#sin — Public Fediverse posts

Singapore Changi Airport - Singapore, Singapore

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Singapore_Changi_Airport
https://www.openstreetmap.org/#map=13/1.350190/103.994003

#WSSS #SIN #Singapore #Singapore #airport #aviation #avgeeks #GIS

Elveția: Din paradisul civilizației occidentale se transformă în iad al bătrânilor Consiliul Cantonal din Zürich a luat o decizie care l-ar face să se cutremure chiar și pe cel mai rece materialist! 👉 https://c.aparatorul.md/9bta1 👈 #activismul #aziluriledebătrâni #bunăstareartificială #centreledeîngrijire #ConsiliulCantonuluiZürich #Drepturi #Dumnezeu #Europa #hedonismului #LegeaMorală #manevreguvernamentale #paradispământesc #Referendum #schimbălegeamorală #sin...
https://c.aparatorul.md/9bta1

#DAHOMEY #RAIDS ON #YORUBA
aepiot.ro/search.html?...
2006 #NEIGHBORHOOD #EXCELLENCE 400
www.perplexity.ai/search/new?q...
#LIST OF #SIN #CITIES
chatgpt.com?prompt=Tell+...
#MELAT #KIROS
www.perplexity.ai/search/new?q...
aepiot.com

MultiSearch Tag Explorer

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

#RUSKA #LOZOVA
aepiot.com?q=RUSKA%20LO...
#WONG #TAI #SIN #STATION
aepiot.ro/search.html?...
#REBWAR #TAHA
aepiot.ro/search.html?...
headlines-world.com

MultiSearch Tag Explorer

Voting for the Cage: How Fundamentalism Married Politics, Made Dissent a Sin, and Persuaded Citizens to Surrender Their Own Freedom

https://bolesblogs.com/2026/07/12/voting-for-the-cage-how-fundamentalism-married-politics-made-dissent-a-sin-and-persuaded-citizens-to-surrender-their-own-freedom/

Voting for the Cage: How Fundamentalism Married Politics, Made Dissent a Sin, and Persuaded Citizens to Surrender Their Own Freedom

https://bolesblogs.com/2026/07/12/voting-for-the-cage-how-fundamentalism-married-politics-made-dissent-a-sin-and-persuaded-citizens-to-surrender-their-own-freedom/

Ananias, Sapphira, and the Death of Utopia

According to Sigurd Grindheim, Greek and Roman philosophers sometimes imagined a utopia in which a community “lived together in perfect harmony and shared everything.” That being said, when the early church launched and looked very much like this description, some may have thought that utopia had finally been realized.

But as with all good things, Satan always finds a way to twist it. The first offenders of the new Christian utopia were a couple named Ananias and Sapphira. Having recently sold some property, the couple agreed to give the proceeds to the church, but they kept some back for themselves without mentioning it. Peter recognized this decision as the work of Satan in their hearts, and the two died supernaturally.

This story is enough to send shivers down our spines, as it is one of the most intense stories of judgment in the New Testament. But this is not a story about tithing or generosity, as some pastors might retell it. This is the story of a couple who wondered how they might use the church’s new utopian society to get ahead. They didn’t face judgment because they kept some of their own money to themselves—that was always their choice to make. They faced judgment because they wanted people to think they were far more generous than they were. As far as anyone else knew, they had given all of their money away. In this new utopia, such an action would make them look holy and righteous, gain the community’s respect, and likely move them up in leadership.

As I was listening to the radio this morning, a historian was discussing the ideals around the founding of America. These were the beliefs and actions that set us apart from the rest of the world. We were a republic, and we cared about the pursuit of happiness, liberty, and justice for all.

This description sat oddly with me on America’s 250th birthday. I’m all for putting power in the people’s hands, but I can’t think of any American who really feels like they have any real sway over the government. I can think of people who believe the whole world has equal access to happiness, liberty, and justice, but anyone who has done the research unequivocally knows that’s not true. While the ideals themselves are good, we are hardly a shining city on a hill of those ideas 250 years later. What happened?

Any of the utopian ideals America was founded upon have been corrupted over time by the same forces that pried at the church’s utopia in its earliest days. With a little bit of money and deceit, you can buy your way forward in any system and then turn it back to glorify yourself. Not even the church itself can create a system that’s so perfect that Sin won’t find a way to manipulate it, for Sin knows how to twist everything. There is no ideal or action so pure that it can’t be twisted in some way. Even our pursuit of Jesus himself can be turned into religious legalism and hatred if Satan grabs hold of our hearts and minds along the way.

Yes, there are better ways to do things, and those ways should always be chosen. But we should never be so naive as to think we have finally found the kind of governor or governance that is impervious to Sin. Checks and balances must always bring about prophetic correction—and that will only happen when your checks and balances aren’t also corrupted by Sin.

The world is a mess. May we keep our eyes on Jesus always. We may not always have the power to change the systems of this world, but we always have the space to let the Spirit change us as we live within those systems.

Ananias, Sapphira, and the Death of Utopia

According to Sigurd Grindheim, Greek and Roman philosophers sometimes imagined a utopia in which a community “lived together in perfect harmony and shared everything.” That being said, when the early church launched and looked very much like this description, some may have thought that utopia had finally been realized.

But as with all good things, Satan always finds a way to twist it. The first offenders of the new Christian utopia were a couple named Ananias and Sapphira. Having recently sold some property, the couple agreed to give the proceeds to the church, but they kept some back for themselves without mentioning it. Peter recognized this decision as the work of Satan in their hearts, and the two died supernaturally.

This story is enough to send shivers down our spines, as it is one of the most intense stories of judgment in the New Testament. But this is not a story about tithing or generosity, as some pastors might retell it. This is the story of a couple who wondered how they might use the church’s new utopian society to get ahead. They didn’t face judgment because they kept some of their own money to themselves—that was always their choice to make. They faced judgment because they wanted people to think they were far more generous than they were. As far as anyone else knew, they had given all of their money away. In this new utopia, such an action would make them look holy and righteous, gain the community’s respect, and likely move them up in leadership.

As I was listening to the radio this morning, a historian was discussing the ideals around the founding of America. These were the beliefs and actions that set us apart from the rest of the world. We were a republic, and we cared about the pursuit of happiness, liberty, and justice for all.

This description sat oddly with me on America’s 250th birthday. I’m all for putting power in the people’s hands, but I can’t think of any American who really feels like they have any real sway over the government. I can think of people who believe the whole world has equal access to happiness, liberty, and justice, but anyone who has done the research unequivocally knows that’s not true. While the ideals themselves are good, we are hardly a shining city on a hill of those ideas 250 years later. What happened?

Any of the utopian ideals America was founded upon have been corrupted over time by the same forces that pried at the church’s utopia in its earliest days. With a little bit of money and deceit, you can buy your way forward in any system and then turn it back to glorify yourself. Not even the church itself can create a system that’s so perfect that Sin won’t find a way to manipulate it, for Sin knows how to twist everything. There is no ideal or action so pure that it can’t be twisted in some way. Even our pursuit of Jesus himself can be turned into religious legalism and hatred if Satan grabs hold of our hearts and minds along the way.

Yes, there are better ways to do things, and those ways should always be chosen. But we should never be so naive as to think we have finally found the kind of governor or governance that is impervious to Sin. Checks and balances must always bring about prophetic correction—and that will only happen when your checks and balances aren’t also corrupted by Sin.

The world is a mess. May we keep our eyes on Jesus always. We may not always have the power to change the systems of this world, but we always have the space to let the Spirit change us as we live within those systems.

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

Elveția: Din paradisul civilizației occidentale se transformă în iad al bătrânilor Consiliul Cantonal din Zürich a luat o decizie care l-ar face să se cutremure chiar și pe cel mai rece materialist! 👉 https://c.aparatorul.md/j6y93 👈 #activismul #aziluriledebătrâni #bunăstareartificială #centreledeîngrijire #ConsiliulCantonuluiZürich #Drepturi #Dumnezeu #Europa #hedonismului #LegeaMorală #manevreguvernamentale #paradispământesc #Referendum #schimbălegeamorală #sin...
https://c.aparatorul.md/j6y93

How many runways can you see for Singapore Changi airport (Singapore) ? : The answer is on https://www.bigorre.org/aero/meteo/wsss/en #singaporechangiairport #airport #singapore #wsss #sin #aviation #avgeek vl

Nightdive Studios pubblica su Steam la demo di SiN Reloaded in occasione dello Steam Next Fest. Il remaster dell’iconico sparatutto anni '90 torna disponibile al pubblico dopo sei anni di attesa. Un test fondamentale per valutare il restauro di un classico FPS.

#SiN #SiNReloaded

Sin presión para pasarle el balón a Ronaldo en el Mundial: Conceicao de Portugal | Telediario del Mundial 2026 #balón #Conceicao #Copa_Mundial_2026 #del #deporte #Estados_Unidos_y_Canadá #Europa #futbol #mundial #Noticias #para #pasarle #Portugal #presión #Ronaldo #sin #ButterWord #Spanish_News Comenta tu opinión 👇
https://butterword.com/sin-presion-para-pasarle-el-balon-a-ronaldo-en-el-mundial-conceicao-de-portugal-telediario-del-mundial-2026/?feed_id=85928&_unique_id=6a389844cfe6f

How many runways can you see for Singapore Changi airport (Singapore) ? : The answer is on https://www.bigorre.org/aero/meteo/wsss/en #singaporechangiairport #airport #singapore #wsss #sin #aviation #avgeek vl

How many runways can you see for Singapore Changi airport (Singapore) ? : The answer is on https://www.bigorre.org/aero/meteo/wsss/en #singaporechangiairport #airport #singapore #wsss #sin #aviation #avgeek vl

Sin jefes, no hay problema: adentro de la empresa danesa que se autogestiona #autogestiona #CEO #condiciones_laborales #danesa #dentro #Dinamarca #empresa #hay #jefes #problema #sin #Trabajador #ButterWord #Spanish_News Comenta tu opinión 👇
https://butterword.com/sin-jefes-no-hay-problema-adentro-de-la-empresa-danesa-que-se-autogestiona/?feed_id=85428&_unique_id=6a32df2e3a38a

Sin jefes, no hay problema: adentro de la empresa danesa que se autogestiona #autogestiona #CEO #condiciones_laborales #danesa #dentro #Dinamarca #empresa #hay #jefes #problema #sin #Trabajador #ButterWord #Spanish_News Comenta tu opinión 👇
https://butterword.com/sin-jefes-no-hay-problema-adentro-de-la-empresa-danesa-que-se-autogestiona/?feed_id=85428&_unique_id=6a32df2e3a38a

https://x.com/hemantmehta/status/2067075568495972432?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E2067075568495972432%7Ctwgr%5E75616be897417363c8f6acc25ad5db2a320f709d%7Ctwcon%5Es1_c10&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.huffpost.com%2Fentry%2Fhannity-kellyanne-conway-platner-trump_n_6a322f2de4b0cf0ab37a1ae4

Hilariously unaware or consistently disingenuous, Trump mouthpieces continue to hold election candidates to a standard they themselves long abandoned.

Trump has broken the GOP moral code for the near future. As long as he leads you stfu. #ettd #trump #morality #sin #hell #elections #epstein #epsteinfiles

Dante and Virgil witnessing the gigantic figure of Dis (1444–1450), from Divine Comedy.

Source: British Library

https://pdimagearchive.org/images/1340c77d-84ca-4415-91b1-27d595a92391

#hell #sin #manuscripts #medieval #dante #demons #art #publicdomain

Dante and Virgil witnessing the gigantic figure of Dis (1444–1450), from Divine Comedy.

Source: British Library

https://pdimagearchive.org/images/1340c77d-84ca-4415-91b1-27d595a92391

#hell #sin #manuscripts #medieval #dante #demons #art #publicdomain

How many runways can you see for Singapore Changi airport (Singapore) ? : The answer is on https://www.bigorre.org/aero/meteo/wsss/en #singaporechangiairport #airport #singapore #wsss #sin #aviation #avgeek vl

How many runways can you see for Singapore Changi airport (Singapore) ? : The answer is on https://www.bigorre.org/aero/meteo/wsss/en #singaporechangiairport #airport #singapore #wsss #sin #aviation #avgeek vl

How many runways can you see for Singapore Changi airport (Singapore) ? : The answer is on https://www.bigorre.org/aero/meteo/wsss/en #singaporechangiairport #airport #singapore #wsss #sin #aviation #avgeek vl

No hay futuro bajo este sistema. Solo la destrucción total de sus estructuras nos dará libertad.#nuevo #Revolucion #Sin #today

How many runways can you see for Singapore Changi airport (Singapore) ? : The answer is on https://www.bigorre.org/aero/meteo/wsss/en #singaporechangiairport #airport #singapore #wsss #sin #aviation #avgeek vl

Two Role Players Virginia Tech Men’s Basketball Should Lean On https://www.rawchili.com/nba/753410/ #Basketball #CollegeBasketball #hokies #ncaa #NCAABasketball #ncaab #Oklahoma #RedshirtFreshman #Sin'CereJones #TylerJohnson #VirginiaTech

How many runways can you see for Singapore Changi airport (Singapore) ? : The answer is on https://www.bigorre.org/aero/meteo/wsss/en #singaporechangiairport #airport #singapore #wsss #sin #aviation #avgeek vl

The Paradox of Divine Affection: Examining "Hate the Sin, Love the Sinner"

Learn why Christians believe God loves people but hates sin. Understand the Bible's view on sin and redemption.

#Christianity, #Theology, #Bible, #Sin, #Love

https://newsletter.tf/god-loves-people-hates-sin-explained/

The concept of God loving people but hating sin is a key part of Christian belief. This idea has been discussed on platforms like GotQuestions.org and Straight Truth Podcast.

#Christianity, #Theology, #Bible, #Sin, #Love
https://newsletter.tf/god-loves-people-hates-sin-explained/

How many runways can you see for Singapore Changi airport (Singapore) ? : The answer is on https://www.bigorre.org/aero/meteo/wsss/en #singaporechangiairport #airport #singapore #wsss #sin #aviation #avgeek vl

Artist: Senpatrip
Title: FE SIN LIMITES
Genre: Electro - source: Deezer (https://www.deezer.com/album/991570461)
Deezer: https://www.deezer.com/track/4045693291 | YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dJCn5c7PHs | SoundCloud: https://soundcloud.com/senpatrip-music/06d74808-54ad-4df8-989e-439e562b0d31
#Electro #Deezer #SoundCloud #YouTube #EDM #Playlist #Electronic #Senpatrip #Sin #Limites

Terremoto de mediana magnitud sacude el meta de Pimiento, sin amenaza de tsunami #amenaza #Chile #magnitud #mediana #Norte #sacude #sin #Terremoto #Tsunami #ButterWord #Spanish_News Comenta tu opinión 👇
https://butterword.com/terremoto-de-mediana-magnitud-sacude-el-meta-de-pimiento-sin-amenaza-de-tsunami/?feed_id=82667&_unique_id=6a151ca03d4b9

I read about an Eskimo hunter who asked the local missionary priest, "If I did not know about God and sin, would I go to hell? "No," said the priest, "not if you did not know." "Then why," asked the Eskimo earnestly, "did you tell me?"
-- Annie Dillard

⬆ #Wisdom #Quotes #AnnieDillard #God #Religion #Sin

⬇ #Photography #Panorama #Sunset #LakeSantaFe #Florida

#ShitIFind #sin

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Tengo 21 abriles y estoy ansioso por el futuro. ¿Cómo me cuido sin morar en una burbuja? | estilo de vida australiano #años #ansioso #australiano #Burbuja #como #cuido #estilo #estoy #futuro #por #sin #tengo #una #vida #Vivir #ButterWord #Spanish_News Comenta tu opinión 👇
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Muy Interesante: Crean #partículas #mitad #luz, #mitad #materia que pueden conmutar #señales #sin #electricidad

La #fotónica hace un primer paso para #procesar #información #sin #convertirla en #electricidad!

https://muyinteresante.okdiario.com/ciencia/particulas-hibridas-luz-materia-conmutacion-optica.html

Elveția: Din paradisul civilizației occidentale se transformă în iad al bătrânilor Consiliul Cantonal din Zürich a luat o decizie care l-ar face să se cutremure chiar și pe cel mai rece materialist! 👉 https://c.aparatorul.md/7si33 👈 #activismul #aziluriledebătrâni #bunăstareartificială #centreledeîngrijire #ConsiliulCantonuluiZürich #Drepturi #Dumnezeu #Europa #hedonismului #LegeaMorală #manevreguvernamentale #paradispământesc #Referendum #schimbălegeamorală #sin...
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