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shamamama May 14
Kolea sees the rising of Orion's belt
and follows the belt into dawn's day
He spent his winter on green pastures on an island
nourished by rainwaters which have fallen
swelling into rivers and red dirt

Plumage changes, reminding him of his return
to the Alaskan tundra
How can he know this path of
three thousand miles across ocean
to ancient nesting grounds
his grandmothers used?
What faith does he need to ride through
currents of air across vast waters to reach land?

He arrives in green tundra,
and finds his feathered brothers and sisters,
Seeking his mate,
they dance and unite,
then begin their nesting ritual,
Eggs laid, patience sets in

Time well spent, the eggs are ripe to hatch
emerging birds open mouths wide to
feed and grow strong--
Those bones, those feathers, those wings
must be mighty  
for the journey home

They watch the sky for the sign to return,
Some seekers who have called him papakolea
follow him now in double hulled canoes
praying to the night sky,
While papakolea listens for the
whisper of the dragon
thrashing across dark skies

In the middle of the ocean
he rides on dragon's breath
to find a pasture on an island
where he had fed a year ago,
Paddling canoes, tracing after stardust
from papakolea
they reach the shores and reunite to land
In this way
Seabirds and seekers
find reunion
Every May, for maybe thousands of years, the kolea (pacific golden plover birds) begin their migration to Alaska, to meet their mate, and lay eggs.They all return in August, to rest and feed up for the next migration. I have often wondered how they sense their traveling time--I have also wondered how the Hawaiians found the islands---and so a while ago, I wrote this poem, to explore this.  One of my Hawaiian elders shared that the Milky Way is "the dragon" in the sky, and as the Milky Way rotates in the tropical night sky,  the dragon is "thrashing" in the sky.
CK Baker Dec 2016
~ Ode to Joy ~

White gold ambassador
canine past eight
soul seekers ascend
(from cirque to seven)
to peak
to peak
to peak

Saddlerock spearhead
and flute
Christmas trees
in winter glades
over dusted crystal scape

Fissile (eiger) sanction
open shale and tusk
indiscriminate members
roll the bluffs
and ice falls
above the
north face steep

dead dawn silent
breathless, bitter cold
the beating hearts
and brahmas
warm the spirit
of pakalolo
English Jam Mar 2018
My golden years are a retrospective view
Doubtful, not sure, might be a last dance
One day I was gum-chewing with my Batman yo yo
Now my soul is rubber, and it leaks on the outside
Faded away from the youthful days
Once giddy pleasure
Now it’s all so

The teen lifestyle washed over within seconds
Sure it’s fun to friends
Entertaining to have enemies
But the squabbles and meanders slow you down
The pitiful liars and desperate seekers
Worship through blasphemy whatever they care
Limbs don’t respond
Thoughts and actions don’t line up

You see it for what it truly is
You’re in danger
of maturing

Forgotten and dazed
Sitting in a broken armchair
It's difficult seeing through the fogginess
Finding the missing hours
Difficult on a drowse

...I work only weekdays (don't we all)...
...Fantastic gatherings on Sundays (family days)...
...Jimi Hendrix, he's good (bit of an understatement, mate)...
....He's the kind of guy I wish I could...

Janna Jul 2018
There's a hole in my heart

A void in my mind

A deep desire for nothing but want

A need for something like fun

Adventure and thrills

Seekers and pills

Falling into a blackness

So dark I'm turning blue

Such stark it's only true

Helpless and innocent

Forgiving and iridescent

I bond with strangers

Act bold, I'm not the tamest

I am stuck, so stuck

I don't know how to get out of here

This place, this room, this hide

This mask, this facade,

This glass, this wall, this broken bridge

It is all burning up into flames

Watch it, sink

Down it goes deep into

Black Waters

- soulwriterj
Written in a state of fragility and lostness.
IG: @soulwriterj
Bo Tansky May 4
Fringe seekers, yearning for truth
How alienated and alone are you
What vacuum of truth are you seeking?
What expression of you are you speaking
You have fallen into a bottomless well
Where safety is the only hell
Down you go
Like Alice
Down and down
It’s a wonderland of your own making
Backbreaking, Earthshaking. Heartbreaking
Painstaking undertaking
While the Queen yells
Off with her head
You lay dead
In the place where
Angels fear to thread
And they pour happiness molecules
into your head
Fools jewels
Because you are stubborn as a mule
And it all seems so cruel
And won’t learn your lesson
I told you it’s you
You, you, you
And there’s nothing I can do
It’s just a fantasy
Of your own making
The curious come to seek the keys
Keys to the kingdom
The doors are too small
The keys are too big
And nothing seems to fit

Pardon moi, si vous plait
Do you happen to know the way?
Qui mademoiselle
The way, quite simply, is anyway
It’s all just play
Play, play, play
I would like to play
Then why do I feel this way?
Glenn Currier Jun 14
She stands at the wall reflecting
on those who were lost at sea
names and poems and words connecting
her to those poor souls and to me.
Beyond those memorial walls
the mighty Columbia into the Pacific spills
whose depth and wealth have called
so many to sail from Oregon's green hills.
From the safety of their home
they left for the great unknown
where writers and poets travel
every time they pen their spirit in word
to explore what God and life has unraveled
what pain, sorrow and joy have stirred.

Her kindness and her reflection move me to write
my poems of wandering from a safe and tidy home
to regions of imagination’s heights
shadows, sorrows, or oceans’ foam.
She reads and lives life’s poetry
knows its canyons and desert sands
she yearns only to be free
of the noise and anger of badlands
to smell the freshness of a cool and gentle breeze
feel the air brushing her arms
to look up and see the greenness of trees
to be free from crushing and brutal harm.

I see her standing and watch her reflection there
with seafarers, poets and lovers at peace
where God’s creative breath stirs air
and torments, terrors, and quarrels cease.

Author’s Note:  My sister Genie who lives in a large urban area visited Astoria, Oregon where the Columbia river ends in the Pacific Ocean and local citizens have erected a memorial park with several walls of polished black granite that display the names of mariners lost at sea.  There are also sentiments and poems about those lost souls one of which Genie photographed and sent to me.  As I examined the photo I could see her reflection on the wall as kind of a background for the poem.  That photo and my sister who loves nature and trees inspired this writing.  I wish I could post the pic here for you to see why and how it inspired me.  

Below is the untitled poem on the memorial wall photographed by my sister.

Weep not for me that I go to sea.
I shan’t be lonely, though vastness surround me.
The brotherhood of the sea shall be my family.
The kinship of the deep my company.

Weep not for me, nor worry over harm.
My heart stays with you, still and warm.
In sunrise and starlight my hearth and home
I carry you with me wherever I roam.

Weep not for me, whether bad luck or good.
Tossed about in a shell of steel and wood.
An ancient salt sea sails within my blood –
I but follow its tide through ebb and flood.

Weep not for me that I go to sea:
in the limitless ocean I am free.
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
controlled intellectual tolerance,
considered Golden Age,
became first exchange, wars took their toll
turning point called second Age.
seaside expanding new suburbs
food shortage, riots, rooms had fallen
city invaded, concentration camps
some lived, one girl died, bookcase covered
scarce citizens, countryside foraged
spaces provided improved conditions
restoring entire city
city centre has reattained former splendor
buildings have become new millennium,
flat man is city inhabitant
city limits of foreign origin,
large wave settled asylum seekers
social projects make up the population
eight windmills summarizes open society,
increased influx has strained nationalities,
widest varieties share immigrant ancestry
city centre forms the foundation
Canal boats most popular
million visitors flood inhabitants, travel freely through
only staying for illuminated red lights.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source -
ymmiJ Mar 28
The lioness frantically searches the high grass
The boy scans for running late dad in the stands
The alone wife stairs at the moon folded hands
Praying for their safe return again
Olga Valerevna Dec 2016
I spend my time meandering the halls of other lives
and yield with some discretion to the questions, "how and why"
although my understanding may be limited somehow
I'm not afraid to fall apart in someone else's now
my blood is made of seekers who have tasted life and death
and fervently laid doubt as bare as every single breath
"my hands are still in working," said a voice I came to know
a part of me as much as every petal on a rose
I bloom inside a garden that the sun will never leave
I'm here until this world is not the place I'm meant to be
where the sun will rest but always rise
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
******. No white guy can say that, right.
People who can truly call themselves ******* can. *****-***** ****, W.O.P.,
maybe they can say ******, okeh. But they say it mean,
What'sbout Jewboy?
Can the Kaffen kid say ******?
Sand-******, but not ***** ******. Hecan say ****, too. And *** and *****.

Oy vey, okeh. We can take it. We can take it all. Rules is rules.

That's right. Wanna fight? Wanna be my enemy?

--- Grandpa had a play date. ***- Where's the Fun?
These kids got no guns.
And no enemies. Except imaginary ones.

Greedy little master mind sprouting odd fruits from Pokémon.
Can we make this work? Perfect it, in effect?

Marbles, maybe we can teach that old game and go from there to the funnest parts of FTA... Findtheanswer, like God and Adam played. The rules are some same, bounds, fudges and such. Keepsies, ante-ups and such, too.
Risk is right if-I-can-tation.
Losses can be baked, clayballs,
while momma bakes our daily bread.
Poor kids can make marbles in the sun, since forever, I am sure. Rolly-polly patti and johnny cakes roll marbles into spoons,
Momma knew that stuff. She could shake butter into cream, singin' along Que sera, sera, whatever will be
will be,

but it won't be the death of me,
watch and see,
babu boy oh boy
We can play war until we die, but don't tell the children.
They are the price we are to pay. They must believe.

We swore allegiance for security. We thought it best
for the kids to lie.

You know?
I believe, you know. It's unbelieving I need help with.

Can't you see? We swore allegiance and taught it has become the  honor-us-course-us-po-deserve-us ritual. A rite we pass for the protection of the eagles gathered around the body.

We are proud of our children who die taking
the courses called for, we never ask why,
except when we cry. Silently, inside.

It's our role to remember the glory
of our children dying for the IDEA that lives
in the statue of Freedom
under which our laws allow
might is right, if God was ever on our side.

You know what I mean.
Say so. You know the lies are being told.

Stop believing that is okeh, eh?

Mussleman dominance meme manifests once more to battle the flood of knowing being re-leased or bought, outright, to aid the seekers seeking the meta game.

F.T.A, remember? Find The Answer. Same rules as Hide and Watch,
"All ye, all ye, outsiders hidden in our midst, in free."

"Send me your- poor, huddled masses",
remember being proud of that idea.
Poor thing, lady libertine, so tarnished now that not even Iaccoca's glory loan could gild the actions she sanctioned in the name of the republic for which she (a proxy mate, feminine aspect of God) stands. Sig-n-if-i-cious-ly.

Seig Fried, we say, with the statue of freedom watching over the legislative body, she stands
Quite similar to the Diana of the Ephesians,
in her role as mob solid-if-er, if I know my mythic truths been told.
Trink, trink, trinkits gits the good good luck, light m'fire witcha spark and see a light in the night when the noised of terrors flee.

Rite, we passed those places ages ago, now we hear echoes, only we know them, for we have been taught,
what echoes ever are.
Our own terrors screaming back at us.

Alot of lies are taught wrong and a sleeping giant in a child may dream of other ways to see. New windows on new word worlds expressed in HD Quad-processed realities, child eyes see right through those.

Exactly that happened. Slowly at first.
Good is more difficult to believe you are expert enough to try doing than is evil. Read it again. This couplet or line, as time will tell.

Don't ignore known knowns, stand up under the weight of knowing good and knowing evil. Be good.

We know from conception, we think,
whatever it takes means
take what ever we think right,
pursue happenstances in the favor of my father's world, provided for me, the kid.
The son, a first-man son, some several thousand generations removed. Lucky some body stored the good stuff in the mitochon'orhea, right.
We'd be powerless. O'rhea, double stufft, blessusall.

Otherwise lies are left for kids to learn,
but not to
be left true,
as when they first was told.

Our sibyl e-gran mals tol' em true, as they knew what they passed through, to the moment, then...

Around the fire, dancing shadows, make them play.
All ye, all ye outs, in free! See dancing shadows, en-joy my joy, be strong, long strong, sing along, long, long song

and laugh until you die.
Some con-served ideas will land a man in a prison with no keys.

Imagine that. Take your time, it is no passing fancy. Be here,
with me, a while. Pleased to meet you I am, no comma needed.
Now, we may wait, whiling away a time or two is common, in mortal pauses. Are you dead or alive?

Is it dark or light? Do you see in color here, or in gray?

Who built your prison? I built mine. You'll love it, I imagine,

whenever forever flows past those old lies striving for redemption,
recycling-clingy static hairballs and ghost turds
touch, once more,
*** potentia amber atoms in cosmic chili for the soul
of the loaf-giver, warden of the feeding forces life lives
to give dead things. There's the rub.

Spark to fire? Watts to fuel the favor, Issac, can you lead us in a song? A con-serving song for when the cons a fided or feited,
defeat my sorrows and my shame,
let me see Christ take the blame.

Confidencein ignowanceus. Worsen dignitatus evawas.

Blow on it. Soft. The spark landed in that ghost **** you thought you swept away or ****** into a vortex of hoovering witnesses,
if you whew too strong, you blow yer own little light out, and have to wait for lighten-loadin' bearers
to take care from you.

That can take time, too.

It always takes a while to get deep enough to see the bottom.

Cicero, old friend...

ne vestigium quidem ullum est reliquum nobis dignitatis 

[not even a trace is left to us of our dignity]

From <>

See, from a single spark,
touching a volatile bit o' whatever,
you may see the root of the Roman canker sore
yomamma kistyawit.
And be on yo way,
satisfied minded there do seem to be a way, each day, just beyond the evil sufficiency we find soon after the morning's mercy's been renewed.

And may, if it may be,
ye see a rich man wit' a satisfied mind
and may that man be me in your mirror, as it were.

Carry on, as you were.
Or walk this way, a while,
mind the limp. I'll set the pace.
It ain't a race, y'lil'squirt.

Wait'll y'see.

Waiting is time's only chore this close to shore.

What manner of men are we, who could be our enemy?
What name makes me your enemy?

What peace can you imagine when no words carry hate?
Can you imagine evil peace? Cromwell n'em said they could make peace wit' war.
They lied. Their lies remain lies, evil knowns
are good to know, on the whole.

Knowing makes believing count for more than idle oaths of loyalty to memes mad from the first of forever to now.

now. stop. This is the bottom. I know the way from here.
Do you?
You can say so, but you never know,
if you never make the climb.

And that can take forever, I've been told.
Fun, for fun. Bees in bonnets and such archaic antics, no pun un intended.
The N word test. I chickened out, but under protest. If I say/said a word to hurt a childlike mind, or an innocent ear, I am not being kind. And the black magi said He could care less, he's moving back to Kingston.
Luz Hanaii Apr 11
Listeners, seekers, searchers, learners,
people that are meant to progress.
Ylang Ylang Jan 2018
"-I think we should move him to Mallorca, or some kind of... I dunno, Carribeans? It's too rainy here.
          -Oh honey, I don't think it's going to work

These artificial surroundings won't heal my heart.
Transplantation went wrong.
Drip drop, the drops are falling
On leaves
Rain everywhere, soaking everything
Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom
In this garden of mine plants live their lives
Roots and stems and leaves
Lovers of rain; seekers of self destruction
Striving to know.

"-How is he? I haven't seen him in a while.
          -No idea. He's acting weird nowadays

The keeper of the values, the guardian of the golden shell
Believe me, I'm very well.
In this waterfall, this foamy-quick stream
Growing bones around me, the self-stems.
Gods1son Sep 2018
Thoughts are attention seekers
YOU are the chooser!
Thoughts will always come, you decide the one(s) to dwell on!
To millions, he was an intellectual guide
A source of unconditional love
Indeed Dr Cephas George Msipa was a cherished comrade
For the seekers, he was a treasurer
For those suffering, his words gave them solace and comfort
He was an inspiration
Gone but not forgotten
                                                       ­                                                                ­ ­        The nation learnt your departure with shock
  To Zimbabwean, you were a social economic and political guide
  Without you the nation is left poorer
  H­e was a socioeconomic guru,
A source of unrestricted love
  For multitudes he was a dear friend
A friend  of unusual depth and innocence
  For academic seekers, he was a fortune
  For the suffering, he was compassionate
  His words gave solace and comfort to several humanitarian organizations

A genuine glimpse of his precious wisdom
  Is in the compilation of his academic assistance
  In his superlative wisdom was a fountain of guidance,
  In curbing violence, fear and anger
      Without him,Zimbabwe is left pooer
Our tears may go dry but our memories will never
He was the  Godfather of peace,
He is  sadly missed along life’s ways,
Quietly remembered every now and then
He is no longer in our life to share realities of life
But in our hearts he is always there
Yes, he is gone but not forgotten
(A Public Service anouncment)


We, the creatures of the night, are the rattlers of chains;
The seekers of magic; the bearers of the flame.

Howling shadows beckon and shimmer with laughter in refrain;
and the screeching darkness holds terror and wonder waiting to be claimed;
In back alley juke joints, shitholes, and diners, down sidestreets and highways, we search for the thing that sparks and ignites us, that dances and delights us, that reminds us that living is more than just work interrupted by sleep; there's excitement, adventure, pleasure, and pain.

The sun burns too bright to see the light which we contain;
yet, in the dark but a spark is as bright as any flame.
Graff1980 Nov 2018
I am the tired gypsy
who plays *****
tricks on thee,

the bloated king
of foolish games
who dances outside
in the rain,

the jumping fool
who was never cool
and never will be,

the lonely jester
who may pester
but promises
good humor,

the heartbroken poet,
pusher of prose,
arrows of words
pointed at your heart
to help us all heal,

the loyal knight,
lost samurai,
last willful warrior
ready to fall
not in battle
but in defeat
as I see this world
consume everything,

I am the ghost,
forgotten specter,
spirit inspector,
who was searching
for similar soul seekers.
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
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
The puppy seemed happy to see me
when I seen her at the park that other day.
you coulda seen it right away.

So the shrink lady she say, so what?

Dunnno, jisayin' somebody seemed happy

after seeing me naked paraded before all
who may have noticed,

maybe not.

What if nobody noticed and I am happily
seen a naked thing I am

unnoticeable save for seekers of knowns

believed to be known or

by you, down in the slew, Bunyan's slough,

ya got iron in yer blood?

ya areckon.

Yer Uncle Sam needs ya, boy,

you leave that Kansas lass to
stare at those July buttermilk skies,

there's a war awaitin' for Rough Riders,
Arizona reared and steered

Say what, sir? Steered? Not me. Done my time.
Played footballs, by damtotell, at Fort Bliss,
I threw hand grenades,
Football was Ft. Huachuca, autumn, 1967

Bien Hoa was in the spring, one day after
My Lai, my country's legacy from my year

beyond the whole idea of war. History said,
if we are not the Redcoats, we are the Hessians,
at least.

Allegiance to a legion because they are many?
Perish the thought.
Just characteizing finding voice willing to be blamed.
Bob B Jun 27
Oscar Martínez and Angie Valeria,
A father and daughter from El Salvador,
Came to our border seeking asylum.
Their voices will not be heard anymore

Turned away at the border the father,
Mother, and daughter left in despair.
Desperation makes us take risks
Whenever our future is up in the air.

The Rio Grande near Matamoros
Proved not to be the family's friend.
Swept away in the rushing current,
Father and daughter both met their end.

Farewell to Oscar and Angie Valeria.
Let's hope that their deaths will not be in vain.
Urgency should call us to action:
Our treatment of others should be more humane.

Helpless, the frantic mother stood watching,
Feeling the pain that life can deliver.
The bodies of her two loved ones were found
In the murky waters near the bank of the river.

Who's passing blame or pointing a finger?
Who's going to turn a blind eye to sorrow?
How many more asylum seekers
Will lose their lives today or tomorrow?

Farewell to Oscar and Angie Valeria.
Let's hope that their deaths will not be in vain.
Urgency should call us to action:
Our treatment of others should be more humane.

-by Bob B (6-27-19)
Bob B Dec 2018
Another death on our southern border--
THIS time an eight-year-old child.
You'd have to be an unsympathetic
And cold-hearted person not to be riled.

Little Felipe Gómez Alonzo
Died near the border on Christmas Eve.
The Guatemalan child's death
Leaves another family bereaved.

Representative Peter King
In an interview brushed aside
The pain and seriousness and said
ONLY TWO children have died.

ONLY TWO? And why? Because
The Trump admin is changing the ways
Asylum seekers apply for refuge
With obstacles and major delays.

Closing the ports of entry and making
Families find alternate routes
Through dangerous areas to plead their cases
Has shocked the world and raised many doubts.

Trump and his staff are experts at how to
Manipulate his base with lies--
To turn the public against the very
People they dehumanize.

The Grand Deceiver claims a wall
Will solve our system of immigration.
Though ludicrous, the wall, he says,
Will be our only hope of salvation.

He lashes out through foolish tweets,
Childish tantrums, and angry threats,
Blasting dissenters and passing blame
Without compunction, with no regrets.

Asylum seekers who've brought their children…
Did they ever anticipate
That they'd flee death to find it here
In a sad, ironic twist of fate.

-by Bob B (12-29-18)
allusions to books make you seem well read
but you can’t fool the intelligent with empty quotes
or exist forever on a leaky boat
the snails tug at our souls and don’t you know
that its as cold as winter in our petticoats
covered in soot and coal with pets around a fire
but grief is hot and so is desire
jealous lovers misconstrue our relationship
they neglect the nature of our friendship
those special words the we have exchanged
what a willing way to spend our days
waiting for the music to sing in our souls
and listening for that longing to belong
his aches are your dreams
while you await the steamy pains of spring
it hurts me to see you like this
are you even able to kiss me anymore
distance yourself from the lakes
smooth out your carpets or take a break
these stakes are as high as the sky
and god is as bright as your eyes
underneath your eyebrows
streaks of music are drifting
like flying kites
retired pilots buy you hot chocolate
you are smart and already got undressed
since you are not protesting
i take it as a sign to go ahead
we lay down in the bed
i am frowning like the sun
the drowning has begun
his hunger is never done
for love is our dinner
and this food is simple
still it gives us nourishment to run
suntan lotion causes cancer
and our barefoot ancestors knew the secrets
they delivered the answers to our teachers
modern day seekers are wearing sneakers
learn to rest and all will happen
stand around or cast your rod
for life is a line that’s best left untangled
stacked at odd angles we rhyme unconsciously
this smacks of tampered evidence
smells of frankincense and i am hesitant again
his newest girlfriend and her oldest lover
love each other properly or part company
make way for Caesar or steer clear of Rome
dowries are no longer proper
even if you're a woman
like an orphan with post-traumatic stress syndrome
its like eating marrow from the bone
if our word is our bond than we'd better get some glue
if revenge is a dish best served cold
i will go and buy some more dry-ice
for drier than a river is a seven headed serpent
and like that dinner where we ate everything
his directions were like a table that remained unclear
to meet her at the train station by six
she waited for an hour and then she departed quickly
god-**** this traffic it never ceases to let up
we must make the most of it or it will break our heart
straps of leather against your chest
i am barely breathing as you direct me to your *******
our vests are tight and we fight like fire
threads are broken from our denial
while smiles deny our naked fear
allegories are here featuring our deepest longings
all forms are a type of fetish for control of meaning
with symbols beaming from within our beings
why are we still seemingly so ungrateful
Go back to sleep!

If you can't hear nature's song playing the music of love every new day, with every new dawn, new sunrise and a fresh moon smile,
Go back to sleep!

If you can't make your heart a Mecca for the freedom seekers, your spirit a temple for the suffering souls and your mind a spring well of innovative ideas,
Go back to sleep!

If you can't hear the cry of the iconic figure of the starving Yemeni child 'Amal Hussein', as she was shedding her last tear, taking her last breath, and whispering her last prayer,
Go back to sleep!

If you can't spare a holy dish to fill the empty stomachs, if you
can't spare a kind word to help sooth other’s pain and color their lives with the rainbow hues of hope and happiness,
Go back to sleep!

If you can't be the soul of your place, the tsunami of positive change and a part of the spring of humanity that will blossom
with a new future full of hope, love and inspiration,
Go back to sleep!

Hussein Dekmak
Caro Mar 17
It's March in California and,
It feels like an early September evening in Virginia,
An owl is cooing,
A nostalgic singsong that reminds me of the woods behind my parents house,
Comfort seekers in my senses inflate,
Disappearing into a heady haze,
Anything to distract myself from the mini self-betrayal I just executed.

I can watch myself as I do it,
Basking in this nostalgia,
The detachment from my pain easing my shoulders,
Making me feel high,
Or maybe it's the serotonin and dopamine,
Coursing around in my body,
As it pleases,
Results of.

The owl is howling and my roommate is home,
My phone is silent and I'm blissfully alone,
Detachment, detachment, detachment,
My favorite drug, how I've missed you.

So sickly happy,
So near to trauma,
(my familiar place)
But my perspective saving me from feeling it..

I could be in Virginia in 2008,
My legs a little hairy,
A breeze blowing through my long, long hair,
Innocence teasing me.

Or I could be here, now,
Listening for an owl that has stopped calling.

How delicious. Sweet detachment.

My favorite drug.
Emeka Mokeme Nov 2018
Day of bliss,
the day of
ascending of
the full moon,
the stars glitters,
the sun in majestic
brightness shines
forth and I shine,
the new dawn
Engulfed my soul,
with beauty divine.
Captivates my heart
with love enough.
The afflatus upon me,
intrigued my soul,
and at this moment
here and now,
there is no space,
there is no time,
everything is just is,
the i in me
is lost and,
I am.
Heaven in my heart
and my soul rejoiced.
So thrilled for
peace has come.
Blissful in a
magnificent manner.
and passionately
exquisite in an
uncanny way.
Joy overtakes,
my being
Blissfully serene,
I'm immensely
Chosen among the
seekers I now bloom.
My heart resonates
and I'm so grateful.
©®2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Bob B Oct 2018
Eleven dead; six injured.
How does a person try to explain
The enormity of such a crime--
The inexplicable loss, the pain?

All were shot at a place of worship--
At a synagogue in Pittsburgh, P-A,
On what began as a peaceful morning
On a late October Sabbath day.

Early that morning no one could have
Imagined the horror the day would bring,
Even though we live in a time
When hatred seems to be in full swing.

It takes only ONE hater
To change the course of many lives
In a country where underneath
The peaceful appearance, violence thrives.

The president says that armed guards
Are what we need and not tougher laws.
He bows before the gun lobby,
Addressing the symptoms, but not the cause.

Helping refugees get settled:
For that the synagogue is known.
That was an issue that irked the killer,
Who was from here. Yes, homegrown!

Do we ignore red flag warnings
And turn our heads when someone spews
Hatred of groups such as Muslims,
Asylum seekers, ****, or Jews?

Do we ignore the poisonous words
That constantly drip down from the top?
At what point do the majority
Of people say: This must stop!

Give praise to those who strive for positive
Change with every heartfelt endeavor.
And hold in your heart the many people
Whose lives have now been changed forever.

May the victims' lives inspire us all by showing us the power of love,
and may they rest in peace.

Joyce Fienberg
Richard Gottfried
Rose Mallinger
Jerry Rabinowitz
Cecil Rosenthal
David Rosenthal
Bernice Simon
Sylvan Simon
Daniel Stein
Melvin Wax
Irving Younger

And may thoughts of love and healing embrace the injured.

-by Bob B (10-28-18)
To thee seekers of solitude,embrace thyself !!
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