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Literature
on block parties, florida 2011
and the summer that his parents left, greg’s house became the busiest club in south florida,
that bare bones mansion, marble floors & a ceiling high enough to hear the footsteps
as they walked out, or the laughter afterwards. see, there is nothing like filling your home
with the voices of strangers so that you can no longer recognize it as your own.  
and there is nothing like a keg or bong to fill the time. or space.
i watched your patio turn into a menagerie of glass, your garage just a fish bowl
of bodies swimming circles. that is to say, we are all picking up our lives in pieces,
only to drop and watch them scatter away again.
for we are all just lost boys finally giving up on finding neverland,
or being left behind, looking for an empty to hide inside of, to find ourselves in,
if not in the bushes by the intracoastal, on the porcelain floor beside a toilet full of things we are trying to rid ourselves of.
see, there’s a difference between the problems of living an
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Literature
through the looking glass, vietnam 2017
so boy does not fall but willingly goes down the rabbithole:
and all i see is trash. what a shame that these wilds are polluted
with the evidence of someone else’s survival, how one’s life can be another’s tourist attraction.
see: fisherman ride the wake of a party cruise
see: an artisan sells her handiwork as souvenir
see: a family of subsistence farmers pause their toil for a photo op
like alice, here i do not know my way, or welcome.
but look at all the beautiful creatures,
and what we can learn from them. look at the nonsense, or novelty, of it all.
say how lucky i am, how wondrous it is to be lost in the garden,
trying only to save ourselves from our own madness.
see i like to think myself savior, yet more like sin, more like undead
walking with virgil through the acacias, trying to gain some perspective,
more like rich kid paying for the privilege to feel alive again;
oh, what it is to feel something at all, even just the burn in my pocket
instead of head for on
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Literature
on the hero's journey, colorado 2012
see: starving artist makes pilgrimage from his critical but supportive beneficiaries.
call them the gods. maybe this be metaphor. or, myth.
and what then are we but the mere spectators of violence?
all of us will settle for or on something, erect cities of tombstones,
hold our tongues & hope to hush the past away,
wonder why it is so hard to keep the bones buried.
and say they really never told you why they call them red rocks?
say it is an allegory in which the hero dies everytime, a boy stuffed with feathers & grief;
say that the feathers are falling from the sky and the grief is a basket you catch them with;
say he is no hero;
say in this story there are no heroes, just ghosts.
see the charred earth left behind,
see how the journey continues nonetheless.
with the windows down you can almost see to the end of the bluebird sky,
that stoic horizon, nostalgic & whole.
catch the wind in your hair,
say this must be what freedom feels like, blurring the world by;
taking from someone else
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Literature
on police brutality, a convo with my white friends
after Trayvon Martin, or Eric Garner, or Mike Brown, or Freddie Gray, or Walter Scott, or Philando Castile, or Alton Sterling, etc.
i say i’m so sick of writing these goddamn(ed) poems
and you say don’t with a grin.
but i’ve made it too far already to make a deal with the devil,
try to do more with the guilt than throw it back up,  more empty than hungry in my belly,
just the quiet ache in my bones, still just a white flag burning, the bone rattle
after you gnaw away at the flesh, stripping it bare of color.
me, just the agent by which it happens. or, the happening itself.
tryna be more than bystander, ending up being nothing but.
but not everything is as colorful as you make it, you say
and i ask if there’s a metaphor in there somewhere.
say this country is divided over a boy whose name we would not have known had he still been alive
say if a brown body falls corpse on the floor of a concrete jungle, does it make a sound?
and you already stopped listening.
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Literature
on gardening or growing up at 22
and say the future is just like the fog, rolling in thick & heavy
from the forest of friends in front of you. see, some found love,
others death, all of us lost in our own ways, awaiting dawn
in whatever form it will come— fluorescent & fleeting.
and say, aren’t we all just budding things, thinly rooted & full of potential,
reaching out for the light or withering away to feed the hungry earth below?
for what is the world but a greenhouse, hot & steamy in its apathy for our survival?
and what is a greenhouse but a bell jar of blooming things, or bodies?
be it autumn when the leaves fall or may when we bury them,
this harvest lasts all season. i pluck a ripe moon from the upper branches
of the patchwork sky, taste the sweet dribble of its youth,
and discard the corpse without regard for what will grow back, if anything.  
say there must always be something, if not absence.
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Literature
on the final act
when we heard that they found mr. lewis hanging from the chandelier in the foyer,
i hear my mother say something about selfishness. but i don't hear, or listen.
say what a finale, say that's just how i'd go:
in the lights, all cut glass and crystal halo kaleidoscoping around my head.
just tryna make myself an angel. or anvil. come down heavy from a high place
just to end up 6 feet below; say he must've been hanging there for days,
just tryna hold up his own wieght. say how's that for a show? ain't we all
just tryna mean something to someone? more than just the curtain draw,
lights fade as we shuffle out, one by one. more than this.
say what's more selfish— leaving or expecting someone to stay against their will?
say what is a will but a list of reasons to stay?
see i'm not so worried that my mother will not forgive me, but herself,
and will that be enough to stay?
say everyday i think about leaving and all it does is keep me here, just in case.
don't wanna miss a thing, don't wan
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Literature
on the night the ball drops, florida 2016
i once heard a poet say that it's been a good year
if you've been to more weddings than funerals
and connor, you made us think that it was gonna turn out okay.
damn you for that. damn us for believing in something for once,
we just a pack of lonelies howling at the clouded sky,
just a runaway pickup speeding down the interstate,
nothing to guide us home except for a guardrail and the hopes
of finding warmth in something else.
say this wasn't supposed to be a poem about grief, or the wind.
but friend becomes snow and falls in the dead of winter and goddamn,
how cold the still air can be sometimes.
and here we are 2000 miles away, all dressed up with nowhere to go,
still tryna find faith in the forecast;
say tonight, the moon has hid its face
and tonight, grant is sobbing & no one can blame him
and tonight, we cheers to your absence & it sounds like the wind.
                                 
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Literature
on coming of age
at first, just whispers. the dead bird at the old apartment.
burnt hair & no shows. the stench of being forgotten.
darkness, for sure, but more cloak than night.
more bad dreams & pretend.
when the shadow finally moves in, it brings all its baggage.
clutters the whole house. you see how it lives,
all mirrors & sharp edges. it grows wings, becomes
more than nuisance, asks you to look it in the eyes and tell you what you see.
say nothing. or not enough. either way, ghost. become bitter. become unforgiving.
do not apologize for the charity, since you too are looking to fill space, and after all,
it is you who has given one; remember that there must first be a home to haunt.
say: better a bleeding heart than a blind eye, though one will likely kill you first.
consider that its own kind of shadow.
when you find the saved messages on your mother's old cell phone, the darkness smiles
and welcomes you in. you are no stranger. read about witchcraft & pharmaceuticals.
about cages
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Literature
untitled, colorado 2015
this is how we have learned to love:
sticky basements, blood spatter on a white tee.
you say we should see the other guy
with a crimson smile, and i think about how punk that really is. you,
whose biggest fear is not being able to communicate with the dead
in your native tongue. me, who flattened the earth with my want. see
how we earn our scars, laughing and at the expense of others. see
how the story is written, after the fact and with only one left speaking,
or standing. see how we name the streets for your dead.
see: Pueblo, Arapahoe, Kiowa, Cheyenne.
out here they always burning something  but, never the bones.
those be buried. be built on. see how strong the foundation, see
all of us white kids dancing on a mass grave. feel the weight of our boots,
snuffing you out like a still-lit cigarette, these hands that haven't yet
had to bury one of it's own, but ready still for the blood. i think about the kind
of creatures we are, or can be: born of the dirt and to it will one day r
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Literature
on the ground floor, colorado 2013
boy stays underground all day, be
with spiders, catching beautiful things
out of the air & smothering them with silk,
something sticky. see how they shine
in the right light,   see all the angels
we've brought down from heaven,
how we coccoon them with ourselves,
how we consume them with the hope
that they wil become us. see how readily
we devour this guilt, this empty carcass;
how the funeral pews always fill up, see
all the digital eulogies floating in space, a
garden of tombstones or prayers or nameless
ghosts but nothing louder than silence.
boy learns that there is little difference between
suicide & stardom, since both seem to end up
in the same place. friend tries to make a joke to
cut the tension, say maybe you'll finally be fucked
up enough to win a poetry slam
.
soboy takes cake knife to his words
instead of skin, calls this progress. says
not me, not yet; says you ain't even seen
the blood yet,   calls this a rigged game
we're all eventually losing; say it's
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Literature
on dogpatch, florida 2009
see mama don’t let her kids go over there to play,
say they call it that for a reason;
say one time i swear i heard gunshots in the night
and ever since, they be howling like the dogs,
notice how you never see any of em when the sun’s up,
like the scared of they own shadow, like they hidin’ something.
say one time i swear i saw a little black boy riding around
on grant’s stolen bicycle; haven’t seen him in awhile,
say come to think of it, the block’s been looking
a lot cleaner these days; ain’t what it used to be, that’s for sure.
glad the city finally got their act together,
shame to see all this prime real estate go to waste;
shame to leave it for the strays.
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Literature
on florida, after the fact
they say the tallest thing in the state is a landfill.
fitting, for what are we all but used up things rotting in the sun?
this gilded cityscape even Mike Bell couldn’t escape, the king of
running, the concrete kiss that kept him still.
say this is for the ever expanding list of obituaries i recognize
in the paper, not sure whether to mourn or make note,
we, just a bunch of rich kids with nothing else to do but die
and once, summer was just an afternoon thunderstorm,
just a parade of bicycles in the cul-de-sac
and, back then, we didn’t really know cool
till we heard it on the bus radio, know how to
keep ourselves out of trouble, or at least from
getting caught, say this is for those that did;
for dada and gary, i hear they both in the pen now,
better that than the ground, though, i guess
and for bradley, who hasn’t said dead just yet,
just ain’t been living right lately
see these days, those of us that made it out
be lookin back, how suburbia can swallow you who
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Literature
on the cold, alaska 2016
you say there are only two types of cold:
in one a shadow hangs on your bones like an old ghost;
the other is a color, or stillness, or both.
even now,
part of me still melts in the summer months, part
stays green year-round: come, see the bitter artist at work
say how’s that for a show? look at the sky
bleed into the horizon, how the peaks cry and carve
the earth with their guilt;
say here, we are all running from something,
land of lost boys, gone chasing clouds
only to end up in smoke.
say, how’s that for a show? see how lonely can look
so beautiful with the lights on, when the ice has receded
and the ground has begun to regain its color.
know that even then, the cold remains.
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Literature
on dealing with the roaches
but look at the infestation, you say,
and i say what’s that but a bunch of bugs tryna buy some time;
say this must be what it is like to play god
and i ain’t fucked up enough for that yet
still, i’ll bet the king was the first to go,
and in the end they all somewhere else;
see the walls emptied of bodies,
see them all belly up and bloated,
see how much easier they are to deal with when no longer breathing
and what here have we learned if not that the unwelcomed
are just static in the ears of someone else, that sometimes,
we do horrible things in the name of silence.
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Literature
on chasing highs and hitting lows
look out the rearview to see a thunderstorm
    orchestrating the florida sky, light keys
   and a baseline making believers of us all, and
 see how hope only hunts in the shadows,
       we the soaked and cold;
   say eat this and become the fire
because we all want to see something beautiful burn
       be it the heavens or ourselves;
   so what if we have eaten the night and,
 speaking of the sky. or to it:
we have spent too long trying to trade places,
  miles for miracles, but it just don’t work like that.
 both see the world and not say a damn thing
 so, why see at all? why not say goodbye already?
 but see, there is more than one way to empty yourself,
    funny too how the bong is a kind of mouth,
          all swallowing or spitting up, and watch:
eventually your tongue will become the interstate, ahead for miles.
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Literature
tout seul dans le parc au coucher de soleil
Voici quelle nous avons attendu.
   Pas le jour, peut-être, mais le temps. Regarde-on
 les nuages violets; comment la lumière est forte,
     comment la nuit est videe. Tu penses toujours que
    le ciel tombera quand tu est sur la terre.
Mais vois-tu les étoiles? Il y a les fantômes lourd d'absence.
 Dis au revoir.
 Dis tu les verras bientôt.
                                              * * *
This is what we have waited for.
   Not the day, perhaps, but the time. Look at
 the purple clouds; how the light is loud,
     how the night is empty. You always think that
    the sky will fall when you are on the ground.
But have you seen the stars? There are the ghosts heavy with absence.
 Say goodbye.
 Say you will see them soon.
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Favourites

Literature
gratitude
in the sun's shadow, he holds your hand.
he renames your choices, "b" - things hidden in nascent sight
and you wonder his wonder without bend. you wonder yourself
brittle, deep; you are the brontides of the rain before it decides
to reveal--
do you see the sky lit with your uncertainty?
do you see what he sees?
he sees light, nascent, before the colors succumbed to union,
before it broke the moon yellow.
he sees day is more red when it has to leave--
you are the storm the sun beckons when it needs a moment to itself;
I hope you see,
I hope you know.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 12 3
Literature
the trick to fucking taken-men
one. you cannot stop him from leaving. 
chances of him leaning towards someone is likely. men don't lean unless there is something to catch them. you could risk it and give them a push, watch them bust their face on the floor, nothing to cushion. or you could wait. maybe he isn't leaning. maybe there's some inanimate thing that captivates him. an idea. a story. paint mixing videos on Instagram. a historical site in Derbyshire. that is likely. it is also likely that it is a body. a she. a he. it has legs with a sweet spot between. it moans his name. 
two. accept that bodies only stagnate in death.
temperatures fluctuate, pulses fluctuate, and feelings fluctuate. when he says he loves you, he means it. then. in the morning, he may feel different. in the bathroom, taking a shower, taking a shit, he may feel different. feelings hinge on the moment. 
ignore the fact that yours seem to linger despite effort. maybe because you wait so long before you admit them. w
:iconKaitForest:KaitForest
:iconkaitforest:KaitForest 24 8
Literature
resurrecting the dead
on the front porch in the summer
up the long hill drive to
the red house–lopsided and three-storied,
dried flowerbeds with bobbing
daffodils, molded foundation–
packed tightly in a circlet of 
broadleaves. the spiders that 
webbed their way between our
legs and the chairs. your weak 
conversation starters and the click of
your mothers nails against her phone screen 
and your fathers remote appreciation 
for your presence, slow but wise
response. your hand unnoticed 
beneath the table. tracing
my leg as it shook. eight o clock
ribs and green beans: occasionally 
swatted flies, two
shirtless brothers and 
laughter and
insults and your
mother asking me
if I have time to
tour the basement
of a refurbished 
German brewery
downtown. 
these things no longer
have a pulse.
:iconKaitForest:KaitForest
:iconkaitforest:KaitForest 9 8
Literature
chai
i bite
an urge and
my tongue stops
a name
–on a hot day
in June he slides  
up my dress and i smash his
hand on my thigh. i think
about my words before i speak.
if not i will say
what i habituate
like warmth and
skin and names.
don’t you like it? he asks.
i like chai. i ask
the barista what she likes most
and she says i don’t know,
have you had matcha?
it’s earthy. i imagine eating
dirt. not bad, she says, and sometimes
it’s sweet. i order chai. everyday
i order chai. at home we open
the windows and let the wind blow
the heat over our wet bodies
like a slow fan, but there is no fan,
i tell him to buy one and
he says maybe. maybe instead
we could read at a coffee shop
across from each other in the
cold. and i could rub my hands on your
legs and you could kiss me.
while there
the table separates us and
he can only touch me
by reaching. his hands tire and he
reads and i drink chai,
move a name around my mouth
but don’t let it leave. in any life
i a
:iconKaitForest:KaitForest
:iconkaitforest:KaitForest 13 10
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Activity


and the summer that his parents left, greg’s house became the busiest club in south florida,
that bare bones mansion, marble floors & a ceiling high enough to hear the footsteps
as they walked out, or the laughter afterwards. see, there is nothing like filling your home
with the voices of strangers so that you can no longer recognize it as your own.  
and there is nothing like a keg or bong to fill the time. or space.
i watched your patio turn into a menagerie of glass, your garage just a fish bowl
of bodies swimming circles. that is to say, we are all picking up our lives in pieces,
only to drop and watch them scatter away again.

for we are all just lost boys finally giving up on finding neverland,
or being left behind, looking for an empty to hide inside of, to find ourselves in,
if not in the bushes by the intracoastal, on the porcelain floor beside a toilet full of things we are trying to rid ourselves of.

see, there’s a difference between the problems of living and the problems of living well,
and yes, aren’t we all just a bunch of rich kids too fucked up to tell the difference?
but try telling that to the shadow of a boy just trying to belong.

say divorce and mean house party with no parents,
mean empty dance floor and a dj all out of sad songs,
but still plenty of people left to sing along.

see, the world is a party thrown just for you. or, in spite of.
see, everyone is here. say who needs parents when you’ve got all of this?
and all you can say is i’m laughing my ass off right now
and we don’t get the joke.

we take it to mean that you are happy.
on block parties, florida 2011
i vill be back to clean this up 

(idk if that's for you to know or for me to be held accountable)



*is this thing on?*
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so boy does not fall but willingly goes down the rabbithole:

and all i see is trash. what a shame that these wilds are polluted
with the evidence of someone else’s survival, how one’s life can be another’s tourist attraction.

see: fisherman ride the wake of a party cruise
see: an artisan sells her handiwork as souvenir
see: a family of subsistence farmers pause their toil for a photo op

like alice, here i do not know my way, or welcome.
but look at all the beautiful creatures,
and what we can learn from them. look at the nonsense, or novelty, of it all.
say how lucky i am, how wondrous it is to be lost in the garden,
trying only to save ourselves from our own madness.

see i like to think myself savior, yet more like sin, more like undead
walking with virgil through the acacias, trying to gain some perspective,
more like rich kid paying for the privilege to feel alive again;
oh, what it is to feel something at all, even just the burn in my pocket
instead of head for once. this privilege, this shining suit of armor
& white horse to keep me high above the ground, hoping
one day to do more than trample others while moving forward.

say in the meantime, only stopping to take pictures.
see: starving artist makes pilgrimage from his critical but supportive beneficiaries.
call them the gods. maybe this be metaphor. or, myth.

and what then are we but the mere spectators of violence?
all of us will settle for or on something, erect cities of tombstones,
hold our tongues & hope to hush the past away,
wonder why it is so hard to keep the bones buried.

and say they really never told you why they call them red rocks?

say it is an allegory in which the hero dies everytime, a boy stuffed with feathers & grief;
say that the feathers are falling from the sky and the grief is a basket you catch them with;

say he is no hero;
say in this story there are no heroes, just ghosts.

see the charred earth left behind,
see how the journey continues nonetheless.

with the windows down you can almost see to the end of the bluebird sky,
that stoic horizon, nostalgic & whole.

catch the wind in your hair,
say this must be what freedom feels like, blurring the world by;

taking from someone else
on the hero's journey, colorado 2012
mush''

i don't like this or rly know how i feel about it

worddump
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after Trayvon Martin, or Eric Garner, or Mike Brown, or Freddie Gray, or Walter Scott, or Philando Castile, or Alton Sterling, etc.

i say i’m so sick of writing these goddamn(ed) poems

and you say don’t with a grin.

but i’ve made it too far already to make a deal with the devil,
try to do more with the guilt than throw it back up,  more empty than hungry in my belly,
just the quiet ache in my bones, still just a white flag burning, the bone rattle
after you gnaw away at the flesh, stripping it bare of color.
me, just the agent by which it happens. or, the happening itself.
tryna be more than bystander, ending up being nothing but.

but not everything is as colorful as you make it, you say

and i ask if there’s a metaphor in there somewhere.
say this country is divided over a boy whose name we would not have known had he still been alive
say if a brown body falls corpse on the floor of a concrete jungle, does it make a sound?

and you already stopped listening.

and i already forgot the rage, someone else’s, rioting in the streets.
setting the past ablaze, following the shadows cast along the cityscape.

and so i offer this, boy: my heavy heart, the moment of silence between eruptions of blood,
me, just the mannequin boy cutting off pieces of himself to give to you,
hoping it'll settle the score. knowing it won't.

you ask if i will do this for each one.

say but how many more before we do something 
besides mourn their last words?

and you shrug as if to say something
more than nothing at all.
and say the future is just like the fog, rolling in thick & heavy
from the forest of friends in front of you. see, some found love,
others death, all of us lost in our own ways, awaiting dawn
in whatever form it will come— fluorescent & fleeting.
and say, aren’t we all just budding things, thinly rooted & full of potential,
reaching out for the light or withering away to feed the hungry earth below?
for what is the world but a greenhouse, hot & steamy in its apathy for our survival?
and what is a greenhouse but a bell jar of blooming things, or bodies?
be it autumn when the leaves fall or may when we bury them,
this harvest lasts all season. i pluck a ripe moon from the upper branches
of the patchwork sky, taste the sweet dribble of its youth,
and discard the corpse without regard for what will grow back, if anything.  
say there must always be something, if not absence.

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:icona-girl-named-divine:
a-girl-named-divine Featured By Owner May 28, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
your poetry is honestly so beautiful <3
Reply
:iconsuccesswithhonor:
successwithhonor Featured By Owner May 31, 2017  Student Writer
:heart: & :rose:
Reply
:icona-girl-named-divine:
a-girl-named-divine Featured By Owner May 31, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
:tighthug: right back at you ?
Reply
:iconbraxton-t-rutledge:
Braxton-T-Rutledge Featured By Owner Apr 20, 2017
Ty
Reply
:iconwei-en:
wei-en Featured By Owner Mar 14, 2017
Thank you for the watch ☆☆☆
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:iconblackbowfin:
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Much thanks.  :)
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:iconazuline-furcula:
azuline-furcula Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2016
thank you.
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:iconsuccesswithhonor:
successwithhonor Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2016  Student Writer
:coffeecup:
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:iconarabesque-o:
arabesque-o Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2016  Student Photographer
I like your pretty words.
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:iconsuccesswithhonor:
successwithhonor Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2016  Student Writer
i like that you like them
:heart: :rose: :coffeecup:
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