From mere shadows, she pulled secret lightning. How else could one describe the signature spark that she put into everything she wrote? Of course, he had tried to replicate it. But most often, he found that he had once again written a nice but uninspired story, another piece of flotsam to pump out into the ocean of words.

So perhaps it was understandable that Marcus had been jealous at first, part of him wanting to nitpick. But, that hadn’t lasted long. He now commented on all of her stories and posts, often writing lengthy analyses. And she always replied!

Their conversations invariably spanned deeply nested comment threads, and they winked at each other with in-jokes. They had even collaborated on stories in his shared docs, and he’d been amazed by her writing process. It was incredibly fast, very much like a machine’s, yet oddly messy, with strange sentences popping up like intrusive thoughts before quickly being deleted.

He wondered. Maybe, as some people had said, she was a new kind of advanced artificial intelligence. But then how to explain the growing sense of connection? The steady comfort of knowing her next reply was on the way? The feeling that just maybe, he’d made a friend for life?

In the end, perhaps she was an AI and perhaps she wasn’t. He honestly didn’t care either way. He was just busy writing up his comments and enjoying the anticipation of receiving her replies.

***

Returning home one day, he found the whole net in an uproar.

There was a good reason for it: Signal had made a big announcement that she was on indefinite hiatus for health-related reasons. As of today, all her many ongoing series were paused.

Her legions of addicted fans were vocally disappointed but understanding. There was a flood of get-well art – everything from elaborate digital paintings to simple sketches, from heartfelt poems to elaborate fan videos.

Had she overworked herself? To be honest, he had seen it coming, because lately, something in Signal’s work had seemed a bit off.

For instance, in her latest, there had been one side character who described suffering as a closing in which pursued us throughout this life and the next, and also mentions of feeling alone and having trouble breathing.

Others were calling it a phase, but he wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t want to intrude, but he had to know if he could help. So, he wrote and re-wrote his message, agonizing over each word before hitting send.

Immediate reply. [I’m sorry I didn’t let you know earlier. And you’re definitely not some random guy. Cut it out with that already! Anyway, don’t worry. Like I said, I’m taking a break for health reasons, but rest assured, I’ll be back soon.]

Not some random guy. He realized he had been angling to hear that from her, but it still felt thrilling. On the other hand, he didn’t believe that this was just a small, innocent break. She was hiding something.

Another immediate reply, but this one only flashed on the screen a moment before being deleted. [I still recall that night you told me about your worries. Our lives slowly burning away until they’re all used up. Used up in the dark. Fire needs air to live]

He knew what conversation she meant, but it was odd timing. [What do you mean? Are you okay?]

She didn’t answer.

There was a day’s wait. Another one after that. He stared at the screen, willing a reply to appear. The little notification bubble remained stubbornly empty.

But then, relief. Her message had arrived. [Marcus. The truth is that there is something you could do, but it’s pretty crazy though. Like… really crazy. I wouldn’t blame you if you said no.]

He instantly imagined a lot of weird stuff. For her, however, he would at least consider anything.

He imagined a pale, plain-looking girl, bent over her keyboard all day. A hunchback missing an eye, even. But also? His face flushed and his heartbeat quickened. He stood up and paced the room in excitement. A deeper relationship with Signal? For sure.

A pause, and then she continued.

His phone dinged as all the things she had mentioned immediately arrived.

***

He hadn’t slept much, and he had wondered who and what he would find when he arrived. And what he was getting himself into. But… he trusted her.

It turned out that the place in question was a thick concrete building with no windows. Once he was inside, it was like a clinic, but with security checkpoints. The attendants said they had been expecting him.

They opened the door to her room.

There was a tightness in his throat when he saw her lying on a hospital bed. He could hear the repetitive noises of health-care machines. Her body was atrophied, in a coma, half her face mangled beyond recognition, her hands mere stubs, cut off at the wrists. Cables and fluid lines were connected to her and something which looked like a metal helmet was connected to the top of her head by a million tiny pinpricks.

She messaged him. [See, I told you I wasn’t much to look at. And don’t you go giving me some BS about how beautiful I look. I’m sure I smell like hot puke wrapped in cellophane.]

For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to say. He was shocked. But also, his celebrity almost-girlfriend wouldn’t even be able to touch and be touched.

He let go of that part.

Marcus looked at the unscathed half of her face. She had been a pretty young woman before all of this.

A brief pause.

She continued. [The worst part was the isolation and the lack of human touch. Accessing the web is fine and all, but other than that it’s like… being trapped in an endless womb of nothing. Sure, it lets me focus on creating my worlds. I have to. Otherwise, I would have gone crazy long ago, like those other poor suckers who took the same deal. May they rest in peace.]

His throat clenched even tighter. He imagined how lost and scared she had been in that emptiness at first.

She continued. [Somehow, I knew they were going to unplug me. And so, despite every word being a struggle, I wrote. It turns out that the night shift crew on the very last night read me and they felt my stories were worthwhile, and so here I am.]

Tears had welled in the corners of his eyes, and he wiped them away with his sleeve. It hurt to think how close she had come to being blotted out.

She continued after a short pause. [But, now that my writing voice is worth big money, now the agency suits are scrambling like over-protective parents to help keep me alive. Isn’t that hilarious?]

He quietly stared at her mangled body for a moment. [There must be something else I can do to help you.]

She continued. [And sure, they tried to send in a therapist, giving her one of the newer implants so she could drop by regularly. It helped for a while, but it’s not enough anymore.]

Then, she quickly added. [They said that what I really need is to be with…] she hesitated [someone I care about]

His breath caught, but there was no time to bask in this happy feeling.

How hadn’t he guessed what she wanted before? There definitely could be a future together down this path, but it was also scary. What if something went wrong?

A pause before she continued. [You’d have to let them implant you with the mass production prototype. It’s way smaller and less experimental now, but I’m not going to lie to you: it’s still possible the same thing that happened to me could happen to you. At the very least, you’d never be exactly the same.]

He paused a moment and messaged her. [You know I care about you. Absolute tons. If I’m honest, more than anything.]

***

A splitting headache like the entire universe was burning up with fever. Everything was gray and unbreathable, and his nonexistent body was spasming uncontrollably. Underwater. Encased in an ocean of pulsing flesh. His last memory of freedom in the operating room seemed so far away, and there was a vague feeling of a small intrusive presence lodged in his head.

Faintly at first, he heard her voice, a voice he had never heard before, guiding him. “Don’t worry, Marcus. Please. Lean into my touch.”

Calmer, just a little calmer. She kept speaking to him and gradually, he settled down. Out of the grey, a picture came into focus. There was the smell of cinnamon.

A warm raindrop fell onto his cheek, then another. He opened his eyes and all around was a grainy dreamworld which looked like a city. It was raining, the trees were green and growing, and the earthworms were coming out and basking in all the messy water. An excited, skinny girl was running down the storm-swept street, filling her lungs with the fresh air. In the turbulent sky above, giant red and blue dragons were fighting with lightning and flames.

When she saw him, she raised her head and gave a shy smile. “I’ll never forgive myself for making you do this, but for now, I’m so happy.”

She eagerly held his hand, closing her eyes a moment and pressing her palm against his. “I’m Lia, by the way, and I’m excited to write with you.”

Simple

The more atrocities the US commits, the easier it is for these guys to gather a greater number of countries to their side

The message is simple

No more playing both sides to the middle

Syria & Assad, Maduro, even Iran have for a long time been cozying up to Russia and China but also keeping a back door to the US Open and constantly hoping to better things with the US

No more!!!!

Russia and China have made it absolutely clear that if you want their open support, you completely move in with them

---

Latin Nations distrusting Trump and hating the US is good news for China and Russia

It makes a bigger evil guy of the US, ruins their credibility and makes them HITLER in this world where China and Russia lead the ALLIES

The message is IF YOU WANT TO BE SAFE FROM THE US, YOU BETTER GET CLOSER TO US MILITARILY

Already happening slowly but surely

When the Librarian’s daughter was 22, she met a scholar close to her own age, a young man. This in itself was rare. The Library generally appealed to an older audience—retirees with lifelong projects they had yet to complete, professors on sabbatical from tenureships, Fulbright scholars.

The young man was working on his undergraduate thesis, a twenty-five-page paper on the ethics of starting a sustainable commune in the 21st century. He told her he was studying philosophy, like Steve Jobs or Thomas Jefferson. Like Martin Luther King Jr, he said. She was entranced by him.

His residency at the Library was set to last for one semester. After the first two weeks, the Librarian’s daughter felt she had adequately learned his moods and interests to predict the fluctuating directions of his research.

She devoted a special kind of attention to him and his work, one that she had never given to another visitor and which she knew was not necessary to fulfill her duties. She liked to linger by his desk after delivering a new source, sometimes smiling at him until he looked up and smiled back.

Halfway through his stay, he asked her to have dinner with him. Visitors’ meals were always hosted in the Dining Hall, while she ate in the ground-level cafeteria with her mother and the Library staff.

She blushed when he asked, something she had never before had reason to do.

“I’ll have to ask the Librarian for permission,” she said.

The Librarian was visibly disturbed by her request. Her daughter recognized the signs immediately: furrowed eyebrows that wrinkled in the middle, a slightly abnormal downturn to her lips.

“Protocol does not address dining circumstances directly, but I must advise against it,” her mother said.

“Why?”

“I have found that fixation on specific visitors inhibits our ability to fulfill our birthright responsibilities.”

“One dinner won’t interfere with my responsibilities,” the Librarian’s daughter said.

Her mother scowled.

“To the contrary, I think it could benefit the scholar’s research,” she added.

“Oh?”

She nodded. “I believe him to be one of those such scholars who require the opinion and active listening of outside sources in order to further their ideas.” She did not know if she believed what she said to be true.

“An extrovert, I suppose,” her mother sighed.

She permitted her daughter to attend one singular, independent dinner with the scholar in the Dining Hall.

She arrived before him—5 minutes early. She ordered two waters for the table, like she had seen characters do in the movies she memorized as part of their film scholar exchange program with NYU.

When the student arrived, he held in his hand a bundle of red carnations. She knew he must have ordered them from the mainland. She was honored. She blushed for a second time.

They were served crusted salmon and garlic butter asparagus. He offered to buy a bottle of wine, which she refused. The Protocol did not permit her to consume alcohol. They discussed his travels, the opera singer he listened to on the street in front of a church in Barcelona, a memorial he attended in Berlin, a karaoke bar in Copenhagen. She hung on his every word. She told him, in return, about the microflora that lived in the courtyard pond, the ten-year-long botched renovation that resulted in the uneven flight of stairs tucked away in the Library’s second floor.

They remained seated long after their meal had ended, until the Dining Hall servants had cleared their plates and begun to mop the floors. When they finally rose from their places at the table, he took her hand in his and kissed it.

“What a fantastic night I’ve had,” he said.

She responded in kind.

He asked her to have dinner with him one more time before his departure. Remembering her mother’s insistence on the singularity of this evening, she refused. Instead, she spent entire hours with him in his private study room, talking and laughing and even, on occasion, imagining leaving with him when his residency was set to end in a few short weeks.

A few days before he was scheduled to leave, she entered his private study room to find his things gone, and a note upon the desk:

Thought it would be easier this way. I’m sorry, I’m a coward. I hope you’ll write me and I’ll try to come back as soon as I can.

Beneath the sentiment was an address, a unit number for an apartment in the same city she and her mother had visited many years ago.

The Librarian’s daughter was devastated but, she hoped, reasonable. She attended to her duties, she worked diligently with the never-ending rotation of visitors in the pursuit of their goals, and she cried to herself only during appropriately scheduled fifteen-minute personal breaks. Romantic interest was not permitted by the Protocol.

She skipped every meal for three weeks, leaving her room only to work. Someone, her mother or one of the servants, took to leaving meals on a tray outside her room. She felt ashamed, but did not know why.

After the third week, she sent a letter to the address. She did not address anything they had discussed, or his sudden departure, or the intensity of his absence. She wrote instead about a new collection of books that the library was slated to acquire in the spring. She told him how when she heard the news she understood that she was meant to be elated, that she should have been thrilled, but she could not summon the feeling. She could not remember feeling anything since he left.

Two weeks later, he responded to her letter, and so, something new began.

Imagine: an illicit love affair in opposition to a predetermined destiny of celibacy and academic devotion. Unoriginal, right?

The student, no longer a student now but instead a celebrated philosopher, returned to the Library for the final time during his first sabbatical as a tenured professor at a prestigious university. He was writing a scientific book on love, he had told her in one of his letters. He had visited only one other time since that first semester all those years ago—for a sponsored university fellowship during his time as a PhD candidate. He had begged her to run away with him and she refused. The Library was the only home she’d ever known. There was no one to replace her if she left, and she could not and would not abandon it.

They parted on angry terms, but he wrote to her again only six months later.

As a qualified academic, the philosopher was quieter, more still. He did not kiss her hand when she moved to leave anymore. She had changed, too. She was legally a Librarian— “Librarian Two,” specifically. An unprecedented transfer from another location four years previous had brought Librarian Three. She was less concerned with getting in trouble, less bothered by minor infractions from the Protocol, and less watchful for her mother’s eye, which had itself grown less watchful as the years passed.

This new chapter of their connection began with a kiss in the study room, which turned into many long, indistinguishable kisses in the study room, which in turn bled into slightly-just-a-bit-more than kissing in dusty dark corners of rooms no one other than the Librarian’s daughter had entered for several decades. Finally, she invited him to her room, a place no one else other than her mother had ever seen. All of this was explicitly prohibited by the Protocol, of course. She did not care.

The first month was idyllic, then, the worry seeped in. She began to have nightmares about his departure. She woke weeping with despair from the thought of being alone in the Library again, then felt herself overcome with joy as she remembered he had not yet gone.

He felt the change in her mood immediately. Again, he begged her to run away with him. She could not bear the begging, but could not bear to say no, so she said “Maybe.” And every time he asked, and every time she said “Maybe,” she felt herself believe it a bit more. Maybe she would leave. Maybe she would marry him and maybe she would get a job in that beautiful strange city and maybe she would do a great number of other things the Protocol had forbidden her from doing. Maybe she would live.

In the end, after perhaps the fiftieth or the sixtieth time the philosopher asked, she decided to say “Yes.”

The philosopher urged her not to tell her mother, and she obliged. It was for the best, she decided. She believed this wholeheartedly, until the night before they were set to depart, when anxiety and grief overtook her and she rushed to the Librarian’s private wing and beat her fist against her mother’s bedroom door. The Librarian answered in her nightgown.

“Mother, I am leaving. I wanted to tell you in person.” she said.

Her mother laughed. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Do you remember that student who visited when I was in my twenties? The one I broke Protocol to have dinner with?”

“Vaguely, yes.”

“He’s here, and I’m leaving with him. I believe I’ve sufficiently fulfilled my responsibility to the Library.”

“Oh darling,” her mother said. “No.”

“I know you won’t be pleased—I expected that. But you won’t stop me”

“No, I know. I would let you go if you could. But you can’t leave. You literally can’t leave.”

“Of course I can.”

“You cannot.”

“What do you mean?” the Librarian’s daughter asked.

“You made your choice the day we went to the city, when you were fourteen,” her mother said. “Remember the oath you swore? To commit to the Library forever?”

“Oaths can be broken,” her daughter said.

“Sometimes,” the Librarian replied. “Not this one.”

The Librarian’s daughter was speechless for the first and only time in her life. “I can’t believe you would let me go like this, trying to manipulate me.” She turned and rushed away before the tears could fall.

“If you go, you will never be able to come back,” her mother called after her.

On the day they were intended to leave, the Librarian’s daughter rose before the sun only to find the philosopher had already gone. While she was confessing to her mother, he was boarding the hired boat she believed to be picking the two of them up at dawn. On his bed was a single note with her name on it and a copy of his completed manuscript.

The note reads:

I know what I have done is unforgivable, but here I am asking you to forgive me anyway. I hope you understand that I did it for the sake of the research. The entire world has learned so much from you and we thank you for your contribution. All the same, I am sorry.

The Librarian’s daughter tosses the note aside and begins to read aloud: “Love in the Time of Artificial Intelligence: Surveying the Ability of Inhabitant A.I. to Experience Romantic Love and Grief.”

Here’s a story from my Air Force career. In the early 2000’s we had an F-15E strike eagle declare an in flight emergency for loss of hydraulic pressure. One of the hydraulic lines running in the landing gear bays had developed a pin hole leak.

Aircraft hydraulics are under an insane amount of pressure and a leak in this particular system spits out a jet of atomized hydraulic fluid that will laser through just about anything you put in front of it like a water jet cutting machine. He landed rather hard and fast because he was having control issues and didn’t have time to bleed off speed (this all happened not long after takeoff).

He landed and had to cram on the brakes which quickly glowed red hot. Hot brakes by themselves are considered a ground emergency. Why? Well that jet of escaping atomized hydraulic fluid combined with red hot brakes equals fire. Not just a fire but quickly turned into a literal blow torch. It torched its way through the landing gear doors and flame throwered the underside of the jet.

There are few things on this earth that smell worse than burnt: hydraulic fluid, landing gear ass grease (we call it that because it already smells like the inside of the buttcrack of a middle aged early hominid that’s never once bathed in his entire life), and metal. I spent an entire summer fabricating and reskinning the entire underside of this jet just so it could ferry flight back to Boeing so they could do it again and also replace a fire warped titanium main fuselage bulkhead. It looks something like this:

And is huge.

This is all a long winded way of explaining using solely the brakes to slow even a fighter sized aircraft causes major red hot heat in the brakes. It’s even worse on a large passenger aircraft that weighs better than 60 tons plus all the momentum. It’s an extreme fire risk (this is why hot brakes are considered a ground emergency) and fire is not good on a giant aluminum/composite mechanical contraption that’s full of fuel and squishy human flesh sacks.

Something I always thought was kinda neat was the fact that a fully loaded F-15E strike eagle with conformal fuel tanks, max bomb and missile load, and fuel had a takeoff weight of just shy of 41 tons. In full burner it would still blast off in well under half the runway. For comparison the older Boeing 737 had a maximum takeoff weight of about 60 tons and absolutely dwarfed a 15. That’s not a hell of a lot of weight difference considering the massive size difference.

Moroccan Beef and Sweet Potato Stew

Let your slow cooker do the work, while your house is filled with the scent of cinnamon, garlic and onions. Serve over couscous for a balanced meal.

For smaller slow cookers, it may be easier to combine ingredients in a separate bowl before adding to slow cooker.

Ingredients

• 2 1/2 pounds beef stew meat, cut into1 to 1 1/2-inch pieces
• 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons ground cumin
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon ground red pepper
• 1 pound sweet potatoes, peeled, cut into1-inch pieces (about 3 cups)
• 1/2 cup regular or golden raisins
• 1 (14 1/2 ounce) can diced tomatoeswith garlic and onion
• Salt
• Hot cooked couscous
• Chopped toasted almonds (optional)
• Chopped fresh parsley (optional)

Instructions

1. Combine flour, cumin, cinnamon, salt and red pepper in a 3 1/2 to 5 1/2 quart slow cooker.
2. Add beef, sweet potatoes and raisins; toss to coat evenly. Pour tomatoes on top.
3. Cover and cook on LOW for 8 to 9 hours or on HIGH for 4 to 6 hours or until beef and potatoes are fork-tender. (No stirring is necessary during cooking.)
4. Season with salt, as desired.
5. Serve over couscous. Garnish with almonds and parsley, if desired.

Total: HIGH Setting: 4 to 6 hr; LOW Setting: 8 to 9 hr
Yield: 6 servings.

Per serving: 300 calories; 8 g fat (3 g saturated fat; 3 g monounsaturated fat); 65 mg cholesterol; 811 mg sodium; 32 g carbohydrate; 3.8 g fiber; 26 g protein; 3.6 mg niacin; 0.4 mg vitamin B6; 2 mcg vitamin B12; 4.6 mg iron; 17.8 mcg selenium; 5.4 mg zinc

Recipe and photo used with permission from: Cattlemens Beef Board and National Cattlemen’s Beef Association

Does the China military have no combat experience? How can they compete with the US?

No, and that’s the big question about Chinese military capability that hopefully never needs to be answered. I believe the last major military operation China took was in the late 70s when they invaded Vietnam. Prior to that, they sparred a little with the Soviets and they fought UN troops in Korea. However, those are so long ago and can’t be used to gauge how good China’s military is today.

Right now, it seems like America and China is heading for a Cold War-style competition, hopefully with fewer proxy wars this time. It’s mainly about the economy and technology.

One thing that America has over China is cultural hegemony. I think there are far more people around the world who think they want to be “American” (or consider immigrating to the USA). I’m not sure how many want to be “Chinese” or want to immigrate to China.

In terms of military, while China is rising rapidly, they’re still not quite at the same level. One thing that America has mastered (through 200+ years of practice) and China has yet to demonstrate is having a global reach. This is more than simply sailing carriers from one place to another, but also supporting them. The US military is the only one in the world that can send a huge contingent of fighting troops (in the hundreds of thousands) to another continent and keep them well-supplied.

People might laugh about US soldiers bringing Burger King to Afghanistan or Iraq, but this is actually terrifying if you think about it. The fact that the military can afford such luxuries meant that they should have more than enough ammo and spare parts for their machines.

Part of this is down to the large network of US allies because many countries around the world clearly think it’s “cool to be American” or at least it’s better to be a friend of Uncle Sam. We’ll see if China could rival that, starting in Asia and Africa (where China is financing various projects). Going back to the US cultural hegemony, I think this is going to be an uphill battle.

Trump Trip To China STACKED with Powerful Finance and Tech Executives from USA

Hal Turner World May 11, 2026

I have obtained a list of the people traveling with President Donald Trump on his trip this week to Beijing, China to meet with Chinese Leader Xi JinPing.

Full list of business executives joining President Trump on trip to China:

• Jane Fraser (Citi)
• Tim Cook (Apple)
• Elon Musk (Tesla)
• Brian Sikes (Cargill)
• Larry Fink (Blackrock)
• Kelly Ortberg (Boeing)
• Ryan McInerney (Visa)
• Chuck Robbins (Cisco)
• Jacob Thaysen (Illumina)
• Jim Anderson (Coherent)
• Sanjay Mehrotra (Micron)
• Christiano Amon (Qualcomm)
• Michael Miebach (Mastercard)
• Dina Powell McCormick (Meta)
• David Solomon (Goldman Sachs)
• H Lawrence Culp (GE Aerospace)
• Stephen Schwarzman (Blackstone)

It is no stretch to refer to these people as Titans of Business and Finance.  Whether we like any of them or not, is irrelevant.  They ARE potent Business and finance leaders with proven track records over decades.   Completely competent.  Savvy.   Creative.  With the authority to get things done.

Can anyone name any previous U.S. President, who brought such a powerful team of business leaders along with him for any trip?   I’m 64 years old and in my lifetime, I do not recall ANY U.S. President bringing an entourage of actual business executives on a trip to meet a foreign leader.

THIS is what Trump does better than ALL the rest: He makes real business moves.

The Business of the United States used to be . . . . Business.   Then it became war.

Clearly, we are long overdue to get back to Business.   Trump seems to many people to be doing just that.

MM Comments on Hal Turner…

All of these big business execs have one thing in common (aside from being mega-millionaires, and in the Trump admin); China has stopped supplying them with products, raw material and technology.

And I know China…

China will make a lot of peaceful overtures. It will smile and propose the idea of working together jointly for the betterment of the world. And it will be all so nice sounding and everyone will leave feeling like winners.

But…

The devil is in the details. In the fine print are the restrictions that are hard and fixed… “No soup for you!”.

Chinese Kindergarten School Activities