2018, and nail thus, the 80-year time milepost and turning point of sorts! Being a gambler numbers mean a lot to me especially those concomitantly positive and negative. Do not the life’s years signify 
Some who may receive a copy of this letter don’t know who is Danarel. Discreetly, I inform everybody that he is my guardian angel. When it was more or less clear that I should come into being, my mother, the CONJURER, who was also a first rung ESPER (extra sensory perception), a TRUE BELIEVER, and THE LEADER OF THE PEOPLE, did something that had zero chances to succeed. She was desperate. She knew that age and situation, the Second World War was on the way, would not allow her to have more than one child. She also sensates that the package coming, me, will be a quite violent guy, not very easy to raise. Also, she felt that things may go from bad to worse. They did, the Nazis left so to say but the Communist regime that came after was no less ferocious. 
remarks. I always wondered if there isn’t coiled in any more or less decent male fellow a well-programmed composite of Perseus cum Holy George, a potential savior of endangered virgin damsels? When I finally completed this self-punishing chore, I crawled out into the open on my knees, determined to breathe pure, fresh air and to encounter a thing of beauty or perish. I chose to stay alive still. Of course, the outdoors was only moderately fresh and windy, 3° C and 17k/h, at the moment that a sound Antarctic cocktail, of some 25° C under zero and a gale to capsize the ice floe was what I needed. However, wisely happy with what I got I bravely walked on January 2nd, 2024 from my Bucharest abode near Cişmigiu Garden towards the Palace of Justice in whose neighborhood I was hoping to find open some religious shrines I had never visited.
after he 
became first a martyr and then a saint
Rome and permits through the unique, side-by-side, and successive, presentation of scenes a keen understanding of ancient warfare and nation-building. Because of the monument’s height, the original panels weren’t, and are not visible in situ. Also, and off the record, it is stupid to get torticollis trying to look at the two thousand years old, and worn by time and smog, illustrations of wars between Romans and the Dacians, the ancient habitants of Romania, when we have nice ongoing conflicts with modern tools and plethoric, non-stop visual and verbal feeding. In conclusion, buy a cheap ticket and consider some first-quality genuine casts so close to genuine art that nobody, except some pedants or experts of sorts can see the difference. Feel free to appreciate the quality of the naturalist storytelling style, (neither broken lines nor blotches of color), the magnitude of the personality cult (here Emperor Trajan), and realize how militarist Rome led to the creation of a nation after having ruthlessly and cunningly (and shamefully I will murmur) erased any tracks of the native local culture.
became the core of Bucharest and the stronghold of the ruling class. There is always a ruling class in Cuba, Korea, Monaco, or elsewhere. It was there that in 1490, the famous and much 
appreciated by both tourists and locals Vlad III Dracula nicknamed, for obvious reasons, Vlad the Impaler raised his palace –known today as the Old Court (Curtea Domneasca). Since the fire in 1718, when the rulers departed for a better place, the borough became a TRADING POST, a market to which chariots loaded with merchandise were arriving from abroad. The market fostered the building of several huge guest houses called hans, and the settling of a large professional population on the streets that astonishingly enough (by lack of imagination or else) were bearing the name of the trade the inhabitants practiced. During the Marxist communist regime considering the property a theft and the trade a crime the entire area, once a mercantile and crafts hub, sunk into a rotten, dilapidated state. It changed again after the revolution. Curtea Domneasca, Vlad’s palace had become a museum according to the rule that hospitals, museums, cemeteries, and the universe are in the continuous expanse. Around it, bustling with life the borough metamorphosed again into a giant eatery for people who like to gorge shoulder to shoulder, energetically socialize, and fancy heavy metal music.
over the world, I wailed in the privacy of my head. I was too scared to use the outer space. What do you say? Let’s see Bucur Ciobanul some 300 years ahead of Vlad, around 1200 C.E, and Curtea Domneasca 44.4301° N, 26.1013°E place on the map should provide enough data for a quick checking he mumbled. How for God’s sake did he know the figures by heart? Without paying the slightest attention to the curious extent of his knowledge and skills, Thomas bounced on his laptop hitting the keys with the disgusting energy of a Jerry Lee Lewis, rock pianist, and monster womanizer nicknamed the Killer. After a short while, with an absent look, he handed me a photo and muttered: What a funny guy Bucur, You know? A predestinated name, not! Bucuria (joy in Romanian), and Bucharest, the little Paris, and then he laughed heartedly and creepily. I took the slightly, wet and burning photo with shaking fingers. While I was staring for a couple of seconds into nothingness at my turn, I heard someone roaring, it was me, “late to the dentist” and dashed through the door. After calming down with some difficulty at home, I dared to look again at the photo. It portrayed a shepherd, of course, a kind of rough character devoid of the slightest marks of joy or intelligence. A city founder? Maybe Thomas pulled on me a fast one? The scoundrel! And then I remembered Adam Riess who with two fellows got a Nobel prize in 2011 for discovering Dark Energy that since was never identified and very much questioned. Then, Thomas, right or wrong, can also fetch the Swedish glory and make a laughing stock of me for many. Even the sheepman could be real after all. The city’s founders do not automatically resemble Dalai Lama! If physics nowadays is based on unprovable assumptions everything is possible. Please keep this incident secret, avoid mentioning it, and do not refer to me.
monumental presence on the opposite bank (achieved in 1895) made me reflect on the insane chance of the offenders, great crooks, or petty criminals, it doesn’t matter, to be summoned, judged, and even sentenced on such prestigious premises. I paid particular attention to the free-standing pinion housing a large 
clock flanked by two female characters personifying the Force and the Prudence. They were too remote for my feeble sight to distinguish the features. The camera did a little bit better. Eventual readers may eventually recognize who is what and get an idea of how Carol Storck the son of leading sculptor of then times, Karl Storck, managed to embody psychological features. Forget the Force who is not more at all popular today when even a toothbrush should be Soft, but please consider the noli me tangere glance that Prudence lets filter through her modestly lowered eyelids. 
Bridge of Misers, (Podul Calicilor). The misers were waiting for silver change thrown at their intention from the windows of luxurious boyar carriages crossing the bridge. Deeply touched by this example of direct 
charity contrasting with the suspect ONG distribution of money and goods that they didn’t produce and that they vigorously skim into their extravagant wages I took a sharp turn left and marched slightly haggard into the Street of the Holly Apostles (Strada Sfintii Apostoli). The Principal pitied my wandering and let me discover after barely ten meters a glorious fossil inserted like a shining carbuncle into a ring of ponderous, would-be-modular, off-white, towering, and somehow asinine, ex-communist residential blocks. It was the neo-Byzantine Domnița Balaşa church. 
A complex, shining, flashy, and light reflecting rood screen (iconostasis) separates the crossing from the altar housing choir that ends within the main eastern apse space. Finally, two smaller apses are flanking the northern and southern sides of the crossing. The iconostasis together with the clerestory type piercing of the walls (mehr licht), the sparing use of marble enhancing doors and window frames, and the opulent running corniche girdling the ensemble should encourage one, me for example, to claim neo-Byzantine loudly. Alas, the obvious in a matter of style can be very treacherous.
Constantin Brȃncoveanu who ruled Walachia for twenty-six years from 1688 to 1714. It was a rare long reign as the Turks who controlled the principality believed that good money should change hands often. They were generally selling the throne two or three times during a decade for 2000 gold purses for each run. Consequently, the mountainous Romanian gold veins became a remote souvenir. Being Papa Brȃncoveanu a particularly shrewd and skilled politician, he stayed a long time in charge, enjoyed a prolonged peace period, fathered eleven children, fostered a refined (neo-byzantine of course) architectural style, got full gas into construction mode, especially religious edifices, and built a dense network of friendly relationships with the European policymakers.
and then at the Sultan’s Harem at Topkapi. At her turn, she was submitted vainly to the question, what suggests that the Turkish were not practicing genre discrimination on torture matter and convinced me, that there was not any hidden treasure whatsoever, because too many people died without to pip a word.
unique sponsor of the third version of Domnita Bălaşa church achieved in 1842. The church built in Gothic Revival style was a larger edifice than the previous ones and it had, it sounds familiar, to be torn down in 1881. Safta, a widow at the rise of the church, was married to Grigore Brancoveanu, the last male descendent of the Constantinople martyr and saint, Constantin Brancoveanu, the father of Princess Bălaşa. Equally dividing her attention between spiritual needs and material necessities, Safta founded the large Brȃncovenesc Hospital (1838). The hospital was demolished after being renovated in 1984, by Ceausescu’s “mistake” or “whim”. Mistake it was and a massive one because Safta inserted in her testament a terrible curse aimed at whoever will imperil her outstanding philanthropies for the sake of which she liquidated her entire huge fortune and lived as a nun in a monastery cell for the last 17 years of her life. Do not mess with Safta boy! The sour end of Ceausescu is the ultimate proof of the irreducible and irremediable quality of the malediction.
would be honored to land on King Carol I and Queen Elizabeth’s seats right now! Prince Radu ex Duda and wife?
The passage from the square shape to the dome’s circular base through a combination of round arches with curved triangles called pendentives is a fact of beauty It would provide the alert visitor with a spiritual apprehension of inert materials in tense relation, the eventual recognition of some sacred and lay scenery, often with a feeling of dizziness, and rare sensuous enchantment with, of course, a mandatory condition. Look up for God’s sake and to God’s glory.
riding a mule—the classic hybrid par excellence. Let me assure you, there is nothing wrong with a mule. About ten years ago, I rode one to climb from the bottom of the Colca Canyon (one of the deepest in the world) up a narrow, abrupt, and viciously winding path to Cabanaconde in the Peruvian Andes—an ascent of more than two thousand meters.
superb feminine attributes, among which tenderness and seduction are not the least— to take charge. From 60,000 to 4,000 B.C.E. and beyond, this was the rule. Unfortunately, for some curious reason, the goddess in question was often depicted with extra-fat hips, buttocks, and breasts—traits that are now considered obsolete, even offensive, in our gym-obsessed culture. 
fun — which I do. Strangely enough, I recently found a companion after being solo for so long. Recently, it means a couple of years. He doesn’t trot by side me, God forbid, but he is plodding one step behind, since I lost my martial (Aries born!) step and gait. He is blowing in my neck. I hate that. Even without ever turning the head to see his mug, I recognized him at once. An ectoplasmic executioner, a ghostly roman retiarius, using a fiber net loaded with small lead balls and a trident to beat the entangled victim to death. Sadistic animal. Of course, I plan to make him fall and fail, reveal the ludicrous ass hidden behind the ghoulish snout, but a threat is a threat, and believe me, never a treat. Unable to travel freely with this stupid grave-digger at my heels, I decided to dig into the gold mine of careless happy amblings souvenirs I had from my eternal yesterday.
Succinctly, I’d say he’s an accomplished sportsman, an iron man, a 5km per day sea crocodile, a distinguished martial arts buff (Dan-something in more than one of the ‘breaking the adversary to pieces’ skills), a devoted family man, a well-trained pilot who rode a large set of planes including a MIG 29 for 30 seconds, an obsessive traveler specializing in tracking ethnic societies that have ceased to be since long ago, a kind and calm buddy, a vorace reader with a Napoleonic memory, a sound music lover, an all-consumer of water and other tasteless, high-energy materials along with plenty of vitamines that provided him with a certain massive ventral protuberance, a boring repetitive vocational speaker, a very generous friend (he sponsored all our traveling escapades) and a FULL-TIME ARTIST.
am the only person in the world who understands properly what that means, what he is doing and why. At a certain moment, I even did an extensive, in-depth study analyzing Lothar’s plethoric artistic output. Of course, the fat bastard felt thrilled and honored, but he didn’t make any attempt to publish it. In his world of beliefs and doings, the only one entitled to speak about his art is LOTHAR. Maybe he’s right. If you’ve read this far, don’t conclude that Lothar is an angel or a more or less perfect anthropoid. Beyond the fact that he snors like a charcoal locomotive, Lothar has extra bad habits that I’ll avoid mentioning here, especially since the chap is still alive. Some of his best 
friends argue that his faults are, at least, as numerous as his qualities, which is a fiendish fairly exaggerated opinion. Even if I endowed Lothar with more flattering qualities than a porcupine has quills, I’d still stand by my adjectives. Enough with that, if my text will fall into his chubby hands, Lothar will turn into a more self-conceited Bibendum than ever, (a true Megalodon)
after a mighty flight from Frankfurt on a flying carpet (business class) landed in the lobby of the posh and nec plus ultra Delhi’s Taj Mahal palace (as famous image of India as the Agra’s Taj Mahal mausoleum is) to request room and board. The modestly dressed, modestly behaving Lothar believes that comfort is mandatory during travel and follows rigorously his father’s dictum say: the best is good enough for us. Since wandering in the fiery cauldron of Delhi was widely not recommended, we decided to stick to well-being. After a rest day spent mostly in hard thinking highlighted by a metaphysical massage performed by a 100% authentic Mughal princess, and an extraordinary set of vegetarian dishes at the famous VARQ gastronomic pearl of the Taj, we fly early morning to Srinagar. The scenic beauty of Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir and Jammu led to the inhabitants’ claim it being a ‘paradise on earth‘ (except the fleeting moments when it became a ‘piece of hell’).
Bollywood style, India poured into area after an attack perpetrated Muslim militants (BBC) or Muslim terrorists (Google News). Same people. Bottom line: turbulence is endemic in the area; keep that in mind. The stated reason for it is the fervent desire of the Muslim population, 60% of Kashmir’s total, to unify with Pakistan a kind of magnificent error that people and nations are always eager to commit.
like a loose buoy; I had seen the same a couple of times before in the Danube Delta. Vividly painted little boats, perceived from a distance as a crazy school of gliding and flying fishes, were crossing in irregular patterns the lake’s blue-gray, shivering mantle. The soaked valley, despite seeming to endlessly roll, became contained somewhere to the north by a first arch of tree-covered high Himalayan foothills. It was then brought to a full stop by a second, higher and more severe ring of naked, stony peaks capped in white. Behind me, on solid ground, I distinguished some ungainly big hotels and the typical chaotic fringe of an Indian urban agglomeration, consisting of quite picturesque old homes with a first floor made of bricks and a second of nicely brown-stained wood boards. A sloped roof was and remains mandatory. In front of me, there was a wooden quay from where we boarded a stridently painted courier boat called a shikara that was to carry the ‘suckers’ to their 
destination: the fancy, circus-style, ethnic baroque BOATHOUSE, mosquito-free!
kitsch and thuds with mass, the white caped peaks of background are inspiring, the liquid mirror is convincing and tranquilizing. The houseboat is built like a sleeping car. From a whole-length lateral corridor, one reaches the rooms and from the room the bathroom, that is in a rare (India?) pristine condition. Concurrently the accommodation contraption is a floating (wisely moored) overwhelmingly ornate temple at the glory of folk arts, applied arts, tourist arts. Call them how you like, Lothar adores, I am not against. The rooms are a chiseled wood festival. The walls are compulsively embellished with carved wood panels, of impressive size. I had the feeling that a whole forest was dispatched for the construction of one single houseboat. 
Not that I am oversensitive, apocalypse now, it is my line, but i am damn curious which one of glorious local trees –the perfumed Deodar Cedar, the royal national Chinar, the Pinus roxburghii called by the natives Kashmirian pine, or the severly military protected Black Walnut, fine grained tree, the dominant supplier for ornamental, carved objects– was sacrificed on the serendipity altar to produce the gaudy Star of Kashmir, our temporal abode. A sneaky inquiry followed by some insidious letters to the authorities would suit our elevated status as nature lovers—if we weren’t so lenient and infamously lazy.
discoveries. I have a gut feeling we’re going to overdo it—fall into a kind of goat syndrome—and run all over the city. But who has time to think, to weigh, to choose? We’re in a full-on banzai mood! Let’s check around. The lake looks gorgeous and important. Of course, is a world-famous symbol, a means of connection between people, a great source of income, a cheap shipping network, a provider of dwelling accommodation for the very poor and the filthy rich, the greatest tourist attraction of the country, a veteran hydroponic farm and a powerful ecological lung for the whole valley continuously threatened to become a cesspool if people will not etc…. The water depth is lower than human size, but i
t is recommended to avoid contact with the lake’s muddy bottom, its wild and weird vegetation, the considerable amount of domestic garbage, and the fair level of pollution. The locals do not seem to be too much affected probably because the lack of choice and also because being trained since centuries to take everything with a certain amount of salt.
The young man looks at me with hate. He is hundred percent white Caucasian while she will be more tanned than an overdone pancake. I don’t give a shit about his anger (Sorry, revered guardian angel, I am sure that you don’t suffer from ‘correctness’!).
singles, they prefer groups. And they are great for giving you a guilty feeling. A psychological war take place under the open sky. Being a battle tested veteran I try to bring them on the brink of a nervous breakdown by putting stupid questions and suggesting ridiculous prices. At the very end I get the object of desire. Then smiles, good whishes and congratulations 
are exchanged. This time was a smashing embroidered coat that I dress anytime I want to offer to people around a discussion topic for a month or two. The craftmanship is superb no matter the material or technique: papier maché, walnut wood, carpet weaving, wool, silk, bronze, ceramic, tissue, glass you name it. The Pachima shawl has conquered the world. I cannot imagine a hottie that doesn’t have it or won’t acquire it tomorrow. The dominant aesthetic mode is horror vacui, i.e ‘fear of empty space’ leading to a decoration that expands over surface patterns, motifs, and images as tightly as pieces of baklava inserted in a baking tray.
poplar of Romania, the cedar of Lebanon (for what was once Lebanon so to say) etc. Kashmir national tree is a magnificent plane giant called Chinar in vernacular and Platanus orientalis Kashmiriana in the scientific idiom. It is a protected prince. You cannot fell one even if you have to build a road. Go around dude…When we arrived there Lothar made two genuflections and three reverences, I did four genuflections and seven reverences. There is nothing to be done, he can be much stronger than me, I am the flexible one…We did that, I inform you discreetly, to worship the rustic deity living in the national tree or even embodied into it. Of course we have been asking for a little boon..these deities are long life specialists, you understand…
—Tatlin-style—perfectly articulates empty, prismatic spaces. I had visited similar homes in Iquitos, Peru, and was enchanted. Even their miserable
angle becomes the ruling principle of order and aesthetic clarity.These gardens are closely associated with Shah Jahan, visionary patron of the Agra’s Taj Mahal and arguably the most remarkable ruler of the Mughal Empire. While the empire (1526-1857) was established by a Persianized Central Asian Turkish-Mongol dynasty that chose Srinagar as its summer capital, a broader historical context, though compelling, may be left aside.What remains is the immediate experience: gardens as serene 
oasis, ideal for contemplative encounters with curated nature. Today, they attract waves of Indian tourists—eager to share views of snow-capped mountains and flowing water with their children—as well as honeymooners, veteran old couples and visitors dressed in rented Mughal-era costumes to relive a sense of bygone splendor. With a bit of luck, one might also glimpse local women and girls enjoying a rare moment of leisure and freedom (!).
desire to meet some langurs. I quickly added “golden” to the list to smother in its crib a nasty remark from my companion. As a result of these distasteful requests, expressed by two fairly old, spoiled brats, we veered off the main road and ended up in Pahalgam—an astonishingly beautiful area that had been recently (2025) the site of a heroic or horrendous, (depending on who is relating) Muslim (terrorists or militants) attack.
classic tourist postcard category—though, alas, nobody seems to send these touching tokens of affection to friends or relatives anymore. Perhaps the post has been hijacked by email, or perhaps affection itself is becoming rarer in our increasingly busy lives. Pahalgam, situated at an altitude of 2,025 meters, is only 400 meters higher than Srinagar, yet the two places feel worlds apart. Srinagar is an urban agglomeration built around a stupendous lake, which contributes to its subtropical climate. It lies on a flat, wide, and wet valley, has served as a summer capital for centuries, and is adorned with magnificent Mughal gardens and grand public works (mosques, palaces, forts). Pahalgam, by contrast, remains a rural hill station. It’s nestled in a landscape of steep slopes—not just hills, but true mountains—many often snow-capped and seemingly within arm’s reach. Nervous, foaming torrents leap from ledge to ledge as they tumble downhill. The air is fresh, fed by both the peaks and the surrounding forests, which together foster a temperate climate.Together, these two destinations feel like the two sides of a golden medal—the dream of any regular tourist Joe exploring Kashmir on a well-planned budget and itinerary. But further up begins another world: the realm of nomadic shepherds, wild bears, elusive musk deer, tense martial borders, and compulsive mountain climbers. Here, a sense of restraint is advised.
which gave us free rein to trade some twisted, sharp and ultimately jocular reflections on the depth and reach of English colonization—and the cultural imprint it left on native populations across different regions and groups. These days, colonization and cultural ‘impregnation’ seem to be in full reverse. Now, it’s the Brits who are feeling the heat. Taking the hit? What will come of it? The 
bookmakers aren’t taking bets just yet, but some wise guys say the writing’s already on the wall—not that I care.
his much thicker natural cushion, appeared bored out of his mind. The photo above gives only a pale image of the degree of alienation of both animals and riders, while my groom particularly couldn’t care
mosque is a rare example of Indian cum Persian cultural intermingling. The ’embroidered’ woodwork ensemble composed of walls, columns, semicircular arched arcades, balconies, open-work panels, tiered spaces, flat ceilings, decorative corniches, the ‘pagoda’ like sloped tiered roofs and the triangular spire are of Indian origin. A comparison with an iconic Persian mosque (Yazd) build during the same time period reveals the noteworthy dissimilarity between two buildings sharing the same functionality.
On the other hand the imposing mihrab (the muslim equivalent of the altar), the inspiring functionality of the praying space, the absence of flat or free standing figurative sculptures, (who needs those idols?), the essential location of the puny space under the spire, now a the muezzin’ cage (conceptually akin a DJ booth), and finally the fascinating optic fractal decoration upon composite panels, either lattices of painted wood or vibrating papier mâché polychrome surfaces, are Persian. Forget style, there’s some spirituality about the whole, isn’t there? Even if the mosque is…well, what I will say later!
friend, or is the asshole friend to someone else. How do you recognize one? It’s easy! Just look around you—or even at yourself. An asshole criticizes and scorns everything you bring him, from food to ideas and from fears to hopes. He speaks in a nasal, whiny tone, lectures you forever, and picks his nose while he’s talking.
critique. “Your writing is too long and convoluted,” he said, “full of useless information, and stuffed with pretentious words from old dictionaries. You’re just going in circles and miss the point more than once.” That kind of slap is the absolute mark of an asshole.
Ladakh proper
or “Free Tibet” (by me) since the Han “liberated” the motherland. The population here is a mix: ancient of Tibetan tribes who migrated here centuries ago, a majority of invasive Muslims who moved in from the XIV to XVII centuries through proselytism and war, a handful of Hindus to bring some flavor, and some minuscule ethnic groups like the Brokpa, allegedly the last Aryans. Their claim of being pure-blood stock and their romantic location—a valley that is both a fortress and a prison—encouraged many women, Frauen und Fräulein, eager to birth a new Siegfried, to hit the area and give it a try. I don’t give a fuck; I am a Semitic bloke.
designers and
stock! Zen Master (angry for good): I will trash you soundly if you continue to speak in equine terms. That can be very offensive for the animal too!
And if you care for a drink—and you should—try the precious barley beer Chhang or get a fair amount of butter tea gur chai, the icon of local cookery. At the end, should you have strong teeth, it will be wise to gnaw on a piece of dry Chhurpe yak cheese. Don’t hesitate to thank i
n petto this stout, strong, and hairy Himalayan bovine who provides the locals with quite everything they need for life, including a mighty kick from time to time to remind them of respect and gratitude.
lamaseries.During our chaotic visit, I noticed a multitude of stupas (chorten), the Buddhist religious monument par excellence that serves as a reliquary and/or a cultic focal point. It offers the believer a fixed point for meditation, or for a ritual clockwise circumambulation. Their form varies greatly by location. The stupas raised in clusters near lamaseries or in sacred places are imposing, standard creations consisting of a polygonal base, topped by a full, dome-like element, surmounted by a painted spire, and ending in a parasol, lotus flower, or a pinnacle. While new stupas can be lavishly decorated, it’s often the old, worn ones that draw the eye, thanks to the subtle marks of time known as patina. It’s almost the opposite of what happens with people, isn’t it?”
from base to top symbolizes another Buddhist elementary entity such as earth, water, fire, air, and ether. The simple act of building one is an act of devotion, deserving praise and sometimes bringing a divine reward (boon) to the builder.
rice throughout this report.I’ve always loved camelids, wherever chance allowed me to meet them—from
THE WANDERER
I was born with open eyes, shouting; I vainly tried to close them at once. Life appeared ridiculously short, meaningless and the departure often repelling. Mankind was recurrently mad and aggressive.
Action was required imperiously! To invest a little bit in love, the mass of a neutron star, divided by X; some more in friendship, stay curious of art and sciences, mix nature with pleasure, move frequently, consider laugh the uppermost commodity and fun the holy of holiest. Insure an express and voluntary demise and write a blog …
Dear Friend and Frienda*
Dear Friend and Frienda*
Would you like to see the blog’s feature image, the feature image of each post, and (in progress) each image embedded in the texts in full screen? The kind of big is beautiful? Want you to possibly enjoy in full screen each gallery photos in a colorful slideshow galop? Just click once on the object of your desire, once again on the three dots located at the upper right corner of your browser, and then press the incomplete square at the end of the zoom quote. Alas, the increase in size reveals sometimes the lower quality of the photo. Nothing better than leaving the mode by touching the center of the upper side of the screen with your mouse tip. An X sign drops from the sky, click on it and you are out of the monumental.
I began to insert videos and music clips in my posts. If after seeing or listening to a clip you are motivated enough to go back to the post, please, click the arrow situated at the high left corner of the screen. This until I will find a smarter way. So long!
*N.B. I am just trying to introduce this most necessary word into the common body of the English language
