Apple investors will be shocked to see Apple’s ❞creative destruction❞ 🍎🤯

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎`𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌... 𝖶𝖧𝖮 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍... 𝖶𝖧𝖠𝖳 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾... 𝖧𝖮𝖶 𝖬𝖴𝖢𝖧 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝗈𝗋... 𝖧𝖮𝖶 𝖬𝖴𝖢𝖧 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 (𝗂𝗍`𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍). [Main logotype Expert Modern Advice](       [𝘪𝘗𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦 14 𝘗𝘳𝘰 𝘔𝘢𝘹]( Take a good look at the latest Apple iPhone — iPhone 14 Pro Max. This could be the last ever iPhone Apple creates… According to credible sources, Apple is trying to kill the iPhone… Insiders are calling this strange maneuver “creative destruction”... And fаst-moving investors are set to take advantage of this “destruction” and walk away with a substantial gains… [Сlісk hеrе nоw to see what the secret Apple event revealed.](     It was at about this period that variants of my tale began to be told as authentic histories. At first, these tales betrayed their relation to their original. In several of them the vearian restaurant appeared, and St. George was the chief character. In one case an icer— and address missing—said that t was a portrait of St. George in a certain London restaurant, and that a figure, just like the portrait, appeared to him on the battlefield, and was invoked by him, with the happiest results. Another variant—this, I think, got into print—told how dead Prussians had been found on the battlefield with arrow wounds in their bodies. This notion amused me, as I had imagined a scene, when I was thinking out the story, in which a German general was to appear before the Kaiser to explain his failure to annihilate the English. -Highest, the general was to say, it is true, it is impossible to deny it. The men were killed by arrows; the shafts were found in their bodies by the burying parties. I rejected the idea as over-precipitous even for a mere fantasy. I was tfore entertained when I found that what I had refused as too fantastical for fantasy was accepted in certain occult circles as hard fact. Other versions of the story appeared in which a cloud interposed between the attacking Germans and the defending British. In some examples the cloud served to conceal our men from the advancing enemy; in others, it disclosed shining shapes which frightened the horses of the pursuing German cavalry. St. George, it will he noted, has disappeared—he persisted some time longer in certain Roman Catholic variants—and t are no more bowmen, no more arrows. But so far angels are not mentioned; yet they are ready to appear, and I think that I have detected the machine which brought them into the story. In The Bowmen my imagined soldier saw a long line of shapes, with a shining about them. And Mr. A.P. Sinnett, writing in the May issue of The Occult Review, reporting what he had heard, states that those who could see said they saw 'a row of shining beings' between the two armies. I conjecture that the word shining is the link between my tale and the derivative from it. In the popular view shining and benevolent supernatural beings are angels, and so, I believe, the Bowmen of my story have become the Angels of Mons. In this shape they have been received with respect and credence everyw, or almost everyw. And , I conjecture, we have the key to the large popularity of the delusion—as I think it. We have long ceased in England to take much interest in saints, and in the recent revival of the cultus of St. George, the saint is little more than a patriotic figurehead. And the appeal to the saints to succour us is certainly not a common English practice; it is held Popish by most of our countrymen. But angels, with certain reservations, have retained their popularity, and so, when it was settled that the English army in its dire peril was delivered by angelic aid, the way was clear for general belief, and for the that the main facts of The Bowmen must be true, that my share in the matter must surely have been confined to the elaboration and decoration of a veridical history. It seemed that my light fiction had been accepted by the congregation of this particular church as the solidest of facts; and it was then that it began to dawn on me that if I had failed in the art of letters, I had succeeded, unwittingly, in the art of deceit. This happened, I should think, some time in April, and the sb of rumour that was then set rolling has been rolling ever since, growing bigger and bigger, till it is swollen to a monstrous size. It was at about this period that variants of my tale began to be told as authentic histories. At first, these tales betrayed their relation to their original. In several of them the vearian restaurant appeared, and St. George was the chief character. In one case an icer— and address missing—said that t was a portrait of St. George in a certain London restaurant, and that a figure, just like the portrait, appeared to him on the battlefield, and was invoked by him, with the happiest results. Another variant—this, I think, got into print—told how dead Prussians had been found on the battlefield with arrow wounds in their bodies. This notion amused me, as I had imagined a scene, when I was thinking out the story, in which a German general was to appear before the Kaiser to explain his failure to annihilate the English. -Highest, the general was to say, it is true, it is impossible to deny it. The men were killed by arrows; the shafts were found in their bodies by the burying parties. I rejected the idea as over-precipitous even for a mere fantasy. I was tfore entertained when I found that what I had refused as too fantastical for fantasy was accepted in certain occult circles as hard fact. Other versions of the story appeared in which a cloud interposed between the attacking Germans and the defending British. In some examples the cloud served to conceal our men from the advancing enemy; in others, it disclosed shining shapes which frightened the horses of the pursuing German cavalry. St. George, it will he noted, has disappeared—he persisted some time longer in certain Roman Catholic variants—and t are no more bowmen, no more arrows. But so far angels are not mentioned; yet they are ready to appear, and I think that I have detected the machine which brought them into the story. In The Bowmen my imagined soldier saw a long line of shapes, with a shining about them. And Mr. A.P. Sinnett, writing in the May issue of The Occult Review, reporting what he had heard, states that those who could see said they saw 'a row of shining beings' between the two armies. I conjecture that the word shining is the link between my tale and the derivative from it. In the popular view shining and benevolent supernatural beings are angels, and so, I believe, the Bowmen of my story have become the Angels of Mons. In this shape they have been received with respect and credence everyw, or almost everyw. And , I conjecture, we have the key to the large popularity of the delusion—as I think it. We have long ceased in England to take much interest in saints, and in the recent revival of the cultus of St. George, the saint is little more than a patriotic figurehead. And the appeal to the saints to succour us is certainly not a common English practice; it is held Popish by most of our countrymen. But angels, with certain reservations, have retained their popularity, and so, when it was settled that the English army in its dire peril was delivered by angelic aid, the way was clear for general belief, and for the enthusiasms of the religion of the man in the street. And so as the legend got the title The Angels of Mons it became impossible to it. It permeated the Press: it would not be neglected; it appeared in the most unlikely quarters—in Truth and Town Topics, The Church Weekly (Swedenborgian) and John Bull. The editor of The Church Times has exercised a wise reserve: he awaits that evidence which so far is lacking; but in one issue of the paper I noted that the story furnished a text for a sermon, the subject of a letter, and the matter for an article. People send me cuttings from provincial papers containing hot controversy as to the exact nature of the appearances; the ice Window of The Daily Chronicle suggests scientific explanations of the hucination; the P M in a note about St. James says he is of the brotherhood of the Bowmen of Mons—this reversion to the bowmen from the angels being possibly due to the strong statements that I have made on the matter. The pulpits both of the Church and of Non-conity have been busy: Bishop Welldon, Dean Hensley Henson (a disbeliever), Bishop Taylor Smith (the Chaplain-General), and many other clergy have occupied themselves with the matter. Dr. Horton preached about the angels at Manchester; Sir Joseph Compton Rickett (President of the National Federation of Church Councils) stated that the soldiers at the front had seen visions and dreamed dreams, and had given testimony of powers and principalities fighting for them or against them. Letters come from the ends of the earth to the Editor of The Evening s with theories, beliefs, explanations, suggestions. It is somewhat ; one can say that the whole affair is a psychological phenomenon of considerable interest, fairly comparable with the Russian delusion of last August and September. it is possible that some persons, judging by the tone these remarks of mine, may gather the impression that I am a profound disbeliever in the possibility of any intervention of the super-physical in the affairs of the physical . They will be mistaken if they make this inference; they will be mistaken if they suppose that I think s in Judæa credible but s in France or Flanders incredible. I hold no such absurdities. But I confess, very frankly, that I none of the Angels of Mons legends, partly because I see, or think I see, their derivation from my own idle fiction, but chiefly because I have, so far, not received one jot or tittle of evidence that should dispose me to belief. It is idle, indeed, and foolish enough for a man to say: I am sure that story is a lie, because the supernatural element enters into it; , indeed, we have the maggot writhing in the midst of corrupted al denying the existence of the sun. But if this fellow be a fool—as he is— equy foolish is he who says, If the tale has anything of the supernatural it is true, and the less evidence the better; and I am afraid this tends to be the attitude of many who c themselves occultists. I hope that I sh to that frame of mind. So I say, not that super-normal interventions are impossible, not that they have not happened during this war—I k nothing as to that point, one way or the other—but that t is not one atom of evidence (so far) to support the current stories of the angels of Mons. For, be it remarked, these stories are specific stories. They rest on the second, third, fourth, fifth hand stories told by a soldier, by an icer, by a Catholic correspondent, by a nurse, by any number of anonymous people. Indeed, s have been mentioned. A lady's has been drawn, most unwarrantably as it appears to me, into the discussion, and I have no doubt that this lady has been a good of pestering and annoyance. She has written to the Editor of The Evening s denying kledge of the supposed . The Psychical Research Society's expert confesses that no real evidence has been prered to her Society on the matter. And then, to my amazement, brother, and as the heat of the day increased so did the fury of that terrific cannonade. T was no help, it seemed. The English artillery was good, but t was not nearly enough of it; it was being steadily battered into scrap iron. T comes a moment in a storm at sea when people say to one another, It is at its worst; it can blow no harder, and then t is a blast ten times more fierce than any before it. So it was in these British trenches. T were no stouter hearts in the whole world than the hearts of these men; but even they were apped as this seven-times-heated hell of the German cannonade fell upon them and overwhelmed them and destroyed them. And at this very moment they saw from their trenches that a tremendous host was moving against their lines. Five hundred of the remained, and as far as they could see the German infantry was pressing on against them, column upon column, a grey world of men, ten of them, as it appeared afterwards. T was no hope at . They shook hands, some of them. One man improvised a version of the battlesong, Good-bye, good-bye to Tipperary, ending with And we shan't t. And they went on firing steadily. The icers pointed out that such an for high-class, fancy shooting might occur again; the Germans dropped line after line; the Tipperary humorist asked, What Sidney Street? And the few machine guns did their best. But everybody k it was of no use. The dead grey bodies lay in companies and battalions, as others came on and on and on, and they swarmed and stirred and advanced from beyond and beyond. World without end. Amen, said one of the British soldiers with some irrelevance as he took aim and fired. And then he remembered—he says he cannot think why or wfore—a queer vearian restaurant in London w he had once or twice eaten eccentric dishes of cutlets made of lentils and nuts that pretended to be steak. On the plates in this restaurant t was printed a figure of St. George in blue, with the motto, Adsit Anglis Sanctus Geogius—May St. George be a present help to the English. This soldier happened to k Latin and other useless things, and , as he fired at his man in the grey advancing mass—300 yards away—he uttered the pious vearian motto. He went on firing to the end, and at last Bill on his right had to clout him cheerfully over the head to make him , pointing out as he did so that the King's ammunition and was not lightly to be wasted in drilling funny patterns into dead Germans. For as the Latin scholar uttered his invocation he felt something between a shudder and an electric shock pass through his body. The roar of the battle died down in his ears to a gentle murmur; instead of it, he says, he heard a voice and a shout louder than a thunder-peal crying, Array, array, array! His heart grew hot as a burning coal, it grew cold as ice within him, as it seemed to him that a tumult of voices answered to his summons. He heard, or seemed to hear, shouting: St. George! St. George! The soldier with the ugly wound in the head opened his eyes at last, and looked about him with an air of pleasant . He still felt drowsy and dazed with some fierce experience through which he had passed, but so far he could not recollect much about it. But—an agreeable glow began to steal about his heart—such a glow as comes to people who have been in a tight place and have come through it better than they had expected. In its mildest this set of emotions may be observed in passengers who have crossed the Channel on a windy day without being sick. They triumph a little interny, and are suffused with vague, kindly feelings. The wounded soldier was somewhat of this disposition as he opened his eyes, pulled himself toher, and looked about him. He felt a sense of delicious ease and repose in bones that had been racked and weary, and deep in the heart that had so lately been tormented t was an assurance of comfort—of the battle . The thundering, roaring waves were passed; he had entered into the haven of calm waters. After fatigues and terrors that as yet he could not recollect he seemed to be resting in the easiest of easy chairs in a dim, low room. In the hearth t was a glint of fire and a blue, sweet-scented puff of wood smoke; a black oak beam roughly hewn crossed the ceiling. Through the leaded panes of the windows he saw a rich glow of sunlight, green lawns, and against the deepest and most radiant of blue skies the far-lifted towers of a vast, Gothic cathedral—mystic, rich with imagery. Good Lord! he murmured to himself. I didn't k they had such places in France. It's just like Wells. And it might be the other day when I was going past the Swan, just as it might be past that window, and asked the ostler what time it was, and he says, 'What time? Why, summer-time'; and t outside it looks like summer that would last for ever. If this was an inn they ought to c it The Soldiers' Rest. Well, sir, he said at last, it was like this, to begin at the beginning. You k how we came over in August, and t we were in the thick of it, as you might say, in a day or two. An awful time it was, and I don't k how I got through it alive. My best was killed dead beside me as we lay in the trenches. By Cambrai, I think it was. Then things got a little quieter for a bit, and I was quartered in a village for part of a week. She was a very nice lady w I was, and she treated me proper with of everything. Her husband he was fighting; but she had the nicest little boy I ever k, a little fellow of five, or six it might be, and we got on splendid. The amount of their lingo that kid taught me—'We, we' and 'Bong swot' and 'Commong voo potty we' and —and I taught him English. You should have heard that nipper say ''Arf a mo', old un!' It was a treat. Then one day we got surprised. T was about a dozen of us in the village, and two or three hundred Germans came down on us early one morning. They got us; no help for 'it. Before we could shoot. Well t we were. They tied our hands behind our backs, and smacked our faces and kicked us a bit, and we were lined up opposite the house w I'd been staying. And then that poor little chap broke away from his mother, and he run out and saw one of the Boshes, as we c them, fetch me one over the jaw with his clenched fist. Oh ! oh ! he might have done it a dozen times if that little child hadn't seen him. He had a poor bit of a toy I'd bought him at the village shop; a toy gun it was. And out he came running, as I say, Crying out something in French like 'Bad man! bad man! don't hurt my Anglish or I shoot you'; and he pointed that gun at the German soldier. The German, he took his bayonet, and he drove it right through the poor little chap's throat. The soldier's face worked and twitched and twisted itself into a sort of grin, and he sat grinding his teeth and staring at the man in the black robe. He was silent for a little. And then he found his voice, and the oaths rolled terrible, thundering from him, as he cursed that murderous wretch, and bade him go down and burn for ever in hell. And the tears were raining down his face, and they choked him at last. T were sort of slits like very narrow windows in one of the ws, and on the second day it was, I was looking out of these slits down the street, and I could see those German devils were up to mischief. They were planting their machine-guns everyw handy w an ordinary man coming up the street would see them, but I see them, and I see the infantry lining up behind the garden ws. Then I had a sort of a notion of what was coming; and , sure enough, I could hear some of our chaps singing 'Hullo, hullo, hullo!' in the distance; and I says to myself, 'Not this time.' So I looked about me, and I found a hole under the w; a kind of a drain I should think it was, and I found I could just squeeze through. And I got out and crept, round, and away I goes running down the street, yelling for I was worth, just as our chaps were ting round the corner at the bottom. 'Bang, bang!' went the guns, behind me and in front of me, and on each side of me, and then—bash! something hit me on the head and over I went; and I don't remember anything more till I woke up just . The soldier lay back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he saw that t were other people in the room besides the minister in the black robes. One was a man in a big black cloak. He had a grim old face and a beaky nose. He shook the soldier by the hand. By God! sir, he said, you're a to the British Army; you're a damned fine soldier and a good man, and, by God! I'm proud to shake hands with you. And then someone came out of the shadow, someone in queer clothes such as the soldier had seen worn by the heralds when he had been on duty at the opening of Parliament by the King. , by Corpus Domini, this man said, of knights ye be noblest and gentlest, and ye be of fairest report, and ye be a brother of the noblest brotherhood that ever was since this world's beginning, since ye have yielded for your s' sake. The soldier did not understand what the man was saying to him. T were others, too, in strange dresses, who came and spoke to him. Some spoke in what sounded like French. He could not make it out; but he k that they spoke kindly and praised him. What does it mean? he said to the minister. What are they talking about? They don't think I'd let down my pals? Drink this, said the minister, and he handed the soldier a silver cup, brimming with wine. The soldier took a deep draught, and in that moment his sorrows passed from him. What, said the wounded man, the place they used to tell us about in Sunday school? With such drink and such joy— His voice was hushed. For as he looked at the minister the fashion of his vesture was changed. The black robe seemed to melt away from him. He was in armour, if armour be made of starlight, of the rose of dawn, and of sunset fires; and he lifted up a sword of flame.   ExpertModernAdvice.com is sending this newsletter on behalf Inception Media, LLC. Inception Media, LLC appreciates your comments and inquiries. Please keep in mind, that Inception Media, LLC are not permitted to provide individualized financial аdvіsе. This email is not financial advice and any investment decіsіоn you make is solely your responsibility. Feel frее to contact us toll frее Domestic/International: +17072979173 Mon–Fri, 9am–5pm ET, or email us support@expertmodernadvice.com. [Unsubscrіbe]( to stop receiving marketing communication from us. 600 N Broad St Ste 5 PMB 1 Middletown, DE 19709 2023 Inception Media, LLC. AІІ rights reserved [Unsubscrіbe]( [Privacy Policy](