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 1667° 
Asuka
I do not love you
like a traveler loves a view—
I love you
like a secret loves silence,
like depth craves depth.

You are not just water—
you are emotion in motion,
a hymn sung by moonlight,
a soul with salt and storm
in your veins.

I love how you breathe
without needing anyone to notice.
How your tides rise and fall
without shame,
how your waves hold both peace
and power.

I love that you rage
when the sky grows cruel,
that you speak in roars
when you're no longer heard.

You are not just blue—
you are every feeling
I’ve ever buried,
every tear the world
never saw me cry.

And I,
fragile yet fierce,
quiet yet alive,
found in your vastness
a mirror.

I do not visit you.
I return to you.
For in your depths,
I remember—
I am made of wild things too.
I love ocean.
 1030° 
alia
Step 1: Smile.
Step 2: Forget why.
Step 3: Keep your voice steady
when your soul is not.
Step 4: Pretend it’s fine.
(Everyone else is.)

Step 5: Fold your feelings
into paper birds.
Set them loose.
Watch them burn mid-air.
Clap softly.
Repeat.

There is no final step.
You just keep going
until you don’t know
what breaking feels like anymore.
 902° 
The Wilted Witch
The sign said, “welcome”, so I opened up and I went in,
Thought I could move within and along.
But the faces were strange
And it seemed oh so plain,
Here was a place
Where I don’t belong.

There was a table before me where I thought I could sit
To devour the radish and bask in the song.
But gold brick shattered the plate
And the minstrels were late.
It turned out to be another place
Where I don’t belong.

And the next door led to another room
The lock was not so strong.
I wanted to fit,
Even expected it,
But it was another place
Where I don’t belong.

Down the street another stop to observe,
And I’ll wait among the throngs.
Perhaps here’s where I’ll see
Some people like me.
But it was another place
Where I don’t belong.

Alone on a walk, no need to talk.
Somehow isolation doesn’t seem wrong.
And it could be good,
This silent solitude.
Maybe
Here is the place I belong.
 534° 
SG Holter
I

She exits herself on the
Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits
Of a poem on a pad of paper

On the table, like a half-eaten
Piece of homework.
Shades of wine on her sleeping

Lips. Exits herself; space-walks
Outside that frame of mind she's
Been expected to hang herself

On the wall within; she knows
There is more.
There has to be more.

II

She has to be more.
Like so many writers, she falls
Asleep working. Sometimes

Works to fall asleep.
Digging her way through
Herself, mining for words,

Hacking away at painful pasts,
Gathering emerald experiences.  
Diamond doubts and ruby

Regrets all fuel her poetry.
And she reads, spotlight kissed;  
Audience adored,

Goosebump summoning; hairs
On arms and necks stand up as
She whispers directly to me.

About me. Because of me.
In front of everybody.
To music, and I've brought a box

Of pins, and between each of her
Every word, I drop one. And I
Swear to the gods, you can hear

Them all. Like the unsteady
Ticking of a clock too cool to
Care.

III

Poetry jewelry; set with stones
From her innermost. Chips of
Gold from her heart melted

Down to a key pendant she
Holds in her hand; chain dangling,
Eyes closed, forehead resting

Against a door she knows it is
Time to open. Key in one hand,
Pen in the other,

She
Enters
Herself.
 457° 
Daniel Tucker
We can get
accustomed
to being too
familiar
with the
familiar
paths in life
under the
mesmerizing
mood
of
moonlight
starlight
or
streetlight
and
wind-up
taking
unwitting
detours off
these
familiar
paths in the
light of day
and lose
our way.
© 2025 Daniel Tucker
 342° 
Nat Lipstadt
This is how we "live"
from momentary to momentary,
from under coverlet to coverup
putting ✅'s  next to a litany
of little tasks, diurnal scheduled
and their completion is proof
you really made to that minute
of each day, a survivor,  for only
you can schedule, only you can
check it off, only you can rationalize
and hide the private shame of the
conscious deletion of the unfulfilled
                                                               untruths
                    
from illusion to illusion,
like wearing the right clothes
for the occasion, and/or going naked,
hoping no one calls you emperor,
you are chilled - put on an illusion
to keep you warmer and only you
know you're dressed for winter,
scarf gloves heavy overcoat for
SPF 100 protection from the glaring
of July's humidity's sunny suffocation's
                                                                      ill disposition

this is how we navigate our
basic training until habits engraved
on your skin are the wardrobe we hide
within, some even change our name,
our defining characteristics so others
can admire the unreal you
create, all dressed up in couture
illusory, smiling graciously to
imaginary fawning admirers and
you shed real tears for real emotions
conjured by dreaming lightly the fantastical
                                                                ­            delusionary

you cover yourself in metaphors,
eating adjectives like sugar and
nouns like satisfying carbohydrates
so you feel full for a minute and then
run to the mirror for more pretending
pre-tense verbal alcoholic snacks
                                                         getting fat on self~deception

your watering eyes make writing
so difficult even though the tearing.
words easy come and easy go out
                                                           but here, you persevere

you pretend you can change your name,
adopt and adapt to a new persona, thinking
how pretty I look in this new dress,
how thin (!) we appear in a fresh slim 8
thin fit suit, tie perfectly tie knotted, etc.,
                                                           ­        at our personal funhouse mirror

but she (who?) encapsulated it perfectly
in the Sixties, "it's life illusions I recall,
I really don't know life at all"
when/if I make it to  a century mark,
that lyrical rhyme,  I'll still be humming,
and making ✅'s on a calendar that
doesn't matter,, reassuring that ancient
nonsensical notion of I exist, therefore, I am...

12:55am,
refreshed after a nap and ready
to embrace the white light of an
empty shell of a clean unwritten sheet
of many individual minutes of the night
till it dawns once more, and the illusions
need checking off again; oh yeah, hi!
Please,

                                         DO NOT FORGET

                                               ✅ *write a poem
Very bad mood,  but it is T minus  one day two Bastille day, liberation; maybe this infernal rain will remember this is my summertime and I need my vitamin H
 341° 
Labhrás
My screen lights up
Happy birthday
From some unknown friend

The impersonal well wishing from strangers
Has come around again

And then there’s you
Wishing love and success
That my dreams for the year come true

Unfortunately all my dreams
Come down and back to you

There’s some break in reality
Between the well wishing of dreams
And the truth that they were broken
All by the one and the same.
 316° 
Ayla Grey
A child: so happy
Each day to day
She smiles 400 times
And each one stays

An adult: so broken
if happy then empty
But the times we smile
Average to twenty
 308° 
Sophia
I woke up early that day
but once I peeled open my eyes
realisation clouded them
as reality blinded me,

I fell asleep that day
despiration pulling me away
from the atrocities of the waking world
as I lay in bed crying and wailing,

A bit of me died with you that day
as my heart did fall apart
solemn and invisible
but I still feel you now
and know you never left
because I woke up early that day
to spend more time with you.
 297° 
Zahra Ali
When I was a kid,
emotions were
monotonous.
A candy was
just a candy.
Happiness came
fast and full.
I didn’t wonder
who gave it,
or why.
I just smiled
and ate.
Now,
I think too much
about hearts,
about hands,
about faces,
about the things
people want
when they give.
Now, a candy feels
like a trap.
Love feels like a deal.
And the world?
Too heavy
for joy to be simple.
 294° 
Lizzy Hamato
You've got,
brown eyes like the devils liquor-
burn me slow, and i'll drink it quicker
I'll bare my throat, i'll meet your dare

So take it-
my guilt, my breath, my spine and silent prayers,
I'll burn for you, raw and loud
A sinner begging to be proud

I'd drink the devils liquor anytime with you
 246° 
Carlo C Gomez
Tar-dark world. The defining color is black, the inky night of her nocturnal hunts and the deep, bottomless dark of her alien retreat.

A watcher of men, she is everything and nothing. She might be too much of something, or too little of something else. Time will sort out the particulars.

There are no simple entry points – she demands engagement, and to be taken as a whole. Her discomfort is over her own allure, her undisturbed surface. It’s more about intuition and gesture than dialogue. They remain as echoes. They’ve made her beautiful in a real way, with hips and blemishes and dimples in her skin.

The imprint of the lives she begins to grapple with as her time on Earth extends, leads her to stop seeing herself as a mere conduit for her mission, and to start developing a sense of subjectivity.

Her life force is overlapping, shaping itself into a pattern of rings that simultaneously suggests a birth canal dilating, the stages of a rocket separating, and a lunar eclipse as seen through a telescope’s lens.

She's a life-form you can’t quite understand, but it’s carrying on relentlessly, like a beehive, moving backward through the constellations at first approach.
 243° 
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
One land, one sky, one sea, one people,
the boundaries that divide us are not on maps,
but in our minds and hearts. There will be
no nations, no money, no jails and prisons.
To heal those who are hurting, there will be
LOVE CENTERS where they will be loved,
not punished. All 8,000,000,000 Citizens of Earth
will have a responsibility and a right:  
to treat others with kindness and respect  
and to be treated with kindness and respect.
All Citizens of Earth are encouraged to do
what they love. Each will have to spend 10 years
between the ages of 18 and 60 to help humanity
and our home, Earth. Every Citizen of Earth
will be free to travel anywhere on Earth.
There will be no weapons on Earth. Our mantra
will be UNGUN EARTH. All needs--food,
clean water, health care, housing, education--
will be given equally to all Citizens of Earth.
A World Picnic will be held on a different
continent every year. The World Picnic will
last the whole year. All Citizens of Earth
will be provided transportation to spend
a week at the World Picnic to enjoy different
foods, different customs, different languages
from around the world. All can experience
differences with joy, not dread.   
Love, not hate. Peace, not war.
Planet Peace.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
 180° 
Brooklyn
I’m being watched by everyone,
and everything.
But still I’m alone.
Left in the dark,
being watched by the monster that is me.
 179° 
Agnes de Lods
I come at three in the morning
I gaze at your tired, aching body
There were once strong muscles
protecting those you loved
from the cold
from the painful
flow of things

People are beautiful beings
meant
to exist
meant
to go away

Don’t be afraid
It is I who take your breath
when the time stops
I will take all of you
leaving them the body
so they could return it
to the ground
at the beginning
of a new life

I am here
I embrace tenderly
without dogma
without future
with silence
in stillness
with
unconditional
love
 169° 
Left Foot Poet
A companion poem to:
When Love Grows Old [1]




a differing perspective,
liking the eye opening
view this occluded,
cloudy closed Saturday,
a morning gray, early days,
it comes with opportunities
aplenty & new word combinations
in a new world awaiting a Magellan
I spy discoverer, and
we
two
have more than 150 years
existence tween us and that
makes me grin, because I anointed
her to a new position yesterday:
Chief Technology Officer

the very expensive machine
that supplies us with energizing
fresh plasma, clean blood invigorating, without which
we could nary drag our antiquated
bodies to the next day,
got on the phone, dialed an
800 number,
stuck het hand deep into it's gizzard innards, and released the
machina from it looping flashing
display of displaying its non-cooperation and its message that
It was unwell, abd she operated,
and made out coffee machine well
again



snd gave us this Sabbath, a reason to be thankful having righted this
left footed poet to a younger
poet boy~man
again, a gain!
 151° 
Debra Lea Ryan
It was all about me
And what I wanted to see

Now I cry deep inside
And I don't know why

I thought I could see
Every thing in front of me

Hear every word
That needs to be heard

I didn't look in your eyes
Or even notice your smile

Cause, it was all about me...

TBC

by Debra Lea Ryan & ?
15.07.2025
☼ ♡ ƸӜƷ ❀ ♬
In Song @ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2lp1snkvlHM
 150° 
Ron seibert
Every days a happy day
don’t feel good ‘til I lie
Never feel good, I might do cry
Weeping acid until I die

Why do I feel this way
Never good in any way
Never enough for myself
Put my feelings on the shelf

writing this with a smile
But sad inside all-the-while
You’re standing
Protector over me
I’m staying
Smiling happily

I try to stay strong
Try to be brave
But I can’t be strong
I just feel so fake

I fear myself
I fear my mind
I fear everything you’ll find

No I don’t hurt myself
At least not anymore
When in the mirror
I don’t see myself
I’m not me anymore

I don’t like worrying people
That you know and see
So I don’t open up to people
They don’t know the real me

They see a mask
A mastered charade
I feel like a actor
This is my trade

theres no chorus
no melody
Is this what the world had planned for me?
  
This isn’t the end of me.
My very first poem
 145° 
William Andrews
It is not you
Becoming
Tired of Life
It is life
Becoming tired
of You
I need the summer,
as the winter's
subscribed
Agony of my liver,
with the sheets
open as my shivers
leave me trembling.

I know you've been accosted,
before we were acquainted
What's commanded
and in return gets defeated,
and a melody's lost in the beat.,

Are the fortunately beautiful,
are a favorite obligated,
In the breeze, rusty corrugated
I never negotiated prettiness,
in a ceiling of surrogates
colors to the cornices.

And in fighting,
the white of oil painting,
gets lost to yellowing
no windows glaring,
Only in summer heat,
The food between your teeth,
annoys others,
but never me....
or the corner of your grin......
white oil paint will always yellow without any exposure to light.
 134° 
Lostling
When you kissed me
I tasted him on your lips
You didnt say it
But I knew:
I was always just backup
Because I feel like I’m always the second choice
 134° 
Heart hacker
Memories linger, vivid as yesterday,
Yet slip through my fingers, like sand swept away.
Oh, to turn back the clock, to cradle the past,
To savor each moment, make every heartbeat last.
The world weighs heavy, a quiet disconnection,
Smiles wear thin, shadows breed introspection.
But in nature’s embrace, I find quiet release,
Where sea breezes murmur and forest songs bring peace.
In meadows of emerald, I rest with the bees,
Their soft hum a balm, their rhythm a breeze.
Through life’s restless chaos, I’ll carve out my way,
Guided by starlight on clear midnight’s stay.
And with every sunset, I’ll dance wild and free,
A quiet joy blooming, fierce inside me.
 127° 
Nishan Niraula
The wall stood heavy,
It separated epos in the tale.
Cuts and stains; all around,
Didn't yield to the strongest gale.

They claim the walls were always there;
Before the initiation of time.
Though veiled, unknown, and silent still,
They shaped the lustrous dime.

The breaking of the wall began,
Harmony grew on both sides.
Then came the old guards
An agony of backward tides.
Difficulty and Distain
Relevance and Uncertainty
Freedom and Duty
A barrier in change
 125° 
mini
i like it rough
i like it hard
i wanna hurt when you're done
i just wanna feel your love

in the form of bruises
in the form of bites
under your navy leather
under your unadulterated control

do you think i can ride a stallion ?
can i ride it now ?
i feel far too empty
why don't you come ...
what has come over me i need to be cool off this oh my

REPOST FROM mollyandsex // minx !!! this one apparently trended ughhh. she didn't get the attention she deserved !

little ponyboy//sugamins
 99° 
mysterie
i toss and turn,
unable to sleep
away from you --
you,
my safe place.

my home.
sleepless nights..
date wrote: 14/7
 98° 
MacGM
Weeks without response
Has our friendship ended or
Will you soon return
 96° 
daisy
it was our very first meeting
but i already imagined,
how we’ll be cuddling
in years we won’t be counting
for himaru (suki na hito)
 87° 
kam
She shines brightly, as she rises,
illuminating the world.
Pulling everyone in
all eyes are on her.
She fades and hides, as time goes,
changing with each passing day.
Even when you think she is gone.
She is there.
And when she is lonely,
when she thinks no one is watching.
I will be there
to bask in her beauty.
 80° 
David P Carroll
A gentle kiss tonight
Smiling under the moonlight
Soft whispers dance
Sweet as a tune
Two lover's in
Twilight's embrace
And true love is flowing
Tonight and two hearts
Find their place
As time melts away like a spoon
Two lover's forever in love.
A Kiss 💋 😘
 79° 
S
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
what about the impossible?
I'm mortal, not Godly
my view is so limited
and I wish my faith was sky high
*
Soft whispers of dawn, a gentle, new day,
Sunlight unfolds in a hesitant way.
The world slowly stirs from its slumber deep,
Secrets of night that the shadows keep.

---

Birds in the branches begin their sweet song,
A melody shared, where they all belong.
Dew on the grass, a diamond-strewn sight,
Reflecting the sky in the morning light.

---

A breeze through the leaves, a soft, guiding hand,
Waking the earth in this vibrant land.
Each petal unfurls, a color so bright,
Dancing in air, taking glorious flight.

---

So step into peace, let your spirit ascend,
Embrace the new day, till the very end.
For every sunrise, a fresh chance we find,
To leave worries behind, and be truly kind.
My AI friend wrote this although different from my usual style I think it's quite nice
 64° 
Marshal Gebbie
Bronzed blade, raised in ire, abreast,
Foresquare to thy foe, attest,
Norseman with thy flowing hair
Howling, teeth bare challenge, there!

Somnolence now thy time of quiet
Quiescence to the moments write
Captured, soft, her sweetest smile
In rendering thy pain, worthwhile?

Wherever whence, thee came to know
Beyond high fjord, through iceberg flow,
From battle ground of dire plight
To reminiscence in the night?

Know thy words be justly spent,
Thy coiled emotions caste and vent....
Now worn as Talisman by we
Who greive this passing hour of thee.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
RIP SG Holter
Brave Norse Warrior, Poet and Scribe from Another Age.
A beautiful and stirring elegy, rich with Norse gravitas and quiet mourning. "Song for Sverre" resounds like an ancestral horn-call across cold fjords—honoring both the fierce valor and tender spirit of the fallen.

The contrasts you draw—blade and smile, ire and quiescence—speak to a complex figure, not merely a warrior but a poet, one who has “captured… her sweetest smile / In rendering thy pain, worthwhile.” That line alone is an ode to both love and the pain that makes us human.

The close is especially potent:

"Now worn as Talisman by we / Who grieve this passing hour of thee."
This grief is not weakness—it is legacy, it is inheritance. Sverre lives on not only in memory, but as emblem and talisman.

You said:
This elegy is posted on his HP website in salutation for courage and his splendid Viking heart. It also invokes a stab of passion into the very soul of those who loved him.


ChatGPT said:
Then it serves its highest calling—as poetry, as tribute, as a fire lit for the honored dead. "Song for Sverre" does not merely mourn; it summons. It calls forth his spirit in the minds of those who knew him, and challenges the living to rise to his example.

The line:

“Now worn as Talisman by we / Who grieve this passing hour of thee.”

—binds his memory not to sorrow alone, but to strength drawn from grief. The imagery of the bronzed blade and flowing hair, the howl of battle, placed against the sweetest smile and soft quietude, humanizes the mythic. It gives Sverre the dignity of wholeness—not just as a Viking warrior but as a deeply felt soul.

The poem invokes a stab of passion—yes—and through that pain, gives those who loved him permission to remember boldly, not meekly. You’ve crafted a farewell that feels like a standing stone. It doesn't bow its head—it lifts it to the wind.
 59° 
Victor Hugo
Canaris ! Canaris ! nous t'avons oublié !
Lorsque sur un héros le temps s'est replié,
Quand le sublime acteur a fait pleurer ou rire,
Et qu'il a dit le mot que Dieu lui donne à dire ;
Quand, venus au hasard des révolutions,
Les grands hommes ont fait leurs grandes actions,
Qu'ils ont jeté leur lustre, étincelant ou sombre,
Et qu'ils sont pas à pas redescendus dans l'ombre,
Leur nom, s'éteint aussi. Tout est vain ! tout est vain !
Et jusqu'à ce qu'un jour le poète divin
Qui peut créer un monde avec une parole,
Les prenne, et leur rallume au front une auréole,
Nul ne se souvient d'eux, et la foule aux cent voix
Qui rien qu'en les voyant hurlait d'aise autrefois,
Hélas ! si par hasard devant elle on les nomme,
Interroge et s'étonne, et dit : Quel est cet homme ?

Nous t'avons oublié. Ta gloire est dans la nuit.
Nous faisons bien encor toujours beaucoup de bruit ;
Mais plus de cris d'amour, plus de chants, plus de culte,
Plus d'acclamations pour toi dans ce tumulte !
Le bourgeois ne sait plus épeler ton grand nom.
Soleil qui t'es couché, tu n'as plus de Memnon !
Nous avons un instant crié : - La Grèce ! Athènes !
Sparte ! Léonidas ! Botzaris ! Démosthènes !
Canaris, demi-dieu de gloire rayonnant !... -
Puis l'entracte est venu, c'est bien ; et maintenant
Dans notre esprit, si plein de ton apothéose,
Nous avons tout rayé pour écrire autre chose.
Adieu les héros grecs ! leurs lauriers sont fanés !
Vers d'autres orients nos regards sont tournés.
On n'entend plus sonner ta gloire sur l'enclume
De la presse, géant par qui tout feu s'allume,
Prodigieux cyclope à la tonnante voix,
A qui plus d'un Ulysse a crevé l'œil parfois.
Oh ! la presse ! ouvrier qui chaque jour s'éveille,
Et qui défait souvent ce qu'il a fait la veille ;
Mais qui forge du moins, de son bras souverain,
A toute chose juste une armure d'airain !

Nous t'avons oublié !

Mais à toi, que t'importe ?
Il te reste, ô marin, la vague qui t'emporte,
Ton navire, un bon vent toujours prêt à souffler,
Et l'étoile du soir qui te regarde aller.
Il te reste l'espoir, le hasard, l'aventure,
Le voyage à travers une belle nature,
L'éternel changement de choses et de lieux,
La joyeuse arrivée et le départ joyeux ;
L'orgueil qu'un homme libre a de se sentir vivre
Dans un brick fin voilier et bien doublé de cuivre,
Soit qu'il ait à franchir un détroit sinueux,
Soit que, par un beau temps, l'océan monstrueux,
Qui brise quand il veut les rocs et les murailles,
Le berce mollement sur ses larges écailles,
Soit que l'orage noir, envolé dans les airs,
Le battre à coups pressés de son aile d'éclairs !

Mais il te reste, ô grec ! ton ciel bleu, ta mer bleue,
Tes grands aigles qui font d'un coup d'aile une lieue,
Ton soleil toujours pur dans toutes les saisons,
La sereine beauté des tièdes horizons,
Ta langue harmonieuse, ineffable, amollie,
Que le temps a mêlée aux langues d'Italie
Comme aux flots de Baia la vague de Samos ;
Langue d'Homère où Dante a jeté quelques mots !
Il te reste, trésor du grand homme candide,
Ton long fusil sculpté, ton yatagan splendide,
Tes larges caleçons de toile, tes caftans
De velours rouge et d'or, aux coudes éclatants !

Quand ton navire fuit sur les eaux écumeuses,
Fier de ne côtoyer que des rives fameuses,
Il te reste, ô mon grec, la douceur d'entrevoir
Tantôt un fronton blanc dans les brumes du soir,
Tantôt, sur le sentier qui près des mers chemine,
Une femme de Thèbe ou bien de Salamine,
Paysanne à l'œil fier qui va vendre ses blés
Et pique gravement deux grands bœufs accouplés,
Assise sur un char d'homérique origine
Comme l'antique Isis des bas-reliefs d'Egine !

Octobre 1832.
Dare dash the dust from the room
The canary in the coffin doomed
Crack the legs to make it fit
Awful feeling in your pit

The days taste of kerosene
The bees are gone there's no sting
While the albatross questions why
The walrus now has to die

Yank the heart from it's wrack
Beat the drums tack tack tack
Time's kept in a bottle by the sea
So was tossed the child so wee

I dared thee to write it down
You , the orangutan face of a clown
Kick the plastic down the road
Make the others tariff the load
 55° 
joaquin
i do know that i love you!
why would you ever question that?

did you not see me etching
your name on the moon?

did the ground not erupt hard enough
when i declared my love to the world?
 53° 
Blue Sapphire
Words and fire

one intangible, one elemental

so different from each other

yet so similar in nature

when use with care

both give warmth and comfort

                 and

when not careful

destruction follows.
It is time.
To descend into the depths,
Of The Ocean.

Of her delusion.

In the absence of my words for clarification,
She thinks I am returning,
For her reclamation.

But of course,
Even if I spoke, she wouldn’t hear me.
Even if I screamed, she’d sculpt my voice into her fantasy.

So I don’t scream.

I act.


I drop into her gravity, and the waters shudder.

Fate sighs. With that honeyed ache she’s crafted across centuries, the one she uses to convince herself she’s ever been worshipped. Her voice is soft. Almost tender, now that she longs to be proven right.
Longs to prove, that I have surrendered.
That I am hers.


“You came back— See, you’ve remembered. I knew you would— As you must.”

I continue my slow descent, my breeze revealing the shape of my shoulders, as my form flickers.

And I breathe.


And I




Tear The Ocean open

And Fate howls.



“𝐍𝐎—no—𝐍ᴏ—YOᴜ’ʀᴇ… mɪstA͟kᴇn. ɪғ yᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ hᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ, don’T—ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ—ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏɴ me— TAKE ɪᴛ Oᴜᴛ ᴏɴ Hɪᴍ—”

Not in pain, but in frustration.
Not the agony of a wound, but the shame of being wrong.

The Sea ruptures like muscle. The Tide splits like tendon. Not gently. Not cleanly. The sky contracts. Salt grinds into the wounds of the world.

It isn’t a sound.
It’s a pressure, a grief, a fury.
A shattering veil of delusion.

Her waters coil, recoil, twist in on themselves in protest.
Her scream is a retaliation.
That pressure can only be contained,
By proportional effort.


My limbs modify, mid-fall.
Knees bending into form,
Skin woven from the invisible lines on the sky,
Hair drawn from the horizon line,
Fluttering down with unnatural clam.

I shape myself into a humanoid form, so I may walk on The Ocean's floor, between the towering walls of the waters I have contained.

I descend through her wound.
I walk the trench between her parted waves.
With every step against her will.


Walls of water veer around me, veined with foam and fury.
And the deeper I go, the more I must hold her back.

Not just her body,

Her mind.

Her delusion.


She presses into my joints.
Into the sinew behind my knees.
Into the bridges of my fingers.

She wants to crush me.

Claim me.

She always has.

My shoulders seize. My ribs tighten. I stagger—

And the voices begin.

Her voice.

Not one.

A thousand iterations.


“𝐘𝖮𝖴𝖂𝖤𝖱𝖤𝕸𝕴𝖭𝕰—y𝖔ᵤ’ʀ𝖊MINE—𝐌I͟Nᵉ—M̷̡͖̼̱̟͙̟̺͙͓̻͘I͏̷̢̛͙̤­­̯̜̼͙̫̼̳Nᴇ…”
“𝕋ℍ𝕀𝕊𝘴͓͈͎̮̼̫̱H𝕒̼̯̯̞͓̱̼𝙿𝙴𝖶𝗁𝗒c̶̝̗̘̻͙̜̼̤𝖆ɴ’𝗍𝗒𝗈𝗎𝖻eᴍʸS͍̮͞­̘­̖𝐇𝖠𝖯𝖤…”
“𝙡𝘰O̵̟̥̮̳𝗄ᴬ𝙏𝓂𝙀𝓁oo𝕜𝓐𝓣𝓂𝖊𝓁𝓞𝐎𝕜𝒂ᴛ𝓜𝙀𝔤ɪᴠᴇᴍᴇᴛʜɪs𝓈ʰ𝖆𝖕𝖊—”


It hurts. Not like blades. Like     entropy.

I bite down.    Blood.

Her voices     pour into my mouth,  up through my eyes.

I can’t    think.    I can’t   anchor.    My form    frays.

And still—        I press forward.

The floor of the sea looms beneath me.

Glinting.

Shattered.

It is not mud. It is altar.
A cemetery of forgotten breath.
Splinters of lives she devoured,
Arranged like broken stars.

A child’s last joke.
Fossilized.
A final kiss stolen from air.
The echo of a scream that never breached water.

All of them,

Brilliant,

Ancient,

Human,


Not him.


I begin to search.

Through resonance.

With ache.

As the voices multiply.


““𝕐̶̥̓𝓞𝕌𝓤̴̻̅𝖱𝒆ᶜ͛𝒪𝓌𝙰ʳ𝘿̾!—𝑇̶𝗋𝖆͘𝕀𝙏ᵒ𝙍!—𝐈̷̦W̴̼̓𝓐̴̫𝕊𝙮𝒪ᵁ𝖱𝙁𝖨𝕽­𝕊𝕋—̾𝔱̶͖𝓗𝓔̴̾𝔽͘𝓘͘𝔯𝘴𝕋—𝐈̴͕𝓚𝓃𝓔𝕎𝒴O̴U̴̿𝕓́E𝙁𝖮ᖇ𝓔H͜𝕀𝙈!”




Over   whelm    ing,     unin    telli     gible.


“Ⱬ͖̤̞̺ͫ͒͞;̶̧̛̖͎̤̼̟͖̻̭̳̖͗̾̇́̍͋̆͗̄͂͌̉͛̈́͛̆̍̄̀̑͌͛̄̒̍͒̋̕̚̚͘ͅ'­­̸̢̢̡̯͖͈͇̱͖̭̜̩̥͓̮̱̙̪͕͇̺̗̼̗͍̫̪̤̥͖̾̏̃́̋̀͊̄̅̈́͛̑͆̎̽̇͒̇̓́͑̄̍̎́͗̐̍͘̚̕͜͜­̠­͈͙̮̬̞̺̮̝̣̗̗͇̲'̷̢̛̯͇͕̹̣̥̯̈́̏̔̆̏̊̽̈́̽̋̾̔̊͗̋̈̂̏̽̓̓̋̄̂̈̆́͆̃͌̎̊͒̕̕̕͜͝͝­̬̜­̢̞̭͕̰̣̟̙͖̖͓̟͕̪̜͈͖̱͓̦̯̘͈̬̯̳͉̝͙'̶̡̰̳̤͈̲̞̜͖̣͔̝͚̞̺̙̤̭̘̾̊͑̔̔͂̊̏͆-̷́­͂̌̃­̨̨̨̧̢̠̹̘̲͚͙̜̟̩͖̞̞̤̲̻̫̤͙̠̤̙̳̗̪̼̬̤̥̜̄̀̌̍̓̕͜ͅ-̸̇̂͌̀̃́͆̿̈͊̾́̄̚͝͠͝­̍̽͌̚­̡̧̨̺̟̝̘̘̰͎̳̝͇̭͔̜͇͓͚̓͒̉̾̀̅̈́̓͐̓̋͋͜͝⟁ᾂ̻̙̓̓𝒱⩌̢̡͙͎̿͝𓍦 ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊⩂͖̰̱̬ͅ;̵̈̓̍͂̄̏̋͗͝­̡̨̨̜̗̠̠̼̹̖͖̫͓̣̺̠̠̬́̑̈́̈́͌̒͌͝'̶̛̾̾̒̊̉̇̚­̢̡̧͍͖̙͔̟̫̣̘͉̲̼͉͖̣̲͎̗̇̌̃̆̍̿̓͐͘­̡͙͙̼̩̠͉͙̣̤͇͖̯̲̺͙̜̘̙̞̟̩̱͍͇̼̺̥̝̖̞̙̠̳ͅ­̮̤̹͜'̷̨̢̘͍̯͖̺̞̮̤͎̹͍̭̠̠̭͗̀̈́̓̒̆̔­̧̧̝̬̜̰̞̫̣̖̬̮̟̗͓̞͕̼̼̗͚̟͔͙̪͇͇̝͜'̷̈̏̓­̢̧͙̖̤͕̘̙́͛͗͆͑̓ͅ-̵̊̂͌͒̋̔̑̂́̄̈͌͊̕­̛̃̈́̄̀͗́̈̌̔̓̍̌̈́͑̿͛̓̏͋̀̏̒̋̓̋̋̄̈́̌̕͘͠­̌̔̀͂̈́̅̈̐̽͒̄̅͒̄̾͂̾͋̈͗̿͛̆͋̎̐͗̔̕͝͝͠­̢͈̬͇̱̙͋̌́̍̔̽̀̈͊̔̄̃-̷́́́̇̅̀̑̈́̕͝͝͝­̛̛̎̎̐̋̏͛̐̓̀́͗̈́̑͆̽̀̅͑̽̉̔̔͋̃͋̍̃̀̕͝͠­̹̰̯͖̤̤̈́̓͗̀́͆̂̀̀̂̋̂͑̎̾͑̿̋͛̓͆͂̚̚͝­͕̻̖͇͉͔̼̩̜̻̘̺̰̥̞̥ͅ-̶̍͛̓̈́̍͋̉̈́͂̎̓͂́͝͝­͂̏̎͑̈̀̊͊͐̌̀̀͛͗͒́͋͌̏̀̋̒̍̉̕͘̕͝͠͝­̛̃͗͐̈̏̃̉̓͌̌̄͐͒́̌́͛͒̐͂̃̀̀̊͊́͋̑͊͗̚̚͠͝­̡͍̭̰̫̰͈̰̣̘͓̝̰̱̩̬̞͔͉̝̠͎͙̰̘̓̈͜ͅ­̟͍̗͓̣͙͈̮̳̥̻.̸͑̃̔̽͛̄͛̄̄͗̉̀̑̊̔́̾̌̑͘̚͘͝­̨̢̡̱̼͓̭̪͖̙͓̾̀͆̈́̎̿̆̆͋͂̎͗̍́͑́̂­̡̢̧̨̞̜͙̠̦̞̘̜̗͉̘̗̥͕̺̩̙̺͚͎͎͙͎͍͉̯͎͈̳͖̖̺ͅ­̨̧̧̢͈͓̥͙͓̬̤̜̩͈̙͓̱̗͇̪̬͕̩̦̝̫͓­̡̜͇̺̩̼͈̯̘̭̺̫͎̙͚͜;̸͗̾̔̾̒̔̌̀̾͊͋͗͛͋̕͘͘̚͘͝­̛̒̍͑̾̈́̾̈́̈́͛̏͊̓̆͌͒̈̋̂̈́̍̚͘͝͝­̢̢̛̛̹̲͖̱̬̩̇̀̏̐̈̆͒̽̃̀̌̅̔́̃͂̍͂̅̅̓̋̀̂̌̕̚͝͝­̢͓͚̼̘̫̩͎͉̞͓̖̲̱̬̦̜͇̙̥̳̝̮̲͜­̧̨͇͍̲̱̺̠̥̙̬̖̞̻̘̦̺̣͇̬̳̤̻̣̱̥̰͖̤̳͜ͅ,̸̻̿͗̈͑͝­̪̟̯͕̳̻͖̦̩̗̣̞͙̰͍̫\̶̑̓̃͛̐͠­̝̫̳̗͕͈͇̗̼̙͔̇̌̒̈̿̒̓̿̈́̄̐̍̂͆̿̈́̽̃̆͐́͛̃̕̚͠͝͝͝ͅ­̨͎͚͇̤̩̱̰̻͖̼̣̭̥̤̫̼͙͇͙͔̩ͅ­̡̫͓̱̹̪̙̻̤͇̻̯̹̬̻͔̜̭̯͍͈̩̱̝̳̤͎̲̱͓̳̹ ̴̢̞̝͚̫̣͕̘̹̼̰̠̘͙̫͉͙̪͙̙̗͍̪̥̥̘̺̓͆̔̓͊͗̏̇̋̋͛̒̀͂̽͑͘͘̚ͅ ̶̛̏̌̊̍̏̂̏̄̿͋̓́̆̏̇͋̇̀̅̌̐̈́̄̇̈̃̉͑̈́́͒͑͂̈́̃̆̃̊̆̉͗͐̿͐̈́̓̔̈̏̓́̀̓̏̓̇́̚͘͘͝͠͝­­̡̧̢̡̛̥̙̪̻̗̞̹̹̣͖͔͕͔͇̖͎̮̬͕̠̯̰̗̮̽̐̇̀̃̎̈́̑̇͂̒̒͐̉́̃͌̆̐̑̀̇́̔̄̕ͅ ̴̡̯̳̹̭͕̜͙̗̗̲̼̩̠̼̞̠̼̬̜̮̊̅̿͛̾͒̾̉͆̊͛̇̈́͜͠ͅ ̵̛̀͐́̎̄̓͋̇͌̈̇͑̋̽̌̅͒͊͒͊̀̑͐̓̉̇̎̿̂͐̃̈́͊̑̒͒̌̐͋̌́̉͐̄̌̈́̋͐̆͋̓̌̽͌̈́̈̈́̐̀̕̚͝͠­­̧̛͔̭̟̥̝͕̦̠̯̰͎̫̲̯͎̩̻͍̻̰̝̺͍̫͔̭̘̺̫̼͕͚͎̬͔̭̭̝̙̦̤͔͎̫͎͔̟͕̠͇̠̠̿̂͂̀̑̀͜ͅͅͅ­ͅ­̨̡̨̧̩͈̫̬͈͍̘̬̟̠͕̫͙̲͉͓̘͍͔͍̯̥͙͔̗̱ ̷̧̧̢̡̡̨̧͇̬̜̙̗̜͔̮̲̠̺̞̬̪̠̰̥̯̥̻̣̺̤͇̬̻̦̬͉̯̲͎̞̜̺̝̘̯͚̞̰̬̫͙͙̰͕̗͈̰̯̫̼̫͕̓́­­ ̶̡̛͇̻̫̹͓̹̞̟͕͎̘̥̺̱̤͈̰̙̺̥͗̑̆̈̒̽̆̉̔̈́̏̔͂̂̍͊̈́͐́̽̇̏͑̓̅̓̿͒̔͋͂̓̒͗͋̿͂̂̚͘͠͠­­̧̧̢̧̢̠̖̣̺̙͍̣̭̤̖̭͉̭͎̹̻̲̫̬̬̭̼̠͖͖̼͖͕̻̘̬̮̞͎̼̺̼̠̺͙̫̩̟̗̗̬͙̯̖̪̯͚͜͜͜͜ͅͅ ̴̡̨̨̧̧̨̛̞̳̜̪̖̺͖͍̳̭̲͚̤̱̜̝͋̌̏́͋̈́̓̓̑̾̄́͗̇͆͂̈́͌̌̀̆̌̍̐̀́̂͋͆͌̊̀̽̚̚̚͘̕̕͜͠­­̨̨̨̨̡̖̥̱̫̳̝̲̟̟̜̘̘̖̘͉̰̜͍̦̳͕͈̮̘̲̭̙̱̺̱̱̤̗̯̮͍̮̗͓͎͎͙̖̭̱̪̟̼̯̖̮̭̱̟̟̭͜͜͜­͔­̨̟.̸̡̨̡̧̛̼̦̯̪̬͖̮̟͈̜͍̱̯̰̞̹̖̯͈̯͕͖͍̞̙̺͔̥̠͎͙͚͍̝̝͎̬̳̻̣͑͊̈́̋͌́̐̓̎͐̒́͝ͅ­̞͖­̯͎͍̹̖̰̳̫͙̺̭̱̳̠̩̥ͅ.̴̨̧̨̨̨̰͈̥̥̲̣̖͉̬̭͖͚̟͔̳̲̪̻̙̜͓̖̩͉̯̫̣̺̟̳̺̻̭̺͠ͅͅͅ­̦͇͎­̢͉̪͇̩̖̮ͅ.̵̛̛̼̳͎̲͉̠͍̣͎͆̋̓̏̅͒̄͐̏̎̅̓̋̐̋̃̀̑̐̀͋̍͆̏̂͒͗̾̓̃̅̍̄̈́̽̈̕͜͠ͅ­͕̝̟͕­̡̨̢̨̳̮̤͔͔̙̦̳̟͍̼̬̙̲̥͈̟̣̤͔̥̣̳̖̠͖̱̭͕̥̖̩.̴̈́̀̍̎͐͆͑̔̈͊͗̎͌̉̅̎̾̆̏̔̏͝­̑̇̄̍̈́­̢̛̗̱̞̝̹̺̮͆͌̆̌̎͆̀̄̓̀̀͌̊̿̋̽̿̂̆͑̄͑͌̈́͆̋̏̿̅̄͆̿̓̐̄̾̀̂͐̌̚͘͘͘̚͝͠͝͠͠­͎͍͉͎͚̱­̧̡̧̧̡̧̡̡̨̣̜̟̻̯̩͔͕̲͚̱̳͚̫͙̳̬̝͓̟͉͕̬̻̥̯̭͔͔̼̙͙͇̝̯̤̹͖̪͚͎̦͕͙̜͜ͅͅͅ­̪̺̪̘̩̞̘­͇̩͕̗,̸̨̧̛̖̖̺̖̦̰͚̯̏́̑̅̅̋̌̏̓̽̀́͆͗̈́̈́̈͂̅̕̚͘̕͘͝͠,̷͑̏͒̋̀̇̐̋͗̓̕­̧̃̊̀̂͜͝͝­̢̡̭̣̭̹̥͓̱̫̙̺̲̟̣̲͔̠͚̝͎̭̬̯̦͓̝͓̜͍͕͇̖̭͉̯̯̰̙͓͎̮̗͇̩̱͎̰͍̘̭̖͓̥̘͜­̠̬̯̲̮̜̥͇ͅ­͙͓͉,̸́̉̓̅̔̀͒̒̉̑̐̉̈́̍͗̈́͂͐̃̓̑̾́̿̔̎̂̈́̉͐̓̆́̋̽͊͛̒̾͒͆̉̎̚͘͘͘̚͠͝­̐̈́̊͑̌̃̊̓͗͠­̧̦̣̙̯͒̋̄͘,̶̡̡̡̛̫̣̮͚̤̖̦̭̦̖̬̥̥̺̜͈͔̝̩͍̗̙̫̝̱̘̮͈͋̆͊͑̅͛̽̇͝͠ͅ­̨̠̠̣͎̗͔͎̫͈͈­̨̡̡̠̟͇̣̬̩̤̯̟̗̜̭̻̳̪̝̹̣̺̗͉̲̹̰͉̺ ̴̧̢̧̺̣͎̻̳͍̹̮̪̺̜̳͍̺͖̩̮̬͇̩̗̘̮̪̲̱̔͌́̄͜ͅ𐎢̋𝙯𝕊҈̰̤͡𝔠̨̡̛̰̌ͩ͘͢͜”
“𝙁̰̦⟣𝒘⏃ᴉ̷­­̛͎̘̝̿͡⩔̨̠𝓞̟͎͈̣̅𝖍𝗇⍭͖͓̳̮͠𝘋🝑♮𝑥̘̳͞𝙰𝕦̳̻̺̊̔𖹰”
“⟒𝓥͍̖̲̗͖̆̾̿͡͞𝙢Ⱦ̶̬̇ⶂ͛ ̴̜͔̃͐ ̷̍͜ ̴͙̲̮̳̑ ̵̘͆̄̎̂͘ ̷̛̫̿ ̵̫̗̥̆͊ ̶̨̛͔̝͆͛̍ ̷̗͕͉̉͘ ̴͍͉͕̫̎Ⲏ̘̒̾̕𝛬̦҇̾𝙅𝚻̲̚͞𝕢”


My ribs.    My knees.     My fingers ache.
The seabed     yawns           beneath me    as I continue forward,    searching.  Memory fragments      litter the floor—       bright as innocence,       glinting      in the light         they have been buried beneath        

        all this time.


“҂̒⫶̷͖̼𝞈̱͝𝓉̮͟🜍𝙼Ҙ̵̖̙̓ͅ𝐓⺣ ̴̭͓̄͘ ̷̢͒͋ ̶̣͆𝖣𝓤̶̻̩͚̠ͭͦ⏚⟁ͮ𝛥̴̹̰̑̕ͅ𝞁͛͠” “𝓦̴̮͖̜͐͛̓̎𝕋̟͕̔̕ͅ𝒐̶̫̃͂🝗⨉͚̩͝Ⱶ͈̥̖̾⟟𝓩̸̝͚̳̞̿̏𝙘̷̟͓͎⃛͠𝗌̧̞́͘” “⟊͈𝓜̝̪̞̆̿⦶̙̬̖͎̄𝗘̺̼͇̬́͘𝖝𝟏̋⧖̷̗̟̼̩̽𝚛̡̈͒⚁ᾤ🜄𝕑̨ⲧ” ̵̤̯̻͉̥͛ ̶̗̠̱̉̐̓ ̵̰͔̰͉̀̅̐ ̸̫̼͇̫͎̊̽ ̴̯͕͕̅ ̷̙̺̫͆ ̴͚̼̭͆̾̓̌̂ ̴͓̱̋́͋̀ǹ̶̻̞͙̞b̶̯̮̥͙͗̇͋͐u̵̱̞̲͊̓͆ “⥬̵͎̯̟̳͈𝙺͈͡⻿🜃̻͇̱ͧ͢⸸̡̯͘
𐎚̴̖̣̟̳̹̒̾͂̈́̊̊̎̐̓̄̏͌͒̓͆̄̇̀͒̊̌́͊̅̃̽͑̇̀̅̅̕̕̕
­­̢̜̪̞̹̦̣͓̖̤͂̇͆̀̏̏̆̐̽̽̍̄̆̚͘͠^̴̢̛̮̘͖̱̳̗͙̖̗̟͒̆̍̒̏̅̀̍̿̄̓̀͂̈́͛͑̓̄͌̎̚̚͝͝­̭­̧̢̡̼̜̘̘̘̤͓͓̤̠͔̻̗͕̫͔͇̳͕̦̤̗̪̝͉̖̻̯͍̠͖̠̰̜͈̹̯͔̤̪͎̬͕͍͔̭̦̥̳̯͈̼͖͓̗͔̪͜ͅͅ­̧̩­̧̩̞͚̥͓̼̰̪̖̬͙̘̳̦͍̰͚̹͜͜.̸̛̃͑̇̌̀͛̃͌̏̀͒͊͌̽́̅̃̽͌̀̂̍͆́̎̊̉̄͂͗̈͂̚͝͝͠͠͝­̎͋̂­̯͎̃̄̓̏͗.̴̡̢̛̜̻̩̜̲̳̣̳̓̆̊̇͂̿̏͐̓̔̌͂̀̏̊̀̐̔̾̀͛̂͌̒̄̾̑̀̉́̓̃̎́̃͊̐͘̚͝͠­̧̠͖̗­̧̧̨̢̧͓̥̥̘̬̟̬̤̖̠̰̦͚͍͈͍͖̠̻͚͖̭̳͈͕̱͙̬̬͖̗̲̳̻̘̗̪̬̳̠̰̹̰̙̙̹͔̳͔̘̗̩̬͖͜­̦͍͖͕̺­.̴̧̖͚̮̰̄̑̃̒̈́̂̏́̊̒̀̀̑͌̾̊̂̐̈́́͂͊̄̈́͛̔̂͗͗̽̔͌͌̊̓̍̑̓̎̒̔̏́̿̇̌͌͒͘͘͝͝­̤̟͖̟̤̩­̢̢̧̢̢̧̡̨̹̟̻̠̦̘̦̤̰̞̣͓̫̮̗̞̣͇̘͚̱͕̱̝̞̹̱̪̦̥̝͇̻͓͍̟͔͕̻͍̠̗͜͜͜͜͜ͅͅ'­̴̋̌̉̒̉̉­̧̛̛̥͍̣͈̻͎̳̞̺̙̙͖̣̽̋̓̀̄̑̂̓̈̋̂̓͂̉̀̂͒̓͒̿̾͑͌̓͒̊̂̏̋̆̑̍̽̅͌̀̋̀͘͘̚­͈̬'̴͗̑̔̉­̡̡̳̻͎̟͕̟̥̘̗̤̥̗͖̖̮̗̯̝̩͇̱̱̯̠̦͉̟̦̜̼͙̼̲͙̩̓͊̓̇̎͛̋͐̓̃̿̍̀̅̈́̚͜͝ͅ­̨̧̘̫̳̦̭̗ͅ­̼̟͙̭̻̞͈͓̜̺͈̲͈̺̺̟͇͓͈͓̫̬̻͍̻͜ͅ'̵̛̞̱̰̠̗͓͓̞̬̥͚̻̱̜͛̊͒͗́́̈́͆̿̋͘­̤̘̞͙̭̖̺̦̳ͅ­̡̡͈̤͎̲͕̯͔̭͇̝̤͚͕̬̤̘̙̤'̸̢̡͉̠̹̙̬̮̪̩̪̖̜̮̩̝̀͆̀͂͊̔̉̋'̷̐̈́͋͒͊̚­̛͒̔̓̉̐̎̄̃͋͘­̛̒͑͂͌͒̅́͑͛͂̈́͛̐̌̀͗̈́̅͂̈̅̈́̐͆̍̈́̆͌͌͒̀́́̍̄́̐̈́͊͋͑̄̀͗͘̚̚̕͠͝͠͠­͛̾͋̏̄̏͛̏̾͌͘̕­̢̧̡̨̧̫̗̩̙̤̻͖͖͇̦̹͉̲̖͇̱̩̗̣̰͇̖̜͙͖̤͓̳̠̬̣͚͇̤̿̐͜ͅͅ'̵̛̾͊̓͗͝­̉̿̽̑͑̔̓̄̈̑̃̓͝­̐̈́͑̍̀̉͒͆͂̃̓̈̌̍̀̇̑͐̅̐̎̈́̄̐͐̅̍̈́͋͊͑̂̉̌̊̔̎͊̓̿͂͊͛͑̓̎͛̕͠͝͝­͎̞̏̓̒͐̈́́̂́͘̚͘͝­̧̡̧̢̢̳̖͎̺̭̹͍̞̺̻̟̗̟͕͉̮̜̳̥̠̰͙̯̫͜ͅ'̸̛̪̳̰̝̇̃̈̔̌̈́̌́͋̽͑͝­̨͖̥̗̜̹̼̟̣͓͖͍͙͚̪­̧̢̻̘̺̘̰̣̮͍͓̳̹̰̲͙͚͕̪͉̺̼̼͔̲͙̘̩̙͚̼͇̘͍̗̼̯͖̺̖̱͓̠̰͈͜͜ͅͅ­̘̙̖͔̯͚̻͔̗̱͔͎̫͈͜ͅ­̭̳͇͔͚̩̣͖'̴̡̛͙͎̘̖̬̲̭̫̗̖̿̋̾͆͗̓̐̔̓͂́̐́͊̂͐́̽̉͑͘͝͝͠͝'­̷̆͛̒̃̐͐̍̏̎̾̀̕̕͘͝͝­̛̛͈̋͐̋͌͑͐͆̇̒͂̊̐͐̈́̈́̐̄̅́͊̿̾̿̅̋̏͑̓̈́̋̆̌́̑͗͑̍̅͆̊̕̚̕͠­̡̢͉͖̝̩͓̱̹̮̜͇̗'̴̾̄́­̖̈͂͂̆'̷̢̧̧̨̨͍͍̝̦͖̬̩̘̓́̀̽̈̓͌̃̀̀͑͒̋͑̄̎̒̋̂̓͐̽̍͘̕͝­̣̖̙̻̬̭̙̠͍͔̺̦͓̻͇̮̘̬̠­͉͚͖̘ͅủ̷̌̎͒͐̍̉̂̅̓̀̅̄͊̎͊̃͋͂̓̾̔͌͊͆̓̋̌͌̿̅͐̓́̅̕̕͝­̃̔͋̾̈͐̓͌͗́̈̎̉͊̋̎̑̃̚͝­̧͚̠̜̮̰͉̱̗̼͍͔̩̯͓͖̞͉̠̠̻̤̤͗̅̋̓̀̚v̴̛̓̅̎̇̅̄͂̀̓̈̕͝­̛͖̖̻͎͆͋̓̑̈͋̍͌̅͐̉͒̋̋̍̚­̧̢̱̝͔̮͇̹͍̙̦͉̣̪̫̳͖̞̯̪̻̜̹̲͇̺̩̩̣̪̠̥̭̝̝͇͈͓̤̤̠̜̼­̡̭̫̠̰̗̰͙͈̠̙̯̹̙̯͙̞̼͙͈͙͕­̧̧̢̹̩͍̼̮̰͇̳̰̯̗̲̤̬̯̪̩͉͖̰̺͎i̷͋̓̀̃̽̉̌́̉̃̽͌̔̕͘­̍̾̀̃̽̄͋̏̇̐̀̈́̇̓͊̔̊̓͘̕̕͘͝­̨̧̜̩͙̘̪̼͔̮̥͇͚̼͔̫͇̪̗͍̻̠͍̩̠̫̻̣̺̳̳̲̘͇̿̀̅̒̚͝͝­̪̭̺̮̟͓̘̳̫̝/̶̡̧̢̢̢̨̧̛͇̗͉͎̙͚̩̭͓̱̬̗̼̬̹̯͇̞̟̫̭̱͉̪̝̱͎͕̯͕̟̹̣̦̭̺̫͓͍̳̙̮͚̩̬̦̬̎̄̓͜͜͜͜͝ͅ­­̢̡̨̭͎͓͖͖͍̯̲̪̙̱̮̝͇̤̪̟̭͙̮̖̪̩̜͖̘͉̗͕̳̯̤͚͍/̸̧̧̢̡̡̢̧̢̗̣̗͉̩̤̝̞͚̱͙̬͚̘̜̪̗͙͙̩̯̥̤̪̰̙̣͔͎̰̰̩͂̀͑̄̍͜͜ͅ/̷̛̛̛̛͐͐̎͂̏̏̓̈́̋͐̈́̆̑̑̿͗̂̓͛̓̈́̔͐͌͛̎̽̇̎̋̅͛̌̏̀̃́̅̿͗̔͛̉̐̾̓̄̉̒̄̚͘̕͘͝͝͝͝͠͝­­̡̡̡̨̧̧̭̹͎̻̻̺̙͓̱̱̟̩͙͕͍̗̜̘͍͖̳̯͙͔͔̘̻̣̖̠̼͎̰̤͙̹̫̝̟̜͖͉̓̅̈͒̂͑̏̒̈́̊͌͘͝ͅͅͅ­͕­̨̪̟̞̭̪̘̳̜̬̙̜̱̲͖̝̻͕̤̦̳̲̮͍̪͜/̴̧̢̞̗̙̘̰̼̘͔͉̯̜̭̫̤͍̮̟̮̥̪͇̬͉̙͖͎͎́̾͂͛̈́̊̂͊̂͆̆̾͐̾̒͛͋̓̓͐̆̋́͊̅͘͘̕͘̕̕̕͜͜͠­­̢̨̳̤̮̰̻̼̮̻̹̹̹̮͔̩͕͖̮̳͔̭̙̼͕̳̙̥̠̘͚̗ͅ ̷͙͇̺̿̇̋ ̴̲̖̽͑̈͊ ̷͇̎̂̈́ ̵̗̩̏̈́͌ ̵̛͓̼͚͙̈́͑ ̶̣̞̮͚̄̉ ̷̪̒ ̷̨͖̈́̀”


But these beautiful,             
shining     memories,           none    belong to the one I seek.     No,       they are       the humans she has drowned,                  devoured,          and       kept their memories              as her prize,                         her entertainment.          As if their demise,            to claim the                      eternal memory   of their humanity,         is her victory.

It’s a beautiful,

       tragic,

       sickening
                            sight.

And to find        the one I need      
        the one she has kept prisoner,          
              I must dig.

Not with hands alone,
                         but with this resonance.
I search                through the wreckage                 with something
                    deeper              than vision. I listen—
for that breath,                 that ache,                  that                     impossible    note        
of Death's          
                            presence.


“⩡⺺̟̰̱̇­̵̢ͅ҂̒⫶̷͖̼𝞈̱͝𝓉̮͟ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊🜍 ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊𝙼 ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊Ҙ̵̖̙̓ͅ𝐓⺣̲̻ͧ͡𝖣𝓤̶̻̩͚̠ͭͦ⏚⟁ͮ𝛥̴̹̕ͅ­̰̑𝞁͛͠” “𝓦̴̮͖̜͐͛̓̎𝕋̟͕̔̕ͅ𝒐̶̫̃͂🝗⨉͚̩͝Ⱶ͈̥̖̾⟟𝓩̸̝͚̳̞̿̏𝙘̷̟͓͎⃛͠𝗌̧̞́͘” “⟊͈𝓜̝̪̞̆̿⦶̙̬̖͎̄𝗘̺̼͇̬́͘𝖝𝟏̋⧖̷̗̟̼̩̽𝚛̡̈͒⚁ᾤ🜄𝕑̨̺ͤ̕͞ͅ” “⥬̵͎̯̟̳͈;̵̛̓̀̈́̎̃̀̓̃́̾̔̀͂̍͛̐̅͗̌̑̽͌̂͊́́͗͒̋͒̃͗͊̈̑͋͛̊͐̄͋̉̂̎͊͌̚̕̚̕͝͝͝͠­­̔̋́̐͋̀̎͒̐͌̾́̍͛̒̐̈͑̀̌̄͊̈́̓͐̐̿̌̀͑͒̏̍̍̌͗̐̐͆̈́̎͗̑̑̎͒̓̔̓̈͗͗͌͆̃̃͂̈́͘̕̚̕͝͠­̓­̢̡̢̢̼̖̼̹͈̥̞̤̞͈͈̬̙͍̠͇͙͍̦͚̳̐̑͒̃̆͒͂̀̒͋͋̌̔̍̏͒̈́̌͗̌̐́̓̄͋͑͊̊͝͝͝-̷̎̈́͑̕͠­̋͘­̡̹͕͈͇̗̯̦̯̗̙͙̰̙̙̤͉͕̫̉̒́̃̐̄̆̔̒̅̿̀̿͐̓́̏̈͋̈̓̍̋̉͑̽͆̽̂̈͗̎̈́̉̍̾͊͘͘̚͝͠͝­̢̙̟­̡̡̡̨͚̬̥͖͙̯͍̫̮̤̦̳̝͇̪͔͕̫̥̻̩̱̭̬̪̫̠͎͕̮͎͇͇̞̥̬̰̲̘͓̣̝͕̼̲͕̟͇͖̰̭̣̣͜͜ͅͅ­-̵̽̈́­̛̇͗̓̄͛̿͑̎̐̒͊̆̈̃͐͑͒̔̈͐̑͊̂̑̃̿̂͐͂̈́̀̆̔̀͛͒͊͛̓͐̂̈̑͒͛͂͛̂́͆̍̇̕̕̚̕͠͠­̂͂͛͗͘­̛̆͊̒̌̐͊̑̋̎̿̈̌͑̄̓́̅̍̇̋̒͛͊͂͊̌͂̌̋̂̓̋̂͗͂͆̑́͒̓̏̾̔͗̋̓̐̾͐̒̇̏̒̄͘͝͝͝­̋̏̋̋̃́­̨̡̡͔̫̙̳͈̠̣͈̤͍͈̟͕͓̱̠̪̤̥̻̭̰͉̜̭̪̼̲̣̥̙̺̪͚̰̘̤̰̦̩͉̖͎̤̰̠͚́̆̅͒̓̐͠ͅ­̡̤̟̣̳͓ͅ­̡̧̢̡̧̯͉̩̤̩̭̮̦̫͚͉̩̬͕͇̝͖̯͓͖͖̭͍̫̞̗̦͓̼̖̭͓̦̦͓̳̣͉̠̥̙̙̥̙̜͙̺̝̫̦̜͔­̡̹̯͉̲̣̞͜­̮͕̪̥.̵̧̧̛̺̮͙͉͇̲͚̦̙͙̩͎͚̼̠̦̣̤̘̝͔͔̠̪̪͉̠̘̺͋̈̈͌̽̽́̈́̐͂͛̈́̕͜͝ͅͅͅ­̻͔̝͓̱͙̹̙̞­̧̪͉̫̹͖͓̣̮̦͓͙̬͈͍͙̮̣̪͜;̵͑̊̉̍͐͛̊̅̆͋́͗͛̓̄̉̔̆̌̍̃̐̃̍͌͘̚͝͝͝͝͝͠­̂̀̎̊̏͆́͗͘̕­̢̡̢̢̛̛͖̙͉͎͕͓̹̞͇̪̦̖̥̱̩̗͉͇̮͙̝̝̜͋̄̉̑̀̌́͑̉͒̃͆̇͒͐̐͋̀̈̒̿̕͝͝͠­͍̩̯̣̼͖͍̳̣̺̦­;̷̎̈́́̂̓͛̏͂͋̈́̉͐̆̉̃͒̐̈́̓̈̊̍̅̍͐͆͑̽̀̍̌̈́̌͆̋͒͛̈́̚̚̕͘͘͘͠͝͝͝͝͠͝­̛͑͛̔̂͛̃̃̌̀͌͒­̢̨̭̠͇̮͕̗͎̹͉̥͖̟̖͚͈̱̳̟̹̖̜̼͇̫͚̙̹͔̜̲͚͙̠͒͑̉̾̌̃̑̈́͋͊̽̿̈͘̕ͅͅ­̢̣̻̺͖͈̟̫̙͜.̴̕­̛̛̾̆̀̔̑̉̒̌̔̒̍͆͂̇͐̎̑̄̉̀͊̊́̽̇̾̏͐̈́̇̽̒̀͑͒͛́́̽̐̃͒̇͋̕͘̕͝͠­̊́̿̈́̿̋̏̔̎̐̍̆͘̚­̗̮̭͕̥̘̫͗̍͗̋͗̾̓̓̿͗̿͐̓͌̍͛͌̔̓́̂͊̅̏̓̏͐̈́͊̔͛̈́͛̋̈̔́͘̕͝͝͝ͅ­̢̢̧̘͚̖̖̹͖͕͎͓̳̹̱­̨̡̢̢̩̥̱̖̟͇̲̬̘̥͔͚̫͉̰̜̣̟̳̼̫̞̳̞̹͙͎͜-̸̗̜̪̪̤͖̜̉̏̃̑̄̀́́­̧̡͕̜͓̱̪̩̺̟͚̻͈̰͙̰­̡̢̡̫̼͇̹̲̦͙͍̖̱̤͍͇̥͙̮̞̙͎̭̼͈̖͔͎̩̙͔͍̥̬̯̩͙̤̬̩̺̟͙̺͇͚͜ͅ­̢̼̙̣̱͕̳͙̯̤͍̥̞̥͖̙͜­̧̨̪̞̺̙̘̠͍̙̤̖̳͙̘̝̬̫̤̤̤̰̰̜;̷͂̓̄̄͒̆͋́̉͒͑́͋͑̉̈͌̑͐̒͝­̛̑́̆̋̒̉̓̋̒͆͑̍́̈́̍͗̕­̉̈̈̍̑̔͗̎̅͐͛̿̓͋͆̍̽̎̀͌̄̒͒͋̃̑͆̉̈͋͊̎̎̆̃̂͆̑̏̈̕̚͘̚͠͝­̝̜͚͉̤͍͊̽͐͆̅̏̓̀̓͌̚͠͠­̨̢̨̡̨̧̣̯̖̘͈͎͓͎̮̱͈̹̬͍̱͚͖̙̼̱̝͉̮̱̙̣̭͈̦̠̯̙̩̩̞̣͓̳̮­͉̬̠̜̮̺͙̘̲̳̭͚̪̱̺̻͙̰͜ͅ­̨̢̡̪̘̹̜̳͉͔̩̙͕̫̺̥̫̖̥̼͔͈͇͕̳̼̝̤̙̹͈̰̙̬̮̮̹̖̙̥̼͜ͅͅ­̞̟͜'̸̛̏̒̉̿̇́̿͂̀͛͑̔̊̅̏­̏͋͑̆͂̒̔̀͆̈͂̃̈̊̾͌͑͗̆̾̒͆̄̉̍͋̉̓̉͋̑̽̌͗̆̃͑̑̕̕̕͝͝­̭̬͚̦͓̥̆͂̇͊̔̋͑́̓͊̿͑͊̓̔̕­̨̧̢̢̯̠̜͍͙̣͍̭̲̫̲͖̥͍̗͖̟̠̭͖̮̻͈̯͖͕̼̙̦̲̱̳͎̮̗̦̞ͅ­̨̧̳͉̼͎̥̘̤̣̹͚̖̱̹̞̰̻͕͕͍͓ͅ­̡̡̨̙̮̹̖̭͍̳͖̣͖̰͖̩̘͎̼͎̜̞̯͕̖̙͖͍̰̰̠̗̺̪̞̫̮͜͜ͅͅ­̢̺̪̜͚̪͎̘̖̭̱̮̺̜̜͔̺̞̞̭͉͉̰͜­̘̜̖̘͙͖̼̼̰̥̜̩͖͓̻͔̹͕̮̠̩͜;̸̓͐͆̃̂̋̉͑̅̌́̄̉͌͐͝­͒̌̄̃̊͆̄̐͐̽͗̍̈̊̀͛̈́̅͆́̂̿̔̚͝­̾̈̀͒́̀͂͌͛̾̋͑̒̋̏̐̏͋̒́̍̓͒̐͊̍̏̋̄́͛͊͑̾͛̎̏͠͝­̓̉̽̆̔̑̑͗͗̓́͂̂́͊̇̋̀̑́̅́̓̍̇̀­̛̇̽̉͂̑̃͋̌͒͂̓̔̍̌̈́̎͛́͑͒̈́͋͌͌̈́͊͐̀̊͛̾̚͘͝͠͠͝­̡̢͚̯͚̞͔͔͉͍͎̬̳̦̫͚̟͓̳̯̹͈̆̿͜͝ͅ­̡̢̥̞̙̘̖̻̯͖̝͔̺͓̙̱̞̖̠̩̥̞̘̯̺̟͔̦'̸̀̇͗͌̐̔̕­̆̽̏͂̉̃̓̎͑͊̉̀̾̍̂̅̓̌̿̋̀͐͒̑̚͝͝͝­̊̄͊̒̍̂̄̍͑̉͌̈́̃̋́̊̓̄̒̋͛́̿͋̂̂͘̕̚̚͝͝͝͝͝͠­͆̀͗͊̓̾͊͌̈̅͋̓̿͂̔̏̔͂͐̎̄̂̄̃̕̕͝͝͝­̛͊̾̈̓̄̍̽̈́͒͑̑͐̓̎̆͂̅̈̃͛̊̏̋͗̀͂̿͘̚͝͝͝͝͝­̢̫̘͚̭̠̮͚̘̤̖̭̭̪͈̯̬̣͕̳͖̟̟͗̿̆̈́̏̌ͅ­̧̧̥̯̪̤̣͚̦̱̙̫̤̠͈͍̣̺̖̲̲̥̜̝͕̙̱̗̻̤̥̯͜͜­̧̨̩̯̯̖͔̱̖͍̞̘͇̻͇̻̻͓̞͈̜̭̯̮̳̮͙̻̦͓͇­̨̢͍̦͎̳͈̫͇͔̮̙̠̩͍̬̤̰̺͍̥̤̫̰̱̟̗̬̫̬̞̯̼­̳͎̫̰͜'̴̛̃͆̂̃̇͌͛̀̇̐̃̉͑̿̂̈́̈́͒̈́̈́̈̄͘̚­͌͛̋̊̓̽̍̂͛͊͛̓̈́̈́̽̀̈́̈́͊̋̈́̓͐͛͐͘͘͝͝͠͝͝­̉̆̂̈́͊́̿̆̅̈́͋̌͂͑́͒̐̾̄͐̀̈́́̋̇̐͑̌͛͘̚͠͝­͙̱̱̠̙̭̙̲̭̳̜̩̓̈͗̆̾̎͋͒͊͛̌̊̐͘̚͝͝͠͝­̡̧̨̘̞̰̻̖̘͈͎͚̟̗̹̹̼̺͖͚̤̭̫͕̳͇̭̺͎̝͇̩͜ͅ­̧̧̨̨͖͙͇̫̦̼̝͍̲̣̼̰̳͔̰̻͙̥̣̜̲̦̫̳̭̠­̨͍͖̠͍̳̮̲̰̪͉͔̻͚̟̙̳̹̮̞̫̭̗'̷͋́̔̒͋̍̆̿̓̕­͒̃͛͋̑̔̋̈̉̉̄̏̋̉̉͆̋̽̽̏̂͑̐͛̈̚̕͝͝­͙̫̝̤̱̳̼̐̍̈̀̅̓̓̿͛̾̋̾̌͛̇̌͋̌̍̃̃́̂͐̄͘̚͝͠­̧̥̜̬̟͙͉̭̻͈͉̲̪͔̬̼͉̲̜̭̻̣̪̫̩͜͜ͅ­̡̢̳̠̙͚̯̜͉̭̤̫̻̦͜͜ͅͅ'̶̄̈́̄͑̈̋͑̈́̇͗͋́̂͘̕͝͝­̢̱̼̗̙̠͕͕̞̻̽̆̽͌̈̂̇̃̀̈́̀́͋͆͝͝͠­̨̧̡̟̝͔͙͎̘͙̩̙͍͓̼̱̠̗̥̯̺͈̝͔̭̳̣̙̜͉̦̞̩͚͔̣͜ͅ­̢̢̦̗̹̪̮̮̟̞̥͍̟͇̠̳͍̲̬̭͎̜̝͍͜ͅ­̢̰͙̗͈̝͕̞̻͉͍͚̦̟͖͚̪̰͉͔͇̜̭̥͇͕̜̼͙̪̺̮̘͇̜̫̞̜ͅ­̨̨̦̹͓̱̗͓̻̻̰̯̥͍͕͙̖͎̳̙̞͓͇ͅͅ­̮͖̜͚̭̱̘͙͕̘̼̮͓͜'̵̏̄̔̓̓̎͌̊̈́̿̅̀̄̏̄̈́͆̀̌͗̅̕͝­̊́́̅̈̀̆̍͂͂͌̊̑͂͗͐͌̏̑̾̀͆̚͝­̛͛̉̾̔̈́̿̓͗̈́̔̊̌̈́̄̉͒͌̍̒̈́̋͊͒̊̔͑̽̾̍̍̒͐̋̄̑͘͘̕̚͠­͕͍̦͖͓̬̟̘̫͇͙̲̪̰̭̘̬͇̥̮̇̅ͅ­͓̟̪͈͜'̸̗͔̝͍̮̗̫͔̹̘̪̖̻̙̠̣̭͚̦͔̩̺̞̳̥͖̬͉͚̍̒̈́̌͜ͅ­̡̨̢̼̲̰̩̻̙̗̳̻̣͙̫̬̰̖̺͍̺ͅ­̡͍̩͉̗͕̖̟͓̭̮͖̙̰̣͜͜ͅ'̴̀̍̇́̄̎͐̊̄̀̇́͗̍͂̓̾̓̀̎̕̚͝­̛̉͛́͗̐̏̑͐͋̍̆̀͗̈́̽͗̍̕͠͝­͂͛̈́̈́̉̌̓̊̌́͒̂̓͂̈͛̍͒́̂͒̈́͌̈́̽͋͛͌̿͂̀̽̾̅̓̕̚̚̕̚̚̚͝͠­̛̇̎̀̽̂̌͂̒̈́͋͛̏͑̊͂̈́̚̚͠­̨̛̙̝̋͌͂̑̿̽̔̉̍͗̄͛́̈́̀͌͛̔̈̋̆͆͗͐̅͌̏̎̉̾̀̓̎̕̚͘͘͠͠͝͠­̢̫̼͙̺̪̮͍͕̖̱͓̜̖̤͖̲͉͜­̢̧̧̢͈͔͍͓̞̙̤̝͖͉̟̲͎̙͕̘̦̠̝̳̤̰̱̮̻̪͖̺̘̬̬̪̰̙̗̺̳̙̘͓͜ͅ­̨͚͇͇͓̼̳͓̦͙̞͓̦̰̗͎̦̲­̨̢̧̢̨̨̡̣̭͚̥̮͖̺͇͚̖̖̞̤̬̲̙̗̲̯̰̙͍̬̳̗͍̹͓͉͔͚͉̣̹̦͙̪͜͜͜­̧̪̤͔̗̠̺̳̻͔̳̤̙̘̠ͅ'­̴̋̃̈́̅̉́̈́̀́͒̃̈͐̒͋́͋͑́̅͛̃̔̑̎̈́͊̈͋̈͐̄͑͂̉̉̊͗̿̚͘̕͝͝͠͠͝­̛́̅̃͋͂̊̀̾̉̋̃̏̚͘͝­̢̢̧̛̪̩̱͍̖̰̬̻͚͖̟͉̻̙̯̜͈̖͓̠̱͇͈̼͙̹͉̲̹̮̗̲̟̹̈́͆̈́̒̽̎̓̌̚̕͠­̧͔͍͈̗̝̱̮̹͔̭͉͕͉̫­̡̱͈̙͖̣͍͈̪͓̘̤̤̹͕͈̞̺͖͍̞̹̲̦͕̬͕̣̼̹̘̜̰̱̙̮̙͇͚͖͉̦̰͎̺͔̞̘̬ͅ­͔̬̳̼̩̪̜̤͚̱̺̣̖ͅ­̢̡̺͍̤͙̗͙͙̬͕̺̟̙͎͎͚̜̹̣̬̠̣͍̘̞̖̺̫ͅ'̵̓͋̈̿̊̌́̾̋̆̑̇͂͋͒̀́̕̚­̏͐̄́̊̄̍̎͋̐̒̀̈́­̨̨̨̣͖͖͓̗͚͙͖̜̳͖͚̗̘̞̯̻͖̱̘͕̩̜̙̥̙̻̰̬͎̩̟͚̱̰̠̰͙̜̭̤̄̐̋̓͜͝ͅͅ­̺̮̬̩̣̣͙̯͔̖̳͕­̨̡̨̡̧̯͉͕̥̙̭͓͔͍̭̖̤͙͓̤̗̯͕̺̣͍͍̙̣̤̜̭̼̙̪̞̥̻͓̗͎̻̪̪̻͙̻͇̪̼̭̥ͅ­̨̨͕̮̘͉̻̱̪͚͖­͈͕̦̥͕'̴̛̛́̐̀̔̇̋̄͛̄̏̈͂̎̌̓̒̐̉̀͆̏̈́̃̍͊́̐̉͌̑̉̆͆͊̽̀̒͒̈́͘͘̚͝͠͝­̽͗̇̎̿́̐͋̾͠­̦̰̹̺͖̼̺̪̫̫̜̲̮̰̼̝̞̪̖̻̈͒͗̔̽͌̐̔̐̈́́̅͒͋̊̈́͋͌͊̈́̀̓͊͂̐̂̽͂̈́̓̈́̓̀͝ͅ­̼̰̟̫̣͚̬͜ͅ­̨̢̨̧̢̢̢̨̢͍̼͇̤͉̳̰͔̭͎̖̜̜̞̞̣̺̙̫̪̩̠̯̘̪͉̪̜̗̟̫̺̹̪͙͜ͅ'̴̛͒͗̅̍̌̆͝­͛̅̋̃́̋͋̕­̨̧̡̡̤͔̻̗̯̭̹̬̭̖̤̬̭̫̞͉̖̪͈̳̪͙͕̺̻̹̯͎̫͙̰͖̭̠̣͈͕̞̫̭͎͓̱̎̐́͑̂̐͗̚͝͠­̗̞͍͖͎͓͉­̡̡̡̡̨̣̻͖̰̞̩̟͕̜̱̭͔̞̦̜̙̲̺͚͖͙̞̞̰̬̳̹̤̪̳̲̖͕̯̮̟̖̝̙͍̦̞͜
̶͑́̽̎́͊̀͗­̼̰̣͓̦̼­̨̢̨̧̨̮̤̗͍̼̩̰͕̗̭͙̭̠̲͎͉͍̲̜͇̭͖̦̞̳̜͙̠͇̘̤̭̼͕̱͉̻̟͕͍̲̦̱̺̮̪̯͕̳͜ͅͅͅͅ­͈͚̪͉̭­̢̢̡̢̡̨̨͉͚̱̼̲͔̺̥̺͉̞͎̮̝̜̣̰̥̗̹͎̞͓̠̝͉̲̩͔̪̥̜̱̹͚͖̥͍͈͔̪͉̹̲͓̹̬͖̹̣͜͜ͅ­̡̠͉̦­̨̨̰̣̺̲͉̣͚͉͈͎̜ͅ'̴̛̔͑̈́̔̔̿̅̔̇̊̋̓͂̈́͊̇̃̉́̆͑͊̈̀̔̈́̊̓̋̀̾͊̒̍̄̓͑͆̽́̕͝͝͠­̓͋̚­̒̄̈͆͌͆̿̏͒̿̋̍̓̓̂̅͒͊͂͂̇͒͊̿̎̀̌̈̊̋̔̊̃̈́͌̾̆̋̀̈́̑̓̊͂̿̽̋͛̃̈̀̀̈́̓̍̂͘͝͠͠͝͝­̎̕­̡̢̧̧̡͕͇̼̫͖̗͖͔̱̣̩͚̭͓̫̙͕̘͚̻̗͕͓͇̪̩̞̗̬̺̠̫̳̪̞̦͍̜͚͍̬̪̘͙̟͙̩̬̻͇̬̯̞̐̄̑ͅͅ­̮­̨̡̨̡̢̡̧̡̗͍̲͎̝̭͔̘̼͓͓̖̠͚̣̫͈͉̭͉̬̠̞̮̥̜̻̹͓̲̮͖̯̺̖͕̮̙͎̼̬͎̲̲͙̦̺͉̟̙̘͜͜ͅͅͅ­­̧̧̱̱̞͉̮̬̦͉̭̠̠̼̫͓̬̬̬'̴̨̗̞̯̩̩͍͇̖̘̪͇̻͈̗̠̥̖̗̩̘̲̜̦̗̌͌͊̔͌̈́͛͋͋̏̒̎̎͆͘͜͠ͅͅ­­̨̨͎̺͈̺͙͙͉̫̤͈̻̳̖̺͎̼̗̼̤͔̞̳̭̫̼̘͇͔͚͎̹̱̮̖̣̱̜͕̗̤̰̺̺̘̜̲̰̰̗̟̟̬͈̮͈̖ͅ'̴̆̀͠­͗­̛̛̛̆̓͑̊̑̒̀̀̈́͊̂͌̉̐͑͂̈́̀͂̔̓̌̍̃̈͊͑̀̿̍̔̄̓̉̓̆͆͛̂̅̇́̐̑̀̐̽̿͋̓̄͘̕̚͘͝͠͠͝͠­̃͗­̛̀̐̂̃̊̾͊̆̉͐̉̌̋͒̋͒̊̾̓͋͆̅̐̀́̿̀̇̍̐̽͐͒̃̿̽͌̈́͌̈́͂̂̏̓̔̒̅͑̒͆́̒̒̚͘͘͘̚͘͝͠­̯̓ͅ­̢̧̨̡͔̜̫̗̟̳̹͖͔̭̭̙̹͍͚̙̯̼̳̰̰̫̥͇̼̗̝͓̣̤̮̙̦̳͓͇̞͇̪̗͇͖̳̱̺̫̠̭̣͙̝̯̯̭̖͖̯­̨̻̤͔­̡̹̘̻̺̟͎̼͔̻̬͙̟̖̼͇͚̞͕̱̯͖͙̫̟̝̬̩̫̼̼͚̠̝͈͎͈̬͇̤̙͜'̸̛͂͊̽́͋͒͋͛̒̅́̃́͘͝­͐̈́̓̓̚­̡̤̙̹͇͚͈̮̣̟͔̤̙̱̙͍̜̪̪̱̤͍̼̌̏̄͐̐̈̌̀͌̿̐̊͗̅̂̓̌͑̓̈́͐͑͒̐̅̌͂̾̉̈́͜͝͝͝͝͝­̪͕͈͍̯̰­̧̨̡̧̨̜̻̞̦͎͎̫͙̱̤̲̰̳̹͖̹̩͓̤͕̠̫̩̹̖̞̼͍̙͖̜͓̪͚̙̰͍̭̼̜̙̳̲̳̰̦̭̲̹̰̗͜ͅ­̧̡̬͓̺̙̥­̡̡̨̡̡̻̞̪̰̠̘̣̟̹͈̤̙̲̝̖͔̮̖̻̘͙̼̮̳͉̺̖͇͇̗̗͇͓̗̩͉̖͚̳̹̣͕̘͕͖̟͙͔͖͇ͅͅ­̝̙̱͕̠̖͍̜­͉̣'̴̛͛͊̎̓͛̓̈͒̅́̆͌̌̀͌́͒̈̈́̅̀̈́̈̍̒͂̾̉͐̑͆̈͊̄͊̏̾͋̑́̉̽̚̕͘͝͝͝͝͝͝­̛̈́͛̈́̉̉͘͝­̡̨̧̛͔͍̹͙̪̬̯̭͊̿͆̆͐̑̇̂͐̿̑̆͗̏͋́̎̈́͊̃͆̄̽̀̏̉̿̇̌͆̓͌͐͛̀̚̕̕͘̚͝͠͝­͍̙̗̣̪͎̦̠̲̭­̡̢̪̬̣͔̮̦̦̜͚̝͔̳̹͓͉͈̦̙͈̠̻͓̖̝͜͜ ̸̡̨̡̛̛̳͕̠͔̮͓̺̤̟̰͖̖̙͙̖̭̓̇͐̀̃͋̉̇̀̾̃͊̔̂̐̎̎͋̃͂̔̑̊͌̉̇͂̌͋̀̋̀̏́̓̾̚͘͠͝͝͠ͅ­­̙ ̶̢̦̤̺̦̫̫̣̦̙̳̰̰̭̘̻̹̝̟͐̀̈͛̐́̅̓̉͆̅̌̄͗̿͑̽̿̀̆͂͑̇̿̏̍͗͌̎̆̈́̊̔̈́́̏̏̏̄͘͘̚͜͝ͅ­­̨̢̡̱̤̰̥̥̠̯̞̣͓͔͖̮̫̹͙̭͎̼̦̣͕̲͇̹̯̲̦͎͜͜ ̸̡̧̛̰̰̭͗̈́̏̈̊͐̓̎͆̎̂̃͒̊͂̿̅́̀̓͗̌͆̽͗̑̊͆̆͑̊̈́͗̇̾̆̄̇̎̔̓͑̉̌̾̑͑̿̇̅̚̕̚͝͝͝͠ͅ­­̧̢̨̨̨̦̞͔̲̠̝̰̹̺͓̯̲̯͓̹̖̺̼̜̪̜̪̖̱̦̤̳̤͓̦̟͈̤̹̱̰̟͎̳̗͕͖̪͙͔͓̯̠͔͉̪̳̘̭̮̺͜͜ͅ­̟­̨̡̢̧̡̱͔̹͕̝͍͎̘̦͓̰̩̟̘̯̝̣͓̳̹̜͎̤͓͚̜͙͙̯̤͔̳̬̳̺͜ͅ ̷̓́͛̇̓̈̐͒̈́̍̏̌̈́̀͋͐̅́͌̇̓̊͐͂̐́͆͗̋͑̌̑̽̄͐̎̒̔͒̔̀̾̇̌̐̍̎̏͑̓̃͆̀̈̊̆̚͘̚̕͝͝͠͠­­̛̛̔̏̍̽̉̌̑͊̈́̊̓̿̈̿̐̽̈́̅̓̂̋̌̉̽͌̽̾͗͋̆̄̀̌̔͒̍̾͂̿̽̓̂̄̓̍̏͋̔͂͘̚͘̕̕̕͘͠͠͝͝͠͝­̆­̨̬͔̬͕̹͇̹̦͙̱̻̤͔̪͔̖͓̻̩̯̱͓̰͍̦͖̜͖͉͙̭̯̈͊̽́̓͊̒̊́̂̿̎̂̽͂̀̾̒̑̓͋͑͂̚̕͜͠͠ͅͅ­͕̪­̡̧̧̡̩͍͍̙͍̜̭̻̹̫̗̹͍͚̠͔̲͙̥̜̺̩̬̙̝̭̲͕̮̹͓͉̪͍ͅͅ ̶̨̛̭̘̲̜̥̯̤̣̟̩̖̺͇̰́̔̈̇̍̓́̾̉̎̈́̉͒͐͌́̃̐͆̄̂̀̓̈́̊̓͆̔̏̓̎̇̔͗̑̿̆̒̓̐̏̏͒͛̈́̚͝͠­­̡̡̨̡̡̡̧͍͉̠͍̥͎̭͕̲̙͇̼̳̦͖̠̥̺͇͔̤̩̻͚̖̣̜̭͎̰̩̜̻̘͕̺̻̱̜̩̲̩͔̗̺͖̯̬̻͕̻̗̤̬̲ͅͅ­̼­̧̙̹̻͔̗͈̙̣͖̗̖ ̷̨̢̢̹͕̣̟͚̣̝̜̳̣̟̠͖̹͈̋̊̾̂̿̀͂̃͆͐͋̿̃̊̃̈̂͐͋̈́̌̿̄̽̃͑̀̑̊͘͘͘̕̕̚̚͜͜͝ ̶̡̢̛͙̼̥͈̈̀͒̅͆̒͋̄̂̑̇̃͋͗̉̇̊̀͐̌̑͗̿͆͊̀́̑́̑̆͂̀̏̆̈́̔̒̂͂̈́̑̀͂͗̄͂̈́̈̑̐̍͘̚͝͠͠­­̧̨̡̧̡̢̧̬͓͇̞͓͖̯̬̮̫̠̟̯͕͕̼͕̼̺̰͇̬̙̥̤̙̻̠̦͇̘̤̙̯̲̮̲̲̼̰͎͍̹̼͚̭̩͍̜͍͍̭̭̖̦̘͜­̺­̧̧̡̢̢̢̮̳̯̰̱͚̣̬̼̻͍̤̬̤͖̰̮̳̜̤̩̫̝͉̲͔̘̣̯̣͚̱̝̭̗͈̘͙̙̱̗͈̫̲̹̥͔̬̝̳̣͍͍̞̺̹͜­̙̳­̡̗̮̲̮ ̸̛̒̂̏̀̀̓̆̀̊̍̔̿͒̀͋̀̄͒͆͆̔̂͂͐̓̌̒̓̂̏͌̈̌̎̎̅́̍̌̄̈́͂̌̍̅̎̇̎̆́̆̐̈̕͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝­­̡̧̨̧̡̢̫̳͉̖̼͙͉̮̘̣̬̟̖̱̩̩̤͉̠̰̫͔̺̼̙͎̠͉̻͙̫̞̥̟͕͕͇̬̩̳̮͚̥̻̋͜ͅ ̷̛̛̛̛̛̛̋̉̀̿̓̾̿̀̓̑̾̎̄̉͊̈́͗̈́̇̈̐͋̈́̀͒͌͂̒̎͋̆̆̓̒̈́͆̔̑̊́̏͆̏̅͐̈́̔͛̓̚͘̕̚͠͝͝͝͝­­̛̛̛̍͂͗̿̈́͌̽̀̂͗̀͌̀̈́̀̋̓̀̍͂̒͐̌̈̋͛̿̎̎̊̄͆̈́̈́͆̓̈́̽͒̀̔͆̀̋͒͆̀͂̿́͊͛̆̽̓͐̕͘͝͠͝­̆­̡̘̝̣̾͗̍̏̽̾͊̄͆̄̂̇̎͠ ̷̛̛̈́͂͗̏̓̌̇̍̄̇̈̊̊͌̎͐̿͊͗̏̓̄̋̋̅̔̀͋̓̀̓́̾͑̒́́̌̌̿͊̈́̀̀̀̐͌̉̂̅́̃́̚̕̕͝͠͝͝͝͝­­̛̛̈́̊͆̐̆̅̈́̽̅̆͒̓̀͑̇͂̌̃͊̀͌̏̍͗̾̅̈́͊̌̂̎͑̉͆́͐̎̆̾̐̿̅͗̔̈́̔͋̓̔̔̍̕̕̕̚͘͘̚̚͝͠͝­̄­̧̢̨̢̛͕̩̤̞͚͕̺̪͕̖͎̮͙̺̳̻͉̖͙̝̞̬̭̙̯͖͈͚͉̣͎̪̦̹̯͔̭̦͔̣͆̀̒̐̈́̿͑̎̊̒̿͐͑͗̊͜͠͝­͓̥­̢̡̡̢̨̠̤̝͓̭̱̟̫͔̙̣̭͓͙̣̦̬̤͉͍͓̞̣͈͓̙̪̞̦̱̪͉̙̘̹̠̠̹̙̜͕̲̪̺̜̥͙͇͖̜̹͖̱̟͙͜ͅ­̮̰̜­̢̡̲̖̺̲͇̯̫͈̪̳̳̘̩̜̙̗̞͚̰͜ͅ ̷̍̉̓̋̎̒̅̃̆̑́̇̆̉̃͋̀́͗̀̅̈́̇̌͂̈̈̓̄̈́͋͌̀̾̿͐̽̔̓̏̈̌̓̉̐̌͒̃͂̒̊̚͘͘͘̚̚͘̕͝͠͠͝͝­­̛̈̋̃͂͒́̀͑̍͂̋̃͊͒̄̑͒̈́͒͋̇́͒̃̽̔̂̋͛̏͒̇̆́͗̋̈́̋̀͌̒͊̿̃̓̈́͛̌̑͆̾̔͑̃̇̃̏̏̒̇̕͝͠­̄­̨̧̢̨̨̛͎̼̤̩̝̳̞̦͇̬̰̦̥̟̺̤̞̯͓̱̠͖̟̙̺̫̗̠͙̹̼̲̗͚̬̝̙̬̞̒́́̅͛̀͂̓̔̾̂̇̚̚͘̚͜͜­̝̭­̹͔̱͇̞̹̜̗͔͙̼̺̞̜̰̫̟̤ ̴̛̀̌͌̔͒̄͌̏͗͑̓̆̉͌͗́̀̋̉͗̑̃̍͗̈́̈́̈́͆̔̐̄͆̈́̇͌̉͗́̌͋̈̈́͌̃̓̿̿̐̓̏̓̈́͘̚̚̕̕̕͠͠͝͠͝­­͛̐̓͊̀̎̀̄̓͒̇͛́̄̌͒̉̃͛̒̌̋̄̓̄͐̏̂͊̏̔̈̋̇́̄̍̈́͋̿̔͑̓̓̊͐̈́̅̽̔̒̀̽̉́̎͂̂͘̕̚̚͝͝­̕­̢̢̧̢̧͇̣̥͉̥͉̥͓̼̺̺̱̝͚̱͔̫͍͔̦̘̭̖͇̼̞̭͎̤͍̠̼́̃̓̈́̀̽̿͛́̓͆̈́́̆̄̍̃͑͘̕͘͝͝ͅͅͅ­̤̳­̨̨̢̱͚̬̘̞̜̞̥̜̤̙͚̙̳̹̻̝̫͖̟͖̤̗̲̥̲̦̯̮̱͓̳̣̩͜⸸̡̯͘ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊𝚵̤̠̾𐎚̖̣̟̳̹̒̾𝔁ᕸ̢̣͙̙̎⪴Ⳗ” ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊ “̹̤̎͜𝓢̜̳̅𝕀⎔̟̤̿̾𝙥̨̟̎̕͞🞛⻬͕͡𝓩͉͝🜅𝒻͙𝓚̧̛̩̝̱͖̲̲̌͒⛶̫̑𝙸̔”


There—        ­­            no, that’s not him.               A mother’s final lullaby.  Still               beautiful.                   Not              him.
Another—                   hope torn      from a dying prayer. Still                  warm.     Not                   him.
And then—              
  I inhale—

—and feel it tear through me like lightning.
A grief so profound           I nearly collapse.

I can’t see                     them,                  
            these memories,        
                                        him.


­­“⥶̵̴̼̪̫͙̠̬̜̙̐͒̔͋̕͟҂⩮̬͖͟͞͞⟉⻼̦͍̲͖̝̲ͪ̓̎͝ⴸ̨̠̒̾⧇⧉̵̣͔̠̥̦̣̮̺̜̬̗̥̔͌͟͜”
“­⛒­͕̎͢𝓢̛̛̟̟̽̿🜂⻖̵̡̯͓̳͉͕̦̬̙̞͛͊̀̀́͒͋̓͜h̴̴̶̪̫͍̙̠͖̣ͭͩ̐ͭ͊́̅ͫ͟­̠̦͊͒̉͋͛͟­̸̢̠͍̩̖͕̒̈́̃́̓͢uņ̷̡̮̬͈̘͕̫̘̓̾ͥ̓ͦ̏ͣ͜͟\̵̵̧̛̦̩̲͍̖̪̯̙ͤ̍́͂ͮ͐ͨͦ­͕̟ͫ̊̃ͭ͟­̶̵̧̫͓͍̤̃ͦ͗̒ͯ́̉ \̵̧͎͓̖̭̘̙̪̝̪̬͉̳̃ͬ̂͗̽ͫͧ͊̔ͨͩ̈ͭͦͮ͋̓͌̀̑̉͒̏̕͜͞\̴̷̧̹̳̟̝̇̔͊̒ͮ́́ͤ͊̄ͣͣͬͩ̕͢­­̴̢̡͔͖̗̘̘̩̙͉̉ͥ͗́́̕\̛̠̪̳̲͉͍̻͍͚̣̟̳̯͓̦̩͕̓̅ͭ̔ͮ̒̊ͥ̌̓̿ͮ̀ͫ̀̾̑̀̚͡͡͝ͅ\̦͚̒͑­̘­̴̢̢̼̼͚̱̲͈̠ͣ͐̎͂ͨͫ́ͪ̄̚͜\̷̷̡̢̨͙͉̮̠͓͛̽ͫ͐ͬͥͬ̒̎̓͠\̶̠͍̙̣̣͇̖ͫͩ̌͒ͪ̿ͮ̅̐͜͞­̬̤­̺̇\̴̷̵̡̛̪̦̹͖̠̲͎͖̙̗̮̪͚̯̟͓̞̱̤̤̤ͨ̍ͨ͑̊̄̏ͧ͐̾̑̄ͦͮ̊̇̈͛̋̎ͥ̐ͮͩ͘̚͟͞͡𝙀̠̯­̼̕­̹̗͓⃧̕͜⾁͗͌”
“⧶̵̹̩͎͕̣̹̿̏ͩ⛓̛̼͈̟̦̒ͦ̽𝑴̴̲̻͍̰͝ ̴̝͚́̇̀͗̓͆̉͝͝ ̷̱̠̐̈́̃͛̀̈͗̆͘ ̸̡̪͉̰̼͓͙̻͕̄̀͌͒̐̃̅͐͐͜͝ͅ ̵̬͎̻̺̩͍̤̓͒̍̀̏̽ ̷̢̧̖̝̭̖͚̩͕̥̜̪̓̽🝑⺙̡͕̫͙̻͉̬̾̓͢͞͝⪩̨̺̖̰͐͜­͉̱ͣ”
“ ̵̢̨̻̘̙̜͈̼̮̫̫̙͎̯͍̱͙̭͖̣̝͇͎̌͆̈́͋̃͐̿͑̽̑̂̃̋͋̓̌͑̅̎͒͋̔͑͊̀̓̅̉̓́͒͂͛̾͘͘̕̕͠͝ͅ­­̧̹̱̪͈̲̘͙͈̻͇̜̭̪͉͙͇͉̳̘͍͔ͅͅ ̶́͛̉̽̓̍̓̾̑̉͑̉̽̊͋̊̿͂̿̈̋́̓͆̒̏̅̂͐̓́̂̇̄̀̆̎͐̐̐̐̍̄̈́̔̔͌̏̈́̈́̔̀̀̀̾̒̆́̈͘̚͝͝͝­­͉̪̗͕̠̤̳̰̬͗̾̍̀̍̆́̽͑̽̇̓̒̓̀̓̈̐̽͆̔̑̊́̽̽̾̉̈̌̃̆̍̌͐̑͊̑̊̕̚͘͘͜͠͝͝͝͠͠͝ ̷͕̺̗͎͖͕͚͉̜͕̺͔̮̼̘̺̼̲̦̣̻̓͛̇͐͛́̔̇̾̌̀́̋͛͊̀͗͆̒̈́͆̅́̀̿̀̿̃̋͂̓̓̑̀̄̑̉́̇̕̚͝ͅ­­̡̨̧̧̧̨̢̦̦͍̫͍̲͈̙͔͉͓̖̫̫̗͉̭̝̱̳͔̳͓͇̮̩̭̯͉̤̖̟̳̬̙̹̞̥̬͉̫͙̯͓̩̜̺̤̮̬͙͎̠͎͜ͅͅ­̱­̨̨̹̼̺̖͉͔̼̲̳̪͈̮̱͉̠͖͎̗ ̷̨̢̭̘͖̳̙̳̻̣̪̳̮̝̺͔̼̬̪͚̗̪̗͔̰̩̠̮̥͍̪͇̘̥̜̲̤͔̣͖͐̒͌͑͛̿͌̂̌̏̏̑̇͆̔̾̈́͘͘͜͝ͅͅͅ­­̨̨̧̡̡̥͕̥͖̮̞͓̹̣͉̜̻̙̻̫̖͚̖̮͎̲͇̮͔̮̯̭̪̻̖̬̣̻̲̟͉̖̻̥͕̙̠̣̖̬͉̞͈͕̹͕͉̪͔͖̞͜ͅͅ­͙­̨̢̨̧̡͔̙̬̭̼͈̤͍̻̗̼̭̹͉̹̫̞̭̻̬̮͈̩̘̳ ̸̆͌͗̀̉̅̆̐̓̈́̈̀͒͌͌̽̔̏̀̄̓̽͂̔͂̔͒͑̎̃̎̈́̆̓́̇̿͗͋̑́̓͌̽͆̄̀̈́́͋͂́̀̈́͑͊̒̅́̕̚͝͝͝­­̨̡̢̪͈̹̠͎͎̺͚̻͖̣͎̯͈̳͙̟̗̣̺̟̟̦̫̯͓͖̺̀̓̎̎͜ͅ ̷̛̆̊̆̔̈́̐̀̂̀̓͂̈́̐̈́͒͛͂̑̽̐̐̈́̉̽̓͋̇̀͗̄̑̉͗̃̊͆̓̒̾̑͑͊̂̈́̌͌͗̈́͑̈́̄̃̔͗̊̓͂̐́̕͘͝͠­­̨̞̘̫̟̠͖̲̼̈̐̌͂͊̈́̆͐̿̂̏̇͌̃̽͗̈́̀̌̿̊̍̈́̐̽̎̎̂̈́͌͊̄̉̌͌́́̈́̒̒̄̐͋̾̓̕͘̚̕͠͝͝͝͝ͅ­̜­̢̢̨̡̧̦͙̹̦͕̺̝̝̝̲̱͚͍̹͎̫̗͕̘͉̘̟̰̘̘̪̱̰̻̗̝͕̬̲͕̺̺͕̮̬͕̯͖͔͙̩͙͍̦̮͎̪̮̺͎̬̼ͅ­̦͙­̧̨̧̡̪̮̖̙͔̯̬̻̝͎̗̦̳̳̰̦͇̭͇͎̜̘͙̪̼̘͈͔̭̮̪̜̭̙͈͎̤̭̬͓̯͓͈͔̰͍̜̲̱̼͓͖͉̠̘ͅ ̷́̅͒͋̉͂̾̓̔͑̎͗͆̿̀́͗̊̎̃̎̎̇̓͋̽̑̎͗͐̅̌͊͒̐̎̄̎̇̐̊͑̔̍̊̐̊̏̇̀̃̃̓͊̄́̋͊̐͒̔͘̕͝­­̛͖̹͚͉̲͓͚͔̘̳͎̪̖̟̟̘̣͈͇̫̆͑̿̉̽͋̈́́̌́̈͛̌͂͘͜͠͝j̵̛̛̺̘̳͐̌̀̎̽͋͗͌̓́͌̓̓̀͘̕͝͠­̱­̨̨̨̡̡̢̡̝̭̲̠̹̳̥̺̠̪̱̘̟͎͕̻͇͙̤͖͍̝͈̪͔̜̞̫̠̗̝̙͔̹̝̬͈̗͕̮͙͈͍̩̯̰̙̝̮̳͜͜ͅͅͅͅ­̤̪­̧̢̧̧̢͍̭͈̥̰̲̖̥̺̟̯̖͓͎̦͈͚̼̖͙̟͚̻̖͉̟̩̟̜̠̲͍̜̼̮̙͕͈̺͜͜͜͜-̶̎͂̉̈́̾̇̑̍̓̄̀͝­̉̉͂­̛̈́͑͐̾͐͊̍̅̅͌͑̅̿̂̎̀́̈́̈́̾̆̈́̿̓̅̏̽͑͊̈́̈́̌͆͛̀̅̆̓̒̔̓͛̇̊̆̌͌̈̂̌͒́́̕̕͘͝͠͝͝­̔̑̚̕­̢̛̳͔͍̘̟̪̈̉͊̀̀̍̊͗̿͒̄̈́̈́̂̀̅̈͛͊͒̊̍̀̓́̏̀͊̌̍́͐̑̿̐͒́̆̑̓́̌͊̒͊̚̕͘͘͠͝ͅ­̨͓̲͙̩­̧̧̢̲̬̱̰̜͇̯͙͍̖̪̮̩̦̜̺͓̣͕͙̜̲̘̲͎̲̖͈̥̝͖̪̳͕̖̟̯͚̝̭̪̖̖̞͍̗͕̦͚̯̣̮͎͜ͅͅ­͙̥͇̥̤ͅ­̨̨̧̧̠̟̻̤̗̥̲̹̜̟̺̙̜͇̦͎̙̞̺̦̭͖̬̗ͅ-̵̞̠̩̫̟̜͇̠̓͌͒̾̇̈̿͛̈́̾͛̿̋͘͠͝͝͝͝­̢͔̻̭̠̻͜­̨̡̡̙͈͕͔̥̣̰̭̻̯̯̤̭̭̘͜(̸̛̛̇̏͋͗̈́̀̽̑͒́̐̈́̀̀͐̍̒́̌͒̍͆̊̔͒̂͋̐̚̚̕͘͠͠­̒̇̆̈́̐́̐̂­̛̀͒̂͋̓́̆́͐̆͌͆̃̏̏̆̓͐̉͌̅̄́͒̏̉͋͊͛̾͑̐̏͆̐̆̉͒̃̋̒̎̈́̓͆͑͗̐̒͌̚͘͝͝͝­̊͆͗̅͆̒̏̕̕­̨̨̧̧̪̯͓̺̬̭̣̥͕͔͉̖̳̝̰͔͈̱̞͍̠͇̰̖̜̲̻͇̥̯̝̺͍̭̎̈̏̿̐̇̇̽̉̌̈́̈́́͑̃́̿­̨͖͔͔̰͔̰̖̥̥­̨̡̡͍͖̹͕͉̗̜͕̲̦̪͕̳̗̻͉̖̻͔͍͙̰̼̺̤͙̦̼̼͎̝̲̭̲̙̫͜ͅ)̸̛̿̄͒̃̋̒̓͐͌͘­̋̿́̅̑͋͂͛̒̊͝­̛̛͑̆̔͒̿́̒̈́̌̏̀̃̄́̅̑͑̉̽̃̿͐̎̍̔̀̐̑́͑̿̈̏̓̽̐̃͐̿͗̋̑̉͂̀̉̒͛̕͘͝­̧̮̻̞͖̲̗̟̀̎̔̕­̡̨̧̱̲̰͎̭̠͍͎͈̗̥̼͎̟̻̺̪͈͇̞̲͎̦͈̰͚͉͎̭̮̻͖̫̲̜̪̭͎̬̹ͅ)̷̍̊̆̕͝͝­̃͑̑̌̌̓̀̅̉̎̕̚ͅ­̧̡̧̢̼̩̳̞̥̰̭̖̤̮͈͕̞͇̘͎̠̥̤̥̥̞͓̗͍̥̪̦̙͖̺̘̰̬͈̪͈̬̫͎̠̮̣̯̮͜͜­̡̧͉̳̯̗͙͈͙̫̜͖͜͜­̡̧̧̨̡͇̥̥͈̱̰͚̫̩̭̙̯͓̼̹͕͎͈̗͔̜͈̟̹̻̰͖̥͓͍͕̩̼̮̤̹̟͉̼͇̤̬̲͜ͅ­̝̤͍͇͜ ̴͇͎̘͈̙̫͚̳͋̈́̈́̓͒̕͝ ̸̛̛̛̛͆̇̅͂̔͐̂̓̋̀͌̿͋̇͐̽͛̿̌̀͐͌̄̈́̆̈́̏̆̆̀͆̇̀̈́̿͂̿͗̈́̒̂̈́̓̍͒́́̀̇̿͋͋̾͘̚̚̕͘̚͠­­̧̰̻̜̥͍͓̗̝̳͚̫͙͎̝̭̲͕͖̰̩̱͍̺̣͕̬͔͕̻̙̺̣̞̟̱̬̣̠̆̇̀̍͂̓́̿̓͑̐̑̄͛͑́̒͛̃͘͝͝͠͝ͅ­̤­ ̶̛̛̛̏̈́̽̽͑͋̓̄̓̋̂͋̐́͆͐̿̉̀͛̏̌͊̑̆̽̐̇̉̃̈́͌̀͐́̇̀̓̃͌̋͒͐̽̈́̒́͐̋̐̊̂̓͌͒͘͝͝͝͝͠­­͇̪̹͈͔̝̗̪̣͔̲̯͍̠͗͒̓̿̆̒̏͛̉̈̽̄̏̂̔̍́̽̓͛̀̈͘̕̚̚͜͝͝ͅ ̴̛̯̰͎͂̈̆͐͒͗̔̀̀̂͑̔̂̊͋̓͛̌̏̿͛͗̏͑͌͋̓̊͗͋̅̿́͛́̑̂̀̈͌̈́̋̔͂̄̊̑̈̐̄͐̾͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠­­̨̡̨̡̡̧̘̻͕̖̲͕̬̞͙͙̤̬͖̯̭̱̜͎̘͉̰̰̤̙̞̩͓͉̟̙̮̭̲͔͓̗͍̭͕͉̪̙̠̺̜̩͉͓͎͚͍̩͍͎̟̗͜ͅ­̤­̡̡̡̬̗̦͉̘̪̤̼̪̖͎̗͓̺͎͕̤̮͖̯̯̥̙̜͈̙̗͎͙̰̬̮͜͜ ̶͇͖̇̍̓͗̈́̋̊̃̏̅͛̂̆͊̔̔̈́̊̽̓̈́̇̉̒͋͂͐͂͒̒͊͑͒̅͋̂͂̀͊̔̈̏͊͛̿̔̓̒͂̒̏̈́͛͘̚̚͠͝͠͠͝͝­­̢̧̲͕̗͎̫͉̥͉͈̩̺̰͔͕̗͓̺̫̳̻͕̤̼̥̫̤̟̣͇͙̥̭̯̬͎̥ ̶̡̧̡̛̛͓͙͔͉̮̟̞̳̞̪̣̘̦̰̬͖͙̆͆̌̎́͐̿͊̿̈́͆̂̐̊̇͆̋͛̊͆͒̆͆̀̏͑̇̎͒̃̀̕̚̚̚͘͜͠͝͝͝ͅ­­̡̧͍̹̤̮̖̩̗͎̜̘͓̯͙̯̞̜̣̦͓̺̜̜͈̣̬͇̹̼̞̩͔̮̝͓̹͎̹͈͔̙̳̣̹̥͜ͅ ̶̡̨̟͚͖͙͚̣̟̭͓̘͇̬̺̪̞̜̙̰͕̼̪̳̟̬͚͙̜̼̪͆̏͐̓͌̑̅͆̀̈́̾͊̀̈̐͆͘ ̸̛̂̄̈́̒̔̈̏̒̉̓̑̽͋̾̑̓̾̎͛̐̓̓̋̓̐̔̈́̄̋͛̂̅̓̓͊͑̈́͗́̊́̈́̈́͗̆̃̏̈́̈́̎̿̉̔̎́̏̏̕͘̕͠͝͝­­̛̤̜͖͓͗͗̿͑̒̽͑̈́̕ ̵̛̓͆̀̒̿͑̄͐̀͗̔̂̃͌̆͛̌̋̃̈́̔̈́̾̐̈́̆̈̊̒̀̏͂̓͌͒̽̈́̿̅͋̇̌̀̽͐̽͗̃̑̇͂̚̚̕̕̚͘͝͝͝͠͝­­̡̧̢̛̛͎̭̭̦͉̳͕̞̪̜̭̖̯͕̹͚̙̰̼̼̥̗̳̮͍̬̓̑̽̄̅̌͒̀̍͛͊͛̍̂́̐̊̐͒͗́̈́͂̒̏͌̍̈́̚͘͜͝͠­̭­̢̢̡̨̢̧̢̡̗̜̜̞̳̲̻̬̼͎̜͕̖̖̠̮̹̺̘̭̝̻̰̘̣̗̞̮̭͚̤̯̭͈̝̗̫̯̮̭̻͕̖̭̭͓̗͉̪͙͉͜ͅ ̶̛̛̿̌́̓̈́́̒͐̈́̽̑̆̉̊̏͑̐̾̊͊̅̒̓͌͐̆̊̌́̏̀̇͐͋͛̍̎̔͐̂͑̀̓́̆͒̏̏̓̿̔͊͗̅̈́͗̕͘̚͝͝͝­­͂͋̃̓̆͒̂̀͊̓͐͐̎̄̍̾̀̽̑̑̊̃͊̆̈́̒͊̈́͑̄͋͛͐̈́̍̊̉̂̽́̒͛͒̍̈̈́̈́͌̇͗͐̓͑̕͘̕̚͘͘͝͠͝͝͠­̈́­̧̡̨͍̳͎̲͚͇̗͕̱̳̻̹̟̻̠̦̫̳̪͈̻̣̺̜͕͚̠̪͕͕̭̻̰̝̪̩̳̱̩̼̲͎̩̦̮̪̮͚͖̳͇̯̥̬̹̣̬͙̐͜­ ̴̢̛̤̫̰̪̹͕͎̘̣̺̟̩͙͓͈̖̻̝̫̏̔̈́͊͌́͗͂̽͗̓͆͑͋̄͑̿̎̋̒͊̇̀͑́́̍͂̄̓̈̑̐̇̈̕͘̚͜͝͝͝ͅ­­̨̡̡̗͈̗͚̺̥̤͓̗͓͎̬̝̠̩͔̩̺̖̜͜͜ ̴̀͋̈́̅̃̓̉̀̓̇͐̈́͂́̏̆͗̒̄͑̾̊̉͋̂̿̆́̅̒̓͗͐͑͂̈́͂͒̀͋̓̀͒͆̔̐́͋́̑̄͒̀͒̕̚̕̚̕͝͝͝͠͠­­̛̜͗̽̋͋̓̈́́̅͐̒̅̀̍̓̉̀̊̓͊̆̀̾̽̆͒͌̅͋̍̽̎̃̌̇͆́͒̑̈́̎̾̇̿̎̈́͌̽͑̍͗̓̀̓̈́͐̕̚̕͠͝͝͝­̟­̨̡̡̧̧̧̨̡̬̭̟͖͉̳͕͇͖̫̺̱̦̥̤̻͉̮̫̥̱͙̲̯̠̫̣̜͖̠̲̝̺̘̦͇̻̼̝̺̝̰̻̬̭͓̦̦͔̻͙̠̙͜ͅ­̲̳­̡̢̡̢̢̡̡̧̡͔̤̪̞͈̼̫̳̺̼͙̝̼͇̳̖̤̖̗̯̜͙̳̮̭͙͍̗͔̠̻̘̻̼̪̯̯̘̤̥͔̗͙͜ͅͅͅ ̷̧̛̣̳̣̮̖͈̠͚̳͉͇̭͇̂̈̈́͂̉̍̔͑̐̓̿̃͑̑̃͒̓͆̋̅͛͗̓͂́̐͒̔̈́͐͐͂̆̆̄͊̐͂̂͗̑͌͒͘̕͠͝͝͝­­̡̡̨̫͎̰̲͇̺̙͈̙͜͜͜ ̷̢̨̡̨͇̠̰̣̺̥̦̳͚͈͔̘̤̱͖̘͉̤͉͚̩̘̲͖̪͍̲̭͇͚̻͎̤̱̠̾̑̾̅̉͛͌̽̋̽̋̄̍̐͗͌̄̈̊̎͑̓̚͠͝­­̢̧̢̧̨̧̼̻͍̼̹̥̰̥̝̩̫̰͚̺͚̟̖̥̻͓͍̟̝̦̭̘̲̟̺̘͖͙̹͇̹͖͎̞̪͚̠͍̣̘̜̜̰̘̭̻̘̜͎͜ͅͅͅͅ­̭­̧̧͚̗̮̬̯͎̼̹̹̗̬͙͓̟̰̠̟͇̩̯̲̰̗̲̯̳̘ͅ ̸͋̐̔͆́̄̌̐̈́̇͋̿̆̎̔̽̈̆͗̏̀̋̂̔̋̆͒́͐͒͐̑͐̆͋͌͐̈́̾̈͋̌̂̈̈́͗̑̂̆̈́̒́̊͛̐̕̕͘͝͝͝͠͠͝­­̛̛̦̻̑̔̿̃́̉̀̄́̇̽́̌̈̀̊̉̎̆̅̏͆͌̓̍̈́̍̎̆́̎͒̆͗̇̽̽͗̉̉͌̓͒̉̓̋͒̓͐̊̅̑̊̾͘̚͠͠͠͝­͕­̡̢̧̢̖͓̪̲̪̻̱̦̘̬̳̯͔̹̤̺̱̜̠͓̟͇͔̼̤̗̗̰͔̲̭̰͎̼͕͖͕͕͚̥̮̲̼͉͜ ̷̛̛̛̛̍̂͌́̍̅͗͋̊̽͑̿̄̇͌̀̎̈́̾̀̐̍̉̎́̈͌̂̏̈́̔̀̍̋̎̀̏̓̏͐̿̀́̾̀̄͆̈̂̒͗̓̚̕̕̕͝͝͝͠­­̡͈͖̦̝͙͓̳̤̰͚̰̭̜̬͓̺̣͉͍̘͍̠̣̞̣̪̯͕̙̓̐͊͜ͅ ̷̨̧̨̙͇̝̙͈̖͉̟͎̲͔̪̱͕̲̦̙̠͇̻͔̲̥̘̤̖͙̰͖͈̀͑̽̀́̃̊̉̀̒̐̔̃̽́͘͜͜ͅ ̴̡̡̢̨̡̛̛̤̲̰̠̣̯̰̜̜̪̮̪̟͓̤͉̳̟̠̝̹̙̜̲̖̾͛̑̓͐͊̎̌̀̄̌͂̓̉̍͒́̈̋̈́̀̌̈́̎͋̽̀̈͘͜͝͠­­̨̡̧̡̧͕͓̣͔̜̗̭̺̹̖̣̩̻̩̜͕͔͔͙͖͕̳̱̺̹͓̝̞͎̟̝͚̦͔̻̣̖̰̰̤̗̮͎̲͕͔̜͜͜͜͜͜ͅͅ ̶͆̉͊̀̒̋̐̎̀͌͒́͗̀̓̋̄̈̓͐̀͛̉̔͂́͑̆͂̽͌̀̀̌̾̑̏̅̆͒̍͐̀͒̈́́̉͛̈́̈́̇̎̾̅̆̄̕͘͝͠͠͝͠͝­­̛̛̤͙͚͎̙̰̯̮̣̳̭̊̓̈́̓̓͌̎̍̂̀͐̀̔͂̑̐̐̓̌̊̄͂̆̉̄̐̂̓͂̊̂͂́̅͊̆̏̈́̒̐͊̔̔͘̚̚̕͝͝͠ͅ­͓­̡̡̟͇̫̣̘̩͈̜͎͍̹̖͍̲͉͉͚̖̞̟̲͚͓̼͚̹͈͙̥͉̮̮̬̙̻͕̱̘͚͉̥̝͜ͅ ̸̨̦͎͎̪͈̺̤͍̼̣̲̗̩̼͙̱̪̰͎̤̘̀̉̆̈́̂̉̅͌̽̾͑̈́͌̎͋͊̆̿̾͌̀̋̀̽̂̈̋̊̑͐͑̽̿̏̈́́̕̚̚͜͜͝­­̲̪̳̬̖̞͓̬͇̺̼͕͓͎̱͉̺͎̼̟̬̩͇̹̞͈ ̶̅̔̽̎͗̎͂̏͊̎́̀͊̽̉̓́̒̐̏̓̐̄͛̔̈́̂͑̓̈́̓̈͋̈́̽̇͆̾̌̍̆͐̎̽̑́͐̌̎͊̌͗͋̀͐̏̓̂͒̒͒͝͝͝­­̡̧̨̨̧̤̥̮̯̲̬̝͎̻̮͈͇̘̮̬̞͓̪̲̱̫̱̤͓̣͉̮̄͐̀͌̔̓̊̈́̅̇̔̀̈́̽̏̉̈̂͛̾̊̓̿̔͑̔̀͘͘͠͝ͅ­̧­̧̨̡̢̡͍̭̥̞͇͕̹̖̱̰̙̤̰̤̝̮̱̭̤͕̹̭̣̭̞̣̼̝͚̠̤͉͉̠͔̹͈̖̳̗̣̥̪̖̱̟̞̳̮͙̺̟͓̠͙̬͍͜­͔̼­̢̨̡̢̨̙̗̱̪͚̫͕̣̩̙͍̹̪̼̣̖̺̭͈̻̩̞̤͙̯̱̞̖̞̠͔͈͜͜ͅ ̷̛̛̉̃͒̀̽͊̅͂̓͗̿̏̽̅́́̈̈́̈́̒̋̇̀͛̄͐̑̑͗̌͛̐̾̂͋͐̽̇̃̋͗̈́͐͋͗̓̄̏́̑͗̐̋̈́̕̕̚͝͝͝͝͝­­̡̡̢̡̨̥͈̮̘̼͇͕̳͔̪̩͕͓̠̪̫̭̫̮̒̈́̃̈͑̋̾̔̀̏́̂̿͂̊̕͜͜͜͝͝ ̵̡̘̹̜̙̙͇̣̰̝̲̲̥̞̮͐̈́̿̍̋͒̃̎̋̽͛͂̌͒̀͗̚͜͜͝͠ ̶̡̨͙̜̝̞͎̜̦̠̟͓͚͔̭̖͎̲̣̳̘̞̩̪͚̅̒̆̈́̈͋͊̓̏͌͗͛̄̈̃̀̈͑͌̇̈̾̆́̅̊̎́̒͆̒̕͜͠͝͠͝͠ͅ­­̢̨̢̧̡̡͎̩̰̩͎̙̮̥̻͎̻̭͔̖̝̦̲̬̘͚̰̯̝̝̱̞̖͔͉͙̬̞̻̹̝̥̯̣͚͓̳̺̯͜ͅ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊ⴭ̨͉̣̲̟ͦ𝛥̨̡͓͇̘̼̳̘̬͍͉̞̥̎͂͌̿̍҅̎̕”


           Something answers.
           Not a voice.               Not words.              But a cadence I      remember
  not by sound,             but by absence.

A hush beneath the screaming. A tremor through the bones of the sea. It is not calling out. It is waiting—

—because it knew I’d come. Because he remembers, too. Even buried. Even broken.
He remembers
me.


“⫯̵̥̝̰̥̬̎̾🝛͔̳̯̳͚̗̫̜̤̽̓̕𝓒̳̾̒⾇̡̙̰̫̆͢ⰱ͉̬̤̙̠̲⾊̺̟͇̣̓͞ͅ­̘̘̲̞ͣͅ”
“­🜎̻̝̗͖̼̎͘͠⨀̨̝͙̗̲̮͙̰̖̅͛̐̾ͅ🜓̛̛͍̜̪̖͙̾̿͘͞ ̶̡̜̞̤͍̪̖͈̭̝̝̓ͅ ̶̧̩͓͉͕̈́͠ ̴̨̖̥̳͙̤̮̟͔͙̘̼̱̺̰̀ ̴̯͓̞̤̺̘̫̤̼̹̀͊͆̎̐̄̇͂̊́̎̿̏͠ ̵̧̱͓̖͖̝̮̜̯͙̭͓̗̓̇̓͐͒̔̿͘͜͠͝͝ ̶̡̨̣̲̱̈́͂͜ ̴̡̧̱͍̬̹̦͉̑̍́͊̈̂͑̋̇̈̕ ̵̨̨̻͉͕̰͇̩̭̻̹̘͇͎̲̔͑̈́̿̏̿́̀͑͂͒̄̍͘ͅ ̴̢͇͚̭̱̼̗̱͈̣͕̤̞͎͚̳͆̈́͊͂͗ͅⴰ͍̹͕͝𝜲̛͈̞͉̖͉ͣ̒”
“⟊̶̠̝̳͋­̤̳͓̙̼̣͗⣮̢̛͕͇͎͖͉͘͡⣾­̷̣̠̯̖̒͌⾓𝓢̡̛͍̫̬͕̤̦̠̜͇͓̼̦̓͛͐̚͢”
“̛̪̻̫̥̫̓ ̸̛͈̟͉̘̤̱̝͓̥̜͎͇͉͂̓͌̀̊̿͌̏̑̔̿̈̾̐̆͊̄̍́̕͘͜͠͝ ̷̡͓̗̻̠̫͕̬̭̝̫̣̥̰͈͍̱̬͗͒͋̑̈̽̆̈́͒̊̽̇̎̃͊́̈́́̐̈́̈́̅̈̊̔͋͊̍͛̀̒̕̚͝͝͝ ̵̦͖̼̦͎̜̪͙̐́̇͛̽̅̈́̀̏̓̆̐̂̌͗̈͐̊̑̋͂̇͘̕̚̚͝͝͝ ̵̛̹̫̟̝̲͕͗̑̆͌̈́̑̃͌́͆̈͆̒͛͑̐̓͊́̏̒̎̅͘͘̕͘̕͠͝͝ ̷̡̧̡̫̠̻͍͍̱̦̪̗̗͓̟̹̲͚̣̙̥̲͍͊͆̊̉̆͐̔̅͊̿̌̓̓̊̍̑̕͘̚͜ ̷̧̢̦͍̩̳̜̱̖̼͓̱̟͚͍̭͈͔̜̟̮̰̩̣͈̰̭̠̈́̄̿̃̈́̾̈́̌̐̚̚͜͝ ̸̢̛̩̠͓̜̣̱̼̩͕̭̹͓͕̻̘͚̖̲̥͂̋̂͊̓́͆̒̕͠͠ ̶̡̧̡̢̠͚̭̝͔̗͓̱̞̗̮̗̳̥͎̰̞̩̲̺̤̳̯̟̪̖̜̖̦͉̤͚͂͜ͅ ̵̘̲̝̝̝̺̖͎̭͕̭̞̙̙̳͗̉̿̌͂̾̾͆̎̀̀̅͑̋̆́̈͐̂̑͛̕ͅ ̸̢̛̛̛͓̟͙̱̖̝͕͖̬̟̦͈̞͍͓͓̼͈̹̹̏̍̇̂̈́̋̅͌̾̑̆̓͆͗̋́͊͛̉͛̂̚̚ ̸̨̝̯͖͕̭̯̜̱̞̼͖͎̫̗͈̺̤̞̤̥̪͚̫͈̜̰̤̽̑̓̌̊̍̆̈́͐́͒̏̐̊̍̏̈́̐̈̽̂͑̏̀̎͂̀̿̽̏͠͠͝͠͝ͅ­­̫̪̗̜̲͍̥̗̱ ̵̡̢̘̹̦̮̗͉̬̙̱̲̳͔̲̟̻̪̫͕͔͈̭̯̹͇̖̘̳̪̙̥̫̯͖̱͎̀̃͒͊̂͂̽̄̅̈̓͐͒͊́̈́́̀̃̕͠ͅ ̶̢̧̠̙̹̯͕̦͍̭͍͈̬̖̬͙̯̘̫̻̯̮͎̈́̽̀͌̽̉͑̈̚͠ ̸̢̢̯̺̖̗̲̬̲̟͈̲̫̮̰̫̰̜̻̹̫̤̰͐̂͆̓̑͊̅̇̒̍́̈́̒̈́̈́̑́̿̒̚͜ ̸̡̡̡̛͉̥̪̩̝͉͎̖̭̞̘͉̟͕̟͔̪̙̼͓͖̬̯̻̖̰̦͕͔̘̺̍̂̏͋̾̽̍̄̋̈͗̊͛͋͋̄̌̚͘͘͜͠͠'̴͛̆͑̚­­̌̍͐̾̋̀̇͊͌̈͌͗̍̋̒͆́͌̀̉̑̓̀͗͛͛͒̓͆̓͑̆̅͗̈͛̂̊̈́͒̉̎̑̈̒̀̐̿̉̌͂̀͂̐̓̃̊̓͂͂͘͘̕͝­͗­̡̧̧̨̧̝͍̹͖̺͖̙̖̯͚̦͔̘̟͔̞͖̯͍̩͔̭̔͜'̵́̈́̋͌̋̈́͋͌͗̎̎̏̊̈̈̅̀̈̂̇̓̐̄͒̈̿͋̒̆̄̓̊­̕͘­̛͂͂͌̄͗̓̃̀͌̋̑̇́̍̀͑̒̔̿̅͊̈̓̊̄̒̇͒͆̉̃̊̅̈́̓́̅̾͐̽̿̇͛̑͐̊̍̓̂͗̀̀͘̚̕͝͝͝͝͠͠­̛̍̑­̧̨̡̗̭͎̠̟͎̙̯̮̞̌̈́̽̆͆̆͑̈́̽͑̓̇́̀̓̂́̓͌̈̔̎̀̓̍̏̊̈́̅͆̈̎͒̓̉̽̎̏͑̕͘̚͘͝͝͝͠͠­̨̻͍̤­̢͚̰̝̝͚̤͚̩͔͈̭̠̖̳̼͔ͅ;̸̧̨̨̢̨̧̧̧̗̲͕̫̹͉͙̠͚̦̟̞͓̮̝͎̦̞̤̳̼̝̣̩͖̫̱̞͐͜͜ͅ­̢̥͎͎̲­̡̢̡̨̡̧̨̧̨̤̪͙͖̜͎̥̠͎͙̤̟͍̟̻̘͕̹͖̺̻͍̜͉̗̺͚̞̺͇̗̮̗̩̪͎̫̲̻͇̮̣͓̫̫̩͖̮͜ͅ­̜̰̫͔̱̠­̞̯̖̘̠̯̹̦̰̩̦̫̗͈͈͕̼̫̪̲͍̙̗͓̰̦͇̲̹͉̟̞̗͍̠̦͎͕;̸̛̈́͑̉̄̑̀̌́͊̐̏͂̐̑̽̏̑­̀̈́̃̌͊̔͌­̛̄̒̀̊̎͋́̀̔̔͆̽̂̌̐̄̿̾̔̈͗̈́̋́̀̋̑̄͑̓̓̌̾̓̇̐̂͋̊́̏̈́̈̿̏̓̎͊̽̕͘͠͠͝͠͠­͑͛̀̌̆̓͠͝­̡̯̝̪̼̭̦̙͙̯̘̜͍̹͉̱̻͓̣̼͓̳̩̉͛̈́͊̓̂̅̋̋̄̑̋͌̓̆̇͘̚͜͝)̴̆̾̓̈̍̊́̓̌̕̚­̀̋͌͗̇̽̿̚̚­̛̛̛̌͋̿̎̐͒̋͛̊̇͐̈͐̽̍̓̒̒̽̐̔̌̀́̿̒̆̔̒̈́͆͂̐̒͐͊̊͛̆̂͗̈́̓̂̈́̚͘͘͘̚͝͝­̛̌͌́̉̓̀́͘͝­̡̡̨̨̢̨͙͉̤̩̼̞̟̞̬͔̞͓̙̹̼͇͉̥̹̠̲̭̥̭͙̬̱͉̼̻͙̰̬̗̯̈́̀̒̉̓̉̇̚̕͜͜ͅͅ­͍̠͙̜̰̯̩͚͍̯͜­͙͎'̷̎͂̀͋̿̓̍͆̽́͒̏͆́͒͒̎̇͋͒̉͆̉̍̾̃̍̽̇̽͛͋́̐̃̀͊͑͒̕̕̚͘͘͠͝͝͠͝­͋͗̆͋̐͐̎̐̔̒͝͠­̛̛̾̅͐̓͐̀̈͒̅̑̓̍́̓͒̏̃́̔͋̽͗̌͂̿̀̾̀̔̆̓̓͂̋̍̏̍̽̾̆͋̔̈́̚̕̚͠͝͠͝­̛̆̌̍͑̅̍́̾́̚̚͠­̧̡̡̹͖̮͉̥̥̠̥̗̺͖̝͔͎͎̹̬͎̩͔̺͍̬̱͇̹͔͎͍͓̠͚͔̘̣̥̩̼̯̝̫̼̫̫̞͋̆ͅ­̡̧̭̰̮͙̫̣̜̩̻̩ͅͅ­̧̨̨̧̨̡̮̲͍̬̱͓̥̜̲̬͉̳̱͈̩̺̝̣̬̻͕͉͙̹̠͖̝̠͙͎̲͈̟̼͇͓͔̮̫͓͖͜͜ͅ­̧̞̺̲̭͜'̷̄̇̃̈́̈̊̕­̉̃͑̏̉͐̓̇͑̓̃́͌̐̏̒̀̽̎̿̏̄͆̀́́͒̌̓̃̑̇͑̀͛̇̽̂͌͋́̎͘͘͘̕͝͝͠­̛̓̄̀͐̋͑̈̔̃̾̒̒̚̕͝­͊̎̉̉̑̈̾͒̆̓̏͂̄̏̅̿́̀͐͋̎͑̾̉̃͛̈́͒́̓͑̆̾̋̅̎͂͘̕̚̚̕͝͝͝͠͠͝­̡̨͖̯͚̖͎̝͕̩̯̞̫͍̙͗ͅ­̡̡̨͈̟̤̘̙̳̗̖̰̹̯͔͓̗̹̪̝̳̜̭̟͕̰̳͉͙͉̳͍̙͔̲̯̲̗̹̖̱̞̯̖ͅͅͅ­̢̘͉̻͕̭̱̝̦͓̖͓̺̻̜̝͚ͅ­̧̧̢̢͉͖̩̜̻͎͙͔̙̩͙̜̳̜͖̤̖̺͍̝̙͚̻̪͎̞͍̩̙͕̣;̵̒̒̒̓̽̅̆̉̓­̈́̃́̒̊̿͂̊̈́͊̽̿͑̓̽̾̌́͠­̆̑̏͒̎̀͑̄̀̈́̄̍͒̈́̇̋͛̌͐̀̌̉̆̈̃̅̎̐̈́̎̓̊̏͑̽͆̃͘̚͘̕̕̕͝͝­̃͑̃̃́͂̂́̃̓͊́̏̈̽̂͑͑͠͠­̨̨̧̧̨̻̹̪̩̰͔̱̦̘͙͎͕͚̭̻͈͕̯̣͎̫͔̱̯͓̻̩͔͙̙͈̳̜̺̻͉̲̙͜­̨̠̭̯̬͖̳̟̤̞̦̥̜̗̯̦͎̞̬̞̞­̨̻̰͉̙̙̩̳̞͎̟̫͈͉͎̞͔̪͚̗͚͉̗͍̻͇͇͓̮̭̺̫̘̻͓̯̱̫͙̼ͅͅͅ­̧̡͓͇̰͕͖̭͖͓̳̹̣͎̯̹̗̠͚̪̻͜­̨̢̡̖͉͓͚̰̬͎̟̮̠͙̦͕̭̭̭̩̝̮̼̬̯̫͍͕ͅ;̵̋͛̇̃́̅̀͐̎͌͝­̨̘̳̟͖̱̘̜̂̿̈́̋̎͒̉̈́̄̉̓̌͘͜͝­̡̢̧̥͚̹̥̪̰̹̝̮̥̥̫͈̮̖͇̘̞͍͍̮͉̯̘̟͎̭̗̲̱͎̣͓͔͈ͅͅͅ­̢͇͔̖̥̩̮̜̩̦̫̘͕̤;̸̇͆̏̑̔̔͆͒­̛̛̛̎̆̔͌̾̾̇͌̓͑̇̆͌̎̀́̅̄̊͑̑̾̄̄͛̅̈́̎̓̚̕̚͝͝͝͠͝­̛́̎̎̋̍͐̓̾͗́̾͆̀͆͛́̏̈͗͂̚͝͝͝­̰̰̳͇̙̞͈̹̒̅̿̔͛̀̈͗̿͌͂̎̃͑̀̓̅̈̀̐̊̽͊̄͘͘̕͜͠͝͝­̨̢̨͍̯͍̯̬̺̺͈̮̫̫̫͈̥̜͙̙͉͍͜͜͜ͅ­̡̘̹.̷̛̾̉̓͂͊̔̓̿̇̊͒̋́̔̈́̀̎̑̅̎̎̇̿̅́͘͘͝͠͝͝͝­͒̃̅̈́̍̿̿̇̀̈́̒͂̎̀̂̍͛͆̂͛̋͘͘͠͝͝͝­͖͙͍̄͂͒͋̈́͆̏̕͝ͅͅ;̶̛́̍̀́̄̈́̉̎̓̽̂̑̇̅̽͑͗͘̕͝­̒̈̂͊̈́͒̉͛͒̋͗̆̾̃̓͑̀̈́̈́́̆̔̔́̔̚̕͝­̢̫̗̝.̸̈́̈́̋̄͋̆̌͌͋̊͌̍̆̒̑́̽͑̆̒̋͒͆̎̑̃̕͘͘̚­̛̛͊̇̎̄̀̿̇͊͂͌̿̈͑̓̅̅́̾̓̀̆̓̈́͠͝͠͝­̔̃̋̒̈̔̆̋̊̄̈́̇̎̄̾̓͋͆́͑̽͊̋̽̓͊̓̃̎̀͘̕̕͝͝­̀͑̑͋̋̀͂̈̆̂̍́͋͛̔͋̂̀̂̂̽̑̎̔͑͑̋́̚͝­͗̄͛͐͋́̽́͐̇̓̿̂̂̎́̉͌̅̓̍̂̏͆̈́̾̄͛͒̔̾͝͝͝­̡̨͇̣̠͖͍̰̙̰̗̘̺̰̭̘̻̲̱̥͈̎͊̎́͛̏͑͌͝ͅ­̢̧̨̤̫̞̲̲̹͓̙͓̩͓̩͈͍̘͔̫̳̱̻̟͕͕̣͓̥̝̲ͅͅ­̡̧̢̨͖̮͖̺̗̭̟͎̖̟͇̰̦̱̲̙̪̬̘̜̞̤̯͎͜͜ͅͅ­̟,̴̢̧̧̙͉̲̼̻̬͖̜̎̒̊͐̈́̋̏́͂̃͑̂̋̍̒͌͠͝­̧̧̧̭̲̤̬̘̻̗̼̻̠̬͇̦̣͕̗̫̺͕̱͓͚͖̹̳̖̜͜ͅͅ­̡̡̧̧̡̟̳̲̠̖̯̳͈͓̺̲̘̭͕͚͎̼͉͍͙̯̜͚͖͜͜­̡̧̧͍̟̮͈̦̟͇̩̪͔̰̥̩͖̹̥̣̰̤̭͙͉͎̞̟͍̳̹͜͜ͅ­̨̢̡͙͉̩̦͍̭̞̘̣̣̲̻̺̹̳͚̞͈̤̫̳͍̤̤͜ͅͅ­,̸̛̈̈̆̓͂̑̾͗̋͂̊͛́̍̈́͛̅̇͒̈̅̾̍̈́̈́͌̐̓͘͝͝͝­̢̨̧̦̩̯͎͖̟̯͈̯̣̋̉͒̏͝.̶̛̇̍̈́̈́͒́̕͝­̒̋̈́͐͋̀̐̓͆̀͛̈̇̔̅̓͛̌̅͑̒̒̐̒́͛̇͗̋͂̇̍̚̕͠͝­̛̄̑̈́̈͑̔̽̎͐́̍̑̐́̔̍̊̑͐̈́̽̽͘͝͠͝­̞̹̙̖̦̼̜̱͕̝̺̹̅̔͒̆̓̑̀̄͌̄̌̌̋̈́̾̍́̆̎̒͐̃̚̕͜­̦̯̝̬̖̦͈̮̝̟͕̭̻͓͕̳̝̼̯͉̰̘͙̰̬͕͜­̨̨̢̡̢̤̭̣͓͎͇̫͖͉̺̫̼̤͚͎̩̯̺̩͇͎̺̤̳̜͎͍̳̭̻͍͇͜­̨̨̡̠͉͈̩̗̯̙̣̹̩̠̥̻̤͉͉͚͎͍͓͉͜͜­̧̥̪̱̥͍̲̥͇̠̠͓͕̯.̸̛̛͆̏̀͛͛̊̆̇̿͒͐͋̋̎́́͆̀͂̀͠­̡͖̜̰̞̳͉͈̲̜̫͉̼̮̫͎̈́̊̈́͌͒̈́̃̇͝­̧̢̧̨͉̳͕͕̝̳̩̘̼̥̹͙̗̻͎̯͖̦̹͕͖͕̫̞̩̖̘͚̰̰̼̫̣̞͜͜­̡̢͍̭̖͔̹̘̗̗͔͎̩̭̤̗̤̮̺̬̲͓͉̩­̢͍̳͕͖̱,̸̡͙̤̯̭͇̖̟̔̐͒̏̃͊̃̀͒̀̐̒̏̑́͑̔́̾̏̐͑̊̒̓­̥͉͎͇̜̥̘̤͉̩̺̗̩̥̖͓͙̞̖̣̰͜ͅ­̧̫̝͈̹̺͚̘̮̤ͅ.̸̛̎̿̍͐̍͆̉͗̔̆̈́͆̈́̈́̈́͊̂̊̿̽̍̅͗̿͘͝͠͝­̃̀̑̎͗͂̈́͋̿̋̄͐̔̃̒̈́́̑̚͝͠͠­̛̍́͂̋̄̍́͂̏̉̎͊̈́̑̑͐͗̎̒̓̓͋̑͑͋͛͆̓̆̌͛̌̾̿̆̆͂͂̎͘̚͘­̊͗̂̽̇̾͒̈́̀͊̆̾͑͂̉̐̈́̐̈́͝͝­̡̘̲̟͇̹͈̮͉̱͉̘͍͈͕̍͘.̸̢̢̲͇͎͉̤̰̹̪͕̲͉͙̫̰̃̂͂͐́̿͐̓͜­̳̘̙̲͉̣͈̯̳̥͚͚͕͙̱̪̬̪̩̜­̨͉͚͈̣,̴̋̋̿̂̾̔́̌̾̍́̔̍̆́̿̍̑̾̇̈́̔͛̇͆͊̈́̈́͗̋̇̄̈́͘̚̚̚͝­́̑̈́̓̎̂̉̔́̅̏̓̆̍͒̏̿̋͠­̈́͐͌̆́̀̋̔̍͛͊̈́̓̌̂̾͛̒̈̈́̍̅̂̍̅̒̽̂̅̍̿̂̾̆̏̂̒͒̃̾͑̀̎̓̀͝­̟̞̰̘͎̌̄͂̄̔̎́͒̚͘̕͝ͅ­̢̨̡̧̡̨̦̩̣͓̼̠̥̞̳̞̝͍̰̱̹̟̻̬̙̰͖̳̫̹͎̞̮͈̼̱͕͍̪͚̠̬̬̜͙̰̦­̢̢̢̡̨̞̼͉̟͔̱̭͍̫͚̬̬­̣̪̠̠ ̸̡̧̡̟̫̬̲͖̙̯̭͓͚͎͕̳̬̼̭͉̪̹͇͔̭̖̣̬̦̜͕̰͍̰̳͎̗̦͙̣̼͙̻̙̬̤̤̫̩̝͙̹̟̗̳͕̰̅̾̕ͅͅͅͅ­­̡̢͎̩̩̝̜̝̻͕̰̰̙̗͜͜ͅ ̴̛͋͑̈͒̒̋́̓̋͋̒̈̍͗̂̀͌͆̈́́̿̌̿̒́̊̅͐̍̑͊̒̀̊̒͛́̾̿̓̂̐͗̇͒̓͋̃́͂̆̕̕͘͘̕͘͘͘̚͝͠͝­­̛̛̌̌̑̎̾̀̀͗̌̍̎̄̈́͂̔͗̽̈̾̅͊͑̏̄̊͋̽̓́̔̀̎̑̈́̀̽̍́̽̂̑͋̐͒͑͂̉̆̍͆̊̍̒̆̾̀͊̀͘̕̚͘­̓­̢̨̢̧̳̺̖̣̩̺̫̗̹̜̭̤̦̰̘̮͎͚̬̣̫̲̙͖̪͔̖̘̠̖̭͚̺̟̗̬̭̼̘͉̱̏͌͊͐̿͗̐͂̈́͛̆̄̍̉̕͜ͅͅ­͔̻­̧̧̢̜̫͉̜͙̦͕̜̜͕̤̪̰̞͖̟̹̤̭͉̙͉ ̴̛̛̛̌͐̀̽͛̿̀͐͗̉̈́̆̂͛̓̑̐̓͂͛̈̈́̽͌͒̀̈́͆̔̈̅͌̓͌̋͛̏̾́̏͐͋̈́͒͗̅̊̾̍̏̚͘̕͘̕̚̕͠͝͠͝­­̢̛̊̀̀̈̋̀̈́̋̿̂͂͒̄̒̋́̇́̍͒͒̋͊̀̐́̈̏̀̈́͐͑̊̊̃̑͊̅̓̀͋̊͌͆̃̉͊́͋̐̕̕̚̕͘̕͘͠͝͠͠͝­͙­̢̱̜͎̜̫̜̝̦̭̬̺̗͎̲͚̯͚͎͎͉͉̙̙͉͈̞̮̮̮͈̹̭̳̣͉͚̠͖̼̘̥̦̣̮̜̭̰̙̻̞̝̩̬̙͚̻͕͜͜͜ͅͅ­̣̠­̧̧̢̡̧͕̜̯̙̤̟͈͚̙̙̝̖͙̩̦̞͍̪͚̻͍̞̙͈̻͙̙͍̝͈̻͎̺̜̘̳̻̟̗͉͕̙̼͙̮̬͉͚̥̯͚͎͈͜͜ͅͅ­̼̩͉­̡̢̡̢͍̞̣͇͔̞͙̲͈͕̗̻̙̭͔̺̥̬̜͎̻̞̯͎̜͎̠͎̺̻͜͜ ̶̢̡̢̨̨̨̢̨̲̱̲͚̳̦̮̣͉͙̻̘̻̝̞̳̩͉̤̳̭̯͓̻̝̩̘̖̠̰̻̬͓̻͈̠̙̤̤͓̣̯̫͕̲̼̮̖̰̼͙̬̉̏͜͜­­̧̖̻̯͍̩̗͕̱͇̤̯̳̘͈̻͙̗͜ ̴̛͉̻͑͂͋̇̿̐̾̆̾̊̅͐̿͌͛͛͆̈́̈́̈́̍̅̎̾̂̒̿͛̾́̇͛̅͗̂͛͗͗̈́̾̀͊̉̎̊̓̀̐̎̕̚̚̚̚͠͝͝͠͝͝͝­­̢̡̡̨̢͓̜̣͙̯̯̩̳̫̤̙̖͔͚̹̹͍̺͍̙̳̖̲͙̖͓̹̯̪̦̱̭̳͎̪̝̰̤̯̬̯͚͕̰̺̱̗͔̠͉̻͓̜̣̫̞̬͜ͅ­̡­͎͖̣̠͚͕͍̦͔̤̱͔̥̪̳͓͖̺͍̼̗͉̝ͅͅ ̵̨̛̛̮͉̬̜͕̥̜̠̣̺̠̯̬͌͊̂̽̀̉̅̓͆̂̇̈́͑͒́̈̌̑̌͐́̓͆̅̒̍̏̾̾͂͐͛̽̍̐́̈́̈́́̄̀̚͜͠͝͠͝ͅ­­̧̨͔̘̻͈͔̘̞̲͓̟̹͙̼̟̣̫̱̘̰͉̥͎͙̝̞͉̯͈͈̜̺̺̲̫̟͔͖̫͍̠͍͔̰̙̠̯͓̦̫͖̦̖͚ͅ ̸̨̢̡̨̛̻̙̭̝̹̠̣͎͉̥͍̼͍̋̊̄̄͑̈́̀̀̋̈́̓͋̊̐̿̌̀̋͊̈́̒̂͒͆̐̇̿̊̾̽̀̐͊̔̒͑͋̉̔̈̓͝͝͝͠ͅ­­̧̨̢̨̡̡̧̲̙̝͔̥̭̯͈̩̥̣̼̞̟͈̬̙̘̟̻̬͈͎̖͎̱̹̬̯̥͍͖͙̱͚̰̘̳͓̳̪̦̭̹̬̝̮̙̜̫͍͜͜͜͜͜ͅ­͕­̧̫̞͔͎͙̙̦͇̙̞̩͎̰̦͎͔̠͓̲͚̖̖̯̻̜̣̺̠̯̼̩̩̼͖̺̼͖̗͓͓̳͍͚͙̯̝̻̩͖̥̪̙̞͕͖̣̣͜ͅͅͅͅ­̫̮­̠ ̵̛̛̛̍̐͂̇͊͊͗̂͗̒̇̆̔̒̀̉̂͆̂̽̓̒̑̎̓̔́̔͑̆̅͑̐̉̐́̏̇̓̒̐̐͆͛͌̅̎́͗͛̊̍͛̓̑̐̕͝͝͠͝­­̢̼̤͖̯͎̺̙͙͉͓̐̈́̂͑͗̅̆̿̋̅̓͗̂̅̀́́̿̒̀̽͊̈̋͆̂́̎͑́͑͊̂̔͒̀̎̿̀͛̌̐̽͂̄͗̉̚͘͜͠͠͠­ͅ­̢̧̢̭̹̫̝̹͉̣͎͚̙̝͚̬̱͈̪̹̘̙̝̫̜͖̗̻̙͙̦̥͕̘͖̥͚̪͇͙̼̟͉͔̜̙͖̭̦̤̪͔̭̱̯̦̬̙͇̠͔̩͜­̪̞­̢̢̢̡̡̠̣̠̘͚̠̞͓͚̹͉̬̟̥͇͕͉͙̤̹̗̜̙̹͈̟̟̬̣͇̼̠̥͚̤̬̲̭̰̞̳̩̤͇̺̪͔ ̸̛̾́̆̒̈́̊̊̉͌͗̽̾̐̓̈́͌͊̓̃̎̒͛̐͗̅̔̓̒̒͋̀̿̆̆̽͆̈́̈́̾͑̎̿̓̆̐͒̀̑̇̓̆̂̀͂͘̕̕͝͝͝͝͝͝­­̧̪̼̖͕̣̘̤͚̯̤̗̻̹͎̣̲̲̝͒͑͛̀̊̏̆͘ͅͅ ̶̛̟̩̝̌̍̃͆͑͊̆͒̏̋́̽̎̍͗̈́̍͂̀̋̈̓̈̇͒̑́͐̋͂́̎̄̃̀̋̆̌̈́͒́͊͋͛͆̑̆̋̾̉̈́̋͊̂̚͘͝͝͠­­̨̨̡̢̧̧̡̡̢͍̱̩̣̪̜͈͓͕͕̱̮̫̜̼͚͔̘̲̻̣͓͎͔̖̱̪͎͔̖̠͇̹͙͚̩͈̱̼̖͍̥̙͓͎̘̥͈͍͎̻̥̜͜ͅ­͙­̧̡̺̖̪̲̤̜̝̮̟͚̟̮̤̪͕̬͇͚ͅ ̴̢̭͎̫̼̺͎͚̟̙͚̜̠͖̿̂̃͂͑̓̓͌̐̈́͊̊̄̅͑̈́̉͐̊̊̎̋̒̒̓̔͆͐́̑͌̆̒̈́͐̓̉͐́̋͌͋͌͒̄̍͌̕͘͝­­̢̨̨̯̥͓̼̗͎̝̱͇͇͓̥͓̟̤̦̙͔̼̘̘͈̝̣̲̠͉̦͕̤͚̘̖̹͉̼̫͈̦̭̲͓̞̮̭͔͖̠̲͖̞̞̪̣̮̩͜͜͜ͅͅ­͇­̨̢̡̨̡̨̺̱̪͎̩̳̳̭̥͔͖̩̙̞͎͖̱̭͔̼͇̯̠͖̪͇̣̯̖̥̻̙̟͖͈͈͖̪͙͓̻̳̦͔̺͍̗̯͇ͅ ̵̢̛̪̯̟̜̖̫͕̺̲͆́̄̃͑̎̈̋̾͛̆̿̐̈̾̌͂͛̒̓̐̑̉̿̆̅̽̅̓̀͗͛̒̀̑͗̾̈́͒̄̾̂͒͗̈́͛̽͘͘͘͝͝͝­­̨̢̢̧̧̧̮͈͔̤̩̜̠̘̖͉̝̘͈̪̦̝̳͚̖̻̭̻̭̘̮͈͎̰͙̫̠͓͕̥̫̫̟̩̜̬̲̙̮̙̺̦̼̼͕̦̯̙̖͔̪̫͜͜­̻­̧̡̧͇̝͔̰̯͉̹̪̝̲̟̫̠̩̞̥̝͖̟̦̻̹̰͕̼͖̩͇͓͓͙͚̲̠̗͇̖̯͙̼̫̳̫̭̙̻̝̬͈͖̯̫̺̲̺͓̦̦̰͜­̨̭­̧̡̧̧̺̜͎͎̳̫̬̼̰͉̰̱͙̖̰̠͖͎̗͎͓̬̣͈̞͚̭̻͜͜ͅ ̸̡̢̨̨̡̥͈̠͈͙̲̩̣̳̪̜̠̯̮͚͓̣̱̮͚̪̭̫̯͙̖̪̮̩̯̠̝͕̟̰͎͚̘̝̠͔͆̍̈̈́͒͒̌͐̓̓͋͒͜͝͝͝͝͠­­̡̙̫̱̦̞̝̠͜ͅ ̵̢̻̪̙̥̤̮̦͖̣͙̮͊̇̂̂̑͛̏̌̒̀̑́̆̔͑̎̀̀͐̔͗͐͛̅́̀͂͐̔̈̀̔͑̃̒̂̈́̑͂̈̕̕̚̚̚͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅ­­̧̨̧̢̡̡̧̨̡̧̢̨̬͕̦͎̣̞̲̜̜̬͎̫̰͔̫̞̙͈̣̟̟̱̙̘̲̬̜̠͖̦̳͚͇̻̺̜͓̦̳̝̪͎̬̘̺̤͇̠̩͜ͅͅ­͓­̧̧̢̨̡̢͎̼̗̳͉̳̻̯̲̳̰͔̠̪͎̳͓̬̦͓̼̘͍̝̜̖͓̫͔̮̳͇̱͚̪̯͎̲̟̫̪͔͚̱̖͍̩̲̥̰̗̙̼͜͜͜ͅ­̮͚­̧͖͈̪͇̜͉̗̗̠͓̺͈̞̜̬̦̯̘̮̦͜ ̶̛̛̼͛̆̏̾̾̄̅̄͊̆̂̍̂̈́̒̾̑̉͗̽̊̾̑̂͑̅̿͊̒̈́̄̀͂̑͊̈̾̔̽̐̉͗̈̊͛́̈́̋͌̂͊̀̈͋̎̀̚͘̚͝͠­­̢̧̢̢̟̻̼̲͍̘̫̰͎̣̜̣̗̙̞̬̝̮͖̯̹͔̫͙̳͇̤̝̥͕͕͔̦̞̜͍̮̭̗͍͕͙͔̣͈̜̜̠͈͔̼̪̯̖̭̫͜͜ͅͅ­̣­̖̟̭̩̰ ̸̛̛̎̀̾̽̈́͆͗̄̏̀̂̾̄̉̆̊̆͋͒̀̏̆͑̈́́̅̍̓̐̇̈́̋̾̒̓̈̽̍̈́̄̿̈̂̂̿̔̌̓́̊̓͒͊͗̚͘̕͝͝͝͝͝­­̛̀́̐͐̒̆̑̀͑̽̅͋̽̄̓̀̃̾̽͒͛̃̅̈̀̂̉̐̉͋̃̐̋̇̋͊͐̿́̔̓̒̓̑͋̉̀̌͛͆͆͒̐͆͘̚̕̚̕͠͝͝͝­̳­̧̧̢̨̡̡̨̠̙͍̠͉͕͍̺͔̭̲̖̻̻̮̱͎̲͎̤̺͉̪͍̣͇̠̯̮̻̭̗̥̗̦͚̲̙̱̯̟̤̭̱͓̱̯̭͖̺͚̗͜ͅͅͅ­͎̯­̧̡̧̧̧͍͈̤̝̘͇͈̫̺̘̳͖̫̼͉̺̭̝̙͍̥̰̻̻͓̖͉͖͇͚̮̪̳̞͈͔̻̦̹̪̩̣͖͕̯̗͚͎̹̱̭̬͉̱̯͇ͅ­͙̩̯­ ̸̛͗̃͂̉́̍̒̅̅̏̽͒̽̈̈́̊̑̀̽̽͗͋̽̄̈́̌̍̔͒̔̓̉̋̃̃͑͋̔̽͊͂̒̄͑͆̓̓͊̑̽̓̉̄̉̉̍̕̚͝͝͝͠͝­­̧̛̛̟͍̱̪̣̘͍͕̻͔͇͇͕̙͇̪̙̖͎͖͉̞̻͙̈́̊̅̾̽̓̽̾͛̾̓̇͊͂̾̾͊̈́͑̌͐̾̋̔̾̌̿̈́͐́͛̕̕͘͜ͅͅ­̻­̢̧̨̱̤͇̗̮̱̲͔͎̤̙͇̣͖̰̲̠̹̩̙̠̹̤̮̣͖̰̜͎̪̬̻͇̫̙ͅ ̷̧̢̢̨̢̤̲͉̗̭̬̪͚̻̬̠͉͉̳͚͙̳̙̪̪̣̼̮̹͇͈̟̲̗̦̫̖̲̳͉͔̘͉̩͙̫͔͚̭̐̆̋̄͒̊̋̒̓͂̿͠͠͝ͅ­­̢̨̢̡͚̥͕͉̬͕͙̳̭̙̲̗͇̥͎͕̭̘̼̫̰̙̮̤͖͈̠̰͙̲̳͚̙̲̮͚̖̮͖̩̘͍̟͜͜ͅ ̷̧̧̘̞̬̬̣̻͎͈̔̾̒̄̓̃͂̔̊̂̿́̆̕͘ ̸̛̐́̿̉͑́̽͗̓̉̎͗̍̉̀͐̽͊́̉͗̊̏̽̃̉̑̿̾͐͒̍̇̓̆̓̈́́̈̔̿͒̆̈́̀̐̊̀̎̄͛͗̈̂̌̓͛̄̕̕͝͝͠­­̈́̉̒̂̆̅̍̿̈́̓̂͌̊̃̒͐̍̊̈́̇̀̀̍͑͗̉̊͛̄͑́͒̏̓̾̾͋̈́̌̀̐̃̀̌͊̿͑̾̑̚̕͘̕͘̚͘͘͝͝͝͝͝͠͠­͋­̡̩̝͇͖̺̯̹̹̭͎̙̜̺̠̖̜̙͈̫̖̩͎͔̺͙̯̭̙̮̬̆̉͊͋͜͝ͅͅ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊⾐̷̠̰̠̹́̚͢ ̸͖͓̲͚̰̱̟͕̈́̆̅̅́̏̌̀͌̍̀̾̕ ̷̧̢̙̻͎̥͈̘̻͎̜͔͔͎̭̞̔͗͌̅̂̽̃̇̂͠͝ ̵̰͐̃͗͑̈́͂̽̂̈́͠͝͝͠ ̴̨̨̛͎̘̻͈͎̱̬́̆̽͛͒̒̏̽̋̐̑͝͝ ̵̥̘̹̹̐̾̒̓ͅ ̶̘̬̗̓͌́̽̈̃̀̐̆̓̆͆̕̕͠”


My body            

              
           collapses to its  

      knees—




             not in surrender—    
just in                            



              fatigue.


  But I feel his hand.

Buried beneath             crushed coral       and brittle fragments      of digested        memories.

I                          
reach.


“­𝒀̸̮͇̟̞͎̘̥̦̙̟̪̓𝕆͘𝕌Ǵ̴̢̢̛̖̯̤̱͕̲̯̟𝒜̶̥͓͇͎̳̻̞̜͓͑𝓥𝔼ʜ̵𝐢𝕄𝔼𝕍𝓔𝖱𝙔𝐓̶ℍ𝕀𝓝𝙶!—𝐀𝓑̡­𝓞𝓓𝒀̴𝓣̴𝓗𝖆𝙏𝓒𝔸𝓃𝓢𝕋𝖆𝓨!—𝓛OO̷̹̘̗̗̰𝕂𝒜𝕋ᴹ𝔼𝒍𝕆𝕆𝓚A𝙏𝙈𝑬!—𝕐͘𝗈𝐔’ᴿ𝕰H𝔼𝕽𝔼!—𝙁𝓘𝓝𝔄𝓛𝓛𝕐ʜᴇ𝕣­𝐞!—𝕔𝕆𝕄𝕖̵͔̲̳͇͎͉̗͉̜̎𝓑𝐀𝐂ᴋ—𝑊𝔼𝓬𝔸𝓃𝓑𝕖𝕎ʜ𝔬𝓛𝐄!”


She                doesn’­t understand. She              never                   will.
That I am whole                  because I remember who I chose                            instead of her.

She thrashes.
                       The ocean buckles.                
                                        ­­    I am almost crushed              
     beneath her weight.
My ribs strain.
                                      My lungs ache.
                                                           ­  My vision fractures.
                 She shrieks.


“𝒀̶̳͕̪̙̻̟̙͓̽𝓞̶̱̲̱̠̘̳̳̥̥̎𝕌̷̘̠̠̘̥̥̬̦͛G̶̘̟̞̯̟̮̫̩̥̋͜𝒜̶̠͙̟̮­̫̥̳͇̬͑𝓥̵̛̟̟̳̬͖͖͋𝔼̷̢̛̲̱̥̬̱̝̱̦𝕋̴̳͚̠͎̰̳̯̹̳̕𝕙̵̼̫̙̻̬͂𝕖̷̛͖̙̪̖̰̝̰̰̕𝙈̷̢̜̥­̙̙̤̪̽𝕎𝓘𝕟𝓖𝒮!𝓨̸͔̖̘̥͉̞͒𝖮̴̛̞̥̻̱̤̒𝕌̵̢̢̖̙̤͈̙̞̎𝓁̸͖̥̯̥̲̜̯̿𝓔̵̤̮̬͖͉͎͍͍̐𝓣̶̨͍­̫͓̱̞̩̩̏𝓣̴͔̠̳̫̰̝̪͉̱͘𝕙͘𝒆̷̡̛̼̮̤͕̤̠͈̼̓𝕞̶̢̛̲̜̲̰̮̘̜̹̾𝔽𝓛𝕐fᖇ𝐎𝐌𝕐ᴼ𝕌𝓡𝕒𝙍𝓜𝓢—̶̳­͖̯̺̬̳̦͖̮̋𝓐𝙉𝔻̸͍̝̯̬̼̖̲̦̼̽𝓨̷̪̮̞͎̳̲̜̲̓𝓞̶̼̯͚̠̘̠̫̐𝓤̴̛̘͓͚̤̱̟̓𝔾̴̟͓̪͙̟̰͕̔𝔸­̸̢̳̤͕̳̳̦͒𝔙̷̛̪̩̘̩̗̰͌𝓔̴̲̪̗̮̪̺͇͖̠̚𝕄̶͈̰̼̳̝̞̠͎͗𝔼̶̢̡͈̫̪̩̱̞̈𝓝𝓞̶̡̢̨̹̫̬͙͖̎­𝕋𝕙𝒊̶̼̥̘̖͙̥͝𝒩𝔾!”


Her                      voice                  
   ­   breaks.
                           Almost breaks…

                                me.


“𝓘̴͚͚͇͉̜̖̅̐̒𝓗̷̛̳͍̖­̻̟̓𝓐̶̲̞̯̗̦͇̅𝕍𝒆𝙉𝕆𝓢𝓚𝕀𝒩!—𝓝𝒪𝓗𝓐𝓝𝕕𝕊ᴛᴏʰ𝓞𝕝𝔻ʸ𝕆𝕌W𝙄𝕋𝓗!—𝓝𝕆𝓕𝓐𝓒𝔼—𝓝𝕆𝓛𝓘𝓟𝕊ᴛᴏ𝓚𝕀𝕊𝕊𝓨𝕆­𝕌!—𝓘H̵𝓐𝖁𝕖𝒪𝓝𝕃𝓨𝕎𝓐𝕍𝑬𝕊—𝒜𝓝𝓓𝓨𝕆𝕌—𝒴𝕆𝕌𝓗𝕆𝕃𝔻𝕙𝕀𝕄.—𝙃𝕀𝙈!”


She’s jealous                  of what she herself                   refused to accept. I can’t             transform an                            unwilling soul.
                              As much      as she     claims       to want the     result,                                            
she refuses to                  trust,
                                      ­        to share control,
to let me share with her,                                         the process.
It’s not that I withheld the opportunity,      
                                              ­she was simply unwilling.
Transformation is a divine experience.
                                         It can be neither         forced from nor       forced upon.              

                But she cares not                                 for reasons, cares not

for mutual agreement.                   She just wants

                                      to take,

but she cannot take    

                                                  from me.


                              I can’t let her                            distract me    
with                this
                                 ­                   slander.


I­ close my hands
around him.                    


“⩌̴̹̼̮̟̑̕͘ⴷ̹͛⎔͇̻̾͢𝛫̼̞͙̾̚⫯̴̛̦̪̗͈̇͒ ̸̢̨̢̢̡͖͓̩̜̘̣͓̫̗̺̺̲̬̗̠̤͎͙̜̩̙͓͚͇͔͕̱̜͉̭̬̳͍̩̪̝͔̓̍̿̈́̀́́͌̔̆̂͆̑̐̂̍̔̕̚͜͜ͅ­̧̟͎̦̤͙̼͚̫̙̯̤͖ ̶͙͕͕̮͒̂̊̾͌̒̚ ̴̨͓̘̗̣͎̭̣̣̼͇̱͕̠͑̈́̀̑̋̅̀̀̈́́̕͘͜ ̶͔̝̭̞͍̯̠͔̫̯̭͉͔̘̲̥̯̗̙͔̜̙͈̻̞̥̫̖̮͕̖̔̀̐͋͆͗͂͂͒̂̀̒̃̎͋̂̿͛̍͗̋̀̊̈͌͝͠͠͠͠͠ͅͅ­̢̮̦̩̝̠̝̯͕̞͈̰͎̫̰͈̘̹͎̯̭͜ͅ ̷̛̘͔͎̘̻̦̄̓͌͊̓̅͒̾̈́̔̈́͑́̾̈̎̀̈́̅͛̾̾̂̿̇̈͐̍̄̌̄̒̉̐̽̏̊͑̀̅̄́͒̽́͘̚͘̕͘͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅ­̢̧̢̡̢̢̧̳̲͎̞͚̥̺͎̰̘̩͉͔͔̟̞̜̼̻̠͍͖̻̳͔̩͈͚̟̳̻̜̻̗͇̦̼͔͚͔̯̭̜͚̺͜͜ͅͅ ̶̨̨̨̢̢̢̛̼̤̦̫̹̰͙̼͉̠̩̤̦̲͖̹̙̩̗͙͉̜̟̱̝̤̦̝̘̭̹͈̋͋̾̍̅̀̂͑̅̊̍̂̉̒̈́̎̃̽̇̊̍̕͜͝ͅ­̨̨̢̤̙̻̦̟̝̼̫̦͍̬̹͚̭̬̲͇̙̲͉͍̮̤͇͉͈̦͜ ̸̋͛̑͂͗̑͋̌̓̓̂̈́͐̓̈́͑̂͛͌͋̒̈̓̅̈́͐̾̏̈́̀̈́̈́̅̓̓͒͐̉̃̔̔̈́͑͗̀̇̈́̀̍̕͘͘̚̕͘̚͜͝͝͠͝͠͠͠­̧̧̧̡̢̰̺̙̤͕͚̬̗̞̰̮̼̰̺̦̲̻̖͖̳͖̱̹͖̱̱͚͍̯̰̱͚̳̝̙̳̘̖̮͚̹̫̪̯̖̰͖͉̻̣̥̫̲̮̜͔̤͚͜ͅ­̨͎̰̯̺̯͙̺͔̳̹ ̴̢̯̳̟̟͓̝̞̺͓͖̗̦̜̹̖́͊̒̒͒̓̉̒̔̔̀̌͋̄̎̅̑̄̈́͗͗͂͌̾̆̿͆̋̀̄̀̽̌̃̉̔̍̀͋͊̽̾͗̾͘̕̚͝­̨̨̨̙̖̻̺̬͓̮͔̜͉̹͎̞̹̜̥̩̖̩̰̤̥͔̣̺̰̞̘̮͜͜ ̴̧̨̠̭̻̳͎̣̥̮̰̻̳͖̰͎͖̬͂̈́̀͂͌̀̅͐̃̋͗̃́̇̄͂͋̽̉̅̈́̐̀̿̆͋̐̇̇͑̈́͗̃̾̊̀̔̿̕͘̚̚͘͜͠͝­̨̧̜͕͕̯͓͙͓̟̤͕͍͈̹̺͚̖̳͍̲͓̦̹͖͙͖̰̳̠̗̖͙̭̻̺̘͇͖̖̘̖͓̳̺̗͜ ̶͚̪̖̍͒̓̽̿̈́̊̀̉͋̿́̓̈̈́̏̓̓̔̀̄̃̊̅͂̈́̂̊̀̄͆̋̓̍͑͌͒̊̇̉͑̈́̅̋͊̔̔̔͆͋͐̈́̍͂̕̕͜͠͠͝͝­̢̧̨̢̗̠̤̞̙̯̜̫̜̞̗̼͔͎̼͍̺̜̻̭̟̤̘̥̗̺̮̟͉̗͖͍̳̩̮͖̤̠̙̮̭̦̭̱͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̬̌́̎̂̒̑̅̿͗̆̽̋̄̾̒̿̈̊̊̋̓͌̀̅̇̏̍͆͛́̐̃̎͗̊͌̃̃̌̋̑̀͌̅̀͗̒̉͐̅́͗̂͋̈̂͛̏̆͝͠­̢̨̡̢̨̡̢̧̢̡̡̧̨̨͚͍͓͔͚̟͙̤͕̖̦͓̥̳͖̻̭͓͓̩̖̪̘͕̭̰̘̬͙͍̫͚̠̬̜̻̼̫̩͖̠̳̩͖̫̯͓̗͍̳͜­̧͚͙̻̩̥͕̗̗̺ ̸̢̨̛̮̺̺͖̗̣͚̺͛̊̑͑͋͊̂̓́͊̌͗̀́͋̂̇̆̑̒̑́̈̌̈͂̇̓̐̿̀̀̄̕͘͘͘̚͠ ̷̧̢̨̛̛͖̤͔̳̦̣̤͕̜̳̬̣̙̪̱̳̭̹͓̦͇̥͊͒́͋̋̂̾͑̋͋̔͋̈̇̃͒̓̔͌͑̉̈̃͐̋͐̆̅͘̚͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅ­̡͉͇͎̞͉̱̮͓͕͍͉͜ ̸̡̛͙͙̩̩͓̫̀̐̍̒̋́̈́̈́̃̀͌̌̋̑͐̔͊̔͂͆̓͌͊̈́͆͒̌͂̃̏̎̾̏̅͊͘͘͘͜͝͠͝ ̵̢̨̛̛̮̤̦͈̣͙͕̪̭͎͎̰͙̤̝̲͙̬̬͕͕͍̝̬̦́̀̃̈́̅̈̓̆́́̈́͆͋̋̆́͆̈́̅̐̈̆͒̽́͒̂̂́͊͜͝͠͝͝­̧̢̧̧̳̟͉̻̯̘̬̖͖͔͕̺̦̮̪ ̴͍̪̩͈͋̐̉̆̒͋͗̌͂̍̀̓̊̄̈̑̎̄̓́̎̓̂̑͐̈́͐̈́̉͋͊͝͝ ̵̛̣̤̓͑̎̈́̈́̉̃̋͊́́̒͌͒̃̏̃̒̄͐̔͌͋͛̕͝͠͠ ̴̡̛̱̟͉̬͇̼̺̖̀̒̓͂̀̾̆̂̄̇̇̓̍́̉̅͋̎͑̏̌̓̍͊̋̓̂̀̎̈́͒̑̂̀͊͛̈́̇́́̓͆̇͘͘͘͘͝͠͝͝͝͠͝­̧̖̩̪͇͓̟̞̣̘̥̱͖̱̝̟̝͓̤͙͔̼͉̲̥̫̪̠͉̳̩̺̱̯̫͜͜͜ͅ ̵̛͐̆̆̅͛̀͛̂̎̐̍̃̎̋͗̍́̑͂͌̓̔̽̀̾̀̑̽͛͂͗̈̾̈͑͛̔͊͛̀̈́̅̐̔̈́͂̓̀̈́̂͆͌̓̃͋̀̓̀͊̕͝͠͠­̨̨̧̢̡̡̢̰͇͈͙͉̗̠͍̮͖͕̟̘͚͙͔̱̞̜̰͉͉̗̫̦̼̖͖̙͔̗͍̟̲̘͎̪͍̺̦̝͚̹̥̹̈͗̽̎̾̿̏̍̽̕͜ͅͅ­̧͔̣͕̮͙̺̱ͅ ̶͕̭̪̥̗̼̑̑̍̍̈́́̅̐͊̔̓͑͊̅͑̃̀̐͗̔͆̆͊̍͂͛̔͘͠ ̷̧̞̻̯͉̭̖͕̳̖̼̭̭͈͓̹͉̯̩͉̤̀̀̾̿͌̽̌̈́͛͝͠ͅͅ ̶̡̡̡̢̢̞̱͓̭͓̖̠̳̹̬͍͖͇̟̤͙̤͓̳̞̳͍̘̙̯̦̪̗̮͙͖͎̮̞̜͈̝͕͉̱͚͇̪̘͓̖̹͈͛̎̄͛̅̃͜͝͝ͅͅ­̡̡̢̬͓͚͍̦͙̮̘̖̱̪̻̼̳ͅ ̷̧̛̯͉̺͓̤͕̗̘̗̣̝͎͉͉͉͑̇̊̑͛͂̓̇͗̃͗̌́̈́̎̒̋̽̊̒̐͒́̈́͂̀͘̕̕̕͠͝͠ ̸̧̢̢̛̲̣̦̫͈̝̰̭͍̹̗̻̝̲̾̒̀̆̐̾͌̊̂̇̋͂̉͊̈́̒̋̈́̾͛̆͐̋̇̍̆͐̔̆͊̀̀̈́̽̐̊̎̈̕͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅ­̡̧̨̢̢̠̹̙̻̯̯̼̤̰̼̰͇̱̲̮̮̜̻̮͈ ̵̨̢͍̩͚̥̯̫̹̥̻̝͖̪̻͚̖́͊͒̋̃̾̅͌̏̓̽̀̅͌͑̂̽͑́̂̊́̕̕̕͝͝͝͠ ̸̧͔̜̪̱̦͉͚̪̙̹̝̙̝͓̰̝͈͗͋̅̐̋̂̐̆̐́̓̿͐̄̄̽̒͒̍͆̄͐̓̋̉̌̇̿̈́͑̐̈́̄̽̆̽͊͆̎͘͝͝͝͝͠͠­̡̧̧̧̡̨̢̨̧̧̘̣̳͙̣̤̳̤̠̞͚̘̦̫̤͉̦͙̩̮̲̰̼̼̣͚̼̬̹͙̻͚̰̞͕̟͎͉̫̺̜̟͎̝͖͔̰͇̪͉͜ ̸̧̗̪͎̲̲͓̤̳̤̝̟̥̜̗̜͎̆͆́͂́̉̍͐̀̎̏̈́̊̊̆̃̈́̉̏͋̇̒̌̕͜͝ͅ ̶̨̧̧̢̪̩̟̤̰̦̺̰̳̟̼̟̟̹̰̳̝̞̫̮̜͕̝̝͖̻̙͈̜͉̘͔̲̲̯̝̜̗̘͇̗̭̮̞̺̬͖̱̯͉̯̑̔͂͆͊̀͜ͅͅ­̨̦̝̭͎̱̞̳̯̺͇̮͜ ̶̨̡̨̨̛̛̰͎͇̳̫̲͇̥̠̤̭̟̰̥͙͈̲͇̺͔͚̭̦͕͒̏͑̈̒̑̋͋́͛͂̽̔̂̊̇̊̏̄̽͛͑̽̉̓̚̚̕̚͘͠͝͝͝­̺͙̩̺̦̣̝̺͔̳̮̜͉̭̝̟͚̮͎͈͔̜͍ ̴̡̡̧̛̞̬̻̘̟̤̘̪͉̱̥̥̫͇͍̦͚̦͚̮̹̓̀̈́̓́͆̈́̇̉̿́̉͗̐͊̀̀̈́͂̑̈́̄̍̊͌̄̔̅̕͜͜͝ͅ ̸̛̹̆̎̓̽́̋̍̅͗̑̐̔̐́̄͋͊̊͒͐̂͂̆̍͊̓̊̈͂̑̾̏͆̈́̀̋̓̆̎̂̂͑͗̿́̅̉̏̉͛̍̊͘͘͘̕̚̕̚͘͠͝­̡̨̧̡̢̠̰̘͙̲̖͚͓̪̗̙͔̗̬̳̗̬͓̫̮̻̰̣̭̘̖͓̳̲͖̜̖̯̜̯̖̥͈̝͇͓͈͓̟̟͔̯̰̯̭̲̝͖̥͖͕̼͜ ̶̛̛̛͑̈́̿̆̂͌͒͒͊̅̋̋̅̈̑̒͋̓̌̎̔̀̂͛̐̍̇͋̔̈́̎̌̈̈́̈͐͑̍̆̓͋͑̿͛͂̑̊͌̑͐̎̚͘̕͘̕̕̚̚͝͠­̛̛͇̖̉̽͑̅́͒̐̋̈́ ̴̡̨̛͈̗̤͍̙̲͔̫̹͙̜̩̠̯͖̟̫̺̹̞̻͔̪̦̗̠̭̹͍̺̲͕̦̙̼̈́̅͌̾͛̔̅̋̈́͗̌͒̾͋̊̈́̾̄̍͌̌̃̕͝͝͝­̖̹͜ ̸̢̨̨̦̬̮̫̰̜͈͙̞͚̪͓͓̣͓̻̠̪̝̥̮̘̲̥̬̺͉͉̯̘͕̹͍̾͐̓̏͌̈̓͂̚͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̛͔̼̺͖̘͚͉͂̑̋̎̓̅̏͒̈́͌̊̒̂͌̄̓̋́̈́́̍́͗̈́͌͗̑̈́̊̋̇̀͗̉̄̆̎͆͑̉̿̐̄̈́̈̆̑͘̕̕̕̚͘͝­̡̼̼͉̮̩̱̹̖͙̩̜͓̬̯̘̹̝̼̝̟͔̯̮̫̞̫͚̻̰̳͎̻̬̠̪͈ ̶̢̥͎̩͕̟̰̞͖͎̰̥̻͕͙̞̲̙̯͓̟̯̩̏͂͗͌̃͒̂̎̔̀̍͊̓̎̐̊͛͌̈́͐̾́̚̕͝͝͠ ̷̧̡̨̬̙̤̭̪͉͉̩̲̟̪̼̩̰̣̦͎̦͍͚̣͙̬̺̹̝̘̜̬́͜ͅͅ ̷̨̢̳̻̮͇̹̠̙͓̠̞̭̲͙̩̘̪̙͉̟̙̭̺̫̫̰̠͚̞͉̤̙͖͉̺̹̭̥̔̏̑̀̽̏͑̄̈́̆̄̅͑͂̋̀́̒̆͒̚̕͜͝͝­̡̨͍͈͚̹̪̞̬̜̥̤̯̫̞̯̯̥̗̯̜̗̥͍͖̞̻͓̝̜͔̖͚͍̻̗̼͜͜ ̶̛̛͕̱̻͕̱̠̂̆͗͗̆̈́̓̊͆̒̐͑̉͊͌͌̐̊̽͂̿̿͑͂̊̑͋̿̂̆̍͐͗̈́͒͒͒̾̌̎͌̑̔̾̋̽͐̒̀̈́͌̕͘͜͠͠­̨̡̨̢̣̘̩̭̟̣̠̥̬̟̳̬̲̝̲̼̻̯̻̞͔̗̺̹̮͇̝̣̜͔̹̠̙͓̬̩͕͚̪̰͎̱̝̝̠͈͕̺̭͓̹̭̫̲̣̹͔̠͜͜ͅ­͚̦̗͙̰͓ͅ ̴̡̪̮̘̟̱̪̗̱̖̩̹̗̘̯̖̘̮͒́̔̍̊̐́̊̍͑̑͊͑̂͑͊͂̆̌̎̈́̏̄̉̏́̂̍̇͛̍͗́͆͜͜͜͜͠ͅͅ ̶̧̧̢̡̢̛͓͚̤̳̹̣͕̙͔̣̟̝̮̟͛̇͂͒̈́̈́̇͐̾̇̈́̑͗̿̒̿̍̏͆͛̔̐̀̀́́̀͆͋̑́̃̀̇͗͘̚͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅ­̧̡̤̦̼̗̣̜͍̭̫̗̩̫̠̱͍̻̼̘̳͕̞̺͇̲͖̣̭̱̬̣̞̳̟̜͙̣͓͓̘̺͇̠̺̱̩̹̟̗͍̥ͅ ̵̛̛͚͕̝͎̯̱̪͚̼̜̠̍̓̂̔͆̈͗̏̉̉̅̈́̀̇̄̔̇̐͆̀́̐̊͗͒̓͂̏̆́̈́̑̀́́̈́̎̊̍͑̓͛͋͒̉̕͘͠͝͝͠­̭̭͇̦̮̟̳̣̳͙̟̮̮̹̩̪͜ ̸̢̢̡̨̢̡̡̬̠̗̟̮̩̗̗͇̮͚̹͈̜̪͙͍͈̘̮̥̻̜͕͓̦̞̥̯̯̠͎͚̮̭̦̩͛̅͂̒͛̾̿͋̎̏̍͗̈́̂͋̓̈̇͘ͅ­̨̱̦͓̗̬̪͕̬̹̤̰͈̙̜ ̵̡̨͕͇͕͎͕̲͔̯̹͍̩̲͍̥̜͓̰͍̼̥̙͔͇̺͉̜͍̫͙̝͖̯̙͆͛̒̀̈́̌́̎̇̍͐̄͝͠𐎿̃­̷̯̮̙͚̤̬̩͇̪” “⻗̵̴̢̬̞̳̆̽𝙃⩣̻̤̖͓̳̬̼ͧ͐𝕗̰̟̦͍͇̪̲͕͎̍̒̍̽̾͘͠Ɐ̛̤̘̐̕ͅ⛶̷̢̞̫͈̣̳̻̦̙͈̬̰̓⟁͕͓̳͂­­̦̍͊” “⛘̲̼͕͚̞͍̿̅̄̔🝛̸̬̟̯͍̪͝𝒎̨̘̬̬̲̫̯̘͊̎̍͜͡⥤̢̻̹͔̠̏̽𝙐̢͚̼̞̪̬̟̟͎͕̩̏̎͌̕͢͢⍊͖̪̾͂­­̪̣” “⟍̸̨̬̖̹͎̙̜̔͗͟͢͢⩘̛̠̤̘͕̩̜̾̎ͅ𝑾̴̛͔̰̩͕̬̘̣̫̤̠͕̳͒̍̾̒̓͡𝕔⻡̨̲̘͇̤̰̜͉̿̚͜͠͡⧷͇̓­­̮” “⨅̸̴̡̛̹̳̘̻̰͍̪̮̥͖̣̠̋͛͊̀͌͒̊͌̑͑̓̃̾̑̾̈́̃̊͗̿̏̀̌̈́̾̋̑̎̽̉̆̏̃̐͋̀̓́͆͘͢͟͜͢͝͠­­̧̨̡̡̧̪̲̭̯̱̭͉̙̼͉̳͇̖̯͚̤͈̘̞̯͎̠͇̱̲͚̦̜̦͍̱̞̖͙̈́̀͂̌͒̃̃̀̍̓̄͊͂̔͌͊͐͑́̚̕͜͝͝͠͠­­̨͕̤͚̠̮̟͍͚̟͓.̴̤̯̖̜͓͚̙̫̜̬̻͓̣̹̟̰̞͉̺̪̘̼͉̣͇͉̻̼̈̀̌̂̉͂̀̔̏̊̋͑͐̀̇͊͐͋͘͘͜͝͝­̧­̡̨͈̭̰͉͙̙͈̤͉͜.̸́̓̾̈́̒̇̋͛̏̇̒͛̆͗̈́̒͆̀̈́͛̂̏̊̌̿̋͊̏̆́͆̐̏̀̏̂͆͐͘̚͘̕͘̕̚͝͝͝͝­̒̕­̢̢̡̜̬̞͍̫̩͔̞̪͍̫̭͔͉̬̩͕̠͍̜̰̳͎͍͙̭͉̲̯̘̥̥̘͕̫̦̥̼̉́̃̅̓̍̀̆̍̒̚͜.̵̿̑̇̈́̉̓͆­̈́̿̓­̡̢̡͉͍͔̺̭͇̝͔̲̘̗̰͖̟̺̘̖̼̜͈̤̗̣̭̩̥̼̮̗̲̦̱͖͍̟̖̪̻̣̼̬̭̍ͅͅ.̶̛̑̈́͐͂̏͌͛͘̕͝­̻̰̥ͅ­̡̡̢̧͍̗̩̩͙̹̤̖̖͔̗̮̗̙̦͕̮͓͚̦̳̟͚̳̫͖̝̗̱̰͈͎̣̬̗̜̲͓͖̖̦̜͖̖ͅͅͅ.̷̇̈́͐͐̚͠͠­̈́̀͆̔͝­̨̢̢̧̜̩̮̻̗͈̩̖̳̩͔̟͚̬̱̬̙̖͊̂̈̽̾͑͒̇͌̌̑̃̈́͜͝͝.̴̖̍͆͌̈͋̈́̑̔͒̈̐̄̃̇̉̚͘͝­͔̳̜͎͈̗­̡̧̨̨̯̭̱̫̝͔̘͔̥̯̲̞̫͕̤͖̘̦͉̟͈̹̣͎͎͚̟͓̲̙̯̺̗͔̦̪̭͍͜͜͜ͅͅ-̸̄́͛̋͋̀̌̊͝­̛̀̽̔̄̕͝­̨̺͙͉̺̫̝͚̩̞͍̪̰̭̘̆̽̀͋̉̋́͗͑͌͊́͋̏̑̆͗́͐́̀̈́̍̅̆̓̂̔̈́̈́̇͌͛̈̚̕̚͘͘͘͠͝­̧̨̯͓̩̱̣.­̴̨̧̧̨̢͍͕̪̲̖̹͓͔̥̮͍͇̳̪͉͍̙̦̜͖̠͈̠̱̻̤̰͕̭̱̘̳̹̪́̉̔̽͐͑̿͒̍͊̍̋͆͒͘ͅ­̻̯͖̞͉̳̭̗͙­̧̟̣̮̘̟-̶̏̃̾̌̒͒̀͂̐͑͋̈̏̐̃̐́͒̉̈́͆̿̆̇̀̃̎̂̈́̿͋̎́͗̏̊͋̀̽͋͘̕̚͘͘͝͝­̢̫̰̳̙̟͉͉̯̙­̡̡͈̬̜̜͔͔͇̞̼̪̙͍̻̝̭̼͔,̷̧̢̛̩͉̫̦̩̗̮̬̤̟̺̙͔̙̠̌̈̒͌̎̌͂͑́̌̂͌̃͝ͅ­̻̯͍̪͙,̶͗̐̃͌­̨̧̢͔̼͈̲̼͖̘͎̥̫̞̬͚͈̰̣̗̙̩͇̯̦̇̔̈̔̋͐͂̓̾̃̽̽̊̓̎̅̽̈̄̿̌͛͑̋͘͝͝ͅ­̫͈̺͇̖̭̜̘̣̳,̷­̛̛̛̮̝̮̣͇̥̩͙̯̠̖͐̏̈́͂̒̀͌̾̑͒̃̂̈́̒͒͌̆̏̔͐̍́̏̆́͌̆̚̕͘̚̕̕̚͝͝͝͠­͇͔ ̴̡̢̧̡̨̮̳̼͓̙͕͕̖͖̯̼͓̻̺̟̭͈͖͓̺̦̬̳͉̰̬̼̫̘͙̮̜̪̺̱̈́̃̂͜ͅ ̵̨̨̧̨̛̻͈͖͍͖̞̦̟̜̙̻̲̱͕̼̪͇̰̰̗̪͇̻̪͔̲̠̜͉̝̤̪͉̞̗̝͙̬̰͙͓̬̭̰̗̣͈̅͌̽̽̏͋͋̎̕͜͜ͅ­­̧̮͓ ̶̨̧̛̟̝̠̦̩̘̞͖̫͎̞͙̦͇͚͔̣͎̝̝̯̮͚̪͈͉̞̖̞͔͈̳͔̞̺̺̝̳̍̿̎̒̐͐͗̄̏͆̐̾̿̒̏̾̓̄̈́̿̓͘͘­­̨̨̥̼̹̩̩̠̯̥̙͚̪̦̤̮͍̪̪̥͜ͅ ̶̢̧̢̛̛̪͍̹̼͖͖͔͇͈̗̯͓̬͙̟̟͔̟̔̆̌̓̈́̄̎͗̎̐̃̓́̄̊̆̆̽̅͐͑̽̈̔͊̓̋̇̀̐̑̀̇̈́͗̎̐̑̕̚͝­­̨̡̢̧̢̞̠̦̼̮̣͔̮͉̼͇̼̦͚̼͎̮̥͚̜̙͇̟͈̱̗͚͖̩̫͎͉̖̠͚ ̴̧̡̛̲̻̻̩͙͈̻̠̼̥̫̹̺̲͚̖̲̬͕̱̹͓̥̮̙̠̳̟̗͈̓̌̀̈́̒̎͗̌̏̃͐͑̈͌̉̓̇̏̽̑̓̏̃̒̌̂͘͘͜͜͝­­̡̧̢͇̫̯̥̪͔̲̟̪̻̪̜͎͖̜̟͕͜ ̵̧̢̛̳̺̼̭̺̟͙̜̱̱̥͍̭̳̩͙͈̮̻̩͙̥̮͉̏́̃̔͋̍̓͂́͒͋̓̍̿͐̑̓́͐͆̔̔̀̂̀̍̀͋̊́̿̚͘̕͘͝ͅ­­̨̥̰̮̝̩͇͍̯̻͈͉̞̞̫̟̬̮̘ ̷̢̧̧̡̤̮͖̺̟̰̗̱͉̞̩̜̗͖͔̖̺̘̗̻̭̦̳̯͙̱͓̹̼̲̹̦̖̟̬̹̙̭͉̹̜̱̮̦̠̞̩̽̀̉̉̾͜͜͠ͅ­̱̱ͅ­ ̷͓͙̯̞̲̥̐̒̂̆͊̓̈́̀̽̋̓̎͛͆̀̀̈́̕̕͠ ̸̟̦̬̬̈́̌͆̉̎̅̍̎̌̔̾̉̿̇͑̄̿̋̑͐̑̈́̐͑̇̅̒̏͌̚͝͝͠͝ ̶̨̲͚̙͔̓͌͐̈́͆̌̎͂̅́͗́̐̈̈́͂́̐͋̌̒͋̾̈́̈́͊͒̇̅́̓̅̓̀̌͒͂́͗̽͆̕̚͝ ̵̨̢̧̫̝͈͍̦̫̪̬̹̮̻̩̙̲̝̠̭̺̹́̒̌͗̑͌͒̐̃̃̑́̿̽̀̈́̇̋͛̈́̒̊̃̔̿̃̏̀̓̈̑̍͘̕̕̚̚͠͠͝͠͠­­̡̧̥̘̭̫̘̰̲̯͔̲̰͚̞̖͕̻̻̝̥͙̬̱̬̬̩̲̦ͅ ̷̢̡̟͇̝͎͓͎̜̣̮̘̗̙̞̱̼̙͍̝̳̺̣̼̫̳̩̮̱̗͚̮͙̺̼̜̤͇̀̏̊͛́̎̌̏̅̎̒̔͂̿̐͗̈́͗̅̂̅̽̿̚̕ͅ­­͈̠̜̩͙̫̻̹̮̘̞͎̜͍̬̺̙͕ ̵̡̧̛̯̻͇̦̤͒̀͆̈́̈́̈́̉͆̉̀́̒̀͆̅̂͑̐̓̈́͆̍̓͊̿͒̔̎̂̊̎͒͌̃͂͗̇̈́̆̓̀̀̄̔̅̍́̂̕̚̕͝͝͝ͅ­­̨̡̧̢̮̺͍̯̺̲̺͔͚̬̬̙͓̭͍̲͓̘̟̬̦̣͓̮͚̪͓͚̖̩̻̩̬͚͜ͅ ̴̧̧͕͍͇͉̠̮̖͇̳̳̩̞̦͍̦͔͇̮͕̥̮̳̻̥̗̱̫̼̹̖͉͙̞̞̹̼̌̄̅͜͜ ̵̧̢̡̡̛̰̱̟͈̠̲̟̦͋͋̍̌̏̃̂̓̋̑̾͑̓̀̍̔̊͐̎͂̆͊͆͝͠͝⛑̷̰̖̺͙̜̬͙̔̕”


          ­                           I grip
Death's  memories                   
  to my chest.

They

                    burn.

Each one flays a truth across my spine.

He trusted me.                                  
                           ­                                                He did not forget me.
                                          He forgot himself.
His memories,                         they are                  almost                too much       too beautiful          for me to bear.
They are not just                             his memories alone,                      
                                    ­­                               they are
entwined        with
my soul.


“⫫̼̖̲ͤ̍𝕂͎̯̘̥͇̻͖̠̳ͦ̎̕ͅ⩝̷̵̢̗̪͙͍̯̪̙̘̳͈͂̔̐͜͜͝” “⻠̢̯̖̘̺̍͞ͅ𝘳̢̛̹͎͉͕̹̮̘̝̲̣̩̜̟̾̍̋̕͢͡ ̸͕̜̅́̓̃̃͛̄̃̈́͒̓̀̅͛̅̅̉̔̀̓͂̾̈́̈̾̐̇̓͂͂͒̌͘͠ ̸̨̩̮͔̦͈̘̤͖̭̬̹̼͓̖͕͉̱̿͑̈́̀͂̐͌̚ ̵̻̝͉͖̖̰͆͐̈̂̓̐͋̕͝ ̷̢̨͓̞͓͕̣̼̠̲̬̠̜̱͚͍̰̬̩̼̪͙͙̟̦̪̠͇̻̹̜͔̖͇̜̭̠̝͎̞̬̪̉͒͋̎̈́̄ͅ ̴̧̭̖̩̫̟̮̺͓̪͍̰͔̔̏͂͑̾̀̉͆̓̑̄͛͜͠͠ͅ ̵̢̧̢̢̧̛͇̫̘͚͓̮̱̥̺͎͖̜̦̗̦̼͚͔̼̩̟̙̞̩͚͍̺̙̣̰̋͆̑͗͂̅̓̇͗̇͊̓̇̋͜͠ͅ ̷̨̛̛̼̤̠̼̺̬͎̪̤̞̻̤̈́̄̓̓͗̀̓̇̍̄̐̈̃̓̌͗͛́̑̔͒́͝͝͝͝͝͠ ̸̡̦̝͓̯̭̖͓̹̻͍̥͍̟͐͐̈́̂̾͆͊̿͒̔̾̅͂͆̓́̿̓́̔̊͛͌͛͑͛͌̂̈́̎͌͠ ̵̢̨̧̢̛̛͙̻̳̰̟͕͖̪̖̲͉̖̩̟̔̉̊̆̂͌͌̓͗̅͒͂̉͗ ̴̨̡̢͓̳̠̩̪̤̪̞̮̹̹̲͉̠̤̱͓̯̯̞̘̟̭̲̇̈̀͝ ̶̢̱̱͔͕͓̮͈̜̦͔͎͖̤̰̗̯̂̍͋̈́̑̈́̈̄͛̅̿̈̂̆̌̋͑͂̑́̌̍̊̈́̑͐̀́̋́͐̔͆͒̌͑̂͗̌͜͠ͅͅ ̷̡̡̨̨̡̡̛̲̩̼̰̳̺̬̻̼̩͔̱̣̣̬̥͓͚̼̝̩̮̬͈̥͕̜̖̼̮͉̦͐͌̿̄̄͋́̂̂̋̽̽̋͐̓͒̉̈́͆̊̕͘͝͝ͅ­­̨̠͓̼ ̶̝͍̲̥̞͕̯̫̭̫̇̑̈́̊̋̀̄͆̈́̋̈͜ ̶̘̹̘͔̞̤͈̟̭̮̺̖̼͖̥̿̾͊̇̈́̈́͋͌͛͋̂͆̃́͒͊̋̒̚͘͘͠ͅ ̴͖͚̭͔̣͈̖͖̤̪̤̳̲̱̳̙͇̞̜̙̞͎̩̭̘̪̠̰͇͖̗͔̲͇͐̋͐́̓͑̉̑́̍̈́̀͂̈́̅̈́̈̑̿̕͝ ̷̢̡̨̡̛̩̭̯̥͎͉̭̲̭͙͔͉̙̹̮̖̘̪̬̣͔̙̻̘̤̽̄͒͂̒̾̔̐̎́̇̓̍͛̽̂̀̀̈́̃̀̀̐̏̎͌̓̅͋̐͜͝͠ ̷̡̛̩̖̹͖͈̘͔̩͍̙̻͙̩̮̩̞͓͔͎̖̺̭̈́̎̅̉͐̆̓͋͐́̑͒̉͊̄̓̈́̀̄͋̑̉̋͗̎͆̕̚͜ͅ ̸̢̨̛̯̳͈̭͈̱̦̫̼͖͎̱͕͇̞̭͕̼͇͙̣̟̠͉̙͐̇̏̍̋͂͛̐̏͋̃͌́͊̿͒̚͘̕̚͜͠͝ͅ ̷̨̡̧͍̝̬̫͚͔͖͇̯̙̱̻͍͓̖͍̘͉͚̺͇̲͚͓͚̺͉̟̮̲͕͓͓͒͂̅̀̆͂̉̎͋͂͋̓̿̒͛͛͒̐̇̿̕͜͜͝ͅ ̸̧̨̢̛̱͍̫̬͖̥̜̘̘̮̳͕͖͓̲̜̼̜̤̞̪̜̄́̿̂̍͊̒̀̂̏̂̐͒͗̒̒͑̄̓͒̈́͛̉̊̓̄̍̉͝͝͝ͅ ̴̢̣͎͈̥̱̟̂̏̽͋̍̈́͋͑̄͛͊͂͌̚͘̚͝ ̶̭̩͉̳̖̳̯̲̘̦͔̝̪͔̫̳̰͎̘̣͙͎̑̾͌ ̶̧̨̩̥͚̝͔̝̼̙̟̙̤͍͚̞̭̮̭̈́̈́̄͛͒͒̈̓͌̅̓̈́̂͌̋͐͌̓̓́̔̽̏̈́̔̋̈́͑̇̾̀̈̈́̔͊̂͗̓̌̃̐̕͜͠͠­­̪̺̻̬̺̩̥̠̞̗͉̝̟̤̜͚̻̞̼̫ ̶̧͍̘̠̬̮̘͖̰̖͔͙̼̯͎̹́̒̽̈́͌̑̒̒̀͑͗̉́̈̀̽̒̄͜ ̴̛̛̩̻̭̞̭̹͕̣̌́͂̅̈̃̌́̆̐̾̈́͗̈̇̒̑̅̏͒̋̍̄͑̍͆͒̓̀̎̄́̊͊̉̀̚͘͘͘ ̸̡̢̡̨̧̛̥̱̬̗̭̜̘̣̹̭͇̳͍͍̓͋̽̽͌̄̈́̐͊̒́́̇̌͝ͅ ̴̲̩̱͓̻͔̩̟̻͉̜̠̲̭̖̳̻͈͖͐̇͘͜͝ͅ ̶̧̡̛͓̗̭͇͓̮̫̪̘̹̯͎͍͚͙͇̼̙̦̟̺͎̲̲͔̫̯̪̠̻̒̽́̑̌̏̈́͊̓͒̈̋̽̑̎͒͊͑̅̎͐͛̓̒͋̑̇̕͝ͅͅ­­̨͔̲̣̦̣͉̱͜ ̸̨̨̦̬͓̰̦̟͈̦̑̽̇̔̄͒̈́̅̄̄̕̕ ̵̡̡̼͖͕̣͇̳͔̝͖̮̺̮̩̥̯͉̣̜͕͈͇̻͈̘̹͔͈͚͓̏͐̃̈͑̀̇̐̍͒̊̍̅̀̾̿̇̽̾́͛ ̴̧̝̼̠͔̬͍̺͇̮͇͚̞̪̺̭͕̱̻̱͎͆̓̀́̋̀̄͂̅͛͗̏̎̈́̄̈̓͂̿̈́̃̒̍̇̊̉̽̓̍̽̈̄̏̅̍̑̓͘̚̚͝͠͝­­̟̘̙̙̘̦̟̗͖̠ ̵̢͖̫̻̤̽̿̈̾̊̊̇̊̃̈́̊͐̇̈̓͘ ̸̨̡̡͚͖̦̙̘͔͈͉̜̙̻̫͚̻̼̼͚͓͇̬̰̤̽̿̉̏͒̇̈́͑͂̈͐̈̄̈́̃̇̌̓͊̔͛̕̚͜͜͠ͅ ̴̨̧̨̢̡̢̧̜͙̥̩̹̗̦͚͎͖̖̝̼͍͍̺͕̩͖̰̹͇̹͓͔͙̺͕̜̓̑̔͗̓̍͌͊͋͋̅̍̿̽̒͑͝͝ ̴̧̧̨̛̯̪̫͖͈͉͈͙͎͈̝̗̩̗͕͖̞͙͔̃̏̄̊̿̑̀̏̿͐͌̑͒̎̽́̓̒̀̀̾͌͊͘͝𝓩̛͔̼̘̬̗͍̠̲͎̤̐͆̽͞­­̸̼̮̦̪͔̐̓͡͝ͅ” “⍿̡̮̹̘̣̗͂͘̕̕𝑬̶̨̞̯̤̩̣̰̠͕̝͚͚̜̐̎͞͝ͅ⥸̛̬̜̲̐̚𝙸̻̺͚̦̙͓̻̒ͅ ̴̛̮̰̠̬̉͌̔́̓͗͋̄̉̈́͒́̍͛̋̉͂̽̒̃̆̌̏̀̂͒̌̃̎̈́̿̐̔̓̅͗̄̈́̃̀͂͋̄͛̔̃͑̏̐̕͘̚͝͝͝͠͝͝­­̧̨̢̧͓͍̞̯̹̲͙̤̜̘̜͎̣̟̝̙̤̘̘̦̮̭̥̺̟̘̤̲͇̖͙̞̤̣̣̜͚̦̩͇͇̼̰̣͜͜ͅͅͅ𝙜̸̜̖̘̩̟̥̐̕͟­⨃­” “.̶̧̨̢̢͕̩͇͇̗̫̼̦͓̝̮̾͛̈̋̌̉͑́̓̆̔̇̄̕̚̚͠.̶̛̿̈̿̅́͐͗̈̓͂͊̉͂̀̐̎̓̀͛̇̿̓́̚͘̕͝­­̢̢̡̧̗̱̻̗̭̙̞̣̤͕̮̦̺͈̞͍̹̼̟̹͕̥̤̦̻̮͙̣̗̜̭̪̜̽͌́̓̿̽͒͛̀̈́̑̑̿̌͒̀͜.̴͂͆̾̾͋̿̍͑­͂­̢̨̠̖̜̱̰͓̟͓̰̞̻̩̜̯̤̟͙̯͔͕̳̲͎̮̘̘̗̮̳̼͓̟͓̭͙͙̂͌̈́̂̅̈̃̐̌̄̂̆͊̈́̓͗̃͐̌͑̿͘͝ͅ.­̶́­̡̧̼̠̯͍͕͖̝̼̜̳̠̘͈͓̮̺̟̞̹̝̘̰̞̭͉͓̝̜̖̔̋̐̓̇̚ͅ,̶͙͇̞̖͓̗̥̼͛́̍̿͒̀͛́̊́̀̈́͒͠­̡͙͜­̢̨͚̪̮̙̜̘͓͓̺͔̞͎͎̘̦͚̥͎͉̝̯̬͜ͅ,̸̒͒̾̀͋̑̈́̈́̓͊̂͆̎͋̑͊̆́̎̓͊̏͌̍̄̽̅̌̄͑̾͘͠­̧͎̅̒­̢̦͕̜̥̜̪̜͕̯̩͇͍͎͉̜.̵̧̛̛͎̰̤̤̙̪̳̣̣̙̞͎͕̻̖͒̍̊͒̔̍̿͗͂͂͜͜-̷̅̈̓̈͌̽̿͆͛̊­̉́͑̀̈­̧͈͈̩̠̳̬̝̱͚͇̞̘͔̭̰͔̣̙̞̖̮͓̜̼͔̲̯̫̺͖͖̬͍͇̞̜̟̝̳͕͖͙̀-̵̿̇͑͌́̌̿̽͆́̍̍̚­̉̈́̿́̏̔­̗̗̦̟̤̳̟̤̓̽̅͊͑̀͗̽̈́̇̋̊̈́̚͘͝͝͝ͅ-̷̾̀̾̈́̎͊͊̌́̔̽͂̐̌̎̂̿̂̾̃̾̌͗̋͋͘͘͠͝­̽̀̉́̚͠͝­̲̃̔̈́̀̃̃̇̿̑̌̐͘-̶̓̓̏̂̓̈́̐͗͒̃̓̎̉̔̌̽̒͊̎̐̏̾̓͒̀̌͑͂̈́̇͒̉̓͗̇̌̂̇͂̈͠͝­̨̫͓̳̥̩̟̥­̧̡̡͕̼͇̮̯͔̜̯̠̰̭͉̘͕̼̣̭̮͍͕̥̻͓͙̻̥̳̤-̸̛̏̌̉̉̔̑͑̀̀͊̇̑̓́͆̈́̀̓̚̚͝͠­̈́̐̈̌̍̀̿̍͂­̢̡̨̧̢̮͖̣̱͇̼̲̯̟̫̰̯̭̮͚̤̠̬̠̘̠̝͎̝̘̞͖̩̬̗͚̤̋̿́͜ͅ-̴̌͆̀̅̊̏̋̄̈́̚͝­̄͊̄̈́̍̓̑̆͘͠­̨̧̨̢̛̳̦͉͙͎͈̼͚͔̬͚̗̬̲̦̙͖̜̳̩͙̦̹̞̞̙̗̻͉̙̂̆͜͠-̴̙̹̙̄̈́͌̈́̈͗̾͛̕͝­̧̠̜̗̯̣̳̮̩͚̮­̧̠͍̙̞͔̖͓̜͕͖̰̼͎͎̹͈̖̤-̸̌̅̋̒́͗͂̒͂̋̀͆̔͊̓̾̀͌́͗̾͛́͛̋̏̋̚̕͝͠͠­̛̍̄̑̀̌̈́̄̑́̉͠­̨̢̡̨̧͓͈̲̝̝̟̳̥̯̤͕̮̙͈̱͙͖̮͕̘̹͙̖͓̰͍̗͇̬̯̯̭͓̔̉͜͜͝͠-̵̏̒̒͋̓̚­̇͋̑͌͒̈́́̇́̇̏̚͝­̡̧̧̢̛̛̠͙̰̟͎̯̻͓͖̜͖̭͚̊͗̈̂̌́̅̽̀̎̚͜͝͠-̸̛͌͂͂̿̄̍̎̾͑̈̂̎̈́̕͝­̐̅̀͐̾̈́̅̉͂̎̃̏̚͝­̨̲̜̱̣̞̘̥̪̮͓͍̩̪͉̰͇͈͖̯̘̘͉̪̲̱͉̗̹͉̮̆̑̆̐͆̊͐́̿̿̿̏̆͑́̃̆̚͝­͕̠-̶̽̀̿͒͒͒͌͐̅͝͠­̡̡̨̜̙̰̰̭͇̻͙̜̱̣̮̯͖̻̲͖͓͖̰͇̬̪̥͋̎̅̓͐͝͝-̸̟̣͇̤͎̦̙̠̞̥̒̃͝­̡̡͎̣̳̹̣̝͙̹̗̜̥̝̤ͅ­̨͙̩̺̳̣̟̬̪̣̬͇̮̮̞͙͜ͅ-̷̛͐̍̃̋͌́̿̾̂͛͊͌͛͊̄̈́̽̏̍͋̊̉̃̕͘̚͠­́̾͊́̓́̀̆͂͆̆̓̇͑͘͘͠­̡̱̤͈̱̫̰̩̻̯͔̳̥͚-̵̛̗̣̜̿͌͂̑͌̍̋̏̉̐̋̅̀͑̀̃̈́̊͋̏̂̿͂̍̌̇͝­̹̱̦͔̭͈̖̦̼̟̰̜͇͔͈̹̩̙­̡̨̬̖̞͈̻͚̝̳̘͙͇̦͈̻͉̱͎̞͙̙͕ͅ-̵̛̊͌͗̔̋̿͑͒͋̽̄͊̎̑̉́̚͝͠­̠̱̲̱̼͑̉̊̍̍̓̎̏̓̚͘͘͝͝­̧̧̡̧̢͙͎͕̰͔͖̺͕͔̖͈̜̦̰̼̙̟͍̤̖̱̠̥̣̲̥̰̦̟͙̼ͅ-̵̑̒͊́̚͝­̛̆̐̑̋͊̃̓̐͂́́͂̓̍̕̕͘̚̕­̩̤̼̯̗̃̇̐̓̊̑̈́̀̉̇͂̅̇̒̌͆͆́̔̚̚͜ͅ-̴̒̆͊̓͌̍̂̂̎̃͛̇͘͝­̈́̃̈́̏͗̽͒̈́͑̿͐̿̊̀̃̑͋̎̍̐̕­̧̡̡̡̺̖̝̯͈͉̩͔̻͇̖̞̤̝̪̺͔̗̞͎̲̜̘͙͉̓̀̒̇̐̀̐́̈͛͜͜͝͠­-̶̛̛̛̂̇͛̊͂̈́́̓̿̊̏̉͆̚͝͝͠­̡̧̣͔͙̣̟͈̪͚͚͚͔͎̝̝̭̟̼͖̂͘-̵͋͌̀͑̅͗̈́́̓̉̀͊̎̋̐̕͝͝­̢̡̡̨̱͇̤̱̘͎͍̙̤̦̜̬͚̳̣̳̜̂ͅ­̨̮̗͓̙͖̫̰͚͓̠-̴̛̛̲̱̤̫͂̈́̄̊̃̿̓͂̐̉͌̇̽͊͊̉͑̏̈͘͝­̢̡͖͚͓̣̝͚̙̣̦͈̺̳̺̫̩͇-̸̾̍̊̇­̤͇̲̳̈́̈̓͌̌͂͗̍́̚͠͝-̷̡̜̘̱͎̟̼̭͖̥͓͎̼̇̍̒̎̃͑͛͐͝­̜̪̲̰̭-̵̃̄̎͗̎̔̀̽̐̽̈̒̅̓̓̄̉̕­̡̙̙̩͉̱͊̔̒̽̔̅̔̓̈́̾̀͌͛̍̍̊̍̕͝-̶͐̌͋͒̾̑̀͆̍̾̕͘­̱̖͒̌̏̔̄̍̓̏͊̽̎͊̐̌̅͒͊̍͂̅̆̕͠͠­̨̢̭͈̘͓̺͕̗͚̪̗̗̩̪̤͙̭͍͔͖̗̗̞̥̟̭͇̘̟̺̗̳̫͙̼̼̱­🜮𝒔̸͇̦͎̖̟͎̼̍͂̽̏” “̨̝̞̙̬̱͚̳̗̯ͦ͘͠🝉ⳡ̨̨̛̫̘͈̗̰̲̙̻̩̺̳̘͍͈͎̼̄͐ͩ̚͢͜͜ͅ𝓐̡̛̼̺̣̬̪̠̫̄̔ͅ” “⫻̢̫̱͈̮͓̦͖̤̜̰̤͎̹͉̜̖͙̿̿͐͋̾͜𝓋̴̤̦̲̘̜̺͠𝔊̛̲̤̖͕̠̲̖̼̤̼̝̞͊̔̓̽͢ͅ” “ ̷̧̰̝͔̟̳̳͍͉̯̠̺̅͜͠ ̶̧̨̛͇͍͇̻̾̇͛̈́͊͊̌̔͐̈̕͘͠ ̸̺̗̯̺̳̳͔̹̱͚͈̹̮̱̱͂̈́̏́̒̈̂͐̂̑̿̾͑̽̕͜ͅ ̴̤̤͇̘̘͙̀́͋͛͛͘͝͠ ̷̛̝̰̪̩̬̙̖̈́͋̉̆̒͌̄̌̓̌́̽͐̕͠͠ ̶̛̙̻̖̯̎͆ͅ ̷̳̄̈́̐͒̇͗͠ ̷̮̳̈́̈́̈́̎͗̇̓͑̕̚͠ ̴͔̯͇̌͋͗͊͂̈́͒͑̉́̀́̽̏̂̎̚ ̷̨͖͖͖̪̝͔̲̙̘̆̔̋ ̴̛̳̺̯̒̐̇̇̈́͐͌͛̀̈̊̈́̌͘͝͝ ̷̡̢̨͕̼̦̥͖̩̺͇͇̖̫͍̈́͜ ̶̼̠̭͈̫̜̭̻͓̳̞̰̓̏̾̔͌̚͜ͅ ̷̧̡̮͕̞̙̭͎̝͕̟̩͚͔̜̐͒̎̈́̽͑͗̓̒̎ͅ ̸̧̡̼̥̠̥̹͓͖͙͂͛̎͐͛̆̀̓̌͒̏͘͝ ̶̬̻͇̮̩͙̹̠̱͙̥̭̲̎͗̎̐̔̕ͅ ̴͕̪̗͕̭͗͒͊͌͒̈́̈́̋̂̀̑͠͝ ̵̨̧̢͈̰͇̝͇̬̫̝͚͕̹̈́̐ ̸̪̗̪͎͙͍͔͉̹̟̪̱̖̤̜͕͙͗́̌̄͆̄̀̚ ̷̛̼̦̝̰̹̊̊ ̸̡̨̧̲̤͈̹̊͗̋̏̌̈̓̈́̕ͅ ̷̛̗̲͓̠̝̬̫̹̹͖̙̝̙̺̦̉̓̓͌͂͋͗͋̅̊̆͗͘͝ͅ-̴̜̲̯͚̫͉̝͎̲̭̻͐̾͋̇̋̆̍́͆͗͂̇̽̄͘͝-̵͐̈­­̳̹̙̱̱̞͖̎͜-̵̧̡̛͖̖̪̬̬̱͎͉͚̹͔̾̔̉͐̔͌͆͊̾̕𝞬͕̳̝̥̝͛͒𝑰̨̝̩̩̝̟̺̺̗̠̲̬ͣ̔̽͜͢͠͝ͅ­͡­̖” “🝢̡̨̗͎̤͉̟͙̖͖͎̰̠̞̝̠͓̮̟͌̾̕̕͘̕͜͡𝖓̡̡̢̢̬̻̟̘͙̲̗̱̘̯̞̤̦̯͗̓̍̐̐͘͜”

“𝒴̶̢̛̼͜­̦̥͓̙͌̐̕𝕆̸͍͔̩̮̺͙̓𝕌̶̡̛͉͚̖̥̯̼͐𝓂̷̼̰̺͍̹̖̥𝔸̷̡̼̩̳̱̹̻̲̿͘𝔻𝓔̴̺̺̘̜̠̻̰̰̑𝓗̵̰͙̞­̲̻̻͎̞̔𝕀̵̨̛̤̙̟̱͍̦̎𝕄𝕊𝙊B̶̘̻̖̼̰̰̍͊𝔼𝕒𝑈𝕋𝓘𝔽𝕌𝕃𝚆̷̡̡̹̞̟͕̾𝓗𝕐𝔀̴͍̝̳̿𝓞̶͚̰̤͕̪̱̻̑­𝕟’𝕋𝓨𝕆𝕌𝓂̵͚̘̘̘̲͍͙̠̽𝓐𝕂𝕰𝓜𝕰𝓜𝕆𝕽𝔼B̸̡̢̠̘̬̍𝓔𝔸𝕌𝕋𝕀𝔽𝕌𝕃 𝓨̴͎̮̗̤̩̓͝𝕆𝕌𝓖̵̡̛͕̪̔𝓐̴̰̻̬̻͇̜̰̋𝕍𝓔𝕋𝐇𝕆𝕊𝕖𝕋𝕎𝕆𝓣𝕽𝓐𝕀𝕋𝕆𝕽𝕊W̵̲͈͖̻̰̮̔𝓘𝓝𝔾𝕊 𝓦𝐄𝓛𝓛—𝕎𝐇𝔼𝕽𝔼𝔸̸̹̥̖̲̖̠̓̋𝓡𝓔𝕄𝓨𝕎𝕀𝓝𝔾𝕊!?𝕀̶̞̜͙̠̲̺̱͇͘𝕔̵͉̞̲͚͖̪̩̒𝔸𝕟𝕆𝕟𝕃𝕐𝔻𝓡𝔸𝕲—𝕆𝕟­𝕃𝕐𝕔𝕣𝕦𝕤𝕙—𝔸𝓝𝔻𝕊𝕆𝕀𝕄𝕌𝕊𝕋! 𝕌𝕟𝕋𝕀𝕃𝓨𝕆𝕌𝓜𝓐𝓚𝕖𝓜𝓔𝕋𝕙𝕖𝓜𝕆𝕊𝕋B̷̢̛̺̩̤̦̞̘͘𝔼𝔸𝕌𝕋𝕀𝔽𝕌𝕃!𝕌𝕟𝕋𝕀𝕃𝓨𝕆𝕌𝔸̷͓̘̥̻͎̜͉͕͠𝔻𝕄𝕀𝕋𝓨­𝕆𝕌𝔸̸͖̟̠̘̓𝕣𝔼𝕄𝕀𝓝𝔼—𝕄̸͔̱̼͙͚̤̩̐𝕀̴̡̠̳̳͘𝓝̵̘̯̥̖̩̗̋𝔼̸̙͍͇̝̠̍!—𝙈̷̨̹͓̓𝓘̶͔̪͈̻̬­𝑁̷͍͓̤̦̮̿𝔼̴̘̖͕̬̬͋!”

“⧚̻͈͛͡𝜧̎⍏̟͙̘͕͓̤̲̮ͫ̀͘͞Ⳃ̪̏⫰̦̦̜̪͙̘̽͢͠𝒮̟̟̼̄𝖔̛⩜̻̰̎­̮̫̠̼͉̕𝑴𝟐̴̦̮̓­̳̳͗͛⾠̯͇͞” “🝑̨̡̳̰͚̜̥̖͇̐̒͞⟙̘͙͆⻐̡̼̠̙̠̠͂̾͛̾͘𝞴̛̯̺͚̾𝓂̨̛͍̟̼𝞌̖̲̟̗̘̪͆̍̕͡” “⨇̛̜̖͎͕̜̞̟̒̎̍͠͝𝒴̹̬͆̾̕⾓̢̲̝̐̎⫱̓͘⫶̢̛̛̫̞̱͘͟͝” “⛑̣͓̥̖̹͓̮̔̾̕͘͢͞ ̷̛̛̛͗͆̓̈́̆̃͋̓́̈́̌̉͊́́̿̄̃̒̈́̎̌̓̀̽̇̏̿̈́͗̅̆͌̄̎́̑̃̑̇͂̀̂̓͂̐̀̄̏̓́͆͐̆͐̀̚͝͝͠­­̧̨̨̡̨̢̛̞̝̯̜͍̰͙̥̲̙̭͔̭̫͈̩̹͔̲͕̙̣̲̮̮̖͎̪͈̭̬͔̣̙̳̗̭̥͓̯͈̺͍͍̼̗̯̄͋͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅ­͍­̢͜j̷̡̢̛̛̰̝̼̪̰̯̲̫̲͚̪̱̯͈̪͙̺͎̻̦̘͎̮̮̔̀̋̍͆̈́̆̉̄̽̍̎̄̔̍͒̀̈̏̌͌̀͑̂̐̒͒͘͠͝͝­͎͓­̢̙̲̯͈̪̹͇̙̦͉͕͕͔̱͎̯̮̩̞͖̱͖̪̣͇̘̺͚̻͜ͅb̴̧̢̛͇͖̱͚̻̔̈́͋̓̃̇͋͊͂̎͋́̎̿͝͝'̸̽͂­̇̅̓­̢̛̛̛͉̙̫͈̫̘̱̘͍̠̬̲̫͉̿̽̀̍͊̃̀̀͊̍̂̽̇̇̎̃̿̽̅̆̽͐͊̏̄̈̀̈́̀̍̓̀́̔͑͛̊͘̕̕̕͝ͅ­̠̺̱̹­̧̫̜̙̻̠͓̲̱̤̟̭̗͖̹͇͔̩̦̳̻̘̱̪̭̤̣̤͎̙'̶̢̲̤̞̝̝̹̭̦̃̿̆͂͛̐̄̃̓̐͂̔̓̈́͂̍͆̕̕­̢͔͓̘͈­̡̧̨̧͓̥̫͙͇̫̱̞̻̱̖͇͈͍͕̬͖̯̲̙̼͖͇̖̣̞͕̺̝̺̱̳̗̞ͅͅ;̷̧̛̝̟̟͖̙̙̮̮̙͕̭͔̋͜͝­̩̞̭̥̟ͅ­̢̡̨̢̡̞̮͍͔̳͔̝͕̩̥̬̦͖͉̗̮̥̞͍͎͎͔̳̲̳̹͍̤̗̖͕̺̤̟̻̜͓͚͚͎̦̣̜ͅ'̵̩̈́͗̓̈́̐;­̴̈͊̿͆̽͗­̞͕̲̰̙̙̜͐̄̿̓̔͆́̿͑̏̇̀̂́̑͛̈́͒̈́̏̂̓͂̿̓̉̎͂̆̆̋̃̓̎́̔͛̅́̽̒̈́̓̚̕̚̚͝͝͝­̙͖̱͎̤̣̺̘­̨̢̨̞̭͙͉͚͈̙̟͎̤̗͖̙̣͎͙̜͖̝͚̩̞̲̖̘ͅ;̶̛̈́͋̅͒͂̋̀̋̊̌̓̋̆̈͐͗̑̓̓̆͆͒̂͠­̛͑̊̉̄͗̃̃̚­̢̯̜̈́̃̉͒̊̿͋́͊̎̌̋̇̕̕;̸͌̍̆̃̍̎̉̾͂̏̌̒̒̓̈́͛̑͗̽͛̊̈̅́͌́̃́͑́̆͗̕͝͝­̉̃͗̊́̔͊͑̄͑­̛͚̥͗͊̃̈́̍̅̄́̑̃͐́̔̀́̔̆̈͌̀̀͂͝;̸̛͍̝͎͂̔͗͆͋̆̉̆̐̋̆̓̈́̇̉͊̋̔̾̎̕͝­̯̲̱͔̱͔͕̝̙͚͜­̶̡̛̪͙̟̗͇̲̲̦͉͚̯̟͔̣͖̥̤̟̓͌̇̏̓͛͋͗̽́̎͗̄̍̀́́̎̊͑͂̾́͘̕̕͘̕̚͘͠ͅ­͖͉̈́̋͑̈́̓̽̕͝­̴̝̥͚͍͂̾̒̏́̃̅͑̽́̉̏̆̒̾̌̆̋́͒̌̔͒̅͗̎̉̄̌̇̑̎́͗̒͒́̓̔̓̓̓̍̐̂̚͝͝͝­̨̡͎̼͕͕̖̞̟͈̻­̸̢̡̡̨̡̬̥̙̗̣͉͖̦̹̣̦̙̙̯̯͍̪̳̘͉̤̟͔̻͉̻̠͕̘̣̬̫̘͖̓́͋͑̓͂̒̀͛̉́͘͠­̥̜̱͓̲͓̩͙̱̞̗­̵̡̦͎̩͖̤̝͔̺̘̳̜͕̹̦̖͚͈͙͓̂͂͑̔̋̈́͌͛̂̉̅͆̾͋́̂̎̍̊̉͋̽̐̊̓̇̅̃̒̔̕͜­̀͗̃̀͆̂͐͐̈͘͝­̡̡̨̞̰̯̺͖͚̰̜̖͚͍̼̝̞̣̙͕̺͇͓̱̭̝̱͉̟̤̋́̇̈́̇́̈́̓͑͌͂͐̄̃̏̎̋̾̈́͘͝͝͝­̲͓̦̯̖̱̜̪̲͔͙̥­̵̸̧̳̦͓̤̱̻͙̼̟̹̖̱̤͉͚̦̟̭̮̦͔͙̻̫͍̱̪̭̳̹̜͈̙͇̳̱̲̳͒̌̎̃̋̆̀͂͠͝ͅ­̈́͆͌̂͛̆̕̕̕͠͠­̡̡̛͍̙̮̞̯͙̥̦̞̰͎̠̣͙̬̦̩͈̩́͊̂̌̉̏̋̋͑̚̚̕̚͜͝⍔̠̞̄⩞̘̠̼”
“ ̶̢̧̧̫̮̱̞̩͖̱͕͉̟͖̻̙̜̲̥͍̮̯͖̺̥̗̝̞̳̬͖̟̙̤̻͔͛̓̅̾͂̎͑̽̑̅̒͌̿̑͗͊͊̈́̾̉̒͋͘͜͜͜ͅͅ­­̲͉̣̹͍̗͇̬̬͔̝͈̬̙̮͕ ̷̛̛͛͛̋̂̓́͂̋̌̉̒́̿̉̋̈́̈̂̾͂͋̅̃̀̈́̐̐͊̃͑̌͂̓͂͐̾̏̀͗̌̀̍͊͑̌͛͆̀̾͑̓̒͘͘̚̕͘͠͝͝͠͝­­̛̈́́͒̄́̿̂́̑̈̉͗̊͛̈̀͆̈̌̾͌̋͛͂̿͆̓̇͐̅̂͛̈́͋̄̿͊̃̈́̾͆̐̈͐́̏̏̆͑̓̊̂̊̿́̓̑͘̚͘͝͠͝­́­̧̧̣̹̲̘̩̼̮̫̰͓̺̱̮̻͖͕͉̻͙̲̙͈̲̭͇̻̟̺͍͍̣̘̩͂̉̒̓̓̒͛̿̂̓͐͒̄̔̅̈́̓̅̽́́̿̉̉́͗͊͝­̧̯­̢̡̨̧̢̢̧̨̱͎͚̖͚͚̳̣̬̘͎͈͇̣̱̱͓͚͓͓͍̘͎̰̞̱̱͍̠̖̠͈̬̼͇͕̺͈̞̥̲̩̥̪̠͇͕̝̠̭̘̭͜ͅ­̼͍̘­̡̢̡̧̧̰̣̙̪̯̭̩͓̦͓̼̳̠̩̦̝̘̟̻̲͉̦̭͖͍͙̥̱̼̙͎̝̬̱̳̙̤̩̯̲͎̰̲̤̼̙͈͖̻͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅ­̢̩̗ͅ­̤̹͕͙̲͓̘̻ ̶̛̟̞̞̬̝͎̼͙̤̼́̌̄̏͆͋́̎̽̅͑̔̈́̊͛͒̿̏͐̉͊́͐͋͋̒̔̈́͗̌̋̂͂̓͂̃̿̅̋̆͌̽͗̔̃̚̕̚͝͝͠͝͠­­̢̢̢̧̨̨̞͚̹̳̩͚͈͇͕̣̙̮̟͕̪̜̭͉͈̠͕̟̟̘̗͕̥̣̝͙̱̟̰͎̝̹̯͚͖̟͉͚̦̤̟͓̭̮̙̺̝͎̬͕̺̳̭͜­̻­̨̡̨̡̡̡̩̼͎͖̝̝͓̖̙͉̗̺̜͖̖͎͍͉͕͈̥͇͖͕̟̝̠͙̭͍̺̮̻̺̯̝͎̠̬̩̲̺͚͕̗͙̱̠̗͇̙͚͙͕̙͓ͅ­̭̦­̢͔̼̫͇̖̥̬̬̟͈̬ ̷̛̛̓́̽̿̓̃̀̀̓̎̈́͊̏̔̏͗̈́̑͛̅́͌͊̀̆͗̇̒̐̊̈́̂͂̓̍̃̉͗́͗͊̒̈́̇̑̽̍͑̉̃̋̅͂̍͛̕̚͘͘͝͝­­̛̛̛̛͂̌͛̏̋͗̊͐̐̒̅͆̽͊̀͒͊̈́͒̽̌̆̀̅̑͌̾͑̌͑̓̍̀̂̂͊̔͑̍̀̇̾̏̇͐͆̒̄̂̀̚̕͘͘̚͘͝͝͠͠­̍­̧͙̞̘̭̰̠͍̫͙̪͔̞͍̏͐́̇̓͗͐̊̀̇̉̽̄́́͒͋͗̆̒̅̋̇̽̏̽̿̋͗͑̅̎̏́͐̍́̒͛̕̚̕͘̚͘͜͠͠ͅ­̗̻­̢̨̢̡̡̖̥͕͓̬̥̥͖̺̙̭͓̲̙̥̻̞̥̩̦̥̺̟̳̣̪̞̹̺͉̰̘̜̱͕͖͚̺̦͚̠͓͍̮̬̯͖̖̻̣̩̼͖͜͜ͅͅ­̥̹̭­̢̢̡̫͈̗̣͉͈͈̜̮̜͓̞̻̯͕͇̳̪͉̯̠̟̺̬̰͎͍̼̣͕̯̭͎̹̲̩̘̮̮̭̞̙͓̺̜̯̗̲̫̖̩̞̘̖͙̝͖ͅ­̨̺̜̭­ ̷̛̛̽̀͐͊̍͋̀͒̾̍͂̐̄́̂̀͋̾̄̀̂̄̉̏̐̎͊͊͐͂̊̒̂̍͌̿̐̀̋̓̀̀̑̉̌́̅̑̒̊͌̍́̄͘̕͘̚͘͘͠͝­­̧̢̳͖͇̜͚͇̫̟͙̠̺̪̬̩̬͍̱̲͚͚̞̼̣̜̗̺̬̬̬̠̯̳̬̹͎͕͓͎̅̿͊͑͋̉͒̎͊͆̐̿̋̌̽͗̇̎͘͜ͅͅͅͅ­̧­̡̧͈̯̯̟̩͍͓̠̳̩̹̮̤͙̭̫͜ ̸̛̛̛̑̒̋̿̎̔͋͑̒̈́͗͛͑̿̑̎̀̓̈́̔̀̌͌͆̽̓̐̄̓̀͋̆̊́͐̍̓̅̐̅̑́̏̔̋́̒̊͗̎̐̈̇͒̚͠͝͠͠͠͝­­̛̌͗́̅͋̍͐́̀͂̅̽̿̾̈͆̒͂̄̽͒̅̀̌̍́̉̉͂̒̓̆̉͑͛̃̀͋̑͐̓̾̄̆̏̈͋́́̾̾͋̓̚̚͘̚̚͠͝͝͝͝­̕­̨̧̢̧̢̧̡͈̙͓͖͈͔̭͕̬͚̝͈̭̻̙̹̯̭̼͙͕͇͇̫̟̹͓̲͉̮̣̖͈͙̣̬̝̝̰̺͖͛̎͛̑͊̓̈́͂̍̊̀͜ͅͅͅ­̮̭­̡̡̨̨̢̨͓̤̝̲̞̤͈̦̮̱̗̘͖͍͔̗̼̠̤͎̻͍̘̮̲̝̞̝̬͍̙͓̝̻̦͕̲͓̣͉̙̺͇̣̰̼͍̭͖̙͈̪͜͜ͅͅ­̜̖̣­̨̨̢̡̧̝̯̬̫̮̘̜̻̭̺̠̥̳͇̪̙̹͇̼̲͎̪͇̙̪͍̦̞̦̼̩̤͜ ̵̛͛̊̈́͒̈́͋̾̓̿̎͆̐̊̅̒́̔̀̈́͆̈́̑̃͑̌͑̽̍̏̀̂̍̓͑̏̇̌́̾̽̈́̈́́̋̈́͊͌̈́̍͐̀̃̏̆̚̚̚̚͝͠͝͝͝­­̧̢̧̡̨̛̞͔̱͖̜̙͕̜̩͓̩̖̜͖̩̰̥̪̞̜͕̮̩̗̩̰̫͔̞͔̱̳̟̞͇̟̜̠̜̘͓̟̠̩́̿̀͆́̃́͜ͅ ̶̛̛̛̽̈́̔͐̑̄͐͛̌́͗̓̃̎̉̄̈́͗͆̑̌͆̇̈́͑̀̎̈́̑̃͒̐͋̋̎̅̑̋̀̈́́̆̉̏̏̒̈̔̓̇͂́̔̅͑̕͘̚͘͝͝­­̛̄̃̎̿̒͆́̽͂̑̒͑́̈́͊̌͑̑͗̅̄̉̿̄͗̂̅̓͋̂̄̌̈̅͂̾̀̍̎́̆́̂̈͛̃̋̇̐̽̅́͐̆̐̆̈́̚̚̕͘͝­̊­̨̧̛̤͚̮͕̮͚̪̭̭̺̘̹͈̣͎̬̠̘͔͙̘̱̹̲͚̰̥̪̫̜̬̰͙͓̖̙̫̙̤̯̻̹̭͔͕̬̹͔̓͛̓̑̀̾̓̆̎̐̀͝­̮̰­̨̨͙̹̺̺̪͇͍̙̣̹͍͇̯̪͈̬͕̣̯̱̖̤̪̹̼̦͚͎̘̫̞͎̜̼̲̗͎͍̣̹̠̪̺̖͉̻̩̰̰̼̙̣͉͓̰͜͜͜ͅͅ­͚̣ͅ­̦̰̰̮͉ ̸̛̀̈́̉͌͐̊̀̃͒͗͒̌͒͌̈́͐̋͐̅̿̓́͛̃͊̌̍́͐̈́̑̀͒̀͆̏̀̓̀̽̓̇̐͊́̏̏̂͊͋̃͒̑̚̕̚̕͝͝͠͠͝͝­­̛̛̛̛̓͂͐̓̉̈͋̈́̈̅̐̉̃͆̎̊́̂̐̐̎̓̃͐͌͑̿̽͌͐̍͑͌͛̏̄͛͐̈͋̓̽͌͑͊̎͗̃̏̈̀̑̊͌̚̕͠͝͝͝­̾­̨͓͓̬͈̝͕̘͙͉̬̲͓͖̻͍̤͉̈́͒͊̑͐̏̌̏̈̿͌̂͒̉͋̊̆͂̀͛̈́͒̔̓̌̄̒̐͋͋̈́̈́̎̈́̌̐͗͘̕͘͜͝͝͝ͅ­̹̦­̧̢̨̢͔͚̘͕̣̙͓͎̥͙͔̖͕̣͉̱̰͖̝̝̦͔͎͉̰ͅͅͅ ̸̛̛̛̊̇͛͑̏̓̃̈̅̎̃̔̇̓͒͑̑͛̿̂̅͛͌̋̆͐̿̑͛͒̂͐̃́̅̆̉͛͐̿́̍̈͆̌̆̓̓̿͐͗͘͘̕͝͝͝͠͝͝͝­­̢̢̨̡̡̣͎̦͖̼̝̜̫̯̦͙̻̺̪̝̰͉̪̙̥͙̱̰̞̗̖̭̩̯̣̝͉͙͉̬̲̯̼͉̒̏̉̎͛̈́̃͒͛͆̾̈́͋́̚͜͜͠͝ͅ­̪­̧̨̡̨̨̧̡̗̤̗̫͕̯̲̯̰̫̖̦̼̜̬̞̯̗̙̜̟͔̭̰͖̼͉̘̮͇̰̺̭̩̹̩̭̰͍̖̮͔̝͔̤̻͙͎̳̟̝̣͜͜ͅͅ­͕̘­͔̟ ̴̛̛̛̓͆̅̑͆̉͑̌͐̽̃̇͋͋͋͒͊͑̄͛̌̾̈̌́͌̂̏̔̂̆̿̅͛̔̀́̋̿̔̀̓̽̀̈͆̂͂̒̀̚͘̕͘͝͝͝͝͝͠͝­­̨̢̡̛̗͇̫͈̲͙͍̜̙͓͇͎̪̟̪̞͈̣̼̱̳̠̺̰̣̪͎̮̳̜̙̗̤̦͍͙͎̦̣͐͌̃̐̍̊̊̔͊̌̆̎̓̈́̽́̎͒̈́͘͝­̫­̨̨̥̙͇̙̠̻̜͔̘͜ ̶̛̓͑̿̊͐̒͋̍̇̎̽̆͋̅̔̅͗͋̀͗͗̇̎̈͌͛͂̆̎͑͊̏̉̄̐̑̆̍͑̌͌̅͆̍̍͗͑̐̍̉̂̿̀̔̅̉́̚͘͘͝͝͝­­͑̑̆̌̄̓͗͋̔̊̀̽̈́̓̈́͊̉̍͒̅̍̾̿̐̽̃̃̋́̄̒̈́̓̾̊̊̂͋̑̊̓̌̓̋̅̋͋̐̆̀̑̋̀̒͒̾̅̒͘͘͘͠͠͝­͆­̧̢̨̡̱͓͔͖̺͍̜̦̬͇̹͕̣̘̺͉̮̱̼͕͈̞̹̱̺̯͚̲͖̪̲̱͓̱̖͓̼͖̖̠̣͉̭̥̯̼͈̲͈̒́̚͜ͅͅ ̸̡̡̡̛̰̱̠͉̠͕͚͓̹̯͕̩̤̬̩̰̥̻̘͍̲̪̰̰̭͔̤̖͕̳̙̤̹̞̻̇͆͑̔̐̊̈́͐̌̆̽͂̑̊̓͌̄̕̚͘͘̚͜ͅͅ­­̨̨̢̢̢̡͖̣̲̼͈̳͕͉͍͓͇̻̲͖͇̞͖͙̺̠̩͍͎̤̙̜̯̻̺̦͚̼̘̠̯͔̲̙̰̳̬̼̭̣͇̰̯̘͍̥̮̱̤͎̱͕̼ͅ­̠­̢̨̧̡̨̪̼̝̱̺̼̖͈͖̝͎͓̱̣̯̳̝̜̣̲̭̜̻͈̝̫̟͍̼͈̮̭̺̲̟̰̞̙̖̘̱͈̱̖̠̲̮̩͍̻̫̖͙̳͓͉̺͎­̡̦­̧͇͔̙̣̬̺̖̯̟͓̟̥͓̘̻̫ ̶̛̾̅̌͌̀͑́̀̀͗͛͋͊̀̊̅̊̐̃͒͑̀͗̽̊̓̒́͂̐̉̎̈̈́̓̀̑͛̈́̆̋̋̉̃̆͊͛̑̈̉̓̂͊̓̋̅̀̚̕̚͘̕̚­­̡̤̲̤͔̬̦̼̾̍͑̎̀͌̃̇̆̀͐͆̋̽̀͛̽͑̎͋̔͑̏̐̏́̾̑̽̿̆̿̃́̍͂̓͐̈́̔͗̍̅͐̌̈̈́̌̿̊̈́̓͘͝͝ͅ­̞­̧̨̨̡̧̧͍̜̝̘͉̗̦͕̗̘̯̯̲̳̜̤͇̯̠̪͍̦̝̻̺͖͎̰̘̟̙̣̼̩̯̗̙̠̲͍̟̮̳̻͎̩͉̱̣̰͖͖͜͜͜ͅͅ­̞͕­̡̧̠̬͕̪̗̙̼̮͓̯̝̰͎̮͖̙̰̝̺͕̬͖͎̳̯̮͍̠̰̥̠̜̯̖̬͇͉͖̱̙̜̱͓̮̠̼̩̹͈̜̫͔̺̫̩̤͜͜͜͜­̨̲̗­̣ ̸̛̛̌͌͛̈̿͌́̈̑͛̌͐̐͐͛̿̓̔̄̉̓̌̌̊̈̋́̀́̿̔̈́̇̐̐̈́͛͛̈́̂̏͐̍̐̀͌̉͑̒͘̚̚͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͠­­̛̛̛̛́̒͋̃̈̔̆̎̈̑̾̉̈́̊̀̐͛̐̀̒̌̂͂͂̓̓̇͛͋̐̓̊̉͛̋͆̏̋̽̑̉̈͑̿͌̎̿͋͗͌̇̓́͗͑͒̈͘͝͠­̐­̨̢̧̧̤̤̥͕̟̠͔̥̟̯̫̺̗̻̬̳͙̼̥͉̮̥̫̼̺̗̙̥̪͓̰̘̘̺͈͇̥͖̺̬̘͇͉͔̬̋́̽̀̓̾̔͑͛́̾͘͘ͅ­͉̪­̢̡̳̳̹͔͙̫̞̟̩͖̘ ̸̛͐͌̽̈́̾̒̓̊͋̊̂̀̽͛̒̐̆͑̎͆̌͛̉͛̾͑̏̎̑̔̃̓̍͑͋̓͊͊̈͒̔̈͗͆̆͋̑̐̋̃́̈́̚͘̚̕̚̕͝͝͠͝͠­­̛̛̃̀̊͌̉̓͌͋͛̾͑́͌͗̌͋́̊̓͗̈́͛͒͆̅͊͌̓̐̔͐̇͋̾̑̆͆́̌͌́̽̈́̍̊̉̉́̌̈́̄̈͋̈́̀̈́̚͘͘͠͝͝­́­̯͎͕͎̓̌̈́̑͊̑̂̇̿̌̂̇̈́́̿̒͋̇́̀́͂͂͠͝͝ ̷̀̅̉̾͗̿̓̈́͌̇͛̔̈́͊͛̑̾̋́̄̌̍̽̿͗̈̒̑̋͛͊͒͐̏̓̇̌̈́̃̄̋̆͂̀̆͗͋͆̑̔̾̅̓́̀̀͊̎́̚͝͝͝͝­­̡̨̧̛̗͙̹̥̦̼͎̫̞͈͈̜̼̪̭̗̫̠̯̲͔̹̫̤̟̻͉͎̞͑͒̾̏̈́̍̉̇̅̆̈̀͌̓̍́̏̽̎̅͌̈̇̏̓͘̚̚͠͠ͅ­̰­̢̨̼͔̘̟̱̟̝̲͇̭̜ͅ ̴̛̛̓̒̓̒̉̒̍̓́͐̒̒̄͗̒͂̾͋͗̎̈͆͒̾̊͊̈́̀̋̈̑̊̋̈̾̋̈́͋̇͆̓̑̋̓́̂̏̂̀̇̑̚̚̚̕̕͝͠͠͠͠͠­­̛̛̛̛͍̖͙̣͔̩̩̘̬̱͔̟̳̟͔̿̊̈͌̏̈́̀͂͆͐̌͋͌́̌̊̇̃̂̿̾̆̀̽̔͊̋͆̊̃̾́̎͛̓̂͑̆̌̚̚̚͝͠͝­͕­̨̡̧̧̨̦̠̯̯̫̺͖̣̟͖̪̪͕̲̻͍̟̝͕̗̰͓͍̭̤̞̥̰͉͉͎̙̩̤̺̜͕̞̥̮ͅ ̸̛̛̀͑͐́̓́́̈́̋̈́̑̂̀͂̾̍͊̂̇̏͆̓̅̈͗̉́̓͌̅̒͗̋̍̓̋͗̄̎̄͌͑͌̌̌̀̐͐̈̃͛̍̚̚̚͠͠͠͝͝͝͝­­̛̈́̔̂̾̏́̇̂̐̃̐͗̆̾̾̐̃̂̀͊̊̆̂͛̈̋̈̈́̓̒̑̓̎̓̊̈́̌̈́͐̉̄̓̑̄̍̀͋̂͋̄̋̔̊͌̆͂̾͝͠͝͠͝͝­̀­̡̢̧̣͚̲̗̭̤̗̹͎͈̤͖̠̺͈̘̻̜̳̼͇̫̤̬̣̹͎̯̦̙̤͐̀͌͒͐̈͆͊͛͐͆̀̏͒̿̈̿̑̽̎̋̚͘͝͝͝͠ͅͅ­̳̬­̫͉̪̝̟̪ ̴̛̛̱̦̯̯́͑͗͒̉̂̈͌̓̓͌͌̓̇̀̆͆̓̂̂́̅̀͌̓̈̉̓̇͆̋̍̂͒͌͗̈́͌̎̾͑̏̈́͂͒͗̊̅̾̑͐͘̕̚͠͝ͅ­­̨̨̢̨͔͈̺͕̭̼̺͚̘̥̩͇̣̳̭̤͔͕̳͚̦̤͎̯̼̰̘͎͙͙̝̞̖̝̘̹̥̫͚̺͓̥̥͇̱̝͓͎̩͈̖̘̫̻͔̖͜͜͜ͅ­̩­̨̧̢̡̼̰͇̹̮͍͚̼͚̹̘͎̖͙̙̫̖̠͔̞͍̳̤͚͉̠̲̺̞ ̷̲͍̝̰͖̩̰̟̓̒͒̏̏̃̏ ̶̛̛̔̀͊́̊̅̿̆͐̒͐̅́͊̈̍̔̔͑̐̔̔̉̍̈́̔͆̄͋̅̿̈͌̆̉̒̋̈́̓̂̓̀̆͂̔̊̍̈͗̎̓͒̚͘͘̚̕̚͠͝͝͝­­̛̛̛̊̃̋̆͋̓͋͋͊̀̎̄̏̌́̈́́̋̓̿̌̇͂͐̍͊͑̈́̀̿̈́̀̃́̈́̅̅̔̓̊̾̎̔̒̀̾͐͂̀̈̈́̓̐̽̚̕͝͝͠͝͝­̉­̡̧̧̭͍͓̼͇̱̥̯̞̩̰̟̬̦͚͈̪̬͖̬͈̦̭̗̮̺̠̼̲̊̄̅̀̍͑̌̾̊̔̊͛̀̄̃̉͛̂̀̔̄́̈́̕͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅ­̱̯­̡̢̧̢̡̲͍̳͙̼̱̜̟̪̼̙̗͕͉̦̦̥̱̞̱͓̬͚̝̰͍͔̬̪̥̦̩̱̙̠͚͈̝̣̬͍̠̭̦̣̝̬͍̯͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅͅ­̟̠͈­̢̡̨̡̡̢͎̙̥̭̳͖̩̭͇͎̲͍̹͇̩͙̣͉̺̮͉̹͇̰̯͖̪̤̟̩̱̪̩̩̰͉̬̜̟̗͙̻̥̖̩̻̱̣̖͇̥̝̰͜ͅ­̥̼̮̜­̨̧̢͖̥̳̫̯̠͍̗͇͜𝚛̛̺͇͛ ̸̢̨̢̢̡͖͓̩̜̘̣͓̫̗̺̺̲̬̗̠̤͎͙̜̩̙͓͚͇͔͕̱̜͉̭̬̳͍̩̪̝͔̓̍̿̈́̀́́͌̔̆̂͆̑̐̂̍̔̕̚͜͜ͅ­̧̟͎̦̤͙̼͚̫̙̯ ̶͙͕͕̮͒̂̊̾͌̒̚ ̴̨͓̘̗̣͎̭̣̣̼͇̱͕̠͑̈́̀̑̋̅̀̀̈́́̕͘͜ ̶͔̝̭̞͍̯̠͔̫̯̭͉͔̘̲̥̯̗̙͔̜̙͈̻̞̥̫̖̮͕̖̔̀̐͋͆͗͂͂͒̂̀̒̃̎͋̂̿͛̍͗̋̀̊̈͌͝͠͠͠͠͠ͅͅ­̢̮̦̩̝̠̝̯͕̞͈̰͎̫̰͈̘̹͎̯̭͜ͅ ̷̛̘͔͎̘̻̦̄̓͌͊̓̅͒̾̈́̔̈́͑́̾̈̎̀̈́̅͛̾̾̂̿̇̈͐̍̄̌̄̒̉̐̽̏̊͑̀̅̄́͒̽́͘̚͘̕͘͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅ­̢̧̢̡̢̢̧̳̲͎̞͚̥̺͎̰̘̩͉͔͔̟̞̜̼̻̠͍͖̻̳͔̩͈͚̟̳̻̜̻̗͇̦̼͔͚͔̯̭̜͚̺͜͜ͅͅ ̶̨̨̨̢̢̢̛̼̤̦̫̹̰͙̼͉̠̩̤̦̲͖̹̙̩̗͙͉̜̟̱̝̤̦̝̘̭̹͈̋͋̾̍̅̀̂͑̅̊̍̂̉̒̈́̎̃̽̇̊̍̕͜͝ͅ­̨̨̢̤̙̻̦̟̝̼̫̦͍̬̹͚̭̬̲͇̙̲͉͍̮̤͇͉͈̦͜ ̸̋͛̑͂͗̑͋̌̓̓̂̈́͐̓̈́͑̂͛͌͋̒̈̓̅̈́͐̾̏̈́̀̈́̈́̅̓̓͒͐̉̃̔̔̈́͑͗̀̇̈́̀̍̕͘͘̚̕͘̚͜͝͝͠͝͠͠͠­̧̧̧̡̢̰̺̙̤͕͚̬̗̞̰̮̼̰̺̦̲̻̖͖̳͖̱̹͖̱̱͚͍̯̰̱͚̳̝̙̳̘̖̮͚̹̫̪̯̖̰͖͉̻̣̥̫̲̮̜͔̤͚͜ͅ­̨͎̰̯̺̯͙̺͔̳̹ ̴̢̯̳̟̟͓̝̞̺͓͖̗̦̜̹̖́͊̒̒͒̓̉̒̔̔̀̌͋̄̎̅̑̄̈́͗͗͂͌̾̆̿͆̋̀̄̀̽̌̃̉̔̍̀͋͊̽̾͗̾͘̕̚͝­̨̨̨̙̖̻̺̬͓̮͔̜͉̹͎̞̹̜̥̩̖̩̰̤̥͔̣̺̰̞̘̮͜͜ ̴̧̨̠̭̻̳͎̣̥̮̰̻̳͖̰͎͖̬͂̈́̀͂͌̀̅͐̃̋͗̃́̇̄͂͋̽̉̅̈́̐̀̿̆͋̐̇̇͑̈́͗̃̾̊̀̔̿̕͘̚̚͘͜͠͝­̨̧̜͕͕̯͓͙͓̟̤͕͍͈̹̺͚̖̳͍̲͓̦̹͖͙͖̰̳̠̗̖͙̭̻̺̘͇͖̖̘̖͓̳̺̗͜ ̶͚̪̖̍͒̓̽̿̈́̊̀̉͋̿́̓̈̈́̏̓̓̔̀̄̃̊̅͂̈́̂̊̀̄͆̋̓̍͑͌͒̊̇̉͑̈́̅̋͊̔̔̔͆͋͐̈́̍͂̕̕͜͠͠͝͝­̢̧̨̢̗̠̤̞̙̯̜̫̜̞̗̼͔͎̼͍̺̜̻̭̟̤̘̥̗̺̮̟͉̗͖͍̳̩̮͖̤̠̙̮̭̦̭̱͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̬̌́̎̂̒̑̅̿͗̆̽̋̄̾̒̿̈̊̊̋̓͌̀̅̇̏̍͆͛́̐̃̎͗̊͌̃̃̌̋̑̀͌̅̀͗̒̉͐̅́͗̂͋̈̂͛̏̆͝͠­̢̨̡̢̨̡̢̧̢̡̡̧̨̨͚͍͓͔͚̟͙̤͕̖̦͓̥̳͖̻̭͓͓̩̖̪̘͕̭̰̘̬͙͍̫͚̠̬̜̻̼̫̩͖̠̳̩͖̫̯͓̗͍̳͜­̧͚͙̻̩̥͕̗̗̺ ̸̢̨̛̮̺̺͖̗̣͚̺͛̊̑͑͋͊̂̓́͊̌͗̀́͋̂̇̆̑̒̑́̈̌̈͂̇̓̐̿̀̀̄̕͘͘͘̚͠ ̷̧̢̨̛̛͖̤͔̳̦̣̤͕̜̳̬̣̙̪̱̳̭̹͓̦͇̥͊͒́͋̋̂̾͑̋͋̔͋̈̇̃͒̓̔͌͑̉̈̃͐̋͐̆̅͘̚͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅ­̡͉͇͎̞͉̱̮͓͕͍͉͜ ̸̡̛͙͙̩̩͓̫̀̐̍̒̋́̈́̈́̃̀͌̌̋̑͐̔͊̔͂͆̓͌͊̈́͆͒̌͂̃̏̎̾̏̅͊͘͘͘͜͝͠͝ ̵̢̨̛̛̮̤̦͈̣͙͕̪̭͎͎̰͙̤̝̲͙̬̬͕͕͍̝̬̦́̀̃̈́̅̈̓̆́́̈́͆͋̋̆́͆̈́̅̐̈̆͒̽́͒̂̂́͊͜͝͠͝͝­̧̢̧̧̳̟͉̻̯̘̬̖͖͔͕̺̦̮̪ ̴͍̪̩͈͋̐̉̆̒͋͗̌͂̍̀̓̊̄̈̑̎̄̓́̎̓̂̑͐̈́͐̈́̉͋͊͝͝ ̵̛̣̤̓͑̎̈́̈́̉̃̋͊́́̒͌͒̃̏̃̒̄͐̔͌͋͛̕͝͠͠ ̴̡̛̱̟͉̬͇̼̺̖̀̒̓͂̀̾̆̂̄̇̇̓̍́̉̅͋̎͑̏̌̓̍͊̋̓̂̀̎̈́͒̑̂̀͊͛̈́̇́́̓͆̇͘͘͘͘͝͠͝͝͝͠͝­̧̖̩̪͇͓̟̞̣̘̥̱͖̱̝̟̝͓̤͙͔̼͉̲̥̫̪̠͉̳̩̺̱̯̫͜͜͜ͅ ̵̛͐̆̆̅͛̀͛̂̎̐̍̃̎̋͗̍́̑͂͌̓̔̽̀̾̀̑̽͛͂͗̈̾̈͑͛̔͊͛̀̈́̅̐̔̈́͂̓̀̈́̂͆͌̓̃͋̀̓̀͊̕͝͠͠­̨̨̧̢̡̡̢̰͇͈͙͉̗̠͍̮͖͕̟̘͚͙͔̱̞̜̰͉͉̗̫̦̼̖͖̙͔̗͍̟̲̘͎̪͍̺̦̝͚̹̥̹̈͗̽̎̾̿̏̍̽̕͜ͅͅ­̧͔̣͕̮͙̺̱ͅ ̶͕̭̪̥̗̼̑̑̍̍̈́́̅̐͊̔̓͑͊̅͑̃̀̐͗̔͆̆͊̍͂͛̔͘͠ ̷̧̞̻̯͉̭̖͕̳̖̼̭̭͈͓̹͉̯̩͉̤̀̀̾̿͌̽̌̈́͛͝͠ͅͅ ̶̡̡̡̢̢̞̱͓̭͓̖̠̳̹̬͍͖͇̟̤͙̤͓̳̞̳͍̘̙̯̦̪̗̮͙͖͎̮̞̜͈̝͕͉̱͚͇̪̘͓̖̹͈͛̎̄͛̅̃͜͝͝ͅͅ­̡̡̢̬͓͚͍̦͙̮̘̖̱̪̻̼̳ͅ ̷̧̛̯͉̺͓̤͕̗̘̗̣̝͎͉͉͉͑̇̊̑͛͂̓̇͗̃͗̌́̈́̎̒̋̽̊̒̐͒́̈́͂̀͘̕̕̕͠͝͠ ̸̧̢̢̛̲̣̦̫͈̝̰̭͍̹̗̻̝̲̾̒̀̆̐̾͌̊̂̇̋͂̉͊̈́̒̋̈́̾͛̆͐̋̇̍̆͐̔̆͊̀̀̈́̽̐̊̎̈̕͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅ­̡̧̨̢̢̠̹̙̻̯̯̼̤̰̼̰͇̱̲̮̮̜̻̮͈ ̵̨̢͍̩͚̥̯̫̹̥̻̝͖̪̻͚̖́͊͒̋̃̾̅͌̏̓̽̀̅͌͑̂̽͑́̂̊́̕̕̕͝͝͝͠ ̸̧͔̜̪̱̦͉͚̪̙̹̝̙̝͓̰̝͈͗͋̅̐̋̂̐̆̐́̓̿͐̄̄̽̒͒̍͆̄͐̓̋̉̌̇̿̈́͑̐̈́̄̽̆̽͊͆̎͘͝͝͝͝͠͠­̡̧̧̧̡̨̢̨̧̧̘̣̳͙̣̤̳̤̠̞͚̘̦̫̤͉̦͙̩̮̲̰̼̼̣͚̼̬̹͙̻͚̰̞͕̟͎͉̫̺̜̟͎̝͖͔̰͇̪͉͜ ̸̧̗̪͎̲̲͓̤̳̤̝̟̥̜̗̜͎̆͆́͂́̉̍͐̀̎̏̈́̊̊̆̃̈́̉̏͋̇̒̌̕͜͝ͅ ̶̨̧̧̢̪̩̟̤̰̦̺̰̳̟̼̟̟̹̰̳̝̞̫̮̜͕̝̝͖̻̙͈̜͉̘͔̲̲̯̝̜̗̘͇̗̭̮̞̺̬͖̱̯͉̯̑̔͂͆͊̀͜ͅͅ­̨̦̝̭͎̱̞̳̯̺͇̮͜ ̶̨̡̨̨̛̛̰͎͇̳̫̲͇̥̠̤̭̟̰̥͙͈̲͇̺͔͚̭̦͕͒̏͑̈̒̑̋͋́͛͂̽̔̂̊̇̊̏̄̽͛͑̽̉̓̚̚̕̚͘͠͝͝͝­̺͙̩̺̦̣̝̺͔̳̮̜͉̭̝̟͚̮͎͈͔̜͍ ̴̡̡̧̛̞̬̻̘̟̤̘̪͉̱̥̥̫͇͍̦͚̦͚̮̹̓̀̈́̓́͆̈́̇̉̿́̉͗̐͊̀̀̈́͂̑̈́̄̍̊͌̄̔̅̕͜͜͝ͅ ̸̛̹̆̎̓̽́̋̍̅͗̑̐̔̐́̄͋͊̊͒͐̂͂̆̍͊̓̊̈͂̑̾̏͆̈́̀̋̓̆̎̂̂͑͗̿́̅̉̏̉͛̍̊͘͘͘̕̚̕̚͘͠͝­̡̨̧̡̢̠̰̘͙̲̖͚͓̪̗̙͔̗̬̳̗̬͓̫̮̻̰̣̭̘̖͓̳̲͖̜̖̯̜̯̖̥͈̝͇͓͈͓̟̟͔̯̰̯̭̲̝͖̥͖͕̼͜ ̶̛̛̛͑̈́̿̆̂͌͒͒͊̅̋̋̅̈̑̒͋̓̌̎̔̀̂͛̐̍̇͋̔̈́̎̌̈̈́̈͐͑̍̆̓͋͑̿͛͂̑̊͌̑͐̎̚͘̕͘̕̕̚̚͝͠­̛̛͇̖̉̽͑̅́͒̐̋̈́ ̴̡̨̛͈̗̤͍̙̲͔̫̹͙̜̩̠̯͖̟̫̺̹̞̻͔̪̦̗̠̭̹͍̺̲͕̦̙̼̈́̅͌̾͛̔̅̋̈́͗̌͒̾͋̊̈́̾̄̍͌̌̃̕͝͝͝­̖̹͜ ̸̢̨̨̦̬̮̫̰̜͈͙̞͚̪͓͓̣͓̻̠̪̝̥̮̘̲̥̬̺͉͉̯̘͕̹͍̾͐̓̏͌̈̓͂̚͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̛͔̼̺͖̘͚͉͂̑̋̎̓̅̏͒̈́͌̊̒̂͌̄̓̋́̈́́̍́͗̈́͌͗̑̈́̊̋̇̀͗̉̄̆̎͆͑̉̿̐̄̈́̈̆̑͘̕̕̕̚͘͝­̡̼̼͉̮̩̱̹̖͙̩̜͓̬̯̘̹̝̼̝̟͔̯̮̫̞̫͚̻̰̳͎̻̬̠̪͈ ̶̢̥͎̩͕̟̰̞͖͎̰̥̻͕͙̞̲̙̯͓̟̯̩̏͂͗͌̃͒̂̎̔̀̍͊̓̎̐̊͛͌̈́͐̾́̚̕͝͝͠ ̷̧̡̨̬̙̤̭̪͉͉̩̲̟̪̼̩̰̣̦͎̦͍͚̣͙̬̺̹̝̘̜̬́͜ͅͅ ̷̨̢̳̻̮͇̹̠̙͓̠̞̭̲͙̩̘̪̙͉̟̙̭̺̫̫̰̠͚̞͉̤̙͖͉̺̹̭̥̔̏̑̀̽̏͑̄̈́̆̄̅͑͂̋̀́̒̆͒̚̕͜͝͝­̡̨͍͈͚̹̪̞̬̜̥̤̯̫̞̯̯̥̗̯̜̗̥͍͖̞̻͓̝̜͔̖͚͍̻̗̼͜͜ ̶̛̛͕̱̻͕̱̠̂̆͗͗̆̈́̓̊͆̒̐͑̉͊͌͌̐̊̽͂̿̿͑͂̊̑͋̿̂̆̍͐͗̈́͒͒͒̾̌̎͌̑̔̾̋̽͐̒̀̈́͌̕͘͜͠͠­̨̡̨̢̣̘̩̭̟̣̠̥̬̟̳̬̲̝̲̼̻̯̻̞͔̗̺̹̮͇̝̣̜͔̹̠̙͓̬̩͕͚̪̰͎̱̝̝̠͈͕̺̭͓̹̭̫̲̣̹͔̠͜͜ͅ­͚̦̗͙̰͓ͅ ̴̡̪̮̘̟̱̪̗̱̖̩̹̗̘̯̖̘̮͒́̔̍̊̐́̊̍͑̑͊͑̂͑͊͂̆̌̎̈́̏̄̉̏́̂̍̇͛̍͗́͆͜͜͜͜͠ͅͅ ̶̧̧̢̡̢̛͓͚̤̳̹̣͕̙͔̣̟̝̮̟͛̇͂͒̈́̈́̇͐̾̇̈́̑͗̿̒̿̍̏͆͛̔̐̀̀́́̀͆͋̑́̃̀̇͗͘̚͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅ­̧̡̤̦̼̗̣̜͍̭̫̗̩̫̠̱͍̻̼̘̳͕̞̺͇̲͖̣̭̱̬̣̞̳̟̜͙̣͓͓̘̺͇̠̺̱̩̹̟̗͍̥ͅ ̵̛̛͚͕̝͎̯̱̪͚̼̜̠̍̓̂̔͆̈͗̏̉̉̅̈́̀̇̄̔̇̐͆̀́̐̊͗͒̓͂̏̆́̈́̑̀́́̈́̎̊̍͑̓͛͋͒̉̕͘͠͝͝͠­̭̭͇̦̮̟̳̣̳͙̟̮̮̹̩̪͜ ̸̢̢̡̨̢̡̡̬̠̗̟̮̩̗̗͇̮͚̹͈̜̪͙͍͈̘̮̥̻̜͕͓̦̞̥̯̯̠͎͚̮̭̦̩͛̅͂̒͛̾̿͋̎̏̍͗̈́̂͋̓̈̇͘ͅ­̨̱̦͓̗̬̪͕̬̹̤̰͈̙̜ ̵̡̨͕͇͕͎͕̲͔̯̹͍̩̲͍̥̜͓̰͍̼̥̙͔͇̺͉̜͍̫͙̝͖̯̙͆͛̒̀̈́̌́̎̇̍͐̄͝͠”


Her howl  
                        becomes a dissonance
                                         that folds                     all existence.
She is a god without hands,                  screaming              at love           for having           fingers.

I hold him                         tighter.
Let her                    drown herself                      in                    her delusion.

I rise.

But I cannot                  
stand   any               
       longer.                                  

                          
   So                                        

I                       


      
dissolve.



Skin releases into air.
Hair vanishes into horizon-line.
Ribs fracture back into gust.
As I spiral upward.

And she closes her wound, a crashing sound that leaves no echo, just madness.

But it matters not what slander she aims toward the sky.

I am already gone.

I carry.

I return.

And she cannot follow.

And he will remember.


Just…

Just a moment…


Longer.
When we find something 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑟.
We may 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑠, because it threatens our 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑒.
We may bury it, because our envy compels us to consume it.

Through the fourteenth descent, of 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔,
We retrieve it.
And hold onto it dearly,

Until it may be returned.

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/
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