NUM PAÍS DE NAZIS DESDE QUE ESTEJAm NAS S.S NUNCA MAS NUNCA PRECISARÃO DE IR MORRER AO SNS ...É UM PAÍS DE NAZIS EM TOM FELIZ E SEM STRESS em verdade vos digo Costa é muito superior a Seguro...superior em quê? em enviar SMS's com significante mensagem socialista ou soviética UM SS DESSes

nas concelhias quentes ou frias é de bom tom servir sangria com sangue bem fresco e ter coca-cola imperialista com vinho branco pra dar arranco  a mais um bronco num banco ou num bronco em branco ....NOS REGIMES SEM MANEIRAS A QUE TU CHEIRAS ...NUM PAÍS AMORAL AS MASSAS DE BIGODE THALASSA E CACHOLEIRA CARECA ESTALINISTA-LENINISTA QUEREM MAIS UM MERDAS NA CARECA DE MERDA DESTE PAÍS FELIZ QUE SÓ PRODUZ NAZIS ....

THE END OF THE PAKEHA AGE DIE KOMITALJI VON ISLAMIC STATE IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER - THE SKIAGRAM OF WORLD AFFAIRES IS NOT FAIR FOR PAKEHA'S

Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.

Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants! No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. "If thou be changed into this shape by the will of God," say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories, "then remain so! But, if thou wear this form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!" Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward. So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils, and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his arms being bound.
On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there. He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, "Has he sacrificed me?" when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
"Which is Evremonde?" says a man behind him.
"That. At the back there."
"With his hand in the girl's?"
"Yes."
The man cries, "Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats! Down, Evremonde!"
"Hush, hush!" the Spy entreats him, timidly.
"And why not, citizen?"
"He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more. Let him be at peace."
But the man continuing to exclaim, "Down, Evremonde!" the face of Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
"Therese!" she cries, in her shrill tones. "Who has seen her? Therese Defarge!"
"She never missed before," says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
"No; nor will she miss now," cries The Vengeance, petulantly. "Therese."
"Louder," the woman recommends.
Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her, lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far enough to find her!
"Bad Fortune!" cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, "and here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!"
As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash!—A head is held up, and the knitting-women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak, count One.
The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!—And the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.
The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him.
"But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by Heaven."
"Or you to me," says Sydney Carton. "Keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object."
"I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid."
"They will be rapid. Fear not!"
The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom.
"Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me—just a little."
"Tell me what it is."
"I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my fate—for I cannot write—and if I could, how should I tell her! It is better as it is."
"Yes, yes: better as it is."
"What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support, is this:—If the Republic really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time: she may even live to be old."
"What then, my gentle sister?"
"Do you think:" the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble: "that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?"
"It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there."
"You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the moment come?"
"Yes."
She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other. The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before him—is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.
"I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die."
The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away. Twenty-Three.

---

They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked sublime and prophetic.
One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe—a woman—had asked at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
"I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge, long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
"I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father, aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing tranquilly to his reward.
"I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul, than I was in the souls of both.
"I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him, fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place—then fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement—and I hear him tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."

D-DAY - THE LATEST VICTORY OF U.S. OF A : THE ARCTIC CONQUEST 11,077,657 km2 (June 5, 2014) AND IS GOING DOWN

ARCTIC CONQUEST IS NOW

 Full 8-Century Record

[

14

] The complete 8-century Mg/Ca-derived SST record

(Figure 4a) shows an unexpectedly large amount of vari-

ability for a tropical location during the late Holocene. The

base of the record captures the latter part of the Medieval

Warm Period (MWP), approximately A.D. 1200 and 1425,

during which spring SSTs gradually cooled by 0.75ºC. 

This cooling was followed by more than 1.0ºC warming between

A.D. 1425 and 1500. The Little Ice Age (LIA) is charac-

terized by a pronounced 1.5ºC SST decrease between A.D.

1500 and 1640, with a particularly steep drop between

approximately 1630 and 1640, almost exactly coincident

with the beginning of the Maunder Minimum in 1645

. SSTs gradually rose again until about A.D.

1800, after which temperatures fluctuate around a mean that

is slightly cooler than SSTs observed for the late Medieval

Warm Period. A brief 0.5ºC cooling occurred in the late

1800s and early 1900s followed by a strong 1ºC warming

during the twentieth century. The resolution of this data

set is sufficient to capture even short transient events such

as the brief but notable cooling that occurred in the Atlantic

 

DURING THE GREAT SALINITY ANOMALY OF THE SIXTIES....

Nearly 50 years ago Bjerknes suggested that the character of large-scale air–sea interaction over the mid-latitude North Atlantic Ocean differs with timescales: the atmosphere was thought to drive directly most short-term—interannual—sea surface temperature (SST) variability, and the ocean to contribute significantly to long-term—multidecadal—SST and potentially atmospheric variability. Although the conjecture for short timescales is well accepted, understanding Atlantic multidecadal variability (AMV) of SST remains a challenge as a result of limited ocean observations. AMV is nonetheless of major socio-economic importance because it is linked to important climate phenomena such as Atlantic hurricane activity and Sahel rainfall, and it hinders the detection of anthropogenic signals in the North Atlantic sector
 Direct evidence of the oceanic influence of AMV can only be provided by surface heat fluxes, the language of ocean–atmosphere communication. Here we provide observational evidence that in the mid-latitude North Atlantic and on timescales longer than 10 years, surface turbulent heat fluxes are indeed driven by the ocean and may force the atmosphere, whereas on shorter timescales the converse is true, thereby confirming the Bjerknes conjecture. This result, although strongest in boreal winter, is found in all seasons. Our findings suggest that the predictability of mid-latitude North Atlantic air–sea interaction could extend beyond the ocean to the climate of surrounding continents.

 We present the first direct comparison and calibration of a downcore foraminiferal Mg/Ca record to

historical instrumental sea surface temperature (SST). Mg/Ca measured on the planktic foraminifer

Globigerina

bulloides

from a Cariaco Basin sediment core strongly correlate with spring (March–May) instrumental SSTs

between A.D. 1870 and 1990. A Mg/Ca SST equation is derived and a paleo-SST record is presented spanning

the last 8 centuries, an interval that includes the end of the Medieval Warm Period and the Little Ice Age. The

long-term record displays a surprising amount of variability. The temperature swings are not necessarily related

to local upwelling variability but instead represent wider conditions in the Caribbean and western tropical

Atlantic. The Mg/Ca SST record also captures the decadal and multidecadal variability observed in records of

global land and sea surface temperature anomalies and Atlantic tropical storm and hurricane frequency over the

late nineteenth and twentieth centuries. A divergence between the SST proxy record and Atlantic storm

frequency around 1970 appears to reflect a fundamental change in Atlantic hurricane behavior noted in historical

data. On average, twentieth-century temperatures are not the warmest in the entire record, but they do show the

largest increase in magnitude and fastest rate of SST change over the last 800 a

OLD FAULTS IN NEW UPGRADE NEXT????? A ARQUEOLOGIA ROMENA MOSTRA QUE DO ENTERRAMENTO DE UM HOMEM ADULTO COM UMA MULHER COM METADE DA SUA IDADE PODE DEDUZIR-SE UMA SOCIEDADE PATRIARCAL E DE UMA FORMA DE SATI....ENTERRAR A VIÚVA EM VEZ DE A QUEIMAR VIVA AO ESTILO HINDI

DOS TÚMULOS DUPLOS COM UM HOMEM E UMA MULHER PODE-SE INFERIR 

QUE É OU UMA SOCIEDADE MONOGÂMICA OU QUE O GAJO SÓ TINHA DINHEIRO OU PECÚNIA OU SILEX PARA UMA GAJA NUA OU MAL VESTIDA EM TÚMULOS DUPLOS COM DOIS BARBUDOS DENTRO INFERE-SE QUE ERAM PINTORES DE MAMUTES PRÓ PÚBICO ....A SEPULTURA TRIPLA INDICA SOCIEDADES MUITO PERMISSIVAS OU COM ESCASSEZ DE HOMO SAPIENS SEM TETAS DESENVOLVIDAS...A SEPULTURA DUPLA NO MAR DE ARAL ERA REABERTA QUANDO O SEGUNDO MEMBRO DO CASAL BATIA AS BOTAS ENFIM A VIDA SOCIAL DO CASAL OU DO TRIO ESTÁ MUITO BEM DOCUMENTADA E ENTERRADA ....Timișorenii s-au cutremurat joi seară! 

Un seism de intensitate medie s-a simțit parțial în orașul de pe Bega și în comunele din jur. Acesta s-a produs undeva în apropiere de Sacoșu Turcesc și a avut o intensitate de 3,7 grade pe scara Richter.

Cutremurul de joi seară a fost unul de suprafață, la nouă kilometri adâncime, și s-a produs undeva între Nițchidorf și Sacoșu Turcesc. Conform Institutului de Fizică a Pământului, seismul a avut o intensitate de 3,7 grade pe scara Richter. El nu s-a simțit însă în toate zonele Timișoarei.

Citeste mai mult pe: Timisoara s-a cutremurat! Seism de 3.7 grade pe scara Richter | deBanat

MOLOT VULKANA - THE WAR OF DRONES IN P.K.DICK - VULCAN'S HAMMER

Válka's mloky - ORGANIC DRONES ARE BETTER AND CHEAP

THE RULE BRITANNIA GUYS USE ORGANIC DRONES 

THEY CALL THIS DRONES SEPAHI OU SIPAIOS OU CIPAIOS THE ORGANIC DRONES 

DON'T CARE THEY KILL FOR THEY MASTERS LIKE THE THUGS KILL IN THE NAME OF BHOWANEE OR BOANI OR DURGA OR KALI IF YOU PREFER THE KALI MA OF RAIDERS FILMOGRAPHY....

IS PERSIAN sepāh, meaning "army", but originally meant "cavalry" derived from aspa, "horse", with the compound name standing for a "horseman") as does the English AND FRENCH AND ITALIAN AND OTHER COLONIAL ARMIES USE THE TERM...
 they are cheap than drones they reproduce faster you have already 7,000,000 of them

the numbers win
you can kill three million's in vietnam
or 500,000 in some other wars 

but you can have terrain dominance

if the warriors are fanatic enough

and don't mind to be made in beef ....

the jaggas in n'gola in the XVII century 

the iranians against yhe shah armies in 1979

and several others

that defeat armed men 

or their machine like equivalent

The russian tanks in carelie ...(finland during the winter war of 1940
with 25% of h2so4 and 75% of gasoline ...or other essence c'est la même chose ó koiser soze



HISTORY
    The manuscript for the short-story "Vulcan’s Hammer" was received at the SMLA on April 16, 1953 and the story was published in 1956 in Future Science Fiction #29.
    In early January 1960 Scott Meredith forwarded a letter to Philip K. Dick from Don Wollheim at Ace Books. This letter referred to Wollheim’s interest in having Dick do an expansion of "Vulcan’s Hammer" into a 40,000-word novel. In his reply Dick expresses concern about writing the expansion on spec for Don Wollheim, particularly after Wollheim’s negative attitude towards Dick’s earlier expansion of "Time Pawn" into DR. FUTURITY.
    In his letter to Scott Meredith replying to the notice that Don Wollheim of Ace Books wanted him to expand "Vulcan’s Hammer", PKD wrote:
    The letter from Don Wollheim about a rewrite of VULCAN'S HAMMER to expand it to 40,000 words has reached me. In some ways the situation looks good, but its a complex situation and I want to discuss it with you point by point, if you will bear with me.
    (one) Risk. Since this expanded version would be dead on the magazine market, we would have to sell it to Don or have it not sell at all, I presume. This gives Don all the cards in a spec rewrite. I admire and like Don, and he and I have had a rather long and happy business relationship, but his statements about my rewrite of TIME PAWN make me uneasy -- and well they might. {…}
    Now, I say this only because his odd way of reacting -- both in terms of what he said and when he said it -- makes me fear on this VULCAN'S HAMMER job. From my standpoint, Don is an enigma. I honestly can't tell what will please him, obviously. It would take me several months of intensive work to get a rewrite of this story to him and I can't absorb all the risk. Therefore, to go ahead, I must discuss in detail, as I go along, what I am doing. I see no other way out, If ACE can't put up any money in advance.
    (two) Defects in the story. VULCAN'S HAMMER is a botched job, in the printed version. I botched it myself. I consider it one of the worst of my efforts. However, parts are good, even superb. If I am to expand it, I must do more than literally put in two words where one now stands throughout. This may bring about another TIME PAWN situation, right? However, it would not be my intention to put in ideas not already there, as I did in TIME PAWN. I would build up the best parts, and eliminate or lessen the weaker parts. I believe that the true body of good ideas lies in the first portion of the story -- in about the first third. The ending is terrible. For three days I have studied the story, made elaborate notes. I want you to pass on to Don these notions regarding the rewrite {...} Here are the notions, expressed informally:
    {There follows a page and a half of material on VULCAN'S HAMMER. See: SL-38, p51ff}
    (three) If I go ahead and do this on spec, I would like Don and you to permit me to send in, not a finished draft at first, but a carbon -- or my original, if you want -- of my first rough draft. {...}
    (four) Other pressing work. {...} Shouldn't I be a little wary of getting too much in VULCAN'S HAMMER and this Don Wollheim s-f notion of "Phil Dick's true vocation"? It might throw me off my real work. which is of course the straight-novel contract.
    (c) If I am to do any s-f, any bread-and-butter work, since VULCAN'S HAMMER can only be marketed to ACE, wouldn't it be more practical {...} for me to go and do a wholly new s-f novel, based on new ideas, which, if ACE doesn't buy, would be marketable to other houses? I want to do a psychological s-f book in the tradition of my TIME OUT OF JOINT. {...} In other words, it seems to me that I must have some stronger assurance that when I get the VULCAN'S HAMMER work done, I will get a sale from ACE on it. I want to do it -- that is, the job. I'd enjoy it. But it would be real work for me (that TIME PAWN rework almost killed me; it was the hardest job I've done to date). I know VULCAN'S HAMMER would turn out really swell. {...}
    I'll hold off further work on VULCAN'S HAMMER, hoping that you can go to Don with portions of this letter, and get from him a more complete acceptance of what I propose to do than obtains at present. I would not mind dealing with him direct, if you want me to. But only if you want it. Okay? And thanks for your willingness to read this long rather rambling letter.
    In the end, he did expand the short story into the novel VULCAN’S HAMMER in March and April 1960
MILLION'S OF DRONES TO KILL AND CONQUER FOR SOME RUSTING MACHINES THE LESS THAN 1% SCRAP.... 

1. Semisovereign People at Large5:03 PM

   in resume ,,,only with enough men or machines or with trained armed men with special skills 
   good training and no moral control or with some faith of ubermensch or thug desire to die for the glory of durga or kali or for another god of war
   they prevail
   
   the jap's don't have men enough if they have 20 or 30 million soldiers to spend the american's need extra bombs nuclear ones i mean
   
   they only achieve to kill 3 million soldiers with british and russian's and chineese doing the killing for them
   
2. 
   Semisovereign People at Large

   and with enough machines or specialized machines you have the problem of decay 
   and obsolescence 
   and jam ,,,of mechanical parts
   
   for instance in siberia a human drone can survive well sometimes
   
   but -40ºc break the metalic parts with one stone like david and golias
   
   the steel is britlte at -40ºc 
   
   All material's have failures under stress, and the organic ones have much more stress
   if you see a charge of hutus with machetes or a mob with stones and you have only 50 or 80% of kill's in such a mob ...the army moral is brittle too
   the human material if, when subjected to stress, it breaks without significant strain.....
   
   human materials absorb relatively little energy prior to fracture....

DEVIL CAR 1965 CARROS COMPUTADORIZADOS TURN WILD PERCORREM AS ESTRADAS ASSALTANDO OUTROS CARROS FOR SPARE PARTS - AUTOREPARAM-SE E ATACAM THE UCRANIAN GAS FORTRESS - SOME JAGDKARR FROM MERCKEL ARMED VON ROCKETS ARE ENVIADO TO CRIMEAN LANDS TO DESTROY THE WILD ROVERS PACK LIDER

Car Sinister ......CARS THAT U.S OF A CAN'T AFFORD BY FORD

The car is man's most personalized machine: for teenagers it is a rite of passage and a statement of freedom; for adults it is a reflection of success, taste, and hopes; and for an entire culture it is a great and industrious mode of transportation - driving, perhaps, on the road of destruction. And the automobile - thrilling, honking, speeding, never-shattering - haunts us with the dark possibility that when our age of motoring innocence is over, we may no longer be the masters WE DON'T HAVE MORE GAS ....

DOS VAZIOS DA ALMA HUMANA DE INTERNET CHEIA OU SE CALHAR CHIA

A ironia do Projecto europeu, é ser um arrazoado legal constituido por pilhas de palavras que se contradizem e não são aplicáveis em tempos de vacas magras.
A maior ironia é que o projecto europeu tal como a internet, a política europeia (ou do pagode local, que manda a fiscalidade do serviço público levar no cu) e os tais proverbiais queijos, têm o grande problema de todas elas serem coisas constituidas por vazios, que obviamente originam vacuidades mentais nos que deles se alimentam.
Um projecto sem substância, pilotado por políticos navegando à vista dos escolhos da populaça que nunca se reviu numa europa centralizada em cidadelas medievais cheias de burocratas.
Daí a aversão aos mangas de alpaca e aos euro-funcionários a que alguns chamam troikas e outros nomes menos abonatórios ou mandam mesmo que levem no cu,por decreto legal claro está.
Alguns enchem o vazio com Projectos europeus outros enchem outros vazios por via anal