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  • Meditate on God’s Word
    God’s Word can change your life. It can set you free. It can increase your faith. It can give you everything you need for each day!
    Meditate on God’s Word God’s Word can change your life. It can set you free. It can increase your faith. It can give you everything you need for each day!
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  • “I became free the day I learned how to speak up for myself on social media like my ex-wife Cardi B. Women are very good at turning on their camera to cÅ™y on social media about the same things they do to men, and we keep quiet. Cardi B was cheäting every time I was out, to the extent that she even cheäted on me while she was carrying my child, and I didn’t want to say it online because people would think I’m weak. But every time I traveled out, she takes her phone and goes live on instagram to tell the world I’m cheäting, and people believe it just because she’s a woman and she’s crying. If all men decide to speak up about the things they go through in marriage, the world will be a better place. They try to use emotional blackmailing to cäge us”
    “I became free the day I learned how to speak up for myself on social media like my ex-wife Cardi B. Women are very good at turning on their camera to cÅ™y on social media about the same things they do to men, and we keep quiet. Cardi B was cheäting every time I was out, to the extent that she even cheäted on me while she was carrying my child, and I didn’t want to say it online because people would think I’m weak. But every time I traveled out, she takes her phone and goes live on instagram to tell the world I’m cheäting, and people believe it just because she’s a woman and she’s crying. If all men decide to speak up about the things they go through in marriage, the world will be a better place. They try to use emotional blackmailing to cäge us”
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  • If you really love someone, set them free. If they do not come back to you, then it was not meant to be.

    #mq_quotes
    If you really love someone, set them free. If they do not come back to you, then it was not meant to be. #mq_quotes
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  • If you really love someone, set them free. If they do not come back to you, then it was not meant to be.

    #mq_quotes
    If you really love someone, set them free. If they do not come back to you, then it was not meant to be. #mq_quotes
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  • Happy new month fam
    https://t.me/Dollar_World_Bot?start=7221562289
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    Happy new month fam https://t.me/Dollar_World_Bot?start=7221562289 #free money @telegm
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  • "Rotten."


    Anna had always loved exploring old, abandoned places. When she heard of an ancient farmhouse on the outskirts of her town that no one dared to enter, she couldn't resist.

    Rumor had it the farmhouse was cursed, left to decay after the family who lived there mysteriously disappeared decades ago. People whispered that anyone who went inside would return “rotten.” No one could explain exactly what that meant, but Anna wasn’t one to believe in spooky stories. Grabbing her flashlight, a notebook, and a camera, she set out for the house.

    The farmhouse loomed dark and silent, with broken windows that looked like hollow, watching eyes. As she stepped inside, a sickly-sweet stench hit her—a smell like rotting meat and decaying wood. She forced herself to ignore it, moving carefully through the broken furniture and peeling wallpaper. Her flashlight illuminated dust-covered walls and shattered mirrors.

    In one room, she found faded family portraits hanging crookedly on the walls, their faces smudged and distorted, as if something had melted the ink. In the dim light, she thought she saw the faces twitch, but brushed it off as her imagination.

    As she walked deeper into the house, the foul smell grew stronger, making her gag. She pulled her sleeve over her nose and pushed open the door to the kitchen. There, an ancient fridge sat in the corner, its door slightly ajar. Against her better judgment, she pulled it open.

    Inside were piles of food, decades old, all covered in a dark, pulsing fungus that seemed to breathe. The mold spread like dark veins across the shelves, and as she stared, it seemed to stretch toward her.

    She stumbled back, feeling something wet and sticky on her hand. She looked down and screamed—her skin was beginning to decay, turning a sickly shade of green and brown, patches peeling away as if she were rotting from the inside out. Panicked, she turned to run, but her feet wouldn’t move.

    The floor beneath her creaked, then cracked open. From between the floorboards, skeletal hands reached out, crawling toward her. They latched onto her ankles, their touch freezing and clammy. She struggled, but the more she fought, the faster her skin seemed to rot, pieces falling away in dark, sticky clumps.

    She felt the rot spreading, her heartbeat slowing, her flesh growing colder as though something were draining the life from her. Her vision blurred, and she looked down at her arms, horrified to see her veins darkening, her skin turning gray and lifeless. She was becoming part of the house itself, her body decaying by the second.

    In her last moments of consciousness, she heard a low, raspy voice echo from the walls: “Welcome to the family.”

    The townspeople found her two days later, collapsed at the edge of the farmhouse property. But Anna was no longer herself. Her skin was gray and withered, her eyes hollow and staring. She was alive, but barely—a shell of the vibrant person she’d once been. She never spoke again, never returned to who she was. From that day on, anyone who dared to enter the farmhouse was found in the same state, cursed and rotten, claimed by the house that fed on the living.
    "Rotten." Anna had always loved exploring old, abandoned places. When she heard of an ancient farmhouse on the outskirts of her town that no one dared to enter, she couldn't resist. Rumor had it the farmhouse was cursed, left to decay after the family who lived there mysteriously disappeared decades ago. People whispered that anyone who went inside would return “rotten.” No one could explain exactly what that meant, but Anna wasn’t one to believe in spooky stories. Grabbing her flashlight, a notebook, and a camera, she set out for the house. The farmhouse loomed dark and silent, with broken windows that looked like hollow, watching eyes. As she stepped inside, a sickly-sweet stench hit her—a smell like rotting meat and decaying wood. She forced herself to ignore it, moving carefully through the broken furniture and peeling wallpaper. Her flashlight illuminated dust-covered walls and shattered mirrors. In one room, she found faded family portraits hanging crookedly on the walls, their faces smudged and distorted, as if something had melted the ink. In the dim light, she thought she saw the faces twitch, but brushed it off as her imagination. As she walked deeper into the house, the foul smell grew stronger, making her gag. She pulled her sleeve over her nose and pushed open the door to the kitchen. There, an ancient fridge sat in the corner, its door slightly ajar. Against her better judgment, she pulled it open. Inside were piles of food, decades old, all covered in a dark, pulsing fungus that seemed to breathe. The mold spread like dark veins across the shelves, and as she stared, it seemed to stretch toward her. She stumbled back, feeling something wet and sticky on her hand. She looked down and screamed—her skin was beginning to decay, turning a sickly shade of green and brown, patches peeling away as if she were rotting from the inside out. Panicked, she turned to run, but her feet wouldn’t move. The floor beneath her creaked, then cracked open. From between the floorboards, skeletal hands reached out, crawling toward her. They latched onto her ankles, their touch freezing and clammy. She struggled, but the more she fought, the faster her skin seemed to rot, pieces falling away in dark, sticky clumps. She felt the rot spreading, her heartbeat slowing, her flesh growing colder as though something were draining the life from her. Her vision blurred, and she looked down at her arms, horrified to see her veins darkening, her skin turning gray and lifeless. She was becoming part of the house itself, her body decaying by the second. In her last moments of consciousness, she heard a low, raspy voice echo from the walls: “Welcome to the family.” The townspeople found her two days later, collapsed at the edge of the farmhouse property. But Anna was no longer herself. Her skin was gray and withered, her eyes hollow and staring. She was alive, but barely—a shell of the vibrant person she’d once been. She never spoke again, never returned to who she was. From that day on, anyone who dared to enter the farmhouse was found in the same state, cursed and rotten, claimed by the house that fed on the living.
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  • The Land of the Dead

    Late one October night, a young man named Femi stumbled upon an old, tattered book in the dusty corner of his village’s ancient library. He was known as a fearless wanderer who loved exploring the hidden tales and forgotten paths of his homeland. But that night, as the moon hung low and eerie in the sky, Femi discovered something he would never forget: a tale of the "Land of the Dead."

    The legend went that there was a narrow, twisted path deep in the forest that could only be seen when the moon was full. It was said to lead to a cursed land beyond the reach of the living, a place where the souls of the dead lingered in eternal torment. Femi’s curiosity quickly overpowered his fear, and with a small lantern in hand, he set out to find this forbidden place.

    As he walked through the forest, strange noises echoed around him—whispers, cries, and chilling laughter seemed to follow him, though he saw nothing in the dark, twisted trees. His footsteps grew slower, yet he couldn’t stop. Soon, he found the path. It was narrow and overgrown with thorny vines, almost invisible, but as he stepped onto it, the ground seemed to shift under him, as if it were alive.

    Hours passed, or maybe it was only minutes—time seemed to blur. The air grew thick, stinging his lungs, and the shadows deepened into an unnatural darkness. Suddenly, he saw it: the entrance to the Land of the Dead, a gaping archway covered in the blood-red leaves of a vine that pulsed like a beating heart. Cold hands seemed to push him forward, forcing him to step through.

    On the other side, Femi found himself in a desolate wasteland. The sky was filled with ash, and the earth was littered with bones and fragments of ancient, crumbling structures. Strange, mournful figures wandered aimlessly, their skin gray and eyes hollow. He tried to call out to them, but his voice echoed strangely, as though swallowed by the air itself.

    Then, he saw something more terrifying than he could have imagined. The ground began to writhe, and the bones scattered around started to rise and piece themselves together, forming grotesque creatures that began to close in around him. Their hollow eyes fixed on him, filled with an insatiable hunger. He could hear their raspy breaths and the slow, terrible scraping of bones against stones.

    Panicked, Femi turned and ran, but every path seemed to lead him deeper into the cursed land. The creatures followed him, relentless, their hands clawing at him, cold as ice. His lantern flickered and died, plunging him into darkness.

    He stumbled into an ancient tombstone. Chiseled in old Yoruba script, it warned: “All who enter the Land of the Dead must pay with their soul.”

    Realization gripped him—he was trapped. He tried to scream, but his voice was gone. Then he saw a figure in the distance, an elderly woman cloaked in tattered robes, her face hidden in shadow. She held out her hand, beckoning him closer. Desperate, he approached her. She spoke softly, her voice like a cold breeze, "Only one may escape, Femi. Will you take another’s place, or stay here forever?"

    In his terror, Femi nodded, agreeing without a thought. She motioned for him to follow her, and together they moved through the mist and shadow until he felt the earth tremble beneath his feet. With a whisper, she said, "The way is open."

    As he stepped forward, the fog parted, revealing the twisted path back to the land of the living. He stumbled forward, his heart pounding, never daring to look back. Finally, he crossed the archway, the forest familiar again, but colder, darker. He felt relief flood over him, until he noticed something strange—the moon was in the same position as when he’d entered, and the world was eerily silent.

    Femi returned to the village, but no one recognized him. People looked through him, as if he were invisible. Terrified, he went back to his family’s house, but his mother sat in silence, staring at a portrait of him with a black ribbon tied around it. Beside her was the elderly woman from the Land of the Dead, nodding approvingly.

    It was then he realized the truth: he had escaped, but he was not truly free. He was a shadow, bound forever to the edge of the living, unseen, unheard—a wandering ghost forever cursed by his choice.
    The Land of the Dead Late one October night, a young man named Femi stumbled upon an old, tattered book in the dusty corner of his village’s ancient library. He was known as a fearless wanderer who loved exploring the hidden tales and forgotten paths of his homeland. But that night, as the moon hung low and eerie in the sky, Femi discovered something he would never forget: a tale of the "Land of the Dead." The legend went that there was a narrow, twisted path deep in the forest that could only be seen when the moon was full. It was said to lead to a cursed land beyond the reach of the living, a place where the souls of the dead lingered in eternal torment. Femi’s curiosity quickly overpowered his fear, and with a small lantern in hand, he set out to find this forbidden place. As he walked through the forest, strange noises echoed around him—whispers, cries, and chilling laughter seemed to follow him, though he saw nothing in the dark, twisted trees. His footsteps grew slower, yet he couldn’t stop. Soon, he found the path. It was narrow and overgrown with thorny vines, almost invisible, but as he stepped onto it, the ground seemed to shift under him, as if it were alive. Hours passed, or maybe it was only minutes—time seemed to blur. The air grew thick, stinging his lungs, and the shadows deepened into an unnatural darkness. Suddenly, he saw it: the entrance to the Land of the Dead, a gaping archway covered in the blood-red leaves of a vine that pulsed like a beating heart. Cold hands seemed to push him forward, forcing him to step through. On the other side, Femi found himself in a desolate wasteland. The sky was filled with ash, and the earth was littered with bones and fragments of ancient, crumbling structures. Strange, mournful figures wandered aimlessly, their skin gray and eyes hollow. He tried to call out to them, but his voice echoed strangely, as though swallowed by the air itself. Then, he saw something more terrifying than he could have imagined. The ground began to writhe, and the bones scattered around started to rise and piece themselves together, forming grotesque creatures that began to close in around him. Their hollow eyes fixed on him, filled with an insatiable hunger. He could hear their raspy breaths and the slow, terrible scraping of bones against stones. Panicked, Femi turned and ran, but every path seemed to lead him deeper into the cursed land. The creatures followed him, relentless, their hands clawing at him, cold as ice. His lantern flickered and died, plunging him into darkness. He stumbled into an ancient tombstone. Chiseled in old Yoruba script, it warned: “All who enter the Land of the Dead must pay with their soul.” Realization gripped him—he was trapped. He tried to scream, but his voice was gone. Then he saw a figure in the distance, an elderly woman cloaked in tattered robes, her face hidden in shadow. She held out her hand, beckoning him closer. Desperate, he approached her. She spoke softly, her voice like a cold breeze, "Only one may escape, Femi. Will you take another’s place, or stay here forever?" In his terror, Femi nodded, agreeing without a thought. She motioned for him to follow her, and together they moved through the mist and shadow until he felt the earth tremble beneath his feet. With a whisper, she said, "The way is open." As he stepped forward, the fog parted, revealing the twisted path back to the land of the living. He stumbled forward, his heart pounding, never daring to look back. Finally, he crossed the archway, the forest familiar again, but colder, darker. He felt relief flood over him, until he noticed something strange—the moon was in the same position as when he’d entered, and the world was eerily silent. Femi returned to the village, but no one recognized him. People looked through him, as if he were invisible. Terrified, he went back to his family’s house, but his mother sat in silence, staring at a portrait of him with a black ribbon tied around it. Beside her was the elderly woman from the Land of the Dead, nodding approvingly. It was then he realized the truth: he had escaped, but he was not truly free. He was a shadow, bound forever to the edge of the living, unseen, unheard—a wandering ghost forever cursed by his choice.
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  • Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself #freeupdate #success #motivation #positive
    Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself #freeupdate #success #motivation #positive
    Positive
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  • Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans. #freeupdate #success #motivation #positive
    Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans. #freeupdate #success #motivation #positive
    Positive
    1
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  • Working with BBC Arabic Gaza Today programme we began searching for the child. Israel does not allow the BBC or other international media access to Gaza to report independently, so the BBC depends on a trusted network of freelance journalists. Our colleagues approached their contacts with aid agencies in the north, showing the photograph in places where the displaced had fled.
    Working with BBC Arabic Gaza Today programme we began searching for the child. Israel does not allow the BBC or other international media access to Gaza to report independently, so the BBC depends on a trusted network of freelance journalists. Our colleagues approached their contacts with aid agencies in the north, showing the photograph in places where the displaced had fled.
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