Friday, October 28, 2016

Sioux protest Pipeline: the wonderful defeat

Stories and News No. 923

Protests by Native Americans in North Dakota, gathered in the movement called NoDAPL (No Access Dakota Pipeline), began in the spring of 2016 to prevent the construction of a pipeline by Energy Transfer Partners, whose route will cross the Missouri and Mississippi rivers, as well as part of Lake Oahe, near the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation.
After a limited review of the route, the United States Army Corps of Engineers has ruled out a significant impact.
At the same time, citing potential effects and lack of consultation with the native tribes, in April 2016, the Environmental Protection Agency, the Department of the Interior, and the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation asked with little success to the Corps of Engineers Army for a further evaluation.
In fact, in July, the engineers have approved the water crossing permits.
As a result, the protest was launched by an Sioux elder from Standing Rock and her grandchildren, decided to camp out in the pipeline route in defense of the land.
During the summer, the movement has grown up to thousands of people...

Let us say it now.

Yes, let us say at the beginning of the movie, so no one will doubt the rest.
How did it go in the precious details you will never know.
But the story that you have learned it is now written.
The only privileged migrants in the world, the face pale guys, has landed, destroyed and slaughtered.
They lied, they did for years about their wickedness, disguised as brave cowboys and charming gunslingers.
Then something was leaked, but the passage was minimal.
A very few have noticed, in fact, but the card game and the hand are always quick and successful. Because it never changes, nor the game, let alone the hand. Only the hate card does it.
Such as fishing from sacrificial tarots, delete the Indian, here's the Japanese, then the then Red and the Black, getting to modern days, with the Islamic and, more than ever, the Stranger.
We are almost all dead in the last century, sacrificed, primitive lambs to serve stars and stripes fable.
Is this not enough?
Then I can help you, diffident man.
They will win tomorrow and the day after.
Oil people cannot lose.
Just go out anywhere in the world who decides for all, lower your eyes and open wide your ears to feel disharmonious metal roars, pistons and fundamental optionals.
So it will be until the last day, because the four ghosts generated by an incompatible dream with the human global suicide have never had a chance.
This is the future, as the past.
Now, allow me, please.
Let us dance now.
In the only time we have ever had.
The much underrated present.
In defense of ourselves, we soar body weight and soul.
For the love of dust and utopia, the only substance which we are made of, let us fight.
And lose in peace.


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Thursday, October 27, 2016

Italy Earthquake 2016 story is old

Stories and News No. 922

Hundreds of people in central Italy woke up this morning in makeshift shelters, in state of shock and exhaustion, after their cities were hit by two earthquakes.
The stories follow one another and all have a lot in common, as a tragic show that sadistically must go on.
A tale that, despite venial differences, has always the same opening words...


The earth shakes.

The first is a classic and is good for all the others.
Wherever you are, how much courage you can keep in the chest, the fear comes over and starts to court you.
It knows that the time is good.
And what would be better?
The floor starts to dance, the furniture join the dramatic ritual, prisoners of a magnetic choreography, ignorable only by those who minimize the remaining life, among diehard crazies and incurable rashes.
Then there is it, the true star of the show. The chandelier begins its solo and the victim audience cannot help but stare with eyes torn by terror, with one and only desire exploding inside.
Stop, please, stop immediately that torment. Let everything be as before.
Only then, as often happens, the prayer is heard but then elapsed.
Much more with that, indeed.
But the earth still trembles.
Under what survived and what has taken its place.
The story written above, as a hasty copy and paste, somewhat approximate.
So, where the dance begins again, all comes back.
To shake lives and silences.
To seize all physical and natural law, drawing back the already seen scourge on the as much torn canvas.
Then you remember only one thing: how it worked, or the way you have believed.
Please don’t do this anymore, you whisper. I swear that I will be a better person after, you add, with the desperate hope that increasing the weight of your virtuous possibilities will defeat the ruthless destiny on the other side of the scale.
Like identical chapters, even deceptive blanks follow one another.
When the rough past softens by dust and neglect.
When you deceive yourself that your house is not dancing anymore.
Well, my dear friend, that is the exact time when the cruel staging begins.
When the earth shakes, and you do not realize it.
When you have turned the head and the powerful, barren and dishonest hand, with vulgar tricks and lies disguised ‘as happy future for all’, decide your fate.
When the latter no longer depends on tremor of the earth itself, but the only, real chance you have of surviving.
Because if the earth trembled, trembles and will tremble again.
The only thing that matter is to stop forgetting…


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Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Racism in Italy stories: right to hate

Stories and News No. 921

Pretending to be one of 'them': “Rejoice, dear patriots. In Gorino, a pleasant village in the province of Ferrara, Italy, the industrious and brave inhabitants, assisted by the equally bold countrymen of Goro, they promptly lifted up a barricade to prevent the invasion of twelve, monstrous alien creatures. In short, migrants, and also women. After a strong resistance by our heroes, the unwanted were rejected. Be happy, people who still feel pure ardor for your land. The honor is fine and the future of the good and heroic population is safe...”

Once upon a time there was a town.

The town where a sacred right was defended at the cost of life: the right to hate.
The entire community had built itself on this base.
Every citizen has the right to hate, said an invisible item of a particular constitution, written somewhere in the body, certainly not in the heart. This feeling can be directed to anything or anyone, for any reason. And, whatever the form which it occurs in, only one answer will be granted: ‘these people are exasperated’. As a result, ‘these people should be understood’.
The town where the right to hate was sacrosanct and protected at the cost of life was, perhaps not coincidentally, bounded by a wall which defined insurmountable would be quite an understatement.
The architect who had designed it, known by the nickname of The bulwark, was a true delight of the city, which the latter was very proud of.
Now, as they say, there's always a first time for everything.
In fact, the time came that all alarms started to sound.
The siren screamed angrily at night, causing a lot of anxiety and fear in the villagers.
"What happens?" Many cried out going on the street.
"It was just a bad contact?" Some wished looking out the window.
"It may be a joke of the village's idiot?" Others hypothesized.
"No," replied him directly from the cemetery, "since I died the day before yesterday. Too bad, though, I should have made it before... "
Nothing to do, the reality judgment was tragically indisputable.
Someone had passed over.
Something had gone beyond the wall.
The intruder was among them.
All
provided security protocols were immediately applied.
Angry patrols swarmed everywhere, streets and alleys were brightly lit by blinding flashlights, sturdy batons and sharp teeth vibrated at the same time, wide eyes searched every corner of the town.
In vain.
They asked The bulwark himself to recheck the wall and all alarms.
In vain.
They also took the black box, made it into pieces and listen hundreds of times the same, terrible siren, with the unsuccessful hope that they have been victims of a blatant, collective hallucination.
In vain, terribly vain.
Once upon a time there was a town, in conclusion.
A town where hate was an inviolable right, defended with life.
However, an old African proverb says - this is a lie, but let’s pretend it was true, sooner or later the night comes when a crack appears in the wall.
Well, something always passes. Believe me, like it or not, the time comes when it does.
A story, not a person, a handful of words, not what you have always feared.
Then, in the morning, you wake up and realize that you gave your life to defend the right to hate.
Yourself



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Friday, October 21, 2016

Protests in the world: the line that binds it

Stories and News No. 920

Today's strike in Italy and many protest, but, lifting our gaze across the border, people have also raised in Ethiopia, where 1500 were arrested, in Congo, where the so-called security forces shot, burned, beaten and killed at least 45 civilians, and also in the Philippines two days ago, where the police used a van to disperse the alleged troublemakers.

There are other worlds besides this.

I like to think that, sometimes, when things get too ugly to be looked at.
I have to do, when I am not even able to imagine.
Of strikes and protests, for example.
Strikes and protests one of them is woven of.
A spherical world, as the best known should be, but much less regular.
Hard stuff to draw, in fact.
Part of that convoluted table of illegal forms, called by the experts of freedom, the geometry of awkward shapes.
It is a strange world to draw, I agree, but if you happen to grasp, even casually, the right end of the rope, you just have to follow the thread up to the light.
Nothing particularly bright, remember. We are still talking about forgotten souls, if you know what I mean.
However, understanding the muffled reasons has a brilliance that is worth even a fast touch sideways.
Are you there? Follow me, then.
Of strikes and protests, I said.
Come along the top of an apparently soft slender and is not a victory to prove it, but a stubborn kind of defeat. One that has brought us to return again, to remain standing when the stick bites and sitting when the pain increases.
It is a thin rope, almost invisible to the naked eye, but it is not accidental and is trivial, I admit. Because to fully see what unites us, never what divides, you need a far disrobed look.
Fill pupils and all the rest with human feelings and live emotions and you will see.
You will see what they do not.
You will see hands clinging to the rope, fingers of every color and size, but tightfitting to that as the body to the most mistreated quality in all the worlds.
Read as well as the stubborn affection for the rights of all.
You will also see the hands that have lost their precious foothold and those who sacrificed one of the two to keep on board the others.
You will see the warmth of those same hands.
And despite the mutation of traditions and words, complexions and stories, this energy feeds from the beginning of time the life that resists to life.
The one which is not of this world nor the others, because since it has abused its very nature, has given up the only true citizenship we share.
Nevertheless it slaughters lives as if it were their absolute master.
Of strikes and protests a world has tied, where the day will come that the tyrant will fall, believe me.
They always do.
And if you will be lucky and patient, sooner or later, you will see that too.



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Thursday, October 20, 2016

Humanitarian pause in Aleppo to steal time

Stories and News No. 919

Despite it seems there have already been violations, the humanitarian pause decided by Moscow began in Aleppo, Syria, to grant treatment to the wounded and sick, as well as the opportunity to civilians and combatants to leave the city.

Come, ladies and gentlemen, come in.

Come into the fantastic realm of humanitarian pause.
Where the seconds become minutes, minutes turn into endless dreams and hours freeze to death in the tight fists of timeless creatures.
Call us like that, we like it.
We are homeless too, certainly, but also without doors and windows, no dresser and nightstand.
Without any comfort.
Hopelessness, many.
No escape, too many.
Nevertheless this is not the right page to cry.
The lords of war and peace have rolled the die and the time hands have bowed their head.
They always do, even when they dance, but this moment, only this, it is for a good cause.
Humanitarian.
Pause.
What a weird and crazy marriage of words.
Imagine the courtship, the first few days.
Hello, Pause is my name.
Please to meet you, Humanitarian is mine.
Stop the bombs, it is the meaning of my life.
The human being at the center of everything, it is mine.
And if it is love, let love be, that brings joy and good health to the rest of us.
However it remains the perplexity of the original pairs, such as the giant woman and the mouthy dwarf, the kind girl that becomes a beauty and the beast who learns to speak, the dancer without shoes and the spendthrift cobbler, you cannot help but admire them, by asking one question above all: how do they get together?
Pause, your time would be perfect at all instants prior to your arrival, to ward off all the terrible after’s that followed.
Humanitarian, your time instead should be always.
Nevertheless, this is not the suitable tale for complaining.
As absurd as the title and the plot are.
As paradoxical as design and costumes are, hurry, do not hesitate.
You, utopias' musicians, resume your instruments, chords and play along us.
You too, donors of imaginary brackets, open an infinity of them, one inside the other, up to deceive flames, knives and gunpowder.
They should die, rather than us.
And the rest of you, at the lucky side of the glass looking upon the life that takes a breath in the aquarium of death, try it yourself.
To steal murderers’ time…



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Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Calais Jungle what is it: the story

Stories and News No. 918

According to Calais Migrant Solidarity since 2009 there have been 100 to 5,000 migrants in Calais, come with the hope of arriving in the UK.
People from around the world, such as Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Somalia, Egypt, Syria, Sudan, Palestine, Chad, Eritrea, Iraq, Albania, Senegal, Kurdistan, Libya and Ethiopia.
But why jungle? I read that the name is the translation of a word in Pashto, an Iranian language spoken in Afghanistan and Pakistan, which means forest
.

There was once a jungle.
Which in our language is a land covered with dense vegetation dominated by trees, and the nearest corresponding scientific term is maybe seasonal tropical forest.
Well, then we might as well say there was once a forest.
But it does not work, right?
Because if someone tells you a story of forests, then you think of woods, talking animals, fairies and

fairy tales.
No, there is no place for such things, here.
Because, despite the fact, the jungle is not or should not be kids’ stuff.
So, once upon a time there was a jungle.
But not like those of Emilio Salgari’s novels.
Where the good ones are the alleged wild people and the bad guys are the real invaders, safe
beyond the sea.
Here things were different.
Because, since the stories exist, who tells them decide the rules.
Then, there was once a different jungle.
Yes, different, because whereas in adventure novels is difficult to enter, and you need great courage and recklessness
to cross the intricate trees, here it was exactly the opposite.
Indeed, despite all the courage and recklessness of the world, you could spend there the whole of a life time.
Then seeing history repeating itself.
Yet.
And yet again.
Therefore, there was once a different jungle where it was difficult to get out.
And where it was easy to stay endlessly.
Moreover, to deny any connection with the previous narratives, here there were no striking exotic plants and fascinating views to distract from the infamy of life.
Nor ferocious felines and impressive elephants to freeze a blood already frozen.
There were no robust lianas to rise from a never satisfied pittance.
And not even secret passages in ancient ruins to escape somewhere.
There was once a different jungle, for short.
Where you remained forever, once entered.
Read as living perpetually dissatisfied, searching in vain for a way out.
You know what is the most ridiculous story? That the previous sentence seems the caption of one of the many privileged creatures north of the world.
Maybe this is the reason why understanding what this jungle was and why people went there, for many, it is even more difficult to get out of it…


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Friday, October 14, 2016

Stateless peoples against States without people

Stories and News No. 917

Last June, while Euro 2016 was beginning, another soccer tournament took place in Abkhazia. I refer to the World Cup for Rebels, championship for unrecognized nations.
Among them Kurdistan, stateless nation among the most topical today, fragmented in Turkey, Iraq, Iran, Armenia and Syria, with all the wars and civil conflicts with the participation of the rest of the world. The compact one, where the tanned, bearded and supposed enemy is always in plain view on top of pages and screens.

There were once stateless peoples.

You know?
Come on, I am talking about rebels, as I said at the very beginning.
However, you can call them in many other ways, because that is how they told you.
And once the story goes viral, you cannot easily change it.
Do you see them? They are the people who resist and young students who oppose, old men who stay behind but then they arrive too, civil society not only by words and women, a sea of women who had already started the fight.
Just to be clear, the stateless people most of the time they die for the State they have not. Dreaming the missing flag, they just disappear. For a land that now is just that, bare, barren and dried up as their own skin, they give everything.
Like life, past and present.
The future is a victory in the name of those who underlies the last page, the son of such a father.
The people without, in short.
However, when everything is said, ‘who claims what’ and ‘who denies it’, here come the others.
Secretly, whispering under desk at official dinners, but also boasting during the most shining parades.
They ever come, as it always has been and so will be.
Punctual heroes with normal super powers, the no season Santas and their precious gifts of death.
Only two choices on table: Take my arms, my dear new friend, or, whether you like it or not, I will use it in your behalf. Remember that for you and only for you I made it, thinking of you.
So the West’s dream becomes the East’s nightmare.
After narrow, formal shaking hands and hugs devoid of any emotion.
From that moment the war is no longer just a private matter.
Not their business anymore, so to speak.
Now, there was once the State without peoples.
Indeed, there were once the latter.
Come on, now it is easy.
I am talking about many, near you.

People formed by other people, made up of still other people, who are nothing but a bunch of lives confused with each other, like many bowed heads chatting on the crowded train of a subway at rush hour.
The question that follows is just as expected.
What happens when a State without people, in the sense of ignoring their opinions, decided to be part of the Stateless people’s war?
Nothing, absolutely nothing.
Silence, head down to the apps and let’s go to the next stop.
Zero, where over there all happens.
Where stateless people rise.
Against the States.
Without us...


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Thursday, October 13, 2016

Stories of women: forced to use husband's name

Stories and News No. 916

I read that in Japan the Court has forced a teacher to use her married name at work on the basis of a rule from the nineteenth century.
The woman has sued her employer, the Nihon University, which has refused to allow her to use her maiden name in professional interactions with pupils and parents.
The newspapers did not report the name of the woman.
So I sent her my words.


No, I'm not you.

But I would like to know.
What it means to live with a mask inevitable ordered, pleasant at the very best.
Alleged missing rib of a Knight with a not so shining armor, hidden in it everywhere and most of the time.
War or peace.
There is always someone who fights a battle that comes from far away, where injuries are always and only for her.
Only when she wins, she lives.
And even when she does not lose, she can die anyway.
No, I do not speak for you.
But, to you.
I would like the same to understand.
What does it mean, every morning, afternoon and evening, to have face a mirror with bare hands, literally, before plunging into a sea that is longing to overwhelm you with a wave of looks never really driven by the desired wind.
A sincere curiosity.
Silent patience.
And all the time allowed.
To see, really, see.
No, I am not boasting myself saying to be ahead of the others.
I'm here for that too.
But I would like to find out the same.
What does it mean having to prove every single day of your life to the most fragile part of your heart what you have always known.
That there was nothing to show that it was not already under the worthy eyes.
Your and those who have had the good sense to wait.
No, I'm not giving anything for granted.
Quite the opposite.
But I would still improve myself.
The design of an adventurous and fascinating story with a protagonist that to be so, up there, must stop to really be.
Because the tale of traditions and faiths has its own rules.
Well, it is then that my eyes open wide, my dear friend.
When you stand up and make the liar design into shreds.
No, I said it and I repeat it.
I am not you.
But I would really like to know.
What is your name…


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Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Stories of poor children: in the land of waste few rules

Stories and News No. 915

I read that in the mid-2000s the Stung Meanchey dump in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, has achieved the dubious distinction of being the world most famous.
The reason? Simple, that is, terrible.
Both day and night, thousands of garbage pickers working on the festering mountain of trash. They have lived in houses made from trash. They ate trash. Many were even born and many have died in it.
Despite in 2009 the government has tried to close the landfill, some residents have simply moved, while most still live there...


In the land of waste.

Few rules.
The first: do not throw away anything.
Because the others have already done, so to speak.
Then throwing away becomes an expression meaningless if taken literally.
Here the whole life should be strictly interpreted and the various meanings at the same time become interchangeable.
So, ‘throw away’ is transformed, depending on the opportunity, in borrow or even give, bring and take, lend and give again, with all the possibilities of the case.
However these are blessed event.
Difficult otherwise, when the gift is still alive, capable of resisting to the touch.
Hence, the second rule: we need delicacy.
Yes, we need it between us.
And not because things are particularly fragile, which would have reason to be, since it is logical for ‘throwing away stuff’.
We are not even talking about us, in spite you might suppose the opposite, because to survive among sharp shards and pestilent aromas the Iron Man armor would be like naked butter at the mercy of the Sahara desert.
No, the reason is only one.
Because delicacy between us will be the only one that will ever have in the world.
Below, the third rule: open your eyes, always.
Open it forever.
Ever in search of treasures.
Like you, for that matter.
Or at least that's what we imagine raising our heads towards the sky, hugely favored by fortune.
The gods and their children, they surely will be extremely good to find jewels among the most secret places of the earth.
Creatures with miraculous views, giant hands and no less capacious pockets.
That is normal if we will get only the crumbs, no hard feelings, probably we would do the same.
However, we are talking about humans, anyway. And humans are not perfect.
This is our misfortune, but also the only piece of plausible, good fortune.
Represented by the last rule: do not lose hope.
Never, please.
You know, it happens that sometimes even the gods are lost in venial typos.
And what is marginal for you, for us glows with infinite light.
Then big party and everyone goes to throw away.
Read as well as everything to everyone.
Because in the land of waste there are few rules.
The first is do not throw away anything.
Since your anything is our everything



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Friday, October 7, 2016

Moral stories: Reborn from death

Stories and News No. 914

I read that thanks to commitment of the "Meeting of Civilizations" Association and the fundamental support of Third Pillar - Italian and Mediterranean "Rising from destruction" Foundation various works damaged in Iraq and Syria have been faithfully recreated using modern technology and put on display at the Colosseum in Rome.

They say that things are ever getting worse.

The usual pessimistic.
Before was better, the future is dark and other depressions on the horizon, I know them.
Fortunately, the truth is that in the peaceful world they look ahead, keeping a careful memory of what is left behind.
What behind was shattered.
Forever.
Well, we cannot say it anymore.
Meeting of civilizations, what a beautiful sentence, I write it anywhere.
In my head, in the essential records of a wounded memory and on the few usable pages of a soul tattered by a destiny that I would call sadistic.
Well, I cannot say it anymore.
Reborn from death? But this is even more beautiful than before.
I will make a tattoo on my skin with these words, one of those that are fashionable in your country, that I never dreamed to show off as well.
Well, I can do it now.
Calmly, I know, I should not be in a hurry with the miracles.
They are like good stories and true love: you should not look for them, they find you.
I know how good luck’s world slips away. Many despicable things take precedence over life. But if it is something as sublime as art I may be patient.
First the statues and towers, the busts and arches, amphorae and capitals, there is no problem.
And then it is up to us, coming back to life from the destruction, am I wrong?
With your magical machines in infinite dimensions I know that you will do what is right.
I get emotional just at the thought of seeing again the room where I started playing.
And the road that would take me to school.
The class and the blackboard.
The beautiful square and the old one.
The house of my grandmother.
And one of that man... I cannot remember his name, but he was my father's friend.
Then you will give me back my dad too, don’t you?
I want to think so, that in your town, where bombs and wars are fake as a video on the news, having returned love and dignity to the sublime works of oriental humans, you will do the same with their children, even if they never were equally magnificent.
But maybe one day we will be, I can say now.


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Thursday, October 6, 2016

Hurricane Matthew 2016: under the same name

Stories and News No. 913

Hurricane Matthew is a major tropical cyclone crossing these days the Atlantic Ocean, recently listed as the first Category 5 since Hurricane Felix (2007).
It has already hit Haiti, Jamaica, Cuba and the Dominican Republic, and is currently headed toward the Bahamas.
It is forecast to reach the eastern part of the United States, particularly Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, and North Carolina.
Of countries and peoples.
Different...


Under the same name.
Under the same name an infinite number of things was born, lived and walked away, dissolving on the horizon,
Even those who had not aspired so much.
For example, do you think is normal a hurricane called as a human being?
We hurricanes do not, if you are interested.
Anyway, I am Mr. Matthew and I like it, it sounds good.
It makes me feel important, like I was not only air, water and all that I stir up in others, like many of you.
In my case, everything I wanted, except provoking fear and anguish, apprehension and even less people running away from me.
It is not my fault, I always say, the weather did it, but now these justifications sound childish at best.
What makes me proud is the underrated side of the storm, as we call it.
Yes, because whereas under the same name there is the equal, terrible, houses and windows breaker, monster, and although sometimes I ruined different and distant lives, what my passage moves should be stopped, as a picture to remember.
Under the same name, in other words.
Where the family is called family in any language...

Hurricane Matthew in Haiti

And where friendship is friendship everywhere...

Hurricane Matthew in Jamaica

Where courage always mean only courage...

Hurricane Matthew in Cuba

And where solidarity is a common word...

Hurricane Matthew in Dominican Republic

Where hope is a shared value...


Bahamas

And where the loss is contagious...

Florida, USA

Now, excuse me, but I have to go, because my journey is not yet over.
Another world is waiting for me.
Despite most of the time it feels to be more world of others, family and friendship, courage and solidarity, hope and loss, under the same name, they are equal...

Florida, USA
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Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Moral stories: The Small World Day

Stories and News No. 912

This year the Nobel Chemistry Prize went to Jean-Pierre Sauvage, University of Strasbourg, Sir J. Fraser Stoddart, Northwestern University, and Bernard L. Feringa, University of Groningen for their work with molecular dimensions machines.
What a beautiful day this is.
In the small world…


It took a while, but now they know it too.

Well, the good news fly faster upward than the opposite.
Unluckily vice versa is also true.
Anyway, there is a nano-party down there, where the nano-humans live.
Not to be confused with the dwarves, that are constrained by a megalomaniacal script to play the role of missed tall.
In the nano-towns, however, there are no such metrics abuses.
They are all equal in the common nano-life, not to be confused with dwarfism, and so on.
I realize that such a wave of nano-joy in the existence of the nano-living is not a viral news.
It is out of the Mass media’s eyes.
In fact, it would take such a concentration of nano-love to be a viral news itself.
In other words, a nano-camera guided by nano-cameramen leaded by nano-reporters of nano-newsrooms serving nano-networks for the sake of nano-existences excluded from the macro monitor.
Otherwise, this nano-story would not be here.
On the other hand this is a day of nano-joy, I said, let us not lose in vain complaints.
I talked about a nano-party too, but nothing expensive, with a few nano-money, with a table prepared with nano-groceries and nano-beverages.
I admit, this is where the happiness of the moment could become inevitably consistent.
A nano-happiness, in other words, since we are talking about nano-families with nano-children, where the thirst of the latter insists on not to follow the monotonous script.
It is anything but small, in fact.
However, they nano-heroes arrive in time.
Nano-musicians and nano-clowns, with nano-talent, but simply pure.
Nano-dancers with a nano-energy worthy of an ant during the most irresistible dance, the coupling thwarted by the families, and nano-storytellers dress up as giants.
Finally, at least for a day, all seems to be bigger.
Thus, inside the nano-dream, they forget everything.
More than ever the much overrated centimeters.
The nano-time freezes magically.
And all together, locked in one gigantic hug, the nano-protagonists help the nano-reality to knock out the nano-imagination.
Because whereas the nano-creatures join together, they are and will always be the greatest thing throughout the nano-universe and what's left.


Read more stories with morals
Buy my latest book The hoax of the migrants
Listen my song Wolves
Storytelling videos with subtitles