ClickWorldDaily · by Jon ✍️ stories with soul.

  A world where the price tag shapes what we want, and every bargain reveals more about us than we imagine. The Price of Wanting There is a peculiar thrill in watching a number fall. A red tag on a shelf, a crossed-out figure in a newsletter, the word SALE pulsing on a screen like a heartbeat. It is more than a promise of savings. It is a permission slip for desire. We are taught, over and over, that wanting is dangerous only when it comes at full price. A discount makes desire feel safe, almost virtuous. To take home what once felt indulgent now feels like winning. Picture a simple scene: a sweater in a shop window. At $100, it gathers dust. Marked at $200 and then cut in half, it suddenly becomes a prize. Same fabric, same threads, yet the mind rewrites it. It now feels like victory, as if we outsmarted the world’s arithmetic. Somewhere deep down, a calculation flickers, not of need, not of love, but of opportunity. The bargain is the bait; the value, a ghost. Numbers as Magicia...

Not every book needs a weekend, a quiet room, or a grand plan. Some books are patient. They wait for you. You can open them on a train ride, in a noisy café, or just before bed. A page at a time. A thought at a time. These aren’t stories you rush through. They’re the kind you sit with, like a friend who never minds the silence. Small enough to carry. Big enough to stay. *Some links in this post may support my work. See full disclosure at the end.* 5. Keep Going by Austin Kleon Creativity isn’t a finish line. It’s a way of moving through the world. My note: I didn’t rush this book. I’d open a page whenever I felt stuck, and it always had something simple that made sense at the right time. Keep Going – Paperback Published: April 2, 2019 Author: Austin Kleon ⭐ 4.7 out of 5 (5,900+ reviews) • Goodreads 4.2 (35,00...

  When only one remains untouched by time It happened so quietly that, for years, I thought it was just luck or a fluke of the doctors. My friends grew older, their faces softened, their voices changed with the seasons. I stayed the same. At first, I called it a blessing: no aches, no new lines around my eyes, no need to say goodbye. I watched the ones I loved count their years, while I collected mine in silence, holding each birthday like a stone I could never put down. The Double-Edged Gift At first, immortality was luminous. I could do anything, love anyone, learn without the fear of running out of time. I spent years exploring art, languages, the corners of cities I’d only seen on postcards. Every moment held the thrill of possibility: nothing had to end, no door truly closed, there was always another chance. Joy lasted longer, discoveries could be savored. I saw places rebuilt, wounds in history begin to heal. To be untouched by age was to live a hundred lifetimes in one body....

As I write this, in the early hours of July 30, 2025 (local time), a major natural disaster is still unfolding across the Pacific. Only hours ago, a massive 8.8-magnitude earthquake struck off Russia’s remote Kamchatka Peninsula, instantly triggering tsunami alerts for countries all around the Pacific Rim. Tsunami waves and emergency warnings are still in effect as this article goes live. The full impact is not yet known. What follows is a snapshot, as events develop in real time. Unfolding Right Now In Russia’s Kamchatka region, waves up to five meters (about 16 feet) have flooded coastal towns, swept boats from ports, and damaged buildings. Officials said it was the strongest earthquake in the region since 1952. Videos show residents fleeing to higher ground and the sound of sirens echoing through neighborhoods. Power has been lost in some areas, evacuations are ongoing and aftershocks continue. In Japan, more than 1.9 million people have been told to evacuate after tsunami alarms so...

Where every unlived life waits behind glass. Every museum promises memory, but this one collects everything that could have been. It stands in a city few remember, behind windows no one looks through. Even the sign is always one day from being finished. Some say the doors are locked to keep visitors out. Others whisper they are locked to keep the exhibits from escaping. Crossing the Threshold The line to enter is never long. Those who find themselves at the entrance do not recall what led them there, only a quiet ache, a name at the edge of thought, or the echo of a chance missed years ago. The doorman wears no uniform, only a ribbon tied to his wrist, a faded reminder that he once waited here too. He asks no questions. He collects no fee. The price is always paid on the way out. Rooms of Almost Inside, the air is still. Every step echoes. Light falls in strange directions, neither day nor night. The first hall is filled with sculptures. Each one wears a face you almost recognize: your...

Every absence leaves its own outline, but not every gesture shows its cost. He started his shift the way he always did: uniform buttoned, mind still fogged with sleep, shoes half-shined but good enough. He stopped at the corner café, ordered the usual. Coffee, toast, two eggs over. The place was quiet, all routine. The bell on the door, the scrape of chairs, the low radio hum. At the counter, a boy fumbled with coins, hands trembling just a little too much for this hour. The officer watched him. Something in the kid’s face: wide-eyed, pale, a little out of place. A few coins slipped from his hand, rolled beneath the pastry case. Without thinking, the officer knelt down, reached for the change, pressed it into the boy’s palm. He managed a smile, said, Don’t worry, everyone’s got mornings like this. The boy mumbled thanks, eyes down, voice thin. The officer nodded, took his own coffee to a corner booth, and forgot about the moment before the first sip cooled. Breakfast and Beginnings He ...

  🎧 Listen to the narrated version of this story Chapter I.  First Departures Never Feel Like Beginnings The first to enter didn’t look back. Esvin rolled her chair over the threshold and let the door seal itself. Her hands trembled, not from fear but from the abruptness of choice. There was a taste of iron in the air, like the last morning before a storm. She lingered for a breath, letting her wheels adjust to the strange grip of the floor. The room was colder than she expected. She kept her jacket zipped, fingers tight around the armrest, as if the old city were still outside and could pull her back at any moment. She almost missed the crack in the wall. Someone else’s initials, half-scraped away. Her eyes flicked to it, then away, as if seeing a memory she didn’t want to share. Someone else was already there. Timurq, shoulders hunched, reading. A list he would never finish. He didn’t speak. He didn’t seem to notice the cold blue glow on the walls or the way his own han...