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M Solav Sep 2018
In the Melting of Days
We were Swept like the Fog
While a Sunshine of Rays
Made us Crawl in the Mud.
Written in February 2017.
Helena Dec 2018
stuck in the sole-ridges.
burning sun in amber petrichor
you suddenly feel infinite
skipping, humming
(****** puddle,suicide note)
and then my body underneath you
in plasma, in blister, in blood.
never let me drown
(you keep me burning on)
i´m mud
subtly stuck in
your rubber bridges.

started singing with the kids in park
i swore i could hear you screaming
(i was)

my love, my love
your footsteps break my silence
The sky crackles and I feel the most alone.

Just like that day in the woods.

My special place was off the trail, but he couldn't have known me,

I was so young and such an idiot,

Not everyone is genuine but I was so trusting,

I can still smell the sickening mixture of fresh-fallen rain,his sweat, the mud around the creek and salt from my tears.

With every atmospheric collision from the sky
my stomach churns tasting the blood in my mouth from his fist thundering against my tear stained cheeks.

When the wind blows  
I can still feel his callous hands bruising and exploring my unwilling body, and scraping against
the most intimate parts of me.

The lightning is when I remember the rock that found my desperate palms and crashing against his temple

The wind howls and the rain finally starts to fall then, near my belly button burns just like it did when the blade he swung wildly cut me before I could run and the water is my heartbeat pounding  in my ears,
but I can hear him behind me
The rush If my blood reminding me I’m still alive mind begging me to stay that way, his threats pushing me further

Head pounding ,body burning,
I burst through my front door

And then I start to cry
Rain storms are actually very hard for me to get through due to some other traumas but the storm that passed when I wrote this smelled like that day. Thunder really triggers me especially when I'm alone I used to cry in school when it thundered in the weeks after this incident but then I started to internalize it and I'd just be really quiet on those days. Trigger Warning, ****, molestation, violent attaked on a minor.
K Balachandran Sep 2018
Squirms of red earthworms,
Wriggle out of hot mud, die;
Flood’s queer side effect !
Josh Feb 6
I am the ground
solid and sure,
happily walked on-
until you are gone

Sometimes when it rains,
I turn into mud
And if I have to carry your weight,
You might slip
athena Oct 2016
you were shrieking about your problems
your teeth were all about this material world
everything was all about you
because that's how you wanted it
you loved yourself
and only yourself

you were spitting money of all currencies and kind
you adore them like how i adore humankind
you boast loudly about the material things you own
you loved your things so much, you turned into one
and you think people would actually love you

boisterous laughs were hidden behind the old brick wall
the you i used to know were a pigment of the past
you are now pitch-black, self centered and selfish

the pit can simply be covered with mud or a beautiful plant
but you dig deeper and fall and ask for succor
because that's what you crave for after all
-because money, that's all you have.
Ashley Chapman Sep 2017
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

         In the soup of silicone,
         Pouring over electro-spawned
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
          megabytes and terabytes,
          Far from the wood, the brine, the
          mud that caked us,
          In tighter and tighter
          digitised  projections,
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,


Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in
          bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
Numb numbers of numbers numb,

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow
          of our Being.
Wrote this a while back. It was published in The Tunnel Magazine, which was great. Anyway, hope it gets a wider audience.
Peter J Jul 2018
On flat bank’s where
grass runt reeds grow
waiting for rising tide,
A lone Heron stealths silently
while Gulls cry warning, and dive effortlessly in to a cold sea air.
Pheonix  Peanut and Pandora
stranded on wet mud bank,
wait for their chance to escape
but it’s bonds that need to be severed in their quest for freedom.
Estuary lights dim and flicker in the distance while closer to shore Mermaids sing on the breath of a storm.
Beckoning sailors "come ride the waves"
Siren songs of lost souls and shadows
“Come with us” on this bursting sea.
And they sing with a drowning charm
as fishermen launch vessels under a shawl covered wife's watchful eye.
And yesterdays widows weep, face rained bright from navigational lights.
Ships bell ring in time with a rollicking sea,
Pheonix  Peanut and Pandora
still await their escape but not this night.
While the Heron has long fled this great swell.
No cries now from gulls nor mothers hurrying their little ones to the safety of their coal fired warm homes.
Just the rage of wave riding mermaids that will have their bounty
the heart and souls from a fisherman life.
#Something I dotted down while sat under the brown Laugharne castle gazing  out to sea.
CK Baker Apr 2017
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls

Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle

Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms

Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues

Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare

It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****)
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Sara Kellie May 22
We play with creepy things
to quell the fear inside us.
Disguised in life it brings,
the woodlice and the spiders.
The mud pies and the worms
all made in preparation.
With life's persistent germs
a stronger generation.
And because what we consume
eventually makes us stronger.
The mud pies and the worms
will make us all live longer.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Building a natural immunity in life.
Learning, living and eating mud pies.
Richard Barnes Jul 2018
I live in the light of a purple sun,
waters deep,
oceans black,
hurricanes  glow red with their own light.

Hell’s madness rules with no mercy in sight.  

Wretched souls rise with the tide  

then swallowed whole by the purple sun’s light    

The soul cry for peace but receive only carnage and hate.

What god approves this madness?  

Greatness born and dies in filth and mud. 

No honor to the dead and the living becomes a disease.
Bhill Mar 7
Hey, HEY, what about,
Rain falling from clouds,
beautiful in a misty, foggy way.
Clouds rolling in
they appear to be
a never ending
just plain storm clouds!
Water, water everywhere.
Tap dancing on the roofs,
Cascading off cliffs,
Filling in natural washes,
Flowing out to local rivers,
Water converted to mud...
When is it too much
NOW is when...
And YES!

Brian Hill - 2019#56
Inspired by the tapping of rain on the roof..
They rain here lately has been beautoful and scary..
King Panda May 2016
mud and grass
common prayer
good weather
good people
and umbrella bags
because who wants to
get wet?
unless it’s with you
I could
I would
jump into the lake
for that rock
initials made in sharpie
and unclamp
we run
around the park
the afternoon surrounds us
the woman in the bikini
and we laugh
iced tea
decaf coffee
cake without teeth
and that airstream camper
you always wanted
I could live in your
I could live somewhere
not here
in silver
with my back to the
like dead
like a mummy
like a mirror
and life would make sense
life would be beautiful
like this run
with perfect amounts of sweat
and conversation that runs
waves in the sand
and tells the squirrels
goodnight, tractor
see you tomorrow

and the land that billows
is dug up
and chewed
like a goodnight poem
this run with you
takes rest
on my soul
and I crack my ribs
to take the spring’s
Jim Musics Mar 11
I'm slogging through the wet snow
There's lots of mud under that slush now
I slog this path three or four times a day
More often I walk it, but sometimes it's a hard trek
When there's deep snow
I haven't had my evening beer yet
Someone gave me some undeserved grief
(I never deserve it, you might realize)

Sometimes it's easier
When the ground is hard and dry
Still there are lots of roots
To make my ankles and knees sore if I'm not careful
I'm always careful, but sometimes it's not enough
It's worth it
Always worth it

I'm always thinking on these walks with Sam Dog
Sometimes I find these thoughts beautiful
You might too
The paths that I've made over the years are beautiful too
You might think so
I think
I wonder
Am I such a fool to think that?
I know I'm a fool
Am I that kind though?
maybe I should apologize for this "poem"
CA Guilfoyle Feb 2017
These winter trees
cold and shouldering winds
their bending branches unhinge
falling limbs crash and break the snow
further still a secret world of mud and bulbs
that in the spring blooms of tulips and violet mossy lawns
and too, the sun that comes to warm and fills with green the tree arms
this wooded home that breathes with sheltering birdsong.
Knit Personality Dec 2014
Blues with a feeling—the raw, authentic blues—
The gut- and bowel-twisting, sick and sad,
Loneliest day you’ve ever ever had
Blues—all sunless and soaked with two-bit *****—
I’d never known: unknown to me were shoes
Silent but deadly, hazardously bad
And shake-y ***-pourri, and meals a tad—
Or more—imaginary,—the honest blues.
And had you never put me out the door
To wander with the wind like a rolling stone,
Those deep and loaded bends where live the moan,
The mud, and the howl—the uncut, moody ore
Of bluesy sound—I never could've blown,
Since, foolishly, I valued comfort more.

* .
King Panda Feb 2016
you went sledding
with the kids
while I filed the paperwork
and cried

I used to be your lady boy
shining in green pit-bar light
as you kissed me like
the kids were with my mother
stuck at the bottom of the
treehouse slide in a pile
in mud

in reality they were
just budding inside of you
fertilized with apple liquor
and the perfume smoking
from my chest as you
unbuttoned the first few
revealing the scar left by
my brother's first pocket knife

the skin of my young years
the skin I am wearing now
cut by these ******* papers as
you freeze
in a pom pom hat
teaching our babies how to make
the perfect snowball
ghazal Mar 7
at the edge of a roaring ocean, i paint a crimson sky.
seduced by love and affection,
i meld my broken heart with white washed tides.
and no matter what, i don't blame the sea for all that it did to me.
i'm just a soul going through life
only to realize that all i want is buried deep underneath.
yet i might drown to get what i need,
but on the off chance that i resurface,
i'll dig my way through the mud beneath.
i'll go through life with dirt under my fingernails just to feel some sort of purity inside.
and although crimson may paint a beautiful sunset,
i need red to fuel my blood.
until then,
i'll mix the white waters that wash up-

"and kneeling at the edge of the transparent sea, i shall shape from myself a new heart from salt and mud".
"and kneeling at the edge of the transparent sea, i shall shape from myself a new heart from salt and mud".
-anne carson
c̴̸̵̳̭̜̺̠̝̞͖̠̹̻͓̫͆͆ͨ̇͐͊͌ͪ͜͢ȇ̾̏̎͘͏̺̬̪͍̻̣r̶̛̝͖̦̪͖͌̒ͭͦ̓̊̅̃͋́̆̀̓̓̄̒̚­̺̻͎̻͍̩̮̙ŝ̨̥̙͍͉̳̳͖̙̟͇̤͇̹̊̃̉̍̇͐̑͋͌͋ͬ̔̽̊̇ͮ͠ͅ,̶̡͓̪̥̻̑͐ͣ̋̿͒̄̓̆ͧ̌ͭ͂ͧ͢͝­ ̶͛ͥ̓͊҉͈̯̹̖̳͎͘à̸̢͚̬͖̜͇͉͎̦͙̳̥͖̬̱̋ͤ̿̌̌͐͛͋ ͦ̒ͬ̂ͨ͑̃͐͂̒̍́̋͡҉͔̤̖̦͍̫̭͘͝p̢̧̨̛̻̣̦̪̭̺͔̮̣̣͍̹̜̤͖̯͎̉ͪ͋͊̔ͨ̊ͥ͋̿ͧͮ́̚rͮ̾ͤ̆­̇͊̍ͯͨͤ̔ͪͫ̌ͫ͢͏̷̷̛͈̹̰͙o̧̘͓͓̘̥̲̰͚͈̬̗̠̼͚͙̝͊͂ͤ̅ͯ̃̋̆̈́͡ͅc̄̆̒ͣ̕͏̷͉̪̻̭̻̻ͅ­̭̠è̛͚̙̗̬̥͓͍͓̗͙̦̽̂̊ͬͨ͑͌͒͑̇ͪ̆ͩ̊͑͆̃͜͡͝͠ͅͅͅs̸̸̠͚͓͕̪ͬ̾ͦͯͧ̍̆ͤ̂͑̃ͮͬ̚̕͢͠­̲̲̠̻̮͉ś̴̞̱̱̠͕̪̙͚̦̰ͪ͋ͯ̇ͮ̽͞ì̶̷̜̟͈͍͖͈̲͕̦͉̝̮͙̪̦̑́̓ͨ̈́͑ͯ͊̔̚͞ǫ͇͓̒ͪͤ̀͢­̗̟͓ṅ̶̨̗̞̗̟̰̲̜̣͔͓̫̓͋ͪ͑̾̅ͩ̆ͦ̉͗͊́̚,̷̗̣͙̭̣ͩ͋̀̌̑̈́ͧ̉͊͆̌͌̐͢ ̇̍ͤ̃̓̑ͥ͒̀̔ͦ̓҉̧̱͇̠̻͟͢i̵̢̢̝̝͍͚̠̳̲͇͍͍̜̟̠̼͓̲̎̓̍̔̀̒ͫͫ͐ͭ́͟nͫ̿ͮ̓̃ͤ̇̄ͩ̄̔̈́­̷̧͋͡҉̧̺̱͈̪͈̞̳̜͎͔ͅc̨̧̝̳̼̟̙̜͖͖̜̥̭̞̰̤̼̽̇̔̎́͢e̵̴̡̩͚͖͗͋ͭ̈́̏̊̿̓̉̿͞͠n̍̒́̚­̷̡͕̤͖̲̣ͮ͛́͟͝ͅͅs̸̲̪͍̲̠̟͈̤̭̫̣̜̻̣̩̜̏ͤ̍ͥ̅ͬ͋͞ę̨̳͓͙̯̰̀͊̒̆̅͋͑̍͒͛̂̃̈̃ͬ́̕­͇̻͓̤̯̘̝͙̭ͅ,̿̅̔ͭͭ͗̾̔̑͑̓ͪ҉҉̳̜̮̤̟̳͍̺ ̡̲̣̣͎̞̜͔̞̺͈͖̮͉͖͈̦̰͖̏̇͋͂̆̐̀̎͆ͪ̄́̐ͥ̐̓ͤ́̚ͅa̵̡̧̰̪̮̥͍̪̤̹ͯ̄̿͗̐ͤ̐̈́͘ň̾̂­̶̖̠̻̙̜͖͇̖̬̜̳ͫ̀ͧ̎̄̓̅̂̐ͪ̒̇͒͟͜d̛̽ͦ͗ͪ͟͏̷̦̠̘̟͠ ̐ͯ͊̔̈̓̐̓ͤ̋̋͊̋ͪ̔̓̚͘̕͟͞҉̱̼͎͍̙̲̱r̷̂̒ͦ̍̋͂̿ͥ͏̢̢҉͉̦͔̤̗̱̘̗̱h͒͐̅̿ͤͫ͛ͬ̒̿̉̇­̧̓̉̌̃̄͘͟͡҉̮̺̖̻̪͍̮͈̠̦̗͍̹̖ͅy̸̷̛̜̱̺̯̙͊́̍̓ͥ̌ͦ̋͋͋̀͞t̵̫̪̺͖̫̫̣̓̾̽͒ͬͩ͡h͌̑­͕̯͇̣̼̪͉̟̼̤̱̿̇ͮͭ̀̽̉̃̍̇ͮ̿̋ͭͣ̀̀̀͘͢m̡̖̜̭̦͍̬̺̘̖̫̗̝̎̏ͥͧ͆ͪͬ͜͟͡͞i̴̮̺̫̤ͭ̌̅­̦̙̤̖͕̯̼͇̦̮̠͙ͅͅcͥͤ̄́ͥ̃̍̎ͨͤ̎̋͑ͮ̔͏͏̡̩̙͈̦͔͓ ̐̒̀́ͪ͑̂ͮͥ̊̂̄͋͑͗̈̆̽͌̀҉̣̲̤̫͈̟̲̯͎̰ṫ͍͈̠͙̭͍̭̟͎̜͙͇ͫͧ̇̔͊̽̅͆̅͗̏ͮ̄͛̓̚͢͟͜͞­͖̱̩e̷̶͖͓͔͈̪̠̼͊́̒ͥ̂̈́ͣ̃̾̃̆̀̚͟͝ͅx̷̴̧̡͔̤̫̪̰̻̜̯̲̞̻ͫ̇̽̈͛̅ͪͦͨ̑ͪ̀ͨ͋ͯ̊̉ͧͪ͢­t̡̔̾ͣͭ̈́ͮ̑̂ͣ̃̈́̓̃͆͆͟͜͏͓̪̞̭̹̩̙͉̘͕̲̦͉ų̩͖͓̰̜͎͉̲͕͚̿̐ͧ͂̃ͪ͑͂ͫͣ̎̂̓ͭͥ̌̀͢͜r­̶̧̫̣̳̥̙̗̹̙̫̭̝͕̯̳͓̘̠͖͔ͩͥ̔ạ̸͚̩̣̹̘̣̝̮̙̤͕̟̦̘̅ͧ͗̓ͨͅl̅̔̒͛̎̑ͧ̿ͩ̈́ͫ̓̊̌͛̚͡­̨̨͚͖̩̱̩̪͚̳̯͓̻͙͚̯̙͈̜̯͜ͅ ̸̴̵̘͕͖͙̤͇͈ͤͩ̉͗̊͛̇ͥ͒͟͞ͅąͭ̀ͭ͊̌ͭͥ͂͊̽̌̄̈̀̚͏͓̺̟̺̺̜̜̕ŗ͕̰̰͔͙̲̪̬̥͛̀ͦ͗͢͞­̺̬͉̖ţ́̑ͬ̄͋͂͒҉̠͉̰̠͇̻̥͢ͅi͐ͤ̃̓ͯ͡҉̤͈̜͙͇͎̱̘̙̯̙̞̪c̟̗͈̳̣͍͔̤̯̘̝̼ͣͣ̅́͝u͋̋­̧̢̥͚̹͇͍̱͍ͦ͂́̌̏̎̀̚͡ļ͙̯͍̺͕̭̝̞̳̗̬͚͙̖̇ͧ̾̋͌̆͋́̓͆̅ͬͥ̆ͅa̷̡͚͉͇ͨͭ͒̿̓̾ͬ͐ͬ͗­̠̣͙͕̱͈̥̻̳̥͙͖̯̳͉ẗ̨̡̫͍̰̳͇́̈́̈̎̏̽ͦ͛ͫͯ̾ͤ͛̓͘͟ị̣͉̱͐͂͐̇͒͐̌͜͢͞ͅȍͤ̄̌ͩ̊ͮ̓̔­ͭ͑̑̎̽͊̓̊͏͚͉̦͔̫̟̳͓̠͔͝nͨ̑̑̑̐̓͂͒͛̊͏̩̹̺͚͜.̸̝͖̹͍̮̜͎̮̫̙̗̣͔̹̔̾ͬ͌͂̇͌ͬ̽ͩ̍̕­̺̟͖͙̞ ̘̳̝̘̝̼͈̦̱͔̭̓̔̎̾̌ͧ͆̿͆ͦ̂̑̇̀́́̕ ͪ̀̓͢͠͏̬̬̤̳̀Ť̴̡̰̻̩̠̺̬̼̉̐͊̄̈͂͋̉ͮ̚h̴̢̨͎̳͈̫͚͚͙̺̻͊̌̄́͋͒̑̓ͭ͆ͮ̊̋ͫͧ̓̚̚͜͝­̝͖͔̟̣eͫ͒͒ͪͨ̋̌̈́҉̴͕͔͍͎̺̲̘̯̥̖̦͍͚̼͉͖̱̫͟ ̡ͤͣ̉ͥ̊̿̓ͤ͛̈͒͋̆͋̓̇͒̂̂҉̡̤̱͔̭̞̰̪̻̥̼̜͓̮̱̲̹͟ͅc̘̺͍̰͔̯̣̤̠̝̥͔͙̱̞͗ͣ̓̂͗ͩͩ̀̀­̺͓̘a͖̘̼͔̹̦̼̞̪̼̫͇͓̫̠̔̿̒͐͆ͨ̅ͧ͆ͨ̎͐̓͝͞͡ͅẗ̵̨̝̠͖̗̯̲̥́̽ͬ̊ͥ͒́͐ͫ̅͒͌̆̃̓̎̚̚h­̅̄ͬ̃̊́ͮͤ̐̓҉̬̗̦̟͎͓͓̀ę̨̘̺͔͚̻̬̺͚̥̥̣̹̘̄̎̎̌́͟͡d̨̛̠͈͇̦͓̽ͧ͒̑ͬͧͩ̿ͫ̑ͮ̆̋͒͌­̳̙̤̙ŕ̴̛̘̺̙̫̠̜͎͈̤̤̝̬̱͙͈̟͕̆̈́ͣ͛͒̾̔͋̀̓̽ͯ̒͞a̶̧̙͔̹͈͎̼̲ͬ̏ͦ́ͭ̂̏ͦ̄̎́̓̊ͯ͛ͩ­̳̙̭̘̞̫̱l̷̴̼̗̣͇̠̖͙̼̳̳̟̗̿̈́͋̋̄ͧ̓͞͞ ̨̢̝͕͙̮͙̄̿ͥ̒ͥͧ̔̕͠͠i̷̶̢͓͙͉͍̻͚̩͍͎͎̺̫̹͓̘ͧͬͩ̏ͧ͜ṅ̷̞̰̤ͥ̔̿ͫ̉̀̀ͪ̿̔͐̈́̔͋̄̄̚­̝͇͇ ̵̧̞̤̭̻́̈́͐͛̅̈ͦ̂̿͆͢͢͢ẘ̫̜̣̺̜̟ͣ͛͢ͅḫ̛̙̪̦̺̩̘̪̈́͛̎̄̃̀͢͝i̸ͤ̌ͫ͂͐̇̐̃ͣ̀ͪͫ͜­͏͇͕̻̝͔̯̲̘̝͢ç̵̢͈͓͎̘̹̺̱̯̥̹͙̼̳̄̽͊ͩ̅ͭ̎ͭͯͤ͗͜ḩ̝͖̥̪͙̗̖͓̦̌̑̓̅̑ͨ̊͊͒̕̕͢͞ͅ­̲̭̩̻ ̛̆̉͑̋́ͭ̓̃̃̄̾͊ͨ̒ͪͭ̈́͛̓͏͏͏̨̝̦͓̞͔͎̼̣͈̺̙̣i̷̥̯̣̞͖̤͙̪̩͕ͯ͒̍̀̀͜͠t͊ͬ̊͆͂͋̀̒͝­̛͙̞̜̜̠̙̞̰̭̜͕̣̹̺̣͢ͅ ̴̨̳̱͍̭͎̳̇̅̑̽̄͋ẃ̨͑̊̓̋ͤ̈́̄̊͗ͤ̅̿̌ͩ͛̔̀̀͝͞҉͙̖͖̫̭̱̦͉̘̤͈̦͉̘i̛̻̥͉͆̃̃ͣ̓́͝͠­̥̝̹̫̥̟̱̗̙̞̗̺͎̥͉̩l̶̢̯̙̘͖͑ͯ̋̂̇̈́ḻ̷̢͎̰̠͇̗̤̳͉͇̲͖̺̋͌̆͂͡ ̒ͨͥ͆̿͌͊̽ͮ̾҉̴̱̹̣̪̲̠̫̫̭̰̟͍̀͘t̷̝̼͚̫̣̦͚͒ͦͧ̎͐ͬ͠ąͣ̅̽̄̊͛͂͗̆̒҉̸̘͉̝̰̪̝̻̣͡­̻̝̲̯̞͙ͅk̵̪̼̻͖̻̜̟̫̝͈̠ͮ̾̉͊̓ͪ̊̚ͅe̵̴̸̻̘̜͔̯̙̭̥̓̔͋̑̍̾ͯͫ̇̚ ̺̬̮̦̺͚̭̝ͤ̓̐̅ͬ̄̐ͩ̀͢p̸̛ͪ̓ͣͥ̌͏̢͎̲̣̝̟̩̯͈̭͕̦̪ͅl̴̡͔̾̊̄͛͒̊̔̋ͧ̅ͮ̍ͨͥ͑̅̚̚͢͜­͖͕̻͙a̷̓͆ͭ̓͋͌ͬ̄́̅̐͊͡͏̪͚̬̮̖̙̬̱̩͓͍̝̠͚̫ͅc̯̟̜͇̗͙̠͈ͯ̓̄͋̿͐́̒͛ͫͮ͒̆̄͒̃ͦ̀ͅe­̸̢̨̮͔͉̙̰̝͈̞̤̠͔̘̙̲ͬͭ̄͗ͧͧ͒͌͘ͅ ̈̊ͣ̏̅̓̄́̄̐ͪ͗̊̈́̎̇́̀̚͠҉̼͈̗̝͖̖̺w̸̡͉̭̳̫̭̭̞̟͇̯̤̰̯̭͎͓̾̇ͩ͋̈͛ͧ̓̐̀ͫ̑ĩͦ͒̔̂­̶̧̛̞̜̙̞͖̙̙̻̗͙̦͎̘̫̼̄̚͘l̛̫̝͉̺̲̤ͧ̐̎́l̗͈͎͙̒̾̑̊ͫ́̀̀́̚̚ ̷̵̨̡̖̮͖͕͖̲̳̬̼̜̬͖̝̻̭͓̯́́̀̅ͥ̏͗̑̌ͨ̅̉̍̓͒͗ͫ̓̚n̨͔̱̟͖̹̙͉̖̦̳̾̂ͧͨ́͗ͤ̇ͯ̈̒̾́­͓͕̟̙͍͚̺ơ̘͕̱͇̻͈̙̩̟͉̱̥͉͙̳̑̍̋̎ͥͮͨͤͦ̈́͛͋ͭ̂̏͜͢ͅt̡̽̏̇ͩ̌͋̃̿͂ͣ͠҉͖̙̥̙͈̬͇͢͝­̯̻̠̪͉̤̯ ͒̓ͬ̈̿ͬ͋͋͂̇̃͑͡҉̺͍͙͔͎̜̖͍̣͈̳̞͜ḅ͕̝̤̦̼͍̺͔͔̻̥͚͌͌ͮ̐̀͋̅ͥͥͧ̆̑ͦ͊̑ͣ̍ͯ́̚͡ͅë́­̫̙͈̺̪̼͓̜̭̯̦̪̟̣̦ͯ̐ͨ̄̇̏̂̌͠͞ ͨͬ͌̃ͥ̅̎ͯͤ̏ͬ̿͏̨̪̘̭͕̹͖̬͙o̊͊̑͐̿̃̊ͪ͆̂̑ͪ̂̍̚҉̸̥̙͇̩̯̪̞̩̬̩̹̘̹̲̮̞̜ͅf͌͗̊͂̌̒­̙̮̱̝̩͔̱̝̺̮̹̳̬͙͈̅͐ͬ͐̎͆ͦ͊̈́͟͡ ͚̻̤̤̟͕͖̤͙̰̠̞̯̦̤ͥ͌ͯ͑̈́̋̊ͬ͟͜͠o̷͖̠̥̤͉̥̰̿̓̒ͣ̌̽̅̄͊̅̓͊̐ͤͮ́͝n̈̈̈͑͂̇̓ͮͯ͌ͩ̾­̷̡̛̤̻̻͙̬̹̦̖̩̱̕e̷̢̱̯̫̺̜̰͕̞̥̥ͥ̍͑ͮ͗̀̔̾ͧ̏͆̌̈́͊̆͑͐͠ ̵̵̨͉̻̹͎̺͓͔̬͖̯̙́̿ͭͫ͌̓͂ͩ̓͂ͧ̾̄̇̽ͩ̚͜͢s̷̎ͪͮͫ̽ͨ̋̿̔͘҉҉̩̯͙̹̝̖͔̖̤͇̹͟iͫ̂̉̃͑­̴̰͈̟̮̱̤̲̣̲̗̬̦͕̘̬̒̔̿̏̀̊͐̔̆̽ͪ́̚n̢̲̘̼̝̬͚̯̻̱̝̤͉̙͉̟̤͎̫͐͐ͧ̅ͤ̔̓̃ͨ̃ͪͧͪ̽͝g­̜̤͚͇̲̦̞̭͚̼̺̝̩͉̬͍̭̣̏̌̓ͧ̋͂̆̄͛͗͐̇̄ͦͥ̓͊̾̚͞͞͞l̑̏̇ͤ̿̊̑̆ͣͬͩ͊́ͭ̒̌ͨ͂ͪ͘҉̧̦͖­̞͙͚̰͖͖̳̝̱͈͓̟ë̐ͥ̂̈͋̀̽̈́ͭ͆͛͑̽̚҉̴͍̬̣̩̟͕̭̱͜ͅ ̶̨͈̖̪̲̦͔̦̜̥͉̯̝͂̿̇̊̽̎̓̏ͅt̨̰̳̠̻̲̘̥̞̙̙̳ͦͧ̓͆̀̋̈́͜͠y̾ͮ̓̾́̎͒̓̅ͫ͟҉̧̘͔̟͍̩͡­̫̲̺̲͈̤̪̘͚̤p̷͇͇̞̻̝͕̻̼̻̣̻̼̜̲̗̗̆̉̊̾̒ͦͪͪ̍̈͐͗̄̽ͫ͑͋̚̕͜͞eͧ̍ͩ͒ͤ̄ͩ̔͆̇͌̆́͏̀­̷̞̬̘̠͙̘̬̬̬̦͔̩̻ ̸̨̛̺̝͚͇̮͓̪̖͙̈ͣ͐̆̽̓̀ͧ̀̚͘o̸̮͙͚̭̠̻̦͙͓̳̯̻̲̰̓̎̄̊ͪ̃͊̎͞ͅf̷̧̨̻ͫ͑̐͊ͯ̎̇̿͊̈́͘­̝͎̱̱̩ ̿̔̾̐̏͊͛̿̆̃͂̉̊͊͊͑͏̬̞̘̠̝̙̮̝̯̺͘͜ͅsͭ͊ͧ̈ͭ̇̾ͫ͋͂̓҉̞̞͇̝̬͈̥̠̻̲̭̤̭̠͈͕̖͘͠ͅt͑­̷̭͇̠̯͖̠̱͖͐̄̉͑̍͜͞͠ỏ̡̠̰̖̻̘̺̱̞̦̥̪͚̼̟̟̗̣ͣͤͣͦ̑ͫͪ̐̌͛͞͡nͧ̀́́ͫ̌ͦ͋ͮ͂͗̾ͤ͐̚­̴̄҉̺͎̞̗̻̞̩̬͙̠͎͈͉̭͘e̔ͭ̊̈̓͏̧̟̮̮̹̬̻͍͓͡ ͮͯͫ̑ͦ͗̿҉̧̤͚̙̯̬́̕b̵̶̺̫̟͙͍̙͙͖̺̟̠͈̙̹͙̥̬̿̎̿̇ͬ͒ͦ̆̑͘u̧͓͚ͤͤ̂͛́̆̋̍ͦ̈͂ͪ͛̚͢­͙͖̖ţ̷̵̵̼͉͕͎͎͔ͬͪ̊͋̄ͦ̂̎̿ ̴̢̩̪̟͚̻͙̼̀ͥ͛̒ͣ͞ͅwͦ̈́̓͛̊̎́ͤ̆҉̸̧̡̥̯̩̲̦̣̼̳͙̼̬̺̯͕̟̲ͅi̷̙̗͕̬͒ͩͫ͆̃͐̚͞l̂͆̚­̳̫̺͈̲̲ͤͬ͒̽̃̈́̿̍̕͟ͅl͖̞͕̹̠͓͚͈̙̥̞̻̠̥͎ͪ̓̌̾ͭ͑̓͛̇͊ͮ̎͌̿͝͝ ͯ̇ͯ̑̀ͥ̒̽͑̀̍̂́҉͇̠̱̠̤͖͟͢c̸̅͆̅̄ͩ̍̐̇ͩ̍͗̌̊͏̕҉̷͚̖̻̪̤̝͇̥̬͕ȍ͑ͮ̋̈́̆̽̈̑ͥ̂̅̽­ͧͫ͆ͣ͏̢͉̰͈̭̫̻͇̹͉̬̻̟̯͕ͅn̸̥̤̳̗͓͈̦͋͐͊̌̓ͯ͌̏͆ͫ̃̓̿ͫ̀͘͟͡ͅt̷̶ͬ̑̂̈́ͩ̌̓̍̒̓́̿͑­̝̲̺̲̪͙͍͕̫͇i̫̞̫̪̝͍͗̿̐̇͑ͭ̏ͨ̆ͧ̌̆̾̅ͨ̂ͤͨ͐̀͟n̷͂͋̆͒́̎ͮ̓ͮ̐̈̓ͮ̿̈̂̋̕͠҉̤̠̲͇͙­̲̙̙̦̳̭ũ̉ͪ͂̄ͪͫͣ̐͞͏̞̦̹͖̩̞a̵̦͓̦͍̝͎̟͔̻͙͖̹̻͖͕ͯͣ͐̄͘ͅl̸̛ͤͧ̏͋ͮ̃̾̅ͦͭ͂͑̈́̀͘­̝͓̼͕̥̺̩̪l̵̷̨͉̝̬͍̞͍̥̺̐̇ͫ̑̈͒̎ͣͥ̀͂̈̀̆͋̃͠y̶̳̗̦̥̋̋̈̾̍ͦ̓̈͗͐͋͐̄̌͊͋̌̆ͮ͘͜͞­͍̞ ̴̄͛͂̌̓̾̇ͣ͢҉͓͚̱̙̜̟̦̹̦͉̻̟͎̘̯͓̣͓͠ç̞̜̱̭͙̫͗̓̃̒ͨ̎̅͂̉ͪ́̒͋ͨ́̚̕h͑ͪ̾͋ͭ̉ͬ̏͊­͍̦̳̪̯͍̼̫̗͕̫͓̭̱̳̜͑̆̆͟͡ͅa̸̧̡̜̩̹͇̪̳̯̳̠̪͎̱̻̠̜̳̞̖̍̆̎ͮͨͪ͐ͬǹ̶̢̨ͦ͋̋́͑͑́̕­͙̘͖̬͓̣gͭͫ͊҉͢҉͚̞͈̭͖̰͚̬̪ę̴̵̴̫̖̮̖̠̫̥̼̝̺̖͋̾ͦͭ͜ͅ ̷̭̜̜̰͑̈ͤ́͋́ͭ͛̍̄̓ͨ͗̃ͬ̓̒̔ͯ̀w̵̢̝͇͖͎̼̺̹̬͓̻͉̣͛͛͒ͨͣͩ̈́͂̋̽ͫ̅ͨ͝ĩ̂ͦͭ̐ͬ͏̷̨ͅ­̖̝͔͉̫̱͚̘̲̠̝ͅt͙̤̻̭̤̊ͬ̓͒̂̈́ͮ̈̏͌̿͛̂́͟h̩̥͙̘͉͓̖͔̤̣͉͍̟̣͍͒ͨ̆ͨ̍̊̓̃̌̽̃͆̃ͨ̚͢­͔͇̟ ̂̾ͥ͗ͩ̑͊̍̅̈́͊ͬ͒͋̂́ͬ҉̸̡̺̻̜̝̝̰͍̝̱̫͜t̵̛̜̬̠͓̹̐ͬ̆̀ͦ̀̐ͩ̔̎̃ͥͬ͆ͮ̑͑̀̚h͆ͭ͂ͥ̀̄­̷̧̼̫̘̩̱̼̞̫ͨ͆̎͛̄͂̒̏ͦ̀̋́ͅͅȩ̪̜̫͚̤̥̹͇̻̬̰̟ͬ́̓̉̃̐̔ͨ̃̑ͦ̏̚̚͢͞ ̷̡͓̱̙̪̗̫̪̫̺̹͚̥̣̆̅̽̓̍͠͡ͅă̧̢͓͚̯͚̫͖̹̳̙̞̓ͮ̏̋̍̑̿͒ͨt͑̇̄͋̄̄ͭ̂̓ͪ̔̚͏͘͝͏̮̱­̙̜̥̣̟͕̦͇͔͎̦̻̫͉͔̼m̶͔̻̖͎͖̟̼ͭͨ̒ͮ́̿̊ͥͭͩ̈́̃ͩ̾͘ͅoͪ̓͗̔͐̒̃͋҉̸̯͖̼̲̞͍̗̬̣̱̝̞͔­̦š̃̌͊ͣ͒̉̅ͮ͐̋͌ͭ͋̚҉̛͖̖̰̼̗̞͉̫͍͚̼̮͎̥͕̜̲͘͠p̶̴̠͚͉̲̜̳̻̒̌͂̒͜͜h͛̇ͣ̄ͭ̿͗̒̎ͯ­̡͚͔̭̩̮͔͕̣͎͕͕͈̺̣͆̏̌̔ͩͦ̅͊ͨ͞͞ͅȩ̼̭̭̤̙͇̳̹͍ͦͦͪ͐̑͢ͅr̴̡̢̻͇̦̫͙̻̓͛̎ͯͧ̑̑̓͆͋­͍͍̪͔̠̙̬͖e̸̴̯͙̯ͪ̅̆͆ͬ̾͐̐̆̂̕͟ͅ ̶̵̢͇̫͓͎̫̘̹̩̘̜̜̬͕ͪ͑̊͒̎ͫ͗̃͜͠ͅa̛̱̩͇͈͔͖͔͚͋̅̉͑ͦͥ͗̆̓̂̀̚͝n̆͒ͤͦͯ̒ͫ̉̍̾ͯͮͩ͒­̡̖̟͔̦̟̦͓͚̣̺̯̝͖̜͙͕́̐̊ͥ́͟͟͝ͅd̾ͬ̈́ͫ̏̂͛ͩ̃̓̃ͣ͏̟͎̗͎͓̪̤̠͎̟͙̞͖̙̦͉̝͚̠͘ ̷̛͍̩͎͍̹̫̲̬͍̳͗͌ͮ̈͐̑m̵̦͈̯̣̦̫̘ͮ̓̌ͭ̊̒ͭ̾͗͌̍͛̔͘͞ǒ̷̡̜̳͈̝̯͔̠̙̰͕̭̤̰̆̐̈́ͧ́͞­̬͍ͅţ̳̼̳̮͉̙͈̰̝̤̫̦̭̝͈̼̯ͧ̀ͦͣ̾̑ͬͣ͊̓͑̎ͭ̂̌ͮ̈́̌́͢͠i̛̹͍̟̣͕̫̝̬̺͍̔ͫ̂̈́͐ͮ̂͘͘͝­ȯ̸̸̢̝̪̩͎͖̭͍̝̺̟͙̖̖ͦ̀́͋͂̔̉͛͌͆ͥͭ͐̍̎͡ͅn̐͊͊̈́̽͑̌͂̃ͯ҉̼̥̺͚͉͔̰͓̮͔͓̙̜̙̕͟͡͞­̼̤̼̯̳ ̸͗ͫ̑͂̈̔͐͐͑̉͑̒̏̀͏̹̭͇͈̜͟o̸̧̢̳̘͖̭͗ͦͧ̓̐ͪ̓̌̚͟͞f̹̫̠̜̺̰̎ͫ̅̒ͫ̿ͯ̒̈ͨ̑̅̿̀͘ ̨͊̀̉̓͛͛̍̓̈́͒҉͠҉̲̳͉̩͙͚̤̱͠ͅẗ̅͐̓͛ͭ̏̒̃̊̿̾̓ͪ̄ͯ̑ͬ̀͏̷̷̱̦͈̥̼̦̖̼̝̙́h̐̀͑͊ͯͨ­̴͓̳̳̱͓̬̖̬̮̮͚̙̲̐e̎̇̈́̃̓̒͊̈́ͬ͒̓̚̚͠͏̶̰̦͇̘͎̞͍ ̧̡͖̭̥̜̳̠̘̘̗̱̥̭̟̰̼̹̄̒ͧ͆̐͋̾͋̽̈ͥ̇ͯ̾̾̅͘͡M̐͑̃̋̔͋͊̈́͠͏̭̦͎̲̪̙͖̖̞͖͚̬̬̹͖̼ͅy­̴̢̜̟͖̣͙̦̟͈̟ͪ͗ͭ̊͒͛̅ͮͦ̈̈́̚͢s̶̛̠̥͉̬ͬ͋̿̄ͬ̓̃ͨ͊̕ͅt̴̶̹̤̳͇ͯ͛̊͆̐͑̓̄̌̌̏͗ͮ̐e͑­̡̠̹̩̤͖̟̦͎͙ͯ̆́ͤͭ̇̑́́͠r̵̡̝̬͙͓͙̬̣̾́̑͋̓̆̿̎͊̽̀͘͢i̗̹͎̊͒̂ͫ̈ͬ̃̆͛̂ͫ͒̒ͬ́̕͢͡­͚u̡͓͉͎͇̹͖̝̻̯̗̫̽ͤ̓ͮͬ̀ͨͪ̊̅̓̎̊̿̄̿̎ͦ͢m̛̼̰̹̰̜͔͈͎̣͇̣̭̗̄̎̽͜.̢͒̔̈́̒̊͌̋ͣͫͪ́­̟͎̲̘̺͓̪̯̮̥́͝ ̶̗̜̮̱͖̰̫̬̽͊͊̐ͭͮ̓̓͑̓̾͞ ̝͔̜͚̲̝̝̗̪̽ͦ̏͢T̼̻̣̺ͩͫ͛ͩͯͪ̓̑̂̍ͪ͆͆́ͧ̊͋́̀́͢h̨̛̼͓̟̱͔̃̍͌̿͛͐͂̎̀̓̽͆̄͗̚͝iͪ­ͬ̏ͧͨ͠͏̱̻̘͎̟̳̱̱͔͚̖͞s̨͎̰̰̱̙̙̫̺̭̯̗̹͖͔̗͎͍ͫ̊̑̅́ͧͨ͋ͦ͊̉̈́͑ͨ̍ͥ̀͡͝ͅ ̿ͧ́͛̐̑̂͑ͥ̃҉̨̦̮̠͖͈̣͙̣̜̼͇͚̯͉̘̞̼̥w̶̵̤̼̭͕̖͓̯̻̪̐͌̓ͣ̐̏̿͞iͨ͆̾ͧͮͬͮ̔̒̓ͩͧͧ̀­̝̩̺̺̦͍̜͙̞͔̪̠̲̜͇̦̝̤͢l̛̝͎̺͕̟͎ͩ̎́̈́ͨͣ͌ͪ̿̎̄͒ͣ̓ͮͫͧ́͘͟͠ͅl̇̾̊͐̌ͤ̌ͯ̄̅̋̅͏҉̰­̘̰̯͉̗͕̥ͅͅ ̵̜̗̻͖̩̤̥̩̄̆͆̑̿̈̀̆ͧͫ́͡b̢̙̜͉̜̪̖̱̰͔͛͗͛̋̃ͥ̔̓͞ͅȇ̵̏ͮ͗̎̆ͯ̍ͮ̾̆̚҉̨͏̛̲̳̫̗ ̛̲̞͙̜͚̖̻̫̗̝̭̟̗͖͎̬̟͇̥̈́ͣ̊̔͊͌͢d̥̤̝̹̱̙̝̰̮̭̤͎̄̋̆̾̂̇̓̍͊̒̂̃̕̕o̓̾̇̔ͤ͑͒̆̈́̔­̶̟͇̖͉͛̿̅ͬ́͝n̵̨̋̌̉ͩ̚͟͞͏̝̯͈͖̮̙̫͖̤e̵̸̡̟̹̤̗̮̱͕̪̝̖͙̮ͩͤͪͩ̃̅̔ͣ͊̌̽̆͟͡ ̬͖̰̠͉͔̩̼̰̳̔ͬͥ̉͐͛̆͟͡͝ͅw̡̳͇͓̫̯̖͙̞̽̆ͧ̾̓̆̄͗̏̊̆͌̅̂́̚i̶̡͈̹͙̯̣̅͑̓͑̉͂̎́͗͐­̪̘͙ţ͓̲͙̭̰͈͇̲̫̲̹͓̳̼̠̙͓̗ͦͬͬ̓ͬ̓̐̐̄ͦ͒̓͟͡ͅh̨̛͈͕̲̲͍ͦ̐̋ͮ̒ͣͭͮ̈́̽̚͢͡ ̨̡̛̹̙̱͉͍͉̮̘͍̞̖̝̱̹̣̥͕ͦ̀ͩ͌ͧ̑̐ͨ̏͛̓ͬ̒̋̓́͞ṫ̛͛ͭ͞͏̢̘͚̗̟͔̖͙̘̭͎h͑̀̆̈́ͮ̉̈́ͤͮ­̸̱̼͓̼̦̝̩̪̪̰́͘͟͝ͅè̢͚̠͈̱̰̈́ͮͮͫ͌ͤ̽͐̌̌͗ͮͦ̈ ̧͖̺̠̼ͮͬ͛̃ͅa̶͖̘̜̝̺̹̤͕̺̯̯͈̰̟͓̲̱̺̮̒ͧͯͮ̂̐͋͂̉͆̂͋̈́̿͗̇ͮ́͡͞͡i̡̨̝̱̿̊̿͒ͬͦ͂͝­̼̟̪̳̱̰̝̗͍͇̙̻̺͖̪d̵̵̢̛͇̦͖̱̖̹̝̋͗̋̓̍̄ͪ̾̚͝ͅͅͅ ͓̝̞͖͕ͬͬͫ̍̕͡o̢̺̯̲̺̲͇̮͖̪͓͇̳͉͌̾ͥ͗̕̕͝f̧̢ͦ̍̂ͪ̏̍̄̐̔͏͏͔̞̥͕͎͡ ̅̒́͋̍̅ͭͮ͑̔̂̒ͤ̄ͨͥͩ̽̌҉̷̢̢͇͓̲̼̲̦͇̝̖̲̣͓͉͖̰̝ͅͅm̛̯͔͕̣̫̘̙̰͎̊̈́̒̄ͣ́̽̎͐̿ͣ̏͜­̞͍̦̭̼͓i̷̢̘͎̝͉͇̲̝͙̞̱̋ͫ͋̑̔ͭ̾̒ͨ͑ͧ͐ͩ̐̊̾̓̚s͐ͤ̀̿́̉̈́̀̚͝҉͓͔̳̞̰t̍̆͂̍ͧ̈́̿ͮ̋ͧ­̸̢̥̼͎̺͇͖͎̫͆̂̂̋́̎̍́̕͢sͤ͗̑ͩ̆̽҉̨͙͖͕̩͜͝͡ ̶͉͈͚̬͆̆̀ͭ̐̈͗ͣͯ̿ͭ̀͂̿̏͊̊̚͟͢͢͡a̶̷̷̢͖̟̣̹̳̠̺͙̮̺̬̪͒ͪ̍̿ͩ̆̈́ͤ̈́͌͐͋͑̐̚͞n͑̏̆͛­̸͕͕͖͙̩͎̠͢d̷̷̷̗̟̜̲̣̗͇̙̟̫̯͖͕̓̈̉͊̈́ͦ̂̒̈ͣͨ͊͒̂̚͠ ̴̬̬͚̫̣ͨ̂ͯ̈̆͋ͬ͑̈͛̏̐͑̍̾̓͜l̵̠̠̩̬̹̺̩̓͛̑̓͟i͗̒̈́̆ͮ́͏̥̗̯͖͖̝͎̗̬̰͓͈̼̮͓͙͍̟̜g­̛͕̠̮̼̠͔̥̓̂̈̈́́̚͢h̴̡̧̻͇͚̮͗̓ͯ͆̋̑̂ͮͣ̇̀͢t̏ͧ̓̌ͦ̄̾ͣ͒͗̀͏̥̣̥̱͙̮͝ṡ͗̇̾̏ͭ͗ͣ͋­̡̼͍̞͈͍̼̻̗̲̟͉̘̦̙͕̘͚̱ͧ̾̾͞͞ͅ,̵̢͕͓̙̥̻̹͉̮̫̙̦͓̖̦̙̓͂͊̒ͪ̓ͫ͋́ ̵̶͓̯̣͎͈̦̫̦̝̗̞̺̬̇ͧ͌͊ͅͅͅw̑͋̈́̂ͪ̄͐҉̵͏̻̼̹̫̖̝̮̩̥͎̬̘̟̯̼̙h̵͋̑͗ͪͩͨ̀̈́̾͛ͩ̕͡͝­͍̭̞͇͓̬̣̺͙͉̼̫͙̱͙iͤ̓̽ͩ̅̅ͥ̈́̐̆͌͒ͤ҉̪̮̙͕̙̼͎͇͘͜͞ć̈͋̂̓̇̈̔̓̓͒͑ͪͣ̃́̓ͫ҉̯͘͢͡­̤͚̣̩̮̮̝̞͕͓̱͔̤̙̲ͅh̼̱͙̙̲̜͔͎̖̅̓ͨ̏̋ͨ͛̊̋̏̀͠ ͬ͒̐̉̎̄̏͆҉̸͏̣̯̝͚̼̙̙̖̦̪̭͚͓̹̺͘w̶̷̤̺̰͎̜̙͈̬͚̹̅͌ͥ̈̌̄̉̋̽̆̀̓́̚i̔̒́̑͑̈́̏͗͐̒­̷̷͔̣̖̗̲̻̉͋͌̔͟l̵̢͇̪͓̜͎̫͓̟͈̝̭̳̪͖̞̣̈́̔̂̋ͣ̇͐̊ͭ̐̆̆̇̆̎̚̚͝ͅͅl̀̓̊͑̇̓͛ͨ̾ͭͤ͛­̷̨͕̘̖̟͖̖̟̭̦͡ͅ ̴̴̙̩͙̣̞͎̥̺͍̙̉̌͛ͤͧ̓͊ͭ̊͗ͣ̆͝͝ͅm̷ͬ͆̆̓ͨ̋ͤ͒ͨ͞͏̢͙̰̰͇̣̦̳̞̰̭̭̣͓͡ó̽̉̃̈́̏̄̇ͨ­̨̰̜͉̼͎̰͎̞̺̦̙̬̰̭ͤͣ̽̈́͆ͩ́͡͡ḓ̶̵̡͕̥͙͍͍̜͎̤̖̹̹̦̩̺̇̅̋ͭ͠͞į͉͙̫̣̞̊ͫͨ̿ͪͣ̾ͩ͢­͈̬̱̬͕͔f̛͖͎͙̘̪̬̠̼̩̤͍̦̯̪̟̈ͭ͊̂̐̀̽̒ͥ̎ͦ͗̉͆͒ͭ́̚͠͡y̵ͫ̓͑͗̊ͧ͏̷͈̙͕̝̹̗̘̖̼̲̦͉­̻͖̺͖̠̲͕ ̡̉́ͬ̈̅͒̔̍͘͟͏͏̼̯̜̮̣͇̯̭̠͓̗ṱ̴̶̡̨̳͇̮͍͔̩ͥ̓̂ͯ͑̄̃ͧ̄h̨̦̰͚̺̤͚͍̘͓̗̼ͨ̊̊ͬ̎̕͟­̩͉e̶̢̖̲͉̝̬̥̊͗̀̅ͦ̋͆̌̃̎͟͝ ̛̑̅͆̈ͧ̏ͣͬ̃̒ͦ̒ͬͧ̚̚͜҉͓͙͕̭̻̀ḁ̧̛̯̖̯̦̺̿͂̄ͮ̊̅͂͑͒͆͊͒ͭ̊̂̕ŕ̮͕̱̝̩̘̘̉̌ͩͮ̀͜­̰̻̦̣̪̖̙͙̬ͅc̶̢̰͔̫̭͖̱͙̖͙̠̳͙̹̪̻̱̣̦̄̓͂̇͊̀̓̎̔́́h̐̑͐̍̃̅̍̆̇́͢͏̥̖̜̰̠̰͇̳͎̳­͇̮͚í͕͎̺̤̳̈͋ͤ͛̅ͩ̐ͨ̒͋́̇͗ͫ̕̕͜͝͞ͅt̶̴̃ͪͬ̆̈́ͮ͑͌͑ͯͣ͛̌ͫ͐̈͝͏̶̮͍̣̞͎̲̭̳͖̞͖̰̪­͎͕̥ę̴̥̫͍͙̤̬̻̒̑̌̍͋́͂͐͑c̨̡̣̻͈͈̳͚͍̱̦̫̣̱͙̮̐ͯ̽̒ͤ̋̃̀͘͝t̴͈̜̗͙͎̩̰̞̱͇ͫ͐ͮ̒­̜͙͉̫ȗ̸̢̙̻̭͕̺̗̦̹͕̩̮̮͍̳̘̥̺͑ͯͯͮ͒͜ṙ̰̘͈̮̟̼̻̺͈͚̱͖̤͓̣̟̎ͦ̔ͭ̈ͥͣ̅ͩ̓͊́aͦͫ͊­̢̂̉ͤͯ͊҉̢͓͓̮̩̹ḷ̷̶̢̭͖͔͕ͥ̎̊̾̽̄ͭ͆ͦ̅͋͋͝͞ ̵͈̻̝̣̩̗̭̱͚̲͎̥͌͂͋ͪ͘͘͠ͅc͋̆̍ͤ̿͊ͭ͆ͬ̌ͬͪ̉͌̃͒͛̕҉͍̼̝̼̫̮̤̻̰̬̼̣͍͎̺̻͘ŏ͒ͦ̇͐̎­̷̞͕̱̫̗̠̣̗̩̟̻̜̻̮̭̍̓ͩͯͤ̔ͣ̈́̿̾̚ͅͅn̢̫͓̪̼͈̯̳͎̼̫͍̺̤͇̞̮̪̋ͯ͛̑́t͊́̾͛̅̎̂̈́͂̍ͬ­ͨͦ̅ͪ̓ͦ͑͛͘͜͡҉͎͓̞̳̱̪̼͉̜̻̩̗ͅo̷̮̜͓̫̫͓̮͇͍̪̤̯͌̓͐̀̓ͤ̌̊͂̈́͆̉͂̌̎̔͟͢ȗ̂̊̚͏͡͠­̷̜͉̹̣͎̩̻̰̝͡ŗ̞̟͔͎̹̙ͮ̓ͬ̽͋̈̑͋͗̒̓͌͊̓ͩ̀ş̘̙̲͉̝̻̻͖͍̎̈̈̒ͫ̍̂ͪ̾́ͤͣ͒ͩ̓̈́́́͝­̣͉͉̥.̜̙̻̥̳̞̩͙̳͗̊͊͆̉͂̑ͥ̌ͦ͂͗͆̐ͯ́̀͘͠"̷̴͕̞͎̲̖̟̪̟͇̬̠̩͙͔̰̺̠ͯͫ̉ͨ̾͌͘͘͡ ͇̞̘̱̻͖͔̞̪͈̺̀͐̓̽͐̒̾ͧ̏̄ͣ͢͠ͅ ̸̷͓̻̩͔̙̙̺̠͇̬̦̥̬̩ͥ͊ͪ͘͝͝S̵̛͎̟̙͕͎̗̠̪͇ͭ̀̀̚č̨̤̮̥̻̰̟̝̯̼͕̗̬̹̎̊̿͋̾͒͐́̕͝ͅ­̺͕͕r̴̢͈̘̰̤̰͍͓̟̼̍̌̓̎̉̽́ͮͮ͋ͣ̾͌͗ͣ́͟͠ĭ̷ͩ͒̈̑̐ͫ͒ͧ͗͌ͣ͆̀̆̃ͪ͏̨̘̯̞͈̤͖͔͉͉̦ͅ­̙͕̪͙̗͕͇̫ȁ̴̛͚̤̣̮͕̹̭̗̗͓̭̖̝̳̌͆͛̅ͮ͂̇̈́̉͛̑́ͦ͌ͦ͢͝ͅḅ̬͈̻̓ͮ̂̄̄̊ͮ̏̈̌ͣ̌͛̀̕̕­̤̘į͖̼̼͈͎̥̭̠̌̇̔͛̓̋́̆̐͂ͩ̉̚̚͜n̨̪̫̖̩̖͓̰̩̝̱̠̹̭̜̳̲ͪ̆̌ͪ͛͂̏ͥ̇͑̽ͨ̂̃̅ͤͮ̋̆͠­͚ ̏͗ͩͧ̎ͫ̊̍̿͋ͣ̍͏̫͈̲̙͇̜͈i̐̿̂̈̌̑̀͒͊͆ͥ̽ͯ͋̐̑̇̍͏҉̱͙̫̳̲̙͈̱̞n͙̯͈̳̗̈̊̓͋ͦ̽͘͠ͅ­̬̮̺̼t̶͆͆̊͗ͥ͌̈̀҉̶͉̳̞̣̝̯̖͎͡͠e̵̴̢͇͖͍̦̙͓̘̝̝̺͔̩̘̯̬̩̽́̐ͦ͠͡ͅn͆̉̃͋̅͒̽ͣ́̑ͤ­̫̬̪̤̖͉̼͍͍̦͕̳̲̟̪̼̼̓̂ͥ̀̉ͨ̀͘d̵̢̛̦͓͕̜̦͚͍̼̱̪̼̝͎̤̫̜̬̄ͫ̄ͦ̿͛͐͛̏̇̏͝ê̋ͣ̋ͯ̚­̸̻̳̩͓̼ͤ̄ͮ̃̈́ͮ̑̈́ͫ͂̚̚͘d͎͓̹͔̥ͥ̇͋͑̍̅ͯ́̍̔̄̈͊ͣ̌͡ ͛͊͌̏ͨͤ̀̍̊̚͏̧͎̙̫̠̰̤̦̮͉͚͍̯͘ͅt̷̷̨̖̖̣͓͈͔̰̬̙̰͈̤͍̰͎͆ͫ̉͐̊͛̏ͨ̆͑̿͆̈́ͣ̀͞ͅhͥ̂­̸̨̣̫̰̠̟̳̼̦̝̹̯̘͇͇̝̳͎͆ͦ̎͗̾̂̀̽̀̀̀eͧ̔ͬ̓̃ͫ̔ͪ͜͏̷̥̥͓̝̗̠͉̲̬̗̥̙͚͞͝ ̨̨̣͎͖̠̠̖̙̉ͩ̊ͤ̋͋̋͌ͤͣ͗͑̆ͨ͗͒ͨ̀͑̀́p̶̨̢̨̞̺̰͈̣̞̮̳̦̺̳͔̣̥̣̀ͭͬͨ͆̄͗̔ͭ͊̒ͦ̽̒͟­e̢̛͕̖͔̖̥̖̞̜̪̾ͣ͛͛ͦ̇͌ͣ̃̊̎̏ͮͧ̒̌ͩ̏͢r̵̈͆̓̈ͩ͑͊͌͐͏͔̬͓̞̱f̘̈́̐̅ͧ̌͗̇̒̋ͭͥ̄͒͢͝­͚̬̯͉͔̭͙͚͍̺̯̞ͅô̴̧̦͕̝̩̜̘̟͚͇͔̞͚͈͖̮̦̼̟͋̅͋͊ͫ͑ͧ̆́̐̀ͤ͡͠r̄ͥ̌̿͑̈́͌̉̂̍͛̈͑ͨͩ­͚̥̠̯̩͓͙̬̓ͫ̃͊͜m̢̞̘̺͎͍̭͔̭̪͖̟̥̼̤̖͇͙̈́̿̉̒̒͗̔ͫͦͤͫ̃̃̉͟͟͞aͨ̐̏ͥ̾ͭͯ̆̽͜͏̦̣̻̼­̫͓̙͓̟̥̫̰̠̩̟̣n̍̇͌ͣ̊̎̕͏̨͚̟̠̪̟̖̗͡c̴̥̦͍̫̪̺͔̿̐̐ͯ̒̽ͪ̓̾̚͢͡e̡̐ͮ̍̒͏̧̧̙̗͈̪̜­͔̙̥͉̖̙̮̤̬ ͥ̅̌͆́̐͗ͭ̾ͩ̃͆̚͏̢̖̣̟̺̣̘̪̩̠̦̝̳̞̞̙ẗ̒̔ͭ̀͏̸̛͚͖̦̜̟̬o̿̀͐͛̓͗̀̋̃̀̀̌͑̈̔̅ͯ͢҉­̥̫̣̺̲̮͉̣̦͓̯ ̷ͦ͌̈̀̇̉͌̄̈ͫ̔͋̂͊̇̄͆̄͞͏̵̞͙̗̞͚̳̭͚̫͙͓̜̘̥͟b̵̡̠̦̟̻͕͓̳͗̉̿ͨ͗̏̎ͬͯ̅̄ͮ͆͜͝eͨ̾­̷̶̼̗͖͕̬̫̝̬̱̭̫͔̬͉̝̺ͣ̂ͪͪͬ̄̄̒̊̓͊̚ ̸̴͚̦͕̳̮̯̦̩̻̼͔̖͙̬͚̗̈͑̽̐ͤ̌̑͒͋ͫ̾̓͌̈́͝ĭ̎̓ͣ̿ͪ́̐̽ͣ̎͋͢͠͏̢͉͎͇͚̲̬̘̦̖̙͎̻̻n­̖͎̣̜͓ͫ̾ͭ̓̾́͟͡ ͐̌͆ͤͥ́̄͊҉̡͜҉̙͉͈̭̟̫̳̭ṫ̛̂̈́́͏̹͎͚͖̹̮̣̪̙͓̳̝͈̻͠h̔̓́ͬͫͤ̋͊̎ͯ̔̉̌̇̈́̿͛̕҉̨̟͘­̦̯̯͎̯̠͕̟̬̞̟̣̰e̵̿͌̀̉ͧ͗̍͋̈ͫ͌ͥ̋ͭ̌̓̅͞͏̵̦̱̼̙̗͚̺̪̖̼̖ ̖͇͎̣̹̣̞͑̾ͬ̉ͪͦ͑́̎̉ͣ͝fͧ̎͑̇̆͏̴̴͏̛̟̩͈̖̜̪̼̟̲̩̫̗̜̭ò̏ͪ͗͊͏̹̳̪̻͙͎̻̥̲͉̹̀o̽­͊̓̈̎̂̽̄̿҉̷҉̟̻̼̞͕̦̣͈̹͖̖̘̪̫͈̻̀͝t̶̨ͭ̍̾ͭ̌ͥ̆̂ͧ̔̀͞҉̹̯͔͓̯̭̥̘̺̙̞̱̥͉̯ͅh̃̍̚­̱̘̮̜̟̥͋̈́͒̑̓̿̓ͩͨ̔̇̏̑̾̀̕̕į̵̸̛̮̭̗̼̬̉ͮ̿ͭ̉̽͆̿̉ͭ̌ͨ̚͟l̷̛̞͇̤̺̝͖͎̳̪̻̅̾ͬ͐͠­l̛̺̱͎͇̩̹̤̤̫̖̝̮̟͔̭̱ͯ͊́̑̋ͥ͊ͤ̔͐̀̊̎̏͌̀͡s̢͔̥͉̮̠̟ͦ̓ͯͣ̇ͫ ͇̮͉̫̻̠̥̬̦̺͓͙͉͎̯̜͈̝͈ͯͩͨͬ̐͂̇̃̑ͦ̊̽ͦͮ͊̎ͮ̀͘͜o̸̦̤͈̮̣͖̝̻͇̭͇̗͎̖͎͌̈́̋͒ͭ͜͡f̌­̸͖̘͚̦̙̖͔͕̮͙̩̜̱̺̯͈̅͗̃̎͆͐̅͑̌͋ͯ̀ ̢͊ͪͤͩ̈́ͨ̇ͤͦͤͦͥ̌̔̂͆҉̙͖͍̪̬͈̦̤̼t̶͓̰̜̳͔͔̱͈̰̦͛̿̅́̀̍ͮ̅ͮ͐̓̏̔̑̉̌͢͠hͨ̈̿͐ͤ̇̉­̯̯̜̤ͪ͆͗̽̆̇ͦ̓̉͗͟͢͟͜e̷̓͛̐ͦͩͬ͊̔̆ͯ̃͜͝͏̶̤̰̩͚̟͓̣ͅ ̸̧̟͎̮̜͎̜͈̤͔̮̲̭ͧͧ̌̊͆ͨ̀̀͟H̸ͨͮͦͯ͗̃ͭ͂ͮ͜҉͖̰̦͉i̦̝̯̙͖͚̙̱͑̓̓͌ͭ́̉ͭ͛͗̈́̋ͩ́͠ͅ­͖͔̯͙̘̫̥m̷͇̙̤̩̘̭͖̦͈̥ͮͦ̒̇̋ͮͯ̉̓̈́̇̎ͥ̍͊̀ͣ͌͞a̸̧̭̦̩͕̟ͤ̃ͨ̀ͭ͋͑ͦ͛ͬ̎ͧ̈ͦ͗͒̋͐͘­̗̯͙̳̟͔ͅl̘̘̯͈̪͎̭̫͚͍̹̖̗̍ͮͤͦ̿̈ͭ̍̿̒̕͜͝ͅa̶̴̭̳̺̥͓̔̓ͣ̇ͦ̋̚̚͡y̽̅ͧ̓ͭ̍̇̋͂̆̐ͬ­҉̷̡̛̤̱̪̲̹̝̞̺̮̬͎̦̮̟ͅa̛̞͉͔̖͉̯̺̙̼̭͓̙̘͍̳͈̔̒̽̋̑̊̏̉ͥ̊́̚͝͞ͅͅs̏ͩͫͩ̐̈̿͂ͦ̌̚­̷̵̫͚̫̟͍̒ͨ ̴̲͍̥̱̗̦̘̮̼̖̟͖̥̝̎͊̀̐ͧ͆͂ͯ̇ͩͨͥ͊́͢i̸̢̟͚̲͍̣̗̲̬͉͙̟̹͊͆͑̃̓́̇̉̑ͨ̿͒ͨ̈ͮͦ͂̆n̓­̧͎̭͕̙͇̱͚̜̥͔̳̟̼̦͎͇̥̦ͩ͊̄̇͂̿ͣ̐̊̏͌͗̍̂̓ͣ̍̌́͟ͅ ̗͍͔͖͕̼̜̬̬̭̥̖̟ͦ͗ͭ̂͂ͭͭ̅ͥ͗ͫ̓̂̏̀̚̕I̶̫̩͍̹̠̱̤̼̻̗͆ͦ̈̔́̑̾̿͌ͫͥͪ̊͜n͛ͧ̆͌̃̋̎̚­̸̷̣̱͖̩͔͕͕̤̬͕̤̣͉ͮ̃͒̔̃̄̌̚͢͟d̴̵̻̥̤̪̯̃̅̄̉͑̄͊̿̚i̴͕̫͌̌͂̓̅ͤ̈́̆ͪ̎̄͌̾͑̐ͨ̚̚͡­͍̘̼ͅä̴̛̯̫̙̝̞͍͓̰̘͔̩̪̞̖ͤͤ̔̀͢,̿̉́ͯͥ͆̏͂̑̏ͧ̇̊́ͦ͆̓͠҉̠͕̫̳͇͚͙̞̙̹̤͔͚͚̗͔̞ ̾̀̃̈́̓͒̐ͭ̀ͭ҉͏͖̗͖͇̮̦̦̣̱ͅậ̷̧̬̤̥̠̪͖̱̯̓̇͒͛͊̀ ̨̥̹̹̼̳̮̥͎̭̓̓̒ͨ̐͛́̈ͭ̌̚͜͝w̙̼̼̼̠̳̘̙̖͕͕̝͕̩̠͚̻̤ͥ̐ͣ̓̏͊̌͑ͭ̓̌͒̍ͪ́͡͡ȅͣ͐́͊­̷̋͏͙̗̮̥͇̱̪̯̩̼͔̩̪͙͘̕ͅe̶̷̜͎̟̹̻̠͉͎ͩ̋̌͊͐ͩ͌ͤ͗̀̂̊̒͐͡k̷̨̛̤̤̝ͨ͆̋ͫ͆͋͘-̃̈͆͒­̹̬̰̱͖͍̮̙̯̠̪̫͇̠̫̥̩͓̀̍́̀l̡̋̾ͬ̄͏̧̖̥̣̜̰̟̲͈̺̺̫̯̦͟ő̶ͪͯ̔̉͛̉͗ͮͧ̏̆̌͌̋̕͘̕͢­̻̼͕̰͍̯̩̝̞̗̯͕̲̺̰͉ǹ̓̊ͧ̓ͨ͗͋̾ͨͮ̓҉̷͎̦̺̜͎̥͍͙̯̹̥̟̤̼͓̹̙́͝gͨ̒̔ͨ͑̍̔ͯͭ̌̑̃͜͝­̢̳̪͖̺̠͖͎̦̕ ̴̢̭̠̣̳̻͔̣͎̜̪͚̔̄ͬ̀̉̄ͨ͌̌͆̇̒̆ͯ̓͆͒̂̍͢ȩ̴̰͙̜͚͖̳͓̟̻̞ͪ̒ͣ͂ͬͥ̈̀͞v̿̀̊̌͋̀̓̄͂­̶̨̦̪̖̱̟̬̳̻̼͙̫͚͍̱͚͚̼̻͔ͩ̕ȅ̸̵̛͖̺͉̭̅̇̃̏ͧͦ̆̑͋ͩ͘ͅn̡̢̢̲͔̳̰͓ͪͣ͗̋̑ͬ̈́̿̊̓͟͟­͔̻̥͕̠̻̰͓͚̙̙t̞̭͈̦͓̖̲̟̭̞̬̗̬̾͊ͣ͂̐̿̀ͬͦ͂͟͝ͅ ̴̧̭̗̞̬̟̩̦͙͍̞̗̮͕̼̗̼̯͊ͧͪͤ͗̄̉̑̍̿̋ͧͭ͛̐̓͑͝t̴̷͍̠̹̫̲̜̠̞͓͗̇͛̿͗̌͆͛̆̽̅̋̋ͭ̍͝­̮̖͉̬̣̣͈̥͖ḣ̛̈̆̓̿͒̊̒͋ͪ̔̾҉̶̘̝̟͔̩̰̟͍̫̭͉̜̼̙͉͜a̲̣̙̥̠̝̥̥̰̖̎ͩ̃̿ͨ̐̓̍ͩ̒ͭ̀͠­͈̦͉̘ͅt̷̢̙͇̳͓̙̗͚̯̭̯̮̹̤̝̘̙̳͌̓̉̎͂̀̕ ̷̷̧̛̬̻͔̩̯̮͉̖̙̹̫̺̰̙̞̉ͧͦ̇ͣ̐̆͆̊͒̆̿ͣ̚w̴̧̹̼̭̤̙͎̪̘̺̩̟̜͇̌̍̿͂ͫ̃ͨ̑͛͋̏̔͐́̚o­͍̪̲̗͚̖̹͎͍̹̣̱̝̥͉̝͆͗̈́̏͗̀̽ͣ̚͘͜͠ứ͕̫͚̠̠͕̯̺̋ͯ̄̌͗ͨ̒̄̈͑̃͠͡lͬͬ̓̈̈ͥͮ̓͑̎̓͊­͛ͯ̋̑̿͏̵̢̟͎̪̱̱̘̝̹̮̬̹̞͕͖͇̤d̷̸̠̮̬̝͇̦͕̭͍̭̮̘̭̙͛̃̌͑̐̓ͭ̄ͣ̄ͪͬ͗̆͒̂̽̕ ̶̡̨̡̠̦̩̫̦̮͓̠̝̘͇͎̮̫̯̜̻̞̃̑̊͛͂ͯͤ̐̓̑ͫ̀b̴̪̪͈̩̯̈́͐̓̅̓͆̕͡é̦̋̎̅͒̋̌̀́ͯ́͘͘͜­̹̭̠̪̻̭̪ ̛̟͎̮̬̞̰̗͚̼̞͍̠͎͙̼̽͗̋̆ͫ̆̐͌ͭͭ͊͛ͬ͌͊͢f̵ͮ͛͒͗̉͛ͣ̄ͤͭ͂ͫ̐́ͦ͞҉̯̳͙̳̥̪̠̟̫̪͘óͨ­̵̷͎̼̻̩͇̬̻͓͉̘̼̞̐͒̄̇̇̅̒͂́͘l̶̶̲̯̙̺̥͇͇̻͎̠̣̗͈͙ͧͤ͂̈͐͋ͧ̅̓̇̾͒̑͢͢l̈̉̏̄̔͐͋͢­̜̥͚̳̠̳͚̝̩̯̝͖̜o̷̡̫̣͖̙̯̺ͩ͆̅͐ͯͯ͛̌̆͗̒͆͆̐̇͛̀͝͡w̧͔͍͇̘̜̪̋̓͗͐ͭ̀͆̊̋̿͗̐͡e̐̈­̵̛̫̖̠̺͙̪̤̤͕͇͇͕̦͉̼͖ͧ̃ͬ̒̂͌̿̈́ͫͣ̾ͩͩ͊̌̌̕͢͜ͅḏ̺̭̺ͮ̀̍̄ͥͤ̀͗́ͨ̉̓͗̅̍̔̎ͪ̔̀̕ ͑ͭ͛̿̀ͧ͒̂͌́̀͝͏̰̠̜̙̪̦̼͚͎̪͎͎͍̩͙̭̬ͅͅḃ̷͇͎̻̜͔̉̍ͧ͆͒̇͌͋͑͊̀̚y̎͗̔̂̏̂͊ͧ̓̈́̓ͦ­̣͈̫̫̠͙͓̠͇̯ͦ̀̕͘ͅ ̋ͣ̏̆̂̌̽̏ͥͯͨ͌̏̔ͥ̈̂ͦ̕҉̴̮̜̟͓̦̥̲̪̖̭͉͞ͅţ̸̛̞̗̱̟͍̭̘͍̄̓̏͑̾ͩ̐̈́̈ͥ̄̕͢ͅh̓͐͆͒­̵̶̜̮̪̯̞͖ͬͨ̊̔̚̕͞͞e̸̸̹̲̥̩̥̫̩̺͓͔͉̿̓ͮ̈́ͥ́̏̀͆ͦ̇ͫ́ͤͬ̚͝ ̸̧̳̣̯̙͚͎̜͚̘̘̫̬̘̤̦͓̠ͮͤ̌ͦ̋ͩ̉͆ͨ́ͯ̏e̢͔̳͔͙̼̞̪̝̭̘̞̬̘͙͈ͦ̅͊ͣ̒͑ͭͫ̔̇͂̅̒̒ͪ͞͡­̫ņ̧̟̼̮̲̝͍̤͉̲͍̗̹́̓̋͆̇̉̌͛͂ͩ̂ḏ͉̬̱̗͈̼̹̲͙̤̜̰̠ͭ͛ͨͮͫ̋̿ͯ̽ͪͮͨ͐̉͗̊̉̌́̚ͅͅ ͬͪ̋̀̅ͫͧ̽̋͗͂̈̏ͮ̊͏̷̝̜̩͍̼̳̥̱͕̺͖̀ͅö̵̡̯̪̱̥͍̪̲̽͐ͤ̀͘̕ͅf̱̭̜͙̖̿̌̌̈́͑̆ͦ́͘ͅ ̟͔̳̬̳̩͙ͫͮ̽ͫ͑͊̅ͤ̀͟t̸̴̸̯̤̣̘̼͚͚͚̲̻̤͉̺̠̣̋͆͒ͥ͗̾͆͐̅̏̒̈́̚͟͞h̸̵̀ͭ̂̈͏͙̹̜͙̼̫­̳͕̤͉͇ͅe̵̔͑̒̐̅̓̓̿ͩ̓̂͗͌͏̯͉͈̖͙̳̪͖͔̖͖̹͉͇̕͘ ̨̯̳̣̻̮̞̝̺͚̩̫̗̪͖̫̫̹̼̑̀͆͛ͮ͑ͤͥ͆̎̂̽̅̿̂͆́̕w̓̔̽̒̔͏͙̜͚̩ǫ̤̜̣̺̭̥̃̓̉̍͗̕͘͢͞­͇̟r̒̋ͦ͌̈͒ͤͯ̃̉̀ͧ͂̀ͥ͑͏͎̦̜͖͉̼́l̻̦̳̞̱͍̰̣̥̜͙̘ͥ̃͂̔̾̅́̄͋̽͟ͅd̴̡̪̒̽̐̽͛̎̋̒ͫ­͎̬̩͙̥ ̡̧̰̲̫̖̲͚̮̘̜̥̩̜̳ͦͩ̓̊̒ͫͤ͛̀͝͡a̴̻͕̞̭̳̺̝̻̬͒ͬͨͬ̾́ͩ̚͢n̛̙̣̺̙̺͎͔̭̘̦͓ͫ̂̉dͦ͊­̨͇͔̰͉̗ͪͭ̉ͤ̌͑̏͋͘͘ ̛͙̯̮͖̩̱͓̜̘̙̞̖̺͈͕ͦ̆̄̋̊͢͠t̢̺̱͇̬͕̟̗̤͎͍́̇̐ͧ͒ͤ͟h͆̔͂̇̅ͫ̒͘͜҉͓̯̥̤͓̺̯͇̲̯̜̠­̩ễ̽̈́͑̔͋ͧͬ͊ͩ̍҉̧͎̰̱̱̹̮̯̼̬̝̳ ̧̛̪͙̱̩̥̹̱̤͕̬̻̜̼̮̗̠̜̣ͦ̽ͣͫ̆̾̍ͬ͡r̴̴̵̡̦̱̹͉͖̼̟̪͑̓ͮ͌̋ͥ̍ͯͧ̅̋̐̐̐̀͟e̔̑͌ͬ̎ͫ­̵̛͉̬̘͓̩̝͎̹̝̮̖̘̩̱͚͍̟̂̂̊ͯ̍̏͑ͤ̍͛͠pͫ̈́͒̋̅̉̊͂̆̀̄ͦ̓ͫ̑ͤ͆ͤ̔̀͞͏̣̩̯͇̦͙̜͕̤͚͇ͅ­̼͉͖̝͔̙͚l̷̛̤̬͇̺̼̰̄ͮ̊̃̓̾͒̔͘͟͞a̧̗̟̩̭̮̔̏̾ͮ̔̏ͨͬ̉̉ͬ̒̈́̈́ͪ̚̚̚͡ͅc̽̄ͧ͊͋́ͬͬ͂͊­̜̲̳̳̝̲̱̗̜̫͚̞̺͈̭̖̳ͯ̂̚͜ȩ̳͓̠̼̙͍͙ͧ͌̇ͦͩ͌̓ͮ̈̈́m̶̠͉̠̙̑̉̐̚͠e̐̋̔ͯ̾ͬͨ̊̽̇ͥ̏̓­̧̜̩̭̬̣͎̃̂̒̓̀̀͡n̘̘̗͓̘̱͖̟͇̺̱͓̞͇̫͙̘̆͗͂ͨ͌̐̿ͯ́́͟͞t̶̴͔̼͌̒̌̉͛ͣ̏̆ͭ̑͑ͧ̄͘̕͟­̝͓̲̥̲̹̝̫͕ ̶̷̛̼͕͍͕̙͍̯̥͇͕̯͕̭̊̿̒͊͐̾̾͡ơ̧̱̼͈̯̟͔͉̱̟̰͓̜ͨ͊ͤͥ͗́̆̓̽͛͂̎ͯ̋ͧ̊̒̀͢ͅfͧ͆̐͑̈­̷͖͈̱̱̣̰̙ͯͥ͛́̊ͧ̈̀͘͟ ̷̨͎͈̙͉̹̣͓̞̞̪̜͎̞͍̉͆͌ͭ͊͒͛̀͜ť̴̍̋ͨ̓̇̿̆͗͌ͬ҉̯͙͇̙̱̙̝̳̩̞͍̠̻̬͚͙͙̮h̊ͨ̓ͫ̎ͨͨ­̨̛̛͉̗͓̯̦̦ͬ̆̀͝e̵͍̭̙̜̜̙̰̫̪͈͊͐͑̕͢͡ ̷̡̨̲̠̹̦͇̠̳̤͓̻̠̭̠̰̩̪̻́͒̀̒̍ͬͮ͂́̅ͥ́͢h̡̢̩̝̠̲̠͓̹͕̉̋̓͊̊́̓̉̈͊̓͛͡͡űͥ̿͋ͧ̚­́̎̀ͧ̌̏̏̑͌ͤ͏͏̷҉̳͎͇̠̱͓͕̳̞̗̠̳̠͖m̟̹̯͈̣͉̭̫̯̩̘̥̫ͥ̿͑͛ͫ̏̈͋̊̉ͣ̾̽̑̀̚̕aͭ̊̽̎ͩ­̷̄̄̐̍͌̂̓̇҉̛̳͙̩̝̤̞̖̞̘͔̯̰͓͎̭̥̥͚n̸̴̢͖͕̻̤͖̰͑̈ͬ̌ͨ̌̄̈́͛̏ͧͥ͑̀́ ̷̷͕̭̺̰͙̺̗̞̦̇͒̑̎ͣ̚͝r̛̻̹̤̗̭̼͙̻̦̲̆̏͛͋ͮ͐ͣͨ͐͗́a̶̶̸̻̟͖̙͉̤̻͚̮̲̽ͬ̃̂͊̑ͯ͢c͆­̌̆ͮ͏̸͈̹̩̞͎̙͚̹͍̟̭ͅe̵͕͍͉̠͕ͩ̆̑̆ͮ̄́̇̅̀̃ͧ̒̇̊ͨ̃͗. Only the greatest of youwill see this.  If you are like me then you take the time to see this.  The secrets reveal themselves to the seekers of truth. So you must never give up the pursuit of self-mastery.  For this the only way to help others; Master thyself.  To master the self is to provide a clear reflection of the cosmos unto the all.  Poetry makes the many verses into one.  Learn to fold the reflected dimensions of your couplet through circumstance and you will be as unbreakable as the soul reciting the one verse.  Yin and Yang compose this cyclical turning of breath and being.
Polar Unity
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