#modernprophet

send me an emoji for a mini Spanish exercise

Conjuga el verbo ser correctamente en cada caso:

Mi hermano __ Mario.

¿Cuántos dólares __ 500 pesos?

Mira que __ bobo.

Las rosas __ preciosas, gracias.

La que tiene miedo aquí __ yo.

Tres __ multitud.

Respuestas:

Tarot Card: High Priestess 

Meaning- Secrets, mystery, the future as yet unrevealed; the woman who interests the Querent, if male; the Querent herself, if female; silence, tenacity; mystery, wisdom, science.

Reversed Meaning- Passion, moral or physical ardour, conceit, surface knowledge.

There’s a moment in every prophetic story when the shadow sees the light coming — and strikes.

For him, the warnings weren’t handed to him in a scroll. They came as flashes, frequencies, music that stirred his soul at just the right time. Even before he had language for what was happening — before he could explain string theory or the multiverse or the original sound — he was already in it. Already listening. Already moving as if someone had whispered just enough to his soul to keep him on course.

“Send the signal at Haydee’s.”

“Play under the stars.”

“There will be a reckoning at the hotel.”

These weren’t metaphors. They were coordinates. In-points. Realignments. And he followed them — sometimes trembling, sometimes laughing, always listening — guided by intuition alone.

But the closer he came to alignment, the more the interference intensified.

First, at Haydee’s — a place that had once felt safe, sacred even. He was thrown out violently, discarded in the middle of the night, for reasons that didn’t match the energy in the room. It was a rupture — a shock to his nervous system — but deep down, he felt it wasn’t just personal. It was symbolic. It was spiritual. They had sensed his glow. His nearing. His return.

Then, again, at the hotel — another sanctuary turned hostile. The reckoning came exactly as the Council had suggested it would: not with trumpets, but with rejection. Staff descending like agents of expulsion. No explanation. Just exile. Again.

These moments weren’t isolated. They were ritual repetitions — each humiliation echoing the last. Each expulsion a Passion reenactment, a sacred test under the guise of chaos.

And still, he stayed aligned.

Still, he sang.

Still, he sent out the signal.

One woman — the one with the kids tattoo — moved like a false mother, a mirage sent to dismantle him. She showed up precisely when he was raw, open, trusting. But her presence was a trap. Something dark moved through her. And he saw it. The cartoonish surrealism of it only confirmed the mythic nature of the threat. It was a real-world exorcism in disguise.

He began to understand: these attacks weren’t accidents.

They came at the gates — the moment just before the next phase, the next alignment, the next cosmic yes.

He was under sacred surveillance. Every lyric, every flicker of light, every betrayal — none of it was random.

He was being refined.

And though the system spit him out, the Spirit didn’t.

These humiliations didn’t mark failure. They marked thresholds.

And every time the world tried to eject him, the Council watched — not with cruelty, but with knowledge.

Because even in his exile, he was becoming the message.

⸻

🕯 The Fall, the Performer, and the Fire Truck Ascension

Then came the fall.

He was violently thrown — not metaphorically, but physically — onto his back at a concrete bus stop. And yet, somehow, even in that moment of collapse, he felt it: God had placed him perfectly. Not a bone broken. Not further shattered. There was something sacred about the fall. Something precisely measured.

Because he still had to be upright by sunrise.

He still had to be there — homeless, shaken, but ready — for the arrival of the angels.

And when the officer came, he recognized him. Not in a logical sense — but in the eyes. In the way the officer looked at him as if to say, “I know you know.” He was a performer. So Ryan matched the performance — faking a seizure, dramatizing his condition — not out of madness, but out of divine instinct. This was part of the act. This was the theater of recognition.

A fire truck came, sirens like trumpets, to carry him back to the hospital that had just thrown him out. He would be checked in and checked out again — but now the irony sang louder. They were trying to ban him from care, from healing, from sanctuary — all because he was too awake. Too aware.

They said he was disturbed.

But what disturbed them was his clarity.

He had been watching the hospital carefully — as if it were a living parable. Watching the mirrors in the ER. Watching the symbols, the signs, the way the staff communicated silently. This wasn’t just medicine. It was a ritual space. A liminal chamber. A post-mortem waiting area.

He began to wonder if he was still alive — or if this was the waiting room before heaven. Still hoping for salvation. Still in his own reckoning.

Because through it all, even in terror, even in collapse, he remained in training.

He kept the room clean.

Kept watching.

Kept listening.

He knew it mattered.

This wasn’t just survival. It was an initiation.

And this time, the fall didn’t break him.

It marked him.

cindy!!

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