"projected" poems
The city is a grid
of lights projected
by man-made mountains
built of glass and steel;
they reflect, distorted
off the glass surface
of Lake Michigan.
Good morning
The sun rises
with heavy-eyed commuters,
homes filling with
the smell of coffee;
yesterday’s events are
brought inside, rolled
up in a blue plastic bag.
Soon the traffic on the Dan Ryan
will turn the stretch of road
into a temporary parking lot.
Life enters the veins
of downtown;
it heads down Michigan Avenue
to the heart of The Loop.
The ferris wheel at Navy Pier
begins to turn hypnotically,
attracting all walks of life.
A Muslim passes a Christian
on the street;
they smile at each other;
their backgrounds don’t matter.
Someone is calling;
someone is answering.
Today is the best day for one,
the worst day for another.
The day does its job to go on
Chicago fills its lungs,
then exhales life back home.
The sun colors buildings,
traces of day
to be soon replaced
by the form of lit office windows.
From a plane passing over,
the grid is a chessboard
waiting for the next day,
the next game.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 2:07 AM UTC
Pursue the delicate moonlight shining beyond the scene, illuminating the grass of the coming spring in an ghastly silver yet majestic green
Clouds with their sterling lining, the cummuters of the heaven, preventing the sun, or the moon sometimes from shining down to us,
Seemingly caught in an endless journey they travel with the wind,
Yet under these drifting clouds in the sweetest of lights, the world remains to be in slumber, a story which never truly unfurls after all,
Can you gaze into a face fraught with sin, possessed by the one you share this dazzling night with on a day alike the tale of a dream ?
Wrapped up under a celestial sphere, here where dreams and illusions collide within the sweet embrace of your strong caring arms,
Finding rest I can leave my body to the flow of time as it passes,
Grandually sweet seasons may take away ones breath with grandiose,
Until the wish projected within your eyes finds its way to become reality, I will stand beside you with serenity and grace, till I may fade,
I may not be able to hand over these feelings, but the grasp of tomorrow bears some power to it, certainly transient time passes,
Let the depths of your heart guide you to a bright, fantastic future,
Until then, shimmering brilliantly, shimmering behind the horizon,
The Sun rises
~ Umi
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 7:06 AM UTC
Disconnected the more we’re connected
Our children are affected and feeling neglected
While our rights to privacy are no longer respected
An idea our ancestors never projected
The transgressions of technological progression
An obsession creating social oppression
A Millennial’s iDol, a prized possession
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
no direction, dressed in distress
suppressed by excess of regret
expected infection, hard to digest
a left mess that's best to forget
projected wreck is yet to accept
object of the reflected effect
where defective breath has wept
i rest in the echo of my neglect
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Did you know that every time he searched your eyes,
While he pushed deep-
That his emotions passion and lust was equivalent to her?
For every time he traced his finger tip down your spine;
your hands grasped to cover more surface.
Cotton.
Polyester.
Satin,
as you braced for smooth impact.
He only understood the similar love language he shared with her.
With you-
craving of possessive feelings,
Proving your worth to him
asking for time via a clock whom hands couldn’t unwind
Separate.
Disintegrate.
A Minaj a trios-
unbeknownst to you existed,
Co-starring you
For every soft connection within each curve...
Your identity was a reflection of another.
For all the things you projected
Marriage.
House.
Dog.
Children.
His capability of taking you to ecstasy,
Lead you here
Had you any clue?
This little game called life,
Excluded the other woman (you).
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
Psychedelic Rose
Hallucinogenic eugenics
False beauty
Portrayed poorly
Because it’s unreal
Yet
The feelings pursue me
Persecution
Prosecution
Against this prostitution of emotions
I sell myself cheap
$20.00
The price for my soul
Sold
To the mass
Extinction of reality
Who’s to say this bouquet
Of roses
Can’t arise before
My death?
I decorate
The interior
To design a mind
That’s perfected
In the opinions
Of those who know
No better
Drama setter
Setting the décor
For the setting
Letting the encore
Bring life
In the form
Of more roses
Atrocious Notoriety
From unwanted fame
Or
A poor poet
Starving artist
Projected as a failure
In this motion picture
Called life.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
Funny the things we recall.
Images that flash through our brain.
Some most vivid for me were of an old man.
Skin like creased parchment paper,
Lined and yellowed with age.
The veins visible just below the surface,
of a thin nearly transparent veneer.
Liver spotted flecks of red,
Charted paths from the toil of many years,
Palms callused forever from a life time of labor.
Big fingers knotted and misshapen,
The two inch tip of one gone missing,
Saw taken, at age sixteen.
Looking at those old hands, one could hardly guess
That still there remained gentleness in their caress.
For an old dog, or a little grandson in need of some
Companionable affection or parental love.
Those aged hands could also make things,
Toy sailboats, and wooden trains,
complete with caboose,
And guard cow catcher.
A cool flute whistle that actually worked,
He said it was like the Indian’s made,
Out Oklahoma way.
And he would know,
He cowboyed there.
His hands taught me to tie my shoes,
Open and close my first pocketknife.
Those same hands could become birds,
rabbits, butterfly's, all sorts of things.
When projected up on the wall,
Silhouetted by a naked back light.
His hands knew magic too,
Pluck silver coins right out of my ears.
His tired face matched his hands,
visual weathered, creased and
wrinkled road maps,
Of 89 years of rugged roads traveled.
Yet, his lively pale green eyes remained
forever fraudulently youthful prisms,
Eyes and spirit of a much younger man within.
But it is his hands most of all I shall remember,
Their imposing look and their reassuring
touches of tenderness.
I shall never forget my grandfather’s hands.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.
spiritus.
kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.
[skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]
thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.
this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.
dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
[streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.
poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
lickings.
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.
cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.
non-profit.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
The oxygen secreted from the walnut tree,
the snap-pole green beans growing
up the side of the rusty garden fence, and
bags of aluminum cans stored in the shed
with the old cash registers from the antique store.
These are the golden frames caught and
edited onto organic film, etched into grey matter,
projected from a foggy lens onto reflective marble.
We abandoned the clubhouse because of spiders;
they took the place for themselves after a storm.
Our new abode was the patch of grass between the
walnut tree and the fence in the back corner of the yard;
shady, rough terrain from fallen walnuts, and
the grass always had a slight dew in places.
"The place where the snakes live" is what we called it
when we were sprouts; now we could catch them in both hands.
One night, the wind blew over the shed doors;
flimsy, sliding rail, aluminum thing.
We slinked in and got to play with the old adding machines,
foreign tools, jars full of door hinges, and
rusty hand-crank egg beaters.
Eventually, the roof of the shed collected so many years
of twigs, walnut husks, and foliage fallen that
tiny trees began to pop their heads up from the clutter.
Crickets underneath the gutter guards-
two types; the black singers and the
ones you have to dig for that will draw blood
if they get a hold of one of your fingers.
Sometimes, if bravery was roused and boiling,
we would drift closer to the railroad tracks
in attempts to catch yellow jackets, or even hornets.
One popped their stinger into the back of my neck.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
...And I will look at you, through the windows to your soul and I will speak from beyond the depths of my ocean. Just as Mother Earth has a heat at her core that only the Sun understands, only you will understand as I speak from this place. Only you will recognise and feel the melodic vibration from my every syllable. I will be completely without fear when I tell you that I will love you until the end of the ages, through the entirety of this epoch and to the next one. I will promise you that I will risk everything to allow a moment of serendipity to unite us again and again, as we cycle through this projected expression called the human experience. For it is only you, and it has only ever been you. You see this love I wish to express in the physical plane, will be one so pure, and one so real that it will emit its own force field, an unbreakable one that allows a poetic unity to blossom fruit never tasted before. This beautiful unity - one without *******
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
maybe the reason why I dislike Batman
and love the X-Men
is because Batman, gifted with money and power, chose his struggle
the X-Men were forced- they had mutanthood shoved upon them
and had to be crucifed as society pushed them away
hiding in fear and hatred of what they must face
the X-Men learn to adapt, they take what they have
and choose to be the better man, or the worse man,
but they take the fight that was given them
and the freakery that they were born with,
and they adapt.
Batman, however, was born normally,
did not have to run or hide, for he was privileged,
and he walked, walked straight into freakery
he took the burden others were throttled with
and laid it upon his own shoulders, crying 'woe is me'
whilst he went about the noble task of hero-dom
he made himself a fancy suit- he had been given
normalcy and he invented freakery in order to claim sacrifice
he did not need to give himself- he was an ordinary man
that laid down his life.
The reason why that bothers me so much
is that ordinary men do not need to lay down their lives
they are not called to that future
it is not in their cards
he claimed his heroic deeds and choose to throw himself into the
furnace flames- while others suffered unwillingly
he chose it
he took their pain and made it less
'see, I can do it! anyone can do it!'
what makes the X-Men special is that
their mutation isn't 'deal with pain of superheroism'
it's some other power, but they have to learn how to be ostracized
not anyone can do that- they had to
their survival depended on it
Batman walked into the struggle of their lives
and declared himself a hero
though, for some, the declaration
was not in their words or actions, it was written
into their DNA, it was marked in their skin
by the brands of their oppressors, it
was pounded into every heartbeat shocked with electricity
they fought and hid their heroism their whole lives
for they knew- it was not something to love,
it was something to suffer with-
and Batman took that, he took the heroism
and he projected it across the night sky,
declaring, "I am Batman",
and it is something he can escape from,
he can walk away, he can walk away, he can walk away,
and yes, he chooses not to,
but what he does is steal from those who cannot walk away
his heroism takes the nails in the hands of mutants and orphans
and masochistically drives them into his own palms
crying whilst doing it.
rather than being forced to adapt and look normal,
he puts on a suit and prances through the night dramatically
he takes everything sufferable about being a hero
and tosses it out the window-
he takes everything noble about being a hero
and growls it in a dramatic voice, posing, in his fancy suit,
when he could be safe at home. why would you choose this
why would anyone choose this
be thankful for your ability to be safe,
that is the real superpower- the ability
to be normal, to have a home to go back to, to
have a normal purpose and a normal life,
and Batman is completely, utterly, ungrateful-
he wishes there were more,
while those born with 'gifts' would be satisfied with even less.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
is to raise a wall
back to its preexistence
to halt a
read-between-the-lines
brand of resonance;
a wall to protect
those constructed surfaces
from even being scratched.
Now, you feel
an
empty sting
when your access to a
digital counterpart,
a modern-day version
of a person's cognition,
is denied.
It's as if their posts are
the only way left
where you could
actually
hear the things
that couldn't be spoken of;
where you could
feel the
immeasurable heartbeats
that could never be
projected;
and all of these
illusions
make you wish
you talked more
in real life.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 1:37 AM UTC
1670
In Winter in my Room
I came upon a Worm—
Pink, lank and warm—
But as he was a worm
And worms presume
Not quite with him at home—
Secured him by a string
To something neighboring
And went along.
A Trifle afterward
A thing occurred
I’d not believe it if I heard
But state with creeping blood—
A snake with mottles rare
Surveyed my chamber floor
In feature as the worm before
But ringed with power—
The very string with which
I tied him—too
When he was mean and new
That string was there—
I shrank—”How fair you are”!
Propitiation’s claw—
“Afraid,” he hissed
“Of me”?
“No cordiality”—
He fathomed me—
Then to a Rhythm Slim
Secreted in his Form
As Patterns swim
Projected him.
That time I flew
Both eyes his way
Lest he pursue
Nor ever ceased to run
Till in a distant Town
Towns on from mine
I set me down
This was a dream.
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The sun is shining and
moonbeams glisten through the air.
Moon, not sun.
While the sun shone
and incinerated the sloshing intestines of
vengeful beasts;
the gentle and forgiving moon
projected from their eyes and
caught the ****** maw of a starving deer.
Suitcases of leather stacked behind us
filled with spruce, pine, elm, oak, cherry.
Ready for induction t
o our paperless society
which consumes the forests of
Hippolyta and Antiope mercilessly.
Burning every leaf
then forgetting to feel
because nothing mattered.
Everything never mattered.
Facts are lie, opinion is truth.
“No one is nothing”
they shriek to the heavens
striving to be limitless
and scorning morality. Embrace death
and all its glory.
Life, while full of happiness
and gorgeous splendor,
refuses to acknowledge the
magnitude of the word. The thing.
Falling and reading and lines
and circles and explosions
and whimpers and screams. Agony suffered
silently, alone; never understood
because how could it?
What could totally encompass
the raging fire that devours the veins
and burns from the inside out
kept in place by the impenetrable
flesh that glints in the forgiving moonlight.
A hostile exterior that
smiles, waves, laughs on cue to
disguise the raging storm
fighting its way through from inside.
The shell which shrinks from the moonbeam
and into the harsh sunlight
that filters beneath the floating clouds.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 10:18 AM UTC
Mobile phone
Apple I pad
Are these great inventions
Or are they bad?
Face book
Twitter
Take all our time
I refuse to succumb
There not taking mine
Then there's face time
Available to see
Whoever you like
But they won't see me
People like sheep go on line
Not realising
Just how much time
That they have wasted
Nothing gained
Many have been bullied
Many brought to shame
There's a lack of privacy
Lack of respect
Being projected
We therefore must protect
Our self preservation
Dignity pride
Or you may just find
Your washed up
With the tide
Sure I'm not alone in
thinking
Life was a slower Pace
Before Internet intervention
And mobile phone took their place .....
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
Hallucinogenic eugenics
False beauty
Portrayed poorly
Because its unreal
Yet
The feelings pursue me
Persecution
Prosecution
Against this prostitution of emotions
I sell myself cheap
$15.00
Is the price for my soul
Sold
To the mass
Extinction of reality
Whose to say this bouquet
Of roses
Cant arise before
My death
I decorate
The interior
To design a mind
That’s perfected
In the opinions
Of those who know
No better
Drama setter
Setting the décor
For the setting
Letting the encore
Bring life
In the form
Of more roses
Atrocious Notoriety
From unwanted fame
Or
A poor poet
Starving artist
Projected as a failure
In this motion picture
Called life
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 6:08 PM UTC
I once knew a girl from a north country shore
as it was some place I had been to before.
We had met one fine day going down the street
each walking in opposite directions sweet.
We were both minding our own business when
an incident happened for us to meet then;
some elderly lady with a shopping bag
was coming along but got caught in a snag;
one of her shoes on the uneven pavement
nearly sent her headlong towards derailment.
Fortunately for her we were both there to
stop her from falling and to save the bag's spew.
As we helped the lady and looked at each other
we caught a gleam of light in our eyes to bother
all preconceived notions of what life was about
and it seemed we were both uneasy to find out.
For we looked up and away with sighs of relief
then back again at each other in disbelief.
I couldn't help seeing then the look on her face;
reflections of my own as from a mirrored place.
Or was it an image from deep within my heart
projected outward being therein from the start?
What happened next was not so amazing to tell
as we spoke certain words of greeting and farewell.
____________________________
Sep 30, 2023
Sep 30, 2023 at 9:38 PM UTC
"...Ut si globi duo ad datam ab invicem distantiam filo intercedente connexi, revolverentur ur circa commune gravitatis centrum..."
D. Isaaci Newtoni.
From the level of the sea with its worlds of similarity and wonders of nature attracting beautiful birds, these ships fled to find the swirl reaching through to the floor. The ocean bed was dampened with the tears seen by the floating machine.
{ [ ( r - 3 ) d d u d t t ( f ) x ] / [ ( x , P ) ] } =
tau pi g ( y ; hyp N , par Z ) d w d x .
Observation created a self reflection, whereby the cosmic engineers projected the video like winds from outer forests. Engines became magical reverberation arising, if a correct answer could be presented to exist, as quality persistence like pieces of candy. Glittering, colored fragments of glass were scattered along the shore, they all liked as much as they admired the inventor.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
Open, oh eye of ones heart
The spiral of desire continues with no end to it, if lies are to pollute the world it is time to purify yourself from them all, one by one.
A hearts eye, sees through lies, but that is not its only purpose in a chest full of light and compassion in which it can greatly be found,
It serves so much more, all sealed uner a truthful surface and a righteous core, careless about anothers looks, the way they speak, superficiality such as shallowness are wiped out by it completely,
The hearts eye sees anothers soul and what they truly are, a judgement far away from personal preferences or falsities caused by instincts of ones heart which are likely to bring light headed frivolity,
It cherishes the good, the beauty of the soul except for wealthy appearance, mavelovence within greedy devilish behaviour and spite,
Projected like a story, the fear of what they see is but of themselves, if such an eye hits a devil right on the head, exposing his treaciousness
What lies behind such a courtain of darkness, may it be good? Evil ?
Come pray by my side, if you shiver from that far away I cannot help you, as sadness clouds your vision in a courtain call of pure grief,
Let me open your eyes, so your wounds may heal.
~ Umi
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
atop
that golden haystack
mounted on an unwieldy bullock cart
you wished we had......
a regret of a million lifetimes!
every time
your plucky smile flashes
in the sacred space between brows,
i see a wish fulfilling acacia tree
nymphalid butterflies flutter in my gut
and rapid clips of lifetimes past
neatly edited,
projected as movie trailers
your deathlike silence
has quietly become my universe,
as i pen in moon-like solitude
memoirs of an unrequited love
© 2019
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 11:14 AM UTC
SpongeBob SquarePants is an American animated television series created by marine biologist and animator Stephen Hillenburg for Nickelodeon. The series chronicles the adventures and endeavors of the title character and his various friends in the fictional underwater city of Bikini Bottom. The series' popularity has made it a media franchise, as well as Nickelodeon network's highest rated show, and the most distributed property of MTV Networks. The media franchise has generated $8 billion in merchandising revenue for Nickelodeon.
Many of the ideas for the series originated in an unpublished, educational comic book titled The Intertidal Zone, which Hillenburg created in the mid-1980s. He began developing SpongeBob SquarePants into a television series in 1996 upon the cancellation of Rocko's Modern Life, and turned to Tom Kenny, who had worked with him on that series, to voice the titular character. SpongeBob was originally to be named SpongeBoy, and the series was to be called SpongeBoy Ahoy!, but these were changed, as the name was already trademarked.
The series was previewed on Nickelodeon in the United States on May 1, 1999, following the television airing of the 1999 Kids' Choice Awards, and officially premiered on July 17, 1999. It has received worldwide critical acclaim since its premiere and gained enormous popularity by its second season. The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie, a feature-length film adaptation, was released in theaters on November 19, 2004, and a sequel is currently in production, with a projected release date of February 13, 2015. On July 21, 2012, the series was renewed and aired its ninth season, beginning with the episode "Extreme Spots".[2][3]
Despite its widespread popularity, the series has been involved in several public controversies, including one centered around speculation over SpongeBob SquarePants' intended ****** orientation. The series has been nominated for a variety of different awards, including 17 Annie Awards (with six wins), 17 Golden Reel Awards (with eight wins), 15 Emmy Awards (with one win), 13 Kids' Choice Awards (with 12 wins), and four BAFTA Children's Awards (with two wins). In 2011, a newly described species of mushroom, Spongiforma squarepantsii, was named after the cartoon's title character.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
Is she still your reflection?
Because I look in the mirror and only see decay
I see her dancing in your eyes
I know her figure is projected onto your eyelids while you sleep
An hourglass full of grains of 'yesterdays'
That you shatter just to fall asleep
Changing behind screens as to not expose your secrets
By tomorrow I will be nothing but an outline in the sand
Left by children too young to know better or understand
Too naïve to have seen the storm clouds rolling their way
I might have been looking for a needle in a stack of hay
And like a magpie you found it and hid it in your back pocket
Taking my hand, distracting it from what it yearned for
Using the other to pull my heart out
Only now am I starting to mind the bleeding
I frantically smear my insides on to my chest
In the hope that I have a chance of saving myself
You can try your hardest to forget me
But I wont let you do so
Easily
I'll plague you when I finally fall in love again
I'll haunt you when you stay round her house, my friend
Your soup will taste like my mouth
And I swear it will defeat you like poison
Your skin eaten away like cotton by a moth
You'll find me hidden in graveyards
A twisted reminder of what we once had
I am not quite driftwood yet but when I am
I hope to float your way
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
uncut grass
casts long shadows by night
animated on the inside
of our basement windows
elongating and dashing away
projected by the passing traffic
May 14, 2022
May 14, 2022 at 7:52 AM UTC
Sharp breath
Carving out the carcass
Shaving away sanity
Cringing.
Shallow plunge
Into sinister sea of shards
Crinkling cracking
Cringing.
Cowering for invisibility
Hiding behind folds of
Crunched eyelids
Cringing.
Hollowed by fire
Raw red remnants
Crumbling, ashes ashes
Cringing.
Projected perfection
Diabolical demons dream
In absence
Cringing.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
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