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“The “Lost Day” film and the comments by Putin and Medvedev have revealed a great deal: that the invasion of Georgia in August 2008 was indeed a preplanned aggression and that so-called “Russian peacekeepers” in South Ossetia and Abkhazia were in fact the vanguard of the invading forces that were in blatant violation of Russia’s international obligations and were training and arming the separatist forces. The admission by Putin that Ossetian separatist militias acted as an integral part of the Russian military plan transfers legal responsibility for acts of ethnic cleansing of Georgian civilians and mass marauding inside and outside of South Ossetia to the Russian military and political leadership. Putin’s admission of the prewar integration of the Ossetian separatist militias into the Russian General Staff war plans puts into question the integrity of the independent European Union war report, written by Swiss diplomat Heidi Tagliavini that accused the Georgians of starting the war and attacking Russian “peacekeepers,” which, according to Tagliavini, warranted a Russian military response.”

“The Lost Girls Nomad girls are Lost Ones too, With leaves at foot and crown; They too seek shelter in the tress, Drink Red and Gold and Brown. Their circlets made of steam and rain, Their lashes powdered ash, They're firelight, they're fox's kill, They're blood and sweat and scratch. Lost Boys fly forever, and crow the rising sun. They play all day in Neverland, their laughter mermaid-spun. But Lost Girls live underground: They steal from hole to hole. They drink the shadows, wear the night, And paint their cheeks with coal. And when the wind turns colder, They split a doe and climb inside. Still-warm sinew wraps their hands, Dead muscle soaks the light. You'll never tell what's girl, what's beast, Once bloody fur's been trussed- So think your happy thoughts, Lost Boy, Wish on your Fairy Dust.”

“the lost women I need to know their names those women I would have walked with, jauntily the way men go in groups swinging their arms, and the ones those sweating women whom I would have joined After a hard game to chew the fat what would we have called each other laughing joking into our beer? where are my gangs, my teams, my mislaid sisters? all the women who could have known me, where in the world are their names?”

“The Lottery by Stewart Stafford It was New York, 1984, The AIDS tsunami roared in, Friends, old overnight, no more, Breathless, I went for a check-up. A freezing winter's dawn, A solitary figure before me, What we called a drag queen, White heels trembled in the cold. "Hi, are you here to get tested?" Gum chewed, brown eyes stared. This was not my type of person, I turned heel and walked away. At month's end, a crippling flu, The grey testing centre called, Two hundred people ahead of me; A waking nightmare all too real. I gave up and turned to leave, But a familiar voice called out: "Hey, you there, come back!" I stopped and turned around. The drag queen stood there in furs, But sicker, I didn't recognise them, "Stand with me in the line, honey." "Nah, I'm fine, I'll come back again." "Support an old broad before she faints?" A voice no longer frail but pin-sharp. I got in line to impatient murmurs: "If anyone has a problem, see me!" Sylvester on boombox, graveyard choir. My pal's stage name was Carol DaRaunch, (After the Ted Bundy female survivor) Their real name was Ernesto Rodriguez. After seeing the doctor, Carol hugged me, Writing down their number on some paper, With their alias not their real name on it: "Is this the number of where you work?" "THAT is my home number to call me on. THAT'S my autograph, for when I'm famous!" "I was wrong about you, Carol," I said. "Baby, it takes time to get to know me!" A hug, shimmy, the threadbare blonde left. A silent chorus of shuffling dead men walking, Spartan results, a young man's death sentence. Real words faded rehearsal, my eyes watered. Two weeks on, I cautiously phoned up Carol. The receiver was picked up, dragging sounds, Like furniture being moved: "Is Carol there?" "That person is dead." They hung up on me. All my life's harsh judgements, dumped on Carol, Who was I to win life's lottery over a guardian angel? I still keep that old phone number forty years on, Crumpled, faded, portable guilt lives on in my wallet. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”

“The Lotus in Buddhism is a sacred symbol that represents purity and resurrection as attributes that develop through a spiritual awakening of the self. With humble beginnings in swamplands, the Lotus flower exquisitely blooms, pure and untainted, from this murky world it thrives in. The Lotus flower represents a higher state of mind, a strong spirit cultivated far from the suffering and temptations of this muddied world that personifies beauty through the present moment.”

“The lotus is the most beautiful flower, whose petals open one by one. But it will only grow in the mud. In order to grow and gain wisdom, first you must have the mud --- the obstacles of life and its suffering. ... The mud speaks of the common ground that humans share, no matter what our stations in life. ... Whether we have it all or we have nothing, we are all faced with the same obstacles: sadness, loss, illness, dying and death. If we are to strive as human beings to gain more wisdom, more kindness and more compassion, we must have the intention to grow as a lotus and open each petal one by one.”

“The loud banging on Himari’s door could only be one person, only one person in the world knocked like that, her neighbor Filippo ben Vincente. “I am not home,” Himari yelled, refusing to leave her nest on the couch. “I have your favorite… amaretti. Still warm from the oven,” Filippo coaxed. Himari looked at the junk food wrappers scattered on the coffee table and thought about her empty kitchen. Filippo’s cookies were divine. “Make me a cappuccino, too?” “Yes, I make you two cappuccino. Come on.” Himari rolled her eyes. She stopped correcting his English, especially when she found it charming. Shuffling to the door, she pulled it open and gave him a reluctant smile. He threw up his hands and said, “Mamma Mia, look at you, eh? What is this you are wearing? It’s the same clothes since two days ago, and they were disgusting then.” “Shut up and give me cookies.” Himari moved past him, seeing his studio door ajar.”

“The loud rasp of leather yanked through Carson’s belt loops sent her attention to his torso. “What are you doing?” London’s panicked gaze shot to his face. “I don’t have a collar on me.” “I am wholly disinterested in being collared.” “One weekend, London.” He grasped one of her hips with his free hand. “If you’re disappointed at any time, you can walk. I’ll never speak of it again. Our work together will go unaffected. No one—and I mean no one—but us will know.” “Would you put that in writing?” Her eyes filled with mischief. Priceless. London lured him toward a lightning storm. He could play. Hell, nothing appealed in the moment more than a weekend playing with London. Yes, this is what he wanted. Now he needed to know if she was willing. “I’ll do one better.” He snaked the belt around her waist until the leather rested against her hips. “I’m not a notch on a belt.” “You could never be a notch, London Chantelle. You’re the whole belt, sugar.” Her face softened, and the playfulness in her eyes died. He recognized the deliberation behind them, the wonder if she’d be safe, here and at work. London needn’t have worried. She might get scared, but mutual satisfaction was the only way his brand of sexual fulfillment worked. “Say yes or no.” He pressed his torso to her corseted body, the last space between her body and his obliterated. “But say yes.” “What will happen if I say yes?” “What you want. What you’ve probably always wanted.” Her eyes misted with a surprising vulnerability. “Yes.”

“The loud sounds of my mind blind me every night. I close my eyes to sleep on time but the visions come alive. They remind me of the scars and the pain in my past life. I try to move on but this haunts me in the present time. All I want is to sleep, to snore it away, and dream. But, the mind is a pool of chaos in which I drown with every swim. I want to feel better but it gets under my skin and reminds me of a ship of hope that is about to sink.”

“The louder the dogs bark the less a lion feels threatened.”