#mucid

[zacharialend]

The Audition

Kaltelicalitan surveyed the glistening, mottled scales of the beast’s belly, repulsed and attracted in equal measure. There was a symmetry and pattern in the variation of tone and texture across its sallow skin, and an odd grace in its movement. But there was also something mucid and dank about the beast - a suggestion of swamp clinging to it despite its refined speech and orderly manner. Now its head was thrown back, great wattlish gills flopping grotesquely around the edges of its head as it sang exultantly - broad throbbing chords - consonances and dissonances and thrums that caused the membranes dangling from its outspread arms to dance in sympathetic resonance.

The song waxed and warbled for the best part of five minutes, and Kaltelicalitan could not deny that it had a certain power over him - a rumbling in his bowels and a buzzing deep in his nose testified to at least a purely physical impact, but there was emotion, too, in that strange stew of sound, and something approaching the shape of a story.

At last the beast lowered its arms, the translucent membranes pleating neatly against its sides, and looked down into the face of the mage. Kaltelicalitan studied it for intelligible expression… eager? Indifferent? Resigned? - but found himself at a loss. He stroked his long mustache a moment, considering.

“And why then,” the mage finally asked, “do you wish to be in the book?”

A long, slow upward blink of nictitating membranes came before the reply. “One wishes to be seen, good doctor. One wishes to be... remembered.”

When not singing, the beast’s voice was quite ordinary, devoid even of accent. In a dark room Kaltelicalitan might have confused it for the voice of a disinterested but appropriately solicitous bureaucrat from anywhere in the Eight Cities, though its pondish scent might still have given him pause.

“And if I offer this to you, you will accept it freely? You are your own in this, and I will not be troubled in the coming days by reavers and retrievers of your kind seeking a fugitive, perhaps, or revenging themselves on me for your loss to them?”

“I have read the words you sent to Gilala, good Doctor. I know your terms and your price. I am old among my kin, and past the point of spawning. I am all but clanless and I will not be missed. But I have seen much and comprehended some, eaten well, sung loud and slept long. I am free and ready if you will have me.”

Kaltelicalitan stood among his volumes, thinking on pages and ink and time and loss and the utter futility of his project. There was ink in his mustache, there were heaps of discarded quills, towers of tomes. His hands were crabbed and calloused from the endless scribbling that had come to dominate his life. But something might be saved, so he went on. Shall not the judge of all the doomed world write?

Gilala and its swamps would be gone, soon - unmade with the rest of its entire plane by the Council’s verdict, its reality reapportioned for an expansion of the ever-growing Northern Three.

And that song would likely never thrum its way into another nasal cavity, never disquiet another gut or tease an arc of growth and life and death into the backbrain of another jaded judge.

Kaltelicalitan selected a fresh quill, carved the tip with his black stone knife, and selected one of the few remaining full inkpots, the few remaining blank folios.

“Alright then. Your… finger, please” he said flatly.

The creature languidly extended a many-jointed digit. Kaltelicalitan dipped the quill and touched it to the finger, and as the creature's flesh began, too quickly, to dissolve into a wisp of fetid smoke, the mage began to write.

[bahadrbebek]

Af Ghost denize Alkol koşturuyorlar

~ Gülü seven dikenine katlanır.

Hayvana diyor hayvan gibi davranılır iltifat deyil hakkedene hakkettiği birnevi keskin mermi var.

Mucide hakaret deyil iltifat yakışır birde hakkına hakkını vermek yankılar hisse misse ortak filan düşünürlermi veyahut mucit diyorsun yol budur

[hayrulvarisin]

İster Quantum Potansiyelin ister Quantum Beynin bir özelliği olan îcâd fonksiyonunun gereği neleri ne kadar îcâd ederse etsin kendisinde bir eksilme bir azalmanın olması asla söz konusu değildir. @_5yoc_ #quantumpotential #quantummechanics #quantumbrain #icad #mucid #nonlocality #mekansızlık #lemyelidvelemyüled #alemlerhayaldir #boyutsuzluk (Uskumruköy, Istanbul, Turkey) https://www.instagram.com/p/Ckp0hhRIoej/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[mehmetulubey]

#zorluklar #başarısözleri #hayatzor #mucid #türkiye #mazot #mazotfiyatları #benzin #benzinzammı #mazotzammı #türklerçıldırmışolmalı #mucizeadam #benzinistasyonu #mazotazam https://www.instagram.com/p/CbA3rODouIN/?utm_medium=tumblr

[antalya-0707]

Adam mucid ya bulmus çözümü:))))))

[fikret-i]

Bitmeyecek değil mi?

İşler yoluna girmeyecek!

Her şey eksik, yarım kalacak.

Ertelenecek bir çok şey yine.

Umutlar hep yarına bırakılacak.

Bütün bu yarım kalmış yanlarımın sebeb-i vücudu mahluk olduğumu unutuyor olmam her halde.

Mucid değilim; icadım.

Müesser değilim; eserim.

Fail değilim; fiilim elbet.

Ve elbette yarım kalacak.

Vatan-ı asli değil çünkü bağlandığım, bu gurbet.

Fikret İ.

[themuppetmasterencyclopedia]

SkekNa from the Original Dark Crystal

PERFORMER

Mike Quin Puppeteer

 David Buck voice

DEBUT1982

SkekNa is the Skeksi Slave Master, who oversees the work of enslaved Podlings at the castle. Of all the Skeksis, skekNa is likely the most evil.

SkekNa's loyalty within the castle is to the brutish skekUng. As with all the Skeksis, skekNa has a noble counterpart living with the Mystics. SkekNa's alter ego is the herbalist urNol.

“Between meals the Skeksis went to skekNa the Slave-Master for scraps to appease the raging hunger they always felt. SkekNa was purely and openly evil from the beginning, but without him the work of the castle would never have been done.”

—The World of the Dark Crystal

Pre-production notes for the Slave-Master/Executioner call for a character that "remains evilly silent most of the time, except for occasional sneers and hisses. His action is dominated by kicking, whipping, and herding little Pod slaves."[1]

SkekNa's costume is made up of a leather surcoat covered in metal clasps, chains, manacles and padlocks, and a shiny reptile skin robe. Distinguishing features of the Slave Master include scars. Other pre-production notes state that the character "will have a hook to replace a missing hand, and an eye patch over a mucid socket."

[saglikliyasam2020-blog]

Sağlıklı Yaşam

Sürekli bir değişim içerisindeyken bazen zihnimiz bazen de fiziğimiz de bu değişim bizi rahatsız edebiliyor. Ancak her ne kadar rahatsız olsak da değişmeyen tek bir şey var ki o da değişimin kendisidir. Kısacası insan doğar, büyür, yaşlanır ve ölür. Bu süreç bazıları için çok kısa olurken bazıları için çok uzun olabilir. Her ne kadar yaşam süremizi değiştiremeyeceğimizi biliyor olsa da bu süreç içerisinde yaşamdan keyif almak yani sağlıklı yaşam sürmek bir anlamda bizim elimizdedir. Çünkü vücudumuz aslında yaptığımız her şeyde bizi uyarır. Olumlu bir şeyler yaptığımızda mutluluk hormonu devreye girer olumsuz bir şeyler yaptığımızda farklı bir hormon.

Neticede insan bazen hastalıklarla mücadele etmek zorunda kalabilir. Ancak mucide ettiği şeyin ne olduğunu bildiği sürece bunun hiçbir zararı yoktur. Çünkü tedavisini bildiğiniz bir hastalığı alt edebilmeniz çok daha kolay olacaktır. Vücut hormonları ise göremediğimiz şeyler olduğu için inanmak ya da inanmamak tamamen size kalmıştır. Yani siz aşka inanmıyor olsanız bile hiç beklemediğiniz bir yaşta kapınızı çalabilir ve sizi hazırlıksız yakalayabilir. İnsan belki her şeye hükmettiğini düşünebilir, ancak aslında vücudun idarecisi hormonlardır. Eğer hormonlarınıza ne kadar iyi bakabilirseniz bunun karşılığı da o kadar yüksek olacaktır. Ancak onlara iyi bakmış olmanız demek onların size baş kaldırmayacağı anlamına da gelmiyor. Örneğin katil olan kişilere baktığımızda aslında hiçbirinin bunu istemediğini de görebilirsiniz.

[catcorsair]

19 😬

SO I tried to write a ficlet but this is 2500 words? Unedited, so bear with me. I’ll likely pop this up on ffn tomorrow or some other time idk don’t rush me

For @tasteofthebitchpudding – I didn’t even write smut! :O 

19. Things you said when we were the happiest we ever were, or:

Reflection

Tonight she didn’t look to the painted ceiling as she so often would when the Angel spoke to her. Looking up, as if she could have found me there among the dusty, gas-lit candelabras and carelessly carved plaster rosettes. Looking up, as if in truth I weren’t so deep below. My sweet girl, my ingenue Christine, devoutly kneeling, her face upturned, and palms like molded porcelain clasped beneath her chin. She often twisted the beads of her rosary between her restless fingers even as we sang––as a supposed man of God, I did not know how to tell her to put the damnable thing down.

Tonight the beads lay forgotten upon the shining mahogany of her dressing-table. In the tremulous silence following her bold declaration, Christine clutched her white knuckles together and listened for her Angel’s reply. 

Behind that cursed mirror, I was certain she could not have said what my treasonous ears suggested. Now the distant Angel regarded her in holy quietude, or so it must have seemed to her. The monster’s own depraved, mortal heart could not be so easily stilled.

“I love you,” my girl repeated, all humble timidity, to her voluptuous, silken lap.

Those forbidden, enchanted words, pouring out from between her parted lips, exalted lips bitten red like sweet berry-wine. For me. 

“As you must love the holy messenger of the lord, my faithful child,” I said––perhaps with greater asperity than intended after far too extended a pause––careful to cast the Angel’s voice to floating about the hanging gas lamp above her bowed head. Away from the mirror. Not behind the mirror. 

I am not here, good, charming girl, the Devil behind your dressing-room mirror. I am an Angel, look up. Look up.

On her little vanity-stool Christine sniffed an exhale out that fine upturned nose and buried her unquiet fingers in the warm, mounding silk of her lap, and with her watery gaze, studied their writhing paleness upon the fabric as if she held no control over their movements.

Her painted-ivory cheeks flooded with prurient, brilliant color. Hot to the touch, certainly. My indulgent fingertips found the shadowed glass of the mirror’s reverse to trace the pleasing curve of her bent-forward spine. Realizing what foolishness they enacted, I snatched the detestable things away.

And yet, the corpse was quickening.

Again my tender sweetling spoke to her dancing fingers.  “For so long, Angel…it has been difficult for me, you know. Without Papa.“ 

“Yes, my dear,” I said gravely, well-pleased with my audible, if not actual, collectedness.

Her twilit gaze shot toward the mirror and again to her lap. I spread my fingers before me in a violently terse gesture of silent frustration.

Not behind the mirror! Never behind the mirror. The lamp, the ceiling!

“It’s just, everything was so…dark, really, if you can even understand…as if all the lights in the world had simply gone out and for all my searching I still could not find a match…” continued the beautiful child, her delicate chin lowered humbly, her voice tremulous, puerile, perfect, “until you.”

Normally I stand as we sing. More conducive to proper airflow. Better control of the voice. Less destructive on the knees, on my zibeline trouser-fronts that surely would object to any collision with the black filth that coated the floors, walls, of this cavernous passageway. This demon’s path to Hell. 

Now on achingly senseless knees I pressed my bare palms flat upon the dust-warped vision of her, my delicious girl, all fluttering tension as she perched atop that little stool. She chewed her ripe lip. Waiting, again, for her Angel to speak.

And tell her he loves her in return.

I cooled my wasted forehead upon her shadowed afterimage, her untouchable apple of a silhouette; I closed my mismatched eyes.

“My child, that is enough––” I spoke, as tenderly as was possible and unfortunately, not at all with the Angel’s typical composure. My hot breath steamed upon the icy mirror-surface, heating and wetting my mucid flesh in the dank cavern. 

I heard my sweet girl’s breathless protestations and strangled an ungentlemanly groan upon the glass. My repulsive fingers clawed absently at the bones of my thighs.

“Angel––” she tried. 

I interrupted her. “Your lesson––dear––let us continue."  Thowing my voice. Careful, careful. Anywhere but the mirror, abhorrent fool. A disease of a thing.

"No, please, Angel––hear me.” It wasn’t like my girl to challenge me. Bold, too much so, and yet, how charming to find her so brazen! A vixen indeed, my luscious little Christine.

A breath shuddered from my mockery of lips upon this terror of a face as I resisted the all-too-familiar desire to smash its repugnance upon the back of the mirror. 

“Please…” in earnest she continued, her treasured voice like a curse in my ears as I dug my thumbnails, hard, into my temples. “It was you, Angel, who brought back the light…" 

During this, she had stood––with my eyes still shut tight before the mercury-glass I did not catch her rise. At her sudden proximity to the mirror, my agitated nerves propelled me backwards within the stone cavern; I skittered on hands and knees like the fiendish thing that I am to crouch excitedly, breathlessly, against the wall opposite, my ruined trouser-legs perfectly disgusting. 

Hiding like a criminal in the shadows of a room already hidden. A room the girl could never find. 

With her plump, gentle arms fanned out low by her sides, Christine opened her palms––to me, surely, and yet not to me at all––as I watched her from my shameful prison.

"I need you to know how I love you,” she said to me, her eyes devotedly downcast upon her lovely little feet. Her supplicant palms trembled between us. White wrists. White ankles. White to my soiled, soiled, soiled––

“And I am grateful for your regard, my child, for it is a pure and good thing,” I said, finally, cursing my dryly stammering tongue. “What you speak of is divine, and is only your devoted love for your God,” My shoulder ached, half-crushed upon the unforgiving stone; I hated myself for a thousand loathsome things I could not name. Could not think, do. 

“But it is not!” the passionate thing exclaimed, in sudden arousal. Her fervid gaze captured her reflection in the giant mirror. With a fluster of skirts she took a hurriedly impetuous step, two, toward the glass, then flung herself, breathless, at the base of the frame to press her cheek upon its surface. 

Like a spider––ah, not so very far from accuracy––I very nearly climbed the wall behind me. 

Her lush, red mouth dragged the glass as she continued, “it is you, you, that I love––not as I love God, for I love him too, and not as I love his holy chorus, but you––you––you––oh––,” she groaned earthily against the mirror, my gentle pet overcome. Seductive lips wetting the surface. Pink tongue tickling the glass. Rousing. Gorgeous. Forbidden.

“Angel, Angel––is it blasphemous to say the words? will you hate me for it?––for surely, you are not God, you are yourself––you laugh and think and speak, and I know you well, the person you are, the man––and it is for all of this, that I so entirely and devotedly love you!”

“Christine, please––” I breathed, begging the mordant air. I clawed at the stinking stones with my yellow fingers. Repulsive fingers. Unclean. “You are tired, exhausted––I’ve kept you too long––”

“There is nowhere I would rather be,” she told me, like a secret, and stroked the glass aside her steaming flesh with a sensuous finger. High upon the mirror plane, about her cascades of sticking curls. High, about her halo, and lower, lower, low––

“Dear girl––what you imply is blasphemous, I beg you not repeat it––” I stammered, almost reasonably, though I fell upon my foul palms and knees as zealous as a spring. A beast, ready.

“Do not be offended, my love, my Angel! Do not be angry––” she spoke as if her voice could reach me where her pink-tipped fingers could not. She caressed me with her words, delicious words that whispered and writhed and fogged upon the glass––I felt them, trembling, shivering, burning there behind the mirror. I saw the goose flesh rise upon her flesh as it did mine. 

 "I love you as a woman loves a man,“ my good, pure girl purred. "Not as an Angel, and I want you, need you, to love me too––as a man loves a woman––”

“I cannot love you in the way which you speak, child,” I began haltingly, though hot, shamed tears warmed the horror of my cheeks. “You mustn’t equate me to a man when I am not one.”

“But you do love me!” and then my girl added, with unbearable sweetness, “I love you for whomever, whatever you are!”

“Please. Please! Do not say such things, Christine.” In long, tortuous arcs I ground the vulgar stain of my face into the dirt beneath my prostrate form. “You know not what you say!” The black dust devoured my speech and still I whimpered out the words like a wounded animal, debased creature that I was.

“Please, my dear, dear girl,” I begged her, choking and sputtering in the bruising dust. “Nothing may come of it. I am your Angel of Music, and that is all I can ever be!”

“Then let it be so, and I will love you for it!” proclaimed my good, virtuous Christine, from there beyond my prison gate. 

“I cannot be that if you must say such things to me!” I sobbed, screaming the words in foul seclusion.

She stared at her reflection as if she thought she might find me in it, but for all my carelessness my vile secret was safe. The lever, the hinge. No escape. My clever girl would not find it without the Minotaur’s aid.

“Angel, please!” Her little fist pounded upon the mirror-glass, set me to twitching about in the dark. Beating upon the unforgiving surface and whimpering her sweet ragged sounds. “Come in! Come in!” she moaned, and pressed her steaming forehead to the glass. 

“I swear to be yours forever if you will only love me...” my girl promised, surrendering.

Without thought to how, or when, or even why, I had begun to crawl pathetically upon the blackened stones, dragging my senseless corpse toward her atop the corrupted mire beneath. Water pooled in the corners of my lips and I sputtered revoltingly as I spoke to her, plead with her, with the earnest helplessness of the utterly, entirely mad––

“Christine, Christine,” I sobbed, the Angelic guise abandoned as I slid like the serpent in the mud, “if I were a man, Christine, I tell you, I would love you as one!”

“Angel...” cried my girl as fog steamed from her open, sweating palms, a burning crown about either side of her perfect forehead. I drew myself, slithering, to the ground beneath her and crawled up the mirrors hidden face, to place my sickening palm upon her through the glass.

“If I were a man, Christine, I would love you as no man could hope to dream of loving a woman,” I said to her then, my familiar voice insane with passion, my own putridity a stain upon the mirror-glass. “With all the glory of Heaven above,” I swore, “I would love you, Christine Daaé, so much that you would never want the love of any other man but me again, so much that no other man, living or dead, could hope to satisfy your desire for it––”

Her fingers traced aimless patterns upon the glass. I kissed their shadows, drew my lips, my tongue atop them until the the surface shimmered with my own spit like a hot ocean rippling overtop her.

She felt the warm ghost of me upon the cold surface––upon her––I know she did, for she gasped and touched her fingertips delicately to her red lips, then returned her hands to the mirror-glass to gaze upon them in awe. I covered her palms with my own. Again she gasped, a little tortuous sigh of irresistible pleasure. She was on her knees––how red, how aching they must be––her tender, lovely body pressed close against the mirror. She drew her cheek along its surface, listening, hearing me, sensing my unseen shape so impossibly close––

“If I were a man, my Christine,” I promised her, my forked tongue silken through the glass, “I would love you until you could imagine nothing else save me and my love for you, so your entire world was only me, me, loving you––” 

Upon my knees I pressed my sweating shape to hers, crushing my abhorrence upon her, as moaning sweetly she writhed against the warmth of me. “Sweet, sweet Christine, my lovely, luscious girl-love, I would remind you every minute, every second, until you hated the sound of my voice, until you dreaded the words, I love you, I love you, I love you––”

“Never,” she breathed, pressed to me like a lover, “never, never––”

“Yes––” I said, into the shadow of her ear, “if I were a man, that is how much I would love you––”

The words growled from my throat, words like a disease, words as ruinous as the foul mouth that spoke them. Words that could tear everything down, take everything away, and still were worth the risk just to speak and hear the responses spoken––

Again my sensuous sweetling groaned, as I covered her hands in my own, as I moved against the base heat of her upon the mirror, the vulgar animal at the stinking core of us––

“I would have you, Christine,” the maw of my lips promised hers, “if I could be right there beside you now, I would have you, do you hear me? As only a man can have a woman, I would have you now. As only a man who loves you can––”

Now her eyelids fluttered against the glass, as her open mouth pressed sidelong into the reflective surface. With one palm still captured by the heat of mine my disgusting, delicious girl stroked at herself madly, mindlessly atop her clothes, hot fingers following the hidden curves of her, digging and squeezing at the softness beneath the shifting fabric as she moaned into her own caresses. Hip. Waist. Breast––she rocked upon her touches, sticking, trembling flesh pressed hard upon the mirror. I was that hand, I, those fingers, tracing and discovering her beyond the blind solitude of my rank prison, the damning curse of this repugnant mask. It was me, me, learning her, pleasing her, loving her––

“Have me––” In paroxysmic abandon she growled the words, rising deep from within her throat like the most sensual secret, as she squirmed in sublime mockery of a human union upon the glass. Upon me, on me, she cried out, “Angel!”

“Call me Erik, and tell me again how you love me!” I begged her, emboldened by desperate, esurient mania. My quixotic heart betrayed me––like a fool I was finally overcome by love, the self-preservation of sense had thoroughly abandoned me––and with it, wrath, madness, fear, hatred––my usual companions, my four horsemen––I basked in the light of love, acceptance, hope, something, something, something I could not name, but, oh, oh, how something overwhelmed me––

Bliss! Bliss!

And still my fair, fallen love spoke the words, her sublime and honest words upon the ruin of me! My name, my name! She said my name! 

“Erik, then, oh, holy Erik!” The sweet girl said it, again and again! “It is the Angel Erik that I love, Erik, my love, and I will love you always, Erik, Erik, if you will let me!”

“Press your lips to the mirror-glass,” I demanded, my voice heavy with ardent declaration, “and know it is I who kisses you, I, your devoted Erik, who loves you more than any man has ever loved a woman, and I, Erik, who will love you still, even after you are long dead!”

All things are fleeting, but this was a sensation I had never known and I would cling to it until its inevitable destruction. Because sweet Christine pressed her lips to the steaming surface of the mercury-glass, and mine I touched to hers. And when finally she drew away my girl brushed her pink fingertips over the succulence of her parted lips and met her own wide eyes, reflected––and so she met my eyes with them––and never, never have I seen such deliciousness, such loveliness, such pure, sweet goodness reflected back at me. 

My perfect reflection. My girl, Christine. 

[mobil13com-blog]

Çağ atlatan 4 önemli icat hakkında tüm detaylar!

Yeni haber paylaştı! https://www.mobil13.com/cag-atlatan-4-onemli-icat-hakkinda-tum-detaylar-19781.html

Çağ atlatan 4 önemli icat hakkında tüm detaylar!

Günümüze kadar olan tüm icatlar insanların merakı yada ihtiyaçları için ortaya çıkmıştır. Bugün ise sizlere bazı muhteşem icatları listeledik.

Bu icatların her biri aslında çok uzun yıllar önce mucitler tarafından ortaya çıkarılmış ve gerçekleşen icatlardan oluşmaktadır. Sizlerde aşağıda okudukça ne demek istediğimiz anlayacaksınız.

1. Tekerlek

Tekerlek aslında insanlık adına icat edilen çok önemli bir araçtır. Konu göç olunca, sıkıntılar eskiden çok fazla olduğu için, hem tarım hemde ticaret konusunda birçok sorunun önüne geçmiştir. Birçok tekerlek ve çark teknolojinin aslında ana parçası diyebiliriz.

2. İçten Yanmalı Motor

Motorların ilk olanı ise içten yanmalı motor aslında. Bu motor özellik bakımından yüksek sıcaklıkta olan yakıtın pistonlar içerisinde yakılması sonucu hareketi sağlamaktadır. Bu kimyasal enerjinin mekanik enerjiye dönüştüren motorlar günümüzde mekanik motorlara yer vermiştir. Ayrıca uçak dahil ve arabalar gibi birçok alanda bu motorlar kullanılıyor.

3. Telefon

Çok önceden çok fazla mucidin defalarca çalışmalara girdiği telefonun patentini ilk olarak Alexander Graham Bell 1876 yılında almıştı. Elbette mucidin yaptığı telefonun şimdiki telefonlara benzer hiçbir yanı yok desek yeridir. Gelişen teknoloji ile beraber telefonlar da değişti ve hayatımızın en önemli parçası oldu.

4. İnternet

Siz, biz ve herkesin mili saniyeler içerisinde iletişim kurduğu internet aracı, 1960 yılında bilgisayar mühendisi tarafınca ortaya çıktı. Bu icat savunma sanayisi için ortaya çıkarken, günümüzde daha fazla gelişerek, çok farklı bir araç olarak biliniyor.

[hfg-imd]

Mucid

Mucid ist eine Sitzlandschaft. Ein Ort für Entspannung, Kommunikation und Meditation. Eine interaktive Sitzgelegenheit die sich an den Körper anpasst, die reagiert, die wärmt, die kühlt, je nach Bedarf und Jahreszeit. Die Form ist von der Natur inspiriert. Mucid besitzt die Eigenschaften von einem lebendigen Organismus, das Aussehen einer Pflanze und besteht aus einer Kombination von natürlichen und künstlichen Materialien.

Kamile Poliksaite

[englishlistwords]

mucid

adjective

rare

mouldy, musty, or festering."a mucid sheet of green scum floated undisturbed over the goldfish pool"

[anadromeo]

Tweeted

Uruwi played today's #2 #HighScore: MUCID at (a measly) 118pts https://t.co/xgy7Qsh9c2 #game #scrabble #playmath https://t.co/0gcnTNXMWd

— Anadrome (@anadromeo) Sep 24, 2022

[cointreni]

Cardano (ADA)'da Balina İşlemlerini İzleyin: Satış Durdu, Mucid Konuştu! Cardano (ADA) fiyatı geçtiğimiz haftadan... https://cointreni.com/cardano-adada-balina-islemlerini-izleyin-satis-durdu-mucid-konustu/?feed_id=2675

[khaledkureshi]

Spotify brings its first-ever independent artists ‘Fresh Finds’ program to Pakistan

Spotify brings its first-ever independent artists ‘Fresh Finds’ program to Pakistan

Spotify brings its first-ever independent artists ‘Fresh Finds’ program to Pakistan Farheen Raza Jaffry, Gemini Djs, and Lil Mucid are some of the artists in the initial ‘class’ of the program Today, Spotify is excited to announce a brand new partnership program for independent artists in Pakistan.  Centered around the Fresh Finds Pakistan playlist, the program’s focus is on helping developing…

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Popüler olan şarkıları ben daha 1 milyondayken dinleyince kendimi mucid gibi hissediyorum