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a haphazard beginning

IDIREDOWN

10:19, Saturday

Love-

Brothers, and sisters, i am pleading and bleeding tears just to show you, how much i love you, how much i dont want you to have the same sadness wrought forth, upon years of madenning allibies used to distort, the truth, over the years i told so many lies to hide the genocides to try and circumscribe the pain of my own demise, forsooth, even after i crossed this threshold im beholden to call poetry i became emboldened but not bold enough to search deeply or far enough to find semblances to drop the line and open up the fences to take the time to explicate on the reasons behind my defenses against my sensless nonsensical distillations of rage that left me partially dead bruised, and bled dry from buying shares in the blame game and not confronting my own shame that led me mistakenly to put questions to bed, choosing instead to not question the madness in my head,  becuz i was am and will be afraid time spent on this nonesense might displace me, and ostensibly rob me of my soul mistakenly  i had to cross this threshold im beholden to call poetry, cuz without it i wouldntve taken the time to search deeply, and trust me, i didnt find semblances, from chasing fame framed in glittering convocations, to try and abstain from the pain of realizations, explications on surrounding madness, that can catalyze fears of a sickening sadness, distilations of rage i let clutter my mind, but over time ive become partially dead, bruised and bled dry from trying to find rationalizations, so for a time, i mistakenly put questions to bed, choosing instead to not question the madness in my head, but i was led back to mentioning it again becuz of so much injustice, though im hoping its not self righteousness, , more so than i know of its degradation, in realization of the role i played in perpetrations, in the evocation of my displacement of disgraces, that was placed on me by those indisposed to pose with mephostealian countenance, cuz theres nothing worse than false prophets, or posing poets prizing smiling verses, in versions of diversions turned perversions of semblances, profaning lies with sweetly sounding melodies, undermined by sophists who breath with ease, false scripts that trip clip and bring us to our knees, so we in turn spread unease so easily apathatetically and unapologetically, justified by our maladies, causing despondency to grow each day, and with growing despondancy, comes incapacity so great in sway, we either die to be reborn, shorn from stagnancy, turned to entropy, wrote to rage forth a beautious bounty of poetry, or we lie, misalign our truths, point the finger at everyone else except ourselves, to deny ourselves the proof of our moments we lack humanity, becuz were rightfully tired of tryanny, but no humility leads to assimilation and bigotry, so i hope as u boldly enter this lyrical holy threshold, you do not withhold from your own truths, forsooth your soul will take a toll from profaning untruths, thatll keep you aloof, while you get caught in the consternations of trying to sell your name, and let yourself participate in groupthink affiliations that feed off blame, that lead to isolation, and profane fear of solemn soulful poetic synchopations, becuz itd be so luminous and so freeing if you learn to stop playing games to gain gains to postpone or disown your own salvation, truth tellings not a game to gain snaps and claps from oversimplification, its shameful to make it a game to chase your name, becuz it prevents you from taking part in the invocations, and its a manifestation of your own sad affliction if u use poetry, to chase money, popularity, pussy or greed, to fill ur unfulfilled needs, using fame sex or money to substitute to coalesce your feelings of ineptitude, but they cant, and shant grant u invitations to the soulful commiserations that come about from spitting fire, to soothe the sadness brought from perpetrations of tyrants with false scripts, that want to trip clip and make us sip upon their madness. These mother fuckers must not take hold of this sacred truth telling threshold. Porque que se vayan todos, que no quede ni uno solo! Cuz when u chase fame for your name firstly, you lose the substance of your poetry

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Of course it's battlestar. You can just call me Gaius minus the sex drive becuz I have a Messiah complex and a general inability to profess anything other than my tirades of less than more so should just stop opening my mouth to spread my loco downloadable distorted flow of political commotion. in Oceans of notions of patented potions from distortions of the siuls of fallen angels

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Love-

Brothers, sisters, and any others in this room, i am pleading and bleeding tears just to show you, how much i love you, how much i dont want you to have the same sadness ive wrought forth, upon years of madenning lies ive used to distort, the truth, in my attempts to try and circumscribe the pain of these lies, i lied enough to nearly perpetrate my own demise, forsooth, i had to cross this threshold im beholden to call poetry, cuz without it i wouldntve taken the time to search deeply, and trust me, i didnt find semblances, from chasing fame framed in glittering convocations, to try and abstain from the pain of realizations, explications on surrounding madness, that can catalyze fears of a sickening sadness, distilations of rage i let clutter my mind, but over time ive become partially dead, bruised and bled dry from trying to find rationalizations, so for a time, i mistakenly put questions to bed, choosing instead to not question the madness in my head, but i was led back to mentioning it again becuz of so much injustice, though im hoping its not self righteousness, becuz i was and am afraid too much time on this nonesense might further displace my mind, and ostensibly my soul, more so than i know of its degradation, in realization of the role i played in perpetrations, in the evocation of my displacement of disgraces, that was placed on me by those indisposed to pose with mephostealian countenance, cuz theres nothing worse than false prophets, or posing poets prizing smiling verses, in versions of diversions turned perversions of semblances, profaning lies with sweetly sounding melodies, undermined by sophists who breath with ease, false scripts that trip clip and bring us to our knees, so we in turn spread unease so easily apathatetically and unapologetically, justified by our maladies, causing despondency to grow each day, and with growing despondancy, comes incapacity so great in sway, we either die to be reborn, shorn from stagnancy, turned to entropy, wrote to rage forth a beautious bounty of poetry, or we lie, misalign our truths, point the finger at everyone else except ourselves, to deny ourselves the proof of our moments we lack humanity, becuz were rightfully tired of tryanny, but no humility leads to assimilation and bigotry, so i hope as u boldly enter this lyrical holy threshold, you do not withhold from your own truths, forsooth your soul will take a toll from profaning untruths, thatll keep you aloof, while you get caught in the consternations of trying to sell your name, and let yourself participate in groupthink affiliations that feed off blame, that lead to isolation, and profane fear of solemn soulful poetic synchopations, becuz itd be so luminous and so freeing if you learn to stop playing games to gain gains to postpone or disown your own salvation, truth tellings not a game to gain snaps and claps from oversimplification, its shameful to make it a game to chase your name, becuz it prevents you from taking part in the invocations, and its a manifestation of your own sad affliction if u use poetry, to chase money, popularity, pussy or greed, to fill ur unfulfilled needs, using fame sex or money to substitute to coalesce your feelings of ineptitude, but they cant, and shant grant u invitations to the soulful commiserations that come about from spitting fire, to soothe the sadness brought from perpetrations of tyrants with false scripts, that want to trip clip and make us sip upon their madness. These mother fuckers must not take hold of this sacred truth telling threshold. Porque que se vayan todos, que no quede ni uno solo! Cuz when u chase fame for your name firstly, you lose the substance of your poetry

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-Que Se Vayan Todos, Que No Quede Ni Uno Solo
Im so tired of the sickening sadness, that i feel come about from acts of madness chosen in place of acts of kindness, and it displaces my soul, becuz i, i fucking played a part in its role with my own perpetrations, commisserations of, shameful disgraces displaced amongst the masses that had sadly been perpetrated before on me catalyzing the shattering, of hope in my soul, firstly by a host of false prophets,solopsists, beurocrats, sycophants, who disguise their malevolence, in the guise of supposed acts of kindness, i believe these types to be worst of us, latley they seem to come in all shapes and forms to fool us, mostly like politicians, cascading and parading about false promises, repeatedly made disingenuously profaned by both sides of the fences, trying to condition us to accept unnecessary subtractions, as theyre, implimenting redactions, in their, promised additions, in their, supposed renditions of fair representation, the malevolent perpetration, of the numerous protections, made for the affluent, are so frequent, as to become an iterration of representation of suppression and persecution to we the subservient masses, and its enough desecration to nearly drive me to fucking madness, force me to sorrily and apologetically perpetrate a verbal tirade upon the masses which is why id like to relent from taking part any further in this, political congress, becuz truthfully id rather get shitfaced to oblivion than talk anymore about this fucking madness, but sadly i think we might come to obvlivion if we dont confront this inhumanness, like selling weaponry to our enemies to drop bombs on friendlies who we later profane our sympathy for the destruction of their comunities dropping bodies, after bodies, after bodies, certified and stamped with approval by the companies that u.s. politicians pass laws to tax us to subsidize ostensibly, having us pay, for our own and others missery, and we have the audacity to wonder why so many dispossessed nations no longer want to be friendly with us anymore, its becuz this madness has become so contagious it has in some ways affected all of us, becuz madness does not just reside in politicians, there are self afflicting and perpetrating traitoress actions in all stations, and they can sometimes be in line with those who have the best intentions, and whether there aware or not of the effect of there actions, their madness can be shown when they dont own the consequences of their actions, act out with primal inflammations, angry emotions, catalyzed into violent verbal or sometimes even physical aggressions, and i know this all too well, becuz if im honest i must tell, how i have acted in kind to be unkind in my own perpetration of madness, how i verbally afflicted anger and sadness countless times upon those i have met in the masses, that metastisized and grew in size from sadness, i projected in angry tirades and arguments, trying to gain conversational points in meaninglessness, as a useful distraction to avoid conversations that were honest, taking too much time to find the pointlessness in this behavior, so that when i finally find the time to realize im in some fucking danger, its so deeply embedded in my mind, its in my collective unconsciousness, a roitine hard to break from repetitions as compensations for not facing my sadness. And so i let my body control my mind instead of my mind controlling my body, but over time i came to find i had lost so much control of my body that i became in kind like the perpetrator, agitator, and traitor, i complained so many times of inflaming my own sadness, i mean what fucking madness, but im so fucking tired of this sadness, this propagation of helplessness and perpetration of madness in place of having to face our own sadness and confront conversations in congress about the real agitators perpetrators traitors to human beings in their inhuman desecration of their own well being, i mean, for instance in politics, you can have your either or, im sorry but im choosing neither nor, becuz neither represents us any more, im not saying they ever represented anything more than playing whore for their donors, but now were on the precipice of not existing anymore, and either or has no solutions in store to solve this, so we need to talk about this, and i got no answers to this mess, but if you think im gonna take the lesser evil im sorry to say ill take the lesser road becuz ive played that game before of eiher or and found nothing more than emptiness, sadness, the perpetration of further madness to come about from making concecescions on my concscience. but it goes further than this, because were all engrossed in this madness, when we refuse to deal with our sadness and perpetrate it on the masses instead of facing the perpetrators who have afflicted so much damage, So as my friend monique gabrielle salazar would say and as the argentinians once did-Que Se Vayan Todos, Que No Quede Ni Uno Solo, and you might think im fucking loco, but i think all false prophets, solopsists, beurocrats, and sycophants must go, becuz i dont want to be perpetrating my madness with either or, and id rather choose neither nor, have a chance at something more than having to deal with so much sickening sadness anymore. But further than that and at the very least, im tired of my perpetrations, and instigations of beast-ly recriminations on those that disagree with my assertions, becuz i dont want to turn into a false prophet, solopsist, beurocrat, or sycophant selling lies and creating alibis just to deal with the demise of my capacity to remain human.

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W30 door 22 broken

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dedication
Hey poet, hey poet, ya you, and you and you and all of u and so many others not even in this room, let me mention to u a few names that brought my mind to bear on this poetry game, brought me back to this space over and over again to search for grace that i had displaced in my friend-less malevolent arrogance of gloom, till a few months back i came into this room and was assaulted by the thunderous booming delectably endearing profanity laced poem by prim one, u know the one where he says fuck em. And my childhood sardonic sensibilites were enchanted by cleverly rapaciously paced profanities, cuz when u say the word fuck properly in some powerfully profound poetry u forever endear urself to me. that same night i saw nick, u know as in nick, that looks like hes about to tear the flesh from below his armhairs, as across the room his voice resounds and sounds like wolverine unbound, in his gruff huff huff and puff blow the house down potency of poetic patience and persistence that knows no bounds , singing his comic book hero like insistent and reisistant song that mother fuckers better recognize if theyre not villainous frauds. Monique Gabrielle Salazar, ur a fucking shooting star I think I remember seeing u work at tannin wine bar, with that mundane look of somebody saying please blow my mother fucking brains out right now, I know becuz I've had that look as well but thankfully u were able to necromance urself out of that spell to share your ghost stories in all their resplendent glory. mother fucking jermaine, that little shitty sounding diddy was for u man because no matter how shitty its at at the one one seven seven ur always singing like life were fucking heaven, which is a good contrast to my sarcasm so thank you man, i hope u plan to keep coming back again and again, but if not,  its ok as long as u keep singing away my pain at the one one seven seven. andria goddamnya betta findya asitta cuz you gotta lotta sweetpoetic sassyness to ya sista, fuck ill babbysit for ya, so these motherfucks can hearya, betta you than me as my rhyme schemes r pretty crusty, rusty but u got the performative stuff im missing, so come on back sister, then there was the one, who pierced my brain like the sliver of the sun to burnish and brighten with his performative poetic enlightenment, shu mother fucking shin shaw the poetic godfather of us all, and if i had a fraction of his dedication, id die of a heart attack from jubilacious, contagious rapid heart pounding satisfaction. his resurrection is the stuff made of poetic hero like legend, speaking of heroes id be a fucking zero if i did not say something in regards to taylor, the only mother fucker in this place that ive seen have the grace to reach down to the ground to help up a fucking stranger from the pavement, that everyone including myself was avoiding from helping becuz of his possible violent dumb drunk derrangement, only someone with a heart the size and power of the sun would be stolid enough to resist the death hollow pull, the bombardment and cataclysmic fall of the surrounding stars, to hold their ground and resound with grace filled welcomings to everyone who comes into the arts bar. tyler ripcord rage and slay the mother fucking mic shay, thank u for ur honesty, ur sincerity, and ur full fledged dedication to the game of poetry, for the ride u gave me to junction city, and for conversations u had with me, uv come a long way and i hope to be there to see many more nights and days in which u have the opportunity, to set the mic aflame with ur hearts expanding luminosity. Rosalinda sadgirl, oooh girl, you got some swirl tongue twirl ill snarl acerbic vitriolic quixotic exotic neurotic despotic thugtonictastic bombastic shit, and i like it. Suprisingly it took till last week before i heard mr nightlife read his poetry, and he left no doubt in regards to the alchemy of his expressions of spiritual awakening, and i was already aware of his generosity that he had immediately showed upon meeting me, his commitment to mentoring and tutelage to the young bucks, means so very much to me, speaking of young, spezia zoey, kj and some others whose names i cant recall because im too fucking old to remember a fucking thing, kids keep singing, slinging and rhyming ur shit cuz i like it. And truthfully all of youses who step to this mike are my muses i dont choose this but i wont refuse this calling, becuz its nearly the only thing keeping me from falling, as there are 2 not mentioned not poets but need not words or phrases to have shown me the elegance, the sustenance and the essence of the soul of a poet. Without them both this wouldve been only a half of a half which is a quarter of what this couldve been, as that quarter became a half thankfully in the end, becuz i can still occasionaly see the son whose not my son.
Corbin, i hope someday u understand i never abstained from your company out of any shame or apathy, i just didnt want u to be like me, not the bad parts of me, so i foolishly tried to show u only the best parts of me, but somehow i ended up feeling like i still showed you the worst of me, as i denied the grace inside me, tried to hide myself away from thee when i was in a mad fury, and eventually occassionally i snarled at u self righteously, impulsively and unpredictably, and now even thou im ready to let u see some of the parts i was trying to hide from thee im left with half of a whole of ur company, which is better than a quarter and better still than none at all, but still id rather have u and ur mother than this poetic spell ive been cast under. But ill settle for my muses and the moments I've gotten and will get with u to inspire me to strategize my poetic musings to synchronize with my integrity and honesty, to utilize the love you and ur mother shared with me, a love of which will fill my heart with all the poetry, that could fill the hearts of all the poets in this room and beat back their feelings of doom and gloom. Ur love brings back the memory of the spaces of my lost grace, brings me back to the paces where I lost my place, sustains me and evokes what little grace I have left to displace in my haphazard poetry, and I owe u that refound commitment to myself which I'll never put back upon the shelf but work on mastering for myself for the rest of my life, and hopefully beyond, for all eternity.

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Kj,francis

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IDIREDOWN Today, 07:37
yeah, I smoke weed, probably too much weed, but the reason i indeed smoke weed is because i need something to help ease my anxiety when people talk to me, because you see, the things i see, when people mention unity, is a blathering mess of hypocrisy, wrapped up in red tape bullshit bureaucracy, and the things i see when people talk to me without weed makes my blood boil, blasting forth like the force of water fracking oil to my brain, frying like an electrical pulse the receptors that help me abstain, from launching my acrimonious desultry vitriolic complaints, that i would been spewing with aplomb in the most sanctimonious self righteous sounding tirades, if i did not indeed smoke weed, and if i did not smoke weed i would have to imagine what others were seeing, as i would try to visualize the face and sound i was making, as i was partaking in an angry tirade, that as I've mentioned, made my blood reach the point of boiling, where im sure at some point my eyes were rolling, as i was extolling sarcasm and disingenuosity, while i was imagining what you were thinking of me. And i know i smoke too much weed, but if i didnt i dont think anyone could tolerate me. So I wrote on the page and took to the stage instead of tyrannically spewing in someone's face my complaints, in the hopes I wouldn't have to smoke weed, to deal with my need, to eviscerate the words of bullshit unity, people felt so inclined to share with me.

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Under the electric wet heat of undulating arabesques of mass entropy
In line with the right parabolic deliquescent trajectory
of a slightly twisted but beautifcally shaped body
I was sitting bestride the ballustrade
cavorting amongst a misanthropic calvacade of man-children
ensnared by the predilictions of their own vanity
man children who had come undone
in their misplaced placement of longing for love
with their pockets full of allibis they used as bribes
to hide their lies, to hide the slow but ostensible demise of their faithless lives
when as I was sitting there
my faithless life was brought to bear
by 2 bedroom eyes staring at me conspiratorally and perpiscasiously
2 eyes that were conveying to me
the shame of the memory
of the cockled crimes committed by me
in an attempt to deny the reality of my life
which wasn't even the life my sane and rational mind would have chosen for me
but somehow I had chosen to be
at times a participant in this self imposed mysoginistic misery
and i'm not commiserating with frivolity as I enumerate my breaks with morality,
the oft too often instances of insanity
of my propensity to pursue fantasies of my acts of impropriety
that have no relevancy to my reality,
but you see, I'm a conspirator of pleasure
whose shamefully and much more oft than occasionally
delved into debaucherous endeavors, whenever
my anxieties have gotten the better of me, whenever
my sense of self control starts slipping
and i start tripping in my mind
as i rewind back to the moments in time
too often and too far back for me to find
the conception, inception
the original perception of my realized affliction
that i have an addiction to my vanity,
much the same as the man-children who surrounded me
who had most likely allowed themselves just like me
to be infected by the same disease that
controlling interests push hard against us
to infest our mindscape with objectification
as edification for the deformities of our misperceptions
as they spread out with ease, like butter on bread
false notions of propagandized potions
to help convalesce our notions of dread at our own appearances
creating differences amongst us
that i had foolishly let be my focus
but id come to find over time that id rather be bled dry of my incidences of faithlessness
that id rather admit of my vain objectifiing mysoginistic decisions
than to live under the auspices of uncaring mother fuckers
who think were big enough suckers to believe
that if we close our eyes and swallow their pills
and judge with closed eyes as we click together our heels
like some fucking bad holywood fairytale
we will be availed of the pain of our vanity
but mother fucker im no dorothy, this ain't the wizard of oz
so don't try and distort the truth from me
becuz this skin and this bone and tone that you see
does not even constitute one micro particle of the totality
of whats burried beneath the perceived perceptions of me
no disceptions anymore, im filled with the resurrecting accepting forgiveness
as i ask for forgiveness and as you play witness to the admissions of my vain transgressions that i've written down and am now saying out loud from the page to the stage in an apology, and i hope you don't suffer from the same symptomology of vanity that had interfered from a freedom to set my mind at ease and seize the moment to share my conviviality becuz i want YOU to get up here and have the courage and confidence to share some of Your shit with me, too.
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when i dream its in a shade of blue-grey, tied in a fine fibrous line in my mind of a memory 30 years passed in time, in which my father had seemingly lost his mind when he crossed the line between madness and sweet charity, you see somewhere something within my heart or brain died a little bit at the age of 6, and I've asked myself how I could be so sure of this, as you'd be right to ask because 30 years is a fucking long time, and espousing the death of an emotion that long passed seems a waste of fucking time, but you see my dreams are of a memory that comes in a darkened shade of blue grey, the same color as the polyethylene ball that came with a plastic hoop I'd had hung by my father on a door near a hallway where I used to play when it was too dark to shoot hoops in my driveway. It was light, lithe, spherically shaped, the size of my 36 year old fist, made of thick rubber that could sting to the touch when let loose to not so gently grace a space such as the place above my right eye, where at the age of 6 my father let lie his sweet charity, as he hurled that blue-grey, spherically shaped ball I'd been bouncing off the wall at my fucking face. And it's within this space of disgrace that i displaced in my mind, where i lost the grace that was rightfully mine, where the lessons in love and charity that my mother and even my fucking father sometimes shared with me were forgotten, displaced, misplaced, erased from my conscious awareness, replaced in my cerebral space with subconscious intolerances, anger, resentment, and fear, Now the dictates of my mealy mouthed tirades and cowardly correspondences that would and had redone and undone my compulsion for compassion and forgiveness, that would and had separated me from my spiritual senescence, so that at the age of 10, I summed up my loss of innocence after watching documentary on JFK in my basement when in essence I told my parents the world is full of greedy whores. And this may not seem like much, fuck even I later laughed at having said such a thing. Because I always viewed satire as a dose of a remedy to my maladies and because my father never went so far as to raise his fist and hit me, and because my mother had shown me enough love and charity, that it seemed to be obscene for me to complain of this one single solitary instant having forever clouded the clarity of my capacity for empathy, but what can be expected from a child who says such, what can you honestly expect from a child who seems not to expect much from anyone and holds himself as the one responsible for his fathers failings, who later in life falls to regailing himself in the same insecurities as was his fathers, so that misogyny and narcissistic impulsive sexology became when I thought I'd become a man my graceless strategies, so sadly as I disengaged when I thought I could not trust, and so badly as I betrayed the ones who thought they could trust me, so that the ones i told I loved and the ones who said they loved me I truly could not say I loved with the utmost sincerity, til the pain having gone on for far far too long, one night, about 10 minutes past midnight, while I was passing by my sons room, my heart was suddenly filled with gloom as my eyes espied two wayward wandering fear mongered blue-grey eyes where my sons closed lids should be, because my sons eyes are the color blue and in the darkness it looked like the same hue as the ball my father threw at me, when he had let lie his sweet charity 30 years past and as I asked my son why he could not sleep, his reply to me was in a silent peep of how he was afraid I would yell at him for some such thing he had thought was bad that he had done which was really nothing bad and truthfully something sadly in relation to the numerous occasions i had displaced, misplaced, erased, and forgotten my love and compassion for him. And as the clarity of this most recent memory comes back to me I realize I'm just like my father in some ways whose father had done unto him in past days what would be done unto his son in spite of the memory of having lost his own empathy, so that I had become an agent of perpetrating senseless acts of verbal aggression, when I helped perpetuate the hateful cycle of depression and suppression of freedom from the tyranny of a broken heart. But as much as it pains me and possibly stains me to relive these blue-grey memories, I do not intend to let this supposed poem end with such negativity, because I believe in the legitimacy of forgiveness love and charity such as the kind my son was so kind to share with me the day after he saw my dismay from my eyes espying his wayward wandering fear mongered blue-grey eyes when in his own way he tried to console me by offering me his last piece of candy and so suddenly that empathy I so melodramatically and so emphatically described as dying came back to me and i told myself as long as i can hold this memory in a fine fibrous line in my mind theres no fucking blue-grey polyethylene ball that can take away my capacity for love, my ability to forgive my breaks in morality, or my slips into patriarchal dismissal of a nurturing need to espouse empathy.

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