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ˌɪmɔːˈtælɪti dʌŋ mɑːsk

Summary
ˈhɜːkjʊliːz kliːnz ði ɔːˈʤi(ː)ən ˈsteɪblz baɪ fɜːst ˈgɛtɪŋ ˈfɑːməz frɒm ɔːl ˈəʊvə griːs tuː klɪər aʊt ðə kaʊ dʌŋ. ˈɑːftə ˈwɜːkɪŋ ɒn ə fjuː ˈprɒdʌkt aɪˈdɪəz wɪð tuː ˈmɑːkɪtɪŋ kənˈsʌltənts, hiː ɪˈvɛnʧəli dɪˈsaɪdz tuː bɜːn daʊn ðə ˈsteɪblz. 

After the last of the farmers’ carts had left, Heracles summoned Themis to thank her. She had told him what to say to convince every farmer in Greece to use immortal bovine dung to improve soil quality and guarantee bountiful yields, even in times of drought. The best part? The dung was free, as long as they scooped it out of the stables themselves.

Kisshoutennyo, one of Lakshmi’s cousins, was visiting with Themis. She appeared when Heracles said he still had a decade’s worth of dung to clear out. She offered a solution. “Let’s do a night cream called, ‘Kissho Immortality Dung Mask.’”

“Who the $#!+ will use face cream made of $#!+?” asked a bewildered Heracles.

“Everyone,” replied Kisshoutennyo, not quite understanding what the problem was. “Ten minutes of this is going to snatch your face.”

“Are you seeing my office, though?” whined Heracles.

“Relax,” said Kisshoutennyo, “because I will help. But give me a second … Be right back.”

While they waited, Themis suggested mixing extra virgin olive oil (lamp fuel) and immortal bovine colostrum into the dung. These ingredients would prevent the cream from drying out. Two days later, the churning was turning into a new labour, and Heracles was not happy. They were well past the deadline and they had no packaging ready.

“I should have thought of packaging first,” Themis said. Then she got an idea. “Do you realise that we can use this mixture to make soap? No packaging necessary.”

“How?” asked Heracles.

“We have colostrum, which has water; olive oil, which is fat; and dung has lots of salt.”

Heracles’ eyes glazed over. He was, after all, just a guy with muscles who did stuff.

“We need a cauldron and some fire,” continued Themis.

Pointing to an urn containing lamp fuel, Heracles suggested, “Like, why don’t we use that and burn all the $#!+ in here?”

“That works better,” agreed Themis. By now, the noxious gasses in the stables were making her loopy. In spite of this, she put the cows out to pasture, and Heracles set the stables ablaze.

And as they chuckled to themselves, Kisshoutennyo appeared.

“Oooh, you’re done already?” she exclaimed. “You’re so hardworking.”

Themis glowered at her friend, flaring her nostrils. This prompted Heracles to stand between them.

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fiction women writing

Nicodemus et Artemisia

A̴̧̹͑̿͂̾r̷̛̠͕̒̓̊͐͝t̵̤̪̜̗̰̰͎̝͎̤̙̼̾͒̿͜ĕ̸̦͎͔͇̫̜̱̼͎͙́͜m̴̨͚͍̹̣͙̈̋͑̆̂̽̈́̐̚i̴̤͙̼̗͇͈͚̍̎̀ͅṡ̸̛̫̣͍̠͖̠̥͆̄̎̄͘̕̚i̸͇̰̠̓͊̊̍̄̇á̷̻͎͎̗̠͕̳̦̭̀̕ ̷̩̜̗̭̙̜͕̬͙̈́͒͜w̴̛̘͉̞̹͓͍̟̲͇̺͚̫̻̜͛̆̈́͌̂̄̑͑̚ò̴͈̪͔̮̣͔̠͕̈́̾͆̓̀̐̀̆͑k̵̤̘̪̬͚̮̩̹̣̞̹̱̒͆̂̀̎̈́͌̎̆̏͆̽͐͜͠ě̸̡̻͎̰̩̭̬̣̠̞̘̦̉͑͂̂̾͐̀̓̃̇̄͘̚ ̷̛͚͇̩̭̳̣̹͒̈́̓͗̌͆͌̑̽̕f̵̛͓̥̫̥͔͂͆̆r̷̛̭̫̪̤͖͕͈̖̼͇̬̩̬̦͖̀̇̿̋͒̂̉͒ȍ̵̜͙̲͍̣̗͔̂̓̃̂͑͘͝m̴̡̡̡̨̹̗̯͕̬̪̜̹̋͗̎̇̆̅̀̎̃͌̃̽̇̚͜͠ͅ ̷̧͇̹̯̏͆̾͑̀̆̅̅̿̅̅̋͒̚͝͝a̸̢̞͔̣̗̹̟͑̈́́̓̒̓́ͅ ̸̤̩̬̺̟̥̏̀́͋͌͂̇̏̋̃͗͜n̷̜̭̰̭͕̳͓̺̮̼̣͊͛̀̀͋̍͒́́͊̌͆͝ą̶̨̺͉̬̳̗̫̺̘̖̲̗̉͜͜p̸̢̜͎̟̻̼̩̦͎̼̦̙̟̐̋͌̾͆̔̑̌̍͗̐͑̂̂͜͠ ̴̱̳̮̱̭͍͎̈́̈t̸̮̐̃̈́̋́̈́̑͒̈̉͌̚͝o̵̪̦͓̥̪͍̮̠̳̐͐̐̽͋̿͛̄̀̋̓̈́͝ ̴̢̨̜̱̦̏̅͊͋͂s̷̗̞̳͔͇̖͈͓̪͊̅̏͌͒͌ṃ̶̛̣͍̜̭̻̹̃̈́̅̈́͒́̊̾̚̚ȩ̸͇̪̗̤͈͚͖̯̦̈͒̓̒̃̋̽̇̆̒͒̉͘͜l̵̢̡̹͖̝̮͉̙̦͚̼͓̋l̷̛̺̤̗̪͎̼̠͈͇̥̹̲̫͌͌͑̃̌͌̋͑͆̈́̐̽̂̈́̕͘͜ͅ ̸̥̘̮̫̠̥̺͚̩͉̀̏͒̄̇͋̾͑͐̒̓̎͛̑̍͗͘ǫ̵͔͇̖́̔̄̂͘ṛ̵̡̰̻͓̩͑a̸̯̫̩͌͋̓͋͆͂͂͠n̴̡͉̻̤͈͂̃́́͜g̸̢̛̲͙̳̲̟͎̰̫̣̟̏́̀͑̋̌͋́̈́̿̒͗̍̔̌͜͠ẽ̶̛̛̖̣͖̟̀͆ͅ ̶̛̟̯̳̅̏̄͊̎͂́͛̚ǫ̵̫̻̥̭̣͙͓̝̏̔̈́̉̑̐͐͘͜͝͠į̵̢͖̯̲̯̺̦̙͇̉̿̐̑̃̾͌̇͌̏̌͐͝l̵̡̨̡̧͙͚̘̳̩̪͈̗̞̾̍͂̀͆͒̄̅͆̍̎̕͝͠ͅ ̴͍̻̱͖̪͇͔̳̅̀̓͑̂̂̄̏́͗͑͐̆̚̚͝b̴̧̛̖̱͉̣̣̙͗̑͌̋͑̏͂̒̌ú̸̧̨̨̡̞̩̠̟̺̤͇̱͇̪͇͊̅͐̄̌͆̊̀͐͠ͅr̵̛̛͙͙͕̼̰̦̬͙͉̘̮̗͎̱͔̋̃̐̎͒̂̔̈́̍̐̅͘̕͜͝͠ͅn̶̢̘̱̭̝̲̽̌ĩ̶̢̢̻̗͚̮̗̙̓͑̾̀̀̍͆̀͛n̵̢̒̄̇̎́͑̊̆͌͝g̶̫͓̣̾̿͊̇̓̽̚̚͝.̶̢̠̻͕͓̱͖̙̱͉̆̏̔̏̒͛̀̑̈́̚͘͝͠ ̶̮̪̞̗̖̠̇̾̈̃̏̎̂̓͛̕͝͝<br≯̢̢͚̰̦̳̩̤̪̰̻͍̲̀̃͑̂̒͑̕̚̚͝T̴̰̱͌̆̈́͂̅h̵̡͎̪͕̭̭̘̝̘̪̭̲̹̙͚̙͌̀̆͂̅̽̑̐̄̕e̵̩̺͕͇̭͎͑̈́̐̓̀ ̶̠̖̱̰̾́͛͗̀̎̕ą̷̡̢̺͚̠̟͎̠̙̫͇̝̱̓̃̂̌̉͋̔̀͑͐͘͘͜͝r̶̡̨̛͇̠̭͈̻͔͎̜͕̎̊̿͌̑̒̋͒͠͝ȏ̴̫̘̜̳̫̹͆́͘͝ͅm̵̼͉̩̃͘a̷̢̧̖̱̣̮̥͕̥̭̾́͋̅̈́̈́͂̆̇̚͝͝ ̵̡̡̨̫̦͚̘̲̰̭̪͍̰̥̻̀̈́f̸͔̦̞̯̞̰͇̬̗̞̖̽l̵̟͓̟͚̙̹͓͗̋̐̑̈́̾͂́̔̆͋͜͠͝o̴̧͔̗̺̲͇̤͕͎̯̬͍̼̝͒̎̓̔̂̀́̓̈́͊͜a̸̧̨̙̬̬̭̞̪̼͔͙̙͉̞͜͝ţ̸̯̼̖̲̣͆̀͆͌͗̍̿͑͂̀̏̚͝e̸̼̯̹̯̮͂̑̉̅̈́̈́̈́́͆̂͒͂̏d̴̢̡̟̘̯̼̥̳̼̦̱̫͔̲̰̽̆̋̈́̋̿́̋̓̅̄̆̕ͅ ̷̡͍̗̲̝̼̺͎̖͉͖̭̒̓̀͒̽̍̐̉̇̂̕̕͜͜͠ỉ̴͖͈̝͚̺̹̩̞̺̙͍͔͎̗̃̓̄͂̑́̈͆̉̓̽̈́̚ņ̶͚͍̺͙̺̪̿̀̈́͂̉͌̋̔͊̂̔̊̃͜͜͝͝ ̸͕͙͔̬͔̱̏͌̐̊̋̿ã̷̧̡͉̝̳̼̖͔̝͖̼͇̞̤͈̐̓͌̍̍̌͘͠ņ̷͚̘̼̹̥̀̒̀͆d̸͎̳͇͔̹̮̗̐͒̀̊͜͝ ̴̗͉̬̜̙̬̣̲͖̜͍̤͙͔͛̍̿̓́̅̿̑̊̍̅̀͝͠͝p̷̞͉̖̣̩̬̙̺̟̤̝̯̰̣̣̈̌̋̽̋̌̓̀̓͝ȯ̶̢͕̠̟̹͈͓̖̤̩̣͖̹͆͋̔͆̄̇̓̈̽́̽̋̊̈́̓̚͜k̴͍͕͉̥͕̺͈͎͙͕͎̭̹͕̃͒̇̕ͅe̷̛͔̝̜͐̀̎̽̆̕d̶̡̡͕͚̗̦̺̱̝̞̱̔̒̀̐͆̅̇̾́͊͆̈͋̆͜ͅ ̸̨̩̳̩͍̳͎̹̼̤̘̝̪̩̿́͊͐̇̃̒̈́̕͠͝h̸̡̪͔͕̥͓͇̣͕̱̯̤̭͌͂͋̑̍͋̅̈́͐̆̔́͝͠͝e̸̩̺̺͖̩̪̰̩̬̫̥̮̮̅̄̈́̆̓̒̒̾̈́͒͘͠r̸̛̖̙̘̳͎̫͓͍̮̙͎̰̣̈͂̍̽̾̽̅́̔̒̕͠͝ ̷̨̡̘͎̯̱̭̗͖̥̓̽̿̿͒̓̅̈̔͒͂̀̓͝n̴̢̛̙̗̺̦͚̖̣͈̲̦͈͈̓̂́̿̀͘ồ̷̢͚̱͈̠̥̉͌́̓̉̐͘͝͝š̶̨̗̪̫͎̓̇͛́͗̓̚͠t̵̡̘̠̲͎̗͓̼͓́̿̈́̿̾̅̌r̷̡̛̛̖̙̙̫̪̘͇͂̄̆̄̄̉̄̉̾́̈́̔į̶̛̼̉̿͐͛̋̔̄̚͝ĺ̵̜͚̣͈̲̼͈̠̰͚̭̱̝̟̣̃͛̈͐̏̀͌̉̐̇̆́̉͑̃͜͝s̷̢̢̛̺̹̠̰̝̰̤̺̘͍͎̘͕̅̇́̐̀͒͋̉͜͠ ̶̧̛̛̰̠́̂̃͛̓̽̃͒̿̀̔̚ͅt̸̫̣͎̪͍̯͎̻͛̿̉͆̃̐͝͝h̵̡̛̩̣̟̦̬̦̪̱̦̟̲͇͕̹̤͉̑̈́͊͊̈́͛̅̓̐̓̆̀̽̀͘͠ȓ̸̨͉̰̖͔̻̦͙̬̼͕͖͖͓͈̒̐̔͒̍̏͊͐̿́́̂̋̕͜͜͝͝o̷̢̱̠̺̲͓̓̓̽̓͊̇̏ͅū̵͚͎͓̩̀̿̍̽̒̅͐̈́ģ̸͚͈̦̦̺͔̪̱̰̗̖͈̱̭̫͊̈́̀̄̌́͘h̶̨̧͓̋̑͆̋̈͒̇̉͛̈͘ ̷̪͓̼̺̱̮͇͖̓̏́̊̍͑̈́̏͐͐̀̆̀́̍͜͜ţ̵̛̣̪͔̟̲͚̞̩̼͙̥̪̦͆͌͆̀̎̑̕͜͝h̶̞̻̲̬͊̐̂͆̄̑͆̅̓̓͑́͒̂̈́̏͜é̷͍̦̹̝̔̽̄́͜͠ ̵̢̢͈̙̖̳̫̬̭͔̦̜̭̞̜̒͂͆̿̽̋́<br≯̩̯͉̬̤̦̖̰̀̏g̷̫̠̘̲̲̱͓̻̖̊͜a̷̪͆͌̓̎̆̆͛́͂͆͂͌͆̂͠u̴͖̯͓̘̩͆͒̈̈̈́͋̿͛͆z̸͕̮̬̅̈́̊e̵̟̓̓͌̅̽̐̑̓͌͒̓̕ ̶̨̢̛̦̫͕͍̠̠̒͂̈́̃̈͜l̵̨̹̤̖̼͔̟̟̻̪̼̮̙͈͍̗͖̍͋̉̋͋̉͗ȉ̵̛̗͇̟̠̟͖͍̜ṉ̵̻̳̩͂̈͊̓̄i̶͔͖͕̖͎̭̬͚̜̲̰̜̓͒͛́̀͑͜͝ñ̸̾̏̊̀͋͌͗̂͆͛̔͜ģ̷̦͚͖̝͓͖͍̩̫͕̰̝͍̥̑̾̾̉̀̆̽͝ ̶̢͉̜̯̹̻̺̻͙̫̺̇ḫ̶͎̞͕͑̑̒̑ę̵̪̲̩͕͎̥̜̝̻̲̺̊ͅr̵̢̛̪̖̝͍̫̒̄̓̂̔͋̈́͂̎͛́͒͑̾̎͠ ̷̨̧͍̩͍͕͓͙̆h̵̨̨̤̭̻̳͈̞̊̕ͅa̶̛̳̹̭̿͂̓̐̃̿̽͗̋͛͐̏̽ͅm̸̧̛̦̫̪̣̟̞͙̣̬̬̄̾̅̈́̋́̉́̓͆̓͌̐͗m̴̡͔̋̄͜͠o̸̗̣̗̦̫͂͋͆͊̄̈́̈̕c̷̨̝̝̮̠̟̱̩͙͓͓̃̎͐k̷̢̛͚̼͍̗͇̭̠͓͕̟̲͍͋̈́͌̔̈́̇̀̋̈͝.̶̡̨͓̦̓̆͒͗͑̍̄̔̾̿̄̂͘͠͝ ̶̧̜͍͎̝̟̒̋̆̒͂̃̍̈͊̆̿͘͝ͅS̴̥͉̈́̈́̍̍͐ḩ̸̨͇͉̱͙͈̖̖̣͉͉̞̫̱̜̃̈̽̋̿̆͆͂è̷̢̨̧̹͓̙̺̘̟̣̞̬͙̼̫̑̽̀̅̈͗͆̑͝ͅ ̵̡̛̳̹̜̗͉̘̙̥̘͎̳͍̰̆̇̈́̽̽͆͗̾̈́͆͌͛͗̋ͅs̸̨̹̯͎̤͕͈͔̺̥̲͚̃̈̊̑̓́ͅͅp̸̡̝͎͎̤̜̅̀́̓ͅụ̵̢̡͎̥̻̠̥̞̤͖̙̱̠͔̰͂͆̀̓̍̃͑̕̕̕͜n̵̥͚͍̖̂̃̔̈́͌͐̽ ̶̢̢̡̠̣͍̩͍̹̾̆̋̄̍͆͂o̷̢̱̺̦̫̙̞̠̮̼̎͗͜u̷̢̹̼̝͓͔̥̺̽͂̌t̴̩̣͙̙͖̜͚̝͕̭̦̹͚̅̈́̈́̚ ̷̯̘̀́ô̸̝̘͌͛͒̈́͝͠f̶̡̺̜̤̗̻̞̼͛̒̄̀͌͊͝ͅ ̵̛̭̬̼̪̣̥̯̈́̐̈́̏̂̅ȋ̸̡͎̯̑̀̉̒̇͘̚ṫ̶̯̤͉̫̘̹͑̍̎͂̈̚͠ ̷̨̦͎̙̘̜̞͓̄̊̈́̑̔̈́̅̐̒̃̕a̵̧̛͓̬̲͍͚͈̜̩̎͗̾͌̄̈́̿͊̓̈́̿̃̔͝͝n̶̛̘̖̪̲̞̯̮̲̟͎͇̿̓̿͂̅̾̎̿̍͊̈́͝͝͝ͅd̸̛̛̞̯̘̺̘͈̓̂̅̍̒̓̂͂̾̓̋̕͘ ̶̨̞̞̯̳̯̐͌̃͐͐̕w̷̡͓̲̤̤͈̗̲̠̲̔̄̏̇̑́̐͘̕̚ą̸̧̛̥͍͗́͌̊̈́̌̉͒̅̿̚͘͝͝l̶̢̛͕͇̫̝͙͙̙͌̍ķ̶̳̫̹͎͍͎̩̦̯̘̫̥̅͛͗͆̍͋̕͜͠e̶̛͇̼̊͛̓̏͆̋̀̉͗̉̇́͐̚͝ͅd̵̡͚̭̝̰͇̜̞̤͔̘͇̙̃͛ ̴̡͎̪̝͇̲̲͓͈̞͓̝̖̓͆͑̊́̀̂̽͒̚͝t̴̡͓͇͖̳̤͖̞͖̪̘̟͉̰̹̟̣̓̃̓̋͆̒͛͝͝ō̶̧̱̞̙͇̽̏ ̵̘͘t̶̼̲̹̥̤̪̯̽́̎̏̒̅̃̔͆͗̊̏̈́̎̚h̶̛̯͖͇͔̱̞̗͇̠̭͍̬̲̙̩͙̏̔̏͠e̵̯̝̺̹͕̠̭͕̜͒ ̴̮͇̍̃̆̅̎͛͘<br≯̨̮̘̼͈̳̺̼̙̯͈̄̃́̄̂̓͌̋͌̊͛̾̓͊̚̚͝f̷̡̛̛͕̝͚̗̈́̅̈̉̈́̆͒̿̎̕͘ō̵̡̺͚̻̖͓̼̭̝̝͖̣̦̬̞̻̜̾̂̈́͗̿͐͌͆͑̉̾͝͠͝y̵̢̱͚̋̋̀̐͆͐̽̓̃̔͝é̵̢͉̺͇̼̃̽̂͝͝ṙ̷̢̛̝̠̳̙͓̖͚͈̳̲̟̯͍͂̉̑͆͗̑̀̇̈́͘͘͝͝͝,̴̜̖̪͇̣̖͖̖̹͈͂͋̎̐̌̊͐̓̈́̚̕͜͠͝ ̴͙̣̼̟͓͇̦̠̞̦͖̹̠̿́̑̍́̇̏̑́͊͆̕͝ȇ̸̛̖̯̮̜̭͇̘̲̯̤͓x̷̧̟͙͔̟͙͖͛̒̏̿̎͆̏̽͘p̴̛̹̯̠͙̥ę̶̨̧̩͔͓̥̹̳̳͂̈͑̀̽̏̍̈́̄͛̇͘ͅc̸͍̠͍̹͙͖͖̠͚̘̘͕͛̈̆̐̑̋̔̅̈͊̍͂̔̒̈́̕t̷͔̞̠̮͇̆͒̌̐̌̈͂̚̕͠i̷̧̢̛͔̖̠̞͋́̃̀̄̄̄̐͗̕͜͝n̵̤͓̦̝̓͗̀͛̽̔͂̌͌́̚̕͝g̴̨̢̗͚̗͚̲̾͊͊́ ̶̢̢̧̹̪͙͕̪̬̲̗̮̹̬̳̄͛͛̚t̴̠͔͇͇̿ǫ̸̪͕̰̺͇͍̎̄̍̉̃̈́̋̄̀̐̚̚ ̵͕̙̍̋ͅf̶̹͎̏i̶̲͋͂̿̿͑͆̓̍͝n̷̨̢͓̘͇̟̼̲̹̙͈̹̺͎̍͒̓̉̊̎͒̒̽̀̓̇͆͂̕͜͜͠ͅd̶̨̹̪͍͎̣̯̫͓̐͑̅̓̔̌̈́̏̃̚͝ ̶͍͍͎̮̻͇̘͖̺̎͆̇̅ͅả̸̡͇̞̝͎̗̳̦̯̮̻͙̱̙̙͖͜ ̸̢̮̺̳̹͓͎̣̭͎̰̗̥̈̆̌̈͗̈́͊̈́̓̄̾̈̓͛̒͜͠͝ͅͅp̶̭͕̟̱̗̥̖̪̌̄̌̒̂͐̀͒͝͠u̶̧̡͉̖̻͙͈̯̺̼̣̱̘͂́̒̀̑̆͜͜͜͝ͅp̴̢̡͖̫̙͉̲̭̥͚̘̮̭͉̓̎̾i̶̦̿̀͒̽̔̽̐̎̾̆̀l̴̝̥͓͎̠̎̏̍͒̒͒̂͆͝͠͝ ̵̱̗̜̣̈́̋̒̌̄͆̅f̷̥͔̭͕̣͈̼̰̈́̑̾̇̅̚ṙ̸̛͙̻͇̆̽͊̏̀̈͛͝o̴̧̮̲̭̼̮̟̰̯̪̜͋m̴̡̙̩̪͚̳̞̣͒̍̅͂̋͝ ̴̧̹͕̬͚̝̖͈̹̀̑͒͊h̷̢̛͎̻̙͖̖͍̙̮̤̪̪̮͒͋̕̕ͅe̷̯̰̖͉̊̄͆̓̅̍̋͋̀͊́́͘͜͝ŗ̴̨̛̛͇̯̤̱̙̊̽́̂̈͌͆̇̓́̅ ̸̧͇̖̞͙̫̬̗̺̙͖̰̇̃̅̋͗̒͐̚̕̕͝ả̶̧̧̹̫͍̞͉̫͈̪͖̳̼̫͍̳̯͒̽̈́͂͊̌̆̅̂̀͝͝r̴̡̡̖̩̠̼̗̩͚̰̤̘̬̐̈́͐̇̎͂̈́̐͋͝͝ç̶̳̉̈̒͗͊͗͒̾͑̚h̶̢̧̘̯͓̯̩̪̮̭̗͎͖̉̇̅͘e̶̮̜͂͊̅͗̇̓̔͐̑̍͜͠͝͠ͅr̴̢̫͈̜̬͍̖̜͙̤͓̫̬̣͊̀̊̑̋͆͌͐̕͘y̵̧̮̣͇̝̫̹͔̪͇̗̮̙̔̋͜ͅ ̸̡̯̹̺͉̭̱̝̪̜̣͖̭̌̈́̄́͆͛̿̑̌̿̇̄̉̚͠͝͝s̴͙̹͇̜̠͖̠̻̖͈͉͓̦͓̤̊̅c̸̢͖̤̤͉̜̹͈̩͖̈̆͐̆̅͆͛͆̅͗̕͝h̸̦̣̺̰̱̠̫̖̒͐͛̂̌̈̂͗͠o̴̠̫̻̙̖͑̉̆́̓̒̋͋͆̏̚͘͝͝ǫ̸̰̻̾͛̿́͐̽l̸̮̦̥̺̦̩̙̯̃̍͌́͜ͅ.̸̢̡̛͚̠͙̲͓͖͙̟̤̞͇̼̹́͐̍̈́̎́͋͝͝ ̷̞͍̪̼̹̇̍̂̉̐̿̒̍̓̌̍̐͆̉̎͂̒
̷̨̼̦̯̥̺̠̠̮̹̃̓̊̃̊̏̅͌̋̏̅̌̏̔́̕Ą̴̥̳̼͈͓̻̮̦̞̝̠͎̋̅͜͝ ̴̡͚̖̗̙͔̂̉̔̆m̷̧̢̡͎̤̻̓̅͂͒̉̽̿̈̏̕͝a̵̡̡̲̪̮̻̱̮̦͎̥͇͇͈̅ņ̵̦̜͇̗̞̝̹̙͆͑͑͊́̽̈́̔͗͘̕ ̴̨̗͉̞̮̩̓̿̔ẇ̵̧̧̨͇̳̪̦̞͙̗͍̲͚̝̘̲͗́̕a̵̢̢͙̟̦̩̲̳͎̱̲̯̭̝͊̒̅͆̈́͂̄̽͋͒̃͛̚͜ş̵̧̧͈͖͕̗̰̪̹̞͐͂̓͆͌̌̔̽̍̈́̓̌̀̚̕͝͝ ̴̢̠̼̯̪̲̺͆͒̇̽̌̀̋̍̇̃̅̈́͝͠ͅp̵̖̰̞̞̥̘͙͚̹͔͈͉̝̙̺̞͛̌̐̉̎͆̈́͑̈́̓̎̅̂͆̓̚͝ͅr̸̡̡̛͖̭̺͉̫̤̪̗̿͋̈́͗̌̈́̉̍͊̚̕͜͝a̵̢̡̧̨̛̳̜͎̫̣̠̼͔̣͚̯̝̒̿͑͗̾̍͐̽̆̊̒̊̎͊̓͝ŷ̷̛̯̯̟̱́̾͆̂̎͋̀̕͝͠ͅi̷̢͕̩̜̮͎͕̔̈́͋̓̐̍̔͗͘ͅn̵̨͙̻̱̼̱̥͔͉̆̎̏͆̆͋͠g̴̪̠͖̣͇̜͕͎̘͌͗̇̊̏͆ ̴̧̢̧̟̖̱̝͍̲̻̼̠̼͔͇͊̈̈́͒͋̏͋͜t̸̡̢̠̖̤̫̮̱͉͔̖̖͎͚͆͌̀͗́͒͒̋͌̑̄͌͑̕͝͝ͅͅȟ̷̝̻̯̒̄͛̔́̊̌̈́̌͠ȇ̵̢̧͕̩̖̝̬̪̰̩̜̲̤̇̈́̓̒r̷̛͈͉͉̭̱̙͚̤̻͇͆͆̄̈̅̽͌͊̽̚͜ẽ̸̢͉̣̠̝̘̗̬͙̦̝̺̥̙̓̏̅͛.̷̪̺̰̟̻̼̜̌ ̷̢͉͖͈̹͈̱̹͙͎̬̝̿̓̐̌̇̃͛̄͆̉̚͘͝͝“̸̢̝̲̥̮̦̞͎̩̞̪̜̣͗͘D̸̲̠͓͍̻̲̦͙̼̖̼̪͖̱͆͒̈́̉̔̀̾͆͆͗̐̄i̸͕͐̍̓͑̓̔͗̋v̵͓̓i̷̡̡̛̪͎̳͉̤̜̦̻͓̠̞͍̜̳͆̃̐̂̒̚ͅǹ̸̨̦̜̫̜̗̻̘́̎̑̏̈̐̄͆̆̑̇͛̀̐̔e̷̡̨͚̯͔̻̫̮̹̫̯̖̠̞̙̥̼͆̃̊͘ ̷̮̭̣̗͈̲̱̅̎̈́̑͊̂̋͐̌̀̐͋͑̽̍͌͠Ȁ̸̡̡̨̨͖̪̲̙̯r̶̡̡͖͈̲͓̯͓̼͍̺͎͔̍́̈͒̄̂̂̇ṯ̵͙͑é̷̟̜̠̝̰̝̳̻͑͂͗̃̃̃̚͜ḿ̶͙̭̲̺͐́̀͛̚ͅĩ̷̖̲̱͊̃s̸͎̳̞̠̈̋̓̉̃͗̄̌̎̋̕͠,̷̨̧̹̬̥͎̺̩̝̪̦̩͛̎̀̈́̓͊̂͑̉̀”̷̧͓͙̲̦̖̼͓̗͂͛̅͠ ̷͚̺̥̑̽̈́̋̈̇͝ḧ̶̰̻̬͓́͋͐̊̍̃͑͛ͅe̸̮̪͉͓̲̮̦͙̭̘̽͊̔̃̿ͅ ̴̱̍̃̌̌͊̀̐̌̌̚͘͝͠͠ḿ̷̢̢͓̦͎͖̟͎͔͚͇̫̙̤͉̆̿͌͛̅̃̎͂͠͝ǘ̶̳̪̥̦̰̹͍̩̻̙̫̹͙̃̆̏̏̍t̴̫͙͇̗͈̩̮̯̱̻͑ṱ̷̲̌̊͋̐̀̔͘͝͝e̷͔̱̬͍̠̝̤̓͛͆̿͜͠ŕ̸͕̺̫͙̙͈̘͔̜͙͎̬̠̘̼̝̈́̑̾͌͊͒́̒͝͝ê̶̗̯̝̱̹̻͉̱̞̻̙̻̝̿̍͒̑͗͂̕͝ͅd̵̢̧̡̘̬̲̗̲̥͓͕̭̳̝̩̩̤͋̐̑̐̋̊̅̇͝,̵̛͎͕̩̼̤̙͈̳͎͍̹̝͖̗͉͖͒̐ͅ ̵̩̑͋̿̓̉͌́͑̀̀̇̎̊͘͝͝“̶̢̧̧̪̥͙͍͍͉̩̩̆̽̋͐̂͛̆̌͛̚͝͝I̷̡͚̹̣͈̦͖̣̓ͅ ̸̧̛͖̩̮͔̳̻̂̓̿̒̀̆͒̐̑̀̈́ͅẁ̸̨̧͍̫̼̘̬̹̖̬̫̦̣͖͙̽͊̈̓́̾͛̈́́̉a̵̢̫̱̤̘̹̞̟̫̬̱̙͋̂̅̑̈́̔̊̀̅̂͌̌̾̑̚̕͜n̸̨͕̲͚͉̖͇̮̄̔͌̇̒̉͠ͅt̴͎̗̭̼̃̅̑̅̈́̇͛̈́͋̄̆̉̇̌͠ ̴̢̻͇̪̼̯̹͇͚̩̜͚̫͔̬̮̄̃̀̋͐͌͒̈̓̕…̷̖̦̪͐̐̊̈́͌̒͑̌̑̂̄̆̚͝͝ ̴̨̩͙̣̬̘̝́̏̐̌̊̄̊̃̏̋̂̕ṭ̵̫͖͎͕̹̪͎̻̾̓̀͑̅̇̾̆͘͘̚͘͝͝o̴̞̮̞̾͑͛͒̑̽͒̍̽͐́́̐̕͜͠͝ ̴̠́́̀̾̃̋̓͗̾̚̕͝ͅḇ̵̟̻͋̾͗͛̿͐̚͝e̶̟͖͓̖̬̳̥̞̺̱̱̤̝̗̝̦͛͌̽͆̏̊͗̃̍̏͝ ̶̢̛̬͍͙͈̟̌̄̎̃̇̃̒̌̑̆̉͗…̴̛̳̼̮̳̰̱̙̤͉̳̯̫̓͗̈́̎͌̕ ̷͓̣͓̦̰̋̇̅̓̌̐̍̅̔̈ã̸̢͉͔͉̤̩̟͔̳͔̀̂̊̑̌̒̔̆͠͝ ̷̨̣̝̪͕͔̬̻̣̪̬͚͍̯̲̂͋͆m̶̨̛̜͚̩̺̝͙͎͉͛͐́͆͌̿̈́̀͘a̶̡̢̙̝̹͓̥̪̬̳̔͂̆̔̈́̃͘͜s̵̨̗̺̦̗̰̦͇̱̟͉̹̰͔͔̄̔̒̽̍͜͠t̵̨̡̘̤͈̯̫̠̣̙̭̰̲͖̉̆̃́͊͋̎́̒̐̈́̚͝͠ȩ̷̛̖͐̀͝ͅr̶̛̳̜̤͙̝̪̬̞̊͐̓̐́̉̈́̔̕͝ ̷̡͍̘̠̬̠̜̜̻́̏̐̿̐̃̈̓̾͆̋́͊̇̈t̴͓̥̪̪̰͕̘̗̹̣̓͂̑̌̇͊̈̓͋͆̀͊̐h̶̘̎̋̕í̵̭̮̩͉̊̈́̎͂̓̓́́͜e̵̢̛̳̱̰͇͎͚̞͉͌̏̐̏̄̒̕͘͠͝f̸̢̣͔̯̳͙̤̮͎̫̊̋!̶̡̛̪̑̓̄̒̊̄͊͗̂̅̉̽̿͝͝͝”̴̢̧͈͔͙̗͎̖̩̲̩̀́ ̶̲͔̩̤̦̼̈́͛̏̈́̐̓̐̌͌̉̋͘͠Ț̷̫͇͇̰͍̣̲̳̥̭͙̩̖͇̰̮͋̈́͋́̆h̶̨̧̡̪̤͎͎͔͎̻̭̘̦͈͌̓̎̌̍̈̑́̃̄̍̇̿͘͠ͅę̶̭̯̭͚̲̈͒́̋̐̐̾͋̋͘̕͠ ̴̛̮̖͉̩̮͚͈͙̲̺͗̀͛̅̏̉̾̈́̈́̀̍̕͘͜͜͝m̶̭̣̽͂͊́́ä̴͓́ṋ̸̢̮̘̪͔͂͗̽̐̊͌̓͘͝ ̵̡̛̜͚͎̜̯̻͓͍͔̱̣͍̜̩̤̤́̀͊̉̄̃̈́́͐̄̈̚l̷͚͚̗͉̗̫̱͕̲̲̭͐ö̷̢̠̫̪̳̝̘̝̞͕͎̲͓́̐̽͆́̓͑͠õ̶̭̯̙̎͑͒̂͆͂̿k̸̻̭̠̬̱̫̥͓͇̠͔̰͓̪̃͋̓ě̷̢̘̰̥̗̯̥̪̝̪̣̰̃̈̋̄̽͑͂͆͜͝d̵̡̞͇̭͈̯̰͖͕͌͒̏͌̀̀̈́̌̕ ̶̰̔̀̍̔͋̀͠͝a̴̧̫͇̤̩̠̥̩̱̱͍̹͓̦͊̈́̃̿̎̀̽́͆̑̈́̕͝͝ŗ̵̢̨̛̺͚̥̘̭̩̻͙̣̗͖̰̠͛̆̾͒̓̂̊̐͌͋́ͅŏ̷̧̭̯͓̲̝̹̝͍̪͚̱̳̼̀̏̂͐̀̏̍͐̽͑̈́̀ͅǘ̸̮̜͍̜̟͙͋̾n̸̡̩̗͉̬̩͔̥̤̼̠̤̎͌͌͗̎ͅͅͅd̸̡̢̬͇̰̫͙͚͆̎̃͐̓̎͐̔͐͂̕̕͘͠͝ ̶̡̙̳̱̮̭͕̤̞͖͎͓̬̮͌̔̀̅ͅi̶̡̼̺̪͎̫͝͝ṋ̵͇͕̗͔̺͉̦̦̙͒͒̋̏͊̓̔͌̃͑́̎̓̚̕͝ͅ ̴̢͙̙̖̱̬͍̞̜͔̘̩̱̥͔̺̟̀́̔̍̄͑̈̍s̷̢̱͇̘͚̰̖̦̫̙͎͊͊̊͋̈̈̌͒͘͜͠û̸̫̤̱̪̻̗͋̈̅̈́̈́̃͋̓́̆̓́̑̃͘͝ŗ̴̠̦͇̘̜͈̳̗̱̰̦̟͔̝̼͆͊̒̾̂̂̉̒͊̕͘̕ͅp̸̧̡̹̻͈̺̜͈̳̙͎͖̪̘̖̆̌͌͊͒͌̇̄r̵̢̨̫̞̹͙̦͇̹͔͓̫̥̞̱̝̽̓̋̄͑͂͊̃͜͝i̷̛̹͇̻̥͙͍͙̔s̵̰͔͈͕̗̾̽̋̀͗͌̆̑̊͂̏͌̅̚͝e̵̢̧̡̛͖͕̣̬͐ ̵̲̰̟̔̄̒͌̀͂̓͒́͌̐̓͑͛͘̚a̷̛͉͎͚̟̣̠͆̀̔̐̓͛̔̈́͘s̵̥̰͉̳͔̭̣̘͗̆̄͐́̎͆̂̐̇͑̐̀̋̒̒͝ ̶̹̲̻͈̝̳͓̆̒̍͊̓̂̃̓̓͘͝ȧ̴̮͚̦̲̂̄̈́͒̃͑̂͂̓̈͘͠ͅ ̴̰̓̌̊̐̂̀̄̐͘m̷̟͕̠̒̇̍͐̃̋͗̚ę̵͙͖̘̞̭̙̹͕̎̽͂̊̌l̴̥̣̪̯̯̩̙̋̿̀̔͋̀͘̕o̶̢̠̠̟̥̘͔͉̹̠̲̻͙̅́̎̏̄́̅̓́̾̓́̓̽̈́̚̕d̶͖͉̬͎̂̄̈͊i̶͚͖̮͎̩͈̊̇̂͂̓͌͝͠ͅc̵̲̝͚̭͚̗͍̘̲͈̥̄̀̒͝ͅ ̵̤̤͇͇̠͉̥̞͖͍̠͚̃̑̀̍͌̃̉͛̈́̓̍͑̌͘͠͝͝v̸̧̮̟̝͚̺̘̣̔͗̎̑̔̃͛͜ͅö̶̧̮̙͉̻͚̖͎͈̱͇͕̮̦́̍̋̄́̊̉̉̀̍͐̄̆̆̎̀͜͜͝ͅḭ̵̳̰̖͔̙͈̪͓̺̟̗̊̌̐̏̑̂͂̇̈́̔̊̔͊̽̚̕͜c̶̡̤̬̱̲̦̤̠̯̱̟̙̘͔͓͗̈́̅̿́̆̓̍̾ȩ̸̗͓̭̝̮̝̯̙̈̃͑̋̔̎̃̓̏͒͆̕ ̵̮͓͕̔̈́̂̒̋͋̈̍͒́̾͒̈́̂͘͠͠ë̷̛̛͈̘͍̙̰̪̣̱͈̮́̑͋̅̀̍̏͑̾̔̓̇̚c̵̞͍̼̎́̓h̵̢̼̩͙̭̺̣͓̭̰̘̩̿̂̈́́̉̍́͘͝ͅͅo̷̡͍̅̃̒̊͌̉͛ȩ̴͔̙̝̼̟̳̦͈̭̦̪̘̊͂̇ḓ̶̛̫̳͈̟̼͓̃̊̔.̶͕̟̳̹̰͎̰̃̏͐̉̅̏<br≯̹̊“̶̢͖͖̰͕̣̲̟͓̙̳̺̩̀̃͂͛̊͐̌̈́͛͋̇́̚̕͝͝Ÿ̶̛͉͉́̓͊̉̓̆õ̴̜͓̤̥̘̠̗̦͔̟̤̬̲̥̊̉̅̓̀͝ͅừ̴͇̲̹̹̜͓̍͆̍͆͆͌͐̓̑́̈́͜’̶̡̢̦̝͙̩̫̣͛͜r̷͙͔̜͇̞̤̬͈̼̻͓͉͚̆̀̀͗̉̋̎é̶̠̣̞̈́͌̐̔̒̓́̄ ̴̜͝n̵̢̧̨̧̞͕͇̻͙̝̺̝͎͚̝̭̱͂͘o̶̡̨̧͈̲̲͉̺̞̳̱̙͉̗͓̬̿̓͋͗̍̿͆͑̾̓͋̓̅̆͘͝t̷͉̓̆̃̑̀͝ ̵̯͓͍̜͇͗̅͋̍̽a̶̳͗́̐͒̅̄̌̂̍͊̀̕͠͠s̷̲͉̫̟̘̘̮̎̇͂͊̀̍̊ķ̶̢̤̯͈̫̟̘͎͐̏͆̈̈̽̎͑͋̚͘͜͜͝i̶̧͈̬͕̬͓̦̪̟̤̹͉̹̲̊̅́̿͒n̷̦̭̻̟͔̗̖͎͖̪̂̿̐̑͋̑̋̌̐̉̃͊̑̅̍̓̈́ģ̶̛͉̙̮̩̹̤͓̼̳̯͕̜͎͒̊̈́̑̈́̈́̔̽̽̄̾͊͘ ̴̢̧̛̛̛̻̩̥̯̲̪͚̯͍̜̭̳̼͛̇̒̓̓͒̌͘͜f̶̙̥̳͖̼̗͛̈́͂̆̄͆̂̒̕̚ͅŏ̶̹͕̪ŕ̶̡̨̦̺̬̤̻̪̻̻̯̦̥̌̇͜͝ ̷̬͈̜̤͕̥̂̂̀͆̈̾ṗ̸̢̭̭̩̮̣̺̖̣̬͉͐̾ͅȍ̵͚͐͘ẁ̵̨̹̞̜̤̞͍̼̰͔̣͎̳̯͍̝̗͒͊̽͊̈́̓̊̽͛̓̄̑̾͒̽e̸̡̢̢̧̫͕̠̬̺̻̺̍͛̈̈́̀́̚͠͠͝r̸̤̪͖͙͔͖̹̙͕͔̲̭͍͕̀̔̀͛̿ ̸̛̩̭̣̱̉̉͑̚͝a̴̢̡̧̹̜̩͉̩̺͚͉͚̓̌̅̋̀̒̾̇̃͜ņ̷̹͈̩̻͙͓͍̲̳͇̊̈́̐̉͛̉̅͌͐͑̎̄͋͛d̶͓̞̃̇̽̾̏͌̃̂̀̿̽̔͛ ̵̻̦͇̙͖̭͖̙̞̆̅͐͐̀ͅp̶̡̠̞̬̯̘̪͖͚͇̲͙̦̪̂͑̈́͐̎͗̈́̉̿͗̊̏̅͘ŗ̵̨̢͔͎̭̤͎͈̗̖̮͔̰͗̇̂̆̐̌̏͊̊͛̆̄͘͠í̵̢̪̬͓̻̞̞͆̓̎̀̍̕͘͜v̵̛̺̤͇͛̾̃̓̋̔̂͒̀͝į̷͓̮̗̥͉͇̦̫̒͝ļ̶̼̟͓̖̩̙͈̖̟̩̭͈̜̼̀͂̔̓̽͌̃̅͒̆͂͗̈́̕e̴̪͖̍̒͛ḡ̶̛̖̻̲́͛̾͋̈̍͑͒̇͝ͅe̸̢͚̟̩͓͕͚̯͖͎̤̬̓̽͌͂͜?̸̡̖̪̺̙̳̤̄̑̎̀͂͊̌̿̑̈́́̅̚͝”̵̝̼̗̥̾̇ ̷̮̤̱̟̙̮̠̹̱̗͋a̸̢̯̬͈͍̟̬̫͕̰̠̱̋͗̇̿̈̀͘ś̸̢̧̤̹̝̞̥͍̗͖̦̯̦̰̱̲k̶̨̧̨̛̞͉̺̰̣̦͈̩̹̖̈͂̍͑̎̐́͝e̵̡̮̔͐d̶̟͓̞̒̇̃͊͋̅͋̌̒͐͘͘͠͝ ̶̱̑̈́̈́͑̿̄͑̈͆͌͌̊̚t̴̫̟̘̆̋̃̌͂͒͛̒̎̌͗̐̐͘h̷̨̛̜̖͚̟̳̙̮̘̱͉͈̭̾̌̓̄̑̇̋̆̑̕͘͝e̴̬̟̟̫̤͌̎͐͋́̕̕ͅ ̷̡͚̩̦̳͇̳̣̭̥͐̒͌͠v̸̡̘͖́ͅǫ̶̢͓̟̓̌̃̈́̈́͋͜i̵̥̝̘̻̐͒͂̈́͋̒̈́̈̐̑̚̚̚͘͠c̶̡̫͍̤̜͎̣̼̬̙̞͉̠̎̆͠ę̸̰̬͔͛̓̎̕.̶̨͚̤̩̺̻͖̫͓́̾̉͗͆̈̉̅̋̃́̅̂͑̕ ̴̛̫̺̟͕͇͆͆̋̇̾̈́͗́̐͋̈̐̐̓͠<br≯̡̻̜̮̺̖͈̍͗̔̔͂͒̓́͐̈́̐̚̕̕T̷̡̨̛̮̺̪̺̖͎̙̱̬͇͇̭̫͚̪̏̍̿͐͑̓̃̅̈́̀̏͛̚̚ḣ̷͖͎̺̂̄͂̇̊́̽͆̇͆̀͌͗̕̚͝ę̵̥͖͌̌̋ ̷̧̡͔͉̳̩̻͈͑̾̍̆̃͛̎̎̀ģ̶̩͉̞̘͎̑̊͗̉̎̿̃̚͘ͅo̶̘͆͂͊͒̑̒̅͑̏̏̓͊͗̋͝d̷̛̛̩͖̜̺̝͔̭̆̊̌̀̈́̅̈́̕d̴̯̼͖̥͉͇͚̲̥̟̘̄ͅe̸͕͚̱͙̟̫͌̌̈́̈́͛͛͊̓̓͗̂͘͘s̶͕̣͔͍̻̞̰̱̪̱̀̌̽̌̀̋̇̌͝s̷̭̗͍̼̩̥͚̘͇̓̐̅̚ ̵̦̲̥̙͔̼̫̤͕̲̣̥̲͎͂̉͒͋h̶͔̟̍̏̃̇̍̏͌̀͑̔̚͝͠ė̸̢̛̲̯̻̭̥̺̬͖͍̹̖̥̩͈͑̓͠ȑ̵̢̛̦̰̺̙͕̹͍̘͔͎͎̀͑́̉̾̏̈̽̉͝͠͠s̴̛̙̜̘̺̞͚̻̩̙̣̩̠̺̱̈̍̆̅́͗́̕̕͘͜ę̵̛̮̰̭̑̌̄͑͒́͂̂̈́̋͊̄̓͝l̷̡̫͉̩̖͉̩̦̪̰̍͛̿̉͆́̕͝f̸̡̲͎̜̖͙̰̜͖̓͛̐͐͌̂͆̉̈́̆͒ ̸̙̘̹̬̜̥͔̞̄̈́̒̀̒̉͊̇͛͆w̴͚̤̹̜̟̮͈̦̙͓͖̝̗̞̹͌à̷̡̛̭̪̬̞͖̺̜̮̘̬͇̼̊̅̏̇̆̌̂͗̿̆͒̋͝͠͠s̵̗̺͇̲̜̍̇̈̓̎͋́̋̚͝ ̶̧̡̛̱͕͇̯͖̭̼̮͉̬͈͉̠̦̈͐̀̀̽͛̒̍͗̓̉̏͜͝ǐ̸̧̡͈̩̻͕̯̯̦̮͔̎́̑̕͜͝͠n̸̢̛͖̤͖͓̪̞̹͔̫͒́͌̃̅̈͋̀̈́́̑̑̓̚̕͝ͅţ̶̤̰̭̽̓͑̔̏̐ę̸̛̞͉͎̜̘͍̗̩̲͇͍͂̄̿̈́́̏̑͘͠r̴̛͚̠͓̰͎͋̄̊̃̃̄̍̉̕r̵͖̤̭͕̫̮̺̹̱̺̓̂͂̓̚ù̵̞͕̠̙̹̿͛̌̈̿͘p̶̨̼̙̗͉̤͈̺̹̼͇͕͔̭͗͊̌ͅͅt̷̨̧̲͇̻͇̬̜̭̙̲͉̗̫͎̥̊́̌̇̀̆͗͊̓̑̈́͠ͅḭ̷̡̥̻̪͇̱̞̣̼̂̓͆̿̉͠n̷̛̫͕̞͎̣͖̼͉̽͋̍̐̐̔̓̽͋̔̐͆̄̉͝g̷̡̢̨̡̣͓͎̳̣͉̩͕͕͖͇͈̫̔̐͒͛̅́͂̋̏̔̈́̾̋͑ ̴̨̳̠̝͉͗̈͋͗̋̃͒̚͠ͅh̷̳̤̼̞̙̽̋̑̈̀̋̆́̐̑̏͑̅̚͘ĩ̸̧͈͈̪͎͈̘̞͕̃͝m̸͇̤̘͈̠͖͕̺͎͍̂͑̆̓́̋̀͛͛̎̌̓͂̕͝͝.̴̧̪͕͉̙͇͇̻̫̥̥̙̦̥͔͎̓̊̇͛̇͑́̋͘<br≯͙̠̠͂̾̑̈́́͂̿̏͋ͅ“̵͔̮̙̞̫̭͊N̵̨̿̓͗ơ̵͙̯̼̯̤͚̣͕̦͍̌̆̌͌̇͂͊̽̍͒͂,̶̻̱̯͓͚͙̠̏͌̑͌̐̈́͛̃̽̈̆͊͌̈͝”̵̛̙͛̔͑̅̌͂̏̌͋̃̓͑̚͝ ̴͔̪̃̐̇̐ȑ̵̗̦̥͓͎̣̹͈͉͖̿̈́̎͜͜e̵̻̻̭͛̐̽̑͂͒̆͜p̷̮͉̹͇̭͊͋̓̎̃̂̒́̈̀͐̂͛̌͘̕ļ̴̝̮̞̰͈̥͖͈̰̺̻̣͆̌̀̐͋̅͊̄̔̽̀̽̽͠ͅį̵̫͈̻͍̻̥̈́̂̇̊̓̍͗̏͌͛͜ͅę̸̲͖̘̻̟̦͉͙͙͓͉͉̤͆̋́̈́̀̽̈́̽̾͗̉̋̌̑͗͜͠͝d̴̩̯̪͇̓͝ ̷̮͚̥̰̺̘̈́̑̃̒̊̈́͜͝t̷̹̥͉̣̀h̸̘̟̗͖͔͈͑̑̎̔̔́̓͒̒̉͑͂͐́̔̈́ê̵̢̛̛̖̪̬̖̥̱̼̻͉̹͎̼͗͗̀̑ ̴̨̡̡̦͔̬̳̓̿̾̈́̍̔ḿ̷͓͉̩̌̌̾ą̷̦̬̤͕̩̲͈͓͉̆̂́̈́̿̆̕̕͝ņ̷̡̧̻̹͖̫͖͓̭̭̺̺͔̤͓̻̾̃̽̅͠.̵̢̧̙̫̘̫͕͚̜̬̗͖̮̠̬͚͔͑̈ ̶̝͎̦̟̈́̊̈̊̑̓̽͐̄̌̍͠͝“̴̨̧̛͇͕̭̯̬̞͇͆̆͌̅͋̈͐̔̅̎̎̎͑̔̿I̶̢̠̲̲̗͎͇̟͕̻̘̪̹̼͛͛̄̍͂͑̃̚͝͠͝ ̵̛͙̪͇̎͊̈́͘ẃ̶̨͕͔̤̭̞̺̠͙̠̘̟̘̱͒̎̉ȧ̴̢̧̛̙̝͈͚̞̥̯̰̭͕͐̉̂̏̊̽̾̀͊̈́̒̄̚͝ͅņ̸͉͖̻̣̝̱͉̀͌̌̇͊̊̇̔͂̊͗́̋̓͊t̶̡̨̡̜̦͕̜̼̯̱̳̻̗̂͝͝ ̸̧͚̭̟̫͖̳̙̮̣͕͉̯̬̣̈́̐͛̊͗̕ͅr̸̡̡̢̬̥̟̯͎̳͈̯̹̳̩̦͌̽̽̃͒̒ͅę̷̬͖̰̲͇̟͓̞͕͙̔͛̑̐̔̐͠s̴̨̧̧̺̭̖̳̙̞͖̠̜̭͉̝̤͂͛̇̀̾͑̊͑̾̎͛̀u̶̥̲̣̱̞͂̈́̅̅͒̑͊̌̋̉͂̀̐́̾̓̕ḷ̴͙̙͎͓͉͖̫̟̩͉̗͈͙͍̝͊̓̈́͋̇̆͒̇̒̎̎̎̽͠t̷̡̡̢͕̮͇̘̺̲̯̮̪̳̦̃̈́́̍̅͆͝s̸͈̙̠̬̝̤̔͑̈͒͛͆͆̾͆͌̚͜͝͝.̴̨̛̫̰͓̲̠̹̦̼̻̥͌̂̃̍́̽͊̂̐͆̀̀̕͜”̸̛͈̞̱͇͓̳͇̯̟̱̭̓̂̌̽̓͑͒̌̅̄̍̚̚͠ ̶̨͋̀̎̇<br≯̜̟͖̮̬͙̗̻͈̻̯̗̲̯̳̄͊͗͐͑̕͜“̴̺̥̬̺͇̲͉̼̱̯̣̾̿̅̀̄͘͠I̶̥̎̈́̅̂̈́͐͗̏̾̎̅͊̔̽̽͝͝ ̶̢̢̢̟̰̟͓̳̲͔̖̳̞̉͋͜t̷͖͕̠͚̺̫̭̍͂̉͗̿͊̄͊͐̑͗͊̅̚h̸̤͍͇̠̭̞͇̣̐̒͐͐͛̄̏͛ĩ̶̧̼̗̤̟͓̀̐̎͜͝n̵̢̢̛̜͔̼̳͖̼͖̘̗͍̤̺̖̠̓͒͐̋̽̈͛́̐́̍̄̀̌̅k̵̡̯͛̓̒̏̅̑ ̵̧̢͍͕̪̱͚͔̝̳̤͉̰͖͈͗͛͛͒̇̊́̀̂̿̍̕ý̶͍̞͂̽̾̓͒̍͒͆̚͜͜͠ŏ̴̡͈͉̰͎͚͕͚̪̜̚͜u̸̧̢͚̬̻̬͕̯͓͖̯̬̐̈͊̑͒͗͗̕͘̕̚͜͝ ̸̜̔̐̀̏́͐̏̇ş̵̨̖͎̼͚͍̻̘̦͍̩̖̼͗̿̒̓̽̍̄̈̕ͅh̷̨̡̛̲̹̝̝̱͈̜͚̝̫̬̻̥͌̊̽̋͒͑̓̌̊̂̓͌͊̕͝ͅő̸̬̻̫̟̻̻͇̩̺̞̰̮̲͓̂͑͂̈̈́̀̐͆̑͝ͅṳ̷̰̏ľ̶̺̣̪͚̬̑͊͑̓̈́̂ḑ̵̬͇͇͖̟͔͎̤̹͎̞̪̦̊̈́ ̷̞͉͓̟̙̪̰̯̺̳͊̂͗͌̐͘͝a̴͚̩̼̙͚̼̘̲̣͖̺͙͌͆̔́͆̋̽͘ͅi̴͍̇̽̔́̎͋̽͗̇͂́̎̚͝m̴̨̛͚͎͚̞̬̫͈̤̦̼̟̲̳̫͈̆͐̏̓̈́̀̚͠ ̷̧̡̧͉̩͍̦̣̘̼͓͈̦͎̂̒͋̉̀̑̔̾̀͂̾͒̑̇̄͛̿ḩ̶͙̠͈̤̊̎͗̒ȉ̸̡̛͎̱̤͎̬͓̦͇̫̪̥̝͓͑̽̑̓̀͋͛͑̄͛̏̈̓͝͝g̷̤͖͙̞̬̟͙̠͚͉͑̓͐̋̍͑̽̅̓̑͆͘̕͘h̴͙͛̾̃̐̃̌̅̒͌̄̅̚̕͠ë̵̡͍͙͍̹̤̣̈́̑͊̿͂̚͘͠r̸̺̖͓̰̽̓̒̌͜ͅ.̷̛͎̘̗̾̍͊̈̐̑̎̿̈́́̚̚͜͠͝͝͝”̴̧̡̼̲͈̬̤̤̠̬̖̟͂͌͆͗͊͆́̎ ̵̡̹̭̰̹͔̲͇̣͚͛̉́̂T̷̡̛̪͔̘͉̱̪̩̦̘̳̊̕h̵̛̲͕͈̯̬̖͙̣̮͈̹͖̻̰̾̅ĕ̷̢̧̛̛͚̫͓̠͎͙͍̺͌̇͗́́̾͋̕̕͜y̸͉̰̩̔͂̋͂̈́̏̈́̚̚͘͝͝ͅ ̴̡̨̜̪̞̭̤̘̲̻̮͉̪͉͕̪͍͛͌̑̿̊̋̍̀́̕͝͠͝͝ẗ̸̗̝͕́̂̾̎̑̅͌̓̈͘͘͝ḁ̸̤̥̪̞̹̮̝̹͖͇̄͗̈̈́l̸̪̘̝̹͔̀́͛̏͛̓̆k̸̨̬̻͙̼̅́͆ȩ̸̧͔̜̯̲̝̞̪͉̪̄̈́͆̂̎̈̽͑̒̌̾̇̀̚͘͝d̸͔̟̪̮̜̊̄͌̌͐͛ ̴̫̋͛̆̐̾͘͠f̸̤̮͍̫̯̟̖͙̬͎͆̀͝ͅö̸̡́ŗ̶͓̝͎̼̮̖͖̂ ̵̧̬̤̣̺̱̘̳͙͓̞̼̻͎̫͖͊͂͊͋̍̌̾̓̂̔̅̓̓̈́͗â̷̡̳̏͑̏̐͑͝ ̶̧̢̛̫̖̤͚͚̟͇̹͙͙̩̟͓͛̄̏̑́͒̍͆̐̏͘͝w̴̡͚̹̠̪̮̮̻̲͓̜̰͒͗̈́̒̔͗̑̾̅̐̄̃͌͝͝ͅͅh̷̛̘͍̘̪̭̟͖͈̖͉̗̮̐̉̓͂̐̆̾̓͗̓͊̌̍̉̔͠ͅi̵̭̩̺̯͎͙̜̝̖̬͊̈͊ͅḻ̶̢̢̡̧͓̭͓̘̝͖̼̞͖̺̈́͐̔̿̈͜ë̴̡̧̖̻̞̩̫̥͎̱̘́̊̀̊͒̀͛̒́̒͜͠͝͝ ̵̡̨̼̯͙̣̭̙̥̈́̊̏̂͋̄̍͐̆̏́̔̚͝b̷̡͔̼̠̬̜̲͎͔̱͉͋̋͐͌̀͂͗́̍̀̉̾̎͜͝ù̴̩͓̦̳́͊̉̈͌̃̄̋̃͐̈̎̽͒̕͝t̴̢͍̲̦̀̋̏͊̃̾̃͒͆̌̌̽̏͌͂ ̸͕̫͔̫̺͍̤͓͈͍͊̃̒̊̆̈́̕͜͝s̶̨̧̳̺̼̮̪̝͚͔̜͗u̸̮̹̺͖͕͙͉̥̽͝ç̸̯̗̦͙͎̬̤̀̔̈̉̀̊̈́͜ḥ̵̢͗̔̄ ̷̨͉͚̭͉̪̻̣̗̩̪̭̏ą̴̧̨̡̟̠̝͍̤͔̗̫͊̐͊͋̈́̋̑͊͐̈̕͝͝͝m̸̡̧͓̬̖̞͆͑͗͗̂̔̀́̄͐̓̕͜͝͝b̵̨̭̯̦̦͇͕̖̟͐̓͂̉̓͑̆̽̎̑͊̄͆i̴̡̻̹̮͈̙͇̦͍̺̩͈̼̥̲͐̽̎̾̇͛͐̕͘͜͝͝ţ̸̥̜͚̬̤̗̩̀̽̾͗̀́̓͛̃̐̕͝͝͝i̶͙̮͚̟̭̟͐̿̅ò̸̘̿̅̓͒̈̈́̏͐̈́̋͆̆̔́̄͝n̶̡̢̬͍̤͇̯͓̠̰̳͐̈̿̃̀̽ ̴̭̯̲̦̝̝̺̟̗̱̉̈́̑̋̒w̵̨̨̡̛̰̦͍͔̤̠͚͔̜͓̣̑̂̂å̴̧̡̝̠̬̄͂̄ś̶̢̧̧̡͈̬̱͍̗̯̹̝̤͙̽̈́̊̈́̅́̂͒ͅ ̵̰̗̺̬͈̜̻̙́̎̽͋̄̈́b̷͓̼̬̝͚̿͛̅͘ẹ̷̈̊̀̾̀͐̈́̓͘y̷̡̢͎̟̣̖̜͔̭̪̖̰̠͕̟̋̋͋̔̅o̵̫̙̥̮̥͉̊̐̈ṉ̵̨̨͇͚̝̤̞̯̯͓̪̣̗̀̀͐̽̅͑̾̍̐̉͘̕d̷͍̱̝̬͔̼̼͛̎̓̃͆̍͊̽̇̈́̓͛̈͌̚͝ ̶̢̧̱͉͔̭͚̃̊̀̎͛̓̚͠ţ̸̗̗̰̭̖̤̳͉͓͉̝͖̫̳̞͌̋̆͂̍̍͂̋̃́̏̇̏͘͝ͅh̴̖̫̺̭̯̝̫̱͑̃̓̓͊̌̆̔̈́́͐̒̓ę̸̧̨̦͕̼̥̺̞͙̬̲͇̠͐̎͆̌̾̕ ̶̢̯̲̃̄̔̾m̶̢̿͑͌̃̊̎̄́̓͠ȁ̶̢̨̢̹̤͚̝̮̲̯̽̄͂͆̑͠͠n̶̝̏’̷̘̟̯̦̼̱͐̒s̵̙̳̥̯̈́̃͑̒̿͑̈́̌̾͌̒͜͝͝͠ ̵̧̛̗̳̟̪̞͓̣̟̫̆̎́͗̽̌̅̃͋̊̌͛̕͝ğ̸̡̨̘͖̹̜͚̪͕̰̼̖̆͊̊̔̽͝ŗ̶̳͕̮͉̬̳̲̝̬̆͂̑̇̈̐͌͗̈́͝a̴̧̧̧͈͚̟͉̼̟̲͓̬̙̝̾̾̍̃̔̓̔̃̎̃͌́̇͗̕͜͝s̸͔̓p̸̢̛̲̾̋̿̂͊̑́͌͊̒̎͗̽͌̈.̴̢̟̙̗̰͚͇̰̠̠͈͌̋̔͠ͅ ̸̛͖̦͕͔̥̙͉̙̼͇̗̩̥͋̈̌́͗̈́̌́͐̓̾̃̕̚͝H̷̡̧̦͓̙̝̰͔͉̻̗͍͂̆̉̍̒̏͊͆e̸̪͉̞͋̆̀͒́̿̍̉͝͠ ̷̡̧̨̱̠̩̜̩̱̩̯̜̰͕̱̮̍̎̿͑̎͑̓̚̚͜͝͝a̶͇̥͔͑̍̽̓̍̑͛̅̅̀̚͠͝ļ̶͔̦͈̭͔͓͖͚͙͍̲̬̀͂̊̉̉̂́̍̕͝͝͝s̷̢̡̺̲̰̜̮͚͉̫̃̆͊̓ͅơ̷̘̗̬͎̣̗͓͉͚͚̥̊̊̄̋͆̈͂͆͜ ̴͎̩͙͇͎͈̘̻̎̎͝d̶̢̜͖͈̿̓̈̄̾͌͒̚͜i̸̛̙͔͓̘d̸͍́̽̈́̔̓̿̄̾̈ ̴̖̰̳̝̻̱̥̟̺̙͍̩̂̏̉͘͝ṅ̶̢̨̛̞̲̭̠̩̠͕̜̺̝̙͔̝̃̍̎̄̇̀̌̓̚͝͠ǫ̴̛̻̲̻̺̫̳̬̮̗̪̬̩̪͎̀̈̎̉t̵̟̳̦̳̫̬̟͚̉̊̆͌̉̓̓̔͆͋̍ ̶̛̛̜͍̘͉͙̮̔̇̀͊͗̄̔͆̎̈́k̶̨̡̳̠̩͔͔͖̯̻̳̲̜͊͋͐ņ̷̛̛̮̦̌̓̿̀̈́̏̅̅́ͅo̸͙̙̜̱͈̟̖̜͚̲̫̦̦͖̞͑̾͆̑́̏̐͆̒͝ͅw̸͚̙͍̳͔̆͑͌̈́̽̒̏͌̑͊̇͘̕͜͝͝ ̴̛͙̮͎̬̹̰̺̙̪̦͈̲̺̬͍̈̀̾̅̈́̉͒̐͐̽̍̆̀͜͠͠t̴̞͔̗̠̝̲̤̣̹͗̀̐͂̀h̶̥̱͇͍̖̩̭̱̫̫̻̍͋̿́̋̑a̸̳̬̦̜̜̹̘̥̮̞͛̇̃͆̈́̋̔͑̿̿̕͠t̶̢̟͈̯̉͌̈́̓͂̐͝ ̶̨̱͚̣̰̣̔̏͆̒̽ḣ̶̢̧̙̮̲͇̘͇͎͖̊́̚̚͠e̵̡͔̖̯̤̳̊͑͆͆ ̵̭̂͊̈́̍̀͐̓w̷̡̡̢̧͙̟͍̭͔͓̲̩̭̙̞͋̅͂̕ͅa̴̛̜̫͇̬͐͛̾̈̋͐͗̊̽͛̕͝͝s̶̛͍̝̰̟̰͓̘̔̇̍̅̋̒̄͊͂̾̅͂͜ ̸͎̞̭͈͛̔̊̎́̔̒́̓̑̅̿̓̈́͌͜͜͠ͅp̸̢̨̡͓̹̗̯͉̮͎̟͉̱̳̟̪̂͊̽͋̀̆͑͆̑̌̂̓͘̚̚e̷̢̨̛̛̛̙̞̙̱̤̲̺̰̜̠̫̞͖͒̍̈́̽͒̿̽͜͠͠ṫ̶͇̾̍̾̊͠į̸̢̹͙̮̫͙̈̉̃̽͆͒̓͆̀͐̅̒̊̈̌͊̐t̴͕̩́̀͒̃ḯ̴͎̖̜̺̘͎̥̫̟̗̠̭͍̝̻̰͇ȏ̷̟͚̝̱͚̱͍͉̱͌̊͆̒ṋ̶̨̧͖̝͙̭͖͍̲̺̲̙̔́̀̉̎̌͌͝i̵͚͍͆͑͊͆̂̑̋̿n̴̛̩̄̉͒̀̈́̐͐͒ģ̷̞̬͓̙̥̼̼̩͖̭͓̯̦̹͖̆̔̒͊̓̀͗̈̑͐͛̆̎̔̄̚͝ͅ ̸̨̛̟͓̤̜̖̫̯̭̞͓̅̀̃͑͗́̎̈́̇̿̐̚͘̚͝͠ͅA̶͉͈͙͖͎̼̰͓̺̭̳͗̎̅͜͠r̶̙̼̄͑̋͑̃͝t̸̛͉͖͌́̃̈́̔̏̆̓̑̽͜ë̴̦́̈́̿̈̏̈͛̓̈̈̽͒̅m̷̹͎̮̅̉̾̆̉͋͛̀̾̈́̾̏͜͝͝͝ï̵̢̧̭̩͚̯̠͈͍͇̪̗̃͑̎̎̀̌̂̄̈́̚͘͝s̴̛͓͔̹̹̹̺̳̮̑͒̋̆̾͑̈́̒̓̾̑i̶̢̧̯̹̱̜̳͕̼͎̟̼͕̾͆̇͂̔͛̃͌̐ͅâ̴̦̗̬̄̓͂̈́̀͋͐͂͛͆̎͑̽͜͝͠͠ ̶̹̬͎̯̞̠̍̊̂̓̅̔̍͝i̸̡̛̯̞͉̙̘̥͎͍̻̺̗̼̩͖̹̊̃͒̊̽͂̉̑̌͋̔͊̉͝ͅn̶̡̦̦̦̗̥̥̹̦̖̹̺͓̻̖̾̋̔̓͒̈́̃́́̕̕̚͘͜͝ ̴̛̳̐͌̓̾͆̈́͌͗̈́͘͝͝͝͠h̷̠͙̝̦̰̏͊̌͊̉̇̀̌̿̇̽͋͜͝e̴̡̛̖̬̝̙̝̻̳͈͖̗͈̝̋̇͗͊̍͜ṟ̷̆̉̆̀̿͛͠ ̶̡̛͈̦̥̝̭̲̎̀͋̇̊̋̊ö̷̧̡̨̲̝̣͍̣͕̭͍͚́̀͊͛̿͛͊̍͋̌͑̊͂͘͘͜ẘ̷̨̨̨̛̤̩̗̞̦̞̯̫̜̖͎͋͋̏̈́̊͋̏͗͆̐̅̓͑͘̕͜ň̴͎̯̦̖͇̯͚͓̻̞̤͐̃̂̿̈͘͜͝ ̸̢̛͚̭̺̙͇͉̽̅̋̌̓͌̈́͗̏̑̔h̶̛̦̞̲̤̘̰̠̔̀̈́͛́̀͊͌͌̿͛͌̅͐͘͜o̵̯͉̯͕͛͐̿̆́̂͗̈́͝ḿ̷̘̰̲͕͇́̊̅̃͛͛͗̉ͅē̴͍̦̦͖̤̲̓̈́̚̚,̶̢̤̣̝̥͖̦̤̤̫̀͛̋̓͜ ̸̛̪̜́̌͑́̂̐̋̇̀̐͆̆͊̀̕͜͝ā̴͉̩̮̗̝̅̊̿̀̒̿̈́͋͋̄̀̕̚͠ͅn̶̡̳͚̻̝̖̤̖̘͉̯̠̜̤͙̎̿̓̅͋͊͌̓̐̄͘͠͝d̴̺̫͇̞̠̳̝͓̗͓̙̫͍͐̓͌̽́̆̓̄̏̇͒́̄̾̅̆ ̷̢̧͇͔͉̯̞̼̓̿͋̀̍̌̇̿́̃͂̌̆̕ţ̸͈̰̫̣̻̤͈̪̂͐͋̉͛̂͝͝h̴̡̬̭̘͚̖̖̥̰̯̰͍̭̖̰͖͊̓̽̔́̃̂͊̀̃͂̎́̇̀̚ͅa̴͙̘͎̯̖̜͚̥̤̙̤͉̩̰̿̔̍t̸̅̎͜ ̴̘͖̫͔̬̺͋̈́͆̏͆͗͋̓͗̾̽͗̿ş̵̨̼̣͔̩̊̈́͐́͆̈̓͆̈̆̀̈̄̕͘͝͝h̵̰̼̜͍̻͍̱̐̅e̸̢͈̻̝̼̞̻͈̘͍̺̤̞̒͗̉̀͗͊́́̃͌̉͝͠ ̶̫̗͋̊̓̓̕w̶̨̞̰̪͍̩̱͈͎͕̣͓̅̄͑̃̊̅̌̆̉͜͝a̴̱̼͑̔̏̓͗́̈́̐́͘͝ş̷̗͇̲̘̮̘̙͚͗́ ̴̱͓̐̽͌́̏̓̓̀͐͊̔͂̆̈́͜͝͝c̷̢̛̜̭̪̦̗̻̭͚̹̯̹̎̊̃̽̌̂̽͆̒̑͋̿̈́̚͜ó̶̞̰̼̮̳͎̀̒͂̀̈́͋̕͠͝ḿ̵̬̳̣̦̪̠̠̳̟̖͌͆̆̅͂͌̉̊͘̚p̸̢̩̘̠̞̹̫̳̠̥̘̣͈̠̔̑̉̊̓̽̿̅̈́̐́͌͘̕͠ͅě̶̹͛̀́̈́͛̀̇̏̚͘͝͠l̶̢̨͉̪̭͓̼͙͙͍̙̮͂͑ļ̸͎̖̝̥̗̩̣͒̏̾̆̄̒̋͑͊͒̎͝ȩ̸̛̫͓̣̩̘̙̱̘̙̈̀̌̀̊̒̍̇̚̚̚͜͠d̶̢̥̭̦̎͂͂͗̈́̾̀̿̑̀̾͑̓͌͠͠ ̵̙̳̓̇̓t̴̨͍̩͚̳͚̗͕̖̗͗̔̍ö̶̧̞̼̝͕̟̮̪͚́͊̈̈́̿͗̒̿̄̃͛̔̑̇͜͝ ̷̢̛̛̝̃̃͊͌̈́͝͝͠g̷̣͓̓͠ŕ̴̛͉̔̏̊̇͒̿̊̄̍̑͛̐͑̚á̶̟̺͖̠̼͎͖̦̙̟͖͆̍̄n̶̖̞͇̯̜͉̹̞̮͇̟͒́͑́͑͋̎̂̒̀͗̎̀̍͘͜͝t̸̨͇͖͎͔̗͙̾̉̔̓ͅ ̸̡̘͚̞͍̥̿̄̒͒̈́͗̎́̀̄͘͝h̶̛͔̪̲̞͝i̸̥̘̼̭̞̓̊͐s̶̠̹̪̞̱̘͈̬̺͚̩̻̀̉̃͜ ̸̟̹͑̆̆̂͑͐̊̿͗̏̿̐̈́͗̕͝r̵̢̛̭͔̻̬̺̝̠̠̜̍̂̂͆̈̽̆̋͐̏̇͗͒͘͝e̸̢̛̱̩̯̞̘̦̹̋͗̂̀͑̈̇̓̃̇͊̚͜͠q̸̧̙̣̖̙̭̻̭̮̎̑̂͑̓̈̑͜͝͠ȗ̴̲͔̣͕̱͖̦̙̜̗̪̳͎̺̥̀é̸̛͖̻͚̯͚͎̙̗̮͚̤̭̋̋͑̈́͐̄̔̿͗̚͘ͅs̶͓͊͛̿̄̅̒̆̚͘t̷̻̣̫̲͕̠̪̱̺̼͎̪̖͙̆͋̏̎̊͘.̵͚̠̻́̂̄̇́͐̏̄̃̾̑̚̕ ̴̢̹͎͓͎͉͙̪̖̤̱̰͕̣̜̙̄̐Ẅ̴̧̨͈̝͖̳̻̳̟͕ḩ̸͚̜̠̪͋̐̃̇̐̎̿̆̈́̍̆̔͋͝ī̷̱̯̱̯̰̭̼͖̥͇͉̫̅̂ļ̶̏̅ȩ̶̛̛̣̋͆͆̀͋́͑̑͂̏̋͝͠ ̷̧̠̩̰̟͕̫̻̳̳̻̜̝͙͇̈́͆͌̌͐̚͝b̶̢̛̗̓̉̽̈̓̓͆̃͆̈̔͛̀̽̕̕ȍ̴͈̈̀͆̈́̆̿͌̐͊̑́̊͒͛̚u̷̫̬͉̗̫͚͉͆̎͗͛̆͑̄̄̾ͅn̷̨̤͉̻̩̬͍̘̝͓̩̹̫̰̏͂͊͜ͅd̷̠͈̬̼̹͍̭̣̟͓̃̌̾͘ͅ ̶̧̨̝̟͈̦̥̜̤̰̮̻̮̜̬͆̆ţ̶̧͇̜̙̱͆̾͋͛̌̏ͅo̴̮̠̥̭̠͌͆̐̓̍̓̎͝͝ ̴͉̼̞̲͓̑̓h̷͎̱̤̗͉̙̗͎̎͌̋͛̚͜͜͠ư̵̘̬̤̟͙̝̤̦͉͈̠̫̳̏̑̏͒̆̍̍́͗͗̿̎͊͝m̷̛̼͙̣̠͔̬͙̦̂͐̈́̿̃̏̈́̂̏̀̔͒̓͝ͅa̸̛̝̤̭̞̮̩̣̘̦͋̒̈́̾̔̂͐̈̂̄̈́͒̓̎̑ň̸̲̳͖̄͐̆͘͜ ̵̭̯̹̼̺̲̺͉̟̲̼̗̠̗̽̽ͅf̴̢̭̙̖̼͉͕̺̼̃̓̽͛̊̒͊̀́͑͑͛͛̓̚͜o̷͚͉̼̦͙͔̰͓̓̈͌̆̾͆͋͛͊̏̋̚͝ͅr̶̢̢̯̤̫͖̪̥̯̦̣͓̜̹̼̽̑͐͋́͛͐̓͠m̵͇̝̖̙̘̪̦̳͖͍̼̠̑̓̓̊̋͂̿̎̒̈̀̌͋͠͝͝͝,̵̧̛̛͕̻̣̻̯̜̗̟͇̟̈̿̌͊̾̇̈̇͘ ̶̢̺̫͓͈̼͓̳̺̗̱̠̊͑̂̈́̚ͅt̷̼͖̝̮̥̝̼͈̠̪͖̻̠͈̫͍̑̚ͅh̶̡̢̢̹͇̻͔͉̪̼̭͕̜̎̃͋͒͒́̓ë̴̛͈͚̬͕̪̣͇̰͔͔͙̤͚̝͚̥́̈́̌̉̽͛̍̀͒̔̐͂̾͝͠ͅ ̶̧̜̭̹̩̝͉̦̻̝̤͓̞̟̉̉̓͒́̋͗͛̀́̇͑ĝ̴̛̼̖͕̩̬͔͙͊o̵̭̔̃͒͑̈͂͋͛̄͝͝d̸͖̬͚̰̬̟͉̘̬͒̿̾͐́̉̄̅̓́̀̊̉͑̅d̴͖̔́͛̓͘͠ͅę̷̳̫̞̝̫̟̠͖̀̌̍̔͌̈́͋̅̍̐̽̀̕̕s̴͚͕̱̤͂͂̔̾̄͆̈̈́̕͝s̵̢̠͇̘̰̔̋̆̿̋̀̃͋͆̈͠͝ ̴̯̜̮̞̫̣̫̗̻̱̖̟̼̘͂̉̈́̄̊̿̓ͅc̷̢̭̰̣̳̭̲͙̼̪̼̮̯̟͌̿̃̈̎̍̓͑̍̌͊̾̀͌̚͠͝ỡ̵̢̧̮͚̭͕͙͑̓́̍̏̽̔̊̈́̚̚͝ủ̶̢̬̙̫͍̯̭͉̖̈́̀̒̏͐͌̎͌̊̈͒̀͒̄l̵̗̫̙͎̆̏́̄͂̂̈́̀̋̑̽͘̕͝͠ͅd̶̬̮̩̝̩̪̥̹͙̱̯̦͑̈́̓̈́͆̔͛̉̓̎͘͜͜ ̵͉͓͍̝̟̼͇̻̬̫͇̺̖̹̫̄́͛̾͝o̵̢̤̪̭̥͎͖̲͈͎̝͈͐̓̍̀̌̉̈̄̄͒̾̾͠͝͝͠f̸͈̰̱̠̈̏̇̉̑͑̊̏̎̐͐̂͒͒͑͒͝f̴̙́̋̋̓̎̋͑̉̐̉̽͗̊͘̕e̴͙̤̩͙̝̿̑̋̊̽̎̃̄̇̐͌̏͘͠͝r̴̞͖̘̮̭̬̺̼̠̗̣͕̩̝͒̑̀̔́̄̇͒͗́̓̀̔̕͠ ̵̲̲̪̤̰̹͙̠͓̥̳̙̺̅a̵̩̹̲̰̙̽̑̅̅̂̾̈́̄͒͊̾̓͛̇͜͠ ̷̛͍͑̄͑̂̽́̃̓͗̀̈͠͝͝ͅș̸̛͔̝̾͋͂͌͑̃̆͒̚͝ĩ̷̡̛͚͍͓̦̤͎̲̬̲͎̲̝̾͑̆̌̈́͝ͅͅñ̷̨̛͔͔̗̪̘̖̬̟̞̤̩̊̀͌̌͛̓̋̑̌͋̓̀̊̐̚ͅģ̶̛̛̘͓͚͉̳̦̻̓̓̍̎̀̂̽̾̀͠͝͝l̶̢̼̜̫̘̪̫̙̙̹̬̩͕̱̟̤̖̈́͆͊̒̀̀̎́͊̚͠ẻ̷̡̧͓͖̗̞͉̺̦̼̦͎̖̀̀̌̈́̑̌̋̈́̊ ̸̨̙̦̱̲̭̮͎̿͐͐̽̊́͆̓͗̕̚͘͠͠ģ̷̻̪͓͍̭̲̗̣̥̺͓̱̙̺̃̈́͑̒͒̓̎́̋i̵̮̬̼͊̌͂̉̌̉̾̎̌͘͠f̸̠̻̥͈̈́̚͜t̷̡͓̳͕̩̮̺͖̫͈̤̰̖̦̭̝̂̒̀͌̂̅͛͝.̶̞̩̤̦̭͚̪̞̍̓̀͑̃͂̿̾̀̌̋̂̅̎͐͒̚ ̸̮͇͍͚̗̩̘͉̗̺͓̱̟̫͈́̄́͠S̵̫͕̘͙̗̩̜͑̋̾̓̋̔͂̕o̶͎̖̖̭̖̥̻͉̮̖̜͛̄̾̔̊̓̍́̏͑̐̚m̷̛̖͎͔̰̘̮͔̳͐͌̌̇͌̏͑́͌̈́͋̄͝é̶̱̬̺͗͆͂̃͐́̐̔̄̈̂͠͠͝͝o̶̦̲̥̠̙̓̿̓̀̽ņ̶̧̲̫̦̣̣̘͕̮̗̙̼͎̪̌͐̈͆̾̊͛̊̓̓͑͗̉͋̌͗̇ͅę̴̹̰͈̠̗͎̖̺̒̋̎̏̎͑̈͌͆̉͑ͅ ̵̟͓̝͎̹̗̮͓̫̞͉̓͆̔̈́̆͜ͅe̴̡͙̬̝̝̭̺͌̑́̿̓͊͌̏̏͋̀̽l̴̢̖͚̥̙͎̹̬̻̰͕͕̮͆̏̈́͑̒͌͋̌̎͑́̓̐̎͐̕̚s̶̡̮̠͉͓̳̝͙̳͓̬͕̬͍̫̘̣͒́̓̐̃̂̓̾͘̕͠͝e̸̡̛͙̯̪̰̗͇̻̥̝̳̗̖̓̋̒͐̂͑̉̈́͆̈͑̾̑̒̓̈͜ͅ ̶̨̢͖̩̣̣͖̪̳͚̣̰̭̮̤̭̌͛́̿̅͆̀̐́̕͝p̵̡̡̼̘͔̺̤̮̳̳̻̂̓͆̈́̓̀̇̔̍͂̃̅́͂̎̕͜õ̴̡̧̧̺̖̬̗͚̜̦̦̭̋̏̈́͐̑̇͗̇̾͋̓̏͘͜ͅs̴̙͓̈́̾͛́̇̌̿̕š̴̪̺͔̀͆̌̾͗͘e̵͚̹̘̞͍̪̓̇s̶̙̩̪̪̥͕̳̜̯͛̽ͅŝ̸̡̢̨̱̝̥̣̱̀͗̈́̾̀͗̓͒̈̌͝͝e̸͔̭̙͈͇̗͉͔̟̓̈́̃̉̉͊́͒̂͐̐͛̋͝d̶̲͕̘̲̲̫̼͕͐̉͛̚ͅͅ ̵͕̫̱̼̐̊̄̈́͜ͅṭ̷̢̻̭̭̦̬̭̱̭̆͆͋͐̋́̈́̆͋͆́͘ḩ̷̪̥̦̙̯̘̞̭̫͓͖̐̀͆̌̆̚͜͜͠͠ͅͅȅ̷̛̛̟̤̣̊̐̽̈́̀͆̿̄́̚͝ ̵̛̛̛̥̙̹̖̥͖̼͈̩̈́̋͆̈̈́̊̏̾̂́͒͘͝͠ͅg̸̡͖̤̻̰̞̰̖̠̐̄̄ĩ̷̧̡͈͓͔̞̟̟̹̺̩̣͚̲̮̼͌̄͛͌̓̋͊f̸̢̨̢̡̧̢̛̠̦̺͉̗͈̰́͛̄̂͐̕t̷̨̯͖͙͙̩̘͙̯̲͇͕̪͉̑̎̃͝ ̴̰̀ą̷̨̱̼͍͓͓͎͕͔͓͕̗͋̀̒͗̀̈́́̚̕̚̚͜t̸̢̛̥̱̫̫̱͕̤͙͎͇̒̊̔͐͋̿̾̇̎̐͒͆̄͂̚͜͜͜͝ ̸̧̧̱̠̺͇̞̱̰̯̭͇̩̗̲̀̈́̎̑͌̽̉͑̿̕͠͝͠͝ͅt̷̡̡̨̛̹̥͈̹̩̜̪̗͖̻͕͙̜́̄͋͋̓̀̈́̐͊̚͜͝͝h̵̠̜͖̣̜̯̻̼̳̫̖̪͋̀͝ė̴̥̌͗ ̸̢̜͍̱̗͍̦̳̣̞͚̒̏̔̅̀̈̔̋̌̕͘͝m̵̬̳̖̳̱̤̞̳̘̜͚̯͔̅̊̍̚͘ͅo̷͖͖̦͔͖̙̤͔̊̽̈́̉͑̑̉͋̈́͑̈́̏́̐̚m̸̤͍̫̮͕̍͝ͅę̷̈́̂̐̍̿̀̋̂̉͐͝n̷̺͌ţ̵̮̲̜̲̻̮̝͙͔͇̺̯͇͇̿,̷̛̞̠̲̹̓̄̇͛́̀̈́͌̏̏̃͑̿͋͝͠ͅ ̴̢̢̬̥͙̫̮̣̼̘̣͈͖̼͓̆̔̒͑̇͆͘͜ͅb̶̡̟͉͚͕̫̝̖̙̰͙̗̿ͅư̵̖̙̓͋̆̅̄̚͘͠͝t̸̛͔̯̮͕͇̦͍̞̯̲̬̊͌͂̅̓̔͌͛̏̌̄̚ͅ ̸̤͚͕͚̳̂̏̔͛̿̔̀̄́̅͘̕͝͝͠s̴̞̪͈̻͆̀́̚ḧ̵̢̝͖̣̞̪̮̟̣̗́̌̏͗̋́̒͋̽̕̚ẻ̶͈͕̱̮̻̓̏͊͜ ̸̙͎̓̃́̅̚c̸̨̼͖̬̮͇̟̞̅̊̓̄͊ô̸̬̮̪͈͈̗̖͙̩̞͕̣ų̷̛̥̼̼͎̦̲̼̘̟̠͖͍͗̽̍̓l̸̡̛̜̜̰̣̻̟̙̦̝͓̳̲̄̍̈́̈́̽̏̂̍̄̂̔̑̈́̉͠͝d̷̨̧̛͙̯̗̥̙̳̱̘̠͈̪̟̲͕̆͛͑̌̀͂̚̕̕̚̚͜͠ ̷̟̽͑͗̈́t̷̺̘̳̬͉̹̥͎͊̍̀͛͂͐̇͑̆̇̉̽̔͘̕͝ŗ̵̢̗͎̦̭̻͍͎͚̱̠̼̅͋͐̈́̚͝ȁ̵̡̹̩̺̻͕͓̹̤̽̐́̂͆n̷̛̟̳͚̠̪̱̬̘̙̖͙͐͋̆́̽̍͝ͅs̵̞͙̺͓͎̟̲̥̖͔͓̜̖̅̐̎̈̓̒͜͠͝f̵̨̡̙͎̝̮̫̍͂͘̚ę̸̛̘̫̞̣̮̹͎̾̃͒̒͂̉̓͆͋͗͜͝r̶̡̨̞̳̗̔̄̑̈́͛͂̽̑́͘͜ ̴̢͚̮̩̳̣̗̬̬͆͗̈́͊́̒͂̆̑̋̀͊̕͠i̷̡̡̘̥̰̠͚̲͎̘͈̠̰̔́̓̈́t̵̨̞͉̞̻̺̂͌̎̈́̒͐̑͝ ̷̢̡̛͎͙̱̼͕͕̪͚̻͋̀̎̆̏̿̑̔̆̕á̸̧̱̺̘͎͍̒̓s̵̪̙̤̫̞̮̝̥̑͋̂̏̂̈́́̾̒̓͗̚ ̴͈̻̹̩̰͖̱͑̓͌̊̕l̷͔̦̥̍̈́̐̓͗͒ͅớ̶̡̦̳͔̰̹̟̣͕̦̖̤̘̈́̊͆̍͊̍̚̚͜͜n̶̗͕͚̮͑̇̅̈́͒̓̑́̾̅͘g̶̮͕͙̥̗̗̻̳̋͗͒̇̽̏̓̓̌͐̊̌̆̏͘͠͝ ̴͔̖̍̿̏̄͝a̷̤̘̺͇̺̙̼̼̖͔̦̩̳͇̗̋́̍̈͘͜ͅs̷̡̡̛̜͓͔̖̟̞̳͕͓̗̭̰̯̈́̀͗̏͐̉̑́̕͝ ̵̢̠̹̖͉̲̫͓̗̘̠̠͚̲̺͖̍̌͌̌͂͗̉̈̍̏̏͋͆̍͗̚͝t̸̡̛͔̬̯̄̐̀́̐̕ḫ̶͎͉͓̫͖̘̽̅͂̅̓̊̊̄̇̊̌̽͘͝͝͝e̷̬̝̣͙̳͂̋͂̆ ̶̱̠̝̎ḿ̶̧͓̻̥̤̩̫̓̆͛̈́͊͌̇̅̇̈́̓͠͠ḁ̶̡̧̬͕͚̯͍̞̪̰̱̖͖̫́̏n̴̢͔̲͖̱͈͎̍̅͝ ̸̢̼͓̙͉̦͕̹̝͕̖̱̅̊͒͑̌͆͐̇͆̏́͜c̶͓̭̘̩͎͈͖͈̬̞͈̾̋o̴̡̡̧̯̲̰̫͇̻̞̦̽̊̃̃͗͗͌̀̄̾̂̋̓͛̕͝͝ư̴̢̨̤̺̦̺̘͔͈̥͇̫̗̹̈̆́͋̿̀̎̇̏̑́͜l̶̼̖̓̀́͗̄͘d̷̨̢̢̛͔̲͔̪̭̺̣́̐̀͊̓͌̌̈́̊̚̕ ̷̧̛̭̼͔̻̰̪̞́̂̈̅͝ͅm̶̘͖̗̺͈̯̗͉̜̟̼̬͈̯̝̯͑͌ͅä̶̢̱̜͔̟̜́̍́̐̅̽͝͠n̶̩̳̘͕̺̥͍̦͚̘̻̺̄͋̀̎͆͗̾͒̎͒ͅͅa̵̧̡͕̬̮̬͔͎͕͉̺̻͓̙͕̋g̶̖̱͉̰͎̤̼̮̼̜̦̘͊̈́͊͑̎̽̀̈́̅̋̒̈́͒̂̚͘e̴̢̗̯͍̯͐͋̓̂̊̏͊͗͗͒̃͗̍̎̚ ̸̲̭̮͉̠̜̖͚̦͉̥̙̙̲̦͗̀̒͂̈́͆͊́̀̀̉̏́̚t̵̺̫̥͐̎̅̐̔͆͘̕̕ö̴̲͈͕̜́͌̌͌̆̅̓͛̚͝͠͝͝ ̷̖̞͈̭͎̈̈́̊͐̎̾̔ͅg̷͈̜̰͇͓̣͙̝̱͍̺̭̖͎͍̔͂͂̏͂̓̀̇͛̈͑͒ę̴̨͉̙̯̙̯̘̫̪̙̩̯̳͙͔́̈́̈̍́̆̎̅͐̇̑̑t̸̢̧̛͖̬͇̤̰̩̬̘͉̑̈́́̌̊̑̇̐̈́̚ ̶̨̧̛̮̝̟̦͓͎̰̖̟̗̙̤͋͌̉̔̌̄̔̎̐̈́̂̌̀͋̂͜ͅŵ̸̡̭̮̦̠̭̼̜̞̿ì̵̳̭͔̝̺̦̖̋͋̋̑̔͑̀́̔t̸̹̗̺͚̓͗̀́́͒̊̒̂͝h̴̞͚͍͇̦͚̹̭̖̞̱̬̫̳̺͕͉̔̉̋̀į̸̻̞͍̰̥̜̭͇̜̼͉͈̺̻̍̃̚͝n̵̡̻̟̠̤͇̺͍͓̻̞̰̑̐̈̆̽͐̏͜ͅ ̵̛̛̥̺̩͒͗̃͑̀̂̈́̌͛̃͛͝a̸̢̨̯͕̫͚̘͇͎̞̙̙̺̐̿̄͂͗̎͛̄́͑̂̃͛̐͘͜͝r̷̡̢̬̭͙͖̲͉̳̳̮̼̼͈̋̒̂̅̃̅̑͆̎͌̏͝ͅm̵̧̰̲̰͉̭͓̬̮̞̲̠͔̥̝̌́͐̈́̊̇̿̿̀̓̃͜͝͝ͅ’̶̢̮̜̝̓̊̏̈́͌͆̊̎͝s̸̢͓̭̣̲͓̗̩̰͓̦͓̜̺̾̽̂͆͂̓̽͂ ̸͖͚͍̺̙̯̥͕͎͈̞͙̪̯̹̦͇̈́́̍̈̂͊̍̇͆̈́̆̀̈͘͘l̸̢̛͉̦̪͊̚ȇ̷̢͖̫͇̬͇̝͒́̒͛̒͜ṅ̸̺̂̒́̀̍̒́͒̚͘͠͝g̴̝̮̅̂̋̍͂̈̇͑͌̇͛̋̀͐̑͝ṫ̴̡̳̹̮͈͉͉͍͚͚͔̯̺͍͚́̌̅ͅh̷̢̛̛̞̲͉̯̮͉͇̜̬̳̯̫̎̎͗̑̑̏͛̑̈́͐̐͑̆̂͝ ̵̻̖̲̞͚̪̣̜̻̺͍̻̖͗̍̈́͗̓̕ͅŏ̶̜̟͓̱̆͋̾̈́̈̔͐̈́̒̐͒̏͑͠ḟ̴̡̜̱̩̣͖̪̠̺͒̽͋͆̋̈́̊̀͂͐̒́̄̿͐ ̸̮̟̬̖̙̼̹̓̽̊͆́ẗ̶̡̪̗͓́̆̇̀̃́̈́̎̍̋̎ͅh̴̢̢̦̟͉̔́̀͝ē̸̡̡̛̱͉̼͇̝̣̻͚̜͕̉͆͊̆͐̈́̒̆̍̄͒͑̉͘͝ ̵̡̝͓̹̩͎̺̲͇͙̝͔̫͚̅̽̏ͅc̶̫͕̯͚̥̝̲̦̘̖̐̂̆̄̈̉̋͆̉̄̅͝u̴͔̗͓͔̙̍̇̋̏͠r̴̨̨̻̪̖̤͈̻̰͇̫̘̺̃ͅr̸͓̻̺͕̫͓͈̟̱̲̳̼̣̯̻̜̠̍̾͋͂͋̔̀̒̊͌̐̕͘e̸̩̞͔̬̿̈̇͂̈́͘n̷̨̨̡̟͇̱͎̟̬̻͒̊̂̇̎̚͝ͅţ̸̹͕͕̝͎̯̩̠͉͋͒̈́̈́̔͌̔̋̈́͂͝ ̵̡̧̛̠͉̳͖͔͖͕̅́̾̎̅̄̓̄͌̈́̇̅̈́̓̈́̕͜ȍ̷̡̮̠͎͈͖̗̤̋̄͒̐̌̍̀̍̓̑͑̓́̀̋̚w̶̛̠̠̙͓͋̊n̸̢̗͉͔̥̱̯͛̔̊̒̈́̅͑̔̀̇̕ę̶̛͙͔̳͉͖̻͎̖͛̄̄̏ͅȑ̷͉̘̱̘̜̝̱̦͓̻͔̤̘̉́̌̕͜͠.̵̨̢̳͙̜̳̬̦̯̭̜̖̤̗̑̓͋̈́̈͌͒̓̍ͅ ̸͚̘̬͈̩̠̝͙͓̝̤̰̞͖̖͔̌̽ͅ<br≯̛̛̛͕͕̦͓̥̮̈͐̔͌̽̓͆̅̊̾̇͠͠“̷̨̡̰͉͇͚̩̙͇̮̎̓̔́̓͗͆͒̔̽̆̀̒͘C̵̫̑͗́̈̄̓͝͝ǫ̷̼͇̭̦̝̠̳͚̀̍͐͋̈́̈̅̓͋̆̇͛̀́͝͝n̶̨̹̮̳̯͙͈̓̒͐̅͛̈́̀̓́̓̕͝͝d̷̨̢̩͇͎̥̀̽͆̿̂̀̒i̴̧̛̥̅̃̈́͑̕͜͝t̶̡̢̗̦̹̭͖̦͎̯̮̠̳̠̠̒̅̿͐͊͊̒͌̚͘̚͝ì̶͚̹̺̗͝ȍ̸̧͉̯̲̬̜̻͍̼͚͈̹͛̉̿̇̒̌͜͝͝n̶̤̥̗̬̟̥̂͑͛̈́̈́̂́̓̀̊͂́̃̊̓̏̅ş̶̼̱̳͖̯̝̮͇̱̝̣̤̾́͋͛͋̄͐͑̓̏̎͛͗̈́̚ ̶̨̟̣̤̖̭̣͇͖̤͕̍̽͆͑̀̒͗̊̚͜ả̸̺͉͉̔r̷̢̧̥̼̩̗̯̆̋̋̆̉̐̓̐̈́̔͐̕͝͝͝e̷̢̛͍̩̪̥̞͉͈͊͋̌̿̽͆̒̓̉̓ ̸̪̐͜a̷̡̨̨̭̖̪͚̲͉̻͂̊̕t̵̛̰̘̳̮͖̃̅̉ͅt̴̟̙͖̠̜̯̤̣̪̘̜̝̟̥́̓̆͗͌̋̽̊̈̽͠͝͝a̵̮͑͌̑̽̓̍̐͒̈́̆̐̔̋̆͂̀̚č̷̜̰̓̊̔̐̽̎ḧ̶̲͇̰̱̭̺͖̠̪̜́̇̄͠e̴̢̜͇̮͈̗͍͌́͐̈̍͛̏͒͐̒̋̃̀̈́͛d̵̥̟̺̯͕̱̮̭̫͓̝́͂͋̋́̎͂̉͘͜,̵̛͈̖͚̯̋̾̐͒ͅ”̷͇̥͓̪̦̌͑̿̈̚̕ͅ ̸̨̢̡͔͔̬̭̘̣̙̹̝̮̞̫͉̄͊ͅs̷̘̺̈́̈́͘͜h̶̩̳̖̦͓̭͔͔̗̰̓͂̈́̎̀̄̌͑e̴͓̬̞̝͇͙̰̤̜̭͈̘̗͙͉̣̓̏̈̚̕ ̴̈̀̈́͜ë̶̛̜͓͔̫͍́͊́͋̑͑̓̈́̀̈́̎̾̊̿͘x̸̧̠͓̘̟͍͉̭̬̣̺͙͎̠̭̑̓̆̆p̶͎̄̒̾͑͌͑̓̐͊͐̓͛l̷̢̢̛̜̻͖̞̥̜̇̑͌̽̉̿̾͐͊̒̉̂͗̕̚̚å̵̢̧̛͔̤̮͎͕̲̭̩̹̖͌͒̕͘͘͜͜͜͜i̸̧̢͈͍͖̜̟͓͚̺̹̫̰̰̼̓͂n̴͍͔̮̝͎̰͂̍̈̌̈́̎͊͆̕͠͝e̸̗̎d̸͙̫̱̭͖̝̒.̷̨̲̭̲̱̝̺͙̱̞̤̯̗̗̈́̍͑̀̋̈́͑͊͂͠͠ͅ ̷̛͙͇͌͆̾̈́̕̕T̶̡̨̥̯̜̬̪͕̜̫̖̮̤̄̒̂̎̄͆͒̂̽̓̒̚͘̚͜͜͝h̷̟͖̯̭̘̯̜̰̰͓͖̻̅̆̍͌͜͜͠ę̵̧̢̡͙̝̩̩̭̰̫̦̜͈̳̥͇̈́͛s̵̨̢̨̢̫̖͉̟͚̳̬̝͕̳̦͉̝̿̊e̸̹̯̝̳̘͎͓̖̙̯̰̥̪͇͎̥͊̊͋̊͌̂̄̈̽̍̐̄̐̎͜͝͠͝ ̴̛̬͚̪̪̖͙̟̝̪̈́͌́̑͋̀̏͛̋͐̌̐͊͜͝w̸̺̔̆͝e̴̬̳͍̘͔̻̞̼͔͗͌̂͗̆͒̽͌̏̄͝ͅr̴̭̜̩̼̐͗e̸̝̯͉̪͙̩͙̞̙͈̠̖̔͜ ̴̧̬̹̝̱̬̰̤͚͚̙̰̞̄̿̄i̸̫͍̩̟̮̓͑͂͂̅͌̓̅͒̎̕ș̷̝͚̯̳̊ͅö̸̡̨̼͇̼͇̦̺̟̺̘͍̱̜̫̈́̎͘̚l̴̨̛̞̜̞̰̹̱͋̈́͗͆͊͊̒́̃̉ą̶̨̛͍̯̥͉̝̙̞͋͋̌̊͒̀̎̓͂̄̀́̈́̀͠t̸̨̢̢̲̝͙̝͉̫͉̝̲͕͊́͘i̴̡̨̛̮̱̮̭̫̰̥̱̟̬̘͉͔͗͂͂̚o̴̢̟̠̯̫̻̝͍̯̘̭̗̟̪̰̐͠ͅņ̸̺̖͉͉̩̞̟̓̕͜,̸̡̹̫̬͚̙̖̖̼͆̋̓̾͜ ̶̧̡͓͚͓̯͍͚̰͍͙̠̩̮͖͓̈́͑̈́͌̑̅̑̐͐͑̀́͑̒̕͝ë̸̗̯͙͎̥̝̩̣́̔̄x̴̤̟̱̼͇̘͔͈̐̎̃̇̂́̔̃̾̌̐̚͝͝͝ţ̸͓͔͍̙̰̐̈͗ͅr̷̛̛͚̻̱̱̳̒͐̏̂̀͋̉̋̊͒̉̈͘͝͠e̶̝̳̣͉̬̥̯͙̗̰̒͆͐͒̇̉̌͆͂̎̔̋͋̈̚̚͘m̵̨̨̠͖͇̩͙̙̩͎̯̣͐̀̐̄̓̅e̴̡̫͖̖̖̬̩̩̥͂̎̾ ̵̬̤̭̺̈̂p̸̢̨̧̖̣͓̮̖͎̯̜͎̟͑͛͘ą̸̢̛̜͚̗̩̪͙̦̯͉̩̝͚̔̃͒͒̾̚ͅr̷̙͓̗̤̼̞̬͓͍̃͒̽͂̒̈̐̂́͐͒̄̚͝͠a̸̢̖͉̮͕̤̮̲̲̟̹̼͌̓͆̂̀̃̈́̃͛͗̐̒̈͠n̷̨̢̡̛̛̙̯̩͍̱̲͍̮̺̯̹͕̯͆͂͒̓̈́̐̓̍̈̏́̔̌ǫ̵͚͈͙̘̀̈̓̉̂̑̐̋͝͝i̵͎̖̤̮͖̪͍̘̗͈̬͕͖͈͗̐̇̄̿̔͊͊́̓͐̏͊̉̽̕͠a̴͔̺̰̠͔͔͙̹͉͙̍̿̓,̴͓̣̞̗̗͕̯̈́̀ ̸̧̟̘͔̪̤̜̲̘̎̊͑̽̑͠ͅa̶͙̟̻͛̀́͊̇̔̋̊̀͜͝ñ̵̨̧̮͙̠͙͙͓́̌̔̔̓̇̌̈͐̚̚̚͘͝͝d̶̡̧͔̟̙͙̘͕͈͌̏̽̿́͛̀̿̕͝ ̸̲̺͚̺͙̈́͑͛́̈́͊́̀̑͠ͅḑ̸͕̇̉̇͆̔̈͛͂̾̇͊̈́͠ë̶̢̨̜̫̝̯̤̲͈̲̭̱̗́͗͒͜a̵̛̘̥̓̐̄̽̓̍̉̃̈̀̾́̐̊͝͠t̷̡̡̰̖̖̗̩̜̥͕͕̗̖̻͋̈́͜ͅh̵̡̨͍̬̘̫̞͋̉̎͋͑̐͐̐̈̎̆̎͗.̷̙̰̼̞̺͙̽̆͐͜͠ ̵̬̹̟̪̤̀́͗T̸̨̗̮͇̖̼̱̹̳͎͖͋̆̓̅̿͜ͅḩ̷̙̺̘͙͍̬̖͓̃͌̊͠ͅe̶̛̞̭̣̰͍̳̽̾̂͌͗̐̊͊͝ ̶̡͓̠͈̺͇͓͗́̄̑͜g̶̜̍̔̌̈̀̀̐͘͠o̷̢͓̞̪̺̬̐d̵̢̝͍̱̒̊̐͌ͅd̶̢͎̫̮͕̖͚̟̗̂̓̒̔̾͐̽̏͒̇̕̚͜ͅè̴͐̎͜s̶̡̡͖͍̱̖̩͉͔͕͌̔͌̓̇̈́̓͘̕͜͠ş̵͚̙̦̩͇̙̝̞̥̰̮͓͔̮̰̪͒̕͠͝ ̴̧̧̧̥͙͔̞̪̼͍͍͙͋͌̊̂͛͘s̵̪̭̰̹̞̜̩̤̟̬̺͂̐̐̀̄̈́̒̅͗̄͛̕͝ͅa̴̢̡̘̠͇͎̫͙̱̦͎̭̰͚͛͐͊̊̀͂́̑͜į̶̘̗̥̲̬͙̱̈̐̋̀̄̈̾̏̏̆̅̕̚͠d̵̡͍̘̰̯̯͇̘̹͉̭̆̍́͑̌̓̿̃͆͑͐̋̚̕ ̴͈̱̬̙̞̾̊̆́̕͜a̸̧̗̟̮̼̖͔̼̮͔͓͆̈́̅̎̂̑̊͂̈́͂̈͑̀͘͘͜͜͠͠l̴͚͖̪̫̣̝̘͕̜͇̽̆́͒̈́̓̃̇̓̈́͝l̵̡̺̜̣̠͖͖͂̋͗̎̇̂͗̌̑ ̶̢̛̻͖̺͇̱̟̺̘̮̞͋̇̓̾̉̊̋́̾̂͛̆͆͐̈́͛o̸͕̟͖͈̬̤̠͗̌̓̉ͅf̵̡̨͍̺̻̩̜̱̲̼̻̣͍͎̤͓̓̓̈̈́̓̂͑̓͊ ̴̢̨̛̬̥̖͖̬̪̫̹̥̲̳̺̿̊͒̓̏̊͗͆̅̋̆͝ț̷̛̛͈̠̣̜͌̎̈́͌̆̆̑͋̅̉̎̽̋͠h̷̛̹̟̺̪̼̏̆͂̌͆̋̐̈́̋̈̐͝͝i̶̧̢̤̟̠̟̰͕͇̺̽́̂̓̓̎̒s̸̡̨͉̱͓͒̌͒̊̔̅͊̕̚ ̵̨̧̮̪͎͓͙̤̾t̶̛͓̩̊̾͆̊͂͊̓͊̎̌͂̌̃́͐͝ơ̵̡̦̦̲̞̳̫̦̦̣͓̹̼̯̩͔͊̐̍̓͗̈́̅͌̈́͋ ̸̡̙̜̠͍̪̭̫̙̬̭͇̲̻̙̓̈̌͑́̆̎̾̉̏͗̾͜͠͝ͅḋ̷̨̧̬̯̮̺͙͚̾̈́̍̈͝͝͝͠i̶̧̡͓̙̼̿͂̒̐͛͘͜͝s̸͇̘̒s̷̙̺̟͓̮̱̱͕̻͉̼̮̦̺͕̭͈̍̈̈͗̈́͗̑͂̄̎͗̕̕͘u̷͙͕̰͌ą̸̨̧̜̺̤̲͉͖͈̙̤̯̭̩͕͆͐̇̏̏͘d̴̢̧̩͉̞͓͖̙̫̜̼̠̟͕̏̊̈̄̊̐͆͋͐̉̓̿̂̂͘ę̷̨͈̹̬̹̘͈̖̝̮̹̼̳̞̈́̏̀̀̈̓̅̈́͝͝ ̴̛̺̯̲̖̠͆͂̈̒͌̅̀̅̚t̸̜̞͔̮͑̐̏h̸̢̧̛͓̳̳͇̣̝͍͖̩͓̤̩̎̈́́̅͒̀͐̐̀̏̄́͗̀͝͝e̶̗͉̙͉̙̫̞͉̜͇̜̬͊͆̆̊̋̅̀̕ ̸̟͈̟̬̯͎̮̩̦̰̰̞͈̲̙͋ͅm̷̡̬̪̹͕͖̟͕̺̞̙̘͕̠̥̓͌̿̌͋͐̚͜͜͝a̵͙͍̤͍͚̪͍̟̦̠̬̮͓̟͎̿̿͂̉̔̐͋̏̒͊͒͘͜ǹ̷̟͍̔͊̿͠,̴̢̢̛̪̱͈͖̤̬͕͔̪̮͖̰̬̌̂̏͂͗̓̓̐̋́͠ ̶̨͕̲̯̙̥̻͖͍̰͔͈̮̫́̏͗b̴̻̱̤̯͉̮̥͕͖̼̮͚̪͉͖̌̌̉̎̅u̶̧͉͓̘̲̎̎̀͘t̶̨̡̛̪̹̠̩͙͖̩͔̜͚̔̃̊̉͂͐͋̀̎̆́̚͜ ̴̢̡̯̻̺͎̺̺̫̜̞̼̺̟̈́̑̌͐́̓̐̎̆͆ḧ̴̙́̋ë̸̡͇̃͌̏̀̑̓̈́͋͑̑͂̕͠͠ ̴͚̳̣̝͖̗̘͋̈́̓̂̇̓̂́́̍̈́̕̕h̸̙͉̝͚͇͍͙͓̎̓̐̇͠ǎ̷̱̼̦̦͎̤͇̰̃̈́̓̾̃̈͑͝p̷̨̨̡̛̲͖͔̤̠̣͇͉̠̮̣͙̓͜ͅp̶̢̢̡̫̣͎͉͉̪̓̈́́̑͂̔̆͗̒̿̚̕̕ì̷̡̛̻̥͉̦̗̮̦͚̩̜̜͒͂͊́̑̉͗̋͌́ͅl̴̹͎͖̟̺̫̭̄̈͋̄̀͗̈́̀y̶̡̨͚̣̜̻̱͔̙̻̩̜͖̥̠̆̏̉̀̾͐̐̈́̈́́̒͒͌́̚̕̚͜ ̶̟̣̣̩͎̖̜͇͓̺͕̔̒̌͠a̶̹̙̬̫̥̱͎̎̑̈͑͌̅c̶̡͇͙̺̲̰̎̈́̄̌͌̕c̷͍̬̲͙̮͎̞̓̈́͐͜͠͝͠ę̶̜͎̦͉̝̹͈̬̱͇͙͊͊̽̌p̸̧̛̥͚̭̦̘̲͈̫̱̪̞̖̒́̓̒͐́̕͜͝͝ṭ̵̐̄͝e̴̢̛̤͉͖͎̿̾̇̌͘d̷̨͙̤̝̼̯̩͒̒̉͑͒͐͂̐͂̒̈́͜ ̵̡͔̗̠̈́̒̌͝t̸̺̘̱̱̠͓̯͊̐̃̋̆̍̈̇̿̅̓̚͝h̶̪̹͇͔̩̜̥͚̮̳͌͐́̀̑̆͂͆̿̽̓̃̈́̓̑̇͠é̶̲̘̮̮͙͈̯͙̔̽̽̏̇̀̈́͒̈̃̉͑͜͝͝ ̸̺͙̼̼͆̿̉ͅt̸̰̟̜̐͌͘ȩ̴̛͕̼̼̰̫̖̪̗̝͕̳͙̖̻̱̥͌̈́́̋̊̓̐̽̽́ŗ̴̛̛̼̖̺̦͚̻̫͋̏̔̔̌̑̍̓̽̅̔̊͆͘͠m̴̢̛̲̯͎̯͉̠̳̜̎͛̈́̋͑̎͒͒͆̓̄̇̈̈͜ş̶̡̟͚͔̤̗̩̹̬͇̮̜̑̅̓́͐̈́̈̿̂͂̎͝͠.̶̨̻̦̼͊̒́̿̾͂
̴̧̡̢̟̼̦̥̰̮͎̘̯̠̤̺̥͍͒͐̍͐͝

Artemisia woke from a nap to smell orange oil burning. The aroma floated in and poked at her nostrils through the gauze lining her hammock. She spun out of it and walked to the foyer of her home, expecting to greet a pupil from her archery school. Instead, she found a man praying there.

“Divine Artemis,” he muttered, “I want … to be … a master thief!” The man looked around in surprise as a melodic voice echoed.

“Why aren’t you praying for power and privilege?” asked the voice. The goddess herself was interrupting.

“Because,” replied the man. “I want the results.”

“I think you should aim higher,” was Artemisia’s response.

They talked for a while and the goddess realised that such ambition was beyond the man’s grasp. He did not realise that he was petitioning a goddess in her own home. And he certainly had no idea that because of this, Artemisia was compelled to grant his wish.

While bound to human form, she could offer any human a single gift. She told the man that someone else had it, but that she could help him steal it if he could get within arm’s length of that person.

“Conditions are attached,” she explained, without even revealing the identity of the current owner. These conditions were isolation, extreme paranoia, and death. The goddess said all of that to dissuade the man, but he happily accepted the terms.

Based on my retelling of the Greek myth of King Midas. WordPress is trying it with me. I am not sure what is causing the engagement on my posts to drop, so I am going to PLAY!!!

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Sunday, at the (home) office


On Saturday afternoon, I was waiting to take down an art exhibition and while I was waiting in the car, I decided to pull an Oracle card. I bought them because they’ve got a matte velvety finish and the gold inlay looks pretty. I could not for the life of me understand what it was trying to say.

Threads of Fate Oracle Cards "Patience"
“Patience” from the Threads of Fate Oracle cards

Hello everyone. Are you enjoying your Sunday? I have been at my “home” office all day. I am chuckling at the moment, because when I was searching my phone’s image library, I noticed that photo from yesterday and suddenly, my entire Sunday makes sense. This, for once, is not a rant.

I’ve had the most insane day. I had a vague project deadline circa now: Thirty episodes for a Japanese/English animated series. Sounds fun, right? Except, the criteria changed three hours before I submitted the scripts for TEN episodes.

There is a budget issue. “Smaller budget: remove characters.” So I asked three friends to help me out of a jam. Halfway through, when I presented a snippet of the draft, the graphic artist/animator demanded I write the script for the trailer first.

Now, the reason his company hired me was that the project team was led by a talented graphic designer and animator who was not a writer. Because I understood that, I explained to him that the writing process is not linear. One never starts with the summary. It appears that way because that’s how a story is presented to us. But you can start in the middle and work your way backwards or forwards. You know what I’m talking about, right? You’re all writers.

Colors of love by Thomas Bergersen

And of course, I might be the most non-linear writer of them all. I was giggling because he probably thought I was being unreasonable.

I say, “Should we have notes on the first ten episodes and then write the trailer script, which will happen very fast because we will know what the story is all about?” Doesn’t budge.

That’s how four of us were at one point editing the same sentence at the same time. I would like to give a special big up to Google Docs for facilitating that. When we were all finally done tweaking the scripts, the graphic artist texted, “I’ll take a look in two hours because I am going out.”

What?! It’s 7 past 22 o’clock (two hours later) and he wants to have a meeting at 23 o’clock. I, on the other hand, will be going to bed.

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about me creative writing fiction technology

A short video, with thanks

(If you’re having any problems viewing the video embedded above, please tell me. It’s in my WordPress media library. The point of upgrading was to not have this issue, WordPreeeeeess.)

Thanks for coming over here to support me when I re-launched as a brand-new entity last Saturday.

Earlier, WordPress responded to the altar call and got right with the Lord, but is now backsliding and error coding my videos. I cannot penetrate this chaos with code, scripts, tags, or commands. Nothing can defeat it. And I have tried everything.

I wish you a brilliant, glitch-free Thursday. (It’s Friday.)

*Big ups to @TonyWijsVA (Twitter) for the ‘frustrated Kylo Ren’ voice over.

Categories
art creative writing fiction opinion poem poetry women writing

Ascension / Bring me higher

Image with handwritten runic script overlay. Page from Tokyo Fashion Edge Volume 35, 2019.
Garnet – Love
Runic transcription of poem - Ascension/Bring me higher
Runic transcription
Runic script of poem on magazine page. Image from Tokyo Fashion Edge.
Bring me higher – Runic transcription
Ascension - English
Ascension / Bring me higher
Image with handwritten runic script overlay. Page from Tokyo Fashion Edge Volume 35, 2019.
Runic transcription – Opening stanzas
Image with handwritten English cursive script overlay. Page from Tokyo Fashion Edge Volume 35, 2019.
Citrine – Abundance
Image with handwritten English script overlay. Page from Tokyo Fashion Edge Volume 35, 2019.
Quartz – Purity


Presented with love and gratitude. Poem “Ascension/Bring me higher” was written by me. Big ups to my homey, the 9th century poet, Cynewulf. My poem is inspired by his awesome work, Christ II. Images are from Tokyo Fashion Edge Magazine Volume 35, September 2019, with an overlay of handwritten runic and English scripts in watercolour. Have a healing week ahead.

Categories
art creative writing fiction writing

Accession

In a previous post, I mentioned that I was writing a coronation scene for a new novel. The story is set in 2033, and unfolds in the same universe as The Quarter Percent. We follow events from three perspectives. One belongs to Sebastian Sax-Gault, who happens to be a nephew of Cordial’s.

Whereas it hath pleased our Most Blessed Lady to recall to us Her glorious memory in the noble crown which is solely and rightfully come to the High Prince Carroll Patrice Saints Maud et Agnes:

Still drafting, but I know how the story ends. In the very last scene, after a bombshell revelation the previous evening, a hush falls over the nation on Coronation Day. The new monarch is Sebastian’s bestie, 35-year-old Carroll. In this draft of the story, Carroll’s father is still alive, so the proclamation of accession has to take place at the coronation.

Proclamation of accession (fiction).

By this point in the story, we have eavesdropped on meetings and know that the coronation will be stripped of pomp and pageantry. Sebastian has been asked to whittle down the government’s expenditure on the ceremony to mere shillings. The ceremony is a reckoning with the public which, after a display of hubris, has completely lost face. Nonetheless, the ordeal has been humiliating for Carroll.

Bless and sanctify thy servant Carroll, Inheritor of this realm, who we anoint and consecrate King. Imbue him with the wisdom of the Mighty Reformer Jonas, as we, with one voice, proclaim him King, Servant and Steward, with hearty and weighty affection.

The proclamation text is based on EIIR’s 1952 accession and 1953 coronation. (Read a short story inspired by the latter). As mentioned in that earlier post, Google was reading over my shoulder and recommended gospel music to me on YouTube. I made some artwork to display the text that was misunderstood. I hope you like it.

Note: This post was originally intended for publication on this date, 09/20, but I moved it up a week. I moved it back here to make way for a different post. Thank you for your attention, as always. Header image: Izrael Poznanski Palace in Lodz, Poland, by Jacques Bopp, via Unsplash. Concept art: “Accession proclamation for King Carroll”, Posca watercolour pens, and Pilot Juice metallic ink on matte/glossy magazine paper.

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about me creative writing fiction People

Oh my gosh…

Google is doing a terrible job stalking me on my new iPhone SE. Look at the ad they showed me (renting out your property circa death) while I was watching that Nicki Minaj video. Like, what exactly are they trying to imply? The Anaconda music video is at 943 million views, so I know you all saw it.

I don’t want none of this ad, hon

I am preparing to publish my first novel, The Quarter Percent, while working on new projects. Hurricane Nisto is still angry but her story will unfold in a different part of this solar system.

The Quarter Percent pays homage to Greek tragedies and is written in an episodic format with a ‘time-as-protagonist’ feel. I wonder if I should worry that some readers may not understand this even after I have suggested “focus on the timeline” in the two blurbs and the trailer? The story itself is based on William Shakespeare’s play Lear of Britain. We meet King Cordial on a Sunday morning and almost two weeks later, on a Friday morning, … read the novel.

Don’t judge me…

I grew up around famous people and I know that for them, every problem is an image problem. The narrative style of The Quarter Percent is meant to illustrate the superficiality of this world. Quarter percenters are obsessed with what others think, and are doomed to live from one crisis to the next.

My question for you is do I need to create a long blurb for the back cover or should I trust readers to work things out for themselves?

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about me creative writing fiction opinion

One is selling out, but will they buy it?

Image by Carolyn V via Unsplash.

For my next project, I was planning to sell out and write a romance novel. Not sure how, because I can’t even watch people kiss on telly. On top of that, real research with live participants is going to be a dead end, as I have no game.

After reading the treatment, I realised it wasn’t romantic. So I set it aside and tried to write a few scenes. Still nothing. To procrastinate, I googled name generators. That was when I spied an automatic romantic plot generator. The software gobbles up keywords and spews out plots in mere seconds. Here, you will see what I got when, just for fun, I tried it on for my new fiction project.

AUTO GENERATED PLOT

Madeleine Locke is a stunning, fit and focused actress. Her life is going nowhere until she meets Badger Mulroney, a slim, tall man with a passion for wealth. Madeleine takes an instant disliking to Badger and his stubborn and obsessive ways. However, when a stalker tries to smear Madeleine, Badger springs to the rescue. Madeleine begins to notice that Badger is naive at heart. But, the pressures of Badger’s job as an intimacy coach leave him blind to Madeleine’s affections. Madeleine focuses on fame to try and distract herself. Finally, when controlling model, Hurricane Nisto, threatens to come between them, Badger has to act fast. But will they ever find the sizzling love that they deserve?

Auto-generated plot for a romance novel

Brilliant! Even I couldn’t have come up with an outline as terrible as that on my own. Then, I wondered, “Is there, like, an automatic novel generator, because I don’t wanna, like, you know, write a whole novel?” The answer is, yes, there is.

I plugged in the name of my main character, some adjectives, emotions, objects, place names, et cetera, and put the software to work. This is supposed to be a romantic short story, but as you can see, the software does not believe me.

Image from Arno Senoner via Unsplash.

ANGRY HURRICANE NISTO
An auto-generated story

Hurricane Nisto looked at the shattered shovel in her hands and felt angry. She walked over to the window and reflected on her freezing surroundings. She hated isolated Skartoya with its greasy, glamorous glacier. Then she saw someone in the distance. It was Madeleine Locke, a stubborn diva with hot hands and tight legs. Hurricane gulped and glanced at her own reflection. She was an angry, obsessive, wine drinker with skinny hands and tall legs.

Once, she had rescued Madeleine’s career from a burning building. But not even an angry person was prepared for Madeleine today. The blizzard teased like posing cheetahs. As Hurricane stepped outside, Madeleine glared at her with all the wrath of 8,484 controlling vigorous vixens.

They looked at each other with frustrated feelings, like two crispy, calm cougars acting at a very ruthless press conference, which had violin music playing in the background, and two vile uncles shilling to the beat. Madeleine looked jealous, her emotions blushing like a smooth, stinky satellite antenna. Then she stepped inside for a nice drink of red wine.

THE END

Thank you for reading my word soup. Have a great weekend coming up.

Categories
about me fiction women writing

Motion picture, baby

The Quarter Percent by Lily Nicole is available on Amazon. Trailer created by Ateeb Khan.

The Quarter Percent - novel by Lily Nicole
Cover art by Emanuel Malu.

Blurb B
It is summer, 2030. Truth is the weapon, and profit is the territory. Behind the screens, Marvin Stone is a wealthy recluse who uses powerful, cutting-edge technology to rewrite the rules of the game. As the rules change, Augustine Santa Clara, a former social media star, struggles to adjust. On the Continent, the popular and charismatic King Cordial of Vale works covertly to undermine his rivals. His youngest daughter, Costmary, is in his cross-hairs. Rue, his older daughter, takes on an exciting new challenge. Gala is the King’s firstborn. When she is named Princess Regent, she forges new ties and unveils her master plan.

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about me art creative writing fiction opinion

North to South

Illustration by Poelosophy

Indonesian artist, Poelosophy, created some concept art for my novel. There is an exhibit in Dublin, ‘North to South’, which features aboriginal art from Northern Europe and South America. The exhibit is the setting for a scene entitled ‘Big Daddy Pharma’.

Thank you for leaving encouraging words for me when I wrote about the impossible task of getting promotional work done. I’m still processing ideas and will be working on them as I go. Feeling like giving up is part of the journey. But I was amused at suggestions that I should actually toss my project. Hold on a second. I haven’t tried everything yet.

North to South – illustration by Poelosophy

And I am quite sure that if someone were to lend me their celebrity friends and let me slobber all over them in the club, my novel would get downloaded really fast. A Russian woman who pretended to be a German heiress, and stole millions, has deals with Netflix and Shonda Rhimes. Other people, who look different, would be rotting, anonymously, in jail. So let’s be realistic about what’s going on out here.

In the past, I would have been totally destroyed by “delete your book” remarks. But Fifty Shades fan fiction 365 Days was optioned by Netflix. The film skyrocketed to first place last weekend. It tells the story of a gangster who kidnaps a woman, ties her up, and assaults her for an entire year so she will fall in love with him. Even the people who said they hated it, watched it to the end, and uploaded reviews to their YouTube channels. In other words, the release was a success.

If that film is out there, it means two things. One, thinking in terms of ‘good writing’ or ‘bad writing’ is unhelpful. Two, the universe now needs to be balanced, so I will be publishing my novel.

Perceived quality is not a metric that can be influenced by hand-wringing. Instead of telling people what they should/shouldn’t like, I should focus on finding (a) people who will read anything, (b) people who like everything they read, (c) people who like to read full-length novels on mobile devices and (d) people who collect ebooks.

The search continues …

Have a great week ahead.

Categories
art fiction women writing

A tale in the crypt

Gala meets Velour’s First Minister

Jennifer Horn has done a fantastic job again creating this storyboard for a key scene for my novel, The Quarter Percent.

In the first scene of the final chapter, Gala and the First Minister of Velour are in the crypt of Ruby Palace. On screen is a replay of the ‘fall of the house of Moss’. At a prestigious awards ceremony, in front of the crowned heads of the Continent, Mrs. Moss spills the dirt on the Continent’s aristocrats. Gala explains that it is her system of interpersonal sabotage.

Morse coded message I created online

In the epilogue, one of the characters receives an invitation card on his breakfast tray. The card is written in Morse. He presses it to the screen of his tablet to translate the message.

（＾ω＾）


Have a happy week ahead, everyone.

Categories
about me fiction opinion

My amazing promotional campaign idea crashes and burns

… before it’s got off the ground. Anyone have a celebrity friend I can borrow?

Still using the new editor. You need lots of Real Estate in order to create a post. I’m on my phone. And no Siri that’s not a capital R and a capital E.

Today, I had a brilliant idea while I was having lunch. I dropped my food and wrote everything down.

Going off on a tangent here, let me say that I’m sick and tired of people telling me how amazing social media is for promoting myself. The number of unanswered tweets I read daily made me sad. On top of that, Twitter wouldn’t allow me to promote my tweets because my account was too new. It seems difficult to grow through organic engagement. 

facebook application icon

I read that on social media, between 4.7% to 5% engagement is good. And anything above 9% is rare. It is a lot of singing and dancing for paltry rewards. Therefore, I thought it would be efficient to use many existing networks to get my project idea out there. I want to meet and correspond with people who like to read books. I don’t know how many people are reading my chapters on this blog and I don’t want to trash my project because I don’t get a lot of feedback in this forum. The plan was to create redundancies by launching as many promotional campaigns as possible and renew them periodically.

Do I continue writing or do I shred my novel? I thought it would be a good idea to encourage people to sign up to beta read it chapter by chapter in chronological sequence. Based on demand or continued mailing list subscriptions, I could decide what to do next.

My plan so far: Readers who are interested in reading an entire book for free will subscribe to a mailing list and receive a new chapter each week. Subsequently, I will ask readers to share testimonials and links to my blog, or write reviews. I estimate it will take several months to a year.


Soon, I found everything I needEd for my campaign. All of the individuals I contacted were popular and sought after. They advertise shout outs, interviews and advertisements. I was thrilled. I typed out my stump speech, added some bona fides and messaged every one I could find.

Six hours later, almost everyone responded. I got three positive replies. However, most were not willing to do any promotion for a new author. Others needed to read the whole book first.  

This means I may not get my project promoted as widely as I’d like even though it’s a FREE fiction novel. But isn’t that the point of promoting a product via a total influencer roll out?

I agree that name recognition helps. Chanel, Dior, Estée Lauder, Fancl and Shiseido give away skincare and makeup products all the time. They’re still able to sell full-size products for high prices.

Even so, I felt like a start-up skincare company being told by a beauty vlogger that they won’t even patch test my products because they’ve never heard of my “brand”. I appreciate everyone’s honesty and will now proceed to feel sorry for myself.

Other images in this post are free from Unsplash.
Categories
fiction women

Tear up that cheque

Rue et Cassidy

Cassidy looked at the cheque. It was written in the amount of ten million euros. The recipient’s name was Asparagus Saints, LLC. She looked at Rue with her mouth open. With a puzzled laugh and flutter of her eyelids, she asked, “Why are you giving this to me?”

“I think you mean to ask why I am not offering it to you through a representative,” said Rue. Her calm voice disguised her irritation. Cassidy’s tone was informal and they were not close friends.

“Well …” Cassidy said, while rolling her eyes.

“Let’s get some things sorted. You could take that cheque to a journalist and repeat everything we spoke about here,” said Rue. “However, as soon as someone rings my attorney for a comment, you will be thrown in jail for extortion, blackmail and money laundering.”

“What?!”

“The person who wrote that cheque runs the Kiev underworld. I asked him for ten million euros, and he gave it to me no questions asked. Do you have any friends like that?” It was a rhetorical question, but the princess waited for a response.

“No, Ma’am,” responded Cassidy, feeling put in her place.

“I also asked him to register that business in your name and open an account for you at a bank in Niue.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” said Cassidy.

“Your endgame was to spend the Count’s money,” responded the princess, referring to her first ex-husband. “House, car, boat, plane, diamonds, clothes, bags, shoes, skin, hair, nails, boob job, lip fillers, vitamin drips. This is more than you would get in a divorce. Doesn’t refusing this cheque make you a liar?”

“No!”

Image by Sebastian Coman via Unsplash

“Really? Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? I handed you a cheque for ten million euros, threatened to have you locked up, and there you are, still holding it.”

“I’m trying to understand what this is all about.”

“I believe you’re hesitating because you think you can cash that cheque and keep sleeping with my ex-husband,” said Rue. “You are an entry-level backstabber. If you had any real gold-digging skills, Karl would have married you already.”

“I’m not a gold-digger, or a grifter, if this is what you’re trying to prove,” said the woman.

“Did you earn that money?” Rue looked at the cheque, looked at Cassidy’s face and leaned her head to one side. She felt she was exercising a great deal of self-restraint.

“Of course not,” replied Cassidy.

“You’re holding a piece of paper representing an amount you haven’t earned. If you loved that man, you would have torn it up and stomped out of here.”

Cassidy calmly put the cheque on the table, hooked her arm through the handle of her purse and stood up. With a curtsy, she said, “Your Royal Highness, if I may be excused.” Her voice was trembling.

“You may not,” said the princess, smiling. She leaned back in the sofa and looked up at the Cassidy. “Sit down.”

Cassidy obeyed. Tears were welling up in her eyes. She asked, “What do you want from me?”

Image by Rod Long via Unsplash

“I believe that in spite of your low aspirations, and uncouth behaviour, you think that you’re ambitious. However, you have misunderstood people’s opinions of you. You think they respect you for spending Karl’s money. But they think you are a sex worker. You would know how not to act like one if you had a good mentor.”

“Ma’am? Are you offering to mentor me?”

“That would be inappropriate, not to mention unpleasant, given how thick you are. Put the cheque in your purse. Accept it as a generous payout from a concerned third party. Consider that you would get nothing after the inevitable demise of your opportunistic coupling.” Rue inhaled deeply and glared at Cassidy with a glacial glare. 

Cassidy picked up the cheque and neatly tucked it into her wallet, which she had retrieved from her purse. Rue continued, “Now, I’m going to introduce you to a stylist.” She turned her head towards the doorway behind her and called out. “Harlowe?”

A petite, curvy woman with ankle-length, rose pink dreadlocks entered the living room from an adjoining room. She was wearing a white dress that looked like an apron over a blue silk jumpsuit. There were thong sandals on her feet. The straps were bejewelled.

Picking up a pen and notepad from the table, Rue scribbled something on a page, tore it off, and handed it to Cassidy. “When Miss Harlowe is finished with you, arrive at that address, on that date, at nineteen o’clock, sharp. No plus ones, thank you.”

“Ma’am,” said Cassidy. Now intrigued as well as confused, she curtsied to Rue again and followed Harlowe into the adjoining room. She didn’t hear when the princess exited the suite.

(o^  ^o)

Hello everyone and thank you for reading. This is a rough draft of a scene in my novel, The Quarter Percent. Context is everything, I suppose.

Categories
creative writing fiction women writing

How did you meet your husband?

Praia and Augustine

“How did you meet your husband, Praia?”

“It is a very long story.”

“Start and keep going until you get to the end. My brain is saturated with work stuff. Cleanse me with your tale of true love.”

“I met him in Bhutan five years ago. I was already in country for three months when we met. I was a field tech volunteer with the Yoon-Kim Foundation. I was involved with Xu Ming, the film director. You might have heard of him?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“He was there to film a documentary about the Yoon-Kim Foundation. My boss asked me to guide him and his crew high up in the mountains. He wanted to capture some nature scenes. It was pure lust. At least, for him.”

“What about you? What was it for you?”

“I thought he was the one. He was humble, thoughtful and attentive. While I was deeply infatuated with Ming, I met my husband. He was taking a year off after finishing an internship. He decided to be a volunteer medic in Bhutan  while looking for fellowships. Everything was platonic. We went on hikes, explored some parks, had picnics, took photos. We didn’t hold hands or kiss or anything. He had a girlfriend back in Canada: a commercial pilot.”

“Hot stuff.”

“I was crushed when I saw her photos. Former Air Force pilot, two engineering degrees, speaks five languages, double D cup, skinny as a toothpick, super long legs, the type of creamy platinum blonde hair you only read about. He won the lottery ten times over, right?”

“Depends on what he wants.” 

“Good point. But I never thought that at the time. Well, one day, while we were waiting for a ride to pick us up from a remote village, he looked into my eyes and said he wanted me to run away with him to America.”

“What?”

“I thought he was joking. So I said what you just said.”

“What did he say?”

“He repeated what he said.”

“What did you do?”

“I asked him about the genius supermodel genius. I didn’t care if he thought I was insecure. She was dynamite.”

“What happened to Ming?”

“A few days after that shocking declaration, Ming called me from Shanghai. Anyway, I told him I loved him and he seemed happy. But a day later, I texted him to ask if he was coming  to Bhutan to see me. He told me he had to  be in Kyrgyzstan for a location shoot for that big budget film.”

“Nothing unusual about that.”

“When I told him I missed him, he laughed out loud and called me a silly girl.”

“Ahh …”

“Yes. I don’t remember what I said to him, but I felt stupid, thinking it was serious.”

“Then you ran into your husband’s arms?”

“No. The last thing I needed was a rebound fling from a non-thing. I found the most remote village in Bhutan and hid out there. I don’t think I showered for the first six weeks.”

“Rejection is pain.”

“I was ashamed and angry, and I took it out on myself. I believed that Ming was into me. It makes me cringe even now.”

“And then you ran into your husband’s arms?”

“Not yet. It’s a really long story. While I was outdoors rolling up tents one morning, my tablet lit up. It was Ming. He wanted to video conference but I had no makeup on, my hair was dirty and pinned up, I was in baggy pajamas, three parkas and mucking boots.”

“Sounds like you were having the time of your life out there.”

“Oh, I felt happy and free. Smelly, and … free. I looked at my tablet and for a moment thought about pressing the accept button. Let him see me looking destroyed.”

“How long was that moment?”

“It was long. But I chucked it in my bag and finished up my morning work duties. When I came home for my lunch break, I saw that I had a video message. Ming said he missed me and wanted me to fly to Paris to see him. He had an awards ceremony and wanted to bring me on the red carpet.”

“And?!”

“After what he put me through? He should have sent me an apology. I laughed out loud. I’m sure the entire village heard me.”

“Was it the kind of laugh you hear in movies when the villain realises he trekked across the universe, wiped out dozens of civilisations to retrieve a box, only to open it and realise it was empty the whole time?”

“Exactly. And I was laughing at myself. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He rejected me and there he was, begging me to drop everything and run to him.”

“Right? Was it a rebound summons?”

“Maybe? I didn’t think about that at the time. I remember thinking he was hideous. That’s when I finally took a shower. I had to scrub him off me.”

“Was it like waking up from a trance?”

“Not really. I think I started to feel better after accepting that I was being silly. He was  right about that. Now comes the part you’ve been waiting for.”

“Wait, I need more juice. All right… Go.”

“All right. So I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, after scrubbing a month’s worth of dead skin off my body. My hair is fluffed out and all over the place. I hear a knock on my door. I open it, thinking it’s one of the villagers …”

“Wait … it’s your husband at the door.”

“Yes. Accompanied by … genius supermodel genius.”

“Ugh…”

“She sparkles, by the way. I am sure it was the loads of highlighting primer she had on but let me say, she was the design template for hentai fantasy. She had translucent teeth, skin and hair.”

“Ugh….”

“They got a ride up to the village and wanted to ‘explore the area’.”

“How smug.”

“The way he looked at me though, you’d never believe he’d ever seen a woman before. I felt scared for a minute.”

“And, how did you react to the way he looked at you?”

“I pulled my ‘best bitch’ face and told them to see me at the village tuck shop after my work duties were done. It was only after they walked away that I realised I was wearing a pair of huge, neon yellow room slippers, a bright pink dressing gown, and no bra.”

“Please … stop. You met your supreme love rival, GSG, in a bathrobe?”

“And don’t forget that my nipples were poking through.”

“Crushing.”

“I face-planted on my bed. Anyway, when we all met up later, he was asking me if I was with someone. Like, a love interest. I thought he was looking for some sign that I wanted him, so I took a shot. I said that romance was elusive and that I wanted to run away to America, where I could meet people who understood the words coming out of my mouth.”

“What did GSG say to that?”

“She smiled sweetly, in her computer-generated-waifu way, and squeezed his hand. She was saying something inspiring, because she’s also a guru and totally into keeping it simple with her feather-soft complexion. But I could barely hear it because her engagement ring blinded me. It blinded me because it was that big.”

“Oh, no! Not again … This is not a romantic story, Praia. It’s a suspense horror thriller.”

“Believe me, a week later, I was this close to throwing myself off the side of a hill into a gully, when my phone rang. It was him. He was on his way to see me. I hung up.”

“How on earth did you both get married?! Wait a second. I need blueberry popcorn.”

“I’m getting there. When he shows up, we have a quarrel. The gist of it is that I ask him if he thinks I’d be grateful to let him get on me because he’s engaged to every otaku’s wet dream. I say I’m not interested in running away to America to get dumped. Not that I could even consider moving unless I had a job waiting.”

“Right on, babe.”

“So he pulls out a tablet with an electronic marriage license application. Downloaded it from the Canadian High Commission’s website. And filled in his part of it.”

“Where were you when this was happening?”

“In a staff lounge in the free medical clinic set up by the foundation.”

“So, he was engaged to someone else a week earlier, but he wanted to marry you right then, to prove he was serious about you?”

“It felt weird for sure, but I didn’t ask him about … GSG … because I was insecure and jealous.”

“But you signed the marriage license?”

“Yes. Two days later, the license cleared, we signed some forms and we were married.”

“So in other words, you really liked him?”

“I did.”

“Wait, you didn’t have a bash after you moved here.”

“Nope.”

“You must let me plan your wedding. I’m a disgraced ex-fashionista. I’ve got you covered.”

“All right! Go for it.”

( ◠ ‿ ◠ )

Have you made it to the end of this very long story?  This is a chapter from a work of fiction I’m writing. Reread a few chapters recently and I see there is lots of polishing to be done. Hopefully, time is on my side.

If you’d like to stay in touch with me on Twitter, this  is me: @dotjp_n. Or send me a message on this blog’s contact form. Have a great Tuesday.

Categories
creative writing fiction writing

Kissing

Temple kissing

Her face was fully inside his mouth when she realized that his hands had clamped her head in place. One of her eyeballs plopped out and dribbled along the teeth lining his lower jaw.  As it settled into a jagged crater, the eyeball surveyed an astral grey amalgam of filling. A nerve ending in the retina swapped that image with the screenshot of a scene from Robocop. The tiny hairs in her nostrils weren’t quite so swayed. This was a human, and the tiny hairs proved it by enhancing the coffee stains and cigarette smoke emanating from his lungs.

Her right shoulder chipped in to help. Twisting to the left, it wrenched her face from his grip. Taking the hint, her left hand pulled open the door of her car. She had been standing with her back to it so she was able to slide in, gracefully, bottom first.

As she steered her car right, to exit the driveway, the man’s narrow body flattened out in her rearview mirror. His knees and elbows were still bent. His hands flopped down at the wrist. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his open mouth, as if he had been rudely interrupted, mid-hunt.

“Eat or be eaten” sustains the appetite for the short term. But human tribes, under threat, preemptively culled predatory populations (of animals and cannibals) so that they themselves could thrive. She wondered if this had happened to the dinosaurs before they went extinct.

Image: Lakshmana Temple depiction of couple kissing, dates back to 950 AD.