双色球第2025046期945万大奖得主（?右）

4月27日晚，双色球第2025046期开奖，江北区的?吕女士（化姓）依附一张10元的机选单式票，乐成斩获当期1注一等奖，奖?金945万?元，拿下重庆今年第5注双色球一等奖！

?

4月28日下昼，吕女士在丈夫的陪同下，低调现身市福彩中心兑?奖大厅领走了这?份“意外之喜”
。谈及中奖履历，吕女士笑着说：“我是早上?临上班前刷手?机看?到开奖信息的，核对了好几遍才确认是我中奖！不过其时手头尚有工?作没完成，以是先处置惩罚完事情，下昼才请假来领奖
。”

吕女士透露，自己购彩时间并不长，是在丈夫影响下才最先接触福利彩票?的，“我恋人是十几年的双色球老彩民了，我平时只是无意随着买几注，基本都是机选
。”而这次中奖的彩票，正是她在开奖当天“随手”机选的5注号码
。

陪同吕女士一起来的?刘先生（化姓），既兴奋又感伤：“我买了这么多年双色球，最多只中过三等奖，没想到反而是我妻子‘无心插柳’中了大奖！?”他笑称?，虽然自己没中，但妻子的好运也算是圆了他的“大奖梦”
。

关于奖金妄想，伉俪俩体现，主要目的是改善栖身?条件?，“妄想换套大点的屋子，剩下?的先存起来，逐步妄想
。”同?时，俩人也?体现会继续支持福利彩票?，“就当是??生涯中的小期待，理性投注，实事求是
。”

（重庆福彩）

• 　　为拯救更多甲流重症患者，现在，省、市血站已周全启动甲流康复者和疫苗接种者血浆募捐行动
  。我省市各级血液中心（血站）将起劲招募献血者，一旦征得自己赞成，并切合无偿献血要求，血液中心将安排专门时间举行采血，拯救更多甲流患者
  。
• There are few in my zip code with whom I could share the joy of this moment. I can report that the apparatchiks are all walking around dazed and despondent, like Japanese schoolkids who have just heard the emperor announce the capitulation on the radio .
• 中国银行研究院10月8日宣布的《2023年四序度经济金融展望报告》指出，展望四序度，我国前期出台的一系列稳增添政策将继续显效，效劳消耗潜力继续释放，基建投资有望提速，高手艺和民间制造业将支持制造业投资较快增添，经济内生增添动力有望增强
  。
• There are limited ways to atone from behind prison walls, but John MacKenzie found opportunities. In prison, he organized sessions for murderers like himself who wanted to repent. Rather than seek to forget his crime, he spoke often of the man he had shot and killed, a Long Island police officer named Matthew Giglio. And he encouraged other inmates to do the same, to speak their victim’s name and to remember that somewhere on the outside, all these years later, a family was still grieving. “John would push us,” said one friend, Sebastian Ventimiglia, who spent 37 years in prison for murder. “It was heavy, man, and John was the group leader. ” Mr. MacKenzie was, by all accounts, a model inmate. He had not committed a single disciplinary infraction since 1980. But one fact about him would never change, not even after 40 years in prison: He was a cop killer, and he finally realized that the parole board was unlikely to ever think of him as anything else. “I can’t redeem myself in the eyes of anybody,” he said at his parole hearing in July. A week after the parole board turned him down for the 10th time, his exemplary prison record came to an end: On Aug. 4, Mr. MacKenzie, 70, hanged himself with a sheet at the Fishkill Correctional Facility in Beacon, N. Y. For the last 15 years, he beseeched the board to consider the man he had become and not only the crime he had committed. “I believe you will agree that I should be given the opportunity to prove that rehabilitation really works and that I should be released,” he wrote to the parole board. In this, Mr. MacKenzie had a number of supporters, including the bishop of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Albany and a state judge, who this year began to fine the parole board for what she believed was its unwillingness to evaluate Mr. MacKenzie’s rehabilitation. “This case begs the question: If parole isn’t granted to this petitioner, when and under what circumstances would it be granted?” Justice Maria G. Rosa of State Supreme Court wrote in May. The possibility of rehabilitation is a central premise underpinning New York State’s penal system, where sentences like the one Mr. MacKenzie received — 25 years to life — are typical. Such sentences suggest the possibility of release but leave the decision to the parole board. One recent survey found that the parole board in New York has the power to leave more inmates — 9, 262 as of January of this year — in prison until their dying breath than any state but California. Mr. MacKenzie became eligible for release in 2000, after 25 years in prison. When he appeared before the parole board, he said that he wished he had been the one to die, and not Officer Giglio. “I wish that night it was me,” he said the first of many times that he would appear before the board. But when pressed to explain his crime, a question he would be asked at every parole hearing, Mr. MacKenzie struggled. He said that he could not actually remember shooting Officer Giglio. He was in the middle of a blackout — he used the term “automatism” — which he attributed to the pills he was then taking. There were a lot — Darvon, Norgesic Forte, Valium and others. It had taken years, in fact, for him to even accept that he had shot Officer Giglio. While reading thousands of pages of testimony from his trial, as he prepared for his appeals, “little bits and pieces started coming and I realize I did this,” he later told a parole board. John MacKenzie had been a thief and fence until 2:30 a. m. on Oct. 7, 1975. At that moment, he was stealing 240 blouses from a women’s clothing store in West Hempstead, tossing them out a window into the trunk of a car, when the police drove by. They saw an idling car, strewed clothing, an open window — and called for backup. Officer Giglio, who was driving an ambulance on a special assignment, soon arrived. Mr. Mackenzie, a big man with a face, tried to flee. The officer held a flashlight, the thief a gun. There was a shot, and Mr. MacKenzie ran. Seven hours later, a dragnet of officers found him hiding under a tarp in a garage 250 yards from the scene. The bullet he had fired pierced Officer Giglio’s intestines and severed his aorta. In the ambulance that he had driven to the scene, he was rushed to Mercy Medical Center in Rockville Centre. His kidneys failed. Gangrene set in. His right leg was amputated three weeks later. Friends and relatives hung pictures of his children so they would be right there when he finally opened his eyes. His wife rarely left his side during the 10 weeks he clung to life. Each evening at the Giglio home in Valley Stream, the grandmother would turn off the television before the children could hear the nightly news, with its updates on their father’s condition. The three children — Doreen, 10 Regina, 8 Matthew Jr. 4 — would gather at the kitchen table to pray for their father. The TV turned off, the prayers at the kitchen table — those were some of Matthew’s earliest memories. Officer Giglio died on Dec. 16, 1975, at age 35. Mr. MacKenzie was convicted of murder and sentenced to 25 years to life in prison. He would have a chance at parole when the new millennium rolled round, but that seemed a long way off. Mr. MacKenzie remained unrepentant until 1983. That year, locked in Attica Correctional Facility, he attended an educational program about crime and punishment. He provoked an argument, saying, “I’m a victim, you know, I got 25 years to life. ” One of the lecturers let him know just how wrong he was. They began to talk. “That was my epiphany,” he recalled decades later at a parole hearing. “From that day on my whole life changed. ” In prison, Mr. MacKenzie was something of an organizer. He helped inmates record themselves reading books aloud — so they would have something to send to their children. He taught some to read and encouraged others to get college degrees. After years of he received permission to convene a group for violent criminals. As part of the program, the inmates met with other crime victims or their relatives. That was how Carolee Brooks found herself visiting Green Haven Correctional Facility in the 1990s. Ms. Brooks told the group about her son’s murder at a bar in Manhattan. She recounted how, during the ensuing trial, she reminded the assistant district attorney not to refer to her son as only “the bartender” but by his name, David. For each crime, she told the group, there was a victim whose memory needed tending. She encouraged the inmates to think of their victims by name, even to say those names aloud. Mr. MacKenzie suggested they start immediately. Around the circle they went. Some said it quietly. Others hung their heads. Matthew Giglio. He began saying the name often. He drafted a letter to Officer Giglio, full of things he wanted to say. He imagined himself apologizing to Officer Giglio’s family. As a prisoner, he was not allowed to contact them directly. But he asked a childhood friend who had become a detective to find out through an intermediary whether the Giglios would be receptive. He spoke to a television reporter about his remorse, hoping the Giglio family would be watching. The Giglios wanted none of it. “Don’t apologize to me,” Phyllis Giglio Carioti, the officer’s widow, said in a phone interview last month. “Get your forgiveness from God. ” Every other year, as Mr. MacKenzie prepared to go before the parole board, the Giglio children would also prepare. They gathered to write letters opposing parole. In front of television cameras, they explained that justice and public safety demanded that their father’s killer remain behind bars. “What I went through, with my children preparing for this, preparing speeches, getting out the scrapbook,” Ms. Giglio Carioti said. “Watching them fall apart all over again. ” Doreen Velardi, the officer’s older daughter, asked at a news conference in June: “What if he seeks revenge on my family? Who will protect us?” In an interview last month, Matthew Giglio Jr. said, “Having him granted parole would not only be a dishonor to our father but to all law enforcement officials. ” James Carver, the president of the Nassau County Police Benevolent Association, was of the same opinion. “If you intentionally kill a police officer, you should go away for life,” Mr. Carver said. “There is not much more to it than that. ” Of Mr. MacKenzie, he added, “He could be the most caring guy in the world, and my position is, you can do God’s work from behind bars. ” That view resonates among many officers, active and retired. “No Parole for Cop Killers” is the slogan on a website devoted to the memory of slain officers, Officer Down Memorial Page, where visitors can sign up to receive alerts about parole hearings. It says it has generated more than 170, 000 “no parole” letters — a number of them opposing Mr. MacKenzie’s release. During Mr. MacKenzie’s parole proceedings, the commissioners would sometimes note that there was significant “community opposition” to his release. But during parole hearings, the sticking point that arose year after year was the fact that Mr. MacKenzie said he had no memory of the crime. “Just because I don’t remember doesn’t preclude me from being responsible for my actions,” Mr. MacKenzie said in 2005, explaining that he feared the parole board “thought I was trying to avoid accepting responsibility. ” But for the board to find remorse, “it has to be an unequivocal mea culpa, there can be no ‘but,’” said Thomas O’Sullivan, a murderer who was imprisoned for 31 years and was close friends with Mr. MacKenzie during the 1980s at Green Haven. Matthew Giglio Jr. said, “If someone doesn’t remember taking a human life, how can they be truly remorseful?” As years passed, Mr. MacKenzie’s friends were paroled. One had bashed a man’s head with a bowling ball. Another had been convicted in a plot. “There was nobody in his life,” Brian Conlan, a close friend who was paroled in 2007, said. In a 2013 letter, Mr. MacKenzie wrote to a friend, “It seems all those who were close to me have gone home and there’s no one left. ” During visiting hours, inmates would invite him to meet their families, because he so rarely had visitors. He was estranged from his two daughters until they reconnected in the final year of his life. He began to consider that he might die in prison. He consulted charts, and he made one last bid for freedom. He filed a lawsuit claiming the parole board was wrong to focus solely on the nature of his crime, without considering his rehabilitation or the likelihood of his living a life upon release. Justice Rosa sided with him, ruling that he was entitled to a new hearing. In 2014, he was transferred to Fishkill from Woodbourne Correctional Facility, where he had been unable to restart his program. At Fishkill, Mr. MacKenzie encountered setback after setback. He initially shared a room with two young inmates, whom he described in a letter as schizophrenic and bipolar. They seemed impressed that he had killed a police officer. The 2015 escape of two inmates from the Clinton Correctional Facility in the far northern part of the state, which led to a renewed focus on prison security, had a disastrous effect on Mr. MacKenzie. At Fishkill, corrections officers began conducting frequent bed counts at night, to ensure that no inmates were missing, often waking Mr. MacKenzie. A light sleeper, he complained of being tortured by as many as four “rude awakenings” a night, he wrote to a friend. The murders of officers in Dallas and Baton Rouge, La. this year could not have happened at a worse time for him, he told a fellow inmate. At his July hearing, the parole board rejected Mr. MacKenzie’s release and found in a vote, that there was “a reasonable probability” that he would again violate the law and that given the nature of his crime his release would “undermine respect for the law. ” For the first time, however, he received a single favorable vote. There was a second government official on his side as well: the judge. She had become fed up with the parole board’s handling of Mr. MacKenzie’s case and had started fining the state $500 a day until the board reconsidered him for parole. But Mr. MacKenzie was done waiting. In an Aug. 2 letter to his daughter, he seemed to be saying goodbye. “I wanted you to know how much suffering I’ve been through just in case you get a chance to let Doreen, Regina and Matthew Jr. know how much I’ve suffered! !! That should make them very happy! !!” In his letter he also quoted a Buddhist text: “Can a new wrong expiate old wrongs?” He mailed the letter. The next night, he joked with two prisoners in nearby cells about how his remaining behind bars had cost the state, since the judge’s order, almost $20, 000. The three prisoners returned to their bunks. It was not quite 11 p. m. At 6:30 a. m. when a corrections officer ordered all the inmates out of their cells for a head count, Mr. MacKenzie did not emerge. The officer found him dead, a sheet around his neck, the other end knotted to the window grate.
• 　　冷战零和头脑和任何落伍于时代的政治私见与假话有百害而无一利
  。面临日益重大的国际清静和生长挑战，各国必需求同存异，以现实验动构建人类运气配合体