#joel
writing songs sans artifice,
that grow better different,
different better,
the lyrics of a man growing older,
insides out, featuring his slips, all showing,
eyes squinting from hard lifestyle experience,
taking on wearied shades of beige yellowing,
a tanned blackness, time edits them, so now,
they sound the same but holier,
from the hazing of hazards
one builds for and by himself,
drilling & extracting the spit-shine of
all that all is fine,
but liquor & cat's paw black shoe polish
just can't quite cover 'em up (2),
the stabbing itch each of the every time
one quests and questions
his ego,
always another test…
why would I ever want that?
his fingers create tinkling at rapido pace,
tinkling an arrhythmia of rhymes
previously perviously (1) unseen,
self exploration, that we all realize
is an unforgiving, never ending,
source of melodic crying out loud;
and when the sensual, arrayed pleasures,
begin to bore
holes of no important consequence,
the querys~to~self get even harder
to explicate what they intimate,
who they implicate,
which parts of you,
failed to answer satisfactorily…
why would I want want that
forever?
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC
Happy Holidays:
Always in my heart
Dear son Shiv
Heart of gold
Blessed be your days
Unforgettable be
your holidays
Greetings.
~~
I am always with you
Dearest darlings my
grown children
my biological grandkids
Tamally Mask
I am always with you
I love you adore you.
Tamally maak
I am always with you
No matter the trash
that clouds your mind,
Sickens you judgement;
Discard those door mats
Tamally Mask
You are always with me
No jealousy divides us
No malice, nor greed
Today criminal minds,
Impostor wanna be Moms
are sunk and drowned
we are always one.
Lala Sassy Coco
mother loves you.
I am always with you.
~~
Ancient true love,
Be my Knight
Twin soul PC Rk
Unsurmountable
obstacles have fallen down
You remain in my heart,
Ancient twin soul divine
As you promised
remain imaginary mine
my best friend Joel.
keeping me company
regardless of miles
between creeping in
uninvited.
~~~
Joy to poets who
took time to read
to comment
to connect to write
to keep me company
Tamally Maak.
You are always in my heart.
~~
By: Mr. and Mrs. Andrews
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 1:49 AM UTC
Crazy Guy Sends His Poems to a Dead Guy
~for Joel Frye,and yes it’s true~
ah another trivial pursuit of trivial nuggets
bout yours untruly, that is a truly truly,
poets that
I’ve known here, but who have moved on,
it’s my obligation to keep them posted on the
au courant,
so slip them a poem or two,
when you ain’t looking to
make one wonder even more,
what makes a man a nutty Natty.?
well if you don’t know the answer to that after
two t h o u s a n d plus poems, you are not getting me
but Joel Frye,
mutual enjoyed our scribblings,
yeah, he got me,
so via social media,
keep him posted of my latest écrits,
fancy french for scribbles,
of course he gets them
before me,
in so far I assume
my thots are known to rise
or more likely drop,
even before
they traverse that narrow passage between my ears…
but really, just in case,
in the peace and quiet
of the hubbub above, with all them comings and goings,
he, God forbid, (ha!), he may overlook my inane insanities,
and the weirdness
of my compositions,
real, ethereal and in between~al,
that’s a great whew~relief knowing,
at least
some one!
is reading my stuff…
natty
Dec 17, 2023
Dec 17, 2023 at 5:58 PM UTC
Joel, just so you know
I have it on good authority that our heavenly poets
are always near exhaustion, as the clean air, and the
distraction-free life gives one inspiration by the unending,
poetry the common language in the babel up above
but to be sure they see our messages and scrips, I forward them upward via Messenger, from down here to their seemingly inactive page, but don’t you poet, disbelieve me, they may not be able to send or reply to you via Fedex Direct, but they are receiving just fine
So I send them poems just so they’re knowing that they are
still on my mind…right Joel?
or do I say,
Write on Joel?
Jul 21, 2023
Jul 21, 2023 at 9:15 AM UTC
My third attempt to commemorate Joel Frye.
News arrived Mid-May, found me far from home,
found me shock-gasping in a hotel room,
on the wrong coast,
though he sort-of-warned-warned,
about a month earlier, I misunderstood his subsequent
silence, thus it caught me unawares, unprepared,
and strangely grasping for proper comprehension
and the right words, that usually come so quickly,
even too easy~quick, when one’s emotions are
running fast, like a springtime Northwest mountain stream
Imagine a conversation of nine year’s duration,
one of a number forged in the iron-y of poetry,
a most
genteel art.
I found his words above in a comment on a poem (1)
of mine, writ in 2015; the subject, so apropos, to be
ever gentle to thy words.
Our dialogue and mutual admiration lives on and survives,
for bonds forged ex-the world of poetry, but more so,
in real deeds and deals and realized poems come true.
We never met.
Not unusual for an on-line community, where the social, literate
media can foster a closeness surpassing the normative
standard need of the physical,
which nonetheless the absence of that touch is now
deep regretted.
But Joel do not be concerned!
Your words will live with others, as per your desire.
This my promise, this my premise:
A debt of brotherhood that will be,
must be, paid in full.
So let’s begin…shall we…
~~~~
Joel Frye Sep 2015
Friends
Some for a reason,
some for a season; even
lifetimes come and go.
All things are transitory. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
<>
(1j
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1425812/oh-poet-be-ever-gentle-to-thy-words/
Jun 27, 2023
Jun 27, 2023 at 8:10 AM UTC
Prehistoric fingerprints
amazing requiems
the song still in them
med evil number magic
all the time in the world
Healing heartbeats bottled up
prepare ye saving drafts
question the faint of heart
the first and last beat
when poets die
Keeper of morning prayers
a needful message
goodby again
words of love forgive
pure and pretty bouquets
The sifting eye of the poet
the thief of untold heartache
muse-ing Denah’s equation
a more beautiful question
Butterflies and deaths dark divide
seeking the bright light
pointless immolations
the autopsy paid in full
crisp or extinguished.
Will you burn with me now?
For Joel M Frye
May 19, 2023
May 19, 2023 at 10:43 PM UTC
for Joel Frye, who loves
“my sharing the marginalia of my life”
<>
the tiny smile in mine eyes’ white *****
glistens,
my eyes inhabited, as is my
habit,
of your noticings of the what & wherefore
of the “it” of my writing…
the marginalia of life
as you adeptly label them…
touch you, my fingernails ,
sensing the ragged edging,
alternating with the smooth
all is revelational, all is relational,
the irreverent,
the minuscule,
the bytes of super-valued
ordinary
and the
extra-undervalued-ordinaries,
each and both,
elevated by you…
observing me observing you!
living on the margin,
doesn’t mean the unimportant,
the margin is a place,
where our mind’s neuralgia
embrace; where you-receive
my envisioning, feel my marginality’s,
my discrepancies, the odd, that oddly
that makes us even!
and
understanding my fingernails,
are what you’re touching,
my touch, your sensing.
identical, precisely provisioned,
and our invisible envisioning,
with nothing in between running interference,
is everything
finest and fine
the marginalia are,
the margin is the beginnings and
the endings of my myriad words,
the overstuffed SUV of my mind
that you help me to unload!
<§>
Thu Jan 5
5:08 pm
Manhattan
Jan 30, 2023
Jan 30, 2023 at 3:40 PM UTC
Today, I remembered
yesterdays' rain "comin' down on a sunny day"
then suddenly "nothing else matters"
when you ask the piano man to "sing me a song"
as "I listened, to the wind, the wind of my soul"
Oct 29, 2020
Oct 29, 2020 at 5:36 AM UTC
Nations writhe in horror before them;
every face turns pale.
They charge like mighty men;
they scale the walls like men of war.
Each one marches in formation,
not swerving from the course.
They do not jostle one another;
each proceeds in his path.
They burst through the defenses,
never breaking ranks.
They storm the city;
they run along the wall;
they climb into houses,
entering through windows like thieves.
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 12:08 AM UTC
oh ****
I saw the piano man
singing his songs
to the uptown girl
by the fire he didn't start
for the longest time
you believed
he was the entertainer
you may be right
but its all in a matter of trust
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC
Clementine deleted Joel
from her mind. Joel tried to
forget her; he couldn't, so
he got rid of her too. You
try, I know, to get rid of me. I
try, you know, to pretend that
the world isn't spinning so fast
in the hope
that we will fall of its spinning-top edge
and stumble, clumsily, gracelessly, into
each other. We're spinning so fast with it-
the world- so this is unlikely, so we both
pretend that it's an accident when we fall
into each other,
again and again, as
We play spin the bottle while
The world spins instead.
Suddenly.
Now that that same world has stilled itself for
us: we don't know what to do without its
rotationary madness angling us
towards old age and crumpets (together?). That
same world has stilled itself until
tomorrow when that same world will spill
itself out from day to night to day again
as we take our respective first drafts
of our poems written about each other
and
Edit.
out that same mad spin
that made us
us
just like
Joel and Clementine forgot-
on purpose. We forget, on purpose
with purpose
but,
we'll still meet each other in Montauk where
that same world will still itself
as we wrap our fingers around each other's
fingers
in the cold
where you might finally reciprocate
my lacklustre
confessions.
You too,
right?
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
if you had to talk without speaking would you touch, or just try and mouth the words? i will go through and like all your Instagram photos at once. i don’t care about the path less traveled, i am making my own path. i am trailblazing through the woods towards a destination that is completely unknown! often i drive my mom’s Chrysler van and crank the volume to the max. i’m sorry mom. i drive through the woods and put the windows down and let wind fly through my hair. i love driving through the woods almost as much as i love cities. catch me in the strangest places at the strangest times. i am in a restaurant on my laptop typing this and having a vanilla malt. this is diary entry #447. i have so much to tell you, there’s still so much that i haven’t said. well, if i had to talk without speaking words, i think i would touch.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
jumping into a pool of yellow glowing liquid while rich, deep, full synth chords play. time has slowed down and i am in the middle of a cannonball and i can see bats flying over my head in the almost-darkness. friends surround me and are laughing in slow motion as i fly through the air. the sun has changed the whole scene to a tinted and washed dark orange and purple color. it’s like i put on a filter but it’s real life. the liquid is lukewarm, sort of like someone didn’t put a bowl of soup in the microwave long enough. there is no word in the human dictionary to describe this feeling. i’m done pretending that nothing matters all the time. i wish there was some way i could hook up my brain to a screen so you could see what i'm picturing right now. there’s no way that can happen though, so i will just continue trying to explain through words.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
jumping across rooftops in the broad sunlight. it's morning and i'm headed to a bagel shop to get a blueberry cream cheese bagel. beautiful sunny day kind of music is playing through my headphones. from building to building, roof to roof, gutter to gutter i jump in my worn out shoes. Friday mornings aren’t usually this nice out, there’s not even a cloud in the sky. i can tell i’m getting close because of the smell in the air. jump down a fire escape and head inside. David is working at the counter this morning, and he’s excited to see a friend, as usual. i order and he throws an extra bagel in the bag as he usually does. David is a great guy. outside the world greets me warmly, it’s like 80 degrees out. are you kidding me? it’s April. it’s beautiful. i’m going to go bare foot down to the beach and draw some pictures of the waves. see you later.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 7:47 PM UTC
it’s really late and dark outside, i’m not sure what the time is exactly. i’ve lost count of the minutes. i am at the high school’s track and am jogging on it. the lights are on, for whatever reason. the light is penetrating through a thick fog. it’s misting and getting all over my glasses but i don’t care enough to wipe it off. i have been running for what feels like hours now. it’s been dark forever. run off the track and sit on the bleachers for a bit, drink some water i brought with me. i’m lookin over the lit up field in the bright white lights. it looks like a scene in one of those Nike commercials, but it’s much better in person. i start nodding off and suddenly i’m in the back seat of a station wagon that i’ve never seen before. the leather seats are a dark maroon color, and the world is wizzing by outside the window at an incredible speed. the driver is a dark silhouette of someone i think i know, but can’t place my finger on. i’m getting incredibly nauseous from the speed we are driving at. “please stop!” i shout from the back seat. suddenly everything goes black again and i get the feeling like we’ve stopped because my body has that falling forward sensation. i awake to a bird sitting on my head at the track. it’s morning already.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
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L̸̸̤̑᷃̇̑ ̢̱͇̑̾̑̿J̎̑͗͏̒̑᷀Ọ͙̼ͭ̑͑̑Ȇ̥̬̞́̑͡Ḻ̵̙̑̍̑̔ ̷̙̱̑ͤ̊̑J̭͆̑̉̑᷅͢O̵͎ͨ̑̎̑̕E̛᷊ͭ̑̏̋̑L̨͙̑̏̑̕͡ ̗̤̑᷄̑̚͝J̥᷀̑ͪ᷆̑ͦO̥͕̒̑᷾̋̑Ė͕̞̑᷄̈́̑L̢͔̑ͮ̈ͤ̑
̲͖̄̑ͪ̑᷃Ļ̷̑́̈̑᷀ ̥̟̌̑ͪͬ̑J̡͉̑̔̑͢͡Ȏ̷̗̀̔̑̏E̎̑᷅̓̑͘ͅḶ̑ͮͫ̉̑᷇ ̷̟̑̑̀͘͞J̖᷅̑̈́̿̑͘Ǫ̘᷿͚̑ͩ̑Ȇ̼̯͚ͤ͒̑L̤̑̈᷅̑̑̈ ̘̝̑͏̘̋̑J͏̨̑ͦ᷅̑᷇Ơ͍͓ͦ̑ͭ̑Ȩ͕͎̑̽̑᷅L̖̤᷂̑̓̑̏ ͓̟͚̑̍̑͢J̰͍̝̑̑̑ͪO̪̳͈͂̑̑ͨE̬͉̭᷄̑ͤ̑
L̵̻̀̑̈͒̑ ̨̞̲̖̝̟̱̺̰̑̑̑͛̑ͯJ̠̑ͥ̂̑̉̚Ȏ̤̻ͨ̾̑ͩḘ̴̬̽̑̅̑L̡̩̞̮̜̑̑ ̳̦̱̥̑̂̑J̷̢̬̪̑̒̑Ȏ̬̰̰̑᷾̕Ȇ̛̝̤̪̉̑L̸̖̣̑̄̑̔ ͉ͦ̑ͪͬ̑̾Jͫ̑̓ͤ͐̑̊Ơ̴̧̆̑͐̑E͎̍̑̐̑ͪ͠L̤̖͗̑ͭ̑͢ ̟̲̪̑̄ͫ̑J͓̭̑᷃̈̑᷇Ȏ̘᷂͚̑̿͝Ȇ̷̵̺᷂̑͛L̸̢͖͂̑͋̑O͂̑̋͏̓̑ͥE̺͔̼̽̑᷆̑L̢̎̑͗̌ͨ̑ ̵̤̬͊̑͌̑J̪̮̓̑̔̑͋L͉̳̑̓̽̑ͧ ͏̑᷈͒ͦ̑̂J͒̑ͧ᷆̑̀͡Ȏ͇᷾̑͂͢͡E͏͔̑̓̎̑ͩḶ͈̑ͭͩ͒̑ ̴̞̑͒͊̑ͅJ̮̘̘̗̑̑͗Ȏ̠̲̟ͨͧ̑Ḛ̶̑ͩͩ̑͡L͔᷆̑͊̑́͜ ̢̩̬̑͒̑᷃J̜᷁̑ͪ̑᷉͝Ȏ̴̝̼͈͇̑ ̤̖̑ͣ̑̆̚E̱͔᷃̑̀̑᷇L͎᷿̑̓̑͆ͅ ̱̓̑ͤ̊̈̑J̶̢͍͉̑͒̑Ȏ̵̜̼͆ͣ̑E͙̒̑͂᷈̑ͫL̰͙͓᷊̑̑͟ ͔͖̑ͩ̾̑̉J̘̜͑̑̍̑͑O̯̓̑̋ͩ̑͜Ȇ͇̲̥͂͊̑L̫̑᷈̉̑̚͠ ͉̈́̑͐͐ͮ̑J̟᷂̞͇̑ͭ̑O̪̊̑̑͐͘͢E̞̬ͯ̑ͭ̑͑L̰̫͋̑̑͌͝ ᷂͔͕̻̑̍̑J̲̣̳͖̑͆̑Ő̹̥̑᷈̑̆Ḙ̴᷊̑͒̑͞L̷̵̟̲̑͌̑ ̧̑̍̑̚͟͞J͖̑́᷉ͩ̑ͥǪ̖̯̜̎̑̑Ȇ̶͕͏̤ͫ̑L̠̞᷂̺̑̿̑ ̵᷊̑͑͊̑ͅJ̪ͧ̑᷃ͦ̑ͧȆ̺᷆᷇̑᷅̕L̪͖͆̑͋ͤ̑ ̡᷿̑̏ͩ̑͢J̳͚̑ͯ̌̑̎L̯᷂̻̦͇̑̑ ̬̼̑͂̉̑̅J̻̑᷾ͮ͊̑᷇O̲᷇̑̈́̑̑᷅
Eͥ̑̓ͧ̑̾͢L̶̷̞̑̒̑͢ ᷂̦̑̏᷆̑̒J̙͕̮̓̑̑̚Ő̑ͪ̎ͮ̑᷄E᷅̑ͤ᷀ͪ̑͋Ļ̢̪̑̆̑͂ ᷿͇̑͋̑͂̚J̥̍̑̋ͨ̑̈́Ọ͙͕͒̑̑̏E̡̎̑̔͌̑᷄L̹͖̬̓̑ͣ̑ ̨̼̑͋᷉̑͐L̻᷿̑̊͂̑᷁ ̭̟̟̑᷁͊̑J̡̛᷿̑ͨ̈̑O̙͗̑̂̑̎͞Ȇ̮̪̬̿̑̌L̜᷅̑͆ͧ̓̑ ̠̑̑̆̚͘͝J̑̈́͋̑͛͜͜Ȏ̵̝̺̪̀̑Ȩ͓̺̑́̋̑L̶̟᷉̑̓̑́ ̣̯̑̾̑̌̚J͔͔̟̑̈̑ͅȎ̷̥̥̃̓̑Ḛ̴᷊᷁̑̊̑L̘ͨ̑͒̑̏̕ ̣̰̼᷉̑ͪ̑J͋̑̃̑̌͡͠Ȏ̻̣̜̉́̑Ȇ̥̘̯̩᷈̑L͖ͪ̑̐ͫ̑ͯ ̛̲̼͗̑̑͡J̛ͧ̑͂̇͑̑Ȏ̴͈͎᷄͒̑Ȇ̝͎ͯ͑̑͏L̩̪̑̋͂̑͋ ̵̑᷁ͬ̀̑͟J͕͉̾̑̿̑ͩƠ̝͚̫̑̑̆Ȇ̞̈́ͭ̑̉͡L̞̫̱̑ͥ̑͟ ̜̑̃̑̔̚͟J̑͢͏̘̑᷇ͅO̖͓͊̑᷅̑ͬ
Ȇ̖̘̺̿ͩ̑L̙̪̲̑̔ͫ̑ ̢ͦ̑̽̑̄͠J͎͖᷃̑᷈ͭ̑O̝᷊ͬ̑͂̈́̑Ę͇̥᷆̑̑̍L͖̓̑̐̄ͦ̑Ȏ̧͇̻ͫ̑̇Ḛ̹ͩ̑͑̑̓L̵̢̥̑᷉̑͜ ̑̔̐̍̑͑͢J̶̑̇́̑͝ͅL͖̰ͨ̑ͫ̑ͅ ̛̟̑ͮ̑̽͜J̦͕ͦ̑ͭ̑͆Ȏ̪͓̈́ͭ̃̑Ȇ͙͚̼ͯ̑᷀L̷͖̺̞̑͌̑ ͙᷀̑᷄᷾ͦ̑J̸͉͉᷅̑᷆̑O̢̟̽̑͛̑͟Ȇ̙̰̏͌̑̔L͕̗̟͉̑᷉̑ ͮ̑̑ͪ̑͗͟J̛̼̑͆̑͑͜O̵̜ͧ̑̄̑͘ ͚͋̑᷈ͥ̑͂E̠͇̎̑ͯ̑ͬL̜̪̑ͩ͋ͩ̑ ̶̷͚̑̑͟͞J̷̮᷊̇̑̊̑Ȏ̭͍̤̮̑͋Ĕ͖̫̮̑ͧ̑L̳̳̦̑͆̑͋ ͈̝͆̑᷆̑͜J̫᷾̑̃͒̑ͣȎ̶̍͐̑᷄͝Ę̖᷆̑̄̑̏L͈̑᷀ͬ̑᷀͜ ̢̩̮͚͈̑̑J͈͛̑̅̐̑͜Ȏ̗͍᷀ͦ̑̑E̴͇ͮ̑᷀̑͡L̖̼̺̑̈́͑̑ ̨̫̱̩̑᷄̑J͗̑ͣ̊᷆̑ͅȎ͍ͧͦ̀̑͢Ȇ̳᷊᷅̾̑̓Ļ̴̡̼̑̑͞ ̹͗̑̽͛̑͝J̸̠̘̑᷉̑̽Ȏ̷̝̻᷉̑̽Ȇ͎̠̍̓̑͡L̷̴͎̭̑ͩ̑ ̦̠̣̌̑̑᷇J͚ͨ̑᷈ͯ̑͞Ȇ̥̦̓͛̑͠Ļ̑ͬ̓̈́̑͟ ̢͓̑̓̑͝͠Ȩ̵᷿̠̽̑̑ ̔̑͛᷈̑᷁͞J̥̩̑̓̿̑͜O̵͔̊̑᷾̑̑Ę̳̈́̑̄̑ͭL̷͔̑ͩ᷀̑͢ ̷͇̑͌̍̑͘J̧̺̑̀᷄̑ͤỌ̡̒̑ͧ̀̑E͎ͫ̑᷄̒̑̋ ̮̂̑᷇̒̑̔J̷̻͕̑͒̑᷉Ȏ̸̳͓̭͐̑E̴ͩ̑̋ͬ̑͋Ḻ᷊̑̂̌̑̉
L̸̸͎̝̤᷿ͬ̀̑ͭ᷃̓̇͗̑ ̸̢̧̱͇̭̽̑̌̑̾̑̿̕͜J̪̯̎̑̾͗͝͏̸̘̒̐̑᷀͘O͚̺̣͇͙͕̼᷊ͭ̑͑᷁̑ͬ͘E̝̥̬̞͉᷉̑͆́͑͗̑͟͡͠Ḻ̵̨̙᷂̿̈̑ͦ̂ͪ̍̑̔᷾ ̷̙̱̞̘̥̑̑᷉᷈ͤ᷃̊̑͠J̴̸̨̣̗̭̹͆̑̈́͐̉̑᷅͢O̴̵͎ͨ̑ͯ̎̾ͧ̑̏͐̕͟͞Ę̛᷊̥̼᷊ͭͧ̑̑̏̋̑̒͡Ḷ̨̼͙̘̫̑̏ͤ̑̓͘̕͡͝ ̤̮̰̗̤͇̮̑᷁̊᷄̑᷁̚͝J̙̥͖͍ͦ᷀̑̌ͫͪ᷆̑ͮͦ͝Ỏ̥̺̥͕̭͕̒̑᷾͐̋͒̑͝Ė̶̸͕̞̑͂᷄̃ͭ̈́̑᷉ͦͅL̸̢̙̬͔͌̑ͮ͑̈ͤ᷆̑̿̄ ̷̲͖̔̄͐̑̒ͪ͊̒̑᷃͝͞Ļ̷̭̳̪͎̑́̓̈̑̈́᷀͡ͅ ͉̥̖̩͇̟͙̽̌̑̌ͪͬ̑͝J̵̡͉̰̀̑̔̔ͩ̑᷁͢͢͢͡Ơ̷̧̤̗̬͇̘̑̔̀̉̔̑̏E̶̢͙̘͈̎̑̍᷅̓̑ͪ̚͘ͅL̴͉̣̮̝̑ͮͫͮ̉̈̑ͬ᷇᷉ ̷̞͕̰̟̇̑ͯ̅̑̈́̀ͦ͘͞J̵̷̶̝̖᷅̑̈́᷾̿̏̑̂͘ͅǪ̱̪̘᷿̤͚̀̑̄᷾ͩ̉̑͛Ȇ̢̼̯̯̺᷿̻͚̌ͤ͒̓̑͘L̰̤̙͎̑̀̈᷅̅̑̑̑ͨ̈͝ ͉̘̦̝̑͒ͅ͏͕̘̋᷀̑᷾̈J͈͏̨̣̹̩̑ͦ̉̋᷅᷇̑᷇̄Ơ̮͍͙͎͓ͦ̄̑᷆ͭ͆̑ͪ͡Ȩ̛͕̭͎̭̽͆̑̑᷄̽᷀̑᷅Ļ̝̖̫̤᷂̑͐̓̅͋̑̏̋͡ ̷̱͓̤̱̫̟̖̘͚͈̑̍̑͢J͈̰̳͍̘̝̤̲̑᷇̑̑᷄ͪ͝O̡̫̪̹̳͈̤̬͂͗̑̆̑ͨ̚Ȩ̦̬̻͉̟̭᷄̑̽ͤ̑͛̉͟L̵̘̥͖̻̥̀̑̈̾͒͋̑͋͝ ̸̨̗̞̦̲̖̝̟̱̝̺̰̳̦̊̑ͦ̑̽᷈̑̊͛̑͗ͯͦ̚͢͜J̧̪̠͂̑ͪͥ̎̂̑̾̉ͧ̚ͅǪ̺̤̼̻̃̑ͨ̾᷉᷾̑̒ͩ̍E̴̸̬͎̹̭͈̬͍̽̑ͨ̅̍̑L̡̢̩̞̮᷊̜̆̑͛̓̑̓̿͝ ̶̳̦̱̥͓᷇ͦ̑᷁̂̂̑̾ͅ
J̷̢̨̝̬̪̑͌̐̒̀̊̑̅͜Ó̦̬̳̰̺̰͚̆̑̑᷾̕͘͜Ȩ̸̡̛̝̻̤̪̑᷃̉᷀̑͛͢L̸̛̠̺̖̩̣̮̉̑̄̌̑̔͠ ̡͉̱ͩͦ̏̑᷉ͪ̀ͬ̑ͥ̾͝J͉ͫ᷀̑̓͟͏͎͇ͤ͐̑̒̊̾Ơ̴̧̥̜̝̹̆̑͐ͮͯ̑ͥ̕E̸̗͎͎͇̍̑ͭͧ̐̑ͪ᷾͘͠L͉̠̤͖̖̆͗̑̋ͭ᷆̑᷈̕͢ ̟̹̲᷂͉̪͉͆ͬ̑᷄̄ͫͥ̑J͓̳̗̭̱̬̓̋̑᷃̃̈᷀̑᷇Ơ̘͇᷂͚͓̯̅̑᷉ͭͫ̑̿͝Ẻ̷̵̛̺̱᷂̜̘᷊̑̎̑͛͆L̴̸̢̖͖͖͂ͨ̑̓͋͒̑̊͟O͎͔͂͂ͣ̑̋͏̧᷿̓᷆̑̓ͥȨ̷̯̺͔̼͆̽̑̄᷆᷀̑͞͡L̢᷂̯̙̗ͧ̎̑͗́̌ͨͮ̑͞ ̴̵̣̤̰̻̱̬͊̌̑͌̑ͥ̕J̘̪̮̙͎̣͐̓᷾̑̔̑ͩ̑͋L̵̴͉͚̳̬̃̿̑̓̽̈́̑̀ͧ ̶͏̹̲̪̑᷈ͨ͒ͦͤ̑̂ͣ͠J̸̳̗͙ͯ͒̑ͧ̑᷆̎͆̑̀͡O̶͇͙͚͗̑ͮ᷾̐́̑͂͢͜͡E͉͏͔͑̑ͣ̓ͤ̎̏̑̀ͩͤ̚Ḷ̴̬̻̯͈̑ͭ̎ͩ͒̏̑̌̉ ̴̧̫̞ͣ̑᷇ͥ͒ͨ͊̑᷆ͭͅJ̮̊̑̕͏̸̘̘̗̯̂ͫ̑͗̓O̠͔̲̟ͤ̽̑̀ͨͧ͛ͪ̑͊̐Ȇ̶̪̰̩͉̟̎ͩ̂ͩ̔̑͞͡L̷͖͔͉̟̹̋᷆̑͊̑́͐̚͜ ̸̢̛̩̬͇̻̔᷆̑͒͗̑᷃ͧJ̟̱̰̙̜̻͎᷁̑̏ͪ̑᷉̂͝O̴̝͍̜̼͈͇̤ͫ̑ͥ̂̑̎͠ ͇̤̺̖̣̭̑᷆ͣ᷾̏̑̆̚͞Ḙ᷿͔̱͔̲̝᷃̑̾̀̑᷈᷇᷉L̬͎̥͈͚̼᷿̫̑̓᷈̑͆͛ͅ ͉͉̱̬̽̓ͪ̑ͫͤ̊̈̀̑͟J̶̢̡͍͉͇͋̽̑̌᷁͒᷾̑̂Ǫ̵̜̼͆͌̑̀ͯ͆ͣͮ̑̐᷈E̘͙͕͍͕̅̒̑͂̾᷈̑ͫ͋͟Ḷ̰̟͙͚͓᷊͔̈́̑᷇̽̑͆͟ ̰͔͖̲͙᷄̑ͨͩ̾̑̉ͪ͢͠J̛̺͔̘̜̙͓ͯ͑̑ͤ̍̑͑̎O͎̯̯ͫ̓̓̑̽̂̋᷾ͩ̑ͮ͜E͇̲̼̥᷉ͥ̑᷇̎͂͊̔̑ͭͬL̫̹͔̠̟᷾̑᷈̉᷉̑᷃᷄̚͠ ᷿̗̣̣͉̈́̑᷃͐ͨ͐̑ͮ̑͛J̢̳̟᷂̰̞͇̖̑̿ͭ̽̑͜͠O̵̟̞̫̪̳̊᷅̑͊̊̑͐͘͢E̼̻̞̬͈ͯ̑᷆ͫ͗ͭ̑̋͑͆L̡̰̫̥̦͋́̑̽̌ͥ̑͌̚͝ ̶᷂͔͕̻᷅̈̑͆ͥ̍̐̑ͨͅJ͖̲̣̳͖̦ͫ̑̇͆ͨͪ̑ͭ͢O̹͕̥͇̻̫᷁̋̐̑͒᷈͐̑̆E̴̖̭̻᷊̦͑̑̄̀͒̈́̑͋͞L̷̵̟̼̲͌̑̌̌͌᷾̈́̑̒͟ ̧̠̭̮̱̰ͭ̑̍ͨ̔̑̚͟͞J̷͖̪͉᷿͛̑̈́᷉̅ͩ̑̔ͥO̢̝̎̑͏̢̨̖̯̙̜̘̳̑ͅȆ̶͙͕᷊̙̊͏᷿͔̤ͫͮ̑ͥL̵̠͔̞᷂᷂͕̺͂̑ͣ̿͆̑ͬ ̶̵᷊̌᷅̑̇͑͊᷃͏̣͚̑ͅJ͖͓̪͎̣̻᷀ͧ̑᷃ͯͦ᷁̑ͧȄ̪̣̼̺̮́̑᷆᷇̑̀᷅᷉̕L͓̪᷿͖̐͆᷅̑͋ͤͦ᷀̑̄͘ ̡̨̡᷂̟᷿̇͂̑͛̏ͦͩ̑͢J̢̳͚̪̱̌̃̑᷇ͯ̆̌̓̑̎L̡̯̯᷂̻̦͍͓͇̋̑́̑͜͢ ̴̬̩̼̖͔́̑᷁͂̉̇̑̅̅J̛᷿̻̲͙͚̑̽᷾ͧͮ̋͊̑᷇O̻̲̖᷄᷇ͪ̑̈́̄̑ͦ̑̉᷅ͫȨ̵̜ͥ̑̔̓ͨͧ͐̑ͪ̾᷃͢Ļ̶̷̗̘̞̍̑̏̒᷉͋̑͢ͅ ᷊᷂̲͓̑̏͏̜̦̥̻᷆̑᷉̒J̧̙͕͎̮̗͋̓̔̑͛̃̑͂̚O̷̯᷊̐̋̅̑́ͪ̎ͮ̑᷄̎͜E̶͖̯̳᷅̑ͤ᷇᷀́ͪ̐̑̇͋Ļ̷̢̖̟̪᷊̑ͯ᷄̆̅̑ͩ͂ ̸̨̡᷿̩͇ͮ̑᷁̓͋̑̂͂̚J̶̧̝̥̼̥̍̑̈̋᷆ͨͫ̑̈́Ọ̧̡͙͕͍̽͒᷆̑ͣ̊̌̑̏E̡̲̹̎᷃̑͏̶̠̔̽͌̑̒᷄Ļ͍͖̹̪͖̜̪̬̓͂̑ͣ᷉̑ ̨̼̱᷿̭͎̀̑͋᷉͒̑͊͐̚L͙̻̞᷿̟͈ͧ̑᷁̊͂᷃̑᷁͟ ̭̫̟̩͎̟̥᷁̅̑᷁͊̑́̚J̡̛̙̠͕᷿᷾̑ͨ̍̈̏̑̇̚O̯̙᷂̦͇̓͗̑᷀̂̀̑̉̎͞E̸̴̱̮̪̝͖̬ͮ̑̿᷉̑̌̅L͈̝̘̜᷁᷅᷁̑͆ͧ̓ͮ̑᷾͢ ̛̹̠͕ͫͨ̑ͧ̑̆̌̚͘͝͝J̛̳̤̺̿̑ͨ̈́ͣ͋̑̽͛͜͜Ȏ̵̰̮̝̺̘̪͆̀͗̑ͣ͘͘Ȩ̺͙͓̗̺̑͐́͂̋ͫ̑᷀ͥL̶̜̟᷊̯̜͎᷾᷉̑̓̒̑́͝ ̜̣̯̳̪̫͑̑ͭ̾͛̑̌̚͘J̼͔̹͔̟᷅᷆̑ͩ̈᷅̑̅᷃ͅO̷̡̥̮̥̯͆̑ͥ̃᷆̓ͪ̑ͅË̴̦᷊̰᷊͓̮́᷁̑̊̑̂̚͟L̸̘̫᷿̊ͨ̑͒͒̆̑̏̕̚͠ ̷̮̣̯̰̙̼̤͐᷉̋̑ͪ̑͌J͉ͨ͋̾̑̉̃ͪ͌̑̌ͬ͡͠͠O̻̫̣̜̞ͥ᷈̑́̉͂́ͣ̑᷁Ȅ̥̲̘̯̳̦̩̑̀͆᷈̑ͬ͟L̛͖̦̘̘͌ͪ̑̐ͬͫ᷀̑ͯ͢ ̨̛̲͇̼̽͗̎̑ͨͩͫ̑͢͡J̸̛̺̔ͧ̑͂ͪ̇͗͑́̑̐̽O̴̸̷̘͈̮͎̾̑᷄ͬ͒̑̌͟E̝͍̣͎᷾̒̑ͯ͑᷄᷆̑ͩ͏͘L̩̪͉͍͌̓̑ͤ̋᷆͂̑͋̎͟ ̵̦̦᷊᷊̑̇᷁ͬ᷈̀̑ͨ᷄͟J͍̯͕͉̾ͣ̑̿᷅͋̑̍ͩ᷅͡Ơ̶᷂̝͚̫̘̑ͮ̀̑͞͏̆͡Ȇ̢̛̞̬̞̦̭̈́ͣ̀ͭ̑̉͡Ḽ̶̷̞̫̱̑ͧ̒ͥ͛̑͂̃͟ ̛̗̝̜̻͚̑̿̃̑̔̒̚͟ͅJ̩̺̲̑͢͏̛̘͗̅͑̑᷇͠ͅO̴̖͓̻̓͊̆̑͆͂ͧ᷅̑́ͬE̵̛̖̘̘̮̺͑̑̿̿ͤͩ̑͟L̙̩̪̲̙̾ͨ̑̔̎ͫ͂̑̑͜ ̷̢̡̖̖᷿̲ͦ̾̑̽̑̄͠͠Ĵ̹͓͎͖᷃̅̑᷈ͭ̑̂͜͢͡O̷͓̝̪᷊͊ͬ̌̑͂᷅̈́̑̓̂Ę̭͇͓̥̖̐᷆̒̑̓͒̑̍ͣL̶̶͍̥͖ͧ̓̿̑̐̄́ͦ̑᷃Ȏ̶̡̧͓͇̻̖̆ͫ͐̑̿̇͡E̫̪̲̥̰͚̹͓͕ͩ̑͑̑̓̏L̷̵̢̞̥᷂̄̑ͫ᷉᷃ͮ̑͜͞ ̷̜̤̌̑̐̔̐̄̍̑᷇͑͐͢J̶̻̳̑̇᷀́̊̑ͫ͘͝ͅͅͅL̬͖͍̫̰ͨ᷇̑̽ͫ᷇̑᷅̐ͅ ̸̴̛̲̟᷉̑̍́ͮͯ̑̽̚͜J̼̦͕ͦ̑᷄̈́̅ͭ̇̑ͤ͆ͬ͝Ȏ̪̝̮̳̖͓̑̈́ͭ́̃̃̑̾Ê̵͙̩͚̼̼̹̑ͬ᷄ͯ̑᷀ͨL̶̷̨͖̺̞͎̞̣͌̑͌̉̑͝ ̧̣̮̟͙᷀̑̂᷄᷾̇ͦ̑̔͟J̸̢̻͉͉̥̉᷅̑᷆ͥ̆ͪ̑͡O̢̟ͧ̽̉̑᷾͛᷄̑᷀ͭ͘͟͟E̙̘̗̰͍͉ͪ̑̏͌̑ͣ̔́̕L̞͕̩̗̟̗͉͑̑᷉̓᷈̑ͪ͠ ̟̭̤͉ͮ̑̄̑ͪͥ͊̑͗᷇͟J̸̛̫̼̣̳̑̑̊͐͆ͬ̑͑͗͜Ọ̵̜ͨͧ᷉̑̒͏̄̑̑᷇͘͞ ̧̩͚̰̑͋᷅̑᷈ͥ̓ͩ̑̀͂E᷁̎̑᷇ͯ̕͏̠͇̭̄̑̇ͬ̋L̸̜͖̘̪̇̑̆ͩ̇͋ͩ᷃̑͆ ̶̷̞͚᷇̑᷈ͯ͟ͅ͏̳̑̈͞J̷̧̘̮᷊̜̇᷅̑᷾̊̒̑̿͆Ȏ̼̭͍̤̮͕̔ͫͯ̑̆͋͘͝E̛̛͖̫̟̮ͮ̆̑̏ͧ᷉̓̆̑L̡̳̥̼̳̦͎͔̫͚̑ͤ͆̑͋ ̡̭͈̝᷂̽͆̀̑ͭ᷆ͥ̈̑͜J᷊̟̫̼̜᷃᷾̑̈̃᷅͒̑᷉ͣO̶̯͇̽̑᷄̍᷃͐̇̑̈᷄᷃͝E̢̨̨᷂̖̘᷆̏̑᷇̄̏̑̏̾Ļ͈̬͂̑̆᷀ͧͬ̑᷀̚͜͞ͅ ̴̢̨͚̩̮͚͎͈̟̑̌̑͢ͅJ͇̬᷿͈͛̑̅̆̐̀̑̓͘͜͠O̧̗͏̫̪͍̑᷀ͦ͆ͩ̑᷾̑͠E̴̴͉̠̜͇̦ͮ̑᷀̋̑ͫ᷆͡L̛̖̼̺̰ͧͥ̑̈́͂͑ͯ̑᷅͜ ̨̫͈̱̩̜̓̑᷄᷀ͨ̑ͩ͢͞J̸͖͗̑̂ͣ᷈̊̓᷆̑̽᷆͜ͅO̜͍̙̓̑͊ͧͦ̀͊̑᷾͊̕͢E̡̳᷿̪᷊̬͂̑᷅᷾̾̉̑̾̓Ļ̴̡̰̝̼̙᷉̑̎᷅̑ͯ̕͞ ̗̻̗̹͗᷇̑͋̽ͩ͛̑͜͝ͅJ̸̠̘̇᷉̑̆̎᷉̆͂̑ͨ̽̈Ọ̷̡̡̝̻͙ͭ̑ͥ᷀᷉̑̽͟E̴͎̊ͯ̑ͥ̐̍̓͡͏̠̑̃̽L̷̴̢̘͎̰̭͙᷄̑᷾ͩ̈̑̐ ̦̠̣̺̌ͤ̑̏᷃́̑᷇̔͢͢J̵̡͚̭̫̗ͨ̓̑᷈ͯ̑̅͜͞Ẻ̥̫͓̦᷿̗̑̓͛ͣ̑̅̚͠Ļ̷̢̺ͫ̑ͬ̂̓̌̈́̑᷾̚͟ ̷̢̛̜͕͓̹̝̑̓̍̑͜͝͠Ȩ̵̖᷿̠͎̗̽᷀̑̾̈́ͪ̑ͩ ̣̦̻̄̔̑͛᷈͂̓̑᷁̀̕͞J̨̥̱̩̑ͬ̑̐̓̿ͮ̑͒ͮ͜O̵̗͔͖̊̑ͣ᷾̒̑̑᷄̚͟͞Ę̮̳͈̖̿̈́̑̆̄̑̂ͭ͘͟Ļ̷̬͖̱͔᷆̆̑͋ͩ᷀̑̔͢ ̷͇͕͇̯͖͓͋̑̏͌̍̐̑͘J̧̻̺̬ͮ̑ͥ̀᷄̾᷃̑ͤ̕͘Ǫ̸̡̣᷁̒͋̑̎ͧ̉̀͗̑̓E͇͍͎͕͆ͫ̑̓᷄̒̾͑̑̋̔ ̲̮̫́̂̑̾᷇̍̒᷾̑̔᷄͟J̷̻̱͕̖͚͆̑͒̀̑ͯ᷉͜͞O̸̧͚̳͓᷿̭͆̑̽͐̑̒᷇̚E̴̦̳̺ͩͭ̑̈́̋ͬ̋̑̽͋ͬL̤̱̫᷊̑̈́̂᷆̌͊̑̉̓̕̕
Ę͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͗́̏͞͝L͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎̀ͩ̈̔̚͘ ̸̴͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̭͎̠͎̖͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎̩͎̠͎͎̠͎͈͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͎̠͎᷅ͬ᷀̋ͥ̔J̡͎̠͎̪͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̉᷁͠O͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷿͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͩ᷃ͦ̔͞ͅE͎̠͎͎̠͎̜͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷀̽ͯ᷆L̢̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎̋᷾͟ ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎̞͎̠͎͉͎̠͎͎̠͎̒͆ͮ͢J̶̧͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎ͨ͢͟͠Ō͎̠͎̠͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̜͎̠͎᷉ͭ͂E͎̠͎̰͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͗͐͏̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎Ļ͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̦͎̠͎̬͎̠͎ͭͣ ̸͎̠͎͇͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷉ͦ̊͠J͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͙͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̅͒̓ͦ͠O͎̠͎͎̠͎͈͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͈͎̠͎̓̐̑᷾͞E̴͎̠͎͎̠͎͓͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎̽̾̅̚L͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͚͎̠͎̒͒̓͟Ę͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͆͏͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͪ̏͝͠L͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͚͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̐᷾̈̔̚͜ ̸̢͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̭͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̥͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͎̠͎ͬ̿ͪ̋᷁ͥ᷆͝͠J̡͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̈̓̉ͭ͘O͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̹͎̠͎͎̠͎͙͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎̓᷃ͦ̔E͎̠͎̮͎̠͎̜͎̠͎͕͎̠͎͖͎̠͎᷂͎̠͎͎̠͎̻͎̠͎ͯL̛͎̠͎̣͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷃᷾ͬ͟͞ ̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͉͎̠͎̬͎̠͎ͫ͢J̧͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̮͎̠͎͎̠͎̦͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎̇ͨ͐O͎̠͎̰͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̮͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷉͂͜͟E̷̛͎̠͎͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷁̾͐ͪL̢̧͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̦͎̠͎̣͎̠͎ͭ̇̋ ̸͎̠͎̘͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͚͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͦ͘J̷͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͙͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̄͒ͦ͜Õ͎̠͎͎̠͎͈͎̠͎͔͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̐᷾ͧ̕E̷͎̠͎͎̠͎͓͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̮͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷃̒̅̚L̢͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͍͎̠͎͑̒̅ ̶͎̠͎̫͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷉͋ͥ̓͘J͎̠͎̣͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͕͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̐ͧ̓̾͞Ȏ͎̠͎͎̠͎͉͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͛ͫ̎͠E͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͍͎̠͎͕͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷇͒᷈̔L͎̠͎͎̠͎᷿͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̱͎̠͎͎̠͎̅́᷇͆̇ ̧͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎᷿͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎ͥ᷀͆J̴͎̠͎̭͎̠͎̰͎̠͎͔͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̭͎̠͎ͬ̋O͎̠͎͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͐̇̏͝E͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͯ᷄̾̃̉̋͗L͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̭͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎ͭ̂̊ͫ̌ ̸͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̹͎̠͎̳͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͒͆̄J̵͎̠͎͎̠͎͓͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͎̠͎ͦͩ̋E͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̔̈̎̇̅̏͜L̡̢͎̠͎̱͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͒̇᷀͛ ͎̠͎͎̠͎͔͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̘͎̠͎̣͎̠͎͎̠͎᷉̉̔͡J̶̛͎̠͎͎̠͎̖͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̭͎̠͎͎̠͎͚͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̱͎̠͎͎̠͎ͮͫ̈́ͤ̇͌᷅͐̃L͎̠͎̝͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͉͎̠͎̽͊͏͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̐͘ ̡͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̘͎̠͎͎̠͎͓͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̓̄͟͠J̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎̽ͬͧ͌͠Ǫ͎̠͎͈͎̠͎͎̠͎̘͎̠͎͎̠͎̞͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͑ͥË͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̭͎̠͎͎̠͎̣͎̠͎͎̠͎́̌̑̍͘L͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̞͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎͈͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̯͎̠͎̹͎̠͎͙͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̎᷉̈́̄̅᷾ͭ᷃̃̈́̎̆ͅ ̨͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͚͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷃ͯ͊̇ͮJ͎̠͎͔͎̠͎̺͎̠͎̻͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͟Ǫ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̝͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎͎̠͎̻͎̠͎̌ͥ̈́E̶͎̠͎̟͎̠͎͎̠͎̠͎̠͎͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷉ͣ̄L͎̠͎͎̠͎̫͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͙͎̠͎͙͎̠͎᷁̎͒͢ ̵͎̠͎̟͎̠͎̠͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̐̊͒͆J͎̠͎̹͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̞͎̠͎͎̠͎͛͊͊͊͠O̸͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎̻͎̠͎͞͏͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̈̈́E̵͎̠͎̰͎̠͎͎̠͎̦͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̻͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎̊͢L̶̴̸͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̫͎̠͎͎̠͎᷂͎̠͎͎̠͎᷂͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͙͎̠͎̹͎̠͎̆̒ͯ̚͢͜ ̨͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̝͎̠͎͎̠͎̙͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎̒͛᷁L͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̣͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̙͎̠͎̳͎̠͎̂̃ͥ͠ ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̟͎̠͎̠͎̠͎᷀̿̆͐J̨͎̠͎᷿͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̱͎̠͎̅̒̿̿Ỏ͎̠͎̩͎̠͎͚͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷀᷃͘͠E͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͕͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷃̑᷄͟͡͞L̴̵̨͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͔͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̰͎̠͎̹͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̰͎̠͎̟͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷾̋᷈͌͛͛͞ ̶͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͎̠͎̟͎̠͎͎̠͎̠͎̠͎͓͎̠͎͐͢J͎̠͎̺͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͨ̉ͬ̿̚Ơ̸͎̠͎͔͎̠͎͎̠͎͉͎̠͎̭͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̅̓̈́᷈ͧ̃̑̓̑Ẽ̸̵͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̫͎̠͎͎̠͎͇͎̠͎̍͟L͎̠͎̩͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎̲͎̠͎͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎ͪ̈́͡ ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̘͎̠͎͎̠͎̯͎̠͎̫͎̠͎͎̠͎̿͋̾͘J͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̰͎̠͎͎̠͎̇ͫͮ͛ͣͅŐ̴̢͎̠͎̭͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̱͎̠͎᷂͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͜E͎̠͎̲͎̠͎̥͎̠͎̰͎̠͎͚͎̠͎͎̠͎̝͎̠͎̹͎̠͎ͤL̢͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̜͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̐̉᷃̅͟ ̷͎̠͎̳͎̠͎̝͎̠͎͎̠͎̯͎̠͎̼͎̠͎̟͎̠͎̖͎̠͎J̡͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̯͎̠͎̰͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎̈́͛̾Ǫ͎̠͎̪͎̠͎̪͎̠͎̭͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̓͘E͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͙͎̠͎͎̠͎᷃́ͤ͊᷾ͨL̢͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̓ͫ̀͊᷆᷈ ̧͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎̪͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̪͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͔͎̠͎̯͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷂͎̠͎̲͎̠͎͕͎̠͎̅ͨ̀ͯ᷅᷈ͮ̏͘͘͜͞J͎̠͎͎̠͎᷿͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̍̃̏͘̚O͎̠͎̟͎̠͎͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̯͎̠͎͎̠͎ͬ᷉̆͟E͎̠͎̭͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̦͎̠͎̜͎̠͎̮͎̠͎͎̠͎͆̐̈L͎̠͎͎̠͎̦͎̠͎͎̠͎̝͎̠͎͎̠͎̞͎̠͎͎̠͎᷾ͪ̓͠ ͎̠͎̜͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͂̔̓͏͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷁̀J͎̠͎̫͎̠͎̖͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎̝͎̠͎᷈̑̏O̧̧͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̪͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̟͎̠͎͎̠͎͔͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͣ̀̃ͫͯͣ̄͗̕̚Ě͎̠͎͎̠͎̠͎̠͎̪͎̠͎͎̠͎̞͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎᷄̃L̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎͎̠͎̦͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷄̓̎ͨ ͎̠͎̠͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͎̠͎̻͎̠͎͎̠͎᷉᷾᷅̕J͎̠͎͉͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̯͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̈᷇̓̓̚Ŏ̴̵͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̊́̃͆E̛͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎̱͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͆͜͏͎̠͎͚͎̠͎L͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎ͬ̿̊̒᷄͆ ̵͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͍͎̠͎̟͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̅᷀̆̕J̨͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̘͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͓͎̠͎͎̠͎̐̾᷾͜O͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͎̠͎᷁̔᷄̋
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O͎̠͎̼͎̠͎̖͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͎̠͎ͫ̇͡͝E͎̠͎͙͎̠͎̮͎̠͎͎̠͎͉͎̠͎̫͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷁̎᷈L͎̠͎͉͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͉͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̏̒ͣ̕ ͎̠͎̞͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̟͎̠͎᷉᷃͋̒ͥJ̧͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͕͎̠͎̘͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̐͢͞Ò͎̠͎͎̠͎͉͎̠͎̘͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͔͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͫ͟Ȩ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͕͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̒͒᷈̍͝L͎̠͎̗͎̠͎᷿͎̠͎͓͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̱͎̠͎̜͎̠͎᷇͛ ̧̧͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎͔͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎͊͟Ę͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷿͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷅͛̏ͩ͝L͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̈͛̈̔ͣ̚͜ ̸̨̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̭͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͍͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̘͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͎̠͎ͬ͐̋͊ͥͯ͜J̡͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͈͎̠͎̒̉͝O͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̝͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͒᷃ͦ̔̔Ë͎̠͎͎̠͎̜͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̆ͯ̉L͎̠͎͏̨̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̎᷾͟ ̵͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͉͎̠͎͎̠͎̾͢͡J̧͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎ͨ̈́͡Ö͎̠͎͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎́ͮ᷉͗͂᷾E͎̠͎͏̛͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͪ͐̈͝Ļ͎̠͎͕͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̦͎̠͎͎̠͎ͭͮ̂᷆ ̸̢͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͪͦ͟J͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͙͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͪ͒᷾ͦͤO͎̠͎͙͎̠͎͈͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͇͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷅̐᷾ͤÉ͎̠͎͎̠͎͓͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎̆̅̚͝L̸͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͈͎̠͎̳͎̠͎̠͎̠͎̒ ̶͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̫͎̠͎͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎᷉͋ͥJ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̘͎̠͎͕͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̌̐͌ͪ͞O̵͎̠͎͎̠͎͉͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̻͎̠͎ͣ͒ͫE͎̠͎̣͎̠͎͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͕͎̠͎̮͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͒᷈͑L̶͎̠͎͎̠͎᷿͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̱͎̠͎͎̠͎ͫ᷉᷇͋ ̧͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͈͎̠͎͋̌ͧĴ̴͎̠͎͎̠͎̰͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͬ̔͘O͎̠͎͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͉͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷃̇̏ͅͅE͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̲͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷄᷆̃̋̎L͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̱͎̠͎͎̠͎͉͎̠͎ͪ̂͒̊̌ ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̣͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͎̠͎͆ͩ̄̂͟J͎̠͎͎̠͎͓͎̠͎̫͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͍͎̠͎ͮ͐E͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎͎̠͎̘͎̠͎᷈̈᷇̇͜L̡̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̺͎̠͎̇ͩ͛͡ ̶͎̠͎̫͎̠͎͔͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̣͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͡J̶͎̠͎͎̠͎̖͎̠͎̱͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̲͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͈͎̠͎͎̠͎͍͎̠͎̱͎̠͎͎̠͎᷾ͫ̓ͤ̎̇᷅᷁L͎̠͎̻͎̠͎͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͉͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̽̐͟ ̡͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͥ́̓͆͟͠J͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎̌̽̽ͬ̉̕Ǫ͎̠͎͕͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͨ͑͋̔Ě͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎̭͎̠͎̞͎̠͎̣͎̠͎͚͎̠͎L̨͎̠͎̘͎̠͎͎̠͎᷂͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̹͎̠͎̫͎̠͎͎̠͎̪͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷉̈́̌̄ͦ᷾̄ͭ̃̉̎̿ ̨͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̦͎̠͎̎ͯ̾̇͡J͎̠͎͎̠͎̺͎̠͎̪͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͎̠͎̅̈́᷆Ǭ̨͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͥ̂̈́͒E̶̶͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̱͎̠͎͎̠͎͈͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷉ͣ̉L͎̠͎͎̠͎̫͎̠͎̞͎̠͎͎̠͎̰͎̠͎͙͎̠͎͎̠͎̉͌͢ ̵͎̠͎͎̠͎̠͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷾̎͒͘͜J͎̠͎̮͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̞͎̠͎͎̠͎͛͐͊͋͡Ơ͎̠͎͕͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎̻͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͨ̈ͬȨ̵͎̠͎̤͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̻͎̠͎͇͎̠͎̏͢L̴̸͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̜͎̠͎͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̻͎̠͎͙͎̠͎͎̠͎᷾̆̒̋ͪ̚͟ ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎͑͛᷁᷁᷃͘L͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̻͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̙͎̠͎͎̠͎ͮ̃̌͒͠ ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̫͎̠͎͎̠͎̫͎̠͎̟͎̠͎͎̠͎᷉̿̆̔J̵̨͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷃̑̒̒̿O͎̠͎͎̠͎͚͎̠͎̘͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̅̉ͮ᷀̿E͎̠͎͚͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷃ͮ᷄͑͜͡L̴̴̨͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̰͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̰͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͚͎̠͎ͣ̋᷇᷈ͦ͛ͥ̕ ͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͎̠͎̟͎̠͎͎̠͎̠͎̠͎͎̠͎̇̌ͭ̏J͎̠͎͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͛̔̉̋ͧ̚Ö͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̭͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̪͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̜͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎́̅̈́̓᷈̍ͧ̑᷁̑͜͠Ȇ̸̵̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷂͎̠͎̍L̡͎̠͎̖͎̠͎͎̠͎̭͎̠͎̲͎̠͎͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎ͣ͡ ͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̫͎̠͎͎̠͎͋͛̍͘͜J̸͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̩͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̰͎̠͎̭͎̠͎᷆ͮͅO̴͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̣͎̠͎̱͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̲͎̠͎᷈̋̀E͎̠͎̬͎̠͎̥͎̠͎̠͎̠͎͚͎̠͎͎̠͎̝͎̠͎̣͎̠͎̒L̶͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̜͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͔͎̠͎᷃ͦ᷃͟ ͎̠͎͎̠͎̝͎̠͎͎̠͎̯͎̠͎͓͎̠͎̟͎̠͎͎̠͎͛͐ͥJ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̹͎̠͎̰͎̠͎̜͎̠͎͎̠͎͔͎̠͎᷈̈́̾O͎̠͎̻͎̠͎̪͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̟͎̠͎͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͯ͘ͅÉ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͙͎̠͎͎̠͎ͭ͊̚͠͡L̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̓̀ͪ᷆ͪ̚ ̶̧̧͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̪͎̠͎͉͎̠͎͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͔͎̠͎̝͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̲͎̠͎͎̠͎̌᷄ͨ̾᷅̓̏̽͘͘͜͝͞J̨͎̠͎̦͎̠͎᷿͎̠͎̞͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͨ͘̚O͎̠͎̝͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̯͎̠͎̯͎̠͎͎̠͎̓ͬ͟͡É̵͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̦͎̠͎͎̠͎̮͎̠͎͎̠͎͆̐͘L͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎̦͎̠͎͎̠͎̝͎̠͎̻͎̠͎̞͎̠͎͉͎̠͎ͅ ̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷉͂̓̓᷁͏͎̠͎J͎̠͎͎̠͎̖͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͈͎̠͎̾̑᷇O̧̨͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̗͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̞͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̓̾̀᷈̃ͫͯ̄̏̕͟E͎̠͎͎̠͎̠͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͙͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎ͥ᷄̃͞L͎̠͎͇͎̠͎͎̠͎̓͏̨͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̎ͨ̓ ̶͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̺͎̠͎͎̠͎̻͎̠͎͎̠͎͋᷉ͭͦJ͎̠͎̣͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̯͎̠͎̈̐͏͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̓̂Ó̴̷͎̠͎̲͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷂͎̠͎͎̠͎̞͎̠͎̃E̡̡͎̠͎͎̠͎̱͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̒͜͏͎̠͎̮͎̠͎L͎̠͎̳͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̿̊̒᷈͆͠ ̵͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̟͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎᷊͎̠͎̀᷇᷀J͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͓͎̠͎͇͎̠͎͆̾ͥ͜͝O͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̯͎̠͎̺͎̠͎̱͎̠͎᷁ͭ̔ͅE̛͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̘͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷇̽̃ͅͅL͎̠͎̥͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎͎̠͎̝͎̠͎͎̠͎̝͎̠͎̃ͩͯO̵͎̠͎͈͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎᷂͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̞͎̠͎ͭ̓᷾E̡͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̲͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎ͦ̀͒᷉͝L̴͎̠͎͎̠͎̼͎̠͎͎̠͎͚͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎͎̠͎̔͘͡ ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͖͎̠͎̫͎̠͎᷅̾͆̑̀J̸͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̪͎̠͎ͮͩ̌ͭͧL͎̠͎͎̠͎̙͎̠͎̬͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̋͊͛̐͡ ͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̤͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̓ͩ̆̔᷄̑J̴̡͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̏̔᷾̋̿Ȯ̡͎̠͎͎̠͎͎̠͎̰͎̠͎͎̠͎͇͎̠͎͎̠͎̹͎̠͎͑͝E͎̠͎̘͎̠͎
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
The room was filled with freak weirdo's and other assorted nut jobs and then there were the folks that weren't writers.
It was a poetry reading open mic deal yeah what a wild party this was going to be but being the best of the best from Hello were supposed to be there I figured my invitation must have got lost in the mail.
You know what that is kids.
See before the net you actually had to get off your lazy **** to mail a letter yeah I know how ****** up is that?
It's almost like music where you actually play instruments to enjoy instead of steal a loop from one of your parents records yeah don't pretend you understand that one if you under the age of thirty .
But enough with the foreplay children .
The room was packed the poets ready and as I took my seat I was shocked to find they wouldn't be serving ***** at this snooze fest .
Probably a good idea cause after teen age Timmy read his ode to his two day relationship we would all probably slip into a coma .
No worries much like batman but not as gay.
, I always had my trusty utility belt I'm kidding I just had a flask what kind of freak do you think I am?, Okay don't answer that one hamsters.
So after ordering a coffee and adding a little ******** tonic I sat back and waited to listen to the young crop of writers read there poetry eager to take it all in yeah, right I did as always sat back and waited to
heckle the **** out of everyone hit on the waitress and generally be known as the loveable poetic areshole of the site.
The time flew.
If by that you mean the time dragged on like we were being ear ***** by a duet between Justin Bieber and Selna Gomez .
It was brutal I tell you but the tide was about to make a turn for the better .
As the MC for the event announced we have a special guest in the crowd tonight and hopefully with a round of applause we can get him to do a reading for us folks give a warm round of applause for .
I jumped to the stage the truly poetic ego maniac ***** eager to save the day or at least give it a good kick in the *** there's only so much
you can listen to of this yuppy ***** before you go insane hamsters .
The woman must have been in shock being in the presence of the greatest co writer in Hello history .
For she looked at me like she had no clue who the hell I was .
Um sir do you mind getting off the stage we are getting ready to ask Joel M Frye to the stage.
Joel ?
Yeah sure he's a great writer and can spell and his farts smell of cinnamon and pier one or at least I have herd.
But do you have no idea of who I am woman?
She looked at me with a mix of sympathy and probably thinking I wonder if the institution knows he's escaped ?
Umm no sir sorry I don't have a clue.
I had to take in consideration this poor women probably had a smaller brain than the genius that stood before her .
I am Gonzo my sweet lady I said really slow so she could understand
cause she had a smaller brain I'm not saying that cause she was a woman so don't get all *** crazy on me sisters cause you know Gonzo loves you all like a perverted uncle .
Gonzo where have I herd that name oh yeah I know you I thought you died ?
What duh I'm standing here aren't I?
Wait a minute maybe I'm a ******* zombie **** I hate to think I'm one of those walking dead ******* although I have had *** with some ladies I swear could pass for a zombie course that was probably just the drugs I slipped them hey don't judge I'm kidding I would never do that I do what every true gentleman does when in need.
Pick up hookers .
Hey John Joel said as he slipped up behind me like some poetic ninja .
Joel amigo how the hell are you please do me a favor and explain to this woman just who I am I mean really yeah it's like they don't know how kick **** I am .
Well Gonz maybe I can talk them into letting you do a reading .
Look this guys totally ******* nuts okay so bare with me Joel
whispered to the mc lady who's smaller brain was truly annoying the **** out of me.
Gonz let me just work this out okay buddy .
I began to object then Joel pulled a truly ***** trick by handing
me the most recent issue of hustler magazine .
From what I herd it had a great article in it yeah right you have to admire **** that doesn't pretend to be nothing more than what it truly is kind of like me .
The woman and Joel spoke for some time and I assume she had seen the error of her ways as she laughed and shook her head oh that Joel he is a charmer.
I was almost halfway through the ****** hunt section when .
Joel appeared again like some magical poetic ninja slash friendly dragon .
Gonz man I pulled some strings and after I do a reading your going to close the show hell I even got you your own dressing room and everything figured you'd like to warm up a bit or at least not **** off in front of everyone it's getting a bit awkward I'm just saying bud.
I had to admit Joel was a true friend and as I was shown to the back dressing room it truly tugged at that lump of coal I called a heart to know I still had a true friend on the site I could trust .
Okay here's your dressing room Mr Gonzo it must be a awesome one I thought to myself for it had a big red sign above the door man they truly went all out for me .
But much like when I learned where babies come from my delusion was soon broken in half yeah I always thought they came from dumpsters like I did.
I was standing in a alley ***** cold there were no drinks or hot chicks with there ******* out as I had been promised .
****** man I was starting to believe I had been tricked.
I quickly made my way to the front of the club to tell Joel what these ******** had done !.
But the doors were locked man poor Joel they have trapped him inside
anything could be happening I sure hope he wasn't being ***** .
I banged on the door but couldn't see anything for the lights were off
it's like the people inside were avoiding me like most my friends .
Hey I know your in there open up you ******** .
Woman with the small brain I called out.
Please if you can here me please get Joel out of there he's to good to be tarnished by your terrible readings or ***** cause that's not funny haha yes it is I'm so demented.
I sat there for what felt like ages .
and after five minutes I had to give up Joel was lost to the poetic **** inside ****** man so many good writers have been lost to such lures as these coffee shop readings.
I made my way to the local bar heartbroken seems there was no love for Mr Gonzo left in this town .
I ordered a double and drank one to my friend who probably is reading this and thinking what the **** am I on this time .
Well it's mix of speed and bourbon but I'm taking it a bit easy these days .
Dam you!, poetry coffee house readings you have taken far to many of my friends .
I drown my sorrows and passed out as usual and thanked the lord I had escaped with my life and Joel's **** mag I will treasure it forever my friend.
Until next time
Stay crazy kids .
Gonzo
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC
I wonder how it feels like - to die young.
To carry the weight of secrets.
To carry the abundance of high hopes and beautiful desires.
And disappear.
Is Heaven now your listener?
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC