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Last week, before I found out my friend’s mother died, I had occasion to contemplate beauty for awhile. Hours, as it were.
I ended up binge watching videos by this female violinist named Lindsey Stirling. Turns out I have her discography up to like 2017 in my MP3 collection, but I don’t listen to a lot of music and as far as I was concerned I was seeing and hearing this beautiful and amazingly talented woman for the first time that night.
After watching these videos I started to compose much of what I am about to say, and I was proud of it because I had poured my heart into it.
I am not complaining when I tell you that doing this can take a lot out of me. I can get into something of an emotional feedback loop where I am having this intense emotional experience, and to translate this into text while it is underway causes me to think about it more deeply. And then I realize things about the experience that I didn’t realize, which creates a whole new loop. Then I’m thinking about thinking about it, and I’m thinking about writing about it, and I’m thinking about the impact this will have on other people, and there are feelings of power and guilt involved in that, which have their own complicated emotional implications.
Suffice it to say, I spend most of my life as something of an aspiring psychopath. I tend to think that getting emotionally wrapped up in things is a hindrance to clear thinking and purposeful action. It is useful to the extent it inspires creativity, and it can be a powerful motivator, but for me, those emotional feedback loops can be a lot like doing drugs. Even when, perhaps, especially when, those are not happy emotions. I get totally carried away, I find myself tempted to dwell in things. I have to try to manage this and say “OK, time to stop”.
And that is what I had done about 4,000 words into what I’m about to tell you about around 11am last Wednesday, and with all of this energy depleted and me in the emotional state this causes, I found out that Matt Hale’s mother died, and whoa, boy, was that a hell of a thing.
This was all the more significant because, although he didn’t figure into what I was planning to say on Wednesday, I did think about Matt Hale as I was putting it together because, as we’ll discuss in greater detail, I realized I was so intensely appreciating the beauty of what I was seeing, in some part because I hadn’t had much beauty to appreciate while I was in prison.
I really feel terrible for Matt Hale because, even beyond the fact that he has to do a year for every month I had to do, I really think his general disposition makes prison an even more awful experience for him than it is for me, not that he tended to show this much.
Matt really appreciates beauty. Particularly the beauty of women, and the beauty of nature. He doesn’t like me to describe the World Church of the Creator as “nature worship” but I would otherwise feel comfortable calling it this based on my conversations with Matt.
I remember one time somebody sent him this book with high resolution photos of frogs, and he was so excited to show this to me. Another time he saw a ladybug in the yard, and this absolutely made his day. When it was raining out, or when it was too hot or too cold, sometimes they would close the yard, and Matt basically was like “The sun is great, the winter is great, the rain is great, the snow is great, stop taking these great things away from us.” He has such a profound appreciation for nature and he is totally deprived of this in prison, and it’s actually the worst in the CMU.
All of this was very relevant to me that day, because the way I had started on this contemplation of beauty actually didn’t begin with the violinist. That had sort of come on the back of something much simpler that had just happened the day before. When I was preparing for that Monday’s show, I wanted to find a photograph for the cover art that captured the beauty of New Hampshire
This is no small task, as you know if you’ve ever been here, especially in the fall.
I grew up in New York, and there are lots of beautiful things in New York. If you can stop for two seconds to look at them, they can be very impressive. But in New York, it is not the custom to stop for two seconds, so they often go unseen. Or, they might stink of urine, or be turned into a homeless encampment. So you miss a lot of this.
When I came to New Hampshire for the first time, I drove here with a friend to come to the Porcupine Freedom Festival with the Free State Project. We drove non stop clear from Long Island to Lancaster. It was the longest car trip I had taken in many years, and I was just stunned at what I saw. You don’t have the choice of missing the beauty on a long enough car ride. Mountains and lakes and animals and fields. You can see some of these things in New York, especially in the Northern portions, but these vast expanses were really stunning to me.
There are entire lengths of the interstate highway system up here that are just carved through mountains. At the time, I thought this was pretty cool because I didn’t recall seeing anything like that before, not on such a scale anyway. The function of it, I thought was a symbol of power. Human beings came and were like “This mountain is in my way, I will destroy it” and they destroyed it, and I got to drive a car through it, I thought that was pretty cool.
Destroy is probably the wrong word. The stone walls around us had these grooves in them that indicated that it had not been simply blown up. This was a precision work, and precision is very impressive when you are dealing with such powerful forces. Any idiot can light a fuse or swing a hammer, though some better than others no doubt, but it is one sort of power to destroy a thing, and quite another to make of it what one will.
When we got to the campground, there were some very nice views, but the campground itself was unimpressive. So were many of the people, especially in subsequent years. There was quite a bit of high pitched whining. I was drunk most of the time so I didn’t then mind that so few were sober, but in hindsight, having gone there another year while sober, that was definitely part of the problem.
I ‘ve been sorting through and organizing all my old data, including photos and videos. I saw recently some really unimpressive photos of myself from that time. I know a lot of that was from my drinking back then, which was a really, I don’t like to call too much attention to it these days, but it was pretty ugly, and it made me ugly. Visibly. Not just that my attitude was poor or that I made mistakes, but I was fat. My face, specifically, was fat. Not just a protruding belly or a loosening of the belt. When I see photos of that face, I want to punch it.
Anyway, I go back to New York when the thing is over and I start thinking, maybe I should move to New Hampshire and abolish their government. Just show up and be like “Hey mountain, get out of my way” and expect that to work out, was sort of the plan.
When New York turned me down to buy a gun, I did just that. I moved here in 2012. The government hasn’t been abolished, of course. I’ve actually become quite fond of it, in a sense.
I lived in the suburbs of Keene, New Hampshire, and it’s a quaint little town with nice quaint things to look at. But when we would go to the state legislature to testify at committee hearings, this would involve a drive of about an hour or so, to and from Concord.
I don’t usually like being the passenger in car. I am a control freak, and I have to control the wheel to be completely comfortable. But I loved to stare out the window as we drove through New Hampshire.
So when I was trying to make this pitch to get other people to move here and take over rather than abolish the government, I wanted to find a picture that captures this beauty I fell in love with. And while a picture can be worth a thousand words, it is not worth an inch of New Hampshire. It was not easy to find a suitable photograph to capture what I aimed to capture, but I was still stunned by the beauty in these images.
I was so taken by the experience, so consumed, that I was a little unnerved by it. I wondered “Why am I so bent out of shape about this picture of the trees.” Then, it occurred to me while I was doing this, that my life has had a staggering lack of beauty in the last few years, and that this was increasing the emotional load of looking at these otherwise mundane photographs substantially.
The county jail where I was held, we didn’t go outside at all. To make matters worse, there was a problem that, since some of the windows are very close to the street, prisoners were exposing themselves to pedestrians. So, before my arrival, the jail had the windows sprayed with this like acid crap that made them foggy, and because of this you couldn’t see clearly what was outside. I was inside this for fourteen months.
It drove me absolutely insane. Sometimes I would stand on a chair, and peek out the top seam of the window if there was a spec of space that didn’t have this crap ruining it, and would almost whimper to look out at the trees in the fall.
People tell you in jail, that when you get to the federal prison, there’s a yard. Some yards are better than others, but you get to go outside basically whenever you want other than some dedicated lockdown times like at night. But I didn’t go to a regular part of the prison system. I went to the Communications Management Unit, in Marion, Illinois, and there we have to be kept away from the other prisoners to avoid the passing of messages. So we don’t get to go to the same yard as everybody else. We have our own yard, and our yard is more of a parking lot, maybe the size of a professional basketball court in total. There are three large cages made of chain link fencing within that space, and concrete walls three stories high surrounding it. So the sun tends to fall behind our horizon rather more quickly than for others.
When I got released to the halfway house after three years of this, they told me I couldn’t do my job there. Most people get a job while they are at the halfway house, and they get themselves established before they’re released. I wasn’t even allowed to do media interviews with regular mainstream news outlets. So, with only the charity of my supporters, I got into this windowsless bedroom that I now rent, and I got to work right away. I am very happy with how things have turned out for the most part, I am not complaining to describe the experience, this is a dream come true for me, to do what I love all the time, but I am very busy. I don’t have a car, and the part of New Hampshire I live in is not very pretty. It’s actually a drug ridden mess full of junkies and blacks dumped here by Massachusetts and the federal government. So, I have not had an opportunity to catch up on the beauty of this place.
This had not really struck me until I began looking at those photos for Monday’s show. Even though they were insufficient for what I wanted to convey, it felt like they had cleansed my eyes, in a sense, and it struck me that this deprivation I had endured totally changed my perceptions of what I was seeing. I didn’t realize how important that appreciation for beauty was until pretty recently, and I was disturbed by the realization. I thought about Matt Hale during this and how much more intensely he is deprived of this.
And if you think the people at the Porcupine Freedom Festival are not very beautiful, do some time in prison. This is not just a thing of the eyes but all that can be observed about a person. Not just the prisoners, but the staff. One of the things that troubled me the most as I began to think of it was the women who worked there, and how they had become masculinized. Some even chewed tobacco, which, as much as I love nicotine, and with all due respect to any chewers who may be listening, I find to be among the most disgusting things a man can do, not involving fecal matter.
A man in my position, I have to think a lot about voices, it would be fair to say. It’s not just my voice I like the sound of. I don’t take calls on the air and do these member chats just because I think it will please the audience or, “the more you talk the less I have to” as I’m fond of saying. I don’t just like to talk, I like to listen, and when I listen, I pay attention to words, sure, but I pay more attention to voices, which is why my audio troubles haunt me such as they do. With men, tone conveys much, but I tend to rely on their words and we can communicate near as easily via email as face to face.
Not so with women. I need to see the contours of her face. I need to hear the tone of her voice. I feel I would do a woman a terrible disservice to take her words at face value, and fail to interpret the other wealth of information God gave her the gift of conveying with her eyes and her tone.
Every man over 30 knows he has lost the argument with his lover when he says to her “but, honey you said….XYZ!”
Haha, yes, well, young man, maybe that’s the words that she used, but when you get to be my age, you’ll realize she told you everything you needed to know, and you were not listening as a man must learn to listen to a woman, sir. You must improve your communications skills, not her.
And so, I really like the sound of a woman’s voice. It has this amazing duality in which it is both mysterious, and packed full of information. It’s like a puzzle.
I only had two phone calls a week though, and my love life endured a series of tragedies prior to my arrest, so I did not get nearly enough of this for some time, and what there was of it did not give me the things that I love about a woman’s voice.
But I did listen to the radio for more than news sometimes. And while we could not stream music like you can out here, I did acquire an MP3 player and purchase a number of songs by very talented female vocalists like Adele, and Ellie Goulding, and Kiarra, and Camilla Cabelllo, and Olivia O’Brien, and Julia Michaels, and Evanescence, and others, and I would not listen to these artists while I did other things. Music consumes me. I cannot do other things with music on in the background. Save for perhaps drive. I would listen alone in my cell concentrating entirely on their voices, and this was the closest I came to lovemaking for a number of years.
I am not complaining, though I know it sounds like it. Firstly, I am describing some intensely enjoyable experiences here that I could have had in no other way. If asked “would you like to go to prison and appreciate women’s voices very intensely” I’d have said no, but while there, I was rocked by this. Moreover, I have tried to make a point not to complain about prison because this is not the image that I wish to present, and I could of course have done a lot worse in these terms. Though I think it was wrong what I was sent to prison for I have surely done enough wrong to warrant some punishment, and in the end it will do none of us, me least of all, any good to dwell in the darkness of Marion Illinois. I just had to tell you about this in order to set the stage for something.
I might also note that I am not complaining about being very busy. I haven’t been all work no play since I have been home. I have been blessed to know a woman’s touch, and I will say no more of it than that she is not still in my life, because that would be impolite, but I will breach decorum just once more to note that I have viewed pornography more than once since I have been out, and that this has never bothered me so much in the past, but that it bothers me a great deal in recent days, as I have been thinking about beauty, and my capacity to appreciate it.
I hadn’t viewed pornography almost the entire time I was locked up. They don’t allow it in the federal prison system, or in any of the jails I was in. The first time I went to jail in New York, there were porno mags all over the place. That seems to be one of the changes that have since been made to much of the correctional facilities in this country, along with banning smoking, but the occasional racy image will find its way round. I’ve talked before about the tablets in the county jail in New Hampshire, and how we were able to subvert some of the controls on them, and some guys managed to find books in the outside libraries that contained images of women’s breasts. In a world flooded with hard core porn this would hardly raise an eyebrow, but deprived of such things, these images were very exciting even in small doses.
When I got home and in front of a computer, it did not take me long at all to pull up pornhub. When I went to look at it again, this was like when I was a kid all over again, the intensity of it was a bit much, actually. I have not viewed it nearly so much as I had before I was arrested, which I confess was not at all infrequent.
To the extent I have had any ethical concern with pornography in the past, it has tended to be because I view its production as exploitative of women. I have literally befriended an actual prostitute or two over the years, which is not a confession to being a client, I might note, I’ve been more forward about this elsewhere. I’ve befriended others who have called their prostitution pornography, because somehow filming this sex for cash scheme made it legal.
Though they would at times talk about how exciting their lives were, and how easy the money was, I could see in their voices, and hear in their eyes – that’s not an error, it’s art – that they were very sad, and that this arrangement was not in their long term best interests. This silly libertarian idea that consent constitutes right, is easily disproven by this observation alone. These women, these girls, I should say, were getting ripped off, selling their youth and beauty, and waning fertility, at what seemed to them a high hourly rate, because they compared it to what they could earn as grocery clerks. They had no concept of what they were selling, but I could hear the terribly high cost of this in their voices.
Months ago I wrote over 30,000 words for what was supposed to be Radical Agenda Episode 8, to tell the story of Cathy Reisenwitz, a Left wing feminist activist who was thrust upon the libertarian scene by what was very obviously some well heeled benefactor. It seems he pulled the plug because she became a literal sex for cash prostitute and OnlyFans cam girl with a Substack blog that talked about all the great reasons for legalizing prostitution, which she purported to know from hard won experience. I spent weeks reading and listening to her screeds, which have been recorded over the course of several years. You get to watch this slow motion train wreck unfold over several posts a week during that time. She begins excited and feeling very empowered, and giving other women detailed instructions on how they can join in the fun. She talks about her efforts to feel loved during this time, and the challenges it presents to having sincere emotional connections with men who disapprove of her lifestyle, and how the men who approve of it do not tend to treat her well, or stay around very long. As we reach the current day she is alone, and realizing that she is not a young woman anymore. She calls her cat her roommate, notices that she is getting fewer swipes on Tinder, and since she is a reasonably talented writer, her sadness is conveyed in her text even when she is trying to sound empowered, because that is what a woman’s voice does.
I have not had the heart to record this, much less publish it. I was too troubled by what I saw, and though I hate her, it feels wrong to exploit her further after how she has been so badly led astray by others, and knowing that her suffering will only intensify with time, because she still refuses to learn her lesson.
Last Tuesday night I felt the need for beauty, and I wanted to hear the voice of a pretty girl do something more graceful than moan. So I went on YouTube, and I was repulsed because some of the songs I heard on the radio sounded very nice, but then you see what they do in the video, it ruins the image which the mind creates with only sound and concrete. I was very angry about this, and I had remarked on Telegram that in our future State, we would have to ban music videos, half jokingly.
Then my luck changed, and I found some vocals and visuals more to my liking. One of the singers I came to appreciate, Lzzy Hale, did a very powerful song with a violinist named Lindsay Stirling. This led me to search YouTube for her name.
Ms. Stirling is very young and beautiful and talented, and she has a top notch production team working with her. She does not sing much, but she can do amazing things with a violin that are almost like a woman’s voice, and I felt like she was singing to me. In these videos she is mostly just dancing very gracefully in very beautiful but tasteful clothing, while playing the violin in these vast natural or natural looking environments, or pre-electrical civilization settings.
She is always very graceful, and never lude, and her violin conveys the joy and intensity of youth. She appears at one with it and her facial expressions are very communicative and I was so totally immersed in the experience. I spent hours watching this.
It occured to me, first, that I had not seen anything so beautiful in more than three years on account of being in prison and then doing little but sitting in front of my computer since. This was troubling on its own, and then it occured to me that a for a far longer time than that, this might have been background noise to me, such that I might not have noticed it, or even found it annoying.
What do I care about your dumb violin? Whore! I can download two thousand songs in an hour, for free, while I watch a girl twice as hot as you, eat another girl out, while a guy I can pretend is me smashes away on her like she is mere exercise equipment. When I’m done, and I’ll say it that way too, done, I’ll just turn it off, and get back to cursing out ethnic groups on the Internet, because that’s my idea of pursuing righteousness. Let’s hurry up and get this damn war started. I’m bored with laughing at suffering. I want blood, and fire, and the stench of decaying humanity.
Such is what I required to feel any intensity, having been desensitized as I had been.
When I saw the leaves in the pictures it occurred to me that I had been deprived of beauty for three years, but as I watched this woman dance on the ice with her violin, and I was baffled by the swelling of tears in my eyes that this inspired, I realized had been deprived of it for much longer than that.
I am bothered this in the extreme. Ms. Stirling has been on YouTube for 16 years. My current favorite video of hers was published 11 years ago. I said before that I was not complaining, and I meant it, if anything, I am given new eyes for this, precisely thanks to being locked away for this time, and had I not been so deprived, I might even yet not know what it was.
I am not stunned by grace because I have not seen it in three years. I am stunned by grace because I have been distracted by filth at least since I discovered my first dirty magazine when I was too young to understand my erection. Now that I am able to see this beauty, and appreciate it the way that I am, I am given pause about many things.
We have a tendency as we look around us to see all of this chaos, and ugliness, and we want to destroy it. And I would say that it is with all propriety that we have this impulse to reckon with.
But reckon with it we must, lest we too become the destroyers of beauty. We should not forget that it exists because we are bombarded with all of this ugliness.
In recent months, part of my caution is that I am perhaps more averse to participating in destruction as a general matter. I want to create. I want to build. I want to make and improve upon beautiful things. Whether this be to cut with precision through a mountain, or to arrange the words ever so thusly. Any asshole can break things and hate people. Any criminal can end a life, and far too many do.
I could have jumped across the courtroom, during my trial in New Hampshire when I was being questioned by one of the prosecutors. She asked me something about my fondness for language, and I told her “Language is a useful tool, and a beautiful art form”and she shrieked at me and she said “And you used that useful tool, and beautiful art form to say this!”
Her accusation made me very angry. It was as if she had insulted my art for her to put it in this way, but I could only answer yes, because that was, however manipulatively framed, the truth.
I do not know if I am wrong or right to say, that we should try to prevent the destruction of what is present, on account of my not wanting to lose what beauty and worth remains in this world. I have come to realize, however, that there is more beauty and worth around than I had once appreciated. I suspect I am not the only one who has failed to appreciate many of these things, and I do not wish for anyone to go through what I went through to be able to see them. But we should be very cautious with our capacity and temptation for destruction. The beauty that remains is very valuable. It would be a very terrible sin if we were to wreck it because we had become incapable of seeing it.
Nor is it lost on me of course, the argument that this will all be gone very soon if men do not do very ugly things to stop the threats to those things we value. I take seriously my obligations as a man to partake in that ugliness, and I accept, though with no small degree of reluctance, that part of me will enjoy it, should it come.
I know something of my own capacity for destruction. My capacity to enjoy it. I’ve long considered this a virtue. As I started to notice the world spiraling out of control, I came to believe that perhaps I come to my position for such a time as this, and yes, that’s an intentional if incomplete bible quote.
Thinking that has helped me to trust my intuitions. If I am here for a purpose, then, thy will be done, after all. No sense resisting it. I’m not making a literal claim here, but I recall a quote I heard once on, I guess it was American Family Radio, I heard somebody say “When God calls on you, either you can say “thy will be done” or God can say “Alright, have it your way”, and the implications of this are obvious.
God or no God, if you refuse to do what you are here to do, then you are going to get exactly what you asked for and you are going to regret it.
Back to beauty, some of you might recall I showed you this image of a woman calling herself Elliot Page, who was once very beautiful, and whose parents had named her Ellen. She had been a successful actress and in the course of this it may suffice to say that she got mixed up with the wrong people and had some regrettable sexual experiences. She credits these experiences with the decision to cut off her breasts and start taking testosterone. She assures us she is very happy, and that is just one example of why I do not take women at their word. The sadness of Ellen’s eyes and tone betray her deceit, and anyone who tells you they do not know it is a monster.
I’ve always found the transgender thing very troubling. I have always viewed it as predatory, contaminating, and contagious. But I tended to think of it, until recently, mostly as feminizing men, and if men are predisposed to being feminized, I am rather okay with them being killed, so what care I if they prance around in a dress for a few months before they do themselves in? What few women I had seen start taking steroids I didn’t figure they had been very beautiful to begin with.
But you may recall that I was very troubled by the Ellen Page story. I compared whoever talked her into this to a child molestor, because that is the worst sort of criminal I can think of generally speaking, and this seemed to be the worst thing a person could do, short of that. Destroying feminine beauty, at the time, I thought might very well be worse. But beyond this even, worse than destroying it, making it a sick perversion. Blashpeming this holy thing of reverence. It would be so much better in a sense to just kill her, even to grind her up in some kind of machine and totally destroy her, than to make this sick mockery of what she had been. I was so deeply offended by it and I experienced this very intensely.
It struck me last Tuesday night as I was contemplating all this, that this was what troubled me so much more about Ellen’s story. Deprived both of feminine beauty, and the desensitizing influence of pornography for those years, that perversion was overwhelming for me.
I understand theft on some level. Drugs make perfect sense to me. Men killing other men, it might be a described as a miracle we don’t see more of that, but destroying a woman is a uniquely wicked thing, in my view. Not only because they are the weaker sex, I consider it a terrible thing for women to destroy other women, it’s not about a power disparity, it is not just because of some cultural programming toward chivalry, or my desire to possess them, but because they are such beautiful and precious creatures, that their frailty is considered a positive feature of their existence, contrary to men in whom this is a form of death.
People often confuse survival of the fittest by saying only the strong survive, but women remind us of this error. That the strength, and the capacity for destruction that stains the soul of every man, would deprive a woman of this pleasantness that makes them such a joy to be around. That gentleness that makes them so ideal for the nurturing of children. This disarming, for want of a better term, aura, this force field, of sorts, that hangs around them. The power she wields, that she can walk up the most dangerous of men, do so little as brush a finger on his forearm, and make of him a request, and he, as though hypnotized, may be powerless to resist her.
I don’t know if this is so much beauty as it is magic, but I have only eyes and ears to observe it, and am at the mercy of what remain of my senses in their presence.
Whatever it is, god or no god, it is a terrible sin to wreck that thing, whether you wreck it for everyone by smashing it with hammer, or whether you wreck it for yourself by destroying your own mind with filth.
Because if you are unable to appreciate this, then you are not simply deprived, it is not only you who suffer this deprivation. In your blindness, you are no less dangerous than a drunk driver, and surely you are far more dangerous, if you take an interest in politics while so impaired.
I suppose what I have done here is mostly the reflections of an artist, and this is a very difficult thing to conclude. It’s not a story that ends. It’s not a mathematical equation. I don’t have any instructions for you to follow other than perhaps to take inventory from time to time. The cursed things that plague modernity are, I think, less in what they actually destroy than in what they deprive us of the capacity to appreciate. If we do not appreciate them, then we will make exceedingly poor decisions.
I think there’s a lot of that going on.
I do not think the dissident Right is at all immune to it.
Come to think of it, I do know how to conclude this. I might credibly be accused of cheating for doing so because I actually wrote a slightly different form of this in another context, but not everyone would know it if I hadn’t just ratted myself out, and some edits will make it entirely appropriate.
I talked a little earlier about Matt Hale, and the World Church of the Creator. As you know, I had my disagreements with him about this, but I found one thing Mr. Hale told me about the name to be a very savvy observation.
There is no God in the World Church of the Creator. You, are the Creator, White man.
Look around once in awhile, and that becomes difficult to deny.
You deigned that your God had commanded you to control nature, and you obeyed.
You mastered wood, and stone, and bronze, and iron.
You built castles, tamed horses, and conquered the land.
You built ships, and conquered the waves.
You built weapons, and armies, and conquered the savages.
And though your enemies today describe this as is a rampage of wanton destruction, there are wheels, highways, and hospitals in Africa, which offer no small dispute of this.
You built this world, and if it falls apart, that will be your fault.
You are guiltless in its creation.
You are credited with this.
You are not a destructive force, but a creative one.
If you have committed any crime against history, it is that you have believed the destructive lies of your enemies, and abdicated the responsibilities your ancestors incurred with their creations.
Your creations are not self perpetuating works of God.
They are the works of your hands, and your mind, and to the extent it may be said that God acts on Earth,
He does so, through you.
Now go forth, and build something beautiful, my fellow Creator.
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