ATLANTIS IN THE BIBLE:
A HOAX BY THE PYTHON SPIRIT
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Plato’s Atlantis has never been found. What if Atlantis is not a historical or archaeological issue but a theological issue? Did Plato give us only the sunset dimension of Atlantis in the west, in my book I identify the sunrise dimension of Atlantis. Other researchers did not know the Biblical principle of aionian times. They also overlooked the role of Plato’s idol Academos. That’s why they never found Atlantis, but I did. [Read my book here] – leon elshout, NL
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God’s voice in,
Matthew 3:17, Mark 1:11, Luke 3:22;
Matthew 17:5, Luke 9:35, 2 Peter 1:17; John 12:28.
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If you believe that Jesus had died for our sins (Not instead of)
and that he was entombed
and that he three days later
was raised from the death by God,
you are saved – 1 Corinthians 15:3-4
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The dark side of official Christianity comes from influences of Greek dogma and philosophy, starting with the false doctrine of the Trinity
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http://goedbericht.nl/category/chronologie
https://www.bringthemhome-diy.com/
https://cvandaag.nl/98416-oorlog-in-isral-laat-zien-dat-we-in-profetisch-spannende-tijden-leven
scripture4all
Concordante Publicaties
E-Boeken
Bijbels Denken
Evangelie Om Niet
Concordant Publ.
Cydonia Codex
KILLERS
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Find out what Dedan (Ezekiel 27-28)/Al Ula has to do with Atlantis
[Read my book here]
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Revelation 17-18: Is Endtimes Babylon an inflatable barrack?
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The New Jerusalem, Revelation 21
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High school, 1983/84, I was terribly in love with classmate
MARIËLLE
and sent her desperate love letters
As the bell rings, signalling the start of another school day, I nervously make my way through the hall, unable to shake the image of Mariëlle from my mind. She stands out among the crowd, her medium figure adorned in pink jeans and a black sweater. Her blushing cheeks only serve to heighten her beauty, making her the unattainable girl. Despite my yearning to make contact with her, I remain frozen in place as she leans against the radiator. The tension in the air is palpable, and I’m left wondering if this is the day I muster the courage to approach her.
Two days after after sending my love letter to Mariëlle, I nervously await her reaction as I enter the hall of our high school. As I glance around, my heart skips a beat when I see her standing against the radiator, her signature pink jeans and black sweater perfectly contrasting against the warm background. She seems to be deep in thought, lost in her own world. Do I approach her? Or should I give her some space? The tension builds as I struggle with my decision. The sun streams through the high school windows, casting a warm, golden glow across the polished wooden floor as students mill about, chattering excitedly. I take a deep breath, feeling the butterflies in my stomach intensify as I approach the entrance of the hall. My heart is pounding so loudly that I can almost feel the blood rushing through my veins. I can’t help but look around, searching for her. Mariëlle. The girl who holds my heart in her hands, or at least, the girl who I hope holds it.
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Mail from an agnostic
Mail from an agnostic 2
Mail from an agnostic 3
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OH LORI
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I’M IN LOVE WITH AMENA
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MOM
It’s been a year and a half since I last heard from my mother. She lives in the east of Holland, while I now call Amsterdam my home. I keep the cheap phone I bought in the market close, the only connection I have to her. The key to our old house and her phone number are the only things I still have from her, and I cling to them tightly. Every day, I stare at the phone, willing it to ring, but it never does. I’m afraid to lose our phone number, afraid it would sever the last remaining thread connecting us.
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If anything underscores my belief in the existence of God, it is the peacock. Why did God create the peacock? Because God is an artist and he had fun doing it (1 Kings 10:22). How much vodka must you have drunk to believe that a bucket of amino acids clumped together by chance and became a peacock after billions of years?
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(Drunk mom is cheating with dad’s business rival)
“Mom…!”
As I sat in the corner of the dimly lit bar, my heart heavy with sorrow and anger, I couldn’t help but watch as my once-vibrant mother, reduced to a pathetic shell of her former self, giggled and flirted with the sleazy businessman sitting beside her. The sight was enough to make my stomach turn, as if I was witnessing some twisted caricature of the woman who had given birth to and raised me. The businessman, his eyes glassy with lust and alcohol, smiled approvingly at her every word, oblivious to the pain and humiliation he was inflicting upon her. And there she was, in the far corner of the room, her once-vibrant features now pale and drawn, her eyes sunken and bloodshot. Her long, once-luxurious hair was now tangled and greasy, and she wore the same tired, defeated expression she had worn every day for the past few months. It was as if she had given up on everything, including herself. I watched as she giggled and flirted with the sleazy businessman who had been buying her drinks all night. He was older, much older, with a receding hairline and a paunch that strained against his expensive suit. His eyes were glassy with lust and alcohol, and he smiled at her with a predatory gleam in his eye. She, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the attention, her once-proud posture now slumped and defeated. The sight of them together was enough to make my stomach turn. It was as if I was watching some twisted caricature of the woman who had given birth to and raised me. I wanted to believe that this wasn’t really her, that she was still somewhere inside that broken shell of a body, but with each passing day, it became harder and harder to hold on to that hope. The businessman leaned in closer, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh.
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MY BOSS’ WIFE
If you are single then you will either get married or jerk off “on your boss’s wife” to appease your horniness – 1 Corinthians 7
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Carnival of sin
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FEBRUARY 2013, TEHRAN CAFÉ
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Sonicchrist
Lola Pani
Historische Kring Almelo
Einat Wilf
Nirut Ben
Wrapunzel
SJAKIE VAN DE HOEK
Noa Tishby
Who Moved the Stone?
Pa in de peeskamer
Rosa Luxemburg
Menno Ter Braak
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Mom, where are you?
Genesis 37:35 – the sheol, “nothingness”
After the funeral, I find myself lost in memories of my mother. I reminisce about our shared moments, the laughter and tears, and the unspoken bond that connected us. I wonder where she is now, in this place called sheol, “nothingness.” I close my eyes and imagine her spirit floating among the stars, guiding me through the darkness. As I stand at her grave, I promise to honor her memory by living a life filled with love and kindness, just as she did.
The sun hangs low in the sky, its warmth no match for the chill that permeates the air. A light breeze rustles through the leaves of the trees, carrying with it a whisper of the past. I stand before the freshly dug grave, my heart heavy with grief as I take in the simple wooden casket that holds my mother’s remains. The funeral director, a kind-faced woman who had seen far too much sorrow, hands me a shovel. Gently, I begin to fill the grave, careful not to disturb the delicate soil that had been so lovingly prepared. Memories flood my mind, unbidden and relentless. There are the countless times she had tucked me into bed as a child, humming lullabies as she smoothed my hair away from my face. The countless meals she had cooked for our family, each dish more delicious than the last. The countless times she had sat beside me, listening patiently as I poured out my heart, never once judging or offering advice. And then there were the laughter-filled moments, the moments of pure joy that she had brought into our lives. A tear trickles down my cheek as I recall the last time I saw her. It was just a few short weeks ago, when she had been admitted to the hospital. Her once-vibrant spirit had been all but extinguished by the disease that ravaged her body. I held her frail hand, feeling the coldness of her skin against mine, and I knew then that this was the end. I leaned in close, pressing a kiss to her forehead, whispering words of love and reassurance that I prayed she could hear. Now, as I stand here, those memories are all that I have left. They are my constant companions, my comfort in a world that seems to have grown colder and darker without her. I close my eyes, willing myself to find some semblance of peace amidst the turmoil of my heart. And as I do so, I am overcome with the certainty that my mother’s spirit still lingers here, watching over me. A single tear rolls down my cheek, leaving a trail of moisture on my face. I wipe it away roughly, determined not to let my grief consume me. Instead, I focus on the promise I made to her as she lay dying in that hospital bed. I promised to live a life filled with love and kindness, just as she did. And as I stand here now, surrounded by the beauty and the pain of life, I know that the task ahead of me is both daunting and essential. I take one last look at the grave before me, and with a deep breath, I turn away. My journey has only just begun. But with each step I take, I carry with me the memory of my mother, and the knowledge that her love will always be a part of me. As the setting sun casts a warm glow across the landscape, I find myself hoping that one day I will join her in whatever lies beyond this world. Until then, I will honor her memory by living a life that is as vibrant and beautiful as she was.
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The New Jerusalem, Revelation 21
*
*
High school, 1983/84, I was terribly in love with classmate
MARIËLLE
and sent her desperate love letters
As the bell rings, signalling the start of another school day, I nervously make my way through the hall, unable to shake the image of Mariëlle from my mind. She stands out among the crowd, her medium figure adorned in pink jeans and a black sweater. Her blushing cheeks only serve to heighten her beauty, making her the unattainable girl. Despite my yearning to make contact with her, I remain frozen in place as she leans against the radiator. The tension in the air is palpable, and I’m left wondering if this is the day I muster the courage to approach her.
Two days after after sending my love letter to Mariëlle, I nervously await her reaction as I enter the hall of our high school. As I glance around, my heart skips a beat when I see her standing against the radiator, her signature pink jeans and black sweater perfectly contrasting against the warm background. She seems to be deep in thought, lost in her own world. Do I approach her? Or should I give her some space? The tension builds as I struggle with my decision. The sun streams through the high school windows, casting a warm, golden glow across the polished wooden floor as students mill about, chattering excitedly. I take a deep breath, feeling the butterflies in my stomach intensify as I approach the entrance of the hall. My heart is pounding so loudly that I can almost feel the blood rushing through my veins. I can’t help but look around, searching for her. Mariëlle. The girl who holds my heart in her hands, or at least, the girl who I hope holds it.
*
Mail from an agnostic
Mail from an agnostic 2
Mail from an agnostic 3
*
OH LORI
*
I’M IN LOVE WITH AMENA
*
MOM
It’s been a year and a half since I last heard from my mother. She lives in the east of Holland, while I now call Amsterdam my home. I keep the cheap phone I bought in the market close, the only connection I have to her. The key to our old house and her phone number are the only things I still have from her, and I cling to them tightly. Every day, I stare at the phone, willing it to ring, but it never does. I’m afraid to lose our phone number, afraid it would sever the last remaining thread connecting us.
*
If anything underscores my belief in the existence of God, it is the peacock. Why did God create the peacock? Because God is an artist and he had fun doing it (1 Kings 10:22). How much vodka must you have drunk to believe that a bucket of amino acids clumped together by chance and became a peacock after billions of years?
*
*
*
*
*
*
(Drunk mom is cheating with dad’s business rival)
“Mom…!”
As I sat in the corner of the dimly lit bar, my heart heavy with sorrow and anger, I couldn’t help but watch as my once-vibrant mother, reduced to a pathetic shell of her former self, giggled and flirted with the sleazy businessman sitting beside her. The sight was enough to make my stomach turn, as if I was witnessing some twisted caricature of the woman who had given birth to and raised me. The businessman, his eyes glassy with lust and alcohol, smiled approvingly at her every word, oblivious to the pain and humiliation he was inflicting upon her. And there she was, in the far corner of the room, her once-vibrant features now pale and drawn, her eyes sunken and bloodshot. Her long, once-luxurious hair was now tangled and greasy, and she wore the same tired, defeated expression she had worn every day for the past few months. It was as if she had given up on everything, including herself. I watched as she giggled and flirted with the sleazy businessman who had been buying her drinks all night. He was older, much older, with a receding hairline and a paunch that strained against his expensive suit. His eyes were glassy with lust and alcohol, and he smiled at her with a predatory gleam in his eye. She, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the attention, her once-proud posture now slumped and defeated. The sight of them together was enough to make my stomach turn. It was as if I was watching some twisted caricature of the woman who had given birth to and raised me. I wanted to believe that this wasn’t really her, that she was still somewhere inside that broken shell of a body, but with each passing day, it became harder and harder to hold on to that hope. The businessman leaned in closer, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh.
*
MY BOSS’ WIFE
If you are single then you will either get married or jerk off “on your boss’s wife” to appease your horniness – 1 Corinthians 7
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Carnival of sin
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FEBRUARY 2013, TEHRAN CAFÉ
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