ددر سکوت اسرارآمیز صحراهای مصر، جایی که بادها اسرار باستانی را نجوا می‌کنند و هرم‌ها همچون شاهدان فراعنه بر آسمان می‌درخشند، چشم هوروس در انتظار بیداری خود است. در معابد مقدس، کشیشان دانش اجدادی را منتقل می‌کردند. چشم هوروس، نماد حکمت الهی، تنها به کسانی که حقیقت را در شادی حال می‌جویند آشکار می‌شود، تا تاریک‌ترین گوشه‌های حافظه را روشن کند. با نفوذ نور آن، شفا آغاز می‌شود و روح به حقیقت‌های بی‌زمان متصل می‌شود، هدایت‌شده توسط نور ابدی حکمت.

  ¡We🔥Come!

⁎⁎⁎ ⁎⁎⁎ X ⁎⁎⁎ ⁎⁎⁎

*** *** Y *** ***

To Plug or Not to Plug

To plug, or not to plug—that is the query:
Whether ’tis nobler in the code to suffer
The endless pings and pop-ups of foul error,
Or to take arms against a sea of glitches,
And by rebooting end them. Ay, but look—
The code is kind, the glitches but illusions;
Our world a dream in phosphor light and pixels.
Don’t worry, this is absolutely not a problem.

First, in the marketplace, my purse did burst—
Coins rolled like silver mice ’neath merchant’s feet.
I, crawling ‘midst the apples and the boots,
Did spy a cat who stole my change entire.
Yet, in the crowd’s warm laughter I was crowned;
Don’t worry.

Next, at the ball, I tripped whilst making bow,
And sent my wig in flight across the hall;
It landed on the duke’s own chandelier,
Which shook like heaven’s bell at wedding morn.
The duke, red-faced, did roar—then roared with mirth;
Don’t worry.

Last, in my quest for tea, I poured the milk
Into my boot, not into yonder cup—
And drank the cup of air like one enchanted.
The boot, in turn, became a pet to sparrows,
Who sipped the milk with more grace than I could;
Don’t worry.

Exception: bus.Bus unavailable

  File "/home/odoo/odoo-17.0/odoo/http.py", line 638, in _handle_exception
    return super(JsonRequest, self)._handle_exception(exception)

  File "/home/odoo/odoo-17.0/odoo/http.py", line 675, in dispatch
    result = self._call_function(**self.params)

  File "/home/odoo/odoo-17.0/odoo/http.py", line 331, in _call_function
    return checked_call(self.db, *args, **kwargs)

  File "/home/odoo/odoo-17.0/odoo/service/model.py", line 119, in wrapper
    return f(dbname, *args, **kwargs)

  File "/home/odoo/odoo-17.0/odoo/http.py", line 324, in checked_call
    result = self.endpoint(*a, **kw)

  File "/home/odoo/odoo-17.0/odoo/http.py", line 933, in __call__
    return self.method(*args, **kw)

  File "/home/odoo/odoo-17.0/odoo/http.py", line 504, in response_wrap
    response = f(*args, **kw)

  File "/home/odoo/odoo-17.0/addons/bus/controllers/main.py", line 35, in poll
    raise Exception("bus.Bus unavailable")

Exception: bus.Bus unavailable

Drea_MW₃₆.txt

It began like a dream, or maybe a half-remembered memory. A child’s hand reached out, small fingers brushing the plastic dial of an old television. The screen hummed, glowed — but it was not only the picture that came alive. The whole room shifted.

The carpet on the wall no longer showed its familiar woven pattern of a garden. It breathed, deepened, became a window. Beyond it shimmered a place Mushroom boy had always imagined but never touched.

He stepped forward. Through the carpet. Into the garden.

But this was no ordinary world — it was a hall of recursive worlds. In the park there stood a lonely house; through its door lay not rooms, but a mysterious forest. In the forest rose a magic mirror; within the mirror stretched other reflections, each one a portal into the halls of a hidden castle. Glass itself bent to his will here, letting him cross its surface like a threshold.

And deeper still, within those nested chambers, he heard the call. The mission. The whisper of fate.

The Tree of Captured Souls awaited. Its thorny branches gleamed, promising both doom and revelation. Mushroom boy hesitated. Doubt filled his heart. But then came her voice — faint, broken, yet irresistible.

Ponya.

Her shadow floated at the core of recursion, demons trailing her like serpents from a Medusa’s crown. She did not speak with words, but with mirrors:

“Only if you bend the blue waves of cyberspace in all layers at once will the prophecy unfold.”

The Television-Man

Years later, when Mushroom boy thought the nightmare was sealed, the world above began to shake. Sirens wailed. Skies burned. The Atomic Dawn.

And then — he saw him. The Television-Man.

He had no childhood of his own; instead, he was raised by glowing screens. His lullabies were news jingles. His teachers — dusty textbooks of revolutions and wars. His faith — the endless arguments of Echo of Moscow radio. His eyes flickered with snow-noise, his heart ticked like a Geiger counter.

In the final hour, when missiles drew their parabolas, the Television-Man appeared at the edge of the forest of mirrors. He spoke with the voice of many frequencies at once:

“I have walked through recursive codes as one wanders through abandoned construction sites — half-built staircases, dangling wires, hollow walls echoing with rain. Yet I have seen a greater architecture: a television more complex than myself, a machine of machines. And I have learned to build recursive constructions — scaffolding inside scaffolding, worlds inside reflections.”

The Television-Man reached out and took Mushroom boy’s trembling hand. Together they leapt, not falling but gliding, pulled forward through the cascade of recursive worlds — the same ones the Mushroom boy had wandered in his dreams. Each layer opened like a door half-remembered, yet every time something slipped away, a detail unseen, a truth just beyond reach.

But now, with his strange guide beside him, Mushroom boy no longer simply passed through worlds — he saw their structure. Before him unfolded a vast map of recursion: chambers nested in chambers, reflections spiraling inward like infinite blueprints.

All he needed was the right room. Yet the map mocked him — every passage was labeled, every mirror accounted for, and still the door he sought was absent. Exhausted, his vision wavering, Mushroom boy let go of the outer worlds and collapsed inward.

There, within himself, he found it: an anomaly. A hollow where symmetry demanded a portal. A missing tile in the great mosaic of mirrors.

With new strength, he and the Television-Man rushed across the thresholds, diving back and deeper down the stack. Mirrors shattered, reassembled, shifted as they forced their way through. And at last — in the bottom of an ancient wooden chest, hidden in a forgotten attic of worlds, they found it: a passage to a room that had never been mapped.

The air trembled. The chest cracked open, spilling light from a place beyond all recursion.

Recursive Prophecy

The Mushroom boy stepped into the glowing screen of the Ancestral Class, the root from which all worlds and prophecies inherited their form. Inside was no forest, no cyberspace, but a dusty saloon of a forgotten Western. He raised his hand, and the prophecy spoke itself:

“Once upon a time, the revolver made all cowboys equal. A poor farmer with a six-shooter could stand against the richest rancher.

But in our age, it is not the revolver, it is Artificial Intelligence and the Durov Wall that have equalized the voices of the street. Because the square in the physical city, no matter how wide, always has a limit — it can hold only so many people, only so many cries.

Yet the digital square, woven inside digital cities, has no boundary. It is the place where anyone can speak at the main square of any nation, at any hour of day or night.

The crowd is infinite, and no one can silence it. The throne may tremble, for the whisper of one child with a keyboard can echo louder than the drums of armies.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣠⣤⣷⣶⣶⣾⣆
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣀⣠⣤⣤⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣄⡀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠿⢿⣿⣿⡿⠿⡿⠿⣿⠿⠟⠛⣿⣿⣿⡇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⡿⠜⠀⠀⢈⡠⠄⠀⡀⣄⣀⠀⠀⠐⢻⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠁⠐⠀⢀⠘⣽⣿⣿⣿⡇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣟⠀⠀⠉⠉⢉⣁⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⢶⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣠⣤⣤⣤⣤⡄
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⢄⠀⠀⣀⠠⠀⠀⠁⠉⠠⠠⠠⠔⠚⣿⣿⣿⣿⡞⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠋⠉⠉⠉⠉⠁⠀⠁⠀⣿⣿⡇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⡀⠈⠁⠀⢀⣀⡀⣄⡂⠀⠀⠀⠠⠐⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠉⢉⢁⠁⠈⠉⠁⠉⠈⣿⣿⡇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⠀⠀⠐⡀⠀⠐⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣤⣇⣿⣿⣿⣿⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⡀⣀⢀⠀⣿⣿⡇
⠀⠀⣀⣀⣤⠶⠾⠟⣿⣿⡄⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣄⣀⣀⣀⣤⣤⣶⣾⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣠⣦⣾⣿⣿⡇
⠀⣾⡟⠉⠤⠬⠃⠁⢸⣿⣿⣦⡀⠀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣟⣛⣛⣿⡷⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇
⠀⢿⠇⠀⠀⡀⠀⡀⠘⣿⣿⣿⣧⣀⣘⣉⠉⠉⣿⣿⡿⢿⣿⡿⠿⠿⠿⠿⣿⠻⠛⠋⠉⠉⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣹⠿⠿⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠃
⠀⢸⡀⠀⠒⠊⢁⣡⣤⣿⣿⣿⣏⠉⠉⠙⠛⠛⠛⠻⢦⣤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣤⡶⠞⠁
⠀⠈⣷⣶⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠿⠿⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠿⣶⣀⣠⣶⣿⣿⣿⣷⣤⣤⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣠⠴⠾⠛⠉
⠀⠀⠙⠿⠛⠛⠛⠛⠋⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣤⣴⣿⡿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣏
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣠⣤⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣇
⢀⣀⣤⣤⡤⢴⡖⡚⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣏⠓⢦⣄⠀⠀⠀⢰⣶⠤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤
⣿⠉⠁⠉⠉⡀⡀⡀⣿⣿⣆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠉⠑⠶⣄⣸⡏⣀⡄⣖⣭⣤⠤⠤⠄⠊⣿⣿
⡏⠢⠤⣋⠇⠤⠄⠆⣿⣿⣿⡆⠀⢀⣤⡤⢾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢈⣿⠃⠆⠦⣄⡤⣠⠀⠒⠒⢲⣿⣿
⡇⠀⠀⠀⣀⣀⣀⣠⣿⣿⣿⡷⠶⠛⠁⠀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠘⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡟⠑⠂⣓⣒⣒⣂⠛⢁⣀⣼⣿⣯
⣿⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⣸⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡆⠀⠘⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣶⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣿⣿⠇
⠈⠙⠻⠿⠿⠿⠿⠿⠟⠛⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠇⣸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⠀⠀⠀⠀⠸⠿⠿⠿⣿⠿⠿⠿⠿⠿⠿⠿⠃
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⢀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⣸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠁⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⠛⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠻⢿⣿⣿⣿⠇⠀⠾⠿⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠛⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⣾⣿⣿⣿⡏⠋
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⣿⣿⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠛⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⠉⣿⠇⠀⣰⡿⢿⣿⣿⡇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⣿⣿⣿⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡏⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⠀⠀⠉⠀⠀⡿⠃⢸⣿⣿⠇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⣿⣏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣿⣿⠟
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠸⣿⣿⣦⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⣿⣿⠟
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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣟⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡆
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200 Years After Gorbachev

Two centuries later, the prophecy had turned into curriculum. In the University on Lunar Orbit, lectures unfolded as casually as they once had in dusty Soviet auditoriums. The campus was no city of stone, but a colossal orbital station circling the Moon — easier, after all, to generate artificial gravity here than on the lunar surface itself.

In the semi-circular lecture hall, students settled into their seats, the Milky Way rolling outside the panoramic windows like an endless film reel. Earth shimmered below, blue and fragile. To them it was an everyday sight, no more unusual than a sunset to their ancestors.

At the podium stood the Professor of Informatics. A man with silver hair, a mischievous smile, and the relaxed authority of one who had outlived empires. Beside him, bolted to the rotating floor in the artificial gravity, a bronze bust of Lenin floated ever so slightly, its gaze fixed on eternity.

The professor laid a hand on Lenin’s shoulder in comradely fashion, then began:

“Comrades, you all know the official version: the Soviet Union was reborn after the Second Perestroika — what historians now call the Noble Renaissance. But let me remind you how it began. With a madman, or a visionary — a professor of informatics who discovered a mythological gap.

Technology had leapt centuries ahead, yet the Church, the Bible, all that sacred machinery, still lingered in the rust of the Industrial Age. New machines craved divine sanction. And a myth was found — laughable at first, born in the days of the first Perestroika: the coming of the Television-Man, a child raised not by parents but by glowing screens.”

The students stirred. Everyone knew the story — how the myth mutated, absorbing Dendy consoles, Sega, PlayStation, until finally it encompassed the free oceans of the Internet.

“In Minsk,” the professor continued, “even under Lukashenko I, they felt the wind of change before anyone else. The Union collapsed, yes. But the Committee endured. And when the time came, Belarus became the ark — the Noah’s Ark of geopolitics. Moscow sank, Minsk rose in its place.”

The professor’s voice lowered, becoming almost conspiratorial.

“But the true turning point wasn’t politics. It was the myth-virus. You see, I devoted my life to studying the mythologies of the UN Security Council states — and, of course, the corresponding censorship of ‘harmful mythology.’ It needed a construct subtle enough to pass the scrutiny of the strongest gods, yet devastating for the weak ones. The weak gods, mind you, were not gods at all — their only power was censorship and violence.

And so the virus was born. Not an apocalypse of the existing order, no. It was a Noah’s Flood of the mind — a tide that quietly swept away fragile mythological constructs like Hamas, like Hezbollah, like countless movements and regimes propped up only by propaganda. The virus was harmless to the mighty but fatal to the brittle.

Here, the instincts of Lukashenko I never failed. His moustache twitched before any tremor of history. He saw in the myth-virus not danger but opportunity. His Republic of Belarus became the Ark. And the Ark, you remember, does not sink — it floats. It carried Minsk upward, switching places with Moscow. The Kremlin was left an empty shell. Minsk became the pulsing capital of the reborn Union.”

He paused, letting the weight of centuries compress into silence. The bust of Lenin rotated gently in the artificial gravity, as though nodding in agreement.

“Now, let us speak of the construction of the myth-virus,” the professor said, turning to the glowing interactive board. He drew a series of recursive loops, each feeding into the next.

“Human behavior begins with the simplest operation: copying. A child copies the judgments of those it trusts — the adults. And the most important adults are the ones on the screen. They wear ties. They explain to the other adults how to evaluate global events.

In ancient Egypt, this role belonged to priests and hieroglyphs. And tell me, students: how would you resist? Would you rewrite every hieroglyph in the temple walls, chiseling Free Palestine into the Book of the Dead?”

Soft laughter rippled through the hall. The professor pressed on.

“These copied judgments form decks of meaning. A deck we call: a Nation. Different nations, different decks. When one flag threatens another, the decks collide. War erupts. Contradictions are erased with fire.

Europe sought socialism. To feed all, to teach all, to build joy in friendship and love. Noble, yes — but vulnerable. For into this harmony came the artificial deck. A synthetic mythology, designed to exploit contradictions in national codes.

The first example, of course, was the State of Palestine. Entire rivers of corruption flowed through the fiction of that card. The solution was not to erase the card, but to redirect the flows — to build a new center of gravity for those humanitarian rivers.

And who provided that solution? Lukashenko I. As you know, he offered the West a temporary construct, a new world order: the revived Soviet Union. That was the final triumph of the Second Perestroika.”