#beva?? is that what we would call it

[horse-plinko]

doodle dump lets go chat

[taehyungfirst]

OT7 are actually vile. This is supposed to be a Billions Club to push songs close to 1 billion to that milestone. This is their Playlist distribution Namjoon: 12 x Lost!

Jin: 12 x The Astronaut

Yoongi: 12 x Haegeum

J-hope: 12 x Neuron

Jimin: 20 x Who (to maintain #1)

Taehyung: 5 x friends + 5 x LMA

Jungkook: 6 x L&R + 4 x SNTY + 2 x Seven BTS: 11 x songs closer to 1B or 2B.

Big OT7 accounts have dozens of Who focused playlists, this is supposed to beva Billions Club, but they have to keep that *cough fraudulent cough* number 1 spot because God forbid jungkook have it because he's not the fandoms fave boy. They actually repulse me. Just let Taehyung go, you don't give a shit about him. They've cleared the playlist now and made it private after being called out.

Why Taehyung only gets 10 while everyone is getting 12? And why Who got 20 if it’s a playlist to reach 1B? Like the account is for 1B, not for charting.

Anyway, those 5 stupid streams they wanna give to Tae every month are not gonna change anything, luckily his fanbase is becoming bigger and more organized and goals are now reachable because of it. If we were in armys’ hands we would be stuck at 100M streams.

I just beg those type of accs to come out for what they are: Jm solos. Ot7 is such a myth nowadays.

[fakesurprise]

Salvation Run: first scene

It started with a child a mere six summers from coming of age, in a hamlet that was an unnamed mark on most maps, on a cool evening as a storm brewed overhead under a clear afternoon sky. The boy shivered just a little as he caught his breath ten steps from the hut, unable to shake the feeling that the sun was setting too soon on the day. It was small than most other homes in Two-One, with only three rooms to the weave of wood and earth and it had been set at the edge of the village for as long as memory, being just enough for Two-One to be called a village proper as the inn was only used when travellers came and the other dozen buildings consisted of handful of homes mixed with storage used by the local farms. Bevaal had never scared him, not once: she’d healed his left leg once, and many other injuries. With her gone, it seemed to him that every adult had walked a little more carefully during the last week.

The village seemed silent behind him, as if Hop could turn about and there would be no town at all, only fields and pasture and the forest pressing in against it at all.  Everyone knew Chkeer was only alive because his grandmother was god-touched, and Hop hadn’t seen Chkeer once since they had offered Bevall up to the sky.  He knocked one hand against the door and a ragged cough answered.

Relief ran through him at the cough, but also fear. He remembered the grey mare a year ago, coughing in a field, and Bevaal saying there was nothing she could do. The cough inside the hut sounded too much like that and Hop stepped back. His hands were shaking; he thought he knew why, and tried to hide them under his cloak.

“Hop?” Chkeer’s voice was deep and worn, spilling out of the dark hut before Chkeer filled the doorway as thinly as a shadow might. Too thin. Gaunt and pale, each breathe a wheeze that shivered in the air. Chkeer pushed long pale hair away fro his face; he had only a thin tunic and shoes and stood in the doorway as if uncertain of the sun.

There were stories, but Hop saw pain and exhaustion and knew them as only that.

“There is a mage in town,” the boy said as steadily as he could. “From the city.”

Chkeer blinked a few times. “There is?”

Hop wanted to know how Chkeer couldn’t feel the unseen storm over the town, but the demand died. “The mage wants a god-touched to heal his people; Ma said we didn’t have one. He told us to bring what the hut had. I’m fastest so I ran here.”

“Jimekia –,” Chkeer whispered.

It was not a word Hop knew, but the anger under it made him step back.

“I should get dressed; the mage won’t harm anyone until I am there,” Chkeer said slowly and moved back inside.

Hop followed, because it would have been impolite to not enter. The interior smelled of Bevall still but the smell of herbs was fading and the east window had almost no herbs left on it. Old books were spread out over the table, and Chkeer closed each gently and put them onto a small shelf near the window before going back into the second bedroom.

The room smelled musty and worn. Hop sat in a wooden chair near the stove; only a little wood was inside it, and barely enough stacked beside it for two days. Five minutes passed punctuated by ragged coughs and Hop felt himself shrink a little at each one. He had time between chores, time when he could have come and offered help. Something had kept him away, but it was nothing he had words for.

Chkeer came out in the dark cloak and boots he had worn to his grandmother’s funeral. “My best clothing, and fitting,” he added to Hop’s stare.

“Do you need – can I help you?” Hop got out.

Chkeer cocked his head to the side. “No,” He said after a beat. “Everything here can be left for whoever lives here next.”

“Next?”

And Chkeer stared at Hop for longer than the boy would have liked. “There is a kindness in you. Perhaps that will be enough,” he said, and walked toward the door without another word.

Hop felt another shiver run through him and followed quickly out the door. “Chkeer? I don’t understand?” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.  Chkeer stopped. They did not know each other deeply, but Two-One was too small for everyone not to know everyone else. “You still say that all the time despite your father’s threats to beat those three words out of you?”

There was a dry note in Chkeer’s voice, but not the kind meant to wound.

“There are many things I don’t know,” Hop said. “Even Beva –.” He stopped in turn.

Chkeer began walking again. “You did pester my grandmother often when you were younger, but her knowledge stretched from healing to herbs and nothing more; she was never angry at you. Nor was I; it was nice to have other voices in the hut.”

Hop forced himself not to outpace Chkeer as the followed the narrow path back to the town proper. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, nor bring himself to steady Chkeer save once when a coughing fit shook his frame.

“Are – are you?”

“I’ll live long enough,” Chkeer said. “Thank you.”

Hop stepped back. “It’s hard to...” He tried again. “You...” He fell silent.

“I scare you.” Hop almost stumbled over his feet, but a laugh lodged in his throat. Chkeer was dying. You didn’t live far from proper towns and cities not know that in people as much as animals. Hop was not a man yet, as Chkeer was, but he was almost as tall and stronger by far.

“I don’t know why.”

Chkeer said nothing to that and all, and continued the slow walk to the town in silence.

[danisunstuff]

Il Libro

- The Reluctant Fundamentalist- Mohsin Hamid

"Excuse me, sir, but may I be of assistance? Ah, I see I have alarmed you. Do not be frightened by my beard: I am a lover of America. I noticed that you were looking for something; more than looking, in fact you seemed to be on a mission, and since I am both a native of this city and a speaker of your language, I thought I might offer you my services”

“Like Manhattan? Yes, precisely! And that was one of the reason why for me moving to New York felt -  so unexpectedly - like coming home. But there were other reasons as well: the fact that Urdu was spoken by taxicab drivers; the presence, only two blocks from my East Village apartment, of a samosa and channa-serving establishment called the Park-Punjab Deli; the coincidence of crossing Fifth Avenue during a parade and hearing, from loudspeakers mounted on the South Asian Gay and Lesbian Association float, a song to which I had danced at my cousin’s wedding”

“Juan-Bautista wore a hat and carried a walking stick, and he ambled at a pace so slow that it would likely have been illegal for him to cross at an intersection in New York. When we were seated and he had ordered on our behalf, he said, “I have been observing you, and I think it is no exaggeration to say, young man, that you seem upset. May I ask you a rather personal question?” “Certainly,” I said, “Does it trouble you,” he inquired, “to make your living by disrupting the lives of others?” “We just value,” I replied. “We do not decide whether to buy or to sell, or indeed what happens to a company after we have valued it.” He nodded; he lit a cigarette and took a sip from his glass of wine."”

Il Vino 

- Greco Bianco 2016 -  L'Archetipo.

Oro che vira verso l'ambrato, limpido, di medio corpo. Molto profumato ed aromatico, Miele e rosmarino, noce moscata, pompelmo, leggermente erbaceo. In bocca è fresco sebbene confermi il miele e non spicchi per acidità. L'alcol ben bilanciato e non eccessivo (12,5) lo rendono di ottima beva. Finale non lunghissimo ma persistente, con note amarognole che ne aumentano la complessità.

100% Greco, fermentazione con lieviti autoctoni attivata da pied de cuve ottenuta da piccola massa d'uva raccolta 10 giorni prima. Una settimana di macerazione per poi liberare il mosto dalle vinacce e continuare la fermentazione per circa due mesi a bassa temperatura. Affinamento negli stessi contenitori di acciaio. Nessuna filtrazione e senza solfiti aggiunti.

Servito fresco è molto piacevole, una beva svelta e appetitosa. Un sorso chiama l'altro. E' un invito naturale all'interazione, al viaggio, alle chiacchiere tra sconosciuti, che diventano improvvisamente amici, in un qualsiasi luogo di mescita. 

Il retrogusto amarognolo accomuna il libro al vino, una sensazione stavolta intrigante e tutt’altro che spiacevole. Entrambi i protagonisti, Changez nel libro ed il vitigno Greco nel vino, non hanno più una vera patria, la ricercano ma saranno per sempre diversi dagli autoctoni, il viaggio segnerà per sempre le loro esistenze. L’uomo è un giovane pakistano che dopo una laurea in una prestigiosa università americana viene assunto in una potente società di consulenza newyorkese. Un malessere interiore lo riporterà a casa, a Lahore, ma non potrà mai davvero dimenticare l’educazione occidentale ricevuta. La pianta, il Greco, ha trovato casa in Campania (Greco di Tufo), ma, in questo caso, cresce in provincia di Taranto, quasi a cercare di andare a chiudere il cerchio e ritornare verso la Tessaglia, dove pare abbia avuto origine. Nel vino dell’Archetipo, l’agricoltura sinergica sostituisce la fede islamica come mezzo attraverso cui sprigionare speranza e passione e superare la disillusione dal consumismo.