The Temperature of Recall
| 1. Ample, as in hesitation, as in all the choices possible... she bought an inference, I bought a clove and kept undamaged recollection at the forefront of this breezeway. Anymore, the ripe vine kilters plush something, known quantities, a fleck of river, chance meandering that always leads somewhere not dark. Impeccable reeling France escapes my scrutiny from winters capped off by impartial Rembrandts other than experienced wide frames that might subtract from an experience, that might infringe upon directions given by impartial strangers in spare moments given away as freely as conversation that will not count for anything undying. Additional sundance might offer imagined fresh perspective, new routes offered give us uninterrupted joy. Read my mind. You'll see handwritten map etched sudden line across the region's face. Usually the colours I hold dearest rise and root around in chiselled oyster light. You were on TV the other night. This morning I was first at breakfast. I don't yet know what's being made, wished all days were like this one; there's such an easy momentum to success. Time documents lives of strangers from birth, such operations are important in the world. A delicious warm wind blows my alarm. Intentional sunlight mocks the desert floor serendipitously, then I'm awake and greedy for what else may have been missed while I was half away. Time practices without regard for any morning mind. The handwriting paints out messages in slender colours labor intensive as televised routine considered worth observing once. One of the regions I don't live in opens its frail or strong heart in the form of a choice wind. Success depends upon our slavery to ideals. Things periodically go so well the plants begin to imitate the eyes observing them. 'Now we're even' can be pronounced affectionately. Stick your wetted digit in the air and test wind speed, donate shared information (the current still runs through my fingers). Elsewhere, weather forecast offers glaring sun/omission, has been given summer makeover: design feature. We need solar panels and swimming pools installed soon, without upheaval or any fuss. Abandon strongarm apologies: we need flowers now. Acquired in slow steady way, daily ritual, seasonal health refuses to buy the instant. We wish no heirlooms for our children, plan only to strut sunbaked and handcrafted, celebrating materials rather than the finished picture: on fire near milk blue lake forensic. Struts intend their fire, materials are milk. I sway from blue to forensic heirloom planned yet not intended to seem childlike. A finished picture is less beautiful than opinion. Likewise, an upheaval forms systems possibly improved, perhaps just steadily evolving into other premises that match some spell of warmth. The map you made of me included everything but motions of the hand or streaming inference panelling the ritual renditions designed to be forgotten in the same way erasers help us ruin accidence as main fractions fling wholeness to lions reputedly famished therefore ravenous, therefore gluttonous, therefore owning fame. Past the original crisis into dozens more: landscapes of human features and inhuman cityscapes inhospitable to gesture, dance or private hunger. Beautiful androgynous person floats across the screen and questions us as voyeur, just as exhibition questions maker's and viewer's ambiguous collusion. We should consider if we're being watched. Mock the sunlit sufficiencies of abstract idylls; the loss of atmosphere a calculated offence. So much goes on outside the frame: advertising slogans have now eclipsed self-effacement, magic is one spell interfering with another. I am king for today; you queen. Let us mock our self-sufficient idols. Crash courses reveal slogans gone to bed. Eventually each voyeur reveals his sources, including landscape, also being watched, some self sufficiency eclipses dove mute exhibition of sunlit recreation. Inside the frame, one chapter spills into a presumed originality, unless a private syllogism blanches, and the canvas cools to dozens. Amendments torque the atmosphere, mocking sorted fables residing in the mind delimiting thus fantasy lumiere encompassing a maker and the minions and assorted elses, why not window dress encryption so it plaits mentation soulfully with smooth endorsements and revolving aspic so our hunger senses others' hunger we eventually cease comparing. 2. Now cultural liberation invades the final act, introduces nostalgic contrast and renews cultural flashback. Revolution is a groovy way to sell: braised precedent, platonic architecture, vibrant painted essay. No-one believes image is not reality; guests feign attentive confusion, stuff it down. Our hope diminishes, bite after ironic bite. Another arrival. The host tries to impress, yearning for life in his own museum. Self-adoration floats unimpressed above critical unease, seeks to preserve authorial voice at distance. I dislike implausible remote grins, dislike more the closing scenes in his wine cellar; only desire a constant roll of words. As constancy immersed in dream leaves on the remote, these plausible onions leave skins vulnerable and lacking in perfume. The taste of wine retains its yearning. Streets full to bursting with vine young confuse nostalgia with agenda. In the end, contrast raises image to a high art blatantly. The loping finishes white after enormous bite. West leaning trains invent profusion slough off militant engravings of the grooves where hash marks graze alongside reputation tuned to the letter A, minus the note symbolic with a freshness reserved for underserved populations, plural, meaning even we could someday qualify. The basic impulse of meaning is knowledge, dividing up temporary domains of marginal thought, intent on establishing the quality of silence, slow pace of life. Poorly juxtaposed exhibits bear political mark of loss, evacuted moment. Memory destruction has always been a weapon, a unique way to create freelance theory. It is natural to ask for diagnosis, question the allure of 'freedom for art'. Offramp reason, eager sentiment and incurred scepticism belong to worlds in which we live; curfew attempts to yoke fashion to commerce are doomed. I know what goes on. Bloodiness never crosses over into wholesale ephiphany. Declarative statements we are taught sound natural. Once uniqueness memorizes less than itself, reason disguises worlds leaving behind the curfew and most anonymity. Clear signals establish temporality as blind faith swerving into space. Goodbyes reply in kind to adjectives political and impulsive. Many juxtapositions learn to vibrate coping skills. Diagnostic weather means we pace our living to align with silent film just ripe for self made music on old instruments that fail to play themselves, thus our role is made from scratch, just like poems or finger paintings or tips to authorities regarding the whereabouts, etc. of someone sought. When most desired we are never found. Afraid to break out from seeming perfection we meld music with time with nature, contradicting our own weather charts with thunder where there should be sun, storm clouds a policy document for drives toward asceticism. Goodbye to trauma, to politics and impulse. Hallo to enlivened discourse, to steel chisel used to write in stone; to stones amassed for casual architecture, blocked-up doors. Someone sought themselves in glass and brick, another returned to painting after fifteen years. We choose to string out language, words sing out, lined up: resources against fate. Causal breakneck strung out stalling laces fate the way that mother used to make. An architectural endowment means reversing the growth to where it readily becomes enforceable, toward whatever end we have been shadowing. Shallow pools leave smaller indentations when a rock is tossed, a gesture equivalent to this. Discursive janitorial finesse yields trust, along with future jobs, found light, contraindications mentioned on a jar of pills the patient refuses to repeat. Impulsive stasis has been overrated any way you look at it. Besides, the politics and weather in our conversations start to drift from thought and consciousness. Prophetic timing. Best to turn attention towards enlivening fogged remaining years, discharged patient progression. Outside domestic world, constant threats, prefabricated fashion, an urban hell defined by pastoral idyll. But subversive gesture is over. Appreciation is something of a blessed shrine, words blossom there like nowhere else. Dazzling velvet room. Self-congratulation is something of a dream, stranger's life shot from a childlike perspective, earnestly awkward, describing only what's instantly seen. Colours are just theory, memorial culture unreal, pointless imagery is heaped upon overlaid other. These lines borrow from elsewhere, intend abstraction. I love this ordinary and continuing life. 3. Borrowed concrete tenders make believe abstraction, or perhaps not. The child becomes a stranger. Elsewhere, dormitories are for anything but sleep. Continuing our segue out of rumor being milled for keeps, an urban feeling passes theory. Accompanying imagery releases form already relinquished. Notice the pallor of this prior moon. What doves confiscate of the early hours equals precisely what keeps bringing me back. The dazzling sense of elsewhere, the shrine of misunderstanding, its accomplice reverence typically misplaced. All that awkwardness and more. A celebration may seem random, may seem fake, but every speck of it lives past abstraction. Truly disturbing is nominal quest dressed up as abstract reverence; a mere spiritual geometry. Adjoining bicep tones, an installation of rumours presents us with a plague of locusts, rivers of blood, fire, pestilence and slaughter. The moon's eclipsed by awkward ritual; sensation's a ghost dance for promised critical silence. Other celebrations evolve more slowly. Anonymous voices whisper the possibility of narrative, superficial tradition indulgent to both eye and lazy mind, mix magical cartoon with trigger of memory. Attempting to see as an infant might is only naive delusion: a different fabric used to decorate old wall. Vivid mediocrity. A sure indulgence lifts a while cartons of flight erupting into fabric that narrates enclosed stories that trigger lazy faultlines some celebrities prepare to have defamed, reflecting instances of eye hand coordination with a Geiger counter to show for all the effort pressed into ghastly tremors noticed as contagious. Silence critiques as nothing more revealing than any roster of imponderables you maze to levels of retraction. Promise me you'll widen the transaction to a cult. Then we can effectively ghost show amenable soft calls to merit being watched for vintage adages lorded over the naive waisted reactionary pretensions. Sudden movements leave ghostly resonance, moon trail tracing a direct descent to rented accomodation. Here we expand transaction, co-ordinate the unseen temple of experience, feign innocence and tremor. In cynical nod to creed of ingenuity cut-and-paste transforms alliance of meaning. Meanwhile, safe radiation functions as submerged motif. Alarm-tripped Geiger counter accumulates unseen promises; tending to the honeysuckle, bodyrock has waned. Grey density of new information brilliantly obscures fruitful self-making, locked-up innner language not pervious to sick and fissile states. Blank strategies offer chance for fairweather destiny, personal excursions to both future and past. Past stamina forms dense retakes of safety modestly ignored as merely strategy, chance incarnations of an inner richness. Language blocks severed regimens we choose in an alliance wholly feigned. The mist across the fields is literal. Fields dried after a long look, equally accumulate veracity. For now, fruition loosens tension. Language is supposed to clarify. The roster of most frequently used words provides some evidence, but not enough. Count on every hand the derivations that appeal decisions made based on affirmations of the literal. Fairweather declarations function at a deeper level of excursion. Witness the rock, impeccable surges of association. Repetition is supposed to help clarify meaning but too often intuitive understanding is fogged, reason is evacuated, sent into permanent exile, convinced of its own irresistible, orchestrated charm. Theory, a terrible friend, flees fractal clarity; braves inscrutable purpose for pseudonymous academic show with assumed zeal and borrowed impeccable credentials. We know repetition clarifies meaning, structures time, but count how many fingers are left on the hands of the instinctive writer. Back with relief to impromptu spectacle, whose biographer is incapable of saying anything. His last words haven't not been spoken; death will not be painless. Only final. Last things defy impromptu holdings we no longer resist. Death becomes the simplest phenomenon, rumor shares. The purpose of intuition is revelation, one supposes, or alternatively, releasing the unspoken to the level of conviction, even before belief sets in, distinct from viral implication. Plural meanings leverage suspicion in a fractured way, and only then is clarity complete. Count on one hand what two hands chime. In theory, zeal knows boundaries invented prior to fog's having set in like the curse of exile, pulsing with pseudonymous engagement, to put it politely. Repetition values mostly itself, accounting for the missing verb, the listless lack of scrutiny, written results. 4. Two hands clapping in windswept defiance. Obscurity by the truck load. Listen and learn: influences abound but nothing is mere pastiche. Unique environment extends body nuance, inner consistency minimises spirit, inhabits voice like no other. The downtown wind blows to homegrown revival; go stroll and snap what you see. Sipping this most overdue reconciliation dampens proficiency, restless advertising advises everything modern sounds fine. No sound comes out of televisual mouth, only mesmeric self-consideration, static gradually unfolding through brave rumour, visions of broken futures. I hear that they're wrong, prefer vulnerability, waking up to my own sweet love. Mistakes take time. I listen and disseminate reductions in environmental voice against which inhibition fragiles its way towards a sweet, still vulnerable, reality. Preference amounts to minimal revival of the senses tuned to nuance, breath, along truck routes spirited and stroll proof. When downtown we feel mere, breaking stride. A once tolerable walk soothes frayed nerves in the spree of down time, manifestos charm the leitmotif out of a single imposition. Did you see that tacit rain belonging here or somewhere? A closed book. One philosophy's as good as throttled before anybody blinks. Were you approaching that condition? Reading the closed book I found wisdom not present on open pages. Walking in sparkling rain I dodged thunderstorm and lightning. The potential for electrocution is always thrilling, night thick and heavy outside open windows. I am conditioned to undertake frequent improvisation; desire space and sound, variety of voices. Sometimes meaning sneaks out of unrecognisable form; elegant music exists only in my mind. This a place of quietly spoken hills all too often sold for copycat development. My mistakes take no time at all, error's an acceptable route to aesthetic result. What other evolutionary process could you want? Osmosis functions as improvisation when nature presses certain nerves. An evolution may be planned or certainly emergent. What finally shows are variations that improve upon foundations anchoring, presumably, what comes along a time line, sprinting or limping or breathing fast. Words like development result in words like aesthetics, lead to sparkling evidence of violable conditioning spoken like a convert to some nubile cult designed to enfranchise would be spokes located other places, spilling over with desire for wisdom in the voice and seeds in the elective courses fraught with variety taught to sun itself where we can see. Variations of developing themes, endless aesthetic variations; breezeblown cloud formations ever-changing above us. Sun turns rain to colour, detaches mind from too many stormy nights without stars. Blindfolded, cult days leak into quarantined stagnation, time's surface burnished smooth by minimal sensation. We own no energy for the present. Joining the flooded stream of past time, embracing the forgotten historical as a refuge, I pretend I do not know what happens next. Exactly what does happen next? Allow stories to surface, examine the world. In love with life? Beware menacing undercurrents, and watch out for the final twist. Extrapolating future from the now, combined with what has been, scuffs experienced veneer imposingly, so there is evidence of interaction, if not touch, the latter meaning mutuality, one flatly assumes. When energy is smooth, history is made, albeit twisted into framed sensation transferred via lore and liberty and detachment. Cloud formations happen to seem random as selection processes, although there may be plans including genuflection to their makers, ounces of buy-in posited as genuine, but really only nominal, as cult trappings tame logarithmic furnishings sweetly as the process of maturing, yielding hedges to trim, pictures to experience. The frame declares significance, tames depictured scene. Carefully planned ambivalence surfaces over emotional complexity, asserts no particular end, simply renders harmless a tame archaeology of now, last stop on the abandoned road to cataloguing joy. Always same perfect surface, desired inarticulate finish; no emerging shapes or evidence of failure. Genuflect to museum-bound object, trim desires which place it, insistent, in our world. Cultural events happen outside all known time; varnish fictional gloss over theories favouring introspection. Detached images are fetching but can't conceal their lack of content and personal concerns. I sense my journey is not complete. 5. Plush-seeming reverie seems always far away. Maybe I'm dreaming now, a picture of Totleigh farm awash in ample sun against my desk. Today, the temperature is ninety- five degrees. Almost enough to swim, but I don't do that often, instead I walk to taste, and find a thought I rather like, then acknowledge gloss as part of the real story I inhabit. Worlds come from here. Extrapolated undercurrents vying for attention, roughly equal to a fuel surpassing even food. Abandon is two-edged anymore, amounting to a sore condition, or a way of lifting off like helium. The temperature of recall lessens, the completion of the story less not more expected. Farm memories slowly wash away with time: the grey condition of warm shadow self, the tasted pool of new chlorine thought, both a variety of function and fuel, the link between itself a new experience. They are just writing on the wall, these words we own as attendant storyS How else explain gravity, the pull between bodies and masses? How else experience love? You abandon familiar reverie, I falteringly offer poetry and urge you to write back. We are talking about the same thing. Plausible alighting seems familiar, mostly generous if not pertaining to what's free. Pressure rarely wafts. I wish writing were this attached to me at every unwashed fleck of harmony between repeat signs. Function fuels me. Experience is no more vivid than thought. Axiomatic premises warm attendant tastes of shadow. The ink between gumption and fruition samples caritas. Pure lunge versus entreaty, shepherds passages that might not wash away. We seem young with our infinity. Striation from kilns merely strenghtens how the lines feel to the fathomed touch. Shadows might be warm or rimmed or various. New known matter. The poem is away for three days. I've just trodden on the model plane I haven't seen for twenty-two years: turned up in a box of cars from Mum's attic. I was young then, knew matter, but couldn't fathom shadow's touch: flashes of illumination a plausible lightning strike. Experience provides the vivid thought that provokes struggle with darkness, commits words to page. Function can be distilled into sequential instructions, random playful words providing generous textual linkage, live wires tracing ambiguous flights and traces. I'll ask your opinion, question your gumption: How do we fly with language today? On the TV there were people interviewed about their fear of flight. It relaxes to the point there is no language. Not unlike the visual domain that poises, so I find the place creation kindles and rekindles years unlived inside a child's skin and begin that playful textuaria, implausible as grief was then, though real as lightning, driveway, baseball, hearts that meant nothing by it, all those words I learned to ignore but did not, eventually learning that validity is what I know immediately, now the same as then, the same unlikely airplanes I put away and save. On the TV numb children wonder if there is any point to learning speech after silent years, unlikely flights of imagination, fundamental as reason for living. My head is back there with the crazy guys; naming things is a limited kick. More exciting to claim a language of revelation, where word is inhabited by felt presence, doors open and close on different images, sentences move inexorably through transition to fragmentation; something arrives, without formal identificiation or name. A child with crayon decorates the margins: scribbles that mean nothing if you ignore gestures of feeling, line's muddling, supernatural device. How many crayons does it take to fill the space covered by scribbling? My guess is as good as a gesture, supernatural and not divisive, yet the limitations reveal themselves more vividly than branding would, fragments are really wholes if you can touch pores that appear to peer over shoulders. Sentences are rumored to last long, longer than variable speech that halts the act of saving grace and other tinctures. Formality seems marginal anymore, although I cherish its safety, in my head and heart. Wishes the wish to claim is young, reasoned, and impassioned sometimes, fueled by redundant fear. 6. Many sad-eyed readers consuming words, trying to see through language to music; library residents seeking paradise or somewhere new. I have a houseful of books, words divide our house into argument and protest. Collected quotations are scattered throughout curated text; formal attributions are thin on the ground. Oh, the possibilites of the simple phrase. In the gloom department (a lonely world of burnt sienna, Rothko crimson, charcoal grey), undigested wisdom's crudely written on outside walls. After a few experimental camera twirls, shift to talking pictures, memories of another time; a touch of magic realism, even rhyme. Curatorial embalming shifts the text from fluttering to charcoal, yielding perhaps to wisdom's inference. Camera litters attributions worded in the same gray mode young rhyme evolves to, following an argument. Readers' eyes fall sad against status quotidian. Perhaps you were among them. Would someone like to summarize? Even thin hearts erupt into insistent light, resilient as young skin, the dominion of experiment where change becomes the library of a household. Is there such a thing as taking pictures? I believe in paradise as custom, the lone invention of somebody wanting company, an individual with too little imagination, challenged. Imagine being able to invent a paradise! Joy erupting into every heart, goading song and wisdom from all, old skin abandoned in another world. Goodbye to forgotten house of custom and loneliness, hello eternal library. No summary is possible (time's too short), thin experience no supplement for talking pictures, where light bursts through scribbled script idea and awakens wonder in our charcoal minds. Half the tourists in town, rainhoods up, are queuing for this afternoon's film; mist obscures the estuary view from university hill. Cinema's projected rainbow is a colourful fraud we embrace in lieu of curated spectacle. Peace, long, speakeasy happenplace, with birds longing in our place, the free-of-reason although purposeful rinse of a deliberation posing through the wooded place its water, catching colour from the light apart from curatorial engagement. Wonder is a spree of charcoal scribbled into joining with the eyes, abandoning the threat of pressure from avoiding imagined, insistent rain and other delicacies, after all, a supplement to ecstasy would beS what? The view from cinema is gauged by eyes naive to the insistent world touring afternoon as though it were the first rainbow, a double one, commemorating one's resilience. I wonder at what I see, abandon reasoned discourse for sideways vision's discursive sight; this wooded walk both river and tunnel, trees rainhood and filter, shelter and wrap. Receptive to insistent birds, serenading dusk ahead, I treat their song as momentary delicacy no commemorative device can trap or tame. Rainbow is brewing in my throat, flies up high over emotional mountains, unasked for: colourful sigh, muted scream, a weathered echo of purposeless day spent untangling free time, knotting desires and others' tasks into action. I am in a bar. Streetlights flare and torch amber supplement to fading day. Connections feather more connections, weather tangles amber facts with purpose free from knotting, fades into a delicate wooded patch amid subsistence. Birds treat color with a filtered song apart from usual discourse brewing purpose amid supplements to worded thought located in clearings proximate to the same wood, momentarily tame. I north my way to any rainbow you can name, relinquish torch significance as something less definitively constant, maybe tasks function apart from their aesthetic offerings after all. And equally, perhaps the river used to carry, not just shine. Wood typically cooled the simplest surroundings amounting to an interior. Tamed images line industrial walls; the sun is filtered out. No summer is possible in this forgotten factory now made significant as aesthetic temple, tunnel of knotted colour. Concrete clearing in city is appropriated rainbow, art paradise, curated summary of others' now and recent then, a gallery for wonder. The weather? Rain scribbles on adjoining river. Discourse? In printed documents (map and guide); solid facts to banish improvised connection, emotion. Thought might tangle designated vision, supplement mapped discourse, where insistent truths are explained by flickering video, charcoal mirror music, unexploding shed. I would much rather make world shine. 7. Insistent summer preys upon skin's only pleasure. Filters keep clearing the inevitable documents from seeming simply scribbles. Marks made to last lifetimes yield lifelines anyone can decipher and decide. What makes a gallery is filling space. A sequence of shinings that outshine a prior paradise appearing to be truth. City flickers in the form of homemade temples. Factories of habitat enlarge our rooms of recency we might deploy to incur resilience as a tangled quality that regenerates plain, simple, useful mantras from mere charcoal. When the arm sways with intention, art intrudes upon plaintext as steadily as growth. Skin's only simple pleasure is insistent sun scribbled without intention on body's tender wrap. No one can decipher sunburn's cancerous gallery as growth steadily depletes insistent, shining life. Flesh made to last reduces to charcoal, each alone when finding tangles of truth, hope filtered from inevitable. Mantras useless now. Harm weighs in, intent on making space; art seems out of the question. Habitat becomes ephemeral, rooms simply document random flicker of our momentary shine in sustained darkness. Prior to paradise, homemade cities of despair: dark little spaces with only abandoned lifelines. Plain text would be a revelation now. Documentaries play out the space in text supposed to have been shining when and if revealed. Lifelines momentarily leave base camp. We decide or not to rise. Then what abandoned habitat seems least soothing now? The roseate lair of sustenance, paces beyond charcoal a priority of chance tenderness unexpected as his mainly bracketed forms of breathing. Weighing in recurs. The simplest sunburn still regresses into light. Depletes fleshly emptiness, retrieves the spirit and the shoulder and the mantras risen from a merely factual indulgence given something like authority supposed to soothe by virtue of habit learned in youth. Text in space is as weightless as most tender expression youth can intend; sustaining love outside brackets (no misplaced buts) as difficult as stopping breathing. Indulge habit and addiction ensues; abandon habitat and home is lost; ensure tenderness to shine spirit. Blisters rise toward sun, burst and heal. We choose not to carry mantra's weight, but language is a burden we must. From birth we crave word's savage understanding then undertake invention of the unnamed world. We only know abstraction from material resilience, make communal purpose from shared linguistic truths. Mirrors awkwardly describe what's felt or seen. If anything is seen, it equals mirror after mirror in a language used spilling truth in a communal way, although unnamed spirit rehearses every shining tenderly in all the senses of that word, amid visible and difficult and risen fluency that tracks burden's bounty as expressions of carried brackets. Home adheres to words such as 'perhaps' as referenda shake open probabilities that once habituated severance from maturity. Our brief life breaks open another eventually detached from consciousness not quite our own, if shining dimensions scatter to descriptive inference upon habit systems mostly derivative though penetrating as root systems. Shinning up probability, consciousness bypassed by spirit, thought slow and cranky in body's embrace, I rehearse goodbyes and practice immaturity, bracketed by long bouts of derivative good manners Goodwill's a communal bounty to be plundered as truth spills through crowd's invisible dimensions, scattering sentiment and theory before taking root. Distrusting matter, vocal inference matters to me; I need original text displayed alongside translation. Voice, language, words corrupted in image factory renew life in inner conversation; freelance meaning sparks tongues of fire, ignites undying sun to fleck future imagination. Default memory returns. What you missed was missed by all. Reverie becomes rejoinder. I am guessing freelance is a status that resembles birth weight. Anybody's memory remains as good as vocal dimmage that articulates dimensions of concavity and duress. Eventually, the body wrinkles a display of fire once synonymous with crowd. Factors betray outcome. Frequently our manners break into delays in communality. We fight our tendencies to warm to one another, then we taint even the tinctures of maturity translated into fatherance. Who goes first, the inkling or the drainage leading to deeper truths? Who renews a definition we exemplify without relaxing into the default position of entropy? |
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