自強街87號

This is a true story happening in England when a famous writer of the best-seller "God, where are You?", Rave Zacharias, took a stroll with his wife.
One day a terrible storm hit their community near Buckingham Palace with no mercy. The wind brought down thousands of trees, yes, I mean thousands of them. But there was one thing Ravi was quite confused. All the trees brought down were so tall and thick yet with roots amazingly short. He didn't realize a thing about it till he discussed this with some of his friends: the reason why the trees there had so short roots was the underground water layer in the region was very close to the surface, so close that the roots didn't have to reach down so deeply to absorb water. And that's exactly why these thick trunks looked strong and chunky but with so short roots, which would never persist the heavy blows of storms. That's why they were all down, even after maybe hundreds of years' growing, all but in vain.

Aquele que medita na lei do Altissimo, se for do agrado do Senhor omnipotente, sera cheio do espirito de inteligencia. Entao ele derramara, como chuva, as suas palavras de sabedoria e na sua oracao louvara o Senhor. Adquirira a rectidao do julgamento e da ciencia e reflectira nos misterios de Deus. Fara brilhar a instrucao que recebeu e a sua gloria estara na lei da alianca do Senhor. Muitos louvarao a sua inteligencia, que jamais sera esquecida. Nao desaparecera asua memoria e o seu nome vivera de geracao em geracao. As nacoes proclamarao a sua sabedoria e a assembleia celebrara os seus louvores.
Deus eterno e todo-poderoso, que em Santo Antonio destes ao vosso povo um pregador insigne do Evangeho e um poderoso intercessor nas necessidades. Paravra do Senhor.
What is this passage all about and where was I then? Tell me, and you win the super jackpot!

"Paul", remember this name, especially when you encounter some unsolving problems on your PC. You and I should be thankful to him for his timely help with a rare problem on my blog space design: I just couldn't change my space outfit, nor could I post anything new, including this one.
I called him, while he was having a romantic breakfast with a freshman at National Taipei University..(no, not romantic, this is for Gab only), telling him my problem, hanging up the phone, waiting about 5 minutes, and the problem was done. So cool! Here is the solution, and I share with you guys in honor of our good brother, Paul:
When you are screwed by a shitty blog space outfit like the one on the fourth, page 1, in Wretch, "my beautiful f#$$ing yellow diary",  just do as followed:
1. Have your friend leave a message with the hyperlink to you blog backstage management pannel.
2. Copy the hyperlink and attatch it on the main search bar, and you will see your blog backstage.
3. Click "Recovery King", choose "back to my original page design", and you will be back to the oringinal status where you will not be tied up.
4. Post a new article, whose title is "Thank you, Paul. I hope you will eat your apple soon!"
Paul will be very happy to see that.   

Nice! Great essayist. You just never lose your "whatever" style. I like it. Honestly to speak, I quite agree with your view points about life, and I know well about your inner conflicts and agonies between seemlingly cruel reality and your pure, innocent heart. But there is still something you don't figure out, or, let me put it this way, something neither you nor I could accept, especially when I was at your age.
If life is a fucking game, then who do you think you would be? A chess master who commands the whole battle? No, you will certainly lose in the end.
Then where is the king? You will never see the target when you ever had a litte eagerness to want to take control over it.
In fact, you are only a figure, maybe a pawn, maybe a knight, luckily, a cannon. You know, no one can move him or herself in the very correct position at one's own will, because we ourselves are parts in the whole fucking game. What worse is, we can neither have a chance trying to escape frome it.
Life is a bitch, if you put your only hope onto life itself. The reality is an illusion. What you see will be what will make you blind. Winning or losing means nothing to you, because it is not you that manipulate the whole thing. What we can do is to act our roles well to fulfill our tasks, and we owe the consequences to the one who really set the game start.
I am so sorry to say that there are few people indeed, in spite of the kindly remindings even warnings from the player at one side, willing to give up their right back to the real player. Well, I tell you a fucking truth: there are actually only two players in the game, not 34. The 32 figures always want to take part in the sovereignty, and their lives are in a mass, including me, a poor pawn, which makes one of the two players almost exhilarated. All to the end will then they know that their efforts to grab something or take something frome this world as their own is in vain. Then they will begin to ponder what life is and who they are. Yet time and tide wait for no man, and the whole fucking game is fucking over. They are all fucked. Trust me, my brother, or you will have to prove it with the rest of your life. I have done that before. And believe me, it's not worthy.
 
To many people, this is the fucking life.  

Oh, Lord, help me to make myself more understood about what You inspire me.
Set me in the right groove You've been planning for me.
And remind me in time when I would jump out of it.
Diverities are attractive for I never know
How much danger is dormant and how great damage it could bring forth.
Understand me, and thus allow me to be a Transformer.
You know well what I am supposed to do as a Transformer
To be obedient under Your will,
Subject to your disciplines, and complete the missions You have assigned
With all the talents You grant me.
Build me a Transformer
For You have revealed me this heavenly mysterious potential
And permit me to perform it.
I know, too, that I once practiced it,
Spoiled it and wasted lots of my juvenility.
Yet I am quite aware, with peace in Christ,
Of the tasks I am about to be devoted to.
Please take pride in my intention under Your encourgement
If I dared declare it is from Your assessment ---
To be a humble servant equipped with specified armors,
Which are taylormade according to my own development as
A Transformer. 

To imitate someone after his or her outfit or manner is great fun. On the other hand, it shows one's identification to another's viewpoints or styles. It allows the one who mocks others to feel in others' ways of thinking, trying to express oneself through another's interpretation. Unlike many others, I like others to copy me,too, no matter whether the way of talking, thinking or even the things I have done. I see this, quite the oppisite, as a great respect to me and I feel honored. And I will do this also to show someone my highly appretiation for I fairly agree with what he or she has done. So, why not being a copy cat?  

A very famous German writer Eric Kestner once took a long trip with his company on a train. Because of a tedious and tiring ride, his friend fell into a sleep. In the meanwhile, he suddenly jumped off and shouted, "Oh, I forgot to taking my sleeping pills." He took out the pills from the luggage, taking some of them, and went back to his sleep again.
--- People in change, habits though on stage ---   
Adapted and translated from 活潑的生命

Around 1894, there was a gardener named Bob. In addition to going to church every Sunday, he often prayed for others to God intently and was willing to obey what God had told him. He faithfully carried out his task and served his master for over 40 years. He loved to take care of plants, growing them, watering their fresh buds and shoots, and gloating them ripen in the tree shades. He spared little time staying with his own family and always focus on taking care of his master, patiently and uncomplainingly. Indeed, he was from head to toe an ordinary family man but an excellent, loyal and God-loving servant.
One day, the old gardener worrily hurried to his master, Geld, who was the richest landlord and merchant in the town near London. He panted, "Something wrong will be happening, my dear lord"
"Take your time, Bob, don't be so hesitating." 
"But forgive me, Lord, it is what I wish to see least. It would be you that concern." 
"Well, go on and tell me what shall I encounter", the master tried to calm down his old servant; somehow he felt a bit amusing but comforted when a person close to him paid so much care about him. 
"I had a terrible dream; I saw very clearly an angel came down and told me that the wealthiest man in this town will die at midnight today... My lord, I know it is but a dream, anyway I'm  really worried and don't wish that happen. You ought to be very careful till tomorrow."
The master, however, though not quite convinced, called for the physician home and had his body carefully examined and urged to stayed by his side till midnight, without leaving his living room a single step.
After the clock stroke 12, the master and his doctor gave a long sigh of relief. Being aware of his survival, the master turned a bit angry with his old servant; a shade of blaming has inevitably been put on his slightly scared, pale face. At this moment, there a knock on the door.
"Who are you? Since it's been so late," the master questioned. "So sorry to bother you, Sir. But I have to tell you my father died half an hour ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that, young lady. Who is your father then?" the master replied fairly listlessly.
"My father is Bob L. Williams, Sir. He is your gardener."
Translated by pollinikrys