BLACKOUT on this Biden story 📰👤

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵 (𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘧) 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜.𝘚. 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭, 𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘤, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘮… 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘢-𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴 [Main logotype Expert Modern Advice](   Biden just announced his 2024 Presidential bid… And despite his cognitive decline, disastrous agenda, failing economy, and 70％ of Americans opposed to his second term1… Biden is almost guаrаntееd to wіn re-election in 2024. All thanks to his signature on [this document…](... A document that just killed Trump, DeSantis, and the GOPs chances. [𝘉𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸]( Yet you wоn’t hear about this policy on the mainstream media. Because even though it аll but secures his re-election in 2024, this nеw policy will enrage Biden’s base. I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar an Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids -- and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination -- indeed, everything and anything except me. Nor is my invisibility exly a matter of a bio-chemical accident to my epidermis. That invisibility to which I refer occurs because of a peculiar disposition of the eyes of those with whom I come in cont. A matter of the construction of their inner eyes, those eyes with which they look through their physical eyes upon reality. I am not complaining, nor am I protesting either. It is sometimes advantageous to be unseen, although it is most often rather wearing on the nerves. Then too, you're constantly being bumped against by those of poor vision. Or again, you often doubt if you rey exist. You der whether you aren't simply a phantom in other people's minds. Say, a figure in a nightmare which the sleeper tries with his strength to destroy. It's when you feel like this that, out of resentment, you begin to bump people back. And, let me confess, you feel that way most of the time. You ache with the need to convince yourself that you do exist in the real world, that you're a part of the sound and anguish, and you strike out with your fists, you curse and you swear to make them recognize you. And, alas, it's seldom . One night I accidenty bumped into a man, and perhaps because of the near darkness he saw me and ced me an insulting . I sprang at him, seized his coat lapels and demanded that he apologize. He was a t blond man, and as my face came close to his he looked insolently out of his blue eyes and cursed me, his breath hot in my face as he struggled. I pulled his chin down sharp upon the crown of my head, butting him as I had seen the West Indians do, and I felt his flesh tear and the blood gush out, and I yelled, "Apologize! Apologize!" But he continued to curse and struggle, and I butted him again and again until he went down heavily, on his knees, profusely bleeding. I kicked him repeatedly, in a frenzy because he still uttered insults though his lips were frothy with blood. Oh yes, I kicked him! And in my outrage I got out my knife and prepared to slit his throat, right there beneath the lamplight in the deserted street, holding him by the collar with one hand, and ing the knife with my teeth -- when it occurred to me that the man had not seen me, uy; that he, as far as he k, was in the midst of a walking nightmare! And I ped the blade, slicing the air as I pushed him away, letting him f back to the street. I stared at him hard as the lights of a car stabbed through the darkness. He lay there, moaning on the asphalt; a man almost killed by a phantom. It unnerved me. I was both disgusted and ashamed. I was like a drunken man myself, wavering about on weakened legs. Then I was amused. Something in this man's thick head had sprung out and beaten him within an inch of his . I began to laugh at this crazy discovery. Would he have awakened at the point of death? Would Death himself have d him for wakeful living? But I didn't linger. I ran away into the dark, laughing so hard I feared I might rupture myself. The next day I saw his picture in the Daily s, beneath a caption stating that he had been "mugged." Poor fool, poor blind fool, I thought with sincere compassion, mugged by an invisible man! Most of the time (although I do not choose as I once did to deny the violence of my days by ignoring it) I am not so overtly violent. I remember that I am invisible and walk softly so as not to awaken the sleeping ones. Sometimes it is best not to awaken them; there are few things in the world as dangerous as sleepwalkers. I learned in time though that it is possible to carry on a fight against them without their realizing it. For instance, I have been carrying on a fight with Monopolated Light & Power for some time . I use their service and pay them nothing at , and they don't k it. Oh, they suspect that power is being drained , but they don't k where. they k is that according to the master meter back there in their power station a hell of a lot of current is disappearing somewhere into the jungle of Harlem. The joke, of course, is that I don't live in Harlem but in a border area. Several years ago (before I discovered the advantage of being invisible) I went through the routine process of ing service and paying their outrageous . But no more. I gave up that, along with my apartment, and my old way of : That way based upon the facious assumption that I, like other men, was visible. , aware of my invisibility, I live rent- in a building rented strictly to whites, in a section of the basement that was shut and forgotten during the nineteenth century, which I discovered when I was trying to escape in the night from Ras the Destroyer. But that's ting too far ahead of the story, almost to the end, although the end is in the beginning and lies far ahead. The point is that I found a -- or a hole in the ground, as you will. don't jump to the conclusion that because I c my a "hole" it is damp and cold like a grave; there are cold holes and warm holes. Mine is a warm hole. And remember, a bear retires to his hole for the winter and lives until spring; then he comes strolling out like the Easter chick breaking from its shell. I say this to assure you that it is incorrect to assume that, because I'm invisible and live in a hole, I am dead. I am neither dead nor in a state of suspended animation. C me Jack-the-Bear, for I am in a state of hibernation. My hole is warm and full of light. Yes, full of light. I doubt if there is a brighter spot in York than this hole of mine, and I do not exclude Broadway. Or the Empire State Building on a photographer's dream night. But that is taking advantage of you. Those two spots are among the darkest of our whole civilization -- pardon me, our whole culture (an important distinction, I've heard) -- which might sound like a hoax, or a contradiction, but that (by contradiction, I mean) is how the world moves: Not like an arrow, but a boomerang. (Beware of those who speak of the spiral of history; they are preparing a boomerang. Keep a steel helmet handy.) I k; I have been boomeranged across my head so much that I can see the darkness of lightness. And I love light. Perhaps you'll think it strange that an invisible man should need light, desire light, love light. But maybe it is exly because I am invisible. Light confirms my reality, gives birth to my . A beautiful girl once told me of a recurring nightmare in which she lay in the center of a large dark room and felt her face expand until it filled the whole room, becoming a less mass while her eyes ran in bilious jelly up the chimney. And so it is with me. Without light I am not invisible, but less as well; and to be unaware of one's is to live a death. I myself, after existing some twenty years, did not become alive until I discovered my invisibility. That is why I fight my battle with Monopolated Light & Power. The deeper reason, I mean: It ows me to feel my vital aliveness. I also fight them for taking so much of my before I learned to protect myself. In my hole in the basement there are exly 1,369 lights. I've wired the entire ceiling, every inch of it. And not with fluorescent bulbs, but with the older, more-expensive-to-operate kind, the filament type. An of sabotage, you k. I've already begun to wire the w. A man I k, a man of vision, has supplied me with wire and sockets. Nothing, storm or flood, must in the way of our need for light and ever more and brighter light. The truth is the light and light is the truth. When I finish four ws, then I'll start on the floor. Just how that will go, I don't k. Yet when you have lived invisible as long as I have you develop a certain ingenuity. I'll solve the . And maybe I'll invent a gad to place my ceepot on the fire while I lie in bed, and even invent a gad to warm my bed -- like the fellow I saw in one of the picture magazines who made himself a gad to warm his shoes! Though invisible, I am in the American tradition of tinkers. That makes me kin to Ford, Edison and Franklin. C me, since I have a theory and a concept, a "thinker-tinker." Yes, I'll warm my shoes; they need it, they're usuy full of holes. I'll do that and more. I have one radio-phonograph; I plan to have five. There is a certain acoustical deadness in my hole, and when I have music I want to feel its vibration, not with my ear but with my whole body. I'd like to hear five recordings of Louis Armstrong playing and singing "What Did I Do to Be so Black and Blue" -- at the same time. Sometimes I listen to Louis while I have my favorite dessert of vanilla ice cream and sloe gin. I pour the red liquid over the white mound, watching it glisten and the vapor rising as Louis bends that military instrument into a beam of lyrical sound. Perhaps I like Louis Armstrong because he's made poetry out of being invisible. I think it must be because he's unaware that he is invisible. And my own grasp of invisibility aids me to understand his music. Once when I asked for a cigarette, some jokers gave me a reefer, which I lighted when I got and sat listening to my phonograph. It was a strange evening. Invisibility, let me explain, gives one a slightly different sense of time, you're quite on the beat. Sometimes you're ahead and sometimes behind. Instead of the swift and imperceptible flowing of time, you are aware of its nodes, those points where time stands still or from which it leaps ahead. And you slip into the breaks and look around. That's what you hear vaguely in Louis' music. Once I saw a prizefighter boxing a yokel. The fighter was swift and amazingly scientific. His body was one violent flow of rapid rhythmic ion. He hit the yokel a hundred times while the yokel held up his arms in stunned surprise. But suddenly the yokel, rolling about in the gale of boxing gloves, struck one blow and knocked science, speed and footwork as cold as a well-digger's posterior. The smart hit the canvas. The long shot got the nod. The yokel had simply stepped inside of his opponent's sense of time. So under the spell of the reefer I discovered a analytical way of listening to music. The unheard sounds came through, and each melodic line existed of itself, stood out clearly from the rest, said its piece, and waited patiently for the other voices to speak. That night I found myself hearing not in time, but in space as well. I not entered the music but descended, like Dante, into its depths. And beneath the swiftness of the hot tempo there was a slower tempo and a cave and I entered it and looked around and heard an old woman singing a spiritual as full of Weltschmerz as flamenco, and beneath that lay a still lower level on which I saw a beautiful girl the color of ivory pleading in a voice like my mother's as she stood before a group of slave owners who bid for her naked body, and below that I found a lower level and a more rapid tempo and I heard someone shout: "Brothers and sisters, my text this morning is the 'Blackness of Blackness.' " And a congregation of voices answered: "That blackness is most black, brother, most black [Сlісk hеrе to find out why](.   1 ℎ𝑡𝑡𝑝𝑠://𝑤𝑤𝑤.𝑑𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑦𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙.𝑐𝑜.𝑢𝑘/𝑛𝑒𝑤𝑠/𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑙𝑒-12008197/70-𝐴𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑠-𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑡-𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡-𝐵𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛-𝑟𝑢𝑛-𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠-𝑊ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒-𝐻𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒-𝑏𝑖𝑑.ℎ𝑡𝑚𝑙 Some do come back. And then the other women are happy because they believe that their men may one day return, as well. I used to look at those women and envy them their happiness. , I too will be one of the women who wait. I'm a desert woman, and I'm proud of that. I want my husband to wander as as the d that shapes the dunes. And, if I have to, I will accept the f that he has become a part of the clouds, and the animals and the water of the desert. The boy went to look for the Englishman. He wanted to tell him about Fatima. He was surprised when he saw that the Englishman had built himself a furnace outside his tent. It was a strange furnace, fueled by firewood, with a transparent flask heating on top. As the Englishman stared out at the desert, his eyes seemed brighter than they had when he was reading his books. This is the first phase of the job, he said. I have to separate out the sulfur. To do that fully, I must have no fear of failure. It was my fear of failure that first kept me from attempting the Master Work. , I'm beginning what I could have started ten years ago. But I'm happy at least that I didn't wait twenty years. He continued to feed the fire, and the boy stayed on until the desert turned pink in the setting sun. He felt the urge to go out into the desert, to see if its silence held the answers to his questions. He wandered for a while, keeping the date palms of the oasis within sight. He listened to the d, and felt the stones beneath his feet. and t, he found a shell, and realized that the desert, in remote times, had been a sea. He sat on a stone, and owed himself to become hypnotized by the horizon. He tried to with the concept of love as distinct from possession, and couldn't separate them. But Fatima was a woman of the desert, and, if anything could help him to understand, it was the desert. As he sat t thinking, he sensed movement above him. Looking up, he saw a pair of hawks flying high in the sky. He watched the hawks as they drifted on the d. Although their flight appeared to have no pattern, it made a certain kind of sense to the boy. It was just that he couldn't grasp what it meant. He followed the movement of the birds, trying to read something into it. Maybe these desert birds could explain to him the meaning of love without ownership. He felt sleepy. In his heart, he wanted to remain awake, but he also wanted to sleep. I am learning the Language of the World, and everything in the world is beginning to make sense to me... even the flight of the hawks, he said to himself. And, in that mood, he was grateful to be in love. When you are in love, things make even more sense, he thought. Suddenly, one of the hawks made a flashing dive through the sky, attacking the other. As it did so, a sudden, fleeting image came to the boy: an army, with its swords at the ready, riding into the oasis. The vision vanished , but it had shaken him. He had heard people speak of mirages, and had already seen some himself: they were desires that, because of their intensity, materialized over the sands of the desert. But he certainly didn't desire that an army invade the oasis. He wanted to for about the vision, and return to his meditation. He tried again to concentrate on the pink shades of the desert, and its stones. But t was something t in his heart that wouldn't ow him to do so. Always heed the omens, the old king had said. The boy reced what he had seen in the vision, and sensed that it was uy going to occur. He rose, and made his way back toward the palm trees. Once again, he perceived the many languages in the things about him: this time, the desert was safe, and it was the oasis that had become dangerous. The camel driver was seated at the base of a palm tree, observing the sunset. He saw the boy appear from the other side of the dunes. An army is coming, the boy said. I had a vision. The desert fills men's hearts with visions, the camel driver answered. But the boy told him about the hawks: that he had been watching their flight and had suddenly felt himself to have plunged to the Soul of the World. The camel driver understood what the boy was saying. He k that any given thing on the face of the earth could reveal the history of things. One could a book to any page, or look at a person's hand; one could turn a card, or watch the flight of the birds... whatever the thing observed, one could find a connection with his experience of the moment. uy, it wasn't that those things, in themselves, revealed anything at ; it was just that people, looking at what was occurring around them, could find a means of penetration to the Soul of the World. The desert was full of men who earned their living based on the ease with which they could penetrate to the Soul of the World. They were kn as seers, and they were held in fear by women and the elderly. Tribesmen were also wary of consulting them, because it would be impossible to be effective in battle if one k that he was fated to die. The tribesmen preferred the taste of battle, and the thrill of not king what the outcome would be; the future was already written by ah, and what he had written was always for the good of man. So the tribesmen lived for the present, because the present was full of surprises, and they had to be aware of many things: W was the enemy's sword? W was his horse? What kind of blow should one deliver next in to remain alive? The camel driver was not a fighter, and he had consulted with seers. Many of them had been right about what they said, while some had been wrong. Then, one day, the oldest seer he had ever sought out (and the one most to be feared) had asked why the camel driver was so interested in the future. Well... so I can do things, he had responded. And so I can change those things that I don't want to happen. But then they wouldn't be a part of your future, the seer had said. Well, maybe I just want to k the future so I can prepare myself for what's coming. If good things are coming, they will be a pleasant surprise, said the seer. If bad things are, and you k in advance, you will suffer ly before they even occur. I want to k about the future because I'm a man, the camel driver had said to the seer. And men always live their lives based on the future. The seer was a specialist in the casting of twigs; he threw them on the ground, and made interpretations based on how they fell. That day, he didn't make a cast. He wrapped the twigs in a piece of cloth and put them back in his bag. I make my living forecasting the future for people, he said. I k the science of the twigs, and I k how to use them to penetrate to the place w is written. T, I can read the past, discover what has already been forgotten, and understand the omens that are in the present. When people consult me, it's not that I'm reading the future; I am guessing at the future. The future belongs to God, and it is he who reveals it, under extraordinary circumstances. How do I guess at the future? Based on the omens of the present. The secret is in the present. If you pay attention to the present, you can improve upon it. And, if you improve on the present, what comes later will also be better. For about the future, and live each day according to the teachings, confident that God loves his children. Each day, in itself, brings with it an eternity. The camel driver had asked what the circumstances were under which God would ow him to see the future. when he, himself, reveals it. And God rarely reveals the future. When he does so, it is for one reason: it's a future that was written so as to be altered. God had shown the boy a part of the future, the camel driver thought. Why was it that he wanted the boy to serve as his instrument? Go and speak to the tribal chieftains, said the camel driver. Tell them about the armies that are approaching. They'll laugh at me. They are men of the desert, and the men of the desert are used to ing with omens. Well, then, they probably already k. They're not concerned with that right . They believe that if they have to k about something ah w ants them to k, someone will tell them about it. It has happened many times before. But, this time, the person is you. The boy thought of Fatima. And he decided he would go to see the chiefs of the tribes. stures over the boy's head. Then, taking his sheep, he walked away. [image in footer dar devider] [small logotype footer Expert Modern Advice]( ExpertModernAdvice.com is sending this newsletter on behalf Inception Media Group. IMG appreciates your comments and inquiries. Please keep in mind, that Inception Media Group are not permitted to provide individualized fіnancіal advіse. 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