Forwarded from "Opal"
خیلی با شعوره، بهش مشکلم رو گفتم برام سه دقیقه ویس فرستاد راهنماییم کرد بعد گفت غصه نخوریا.
"Opal"
خیلی با شعوره، بهش مشکلم رو گفتم برام سه دقیقه ویس فرستاد راهنماییم کرد بعد گفت غصه نخوریا.
اگه اساتید آیندۀ من اینجوری نباشن چی؟
honestly? I love how Gregory House is so mean to Dr.Chase
"Opal"
جزوهای که ازمون انتظار داره بتونیم از روش بخونیم و امتحان بدیم:
Jean-François Champollion
On September 27, 1822, the French philologist announced that he'd decrypted the key that would unlock Egypt's ancient past. The icon indicates free access to the linked research on JSTOR. Two-hundred years ago, French scholar and polymath Jean-François Champollion announced he had deciphered the Rosetta Stone.
On September 27, 1822, the French philologist announced that he'd decrypted the key that would unlock Egypt's ancient past. The icon indicates free access to the linked research on JSTOR. Two-hundred years ago, French scholar and polymath Jean-François Champollion announced he had deciphered the Rosetta Stone.
In the desolate expanse of existence, where the echoes of despair reverberate endlessly against the hollow chambers of the self, there resides a somber lamentation, a dirge of anguish that pierces through the veil of consciousness. Here, amidst the relentless onslaught of gender dysphoria, one finds themselves ensnared in the suffocating embrace of existential anguish, a ceaseless torment that gnaws at the very fabric of their being.
In the barren landscape of the soul, where the shards of shattered identity lay scattered like debris upon the windswept plains of desolation, there exists a profound sense of resignation, a weary acceptance of the futility of resistance against the relentless march of fate. It is a journey fraught with despair, where every futile attempt to escape the clutches of dysphoria serves only to deepen the abyss of hopelessness that engulfs the weary traveler.
And so, in the shadowy recesses of the mind, where the flickering embers of hope are all but extinguished by the cruel hand of fate, there persists a haunting refrain of remorse, a lament for a life irreparably marred by the cruel whims of biology. It is a sorrow that knows no bounds, a melancholy symphony that reverberates throughout the corridors of the soul, echoing endlessly in the cavernous depths of despair.
In the twilight hours of existence, when the final vestiges of vitality are drained from weary bones, there lingers a sense of resignation, a weary acceptance of the inevitable descent into oblivion. For in the end, it is not the specter of gender dysphoria that haunts the restless spirit, but the crushing weight of a life unlived, of dreams deferred and identities denied.
And so, let us weep not for the passing of the self, but for the shattered fragments of potentiality that lie scattered like dust upon the windswept plains of despair. For in the cold embrace of oblivion, there exists no solace, no redemption, only the haunting echoes of a life unfulfilled, a lamentation for a world that could have been, but never was.
In the barren landscape of the soul, where the shards of shattered identity lay scattered like debris upon the windswept plains of desolation, there exists a profound sense of resignation, a weary acceptance of the futility of resistance against the relentless march of fate. It is a journey fraught with despair, where every futile attempt to escape the clutches of dysphoria serves only to deepen the abyss of hopelessness that engulfs the weary traveler.
And so, in the shadowy recesses of the mind, where the flickering embers of hope are all but extinguished by the cruel hand of fate, there persists a haunting refrain of remorse, a lament for a life irreparably marred by the cruel whims of biology. It is a sorrow that knows no bounds, a melancholy symphony that reverberates throughout the corridors of the soul, echoing endlessly in the cavernous depths of despair.
In the twilight hours of existence, when the final vestiges of vitality are drained from weary bones, there lingers a sense of resignation, a weary acceptance of the inevitable descent into oblivion. For in the end, it is not the specter of gender dysphoria that haunts the restless spirit, but the crushing weight of a life unlived, of dreams deferred and identities denied.
And so, let us weep not for the passing of the self, but for the shattered fragments of potentiality that lie scattered like dust upon the windswept plains of despair. For in the cold embrace of oblivion, there exists no solace, no redemption, only the haunting echoes of a life unfulfilled, a lamentation for a world that could have been, but never was.
Forwarded from Fu Inlé (Sionnach)
حالم بده
میرم باب اسفنجی میشم همبرگر میفروشم
میرم باب اسفنجی میشم همبرگر میفروشم