Security Alert. Your account was compromised. Password must be changed.

Hello!

I am a hacker who has access to your operating system.
I also have full access to your account.

I've been watching you for a few months now.
The fact is that you were infected with malware through an adult site that you visited.

If you are not familiar with this, I will explain.
Trojan Virus gives me full access and control over a computer or other device.
This means that I can see everything on your screen, turn on the camera and microphone, but you do not know about it.

I also have access to all your contacts and all your correspondence.

Why your antivirus did not detect malware?
Answer: My malware uses the driver, I update its signatures every 4 hours so that your antivirus is silent.

I made a video showing how you satisfy yourself in the left half of the screen, and in the right half you see the video that you watched.
With one click of the mouse, I can send this video to all your emails and contacts on social networks.
I can also post access to all your e-mail correspondence and messengers that you use.

If you want to prevent this,
transfer the amount of $500 to my bitcoin address (if you do not know how to do this, write to Google: "Buy Bitcoin").

My bitcoin address (BTC Wallet) is: 1P2xW3dAjbD5rz6H7Ej46puSS2Ep3Mh1uQ

After receiving the payment, I will delete the video and you will never hear me again.
I give you 50 hours (more than 2 days) to pay.
I have a notice reading this letter, and the timer will work when you see this letter.

Filing a complaint somewhere does not make sense because this email cannot be tracked like my bitcoin address.
I do not make any mistakes.

If I find that you have shared this message with someone else, the video will be immediately distributed.

Best regards!

q

I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was
service. I acted and behold, service was joy.

-Rabindranath Tagore, philosopher, author, songwriter, painter,
educator, composer, Nobel laureate (1861-1941)

p

Living

The fire in leaf and grass

so green it seems

each summer the last summer.

The wind blowing, the leaves

shivering in the sun,

each day the last day.

A red salamander

so cold and so

easy to catch , dreamily

moves his delicate feet

and long tail, I hold

my hand open for him to go.

Each minute the last minute.

Denise Levertov

q

A mature person is one who does not think only in absolutes, who is
able to be objective even when deeply stirred emotionally, who has
learned that there is both good and bad in all people and in all
things, and who walks humbly and deals charitably with the
circumstances of life, knowing that in this world no one is all
knowing and therefore all of us need both love and charity.

-Eleanor Roosevelt, diplomat and writer (1884-1962)

q

Everything you add to the truth subtracts from the truth.

-Alexander Solzhenitsyn, novelist, Nobel laureate (1918-2008)

p

This poem was sent to me by a friend in response to the poem sent last
week.

This Only

A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.

A voyager arrives, a map leads him there.

Or perhaps memory. Once long ago in the sun,

When snow first fell, riding this way

He felt joy, strong, without reason,

Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm

Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,

Of a train on the viaduct, a feast in motion.

He returns years later, has no demands.

He wants only one, most precious thing:

To see, purely and simply, without name,

Without expectations, fears, or hopes,

At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

Czeslaw Milosz trans. by Robert Hass

q

The highest exercise of charity is charity towards the uncharitable.

-J.S. Buckminster, clergyman and editor (1797-1812)

q

To Autumn

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained

With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit

Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayst rest,

And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,

And all the daughters of the year shall dance!

Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

"The narrow bud opens her beauties to

The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;

Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and

Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,

Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,

And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

"The spirits of the air live on the smells

Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round

The gardens, or sits singing in the trees."

Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;

Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak

Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

William Blake

q

Thank everyone who calls out your faults, your anger, your impatience,
your egotism; do this consciously, voluntarily.

-Jean Toomer, poet and novelist (1894-1967)

p

Assurance

 

You will never be alone, you hear so deep

a sound when autumn comes.  Yellow

pulls across the hills and thrums,

or the silence after lightening before it says

its names—and then the clouds' wide-mouthed

apologies.  You were aimed from birth:

you will never be alone.  Rain

will come, a gutter filled, an Amazon,

long aisles—you never hard so deep a sound,

moss on rock, and years.  You turn your head-

that's what the silence meant: you're not alone.

The whole wide world pours down.

 

            William Stafford

q

What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult to each
other?

-George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans), novelist (1819-1880)

p

Invisible Work

 

Because no one could ever praise me enough,

because I don't mean these poems only

but the unseen

unbelievable effort it takes to live

the life that goes on between them,

I think all the time about invisible work.

About the young mother on Welfare

I interviewed years ago,

who said, "It's hard.

You bring him to the park,

run rings around yourself keeping him safe,

cut hot dogs into bite-sized pieces for dinner,

and there's no one

to say what a good job you're doing,

how you were patient and loving

for the thousandth time even though you had a headache."

And I, who am used to feeling sorry for myself

because I am lonely,

when all the while,

as the Chippewa poem says, I am being carried

by great winds across the sky,

thought of the invisible work that stitches up the world day and night,

the slow, unglamorous work of healing,

the way worms in the garden

tunnel ceaselessly so the earth can breathe

and bees ransack this world into being,

while owls and poets stalk shadows,

our loneliest labors under the moon.

 

There are mothers

for everything, and the sea

is a mother too,

whispering and whispering to us

long after we have stopped listening.

I stopped and let myself lean

a moment, against the blue

shoulder of the air. The work

of my heart

is the work of the world's heart.

There is no other art.

 

~ Alison Luterman ~

q

I want to realize brotherhood or identity not merely with the beings
called human, but I want to realize identity with all life, even with
such things as crawl upon earth.

-Mohandas K. Gandhi (1869-1948)

p

Coplas about the soul which suffers with impatience to see God

I live without inhabiting

Myself—in such a wise that I

Am dying that I do not die.

Within myself I do not dwell

Since without God I cannot live.

Reft of myself and God as well,

What serves this life (I cannot tell)

Except a thousand death to give?

Since waiting here for life I lie

And die because I do not die.

This life I live in vital strength

Is loss of life unless I win You:

And thus to die I shall continue

Until in You I live at length.

Listen (my God!) my life is in You,

This life I do not want, for I

Am dying that I do not die.

Thus in your absence and your lack

How can I in myself abide

Nor suffer here a death more black

Than ever was by mortal died.

For pity of myself I've cried

Because in such a plight I lie

Dying because I do not die.

The fish that from the stream is lost

Derives some sort of consolation

That in his death he pays the cost

At least of death's annihilation.

To this dread life with which I'm crossed

What fell death can compare, since I,

The more I live, the more must die.

When thinking to relieve my pain

I in the sacraments behold You

It brings me greater grief again

That to myself I cannot fold You.

And that I cannot see you plain

Augments my sorrow so that I

Am dying that I do not die.

If in the hope I should delight,

Oh Lord, of seeing You appear,

The thought that I might lose Your sight,

Doubles my sorrow and my fear.

Living as I do in such fright,

And yearning as I yearn, poor I

Must die because I do not die.

Oh rescue me from such a death

My God, and give me life, not fear;

Nor keep me bound and struggling here

Within the bounds of living breath.

Look how I long to see You near,

And how in such a plight I lie

Dying because I do not die!

I shall lament my death betimes,

And mourn my life, that it must be

Kept prisoner by sins and crimes

So long before I am set free:

Ah God, my God, when shall it be?

When I may say (and tell no lie)

I live because I've ceased to die?

St. John of the Cross

(trans. By Roy Campbell)

q

Just think of the tragedy of teaching children not to doubt.

-Clarence Darrow, lawyer and author (1857-1938)

p

Stone

Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger's tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.

From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.
Yet within, it must be cool and quiet
Even though a cow steps on it full weight,
Even though a child throws it in a river;
The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed
To the river bottom
Where the fishes come to knock on it
And listen.

I have seen sparks fly out
When two stones are rubbed,
So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;
Perhaps there is a moon shining
From somewhere, as though behind a hill—
Just enough light to make out
The strange writings, the star-charts
On the inner walls.

~ Charles Simic ~

p

Salt Heart

I was tired,
half sleeping in the sun.
A single bee
delved the lavender nearby,
and beyond the fence,
a trowel's shoulder knocked a white stone.
Soon, the ringing stopped.
And from somewhere,
a quiet voice said the one word.
Surely a command,
though it seemed more a question,
a wondering perhaps-"What about joy?"
So long had it been forgotten,
even the thought raised surprise.
But however briefly, there,
in the untuned devotions of bee
and the lavender fragrance,
the murmur of better and worse was unimportant.
From next door, the sound of raking,
and neither courage nor cowardice mattered.
Failure-uncountable failure-did not matter.
Soon enough that gate swung closed,
the world turned back to heart-salt
of wanting, heart-salts of will and grief.
My friend would continue dying, at last
only exhausted, even his wrists thinned with pain.
The river Suffering would take what it
wished of him, then go. And I would stay
and drink on, as the living do, until the rest
would enter into that water-the lavender swept in,
the bee, the swallowed labors of my neighbor.
The ordinary moment swept in, whatever it drowsily holds.
I begin to believe the only sin is distance, refusal.
All others stemming from this. Then, come.
Rivers, come. Irrevocable futures, come. Come even joy.
Even now, even here, and though it vanish like him.

 

            Jane Hirschfield

q

If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the
thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power
to revoke at any moment.

Marcus Aurelius Antonius

p

Ode I. 11

 

Leucon, no one's allowed to know his fate,

Not you, not me: don't ask, don't hunt for answers

In tea leaves or palms. Be patient with whatever comes.

This could be our last winter, it could be many

More, pounding the Tuscan Sea on these rocks:

Do what you must, be wise, cut your vines

And forget about hope. Time goes running, even

As we talk. Take the present, the future's no one's affair.

 

~ Horace ~

 

(The Essential Horace, edited and translated by Burton Raffel)

q

There are 1011 stars in the galaxy. That used to be a huge number. But
it's only a hundred billion. It's less than the national deficit! We
used to call them astronomical numbers. Now we should call them
economical numbers.

-Richard Feynman, physicist, Nobel laureate (1918-1988)