Thursday, January 22, 2026
I COMPLETELY DESTROYED GOOGLE.COM AND THREW IT INTO HELL, USING BIBLE.COM INSTEAD.
I completely destroyed Google.com and threw it into hell, using Bible.com instead. PEACE.
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J'AI COMPLÈTEMENT DÉTRUIT GOOGLE.COM ET L'AI JETÉ EN ENFER, UTILISANT BIBLE.COM À LA PLACE.
J'ai complètement détruit Google.com et l'ai jeté en enfer, utilisant Bible.com à la place. PAIX.
Ancient sages, dating back to the time of Genesis, gathered in the ancient city of Shashemene, Ethiopia, and conveyed their messages to the World Economic Council, currently meeting in Geneva, Switzerland. They emphasized that poverty and trachoma are serious problems in our time and that it is imperative to combat and eradicate them globally. Father Barack of Oromia, one of these sages, stressed that culture must evolve with the times and encounter the Virgin Mary | Excerpt from an AI novel generator
Title: The Whisper of the Ancients
In the highlands of southern Ethiopia, where the sun rises in molten gold over the Rift Valley, lies the ancient city of Shashemene—a place where time seems to bend, where the earth remembers every story ever whispered upon it. Beneath a sky unspoiled by artificial light, twenty-four sages, robed in indigo-dyed cotton and wrapped in silence older than memory, gathered in a circle of standing stones older than the pyramids.
They came not by foot, nor by vehicle, but through the unseen corridors of wisdom. Some said they were descendants of the Magi; others believed them to be echoes of the Nephilim’s teachers—ancient men and women who had long ago chosen to walk between centuries, guardians of humanity’s moral arc. Their eyes, deep and still, held galaxies.
Their names were not spoken aloud, for names had power. But one among them, known as Father Barack of Oromia, stepped forward. His voice, though gentle, carried like wind through bamboo forests. He carried a staff carved with the Tree of Life and wore a cross made of acacia wood and meteoric iron—an heirloom said to have fallen from the heavens on the night of Christ’s birth.
Before them shimmered an ethereal portal, a mirror of clear water suspended in the air, reflecting not their faces, but a grand hall in Geneva, Switzerland—the meeting chamber of the World Economic Council. Delegates in fine suits debated fiscal strategies, climate accords, digital economies. The air hummed with Wi-Fi and ambition.
Father Barack raised his hand.
And the ancients spoke.
Their voices, a harmony of many tongues—Aramaic, Ge’ez, Sumerian, and others lost to time—poured through the veil, not as sound, but as meaning implanted directly into the minds of the delegates.
"People of the modern age," the sages intoned, "you build towers of glass and light, yet the foundation of your world trembles beneath the weight of neglect. Two shadows creep across your global soul: poverty and trachoma."
A hush fell over the Geneva chamber. Screens flickered. One delegate dropped her pen.
"Poverty," the voices resonated, "is not merely lack of coin. It is the theft of dignity, the silencing of voices, the denial of dreams. It is a wound in the body of humanity. And trachoma—the ancient blindness born of dust and neglect—is not just a disease. It is a symbol. A child in a remote village loses sight not from fate, but from indifference."
Gasps. Confusion. Then awe. The chief economist, a man from Singapore, rose slowly. "This signal... it cannot be technological. The frequency is unregistered. It's... linguistic, yet beyond language."
Father Barack stepped closer to the watery mirror, his face soft with sorrow and fire.
"Culture," he said, his voice cutting through the hum like a sacred flute, "must not fossilize. It must breathe, adapt, and meet the world anew. Just as the river changes its course with the rains, so must tradition embrace transformation. And in this evolution, it must encounter the Virgin Mary—not as an icon locked in stone, but as a living presence: the embodiment of compassion, the mother of the marginalized, the midwife of justice."
The delegates blinked. A nun working for the UN delegation wept silently.
"She walks among the blind," Father Barack continued. "She kneels beside the hungry. To encounter her is to see through the eyes of mercy. To serve the poor is to touch her cloak."
Images flooded the minds of the assembly: children in Sudan scrubbing their eyes with rags, mothers in Bangladesh carrying blind sons to distant clinics, elderly women in Bolivia grinding maize by hand under a thatched roof—yet in each scene, a luminous woman in blue stood near them, unseen by all but the heart.
The sages lowered their heads. The portal shimmered, began to fade.
"You hold the tools," they whispered. "Medicine. Wealth. Knowledge. Speed. Use them not to divide, but to heal. End poverty. Eradicate trachoma. For every blind child who sees again is a prophecy fulfilled."
And then, one word, carried on a breath of desert wind, echoing across continents:
"PEACE."
The mirror dissolved.
Silence in Geneva. Long and deep.
Then, the Ethiopian ambassador stood. “I propose an emergency resolution. A global initiative—‘Vision & Dignity’—to eliminate trachoma by 2030 and halve extreme poverty in the most vulnerable regions within five years. Funded collectively. Monitored transparently. Guided not just by data… but by conscience.”
One by one, hands rose in agreement.
In Shashemene, the sages dispersed into the twilight, their forms slowly blending with the mist rising from the land. Father Barack paused, gazing northward.
“Culture evolves,” he murmured, “not by discarding the past, but by carrying it into the light.”
And high above, in the vast Ethiopian sky, a single star—brighter than the rest—seemed to blink once, like a promise.
PEACE.
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