::snaps open book and sighs heavily. One quarter of an ahn to write something. Ugh::
Alright, let me see. Again, reminded of why I spent so many years pretending to illiteracy, why journals are hateful things and commands to fill one even more so. Nevertheless. A command is a command. You seek to know why it is that I find any empowerment, any control in being nothing more than a nameless faceless trio of holes to be filled by men. I am utterly uncertain that I could possibly make you understand, but so be it.
There is a cycle to things, a natural rhythm that sky and earth together understand, each knowing the intricate steps of the dance. Sky knows when to rain, earth knows when to blossom, it is exactly and precisely as the Kings set it to be so. Forever and ever amen, right? Yes, and to every slave there is a rhythm and a dance as well.
Maybe, just maybe I believe that some small fragmentary, perhaps imaginary, segment of the slave populace is destined to find that one man in all the world for whom they were born. If such exists it is surely beyond my experience. Hell, I have never even ever, in all my years as a slave, been worthy of a singular spot in a man's collar. I have gone from brothel to estate to kennels to paga den. Always one among many and frankly, such has suited my purposes.
You see, for rain to fall a need for water must be known. For buds to blossom they must risk storm, infection, plucking and blight. The stones know the real truth. Cast a thousand winds upon the Sardar mountains and what have you got....mountains that still rise, majestic and strong. Cast a single hailstone against a flower and you have the ruination of what could have been beautiful.
I am constantly cast as the premiere tits and ass of whatever chain I serve on. I serve and serve well. I have yet to meet a man I cannot please sexually. To expect me to connect on an emotional level with three, five, seven or more men a day is.....absurd. They are not seeking to know more than how tightly my body grips them or how well my mouth pleases them. To be stone is to survive, throw any man my way and if either of us walks away wounded, let it be the man, else I am unable to serve my purpose the next day and the next and the next and the next...
You spoke of being complacent about sentiment. You could not be more wrong. I am well and truly used to being precisely what I am, a whore for the use of men. I have never been anything else. I know how to earn and how to please, I know how to draw a man in, be it sweetness and gentility he craves or violence he wishes to dispense on flesh he does not own.
Oh make no mistake, I am far from unaware of the needs of men. Those that hold at home cherished free women, even love slaves, that seek me out. Pour water over stones, it slides away, no visible mark left of having done so. Men can walk away sated, exhilerated even, but no mark remains of where they have spent the ahns. The erosion so slow, so infintesimal as to go unnoticed, and so is my slavery. Never burden yourself that I will become too complacent on affection. Truth is I would not know what to do with it if it came my way.
I will not risk the fragile bloom, too short a life built in by the very cycles of nature, borne out in truth again and again, I have witnessed more than one woman sobbing herself to sleep, disconsolate for the want of a man who claimed that elusive love. I find my strength in stone, not as adaptable as clay or as pretty as a blossom but functional, steady, unchanging and secure.
I believe it has been a quarter ahn.....
Friday, July 16, 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Transparency
I often wish I had a gift for flowing words and easy prose. Maybe that is a foolish thing for a slave to wish for, it really would not be as useful as cooking or even dance I suppose. Still, it would be nice to find that thoughts marshaled themselves into neat and clear sentences and that ink over rence could cleanse as effectively as soap and hot water over flesh.
Maybe this is why I was always so resistant to writing down my thoughts. I seem to have two speeds at which I function, the utterly calm and still facade that allows nothing within to permeate the reality around me or the roiling tumult of emotion so hot and furious it could scald my soul. Trouble with those speeds? Neither is effective or pleasant since the cold always thaws to fire then bottles back to frozen pain for a while again. How can it serve me, or anyone, to be caught in so cynical and useless a cycle?
What I ache for is transparency. You know, the sort of absolute vulnerable truth that a slave is supposed to be helpless to avoid and yet which I know so well no one really wants to see. It is not that I think those around me enjoy facades, in fact I am certain at least three would never tolerate it if they suspected. It is more the paradox of how can a slave be both truly open and transparent if what she feels is not pleasing? In such cases, what wins out....truth or pleasing?
Do motivations count? If I smile and writhe, seduce and tantalize all the while my heart is guarded and thoughts carefully shielded, is it so very wrong if my motivation is to let my own needs and feelings take second place to making those I serve happy? These thoughts weigh on me more and more as I observe the increasing chain. Observations, they lead to comparisons. Rightly or wrongly they do.
Am I as eager, as cheerful, as wanton, as intelligent, as...well, you get the point. My thoughts turn to questioning whether they, too, have a secret life that does not reflect on the surface. Do they too have pieces they seek to keep concealed lest they alter, perhaps irrevocably, the way they are seen as slaves and women? Things that are not evil or broken or even wrong, just not perhaps what would please the men they serve?
I do not often think of myself as insecure or timid, and those words really do not fit me. More closely I think introspective and self examining might be better, and those are also very unlikely to cross the mind of those I serve. I am finding the increasing depth of distance and bodies difficult, but I am rather determined to suss out why, even if it never brings enlightenment to anyone but myself.
I seek transparency but transparency with clarity and no, those are not the same. Right now I feel like a canvas upon which an artist has spilled a myriad of colors, swirls and streaks and fluid blends. Perhaps someday the colors and forms will coalesce into a portrait. I am hopeful.
Maybe this is why I was always so resistant to writing down my thoughts. I seem to have two speeds at which I function, the utterly calm and still facade that allows nothing within to permeate the reality around me or the roiling tumult of emotion so hot and furious it could scald my soul. Trouble with those speeds? Neither is effective or pleasant since the cold always thaws to fire then bottles back to frozen pain for a while again. How can it serve me, or anyone, to be caught in so cynical and useless a cycle?
What I ache for is transparency. You know, the sort of absolute vulnerable truth that a slave is supposed to be helpless to avoid and yet which I know so well no one really wants to see. It is not that I think those around me enjoy facades, in fact I am certain at least three would never tolerate it if they suspected. It is more the paradox of how can a slave be both truly open and transparent if what she feels is not pleasing? In such cases, what wins out....truth or pleasing?
Do motivations count? If I smile and writhe, seduce and tantalize all the while my heart is guarded and thoughts carefully shielded, is it so very wrong if my motivation is to let my own needs and feelings take second place to making those I serve happy? These thoughts weigh on me more and more as I observe the increasing chain. Observations, they lead to comparisons. Rightly or wrongly they do.
Am I as eager, as cheerful, as wanton, as intelligent, as...well, you get the point. My thoughts turn to questioning whether they, too, have a secret life that does not reflect on the surface. Do they too have pieces they seek to keep concealed lest they alter, perhaps irrevocably, the way they are seen as slaves and women? Things that are not evil or broken or even wrong, just not perhaps what would please the men they serve?
I do not often think of myself as insecure or timid, and those words really do not fit me. More closely I think introspective and self examining might be better, and those are also very unlikely to cross the mind of those I serve. I am finding the increasing depth of distance and bodies difficult, but I am rather determined to suss out why, even if it never brings enlightenment to anyone but myself.
I seek transparency but transparency with clarity and no, those are not the same. Right now I feel like a canvas upon which an artist has spilled a myriad of colors, swirls and streaks and fluid blends. Perhaps someday the colors and forms will coalesce into a portrait. I am hopeful.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Pawn to King's Rook in 3....2...1...
::having cried herself out she ate some bread and cheese and splashed cold water on hot cheeks. That was enough of that and she eyed the silent place, grabbing a piece of paper and scribbling a note::
my very great thanks for your help, I will find a way to repay your kindness
::No signature, she left the attic and booted fet made their way downstairs. A nod to the one guard she saw, dressed as she was from a distance he seemed unphased. Once out of the grounds she was off. When in doubt go to ground, seek roots and there was one place for that. Only three men might even guess she would go there. One was likely at his villa, another was missing and the third, well, here's hoping kindred minds might think alike tonight::
my very great thanks for your help, I will find a way to repay your kindness
::No signature, she left the attic and booted fet made their way downstairs. A nod to the one guard she saw, dressed as she was from a distance he seemed unphased. Once out of the grounds she was off. When in doubt go to ground, seek roots and there was one place for that. Only three men might even guess she would go there. One was likely at his villa, another was missing and the third, well, here's hoping kindred minds might think alike tonight::
Lost Soul
They said the name of this house is Lost Souls and I do not think a place has ever been more aptly named. Oh they have not mistreated me in any way in fact Master Drystan was almost solicitous in seeing that I was as comfortable as one can be when secreted in an attic holding several jit monkeys.
Everything feels wrong though and the weight of worry has settled tight and close around me like wet suffocating cotton. The clothes I wear, men's clothing, it makes my flesh crawl. The place is strange and the jits are loud and nothing has been right since I found Master's clothing bloody, his harness as well tacky with dried blood in the trees at the falls park last night.
Master Kade said perhaps Master did it himself, a ploy to snare Skirt into finding him, but I cannot even imagine that in my mind. Not sure which is a worse thing to consider, that he would do so base a thing or that he would be so weak as to trick her into seeking him. No, no I cannot concieve of him doing that.
Frustrated. I was very frustrated last night, a part of me just knowing that something is wrong, deeply wrong. Master told me of the thief he left with a placard in the area of the Plaza of Tarns. He knows I knew the one woman, with the corpse, he even had Kade searching for her. Then he goes missing and why in the hell does it feel like I am the only one believing that the city should stop and a full search be made?
Probably because I am only a slave. I even know better logically. Men get into fights, the underbelly of the Anbar seethes and roils with chaos and danger every ahn of every day. I went to find Mads today, surely if anyone could think of a plan her Master would be able to. We were with a group of young people and just as we began to speak of the disappearance, a trio of city guards showed up in the city square.
We heard enough to make my skin run cold, they were seeking Master and for questioning. I had even gotten up to approach a guard when Master Nash called me to him, I went and bowed my head right to the stones, concealing my collar. They left and Master Nash ran off to try and get to the den before they did...we heard them say they were off to search his property for information.
Mistress Rami gave me a cap and the clothing of a male slave and we went to the cave above the waterfalls. The news was not good when Master Nash returned to join us. The Den had been searched brutally and he heard the one guard saying to find the black bitch. Sometimes I wish I were easier to conceal but after much discussion they decided the safest thing to do was to bring me here to a house I have never seen by a man I do not know.
What if they find the will though? What if the Scribe is implicated? Short of finding Master alive and well I want nothing more in this world than to see the Scribe. I ache for some form of familiarity, some pause to the dark desperate thoughts that are crushing my head. All of the what ifs collide and sitting here helpless, unaware of what transpires, it is making me mad.
What if Master is dead?
What if the ones he sought found him first?
What if, being barbarian, he has been sold into slavery?
What if he does come back, only to be arrested?
What if the city guards get hold of me?
What if the people I care for get hurt over all of this?
What if I am left here....
I have not cried since finding the clothing. Too much to do, too many thoughts, too many reasons to have to be strong. I do not think the jits will care though and even I have my breaking point....
Everything feels wrong though and the weight of worry has settled tight and close around me like wet suffocating cotton. The clothes I wear, men's clothing, it makes my flesh crawl. The place is strange and the jits are loud and nothing has been right since I found Master's clothing bloody, his harness as well tacky with dried blood in the trees at the falls park last night.
Master Kade said perhaps Master did it himself, a ploy to snare Skirt into finding him, but I cannot even imagine that in my mind. Not sure which is a worse thing to consider, that he would do so base a thing or that he would be so weak as to trick her into seeking him. No, no I cannot concieve of him doing that.
Frustrated. I was very frustrated last night, a part of me just knowing that something is wrong, deeply wrong. Master told me of the thief he left with a placard in the area of the Plaza of Tarns. He knows I knew the one woman, with the corpse, he even had Kade searching for her. Then he goes missing and why in the hell does it feel like I am the only one believing that the city should stop and a full search be made?
Probably because I am only a slave. I even know better logically. Men get into fights, the underbelly of the Anbar seethes and roils with chaos and danger every ahn of every day. I went to find Mads today, surely if anyone could think of a plan her Master would be able to. We were with a group of young people and just as we began to speak of the disappearance, a trio of city guards showed up in the city square.
We heard enough to make my skin run cold, they were seeking Master and for questioning. I had even gotten up to approach a guard when Master Nash called me to him, I went and bowed my head right to the stones, concealing my collar. They left and Master Nash ran off to try and get to the den before they did...we heard them say they were off to search his property for information.
Mistress Rami gave me a cap and the clothing of a male slave and we went to the cave above the waterfalls. The news was not good when Master Nash returned to join us. The Den had been searched brutally and he heard the one guard saying to find the black bitch. Sometimes I wish I were easier to conceal but after much discussion they decided the safest thing to do was to bring me here to a house I have never seen by a man I do not know.
What if they find the will though? What if the Scribe is implicated? Short of finding Master alive and well I want nothing more in this world than to see the Scribe. I ache for some form of familiarity, some pause to the dark desperate thoughts that are crushing my head. All of the what ifs collide and sitting here helpless, unaware of what transpires, it is making me mad.
What if Master is dead?
What if the ones he sought found him first?
What if, being barbarian, he has been sold into slavery?
What if he does come back, only to be arrested?
What if the city guards get hold of me?
What if the people I care for get hurt over all of this?
What if I am left here....
I have not cried since finding the clothing. Too much to do, too many thoughts, too many reasons to have to be strong. I do not think the jits will care though and even I have my breaking point....
words words words
Sometimes I feel as though words are too much, but then my thoughts continue to spin and what good has it done me in the petty refusal to put them to paper? None really. They are still there, in fact they seem to grow weight each day and so, I surrender. Here are my words. Good, bad, ugly, all of the words. May they free me from the cling of melancholy.
He freed her. I almost understand that. What I grieve is that neither of them saw the need or even desire in letting me say goodbye. The deed was done long past whn finally he admitted it. By then, who knows. She might well be in Tor by now, or Schendi or hell, maybe she has fallen to another's collar. I wouldn't know. She was my friend and he my Master. I assumed too much I suppose in thinking that either factored in the ripple effect every action has.
Maybe I have no right to be upset by it all. Too bad. I am. I am upset about a lot of things these days and all of them each to its very core comes back to my growing belief that I am simply not quite right. I feel very much as if the tide is going out as I stand still, mired deeper and deeper in sand and helpless against the rising waters. I suppose it is fitting for a slave be that...helpless.
I do not like change especially. I go to the parks and feel a sense of loss, no more fireside talks, no more going to familiar feet and being permitted to touch and be touched. Kade has barely looked upon me in a hand or more now. I will not pretend it does not hurt. The Scribe is a busy man, but I will not pretend that I do not crave time with him. Zebediah is my Master, but he is nursing a hurt I am not fully sure he knows he has. The Magistrate, he too has had little use for me.
I feel many things. Jealous, insecure, hurt, lonely, hopeful, sensual, emboldened a bit, steady. So many contradicitions. Maybe steady is not so good when all around me turns like a mosaic that spins too fast to follow the stories told in each tile and bit of glass. I don't know and that simple truth irritates me all to hell. I prefer to know things.
I know I am fuckable, desireable, sensual, outspoken, salacious, wanton. See, those are things I can hold tight to. They do not change. Except when they do, as in the desireable part. Still, the rest hold true.
I want to be the lovely dancer setting the pole afire, I wang to be the slave called to a man's side and held close, stroked and petted. Hell, sometimes, in my most secret self I want to be the slave that is loved, though I'd settle for lovable. These are all just words though, silly useless self serving pathetic words that can burn to ash in a heartbeat.
He asked me if I needed to be coddled. No. I do not need to be. Sometimes I want to be but that brings me back to feeling versus knowing versus wanting. Here on these pages I can spill out my thoughts and feelings. Nowhere else. A smiling slave is a pleasing slave and it is no lie, no front, no deceit. I will live for him, for the men I serve. I even take pleasure in doing so, for while I stand knee deep in rising waters, they deserve and will have better of me than they have of late.
The words? Are just that, words on a page. Of no consequence whatsoever.
He freed her. I almost understand that. What I grieve is that neither of them saw the need or even desire in letting me say goodbye. The deed was done long past whn finally he admitted it. By then, who knows. She might well be in Tor by now, or Schendi or hell, maybe she has fallen to another's collar. I wouldn't know. She was my friend and he my Master. I assumed too much I suppose in thinking that either factored in the ripple effect every action has.
Maybe I have no right to be upset by it all. Too bad. I am. I am upset about a lot of things these days and all of them each to its very core comes back to my growing belief that I am simply not quite right. I feel very much as if the tide is going out as I stand still, mired deeper and deeper in sand and helpless against the rising waters. I suppose it is fitting for a slave be that...helpless.
I do not like change especially. I go to the parks and feel a sense of loss, no more fireside talks, no more going to familiar feet and being permitted to touch and be touched. Kade has barely looked upon me in a hand or more now. I will not pretend it does not hurt. The Scribe is a busy man, but I will not pretend that I do not crave time with him. Zebediah is my Master, but he is nursing a hurt I am not fully sure he knows he has. The Magistrate, he too has had little use for me.
I feel many things. Jealous, insecure, hurt, lonely, hopeful, sensual, emboldened a bit, steady. So many contradicitions. Maybe steady is not so good when all around me turns like a mosaic that spins too fast to follow the stories told in each tile and bit of glass. I don't know and that simple truth irritates me all to hell. I prefer to know things.
I know I am fuckable, desireable, sensual, outspoken, salacious, wanton. See, those are things I can hold tight to. They do not change. Except when they do, as in the desireable part. Still, the rest hold true.
I want to be the lovely dancer setting the pole afire, I wang to be the slave called to a man's side and held close, stroked and petted. Hell, sometimes, in my most secret self I want to be the slave that is loved, though I'd settle for lovable. These are all just words though, silly useless self serving pathetic words that can burn to ash in a heartbeat.
He asked me if I needed to be coddled. No. I do not need to be. Sometimes I want to be but that brings me back to feeling versus knowing versus wanting. Here on these pages I can spill out my thoughts and feelings. Nowhere else. A smiling slave is a pleasing slave and it is no lie, no front, no deceit. I will live for him, for the men I serve. I even take pleasure in doing so, for while I stand knee deep in rising waters, they deserve and will have better of me than they have of late.
The words? Are just that, words on a page. Of no consequence whatsoever.
Too
I feel.....well, period.
I feel too much too deeply too ugly too jealous too needy too fragile too brazen too worried too shaken too tall too Gorean too dark too hurt too much..it is all just too much.
This was not supposed to happen, it was never supposed to happen and I am mad as fuck that it is. Rather like opening a hole in a dam, the pressure behind the small tear is too much and all of the emotions behind keep flaring out and running amuck and I sit here sometimes and see myself in the glass and wonder who the hell I am and what happened to who I always was.
He no longer desires me.
He says I should be happy. That he will seek his pleasure elsewhere in certain regards. On th one hand, if it prevents me from fucking up again, maybe I should be happy. But it goes deeper than that. Nowhere in his words or tone was there even a hint that he thinks I can improve or change. What slave would be happy about that? He said he will not play games and I wanted to smack him.
Game playing? I have never been a game player and I cannot help but feel that some portion of his response is colored by his experiences with others. That he is giving up makes me freeze like a tabuk hearing a hunter's step. Do I charge ahead, run away, stay still? I do not know, I have no idea what will make it better, or if it can ever be made better if he has no faith that I can succeed where I failed once.
I think that is what has me the most upset, the thought that he will so easily go elsewhere or, as he put it, find himself a slave more willing to please him. As if I am not willing, have not been willing...I do not understand.
I think it is kind of funny that I strove some months back to be less about the sensuality and more about the intellect. That did not work out either but at least in that endeavor I did not fail so spectacularly.
I will not give vent to these feelings elsewhere, they are displeasing, I have been told so. I will not allow myself to look beyond the steel that binds me, it is not my place to do so anyway and I was foolish to let myself become embroiled in emotion.
He has his love slave.
I earn him coin.
I will just have to be okay with that.
Hell, if it pleases him then it is not even so very bad a thing. I'll find a way to brace the dam and stem the tide. I have to, for so very many reasons.
I feel too much too deeply too ugly too jealous too needy too fragile too brazen too worried too shaken too tall too Gorean too dark too hurt too much..it is all just too much.
This was not supposed to happen, it was never supposed to happen and I am mad as fuck that it is. Rather like opening a hole in a dam, the pressure behind the small tear is too much and all of the emotions behind keep flaring out and running amuck and I sit here sometimes and see myself in the glass and wonder who the hell I am and what happened to who I always was.
He no longer desires me.
He says I should be happy. That he will seek his pleasure elsewhere in certain regards. On th one hand, if it prevents me from fucking up again, maybe I should be happy. But it goes deeper than that. Nowhere in his words or tone was there even a hint that he thinks I can improve or change. What slave would be happy about that? He said he will not play games and I wanted to smack him.
Game playing? I have never been a game player and I cannot help but feel that some portion of his response is colored by his experiences with others. That he is giving up makes me freeze like a tabuk hearing a hunter's step. Do I charge ahead, run away, stay still? I do not know, I have no idea what will make it better, or if it can ever be made better if he has no faith that I can succeed where I failed once.
I think that is what has me the most upset, the thought that he will so easily go elsewhere or, as he put it, find himself a slave more willing to please him. As if I am not willing, have not been willing...I do not understand.
I think it is kind of funny that I strove some months back to be less about the sensuality and more about the intellect. That did not work out either but at least in that endeavor I did not fail so spectacularly.
I will not give vent to these feelings elsewhere, they are displeasing, I have been told so. I will not allow myself to look beyond the steel that binds me, it is not my place to do so anyway and I was foolish to let myself become embroiled in emotion.
He has his love slave.
I earn him coin.
I will just have to be okay with that.
Hell, if it pleases him then it is not even so very bad a thing. I'll find a way to brace the dam and stem the tide. I have to, for so very many reasons.
Shades of Green
I used to think of myself as a simple slave. Really, not a whole lot of twisting snakes of complexity beneath the surface all in all. I do not seek freedom, I enjoy serving, I thrive in the steel of men.
I cried yesterday.
Not a brief spring shower either, the sort of crying that leaves your stomach hurting and head thick with hot cotton and sleep the only possible refuge from the exhausted emptiness that follows a truly thorough sob session.
I hated it.
I am so deeply ashamed. Strange, really. I have done things over my time in a collar that would make most slaves pall, and yet this had nothing to do with a specific act or even a style of service. I was jealous. Kings, I cringe even writing that. The slave was nothing extraordinary, pretty enough, seemed trained, so....why?
I have been accused recently of having more emotional issues. I had not thought of it in those terms, but on reflection, maybe there is truth to that. I am at a loss really. There was refuge in the easy sublimation of emotion to seduction. Uncomplicated, smooth, pleasing. Ever a smile, never a tear, it...worked.
I need to work on that. The notion that slaves should be emotional people, easy to read and helplessly vulnerable? No. The tears at the springs were likewise displeasing and on the whole, I think I prefer the cool surface of calm over the seething roil of emotions that I have no idea their source and damned little hold onthem.
I just wish I could turn the thoughts off, the creeping feel of dread and shame weighs on me like a double weight cloak and I have no current solution for the feelings. I ache for the clean fire of the whip, the refuge in tears clear and understandable and the lingering ache of knowing that leather eradicated what clings to me like cold spider silk.
He would never understand, I cannot risk the disappointment. I'll force it down, stomp it over. In the meantime, I will wait. It will be hard, so very hard, but I will wait. Perhaps I will be pleasing in the sufferance, that is a hope.
I cried yesterday.
Not a brief spring shower either, the sort of crying that leaves your stomach hurting and head thick with hot cotton and sleep the only possible refuge from the exhausted emptiness that follows a truly thorough sob session.
I hated it.
I am so deeply ashamed. Strange, really. I have done things over my time in a collar that would make most slaves pall, and yet this had nothing to do with a specific act or even a style of service. I was jealous. Kings, I cringe even writing that. The slave was nothing extraordinary, pretty enough, seemed trained, so....why?
I have been accused recently of having more emotional issues. I had not thought of it in those terms, but on reflection, maybe there is truth to that. I am at a loss really. There was refuge in the easy sublimation of emotion to seduction. Uncomplicated, smooth, pleasing. Ever a smile, never a tear, it...worked.
I need to work on that. The notion that slaves should be emotional people, easy to read and helplessly vulnerable? No. The tears at the springs were likewise displeasing and on the whole, I think I prefer the cool surface of calm over the seething roil of emotions that I have no idea their source and damned little hold onthem.
I just wish I could turn the thoughts off, the creeping feel of dread and shame weighs on me like a double weight cloak and I have no current solution for the feelings. I ache for the clean fire of the whip, the refuge in tears clear and understandable and the lingering ache of knowing that leather eradicated what clings to me like cold spider silk.
He would never understand, I cannot risk the disappointment. I'll force it down, stomp it over. In the meantime, I will wait. It will be hard, so very hard, but I will wait. Perhaps I will be pleasing in the sufferance, that is a hope.
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