other hand, seems perfectly content with the overhanging quietness ), but they make do.

on their second meeting jhin talks about what he first did when he travelled to america. it reminds him of a painfully lonely period of time, but baekhyun’s eyes shine when he speaks of corn dogs overlooking the statue of liberty— baekhyun hasn’t had the time to explore the city yet. jhin finds himself promising him a full tour of the city, declaring that he accepts payment in favours ( that won’t be too hard, he swears! ).

“alright, it’s a date.” it slips from his mouth before he can stop himself. fuck you, freudian.

“…. a date?” baekhyun stares at him weirdly. he forgets that jhin’s the master of feigned obliviousness and a mysterious foreigner who knows the inner workings of everything new york.

“of course. that’s what all westerners call it! a meeting between friends, it’s a date.”

baekhyun’s lips form an ‘o’ that jhin shouldn’t find pretty, or want to kiss. “okay. see you on thursday for our date.”

he thinks he could die happy.

—

JHIN’S SUPER AMAZING TASTY BIG APPLE TOUR FT. BAEKHYUN!, or so he’s chosen to name it ( don’t forget the exclamation mark ), spans over a whole month. he really doesn’t need that much time to bring baekhyun to all these tourist hotspots, but he’s somehow managed to convince himself that they can only do one activity a day so it remains Fresh and Cool. needless to say, baekhyun’s forced to oblige to his whims and fancies. when they first start out, jhin is more of a tourist than baekhyun. he has a makeshift loudhailer ( a cone of paper ) and a crappy flag ( a paper on a stick ) that he waves around excitedly just in case baekhyun somehow "gets lost", despite there only being one person on the tour. if baekhyun's annoyed he doesn't show it outside muffled complaints and curses that jhin does NOT think are hot. he doesn't have much of a say when jhin buys them matching shirts that spell out "i ❤ NY"— "it's a tradition, a must-have item!". by the end of it, they’re both decked out embarrassingly, looking like the tourists that they are, jhin notes proudly. 

with the golden age of capitalism taking root in america, jhin trails behind consumerism like the weed-smoking, snapback wearing exchange student that he is. baekhyun looks faintly sad whenever he sees jhin divulge himself to everything material. it makes jhin think about korea and the war and how he really shouldn't be enjoying himself here, doing drugs and fucking bitches— but if there's anything that's stayed rooted in his heart, it's stubbornness. if korea didn't want him, then he didn't want korea either. childish, yes, but he never claimed to be more than petty. somewhere deep in the crevices of his mind he knows he cares, and that korea will always be home, his home; he's just been hurt by the same shit one too many times for him to pussy out and act like he gives a fuck ( he does, he cares way too much ). after all, he hasn't spoken to anyone he knew from korea for years, and he's not about to change that anytime soon. baekhyun's an exception and jhin can ignore that underlying sadness just fine ( or so he’s convinced himself ). jhin makes it up to him with more corn dogs than he can stomach, holding one stick between each finger and pretending to tickle baekhyun with them; he smiles brighter than whatever melancholy he's kept tightly veiled and jhin thinks maybe this is enough.

( it still makes him sad to think about how baekhyun looks at everything in america with wide-eyed wonder. is this how jhin looked when he first arrived? how bad had the war become for him to looked so thrilled by oily battered hot dogs and pretentiously overpriced souvenir keychains? )

ignorance truly is a bliss.

the statue of liberty is uneventful, but jhin can make anything interesting, even a large, mould-green lady. what baekhyun wants is what he will get! they wear their obnoxiously matching new york shirts and walk around with their caps on backwards.

"we look stupid...."

"you mean COOL. we're the trendiest people here!!"

baekhyun sighs and straightens his cap. jhin grins.

the green lady is huge. mouldy and huge. she stands in her moulded, rusted glory while jhin reads off a list of facts ( see: JHIN'S SUPER AMAZING TASTY BIG APPLE TOUR FT. BAEKHYUN! FACTS! two exclamation marks ).

"the statue of liberty is... HOLY SHIT THATS FUCKING HUGE-- SHE'S MORE THAN 305 FEET TALL!!! HOW TALL IS THAT BAEKHYUN??? HOW MANY FOOTBALL FIELDS... hm...."

when he gets no response, he looks to baekhyun who's stood beside him. if jhin didn't know him better he'd assume that look was one of awe. but because he's spent twelve years pining, and the last twelve days observing and memorising, he knows otherwise. it isn't the look of an awestruck tourist beholding a large man made structure. it's reverence, almost akin to fear— head bowed slightly, arms folded in front of his legs— like he's seen statues this big and respected them. not the work itself, but the person it was moulded after. these pieces of baekhyun are confusing and hard to piece together. and while he might like to pretend to be a fool, he's not the same boy who took everything as it was back in korea. he knows something is wrong, but maybe he hasn't changed in some ways. feigning obliviousness is always easier.

in a giant leap of faith, he takes baekhyun's hand and draws him out of his reverie. it's a bad idea, and he really hates himself for wanting to provide baekhyun with some sort of comfort even though he isn't certain what's going on in that complex mind of his. baekhyun flinches with his whole body, and looks like he might hit jhin over the head with his free hand out of reflex. when he realises it's just jhin, he relaxes but remains slightly tense, trying to wretch his hand out of jhin's grip. there's a fluttering in jhin's chest when he doesn't actually do it. he knows baekhyun could, in a heartbeat, but he just stares at jhin questioningly.

"it's—" fuck damn it jhin, think!! "— it's a friend thing!!! like... calling these meetings a date. friends hold hands too, when they go out on dates. i just haven't told you until now because... I WAS WAITING FOR THE RIGHT TIME! you have to ask at the optimal time. it's essential to good friendship growing."

a look of skepticism flitters across baekhyun's carefully poised features, but it's replaced with a smile as soon as it comes. it's barely there, just an upward twitch of his lips, but it's the most genuine expression he's got out of baekhyun so far. he's managed to fall more in love with this enigmatic boy, and he thinks he's really starting to deserve this hell. maybe he's a masochist. there's hesitance in the way baekhyun pulls to link their fingers together, tentative touches with jhin sliding his digits between baekhyun's to finish what he started. now... now he could die happy.

—

baekhyun has proven to be a better student than jhin is a teacher. he's distracted easily and never tells baekhyun if what he's saying is right. most of what he wants to teach is nothing that baekhyun actually needs. the first lesson is on swears, so is the second and the third. by the end of the fifth, baekhyun's ready to curse out anyone, locked and loaded with yo momma jokes and a colourful vocabulary.

jhin only gives in when baekhyun whines.

"okay. the first thing you need to know how to say is... 'where are nyu's dorms?' you need to be able to come back here when you want to learn more." so i can see you.

baekhyun nods, looking happy that he's learning something more than 'yo momma's so fat she got baptised at sea world'.

"you say", jhin clears his throat and continues again, in english. "wassup motherfucker!!! where the nyu dorm bitches at? chop chop." he snaps once for each 'chop'. ( "the snapping is NECESSARY, baekhyun. if you don't do it they won't know what you're talking about." )

by the end of the lesson, jhin's halfway off his chair and sprawled on the ground laughing while baekhyun looks at him irately, mouth pinched into a frown as he musses his frustration-wrought hair.

"what the fuck am i doing wrong?!!"

"NOTHING! NOTHING AT ALL! YOURE DOING FANTASTIC. now.. repeat after me", breaks into english, "AWWWWWWESOME MAAAAAAAN".

needless to say, baekhyun makes it back to him semi-safely every week. jhin's heart betrays him by hoping.

—

the first time he has completely nothing planned is in his final's week. he's tired, stinky and aches all over from having slaved over studying in all of his last-minute-jhin-cramming glory. when baekhyun pushes his dorm room door open, he's half dead, rotting while slumped over his work desk— he doesn't even notice him coming in until baekhyun positions his forefinger beneath his nose to check if he's still alive and breathing. he is, but he really really wishes he wasn't. a mouthful of deranged gibberish later, he's pushing his glasses on and trying to shift into a more presentable position. if he weren't dead in the brain and jelly in the limbs, he'd be more embarrassed at baekhyun catching him off guard and Uncool, but as soon as he processes everything his mind flies into panic and he flails like a fish out of water. he has nothing and nowhere to bring baekhyun to, and he can't conjure up any new swear words when he has a year-long research presentation tomorrow, something he had completely forgotten about until four hours ago.

he's running out of excuses to see baekhyun and he knows it. new york is fairly large, but with his term growing more intense, he's having trouble coming up with weird, unseen attractions he can bring baekhyun to because he's practically covered everything possible. ( "they're attractions because you make it! anything can be touristy!" ) the possibility of never seeing baekhyun again eats at him, because like the tour guide he is, they, too, have an expiry date, don't they? he can only hope that baekhyun is fine sitting here doing nothing while jhin tries to complete the rest of his music theory assignments.

and then baekhyun does the impossible. he laughs. jhin's heart stops in his chest. this is it, he's finally dead. he's gone to heaven. it was worth it, twenty-two years, it was a good run. he's always imagined that he'd go out smoking a blunt and flipping his father off, but this is infinitely better.

until he realises he isn't actually dead. he must've been pulling quite the expression for baekhyun to be laughing harder, halfway to slapping at his knee while watching him. jhin joins in after he's done being offended, and they spend minutes just laughing until their stomach hurts, for no reason at all. it's the closest they've gotten to being what they used to be, and when it's over it hurts. he's left grasping at loose threads with no one on the other side; he's tasted this little piece of heaven and now has to let go. the smile on his lips wanes at the corners; melancholic, maybe just a little forlorn, and he knows baekhyun can tell, but he's grown too tired to masking his feelings. he's hidden them all his life, and even if baekhyun isn't The One, he hopes they've grown close enough in the last few weeks to be considered friends.

"... i'm sorry, i'm going to have to postpone our date. i'm completely swamped", jhin starts, trying to push the weariness out of his voice. baekhyun stays silent, just staring. that's not a good sign—

"— if you want you can sta—"

"i can stay he—"

they continue, at the same time. jhin keeps baekhyun's gaze, even as the latter turns away. it's baekhyun who speaks first.

"can i stay here? if you don't mind..."

"WHAT?! I MEAN— yes. yes of course...! your company is most definitely welcomed good sir," he babbles out of nervousness. baekhyun smiles his signature smile, faint and barely there, but one that jhin can identify a mile away.

baekhyun nods and makes himself comfortable beside jhin, scowling at the mess which is his table every once in awhile. he cleans up ( around jhin, the biggest mess ) without being asked to and asks questions about his course. he listens to jhin ramble on about music technicalities and lets jhin practice his presentation while acting like he understands the english. if jhin wasn't already in love before, he is now, hopelessly, utterly infatuated with his best friend, and doomed to a life of pure misery and heartbreak. somewhere between misplaced words and tacky souvenirs, he's fallen for a boy who brings more questions than answers, whose smile doesn't reach his eyes most of the time, but looks at jhin with all of his attention. someone who smiles at corn dogs and rock music, and looks like a child when brought to giant hyper marts. a boy who's so shrouded in mystery jhin isn't sure how to keep up. he decides he likes both sides of baekhyun; the enigma and the childhood friend. he really is a masochist.

he falls asleep to baekhyun humming a familiar tune under his breath, something he swears he's heard before. he can't place it, but the song makes his gut twist, even on the edge of wakefulness. it sounds too familiar, too dangerous and wrong. exhaustion takes him before he can think further, enveloping him in another bubble of blissful ignorance that he's all too happy to slip into.

when he wakes up baekhyun is gone and he is alone again.

DERROTAREMOS AL COMUNISMO. VENCEREMOS AL DISCURSO DEL ODIO PODEMITA IZQUIERDISTA. LIBERTAD Y DEMOCRACIA CON VOX VOTA A ROCÍO MONASTERIO

Lucharemos democráticamente para ilegalizar Podemos y para que Pablo iglesias entre en la cárcel. Os lo explicaremos en este escrito con pruebas definitivas. En muchos países de la UE, ya están ilegalizados dichos partidos comunistas. Pablo Iglesias, asumió el mando único de las residencias de mayores. Fue presunto culpable de la muerte de muchos ciudadanos x su supuesta gestión criminal. Mientras desgraciadamente fallecían muchos ancianos, él presumía de ver series de Netflix y supuestamente organizaba fiestas comunistas en su casoplón. Cobró un pastón y se marchó sin visitar ninguna residencia. Ni siquiera llamó a la UME para que ayudara a los ancianos. Presuntamente dejó que murieran sin respiradores, sin ayudarles en las residencias y sin llevarlos al hospital. Abandonó presuntamente a los ancianos, la mayoría morían sin atención hospitalaria, solos, encerrados en una habitación, muchos sin tratamientos paliativos. Podemitas son casta. Se marchó dimitiendo y cometiendo una presunta prevaricación y presunto fraude fiscal. ¿Si dimite porque cobra una indemnización de 5316 euros?Se supone que se marchó voluntariamente. La gente madrileña tendría que votar a Rocío Monasterio, sólo habrá libertad con Vox y así conseguiremos nuestro objetivo derrotaremos al comunismo. El comunismo es la peor ideología del mundo, la que ha asesinado a más gente. Los comunistas mienten, dicen que no serán casta y viven como ricos con presuntos robos, asesinatos ,engaños supuestamente con narcodictaduras chavistas e islamistas, con mucha gente presuntamente muriendo por culpa de la droga y el hambre. Pablo Iglesias y más compañeros de su partido viven en casoplones, en mansiones grandes como la de Galapagar y tienen compradas otras; mientras el pueblo hace colas grandes para recibir alimentos. Podemos tiene muchos casos de presunta corrupción: Pablo Iglesias usa supuestamente al PSOE y a la Fiscalía General del Estado para no ir a la cárcel y para que no les condenen a los podemitas por presuntos corruptos. Os recordamos algunos casos como el de Neurona. Podemos está imputado como persona jurídica. Pagos de subvenciones públicas presuntamente indebidas y no justificadas. Presuntamente hicieron: uso indebido de influencias, negociaciones incompatibles con el ejercicio de funciones públicas, incumplimiento de deberes, falsedad ideológica y conducta antieconómica. Podemos también usa presuntamente denuncias falsas, de la anticonstitucional ley de violencia de género. Ellos reconocieron que se inventaron abusos,acosos sexuales como el del abogado Calvente, que fue indemnizado por despido improcedente y ahora prepara una demanda contra Pablo Iglesias por atentar a su honor. Aprobaron incrementos salariales en el partido presuntamente ilegales, para convertirse en casta. Usaron presuntamente la Caja de Solidaridad del partido no para fines sociales. Lo hicieron supuestamente para enriquecerse y forrarse. Una exsenadora de Podemos Celia Cánovas lo denunció: ella y muchas más personas donaban dinero y presuntamente no lo apuntaban, ni contabilizaban. Podemos presuntamente ha cometido muchos enchufes de amigos como asesores, etc para enriquecerse presuntamente ilegalmente y para presunta malversación de fondos públicos, como por ejemplo Teresa Arevalo cobra 3710 euros al mes del Ministerio de Igualdad y además le pagaron un pastón por cuidadora de los hijos de Iglesias, cuando tendría que haberlo pagado de su dinero. Pablo Iglesias usa el dinero del partido para su uso personal. Ejemplo el juez Carmona señaló que Pablo Iglesias cobró las costas procesales de un juicio ganado por su partido y cuyos honorarios (de abogado y procurador) había pagado la formación. También podemitas tienen otro caso de presunta corrupción de envío de un total de 500000 euros a un proyecto solidario llamado Escuela Popular Paulo Freire que estaría implicado el podemita Rafael Mayoral y la fundación de Podemos 25M. Su actual responsable el podemita Juan Carlos Monedero que está siendo presuntamente juzgado por supuestos delitos de odio, etc. Pablo Iglesias y

muchos miembros del partido son presuntamente machistas. Están siendo investigados por presuntos abusos sexuales a chicas de su partido. También tienen presuntos casos de abusos sexuales a niñas tuteladas en Baleares, etc. Pablo Iglesias se ve que es un supuesto misógino, que le molestan que rían las mujeres, dijo Iglesias a Mariló Montero: «La azotaría hasta que sangre. Soy marxista convertido en psicópata», algunas alumnas de su universidad, han dicho que presuntamente miembros de su partido y él, intentaban abusar de ellas diciendo supuestamente cosas como que fueran al lavabo con ellos a refrescarse, etc. Tan machista que presuntamente quitó la número 1 que era mujer, para ponerse a él de candidato principal. También se pudo comprobar en el caso Dina, donde presuntamente robó el SIM del móvil, para supuestamente controlar a Dina. Podemos es un partido traidor, siempre apoya a todos los partidos separatistas, los defiende y tiene como socios. Podemos no condena los atentados etarras porque presuntamente están vinculados con el movimiento etarra, donde supuestamente acuden también a homenajes a etarras. Defienden referendums ilegales, que haya manipulación histórica en el colegio y que no se pueda estudiar castellano en Cataluña, etc. Podemos con sus presuntos ataques a la iglesia católica y en plena pandemia son imprudentes, piden presuntamente que se hagan fiestas del ramadán donde podrían haber muchos contagios. Recordemos que Podemos justifica presuntamente la violencia comunista y apoya a peñas ultraizquierdistas que tendrían que estar ilegalizadas, como la mala gente de bukaneros donde está su camarada actor de Mediaset, que agredió a gente voxera en Vallecas. Podemos siempre presuntamente incita a la violencia contra Vox, etc. y nunca condena los ataques podemitas a Vox en mítines del partido. Los comunistas de Podemos, han recibido presuntamente subvenciones de narcodictaduras de Irán, Venezuela, etc, para acabar con España con una supuesta dictadura comunista. Los comunistas quieren subir los impuestos, para ellos forrarse, mientras lo paga la clase media. Quieren impuesto de sucesiones que es ilegal en la mayoría de países, ejemplo Alemania está des del 1989 suspendido por anticonstitucional. Es injusto que una persona herede de sus padres un piso en Madrid y lo pierda, porque no puede pagar el impuesto que quiere poner Podemos. Iglesias miente dice que hay que subir impuesto de patrimonio como en otros países de la UE y el único país que lo tiene es España. Quieren cobrar ahora hasta por ir en coche en todas las autovías y autopistas, cuando antes decían que tenían que ser públicas y gratis. Sólo Vox defiende a los obreros en España con su sindicato Solidaridad, Podemos no tiene sindicato. Con Podemos no habría libertad, habría una presunta dictadura del terror, defienden a presuntos asesinos republicanos que presuntamente mataron a niños en los años 30, sólo por estar en misa. Podemos siempre defendiendo a los menas que tienen un gasto mínimo de 4700€ al mes, sólo Vox se preocupa de nuestros mayores y se preocupa por pensiones de sólo 426€ al mes. Defienden a menas detenidos x lanzar piedras y acusan a la policía falsamente de detenciones injustas, etc. Muchos de su partido dijeron que les gusta dar palizas a polícia y algunos han sido condenados por eso. La mejor opción para eliminar el comunismo es nuestra gran Rocío Monasterio, que ya luchó de pequeña contra la dictadura de Fidel Castro. Iglesias cometió presuntos delitos al intentar controlar supuestamente el CNI. COMUNISMO O LIBERTAD. Ponen de Secretario de Estado a el dirigente de IU y abogado de las FARC, Enrique Santiago que presuntamente cometió muchos delitos. Nosotros elegiremos la libertad, a Rocío Monasterio de Vox. Madrid tiene que ser la tumba del comunismo y del socialismo. Madrid = LIBERTAD=SÓLO QUEDA VOX. No se olviden que en las dictaduras comunistas sólo hay hambre, miseria, etc.

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— Alamo El Salvador (@AlamoSV) November 30, 2018

can we slow down time? just you and I lights are flashing, people move but when I look into your eyes we can slow down time

( listen. )