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shadow on the wall - Deimos - 11-18-2012 What becomes of a being that cannot feel, that cannot touch, that cannot embrace the glow of others? That cannot taste the whimsy of life, that cannot offer its own sentiments to the world? Does it waste away, drown in its barrenness? Or does it grow stronger, pull ever more away from the pleasures of the earth, and remain detached, thriving on immorality, conjuring entropy from the swift touch of its poisonous abyss? What becomes of the world when the creature falls ever further, when the pariah to emotion is unleashed on regal palisades? He was like winter: tragic, chaotic, beautiful and cold. A gift from a frosty, heathen muse, engraved from ice, he struck in the chilling, silent halls, disheartened the frail, brought a lethal wake to fragile, feeble existences. A ravenous knife, twisting and gliding through the perilous winds and predacious, glacial sinew, an untouched, sullen slide amongst an oeuvre of the forlorn, the desolate. He reaped calamity, sowed persecution, blended the turbulent, anarchical threads of portended sentiments into the woebegone strands of the earth, absconded precious tidings of life, slashed, pierced, punctured the latent virtues of vestal creatures. He ruined, he scarred, he scorched, caught and tainted, ushered the condemning, damning swing of his scythe; he could have been a frozen piece of the landscape, torturing in the infernal ache of silence, snow and treachery, still, silent, grand and menacing. With his brutal malice he could sear the world’s flesh to bone, with his trenchant, morose rapier he could slice hope from dreamers, erase the wanton, yearning fixtures from divine creatures. With his frigid, graceful, enigmatic presence, he could torment the valiant, subdue the weak, dragoon the inadequate, command and demand their existence be forfeit. So wicked, so unrelenting, so ruthless in the labyrinthine midst of power, puissance, and dominion, the authority of his savage entity lent to the stoic, unfurling air of insurrection and bedlam, laid waste to the proud, wretched of lesser mortals. Glacial and morose, Siberian and Stygian, tainted by the whims of curses and derived from enchantments, carved from the hot blade of a licentious creed, he was the arctic, the tundra, the chill of hushed armaments, of unsung sieges, of augured blights. Acrimony, vengeance, hostility and malevolence, blended into the pariah, barbarous rapture of his feral discord, molten indignation, bestial reverie. Offering no warmth, no guidance, no heart in the Tartarean guile, in the Mephistopheles maelstrom, in the abhorrent disdain, he was endless carnage, eternal decadence, the raw, biting glimpse of annihilation captured in carnal form. The wake of his vicious turmoil breathed from his statuesque frame, immorality, primordial treachery, slinking from his bones, pulsing from his veins, beating the veil of unsung violence, of unholy possession, of stoic, reclusive scheming. An ethereal relic, a detached, immobile sword with no scabbard in place, scintillating, devouring, consuming. He stood upon the wake of the earth and promised violence, ushered hedonistic elation, allured danger and finessed forbidding, the undying, severe clarity of an overwhelming monster, irrepressible, irresistible monster. Enticement in the boughs of death and isolation, minatory, sinister terror, the enveloping veil of harboring strife, craving sedition, ferocious, argent domination. He strangled the cold, unrelenting air with his own archaic, nefarious influence, felt the few living creatures burying their heads in dormant soil, hiding their roots from his raptorial predilection. Alone on the mordant artifice, he melded and fused to the tundra’s expanse, became the snow, the ice, the chilling, remorseless ether. [For Krazie. <3] RE: shadow on the wall - Huyana - 11-24-2012
RE: shadow on the wall - Deimos - 11-25-2012 Deimos stared into oblivion, that iniquitous, abhorrent gaze locking onto snippets of peace and lacing his acrimony into its virtuous slits, a puncturing lance amongst the trembling horizon, the yearning, burning haze of calamity and destruction. The beguiling creation of his heathen sanctity stood, breathing predilection, shepherding augured travesties, amongst the ethereal world and devoured its aspirations. Ever the blight, the scourge, the plague, the behemoth ushered nothing but the slate of his cruelty, the chilling frost, villainous grandeur, the suffocating expanse of strangled silence. He could ruin the finest halls with his keen predilection, with his overwhelming allure, with the hedonistic elation of heathen munitions, tempt and delude, possess and destroy. He was the black cloud and the decadent dusk that promised wreckage, disaster and decay, the withering contortions and distortions of a realm sundered by maledictions and moroseness. Like a laureate’s grim, morbid mirth, rapture, he was twisted into the armaments of siege and stillness, to prosper violence, to shelter hushed boughs, dissonant serenity. To the gallows and the shadows, executioner and recluse, fostered and renewed in the darkness of passing days, forgotten tranquility stolen by the barbs of sedition, smoldering havoc, severe, enigmatic reticence. Cool, and close to naught, never tempted by the harpsichord rhapsody of virtue and enveloping veils of beneficence, companion to the reaper’s scythe and the deadly cords of immorality; friend to none and enemy to all. Primal duplicity, innate and inherent, lingered in the bestial movements of his chaotic bliss, of his unholy insurrections, of the beating, bleeding heart with its frozen edges and debauched soul. Slaughter and obliteration, lethality and venom carved into each undulating muscle, lacquered and layered piece by piece into his molten, infernal carnage; unrelenting, pending menace coiled into a hallowed, hollow vessel, stitched into stoic friction, into imperial discord. He heard her appearance before she claimed a voice, the rainchild stroking against ice, twirling in the midst of chilling, ravenous air, unwinding in the ivory abyss. He thought to ignore her, to chase away her presence like so many before, taut, minute motions that offered brutality, intimidation and annihilation, where forgiveness couldn’t reach, where massacre reached a whimsical weaver and seethed in their bitter plaits. His gaze reached elsewhere, studying the vast, evergreen expanse below the tundra’s pale line, the predacious opulence of danger and forbidding, the argent domination blooming against the sky, away from the mystical, fanciful design she contorted and cavorted. But she didn’t allow him the chiseled forlorn expanse, she didn’t grant him the desolation, the malice of a familiar despair and despondency, prospering the dreamy, otherworldly grace that seraphs could charm and offer. She stayed, remained, and he could not help but wonder why. He nearly snarled, yearning for the sanctity of his eternal suffering, everlasting detachment and predatory amour, not the embrace, warm and inviting, of jovial pursuits and effortless candor. Instead, he kept that piercing stare locked onto the earth, escaping her relentless clutches – until her singsong entropy caught his ears, harked and called for his attention. Death, she sang, she crooned, she murmured in the midst, and for some odd reason he felt the need to correct her, that such a calling was not the only thing he was known for (but quickly realizing that it was, this poisonous haze that shattered souls into nothingness, this noxious mortality that ensconced and rippled from his veins). Deep, guttural, and grating, his voice hissed against the flesh of air, swift, pernicious in its own depravity. ”It is Deimos.” He dared not face her, because there was something destructive in her sheen, in the cerulean shape of her frame, and he didn’t want the sinister, moral decay, feeling to flee, be drained, from his chest. RE: shadow on the wall - Huyana - 11-25-2012
RE: shadow on the wall - Deimos - 11-25-2012 Strung by bayonets, rapiers and cutlasses, he wanted to be left alone, lacquered in his puissance, varnished in his melancholy, sown and tossed away into the frosty, glacial portal of malignant threads, where he could consume, devour, and destroy the earth in one abhorrent incision. Desolation was his shelter, his sanctuary, a mantle of barren, wild temptation that harpooned weaker spirits into incomplete, delicate creatures; that lifted him to corruptible, baleful heights, beloved in the devilish croon of predilection, presaged villainy. The fiendish, demonic scion, encased in the decaying isolation, craved for its solitude, yearned for its seclusion, where detachment was a tapestry woven from his decrepit, inveigling enchantments, swallowing each virtue whole, calamity and bedlam smoldering in his unholy chest. His prowess demanded the scintillating scorch of withdrawal, the meticulous sequestering of starkness, bleak and pale, amassed in winter’s gaze, in the frigid march of the heathen wind. She threatened to invade it entirely, this fragile, delicate wisp of spring, strings of charity he did not deserve nor hunger for, cordiality that stung his eyes and lapped at his malevolence. He didn’t know why she bothered to stray in the regions of his heresy; there was naught to see there, underneath the enamel of immorality and mayhem, acrimony and villainy. He breathed in the polar vapor, strengthened his vigilant core, felt the pulse of its miserable strands bind to his veins, steel him further into molten marble, into statuesque brutality. Only the hot roll of muscles bound to his jaw could be seen, the grind of ivory against ivory, the fierce, feral rampancy of his irritation, not voiced, not solidified by his tongue, but by the reel of his severity, the Mephistophelean despondency embroiled in his warrior prose and poise. Layers of ire tangled themselves in his few, minute motions, the ravenous elegance of a nefarious, raptorial titan, whispers of havoc crawling from his heathen bastion. What would it take for her to disappear? What would he have to enact for her to be plucked away from the roots of his forbidding, the callous world of his privacy? He could take her heart and rip it from her body, he could abscond her soul and offer it to the underworld, and he could tear her from limb to limb and leave only the shocking, startling rivulet of red to stain the snow. Would she still smile at him then, and deny to be banished? Even now, Deimos refused to glimpse upon her, glaring into the wilderness, plundering the snowfall with the heinous disregard for anything and everything, waiting for her to crumble away, to be pilfered by the midst, by the abyss, to be the only one bearing witness to the tundra’s clarity. Her words echoed off the expanse of ice, bounding for the wind, chilled and serious, not a sonnet’s stanza but a resolute clamor that bristled against his argent body. Did you fight? He could have chuckled, dark and foreboding, but didn’t. Amongst his heavy silence, that hushed, portended strife, the battlefield was the only place he sang. It was his maelstrom composition, the heady, curling, unfurling whim of blood flowing from his sword, the savage, bestial requiem that sprung from his still lips, the carnivore rapture, the infernal splendor that prospered and awakened his ferocity, his ruthlessness. Not for valiancy, not for knightly, obstinate humility, but for the blackguard carving of his barbarity, the swinging, loathsome scythe that clung to his soul and longed for acrimony, for revolution, for insurgency that wrapped around his vessel and let it croon. Chaos and duty had fastened him to that terrain, where invaders stole, where mayhem reigned, and he’d been so immersed in that fervent blade, in that feverish, pyrrhic ecstasy, the devilish friction of war that for once he’d felt whole. He’d do it all again, over and over, driving the onslaught of his corrupted essence into the bliss of Ares’ reverie, brutal, fierce and violent, erupting into the frame of his blackened, corroded heart – and this girl, this tender nuance of gentleness and divinity would scream at the vicious, iniquitous candor that reigned from his hedonistic fervor. He had no regrets, no rancor sprung from the supremacy of his mercenary splendor, he’d overwhelmed, he’d conquered, he’d tortured and he’d killed, left a body upon the floor to become ash and soil – he’d been the ethereal ruin, he’d been the namesake his parents had bestowed upon him, he’d been everything mayhem and depravity could have asked for. He’d breathe it once more too, the sweeping taste of carnage, possess it in his grasp and render it his predator enticement. “Yes.” His answer, swift and strident, poured towards her, inky and seditious, a winding, slender wound that swallowed the hush surrounding his ethereal carcass. He knew she hadn’t been there, he would have recalled the rush of blue in the mass of colliding bodies, and she couldn’t hark the cords of atrocity to hum against her movements. Yet, still, his eyes settled elsewhere, claiming the oeuvre of his forlorn cataclysm against the rocky outcrops of stone and snow: not willing to answer the other queries that had likely settled into her expression. RE: shadow on the wall - Huyana - 12-08-2012
RE: shadow on the wall - Deimos - 12-09-2012 Undying frivolities and intrigue; she stayed, lingering in the way a placid spring does, listless and languid, tranquil and serene, and he strayed, stare fixating on the walls of winter, so that he would remain forever locked in place. Slinking in the boughs of his calamity, the minute, unwinding motions of control, every fiber gripped and ensnared by the meticulous persecution of his sinister canon. In the darkest, dimmest hours of earth, he’d still devour and dragoon, contort and compel, bringing the fiercest flames of his recoil and grace to the strangling hold of his ruthless tenacity. He strangled and reaped, and when his hot knife had scalded every creation, he would rest in the wake of his turmoil and bedlam. Potency, archaic and primordial, drenched his existence in the overwhelming furor of his imperious distortion. She couldn’t change that, the little dabble, the tiny snippet, the singsong sonnet of sorrow and melancholy, blanketing the tundra in that vernal harpsichord she’d arched and woven around the frigid threshold. Yet, she was quiet, so hushed along the confidence of his unholy sedition, the layers of his scintillating, ripping annihilation, the ravenous, simmering depravity of his formation, that he did naught but withstand, endure, the silken threads of her aura. Instead, he struggled to glare against the horizon, watching and hoping that it too shattered from the forces of his debauchery, the rampant decree of his predacious splendor, to counter the weight of her radiance, of her luminescence. She threw him not a single barb, did not threaten the livelihood of his countenance, did not chew upon his hedonistic scenery as if it were not a lethal canvas, and simply abided the silent tones of his imperious recherché. She didn’t wither, she didn’t push, she didn’t transgress, she didn’t unravel from the seams of the waiting chill, and when she didn’t vanish he settled into the reach of her ethereal element, let the snow cast upon the shades of his argent enigma, allowed himself to be buried, a rotting denizen, in the earthen tides of contemplation, opulence and iron. She murmured something quickly, a swift, angelic, corporeal stance so brisk and muted that he barely caught the whisper, found himself leaning in her direction, twisting an ear to revel in the reverie of her morose qualms and quelling. I’ve lost so much; he knew nothing about her except the visceral pain she carried, cherished like a beloved, martyred and ruined against the outcrop of rock and ice. Her statement caused a slight stir of curiosity amongst his brow; it furrowed for a few moments, unseen and untouched by her eyes, turned to stare at the woods and cliffs. They were vastly similar, painted by rims and dark hues, where his colors ran into vices and hers into virtues, both ultimately scattered into pieces, either by birth or circumstance. He’d had something once too, a family to admire and preserve in his blackened, shriveled heart, long since passed by the way of life, and he still revered them, held them aloft in his esteem when his actions proved true and worthy. But then, they were gone, and his youthful glow had weakened, and the ghastly scion had been punctured, pierced, cooled and deluded by the curse, by the gift, clinging to his veins, to his muscles, to the rancorous coil of his thoughts and sentiments. What had she treasured? What had she mislaid? What had been consigned to oblivion in her eyes? Did she rupture it; cause her own misfortunes, tracing the weary castles of the world until there was naught left, lacerated, pierced, broken, forgotten? Gone before she had a moment to toss farewells across her lips? What was it like to have and then lose? Was it worse to trap it in your grasp and let it fly away seasons later, or to never embark on the venture at all? His silence brewed, pervaded in the crisp shades of immorality, the culminating friction of wasted, ravaged bliss, exposed to the harsh regions of maelstroms of acrimony, never to return. He fed on ferocity, and forgot what it was to drink in the ambrosia of life. Slowly, ever so slightly, his graceful, disastrous head pivoted towards her direction. He allowed the severe stare of his blue eyes to pierce her then, lacing the contours of her desolation, watching lashes curl against cheeks before lifting again. Her strange smile appeared afresh, anew, and he didn’t understand it, the ability of a crumpled soul to become enraptured once more, laced by the wings of verses and stanzas of the earth and air. He’d never fractured or splintered, and so couldn’t relate to the chiseled curves of a tired grin, couldn’t find it in his heart to return the painful beam. Instead, he embarked on domination, authority, mastery of maelstrom and decadence, proud, arrogant, but always, forever, eternally worthy of its scrupulous merit. Even in the midst of defeat, he often found a way to conquer, to triumph, to bludgeon and scar, rid the world of its full conquests and fineries. He blinked once or twice, deliberate, diligent motions designed to rid her frame of its sheen, perhaps her passions, her ardency, would recede, be born again elsewhere, another time, another place, where his apathetic gaze did not have to burn from its opulent glimmer. But the reverie and rapture remained, and he looked away again, away from seraphs and sorrows. His voice, however, kindled its rough, sibilating grate, the whisper of demons and infidels, still unrefined, still dissolute, but reaching, extending, towards the revel of her figure and creation. If only because she didn’t condemn him, if only because she didn’t scorn him, deride him, seek to rid him of his infernal, nefarious puissance, and merely sought solitude in the wake of his heinous deliverance. Curiosity, he supposed, was a very strange thing to have, but he held it, displayed it, bore it aloft so she could see, hear, and witness. “What is your name?” RE: shadow on the wall - Huyana - 12-14-2012
RE: shadow on the wall - Deimos - 12-23-2012 Discordant serenity shattered and fragmented into the aura of the skyline, where the chiseled walls of his resolute, debauched soul tore against the world, the rush of the soil sinking into the depths of his desecration, and where she, vernal tranquility, watched from the callous wings of doleful quandaries. In the still realm of destruction and repose, he yearned for calamity, the pitch, the divide, the rift of anarchy and insurrection, for otherwise he was lost, bearing weight in the refined expanse of elegiac shards. What would he be without the resolution, the dissolution and the revolution of lethality, mortality, defeat at the hands of a mute rapier? But she didn’t provide it, that yearning, aching brew of sedition, of derision, of gall and treachery, of perilous punctures that sealed doom, that paralyzed and choked, that lacerated until the world overflowed with death, delivering a requiem for another void soul. Instead, she smiled, stirring, incensing irony in the grasp of all rancorous fools, all bitter delusions of opulence and decadence, whispering heartache, sculpting despair from snow and ice, and his winter grace became consumed in that lament for solitude once more. What was he without the clamor of insurgence, without the din of provocation, without the stifling, devouring, rapacious cling of ravenous rapture, unholy disorder, contorting, distorting immorality? Always the predator amore, always the carnivore reverie, always the despondent, forlorn, desolate soldier slinking in the midnight oils, soaked in Stygian ardor, cloaked in the irreverent, wicked shades of corruption and dissipation, infernal, chaotic bliss locked in a scabbard. He was pariah and power, composure and control, and this unwinding palisade, the slinking apertures of paradoxes and incongruity, would not change him, would not unravel him into the many sinuous layers beneath the meticulous, grinding puissance and pernicious slate of his heathenous creation. He would ravage, he would ruin, he would demolish and wreak havoc until the world collapsed upon itself, degenerate and debauched, slain in the brutality of his might. Her smiles wouldn’t change that. Yet, he still watched her, the hushed overseer of strife and woe, terror and fear, looming in the disgrace of weakness, of humanity, never wondering where his had gone, vanished and vanquished, renounced and abhorred. She doesn’t flinch from his foul tides, from his irreverent, infidel enmity, the quiet, unwavering poise grasped and ensnared from some other core of strength, where the virtuous vessels of life are scarred, helpless, seething tombs and tomes of perseverance. The chilling void of his gaze, the hallowed, hollow shell of savagery follows each movement, the dawning comprehension, the looming understanding of his odious soul, and he almost moved away from her piercing absorption and awareness so that she may not see, view, anymore of his faults and flaws. Yet, he stayed, not straying from the keen interstice of blue, of rain and ocean all over again, the languid, listless creed of lapping waves and discourse of storms. Her brow arched over his query, over that strange, novel question that dabbled over his lips in a moment of inquiry that still managed to surround and pervade his senses, and her features drown in the wake of irresolution. Had he found a weakness of hers, a herald that beseeches the torrent of her design? He found himself listening more intently than before, ears twisting to caress the hitch in her voice, the uncertainty in her song, to know that he’d somehow found a way to pierce the wholesome spring, the genuine cordiality, ruffling and tearing foundations away from vestal pedestals. Shadows mingled over her countenance, mantles drawn over harpsichord melodies and harmonious bliss, and for one scarce moment, he wondered if somehow, someway, they were the same – sketched into a world that lingered with nefarious interludes and brutal immersions, and while he slayed, she overcame. Huyana, her name coasted from broken barriers, but he didn’t recognize it, couldn’t muster it from the chimes of memories echoing amongst his mind. The grin that followed told him secrets had been absconded and placed in his grasp, pondered over what he would do with the ruminations, the clandestine throngs, the tedious overtures of private, undisclosed daydreams and lucidities. Destroy her? Betray her? Ensnare her? Beguile and deceive, trap and murder? No – he tucked it neatly within his ramparts, where the wind howled its bestial chords and he stalked with meticulous, scrupulous lacerations, where the rest of the realm could not see, could not touch, could not feel. Then he practiced the word across his lips, parted his quiet mouth, breathing the name in one sumptuous, poisonous murmur, silent and strung to the rafters of air and earth. Again, he conjured it across the enchantments of his vile contortions, allowed it to ring in the brusque, haunting vocals of his resonating chaos, bedlam and corruption. “Huyana.” What did it sound like to her, touched by the sinful slight, the enticing mania, of his satanic power, tainted by his dissolute darkness, stained by his iniquitous allure? And still, his eyes refused to stray. “Why do you follow me?” RE: shadow on the wall - Huyana - 01-14-2013
RE: shadow on the wall - Deimos - 01-19-2013 Deimos blended into the silence, decadent, brooding and brewing, fractions of hushed friction and harbinger hostilities, choking the grand repose and sanctum of beloved heights and cherished tundra, ripping, tearing, ensnaring the fabric of life until it strung across the tips of his necromancy as weary, withered fragments. Mute transgressions were the satanic harmony of his upheaval, fleeting iniquities bolstered and holstered by the next mingling, molding, immorality scorching the surface of his skin, sin layered upon sin, infernal finery, scintillating and pernicious. Her mellifluous tones didn’t touch him, didn’t reach him, didn’t pluck at the armaments and miradors of towering walls, of ancient rubble and stone maneuvered to resemble his statuesque regime, his structure of apathy and indifference. The monster was too consumed, too ravaged, too viciously, heinously unholy to rekindle any spirit of cordiality, any reckoning of compassionate tombs or tender hymns; the rain mare would be left to wonder where it had gone, where it had vanished, where it bloomed once and fell apart in the latter stretches of his trials and tribulations. If she sought the warmth, the glow, the benevolent shades of kin, she was mistaken in hoping for it here, in the chiseled, cold, desolate and dissolute haze of his corruption, of his destruction, of his ruin and annihilation. He had nothing to offer her, no absolution, no indulgences, no whimsical truths to make the world a better place – he did not wish for it, lament for it, yearn for it like she did, wild showers seeking the sun. He’d been cast into shadow and wickedness, seared by devils’ hands, caressed by vile venom, woven into the pinnacle of peccadilloes, and would be remembered for cruelty, for vice, for death and desecration. She lingered in the boughs of unbroken melodies, but he couldn’t join here there, in the shards of luminescence and grace, in the pieces of grandeur and perseverance, because bit by bit he would dismantle her, everyone and everything, to devour the world with his puissant knife. When she spoke, nothing more than a soft sigh, a listless, wandering trace of humanity, he turned his blank features back to her, catching the voice and letting it slide over his dark ruminations. He was equally as sharp, the piercing, puncturing juncture crossing over villainous tongue and mouth, grating, harsh, blunt moments later, a vicious slash of scythe and sword. “I am not your reaper.” His eyes bore into hers, chilling, distant, nonchalant structures that wreaked havoc and destroyed hapless vessels travailing their dangerous depths, bestowing naught but that icy core of his unyielding menace, forever a threat, eternally presaged wreckage. She whispered his name, drew it with tranquility, with serenity, and he’d never heard such an arrangement for the murmuring of terror and horror, the personification of peril, so for a moment he is stilled, rigid and taut again, letting the reverie slide over his hide. Then the whim disappears, lost under the inky irreverence, scorned by the lull, beguiled and allured to sacrifice. His movements, barbaric, sinuous, sinister motions of undulating precision, of calculating carvings, of meticulous sedition, brought him closer to her stance – so when he breathed, callous, bestial croons of life and death, the ghosts of vapor touched upon her skin, stole fancies and made them calamities. In the following calm and persecution, he felt the snowflakes remain idle on his hide, before they too died, and he was left with the audacious slate of her blue gaze, the haunting requiem of her beliefs and follies, the gestures of her convictions that refused to resemble his own. Did she wish to wither and decay too? Like the forest, like the earth, like the simpler, weak creatures that were smothered and suffocated in their perilous journeys to some greater heaven? The dominating, fierce, ferocious crackle of his overbearing, overwhelming whisper drifted from severe, merciless lips, poised to billow around her frame in an alluring melee of might and malice that could not be withdrawn. He was not a savior, not a liberator, not an emancipator, and did not weave lies around his throat. He couldn’t grant her clemency, or the reprieve of a gentler world. He had never bid an individual to Elysium. “Nor am I merciful.” RE: shadow on the wall - Huyana - 02-02-2013
RE: shadow on the wall - Deimos - 02-02-2013
RE: shadow on the wall - Huyana - 02-22-2013
RE: shadow on the wall - Deimos - 02-24-2013
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