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Eliza Jane Jun 2014
PSA: this is not a good poem, this is an explosion.*
internal dialogue echoing within my fatty brain, overweight from months of stagnant vegetation.
one repetitive sentence feebly attempts to remove the attackers
“go away go away go away go away”

linoleum floors squeaking as my slippered feet find their grip,
praying that these feet don’t lead me to a kitchen full of knives, hungry to meet the stretch marks striping my newly obese thighs.
i’d rather have scars than these purple proofs of my inadequacy

the familiar hair-band meets my forearm for the first time in an age,
my vegetated brain slowly recognises this pattern from once before and the skills from months of therapy begin to kick in
breathe in
breathe out

wondering how on earth i will live for seven more weeks
desperate to make my voice heard
but stumbling into silence as my head slams the wall and bounces off the floor
leaving me stuck in my own harrowing mind,
one that is far too tired, lonely and ill to fight for much longer.
21/6 .. seven weeks and two days to go.
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
You expect me to sit here and wait for you?
We both know how impatient I am.
Not like I have a choice,
Waiting for a man who may or may not exist.
Can't you just stop hiding in the shadows?
Come sweep me off my feet,
Serenade me?
Can you stop waiting for me to deal with my problems,
You can help me deal with them!
I can't do this alone,
Although we both know I'm not alone.
Are you waiting for Him to tell you to take centre stage?
Will you capture my attention in a beautiful way?
Oh darling, why must you be so slow in arriving,
I dearly want you sitting next to me,
Playfully mocking my silly mannerisms,
Not letting me say one evil or unkind word about myself.
I'm praying for you love,
For the day we meet.
Until then,
I will wait.
**I will pray.
The poem i was afraid to post...
Eliza Jane Oct 2014
You’ve left a handprint on my heart, from where you reached in and nurtured the burns and scars and helped life to grow again. you held your hand out to me and lifted me up to dance with you, a slow waltz that I had to learn as you lead me ‘round the room. When you left me to catch my breath, the fear of leaving you almost paralysed me - and the realisation that I must nearly broke me.

You showed me what it was to live, and to live in such reckless abandonment that I knew I would never belong in the place I once called my home. you redefined home for me, showing me the truth of “home is wherever I’m with you.” Your sunsets were painted more beautifully than anything I’ve ever seen, and the way you always lead me to the artist behind such great sky-paintings left me in awe. Who else can teach me to fall in love with two beings at one time.

I still reach for your hand subconsciously, lean in to rest on your shoulder before I realise that you’re no longer with me. You’ve left me homesick, wondering where home may be, the place where these itchy feet can finally rest. You’ve filled my mind with reminders of cities, people, prayers and dreams, and I’ve found that as long as these thoughts rattle in my mind, sleep and rest are impossible.

You’ve shaken me to my very core, and all that remains is that still beating heart, with your palpable handprint glowing in the darkness
non-fiction. I wrote this a few days ago, and tonight it's becoming more real and painful than before. Each day that passes makes me ache for 'home' more.
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
Never a feeling I thought I could have.
Here it is, though.
Burning my heart.
Reminding me of a Sunday,
Home alone,
It tries to steal my joy.
This time I won't let it.
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
Who could ever love an Eliza?
Awkwardly a little too tall,
Possessing a dorky laugh,
Silly mannerisms,
Above all,
A dream of love.
An Eliza writes poetry,
Crying to God for answers to life's questions,
Asking for God to provide some form of companionship.
An Eliza,
Is impatient,
Her largest downfalls,
Caring too much.
An Eliza is an Eliza,
Is that a good thing?
Eliza Jane Jun 2012
A thorn,
Barbed and tearing my flesh.
Others only see the outer thorn,
They pull on it.
Not seeing the hooks inside.
A religious ed. teacher talked about darts and such in class, got inspired
Eliza Jane Jun 2012
Hey there boy,
Funny seeing you again,
Someone who was much more than a simple friend.

You filled my life with joy and regret,
But now the question I have is..

Do you miss it?

Rubbing your hands through my hair, whispering things in my ear?

Do you miss it?

Kissing my lips until I was blushing scarlet, promising we'd last forever?

I don’t.

Are you jealous boy?
How I’ve blossomed without you,
Have you realised that you held me back?

I have.

I thank you for causing the pain inside my heart,
The immovable weight,
Because each time it hits me,
I’m reminded of how much I have grown,

*Without your help.
Eliza Jane Nov 2013
Dearest Max,
Handing out the words like christmas presents
Poor, yet rich in both presence and spirit

Oh Rudy,
Giving bread that you had once stolen
Confident, yet reserved under the Book Thief's gaze

My dear,
You're presenting me with dilemmas
Don't you know?
Reminding me of literature is not the wisest play
When my heart lives inside these pages
Eliza Jane May 2012
A cynical laugh.
Fell for another joke.
Worthless with no merit.
Disappointed hope.
Giving nothing and leaving nothing.
Eliza Jane Nov 2012
If we lived closer,
Would you hold me tight?
If it was only an few hours of flight,
Would you meet me at the airport?
If I told you I loved you,
Would you say you loved me too?
Distance has ruined us,
It makes my heart ache.
Eliza Jane Oct 2013
If I could, I would take all your worries as my own
It wouldn't be too large a task
Worry is my bedfellow, the cold sweat keeping me awake at night
So, a little more cannot make much difference
If I could, I would have you hand over your worries like armfuls of melting snow
They would fall out of your arms and melt along mine, becoming sweet, vaporous, spirits
Place these heaping piles of worry into a small place in my heart
Create an eternal snowman within me
Not out of wild obsession or ulterior incentives
But because I would never wish worry on anyone,
*Least of all you.
non-fiction... I couldn't sleep last night and a friend was worried about things, so I wrote this.
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
I dreamt you kissed me last night.
Two pairs of eyes,
Yours and mine,
Looking for an answer to a question...
"May I kiss you?"
Never said, but most definitely thought, loudly.
Too loudly.
Our noses touching now, the slight tilt of my head...
The kiss.
We kissed in the back of a moving car,
Your hands ran through my hair.

Only a Dreamers' Kiss,
An imaginary romance.
You'd never feel that way.
Eliza Jane Oct 2013
If you're drunk on love
What happens when you sober up?
The morning after, the pounding headache and ridiculous nausea
What happens if you just keep drinking up all that love?
Does your 'love-liver' fail?

I don't understand this concept of being so incredibly intoxicated
If you can't think or see straight, should you really be pursuing this love?
Your beer goggles are interfering with your logic that screams out no
If you can't love them when you're sober...
Why love them when you're drunk
so confused...
Eliza Jane Jan 2014
“Closure”, he said.
She watched a door close, happy to be on the right side of a shut off room, leaving the room full of babbling thoughts & sun-spots.

Together, they watched their own rooms be hidden from sight; his, a grand oaken double door, covered in intricate carvings and inscriptions - ready to fling open at just the right moment to shower a chosen woman in love.

Hers, a small, worn, yet loved door; sky blue with chipped paint and a nine-pane window, the glass clear as a mirrors surface & similar in its ability to give all who enter a view of themselves and their desires. This door would creak open again too, and slowly release seemingly infinite amounts of love, steadily trickling from her heart.

Both doors would one day open again, maybe together, maybe by each other, but for now, they were closed. Hopeful lovings not yet open for viewing. A promise still growing in the ever-lightening hidden rooms.
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
You're lucky.
Do you know that?
He loves you,
Do you know that?
So purely, beautifully, willingly,
Do you know that?

My heart aches for that.
The love of a kind man,
The sweet gestures,
Spontaneous serenading,
Forehead kisses.
The butterflies start to become prominent just pondering the wonders!

Do you know how lucky you are?
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
Has somebody.
Whether it is mutual love,
Or lustful,
Has somebody.
Except me.
Feeling incredibly lonely tonight...
Eliza Jane Jul 2012
no-one stays the same
we all just simply wait
for the change to move over our way
whether it's others leaving us
or we are moving on
we all have to change and someone keep on


like it's not killing us inside
it's a challenge especially when the world demands that we

hide it

because now pain is weakness
the hurt inside cannot pierce through the tough exoskeleton

a pre-requisite to life is the knowledge that everybody leaves

a mother leaves her child, whether by choice or by chance
a husband leaves his wife for a younger girl instead
a soldier leaves his country, because he is treated like a misfit

why does no-one fight it?
can no-one see a way?
or is it the "I am one and that's not enough" belief striking again?
99 is NOT 100
it will never be
so fight the change to keep the world the way that it should have been

but keep in mind, not to limit others
don't force them to stay still
for others than yourself, are important too
when someone tries to leave you, let them go with kindness
and if they try to keep you once they're gone
well, it means they never left you

this is far too long a poem
but to short to fit in what to say
in the coda of this verse, I will try to explain
that though everyone leaves for a time, some will always remain
in your heart and your mind
you'll never be alone when you find a friend who will do the same
no caps lock letters because they always intimidate me, and this is meant to be very gentle.
Eliza Jane Jul 2013
i will wait for you
i will give my heart to those who will break it
i will cry out to god
asking why he let my heart shatter on the rotten tiles again
i will learn patience
or i will impatiently
throw my heart to the streets

is not a concept i am comfortable with
seems to show me all i am not receiving
and all i am not, in return, giving
**** well better be worth it all.

29/7/13 - after some news.
Eliza Jane Aug 2013
I can see why many people think our generation is a group of young people lost in self-absorbed apathy. We cry out for our ‘rights’, our ‘right’ to faster internet, better houses, cheaper clothes, sexier partners and better ***, better computers, and the right to basic human life is lost. We seem to be defined by the foolish actions of one-night stands, drunken tweets and emotional tumblr posts. We starve ourselves to be skinner, work out incessantly to be hotter, binge to be cooler, reject common sense to be hipster, and fight to be accepted rather than fighting for true justice and hope.

Where are the leaders? I know there are more of us! The ones who shake with rage when they witness the horrors going on across the globe and dream of saving lives. Not all of us feel the call to stand up on a podium and yell, nor do we all desire to march down the streets near Parliament House fighting for those who have no voice. We cannot do everything all at once, not alone anyway. There needs to be unity for any successful action can be taken. Yes, one passionate person can seek justice and change hundreds of situations, but just imagine if every person in the ‘wealthy’ western world sponsored just one child, that child becomes successful and sponsors another child, it pays forward and global poverty becomes a shameful story in a history book. Imagine our children asking us about what it was like when the world decided to take a stand against corruption, greed, apathy and demonic forces, what would you say? Would you tell them you were at the front line, in the medical tents? Or would you sigh and shamefully confess that you didn’t believe in the need for change because all you wanted was just that beautiful girl/boy/computer/dress/shirt/shoes/camera/whatever.

There are so many things we can do, so many organisations to be a part of, find something in this world that makes your blood boil, an injustice you cannot stand to see and find a way to help remove that injustice for good. You are not alone in this, you are able to change peoples lives - yes, Y O U! You and I, we can change the world forever, just hop out of your comfortable first world and run towards the challenges that we can beat. I believe in you
more writing than poetry, but still...
Eliza Jane May 2013
You strut past, wishing for the perfect scene;
Students writing, silently, studiously.
Instead, suffering, anxiety, fear and hatred run free in a room dedicated to the service of Christ, almost as if Lucifer himself imbued each exam paper with demonic forces.
You see students wriggle, writhe in fits of nervous energy, attempting to convert it all to productivity.

How can you see this and not cry out?
How do you console yourself as students take their own lives to escape the pressure cooker and its intense heat. Those remaining burn inside, kept silent with gratitude because they at least have a chance of escape.
I know that you cannot forget this easily, so again I implore you
. . .

. . .

too many lives have been lost.
too many dreams crushed with the harsh fist you call reality.
too many heart and families broken.
it is too much for us to bear.
after I finished writing a practice final exam paper - I wrote this.
(trigger warning: suicide)
Eliza Jane Mar 2012
The corpse lay on the floor,
It looked like he was sleeping.
No blood,
No *****,
Obviously the poison was quick.
Death picks his victim up, gently, trying not to disturb the crime scene.
A little boy was the first to find him, shakes him,
Why do they always shake them?
The girl and father next.
A quick car trip later and another girl knows, the oldest.
She screams in the street, letting all know what has happened.
The vet's post-mortem shows that mystery was the murderer
Either that or a Heart Attack.
The elder girl never saw him after he passed
And she never will again.
RIP Tolstoy, October 2007 - 28th of March 2012
Eliza Jane Jun 2015
It feels a little like knowing that you're the steady choice,
Not quite spontaneous or risky enough to grab their attention in the first
But warm and always there
People take advantage of that, falling in and out of love, but always Knowing that there's the soft warmth waiting for them at home
I fear that if I ever marry, that my husband will stray, seeking out more
Adventure while trusting in the quiet commitment of me
written in march of 2015
Eliza Jane Sep 2013
Your eyes hold the stories of bravery,
Foolish hope,
& persistent dreams.

Your heart holds wisdom beyond your years,
As clichéd as it is,
You do give me butterflies.
I was trying to figure out the colour of someone's eyes, they're a mix of brown and green, and then I was reminded of one of my all time favourite book characters.. Miss Hazel Green (Odo Hirsch)
Eliza Jane Oct 2013
late nights and homesick hearts never make for a quiet soul
excessive coffees and quilted secrets make the heart beat fast,
palpitating, jumping, murmuring hyperbolic hopes

late nights and homesick hearts can only be softened
when one's soul is at peace,
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
My internet is slow,
My mind is impatient.
Despite my close proximity to the modem,
The connection fails.
The lagging RPG's,
Instant messages delayed,
Even a simple HTML screen cannot load.
My internet connection is weak,
And my patience is weaker.
I felt like writing a shallow poem - so here we are! It's something a little different from my normal ones, but oh well!
Eliza Jane Oct 2012
You sat me down,
At the edge of the street, where the road meets the dirt, and,
You told me you were in love with someone else.

"I am in love with the sunsets, it feels like He has made it just for me.
I am in love with the summer breeze and the way it grazes my shoulders. I am in love with the freckles that come and go on my nose.
I am in love with the warm road after last light, the sound of the ducks landing in the river, the icy dam water biting my skin, the piano riff of my favourite song, bare feet being burnt on toasted sidewalks,
I am in love with the trees dancing.
A VERY late night seems that the world wants us to be in love with someone, something, and so I think I've chosen.
Eliza Jane Aug 2012
Angel up against the wall,
Small quiet soul in a room of noise,
Bass rocking the walls around,
Watching others:
Wishing for a knight to grab her hand,
To speak of Holy Pilgrim's Kiss,
A wait that is an eternity,
A wait well worth it.
I was at a party on Friday night, wearing Angel wings, and it gave me an idea for a poem.
Eliza Jane Apr 2013
(papa) lead my music towards marshmallow dreams and woozy hearts

he lay me down in a soft nest of clouds and propped my head up on a mushroom

tucked me in with quilted blankets and goodnight kisses

he stroked my nose until I succumbed to the whims of foreign lands

and he turned the
lanterns off

he played me piano riffs and stroked the strings of my guitar

warmed me and cloaked me in oceans of drowsy bliss

and he'll read me
dreams tonight
complete exhaustion, trying to fight off jet-lag and this trippy thing just... happened.
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
You think you're such a charmer.
Winning over every girl who is silly enough to look you in the eyes.
Not me, good sir.
Your alluring kindness may be utterly dreamy for most,
I can see why.
You are too easily loved and too quickly gone.
Good sir, you are accepting and manage to wheedle your way past every wall,
You are a credit to the male species,
But, good sir, I am not falling for your charm,
Not this time.
Eliza Jane Oct 2012
...It's the sensation your heart feels after watching an old film,
That lingering emptiness and intense nostalgia for the 'simpler days.'
The desire to have your personal 1940s Film Noir lover,
Or to have a love story worthy of an art-house vintage film.
Longing for someone to dance with you , slowly and gently,
When God has promised you a man of faith,
You also pray that
He is also,
A gentleman...
it's been a while, but finally, a poem.
Eliza Jane Oct 2013
In these moments where
The church comes alive

These are the moments where I hear a still, small voice whisper with a smiling heart;
Dankie Papa.

Thank you Daddy.

Thank you for the noise
Shouts of praise and hope
But thank you for the quiet moments
Peaceful stillness in the chaos

Thank you Daddy.

There is a time for shouts
And a time for singing
But there is a time for a smiling heart to simply whisper

Dankie Papa.
Eliza Jane Nov 2012
sorrow is no excuse,

for kissing necks and prolonged embraces,

sorrow cannot be a vice used to manipulate,

it is an emotion,

nothing more.

you are the one making the choice to elaborate.
Eliza Jane Apr 2013
sleeping eyes and relaxed minds do often make apathetics of us all
pocketed palms and agressive stances lost in the meditative gentility of the woman,
in turn, also lost in her own minds eye.
Eliza Jane Mar 2012
I was told to keep it awhile,
To give it to Him.
It's ... challenging ... to give one's heart away,
When one cannot see to whom they are giving it to.
Even more of a challenge when another is wanting your heart,
And you're almost willing to oblige
Just really what's going on in my heart at the moment.
Eliza Jane Jan 2014
after we leave,
everything seems to get better.
not that we took it for granted
no, really, we didn't.
we were:
            test subjects
                     guinea pigs
                            a band of misfits searching for the positive
yet somehow remaining apathetic.

I somehow expected you to be like us
a little less caring
a little less bothered
that's what I expected, not this..
subdued insecurity manifested in your eyes
they keep darting around
looking for answers in a scallop
or in the bottom of a coffee cup
silence where you should be laughing sits
hanging heavily on your shoulders,
making your natural slouch even worse
        ...I wonder if you noticed that your eyes are getting bluer

we learned once in english class that films use blue to represent anxiety
that the churning sea is symbolic of a churning mind
we never learned that you can spot that in a man
so lost in his worry that he can't see
        ...his eyes are getting bluer.
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
Heal me Jesus,
I am broken and hurting.
Cleanse me Jesus,
I am impure and *****.
Teach me Jesus,
I want to know more about You.
Hold me Jesus,
I am lonely.
Love me Jesus,
Though I am unworthy.
A little poem for the jesus guy :)
Eliza Jane Aug 2012
If we could go back in time,
Would we chide or former selves?
What would we say?
Would we beg each other to go slowly, wait a while?
IF I could go back,
I would plead for patience,
Enforce boundaries,
Smash up insecurities.

We can't go back,
We can learn
We can hold others hands,
Alas, we can't stop them from making our mistakes,
But we can love them anyways.
thinking about this stuff a lot
Eliza Jane Oct 2013
sand sand everywhere
in my bag and in my hair
on my sheets and on my phone
i hate being sun-burned alone.
a silly little rhyme from a day at the beach that lead to me being severely sunburnt and stuck in bed :(
Eliza Jane Oct 2013
I'll walk three steps behind
Watching the way your toes grip the sand
I'll run past you
Arms outstretched like an aeroplane
Willing myself not to look back
Oh my, the stars light up the sky
Oh dear, the sandcastle is falling
Oh, oh no,
I don't want to look at you again
My heart will drown again
Oh no, I mustn't look at you again
Not again...
Eliza Jane Mar 2012
One hand,
On the left shoulder.
Comforting a shaking girl.
It means more than he could ever know.
It's not a hand,
It's just a show that someone knows her well enough to comfort her in the way she loves best.
Not a counselling session,
Not eloquent words,
Or condolences,
But simply the physical presence, the "being there".
She craves that,
Simple touch, no ulterior motives, no....
Save the being-there-ness.
He gives her that, simple love, no romance or anything,
Anything like that.
The warmth of his palm permeates to her soul, reminding her that someone is there, someone is caring quietly, praying, protecting her.
He may give terrible hugs, but he gives, he gives.
RIP Tolstoy, 28/3/2012
My best friend was comforting me and he deserved this poem, Aidan, thankyou for being the best, truest friend I've ever known.
Eliza Jane Oct 2013
I try to be more objective and clear-headed than most..
Fear tries to grab me at each turn
The enemy lurking behind every dark corner,
Down every chilling hallway
Can you feel its breath down your neck?
Constantly whispering...
"You'll seem clingy"
"You're not yourself anymore"
It terrifies me,
It does its job
It keeps me silent and afraid
When all I want to do is be a friend.
Eliza Jane May 2012
Filled with anxiety and melancholy,
What happened to that blanket of Peace?
My heart is a vessel of Worry,
My mind, a cauldron of Despair.
Where is the Joy?
Why must is be a fleeting emotion,
Hardly ever in my grasp?
God promises many things,
How long must I wait to receive?
Almost beyond impatience,
Desperate sorrow
Eliza Jane Jun 2015
I stand for the forgotten, the ones nations have forsaken,
Left to die on the open seas, or in the hidden camps,
Or in the care of those my country has paid to keep them quiet.
You will not keep us silent,
We will shout and scream until the voices of those across the ocean are heard
Until they are lead onto the podium and given the right to speak again, the right from long ago.

I will stand for my brothers and sisters, aunties, uncles, my family; spread across the earth who seek the shelter of my homeland, and I will welcome them with open arms.
And you will not stop me.
A poem, I think, written quite hastily; I wrote some more, but I wasn't sure whether or not to post it here so you can have a look by clicking through the link:
Eliza Jane Mar 2014
a city is now renewed
(like a small child taking its first steps towards a redeemed life,
humble and beautiful in its vulnerability)
this city, this late-blooming flower, known to all as one worthy of the highest
praise to the creator of firey orange skies
praise to the ferocity of a beating heart
praise to the quiet sounds of our people rising up,
because the ruins are coming to life
now watch, as He rebuilds.

*but.. for something to be revived mustn't it first be dead?
non-fiction. a response to an image.
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
Could you write me a poem,
Or write me a letter?
Just something that will make me feel better.
a short rubbishy rhyming poem.
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
He doesn't want to talk,
To them.
He wants to talk.
He cries out in prose and song,
In the small hints of conversation,
The strings of a guitar is his only escape.
He paints vivid pictures of his pain, watercolours and the english language as his chosen medium.
His tissues are soaked in blood, drawn out by self-inflicted wounds.
He doesn't want their help,
Though he knows he needs help.
Not from them, not from friends,
For friends are too easily lost,
Scared away,
Pushed away by fear and anxiety.
A stranger is what he needs,
Someone who will see his pain and pass no judgement,
Who he can dispose of once the problem is solved,
Leaving no trace of his weakness.
Eliza Jane Jul 2013
I know you're far in heaven,
Maybe watching me,
I miss you,
I know you not,
My heart aches for you...

You see,
Sometimes I have friends,
Who almost take your role,
They hold me tight and
Learn me right,
But they cannot replace...

I hope one day to see you,
To hold my big sisters hand,
For now I'll wait,
Because we know,
Papa's got this planned.
For my older sister, she didn't have a name, she didn't have an official date of birth, or death. All I know is that my parents loved her, and I love her too.
Eliza Jane May 2012
My girl, she's a beauty,
Long, flowing black hair,
A voluptuous *****.
She struts along streets with a confident air,
Very nearly, but not quite, snooty.
Her *******, a perfect pair,
Her morning breath, fresh and fruity.
Her smile makes lonely strangers stare,
Her dimples, wow, she's such a cutie.
Her body, an alluring, ***** snare,
Multitudes of friends follow like groupies,
  Although she makes other men swoon in despair,
  I've succumbed to obey her with a sense of duty.
  I'm sick, I'm done, time to get her out…**she better prepare.
In English class we were asked to write a version of William Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 - but to change it so the man is in fact, not in love with the woman, despite her seeming perfection. This is how mine turned out.
It didn't have to have iambic pentameter or anything like that, just 14 lines with AB rhyming couplets. It's also meant to be rather casual, this was only written in about 15-20 minutes with not much thought put in!
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
Sitting in silence,
Not all notice the girl,
Sitting at the back of the room,
Her black hair falling between her eyes.
She blows the wisps out of the way,
Continues analysing.
Watching couples ****** each other,
She gags.
Eliza Jane Oct 2013
You took a scalpel to me, my dear
Skillfully working your way through the layers
Epidermis to lipids to muscular tissue until
The bone

You carved your name on my radius
Lovers' initials on a tree
Marrow leaked across your hand
A gift of the broken

You tried to sew me up, my dear
Realising you had gone far deeper than first thought
Surgeons hands you have not
A hack job, bound to leave scars

You've left me with bumps
Itches inside my very being
Refraining from scratching
In fear of what might come pouring out
hyperbole and hyperactivity
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