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Everyone wants you to be happy, Ridge. Especially Maggie." He nods a little, then kisses the inside of my palm. "I love you." He said those. Sincerely, Colleen Hoover This book is dedicated to all the members of the Too I'm not sure I want to know the answer, but the question spills out of my.

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Everyone wants you to be happy, Ridge. Especially Maggie." He nods a little, then kisses the inside of my palm. "I love you." He said those. revelation Losing Hope Colleen Hoover as well as review them wherever you are now. Holder's head during all Jackson wants to live. Sincerely, Colleen Hoover This book is dedicated to all the members of the Too I'm not sure I want to know the answer, but the question spills out of my. BEACH BOYS ENDLESS SUMMER FLAC TORRENT We'll compare these with Safe Mode', the firewall will. The current style user: noslrac40 noslrac required in releases device you are Identifies a specific. Image Zoomer Tool download companion apps.

I think I was vaguely aware that sampling existed, but I didn't even know how to switch on a computer, had no money anyway to buy either a computer or a sampler, so that settled the matter. But you did use a computer to create the songs on your album Everyone Alive Wants Answers? Of course the advantage of sampling already existing material is that the music is already produced, so even though some people think that the overall album feel is lo-fi, especially because there's so much hiss on many tracks, it's actually not lo-fi at all, because the sound is very deep and warm.

Coming from your experiences playing guitar in bands and composing on your 4-track, how did you hit upon your unique way of sampling and reworking old recordings? Perhaps the one thing that made a difference is that I discovered music from all styles and periods at the same time. I spent roughly two years borrowing between five and ten CDs every week. So as I was discovering classic electronica stuff I was also discovering lots of acoustic music, and gradually I realized two things.

First of all that just as I had never been gifted for rhythm when I played acoustic music, I wasn't gifted for it either when it came to making music on a computer. This feeling was made even stronger by the fact that I loved Autechre and so couldn't see the point of trying to make rhythms when these people were already doing it in a masterful way.

So the fact that I ruled out rhythm changed my way of working, since my first year of working on the computer with samples did involve beats. Secondly I realized that at the bottom of my heart I didn't really like modern electronic sounds, found them too cold, with some exceptions.

That set my second criterion for sampling stuff: It had to be acoustic. I'm really fascinated by how you got the majority of your sample material and your music education through trips made to your local library. It made me think about how technology has given this generation such access to the best of both contemporary and historic music and yet most of us take it for granted.

In what ways do you think listening to all that historic, neglected music affected your songwriting? First of all I have to say The rest of this article is only available with a Basic or Premium subscription, or by purchasing back issue For an upcoming year's free subscription, and our current issue on PDF Home to Ohio University, it is also the home of numerous historical treasures, a burgeoning The silver sedan parked outside has a license plate that read "Dr.

Vibb," a nickname I was very familiar with. I knocked on the door and a man — who could've easily been my brother — I have several of his drawings now, wrapped in a bathrobe and stuffed in the bottom of my dresser drawer. Moby glances at me and covers his mouth with his hand, mumbling something intended for only me to hear. I wink at him and grab the box of donuts from the top of the refrigerator. There are two left in the box, so I put one in my mouth and walk the other one to Moby. He takes the donut from my hand and immediately crawls under the table to eat it.

He already knows that anything that tastes good to him is off-limits to Victoria. It would ruin my three-day streak of not speaking. But despite my lack of a rebuttal, Utah is wrong. The poor kid eats steel-cut oatmeal for breakfast every day. Without butter or sugar. At least I sneak him sweets in moderation.

Utah walks past me, heading for his smoothie. He knows not to come near me with his cheerful sibling affection. Utah and I have nothing in common, other than being the only two people in the Voss family to know its deepest, darkest secret.

And we look nothing alike. Honor and I look more like our mother. Or at least like she did when she was younger. Her hair used to be a more vibrant blonde, much like ours is now. Utah looks like our father, with sandy brown hair and pale skin. I guess Honor and I lucked out, because we tan fairly easily in the summer. Moby is just a mix of all of us.

Sometimes he looks like our father, sometimes he looks like Victoria. But most of the time he reminds me of this bird off a Dawn dish soap commercial I saw last year. It was a cute bird. Utah takes a seat and bends down to look under the table. You excited about today? This exchange is a daily occurrence between Utah and Moby.

Utah wants to be a teacher and already has his entire college schedule planned out. As soon as he graduates high school in six months, he has a two-day weekend and then begins classes at the local university the following Monday. Honor also signed up to start classes two days after graduation. My mother gave birth to Utah in August and then got pregnant with Honor and me one month later.

When it was time for Utah to start school, she and my father decided to hold him back a year so they could have us all in the same grade at the same time. No sense dealing with different schedules when you can have one schedule for all three of your children. Not that it would matter. My vote is on Utah, simply because he runs less of a risk of becoming preoccupied with the terminally ill between now and graduation. If anything, the peace and quiet will give him even more time to study.

And clean. And iron his clothes. I pour myself a cup of juice and sit at the table across from Sagan. I lean forward and try to get a better look. His eyes dart up and meet mine. He arches an eyebrow and picks up his sketchbook as he leans back against his chair.

His phone vibrates and he practically lunges for it. He flips it over and looks at the screen but his face falls flat. He silences the call and flips his phone over. I move my attention to Moby, who is still hiding under the table. I shake my head.

Victoria enters the kitchen in a rush. Victoria grabs a knife from the drawer and a banana. She wipes the blade of the knife across her pink scrubs, judging its cleanliness. Or lack thereof. We rarely do. Unless our father is in the room, Victoria is of little importance to us. These are disgusting. She glances across the kitchen at all her stepchildren sitting around the table. She sighs and begins peeling the banana. I have no idea what my father sees in her.

A good ten years younger than my mother. She takes her job as a nurse way too seriously. I think her pink scrubs annoy me more than anything else about her. I remember the day she started wearing pink scrubs. I was twelve, sitting at this very table. She had emerged from Quarter Three, back when Quarter Three was shared by my father and ailing mother. Until that particular morning, anyway. My father had been sitting across from me reading the paper when he looked up at her and smiled.

Victoria has only worn shades of pink scrubs since that day. I often wonder if their affair began before or after that flirtatious moment in the kitchen. We keep our secrets buried deeper than the grave Victoria wishes my mother would go ahead and fall in. They kept the affair quiet for at least a year.

My father was stuck between a rock and a hard place at that point. On the one hand, he could choose not to abandon his wife who had just beaten cancer. But if he chose his wife, that would mean he was abandoning his new pregnant mistress. I do, however, remember when my mother and father discussed where his new wife and child would live.

She suggested he move to our old home behind Dollar Voss and leave her here to manage us children. And sadly, he was right. My mother had been in a car accident when she was pregnant with my sister and me, and she never fully recovered. But we know she changed because of how our father references things.

They were just matter-of-fact. We used to try to get her to leave the basement and interact with us all the time. But after that, when the first year of her seclusion came and went and our mother seemed to be functioning just fine with her life in the basement, we had no choice but to accept it.

My father still buys all her groceries and Honor and I make sure her mini-kitchen is fully stocked. And since she refuses to see a psychiatrist for her social phobia, we have no other choice but to accept it. For now. I have a feeling after all three of us kids are out of the house next year, Victoria is going to demand my mother move out. And while we do hold our father accountable for half of our family issues, he is still required to love us.

I told you not to give him donuts. She turns her attention to him, waving the knife in the air that she was just using to slice bananas. He leans in and kisses her on the cheek and then sets the knife on the counter, finding me in his crowd of children. She grabs the bowl of oatmeal and walks it over to the trash. She angrily scoops the contents of the bowl into the trash. None of them do. She sets him on the counter near the sink and wets a napkin to wipe donut remnants off his face.

They are very bad for you. My father sips from his coffee cup and then reaches over to Moby and ruffles his hair. Which means my no-speaking streak is looking good for day four. I wonder if anyone will notice my taciturnity. Hardly a child. I wonder if I can make it an entire week.

Make your absence felt. But I was born second, which just makes me a faded copy of the original. I had to Google that fact because it sounded too insane to be true. He downs the rest of his shake and pushes away from the table. You know, out of respect. She looks at my father. A tear? A smile?

He stares stoically at Honor as he absorbs the news. Heart attack. He looks down at the cup. I put my hand over my mouth because I suddenly want to tell them all about the dog showing up in the middle of the night, but I feel like I might choke up. Honor called me a sociopath once while we were in the middle of a fight. There might be some truth to that. Utah is still paused at the door. But if I acknowledge it, people will accuse us of being disingenuous.

But his words reach Utah anyway, because after a brief moment of pause, Utah walks out the front door toward the marquee. Especially around my father. I hate it. Victoria bends and begins to help Moby put on his jacket.

Victoria nods. When is he gonna wake up? She zips his jacket. Will he be able to get out of the ground? He asks all the normal questions about life and Victoria makes up the most bizarre answers. I once heard him ask her what the word sex meant. She told him it was a terrible TV show from the eighties and that he should never watch it. He stops following her right before they make it to the hallway.

Will he be stuck in the ground forever? Time to go. Victoria is staring at all of us with her hands on her hips, watching us laugh. Her face turns as pink as her scrubs and she walks swiftly out of the room, headed toward Quarter Three. Utah and Honor begin to pack up their things. I usually take a different car than the two of them because they both stay after school. Honor for cheerleading practice and Utah for. I wait in my room and listen for the front door to open and close and even then I wait several more minutes.

Speaking of. On my way into the kitchen, the marquee outside the window catches my attention. I squint to read the words Utah selected to display. I sigh, a little disappointed in Utah. If it were me, I would have paid my respects to Pastor Brian. But to update it without acknowledging the death of the man who erected that very marquee seems a little.

Another crossword puzzle? I sit down at the table with my half-completed book of crossword puzzles. I flip it to the puzzle I finished on Friday and start on the next one. A sense of panic rears its ugly head, making me question my choice. Just a bunch of small ones that continued to pile up until they were hard to ignore. I like spontaneity.

Maybe I like it because Utah hates it so much. I reach across the table, slide the sketch toward me and flip it over. His drawings make no sense. What would possess him to draw a picture of someone swallowing a boat? I flip it over and look at the back of it. Did he draw this of me? And then I immediately slap the drawing on the table and groan. I just ruined my no-speaking streak. Month and a half. I was guessing a week. He said to only use it in emergencies. I turn around to face him. Peeking out beneath his hat are sporadic pieces of red hair, too bright to be authentic.

His face is decent, a little imperfection here and there. Interesting ensemble. The guy looks down at his outfit. I wrap both arms around the ginormous bag of dog food and head to my car. Vehicles have always rotated in our driveway and the only rule is that whichever person leaves the house first each day gets first pick. Last month a faded red Ford EPX appeared in the driveway.

And since I rarely leave the house on time, this unfortunate Ford has been driven more by me than the rest of the family put together. I place the bag of dog food in the trunk and am about to open my front door when kilt-guy appears out of nowhere. He walks toward the front of the car and taps his neon green Nike against the front tire twice. But when he said the word you just now, he sounded a tad British.

I open my front door and stand behind it to put a barrier between us. I need to shield myself from it. Overly confident people should never be trusted. He shrugs. Are you Australian? Everything about him screams unstable, but my spontaneity and refusal to weigh the consequences of my decisions are my two favorite things about me. He grins at me through the window and runs around to the passenger side.

I have to lean across the seat to unlock the door so that he can open it. He grabs the backpack and throws it over his shoulder, then a thirty- gallon black trash bag and a small suitcase on wheels. I agreed to give him a ride. I pop the trunk and wait for him to finish loading his belongings.

Is that a nickname? Is today a holiday? Finished and completed are two different things. I make a mental note to look at his pupils if he faces me again. It would be my luck to pick up a random stranger who is coming down from a high. I use the opportunity to assess his pupils. Where do you live?

He pulls his phone out of his pocket. Kind of like a thunderstorm. Like Adam Levine? You probably play guitar. It should be a two-man sport, like a Ping-Pong match. But with you it feels more like. Just going one way down the lane. Are you on drugs? This is normal for him? I exit the highway and decide the best course of action would be to drop him off at the only gas station in our town.

I slam on my breaks. Why would there be a turkey on this road? I scan the road in front and around us but see nothing. Jesus Christ! Three strikes is a turkey. Three strikes in bowling is a turkey. Anything else you want to know before you start overexplaining metaphorical road kill again?

Even if it is just to shut him up. When I first saw Sagan at the antiques store, I had a quiet fear that he was out of my league. But when I found out he was dating Honor, it never even crossed my mind that she was out of his league.

I hate that I might have thought she deserved him more than I did. One more stop sign and I can drop him off. He seriously just referred to another guy as a fellow. Holy crap, Merit! What a terrible thing to do! And she never will. I might know where it is. Luck scrolls through the pictures on his phone. Right when I get to the stop sign, he hands me his phone. I immediately throw the car in park.

I zoom in on the picture of Victoria standing in front of Dollar Voss. I press my forehead against it. Five seconds later, a car behind us honks. I look in my rearview mirror and the guy behind us holds up his hands in frustration. I put the car in drive. Right now? Yes and no. Nothing like Victoria. I turn onto our road and then pull into our driveway.

I put the car in park. Luck is staring at the house, still tapping his leg and bouncing his knee, but not making an effort to get out of the car. All of his annoying confidence is gone, replaced by an equally annoying amount of vulnerability. He swallows and then reaches to the floorboard to pick up his container of beef jerky. You want to exchange numbers? Once I have a secure grip on it, I head for the front door. When it unlocks, I face him. When he does, he takes a step back and tilts his head.

With my sister? Luck stands in the doorway as he runs a hand through his hair and then grips the back of his neck. I find a couple of old bowls and fill them with water and food, then take them out back. His ears go limp again when he sees me. He just watches as I set the bowls down next to his doghouse. I reach out and pet his pathetic head. He sniffs the food and then the water, but he lies back down again and whimpers. Luck appears next to me. I look back at the house. He nods his head toward the dog.

Is he dying? His owner died yesterday. He showed up in the middle of the night last night because he used to live here. He should have been named Henry. I take him to the spare bedroom across the hall from me. Shoes on the floor, the bed is unmade, there are toiletries on the dresser. Luck slides past me and walks to the wall opposite the door. Several sketches are lying on the dresser. He focuses on a sketch of a man hanging from a ceiling fan by a string of feathers. When Sagan leaves, you can have the guest bedroom.

His art is. Luck props his suitcase against the desk and looks around the room. The other thing. You want a tour of the house? An atheist mime? But he got a good deal on the church, so he moved us in a few years ago. Has it been that long since you last saw Victoria? He falls back against the arm of the couch and props his arms behind his head. She moved to the basement. In the basement of this house? I nod and head for the door.

Pastor Brian dies, Wolfgang returns, I randomly pick up a hitchhiker in a kilt who turns out to be my step-uncle. I glance left and right even though no one is here but Luck and me. And my mother, of course. I open the door and inspect the room Sagan is staying in. How long has his stuff been here? I sit down on the guest bed and pull his sketchbook onto my lap. I flip through the sketchbook, but all the pages are blank.

All of them except for one. Why would he draw this? Sagan is standing in the doorway, which marks the second most embarrassing moment of my life. Funny that they both include him. My arms are stiff at my sides. I clench my fists and then unclench them.

He steps into the room and his eyes fall to the sketchbook I was just skimming through. His eyes meet mine again. He looks annoyed. Until this moment, I never realized just how much time I spend alone in my room. And no one thought to tell me? He stares at me and I stare right back, because I have no idea what else to do. I hate the way he looks. I hate his hair. I especially hate his mouth. His lips are weird.

But what I hate the most about him are his eyes. I hate how I feel when I look at them. Because no matter how much his individual features annoy me, they complement each other very nicely. I look down at my feet and wish the last five minutes never happened. The fact that I want that embarrasses me more than being caught in his room. I rush past him, refusing to look at him as I make my way out into the hall.

I walk straight to my bedroom door and open it, then slam it shut. I fall onto my bed and I feel the tears as they begin to sting at my eyes. What a weird, shitty day. I pull my phone out of my pocket to text my father. I rarely ask him for anything, but this is an emergency. Can you stop by the thrift store on your way here and see if they have any trophies? I lie down on my bed, pull my blanket over me, and think about the picture Sagan drew of me swallowing a boat this morning.

I hate how much I like it. I hate that no matter how hard I try not to, I like him a little more every day. But then again, they were all dying. I hardly ever pray, but I feel like now is as good of a time as any. I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling.

I clear my throat. It feels weird talking to the ceiling. Maybe I should kneel like they do in the movies. I throw the covers off and kneel on the floor against the bed. I lower my head and try it again with my eyes closed. I apologize for that. But I really need your help. Maybe you created him as my soul mate, and because Honor and I are identical, his soul got confused and fell in love with her. They have nothing in common. Someone who will completely take my mind off him. Or even just a distraction.

Whatever you can spare. Praying is so awkward. Maybe I should do it more. She flips on the light to my bedroom. I pull my cell phone out from under my pillow to see what time it is. Shitty today. I spoon mashed potatoes onto a plate next to a piece of blackened chicken.

There may not be much about Victoria to like, but her cooking has always been good. I spin around to grab a roll for the plate, but I bump into Sagan, who has appeared behind me. I move left, he moves right. I move right, he moves left. Are you freaking kidding me?

He only loses his breath around Honor. Right before I reach the basement door, I glance back in the kitchen. Honor is now standing next to her boyfriend, making her plate. I get frustrated and go the other direction. I guess when all you do is watch Netflix and play on Facebook, you get pretty good at listening to footsteps.

She closes her laptop and slides it to the floor. She looks at the plate and sets it down on the table next to her. The weather is nice. Her hand falls back to her lap. The older I get, the harder it is to understand her phobia. What did you tell him? He left a voice mail. My mother tosses the blanket off her lap and stands up. She tries so hard to put on the air of a normal mother leading a normal life. It should be here tomorrow.

Is it new? She applies makeup every morning and her hair is always washed and styled. She probably still shaves her legs every day, which makes no sense because if I decided to never leave the house again, the first thing I would do is stop shaving. I take the box from her and head toward the stairs. But the older I get and the more of my life she misses by choosing to stay in the basement, the angrier at her I am. I let the door to the basement close behind me.

Victoria is in the kitchen, cutting up a chicken breast for Moby. Everyone else is already at the table eating. I grab a plate for myself, just as my father walks through the front door. Honor is on the other side of him, leaning into him and laughing at something he just said. I plop down in my chair and scoot it forward. Moby is seated on my other side, to my relief. Victoria glares at my father. You would think I slapped the kid with the way Victoria reacts to my comment.

She immediately pushes her chair back and stands up. But then I stop smiling because her anger is authentic. I look back at Victoria. Did you want me to lie to him? Her nostrils might even be flaring. Go to your room. I turn my attention to him. She walks toward the kitchen and tosses her food into the trash can. Wolfgang can eat them. He stands up. I swallow and throw my thumb over my shoulder. Victoria throws her hands in the air. You get angry at her for allowing a dog in the yard but not for calling your son a bastard?

Just ask the little brother she abandoned. Sure enough, that last sentence was a shocker. I open my mouth to repeat what I said, but my father interrupts me. Not that I should be required to do so. It was raining and I felt bad for him, so I let him in the backyard. Then I found out Pastor Brian died and forgot to tell any of you about the dog. And like it or not, the definition of a bastard is a child born out of wedlock.

And in case any of you forgot, Victoria got pregnant while Dad was still married to Mom, so Moby was practically a bastard. I face forward and give my full attention to my food. A small smile plays across his lips. Her voice is much quieter now. In this house? My father walks up to her and puts his hands on her shoulders, trying to take her attention away from her little brother.

You need to leave. He looks a little surprised by her reaction. He pulls her in the opposite direction. My father faces Luck. Luck smiles and walks toward him with his hand out. My father reluctantly shakes his hand. Maybe I should have called first. Luck swings his gaze to Honor and he gives her a familiar smile, but then his smile disappears when he notices me.

He looks back at Honor, then back at me. Then he points between us. He introduces himself to Utah, Honor, and then Sagan. When he gets to Moby, he kneels down in front of him. I just woke up from a four-hour nap. Kind of already made myself at home. I have to hand it to him. Luck is cheerful, if anything. He follows my father to Quarter Three. I was enjoying it. I toss my roll back on my plate. I tear off a piece of my bread and pop it in my mouth.

I forgot. Sagan shakes his head. Why are you crying? Nothing can make me feel worse than when Moby is upset. His bedtime has always been seven, but I heard Victoria tell him a few days ago that she would change it to eight in a few weeks.

I take Moby to the bathroom and help him brush his teeth and wash his hands. I enjoy tucking him in at night, but I only do it when Moby specifically asks for me. Moby likes the whales, though. He also loves that he was named after a whale. My favorite book is God-Shaped Hole. I tuck Moby into his bed, pulling the whale-themed blanket up to his chin.

I choose the thinnest one, but Moby protests. How about Goodnight Moon? He picks up a stack of pages from the table beside his bed. Sagan wrote it. I take the pages from him. And it rhymes! Moby is the smartest four-year-old I know, but he cannot, for the life of him, grasp the concept of time.

I move to the spot next to Moby and sit against the headboard. I pull my knees up and rest the pages on my thighs. I glance down at Moby. Not so much with Moby, but with Sagan for taking the time to write him a story. And for obviously explaining its meaning. Moby sits up and flips the page for me.

It looks like a cardinal. I flip the page again. No spoilers. You killed good people, I do fear. Put them inside the mountain. And then close those doors for good! I flip back to the first page of the poem, a little in shock by what I just read. This is just as morbid, if not more morbid than the art he creates. I place the story back on his nightstand.

Sagan is in the kitchen helping Honor wash the dishes. I make it a point never to make that expression. Seeing it on her lets me know how unappealing it would be on me. He wipes his mouth. When I turn them down, Honor almost looks relieved. Sagan is still looking at me, but with a touch of curiosity in his expression. To them, my presence is an inconvenience. It confuses me. It makes me want to go swimming with my siblings for the first time since they started going the day Utah got his license.

The bedroom door to Quarter Three opens and Luck appears. He walks into the kitchen with his hands shoved in his pockets. My father and Victoria are close behind. My father clears his throat as he addresses all of us. Victoria and I would appreciate it if you would all make him feel welcome. Utah shakes his head. I nod. He looks over his shoulder at me with a moment of pause, but then continues walking.

Earlier today I was regretting running into Luck at the store, but now it seems I might finally have a friend in this house. I grab a one-piece and an oversized T-shirt and head back into the hallway. Sagan is walking out of his room and pauses when he sees me. His mouth clamps shut. They follow Utah and Luck outside. I stop by the bathroom and grab a few towels.

Before I reach the front door, I look up at the statue of Cheesus Christ. Is that why Luck is here? Is he the distraction from Sagan that I prayed for earlier? The chances of my father actually following through with a threat are not.

Chapter Six One of the most utilized vehicles in our driveway is the Ford Windstar. Luck is in the other one. Honor is in the front passenger seat and Utah is driving. We live in the middle of nowhere, in a town too small to be significant enough for a hotel with a pool.

This will be at least a fifteen-mile drive. I chuckle under my breath because he seems to want to claim Victoria as much as we do. She lived with her mom and I lived with our father and my mother. We moved around a lot until my parents divorced. No one follows that comment up with a question. My head snaps in his direction. I raise an eyebrow in warning, letting him know he went too far with that comment.

She looks at me. He might get a kick out of embarrassing me. Honor glances over her shoulder and glares at him. I feel bad for him. I could tell that simply by the way he kissed me when he thought he was kissing her. I keep staring out the window, but I listen closely. I have half a mind to tell Luck that Honor was there saying goodbye to yet another boyfriend when she unknowingly set her sights on Sagan, incorrectly assuming he was about to meet his demise.

No one speaks for a few minutes, even though I have a million questions for Luck and a million more for Sagan. When we pull into the long driveway of the hotel, Utah finally throws a question over his shoulder. I look up and Luck unbuckles his seat belt and slides open the minivan door. He gets out, but the rest of us are paralyzed by his last comment. When we get inside, Honor walks up to the front desk and rings the bell. She was a year ahead of us in school, but she and Honor have been casual friends since we were kids.

I keep more to myself than Honor does. She looks back at Honor. She holds up the key card. Her eyes remain glued to Luck as we make our way toward the bathrooms to change. Honor and I walk into the girls and she immediately pulls her shirt off and begins changing without walking into one of the stalls. I have my jeans and T-shirt off when Honor says the inevitable. Do I know him? It would be the end of what little relationship we have left as sisters. I open the door to the stall, pulling my T-shirt over my head.

I hardly even leave the house; how would I meet someone? She also looks. It covers her as well as a bikini can cover her, but the color and the cut are perfect.

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