في عصر قديم، عاشَتْ أسطورة موسى وشهيرة الشهيرة، الجميلة والأنيقة. لم تكن حياته مجرد قصة عادية، بل كانت كالحكايات الساحرة التي تجذب القلوب والعقول. ولد لهما ابن، سماه موسى، كما ورد في السجلات القديمة. ولكن هل كانت نهاية القصة؟ لا، بالطبع لا. لأن في عالم الخيال والحكايات، كل شيء ممكن، حتى السحر والمفاجآت الغير متوقعة. فلنتابع القصة ونرى ما الذي يخبئه المستقبل لموسى ولسعيه إلى السعادة في عالم سحري وخيالي
¡We🔥Come!
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Click the image for a quick introduction.
ВВЕДЕНИЕ
École de Cybernétique et de Sorcellerie de Neotopia
Chambre des Systèmes de Réception
Directeur : Professeur Septimus Arcane
Hôtesse des Admissions : Mme Nebula Orion
À Mademoiselle Noura,
Я пишу эти строки в момент, который, возможно, станет одним из самых значимых в истории нашей страны, хотя и сейчас, держа ручку, я сам не могу поверить в то, что это происходит. Мы только что подписали документы, которые официально завершили существование Советского Союза. Разве можно было представить, что все эти флаги, эти стены Кремля, под которыми прошли десятилетия и века, могли быть связаны с моей подписью?
אז לחתונה שלך אני מוזמן או שצריך לקנות כרטיס?
My dear princess of Lebanon!
This is the last time I place a letter in your mailbox. The roads have grown dangerous, and the whispers I once found enchanting are now warning of shadows beyond the old cedar grove. But I promised to write until my hand, weary though it is, could bear no more. And so, under the pale stars of a moonless night, I trace these final words.
There was a time when I would have risked all for a glimpse of your face as you read. The candlelight catching on the edge of a tear, or a soft smile. How many letters I have written, and yet each feels like the first—trembling, perhaps with the foolishness of a lovestruck poet, but always with reverence for the unknown power that binds you to my heart.
In my dreams, you are still there, in the golden light of dawn, where the sea meets the land. I imagine your laughter, as fleeting as it may be, woven into the breeze, carrying the scents of jasmine and earth. I suppose it is a vision not unlike the tales of the old storytellers, those whose words could spin worlds within worlds, layers upon layers, until the line between dream and memory, between love and longing, was all but erased.
Yet my time is growing thin. They tell me a storm is coming, one that may wash away the paths we once trod. And though my heart aches to keep writing, to keep the dream alive for just a while longer, I fear the ink has begun to fade, much like my memories of that first, sacred meeting.
My dear princess of Lebanon,
This is the last time I attach a postcard to your mailbox. Life has thrown some tough stuff my way, forcing me to confront parts of myself I’d long buried or ignored. It’s strange, isn’t it, how we walk around thinking we’re fine, only to find cracks hidden beneath the surface?
I thought I’d always have endless words for you, something light or poetic to fill the emptiness. But these days, words come slow. Facing my own darkness has dulled the poet in me, made me stumble through the phrases that once came so easily. Yet here I am, with this last message, hoping it says what the others couldn’t.
Maybe it’s my way of holding on, clinging to the lightness of our letters while something heavy presses on my heart. I suppose these words are a piece of me, patched together like an old quilt, each stitch a memory, each phrase a whisper of the days we thought would never end.
There’s no asking you to wait for me, or even remember me. This isn’t that kind of story. I just wanted you to know how your kindness—quiet, enduring—helped me see through the fog, even if just for a little while.
My dear princess of Lebanon,
This is the last time I publish a letter for you on my magic websites.
New technologies have transformed our understanding of communication. Once, sharing an idea, copying it, was no simple feat—it required immense effort and resources. A printing press was a marvel of engineering, and every illustration had to be carved meticulously, a master’s hours dedicated to crafting a single block that would press the image into ink, creating just one more copy for the world. Today, to create, share, and replicate an idea takes almost nothing—just the briefest flick of a finger on a screen. How far we've come.
I think of how this evolution extends beyond books, beyond words—how even the clothes we wear reflect this shift from the artisanal to the mass-produced. A custom-made pair of trousers once meant meticulous attention to fabric, cut, and stitch—a dedication to aesthetics, quality, and individuality. In contrast, the trousers manufactured today by the millions are shaped not for individual expression but to fit a mechanized process. Each seam, replicated a million times, loses its unique imprint; each cut economized for mass efficiency, transforming clothes into soulless utility for the sake of productivity. And every corner cut, every cost saved on quality, adds another layer to the profits, yet strips something irreplaceable from the craft.
I pray only that these millions earned from soulless trousers aren’t spent on brainwashing the next generation. Imagine, for a moment, how convenient it would be for manufacturers if everyone had a square behind! How the efficiency of the process would soar—bringing yet another bounty to those who prioritize capital above all. Imagine even further: a world where everyone was the same gender, like ants or Musk’s robots. You know, Elon has created humanoid robots, though he left them without gender, as if forgetting that even the simplest form of difference might enrich our world. Picture the ease for the trousers industry! Take the Israeli army's tailoring workshops, for instance—they sew the same trousers for women as they do for men. Once, I considered suggesting a more feminine cut, but no, don’t think I went so far. The women, by the way, have their tricks: some of them tug at the fabric on one side to achieve a slight illusion of shape while their friends angle the camera just right to catch that one flattering side.
Yet here we are, on the romantic borderlands of the Middle East, where Lebanon and Israel are split by a wall of misunderstandings and fear of each other’s culture. Sometimes I think, dear princess, that these wars erupt not from geopolitics but from a simple distaste for each other’s trousers—the khaki camo of Israel for desert cover, the black pants and patterned keffiyehs of Lebanon. Oh, how much simpler it would be if the two countries could just agree on a shared shade for their uniforms…
But let me return to where I began: technology. We should look to technology for tools of communication, for production and replication of ideas—not for instruments of war. Books have always held that potential. Today, the Western world accepts the notion that the contents of one's bookshelves are a personal matter. But it was not always this way.
Throughout history, certain books appeared—books that not everyone liked, yet found readers all the same. And occasionally, powerful leaders decided to conduct a “shelf revision,” purging the stories that interfered with their ascent to greater power. The final, choking breaths of banned ideas have risen skyward, as if to remind us of those who came before. “The final solution to the bookshelf question,” they might have called it. These rulers built harsh hierarchies, grounded in violence and manipulation of our basest instincts. In their tireless crusades, they sought to control the remote of unimaginable power, a remote they imagined would centralize even greater control. This required only one thing: to purge the bookshelves, to discard the tales that dared counter their might. Even the great German nation once succumbed to the idea that a magical remote would protect their culture from the forces of neighboring lands.
But they were wrong. Every one of them was wrong. Politics, at its heart, is about the strength of a leader's control. It’s often compared to the business of trousers—selecting the right cut and color. Yet politics is so much more than that; it is the art, the very delicate art of negotiation. A true leader doesn’t need to purge bookshelves; they need only to negotiate with neighbors: Our trousers’ color is our business, and yours is yours.
Such a simple formula should, in theory, resolve the conflicts of the world. But therein lies the problem: a one-sided refusal to meddle in another’s affairs is futile unless the other side adopts a similar stance. And so we’re left with the paradox of peace: that it takes both sides’ agreement to embrace the idea that our differences—even those as minor as the color of trousers—need not divide us.
