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Writing has always been something I have loved doing. I mostly use it as a coping tool in my life since I was young and over the last several years I have strayed from it. One of my dreams has always been to write a novel, not publish though. I just want the satisfaction of having written one but do not want anyone to actually read it. I am always afraid of letting people into my mind, not for fear of what is in my mind, rather, fear of giving parts of myself away. I decided that I am tired of not doing something I love out of fear of others thoughts because there is nothing I can do about that and I am only holding myself back. At the age of 32 I have finally decided to not let something I love only be a part of the negativity in my life because there is no logic in that. I anticipate most of my writing will be depressive but for me that is good. It is the only way I know how to heal from my pain no matter how much it may be in my head. It is the only way that I know how to free myself from my depression, anxiety and general frustrations of life because, lets be honest, life is not easy for anybody. We all have pain and we all struggle with something and it is all relative to our own life. This is how I know how to heal and continue in a forward motion. I am excited for the new journey I am taking and hope to one day actually write a book. Maybe I will even publish but at this point I am happy with the baby steps I am taking, with Biopage being the first. I created my first public writing a moment ago and it was for the writing contest. The moment I submitted I felt such pride in myself and excitement for what that represented for me. I have no fantasy of winning or even of anybody reading it but the fact that I even did it has made me feel so good. I currently have zero followers and am following nobody but I am here and I am proud. I never would have thought I would actually have the courage to write publicly and right now I don't even care if it is any good. I should have been asleep hours ago because I do have a toddler and work in the morning but I wanted to make sure I documented this pride in myself because it has been a while since I have felt any pride in myself outside of being a mother. That is not to say being a mother is not the best thing I have ever done but only to say I have to remember I am also an individual outside of my beautiful family. I am something outside of work and cooking dinners and running a household. I am worth the time to myself to use my desk that has been sitting here gathering dust and I will make myself proud. My family deserves the best from me and I am not at my best when I not writing.
With an unprecedented outbreak of the NOVEL coronavirus, grew the unfamiliar term “quarantine”. Every headline of the news and newspapers made human know its growing importance. Its sudden emergence, mandated practice has put chores to an indefinite pause. Even our elders lack ample experiences of such circumstance. The contagious virus, discreetly creeped into every corner, to devastate human civilization. Incessant efforts of scientists and researchers have, until now not yielded relief to the world. Eventually, humans are left with the sole option of quarantine, the best possible method to sever the contagious chain. This seclusion turned out to be torturous for stranded persons. Exponential growth in cases across the globe led to depletion in medical facilities. Plight grew worst when restaurants, train compartments were declared quarantine centres. A stranded labour, who was previously quarantined, broke out in a media coverage, “a fortnight in gloomy chambers, improper meal and social aloofness are suffice to kill a person”. Primarily all burden fell on shoulders of a section of people, especially the doctors, nurses, janitors and many more. But world cannot halt forever! Adopting hygienic habits in our lifestyle could enhance living in the new normal. For the first time ever, we students have an indefinite period of vacation. Every day of school was assignment laden thereby we were least bothered of our surroundings, especially at home. I had a different experience in my quarantine days at home. My vigorous behavior perished with passage of time. Meanwhile, weariness saturated within me, like a disease. All routine, healthy curriculum deteriorated with these times. But mum was an exception to this schedule. She woke up with the sun, slept with all her errands done. Dauntless dad at work for intervals and Mum occupied with Jack and me. I remember Mum, cooking meal in the sultry heat whereby came a shout from Jack, “Ma, my blue pants lost!” I pounced on, “My stomach is rumbling with hunger!!, Mum”. With a delicate smile, Mum, “Jack that's wet, Joe your lunch on table!!” I keenly observed her routine. Once I asked her, “You work the entire day with no pay. Times have added to your burden, isn't that unfair? Leave all this tedious work, Mum!!” Mum said, “Do you know about superheroes?” I frowned at her. “Those in the comics?” She said, “No, they are present even today! Doctors, nurses, sweepers, electricity suppliers and many more who are saviours of today. Today, they are concerned of lives than of their wages.” Aren't they, the heroes?” she asked. I nodded. She elucidated, “Your father works, both of you study and my job to nurture you. Anyone renouncing his duty would lead to abrupt collapse. Every piece of a puzzle makes up a picture. Similarly, units of effort results in a solution. Progress is possible when EVERYONE works in this new mode.” Indeed, this instance surged my conscience towards realisation. Today, the world stands solely on the feet of our doctors, sweepers and other caretaking staff. Although we constantly remain at our places, our duty towards society shouldn't be shrugged off. Input of duty by every student, employee, officer could RESTART the paused world. Obligation of quarantine perhaps seems to tarnish our lifestyle. Nevertheless, a duty conscious serves until the end. Be quarantined and continue performing your duty.
Wait for the End! I'm sorry, Momo, it reads on the back of the faded postcard he holds. It's not safe here. Go home. I'll catch you later. There's no signature, not that Momo needs one. Not when he can find that familiar lopsided scrawl etched onto the left side of his soul. Not when he already knows he's late. I'm sorry, Momo. It isn't the first time he's been left behind to deal with the aftermath of those words. They replay over and over in his mind, like a song that's stuck in his head, one that he accidentally learned all the lyrics to. It's not safe here. He wants to unlearn these words. In a moment of flickering frustration, Momo rips up the postcard into quarters and lets them go into the clutches of the wind. He watches as the pieces of ‘Greetings from Kil-where!' flutter away until they become only dark spots against the red sky. He wishes the Drift could let go of Colin that easily. (“There's no sun in Kil-where,” Colin had once told him. They had been lying on the back deck at their house in Anchorage, watching as the day slowly faded into night. It'd been the summer before high school before Colin's already-sharp edges pierced the sky. “No moon there, either. Completely uninhibited.” “Must be pretty lonely there,” Momo had muttered sleepily, barely keeping his eyes open. “It is. It really is, Momo.”) Go home. The purple sands of Kil-where shift beneath Momo. He crumples to the desert ground and does another count of the number of times he's let himself get caught in this moment between two trapezes. Catch you later. Six times. That's how many times Colin's promised to catch Momo, and how many times he's pulled his hand away from him at the very last moment. Six different worlds. Six different skies. Six different failures. He's never seen a sky this red before; at least that's new to him. Momo lies down in the surprisingly cool sand and lets his own tears of anger fall. He stares up at the empty red sky of Kil-where and waits for this world to end, too. ☉ “I'm sorry, Momo.” It's not the first time Colin's speaking these words, and it won't be the last. It's the night before Colin leaves for those six different skies. They're both eighteen-years-old, and Colin's leaned up against the kitchen sink, looking like the kind of boy people write tragedies about. His shaved head matches the light of the moon peeking through the windows, and his nose is broken in three places now instead of two. It's the first time Momo's seen him all day, and the rumor of the fight at school finally comes full circle. “Just...don't go. Please.” These words mark Momo as another character in a tragedy, too. Just a different kind. Colin smiles sadly, but he doesn't take Momo's hand. “I'll catch you later, Momo.” The Drift reaches for him and doesn't let go. Momo reaches for him, too, and misses. ☉ Question: What is the Drift? a) a dance move that originated from the 1980s. You know, the one with the leg and the hip thrust. Yeah, that one. b) a secret plane of existence in the universe that selects people without rhyme or reason, thus giving them the ability to travel between worlds and different dimensions. c) a horrible, horrible thing that needs to learn how to let go. d) all of the above. ☉ The first time Momo meets Colin, he tries to evict him from their house. “He shouldn't be wearing my clothes,” he's trying to explain to his mothers, Rosalie and Manon. Colin sits out of earshot at the kitchen table, scarfing down lasagna like he hasn't eaten in three months, which, knowing the Drift, is probably true. “I don't care if he's from the Drift. He should get his own clothes.” It's basic ten-year-old logic. He should have known better; Rosalie's from the Drift, too, and Manon has a soft spot for wandering souls. Colin doesn't know anymore better than Momo. His mothers think he's ten-years-old, too, like Momo, but unlike Momo, he smiles too much and he looks as if he's made out of the sharp pieces of glass you find in an alleyway that you could cut yourself with if you aren't careful. He's too easily impressed by the microwave; he doesn't even know who Spider-Man is, which, to Momo, is more than enough of a reason to not trust him. He doesn't know about the Drift, either, even though it's the closest thing he's ever had to a home. Then again, not a lot of people do. (He later learns the reason behind Colin's sharpness; the Drift hadn't been kind to him, and in turn, he'd somehow misplaced the coordinates that would have shown him how to be a normal boy, a boy who hadn't been chosen by the Drift. He lost that part of himself among the stars and the moons, and the Drift never gave it back to him). “The Drift.” The words fall from Colin's lips like yellow ribbons as he sits at their kitchen table, wearing a dazed expression and Momo's clothes that don't fit him right; Momo's wearing his pajamas and a seething glare sent towards the direction of Colin.
You know growing up nowadays the technology is excessive, most people my age enjoy abbreviating words, creating acronyms and all that. Every now and then a new acronym is created and if you do not know it you are backward and often asked what century u r living in. Yes, technology is beautiful and new things are nice always and we are enticed by them but with all the emoji's and acronyms that are always brought up here and there I find it hard to connect with the next person like I used to do back in the days of texting and writing letters. Someone would think I am too backward but kids nowadays will never know the value of a simple letter writing and receiving the letter a few days later and the effect it had on you. Whenever we used to write to each other one would try to make sure the other person gets a clear picture of what the writer was going through and all that one was thinking about. This made us connect on a whole new level. This made us understand each other more than nowadays. I am a very sentimental person and I love chatting and getting to know the next person and it means more to me if I can connect with that person on a whole new level and get to understand each other. But alas, texting has been replaced with acronyms and emojis, translation gets lost in-between. You find yourself wondering what the respective emoji or acronym is supposed to mean and with my generation not wanting to look less cool and slow I end up giving it my own translation and the conversation goes on. Ever asked yourself what you were doing? Most of this generation and the generations that follow are depressed and feel lonely because even when you are trying to communicate with the next person translation is lost and the next person at the other end of the phone does not get to understand you and at the end of the day all you feel is emptiness and you got nothing to feel that void because you are not really writing down what you are feeling or what you are going through. You are trying to express your emotions using emojis or acronyms that really cannot get the real emotion across, the real meaning across. Many a times have I found myself in a meaningless relationship cause when we are texting we both threw in messages that we even could not really understand. If I write deeply I am laughed at and the guy will jokingly say ‘don't be too serious girl, chill'. But it is through all this chilling that we find ourselves in meaningless relationships. It is through this chill that we find ourselves questioning the whole concept of dating and being with someone. This is because when that person is not there we do not want to look too serious to be writing down long meaningful messages so that the other person gets to understand what is happening. My friends do not even know the real me because even my speaking is like the way I text. Instead of laughing I find myself using lol. You begin to wonder when you lost that beautiful laugh and replaced it with lol. The way I am texting starts taking over even my whole day. Even when at home I do not know how to communicate with my parents because along the way, long meaningful messages lost its value in my life just like when I was texting with my friends and lovers and any new person within my life. Real connection is lost, real love and bond is lost . We should start teaching ourselves and our family to start to learn to communicate beyond the acronyms and the emojis. I feel we should learn to communicate more in our texts rather than just talking. Communication means the message you wanted to send across is received and well understood and was not lost in translation. What we practice in our hidden spots normally reflect on our day to day living as the less u communicate when texting will eventually be the way you even communicate in your day to day living. Now we are all stuck at home, and social media is at large. Besides a simple good morning or afternoon or evening as a family we rarely talk. We find ourselves stuck in our rooms with the uncapped wifi doing God knows what. You do not have time to listen to the person in the next room because you are busy on social media. We no longer sit down as a family to share a meal. We have lost the value of a family. This period of lock down is the moment you realize that all these relationships were a lie, the bond that held you together was so fragile. I for one got dumped because we could not even keep a conversation going for days. Why is that? We deceived ourselves with the live in the moment vibes and the "don't be too serious" vibes to the extent that we lost the value of chatting and our connection was not that solid. So it got me to think why are we scared of being real? Why are scared of getting our real thoughts out there? We end up being lonely cause we scared of expressing ourselves especially on these social media platforms.
My Kickstarter campaign for my novel is live now! Sept 2019. Universal Chaos - Paladin, a Space Opera novel. The first book in the series. https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/universalchaos/universal-chaos-paladin
I have been strolling around the cemetery for a while, reading the names written on the graves, bottle of whisky in my left hand, nothing in my right one. Even as a young child, I would scan the names and pictures on tombstones, but most importantly, the years: the date of birth and the date of death, the arrival and the departure. And, in an instant, I would know how many years that person had lived on Earth, for how long one's soul had been caged in a dungeon of flesh and bones, what was the time during which that one had been enlightened by the holiest blessing or sentenced to the most wicked curse. Who can tell which is for whom? No one, but the dead; except that the dead can't speak. It's ironic – isn't it? – how, after birth, death is the only experience guaranteed to every single being, yet the one none of us ever gets to tell – we never get to share it. Is it a peaceful ending to a long, joyful life, a slow withering, petal by petal, of the freshest rose in the garden, hours that feel like days of agonizing terror or a dagger instantly plunged into the epicenter of existence, not even leaving enough seconds for realizing the last moment has come? No matter the correct option, the living can only ask the soulless body of the dead, who can no longer answer. They teach you to start with the end of the question when answering in school, but after the blood stops running through your veins, remaining still forever, when people ask “How did you die?” or “Why did you die?”, indeed only the end of the question, “I died…”, will echo through your cold lips, the last beginning of an answer, with no ending. “REST IN PEACE” – it lies carved into a gravestone. I sit down to rest. The warm marble slab that has been enduring the rays of the hot summer sun burns the tips of my fingers, making me startle. But, as the night is approaching, a cool breeze starts blowing through the still green leaves of the grand trees beyond the yard and through the short gravestones. The colours of the dusk shall soon be gone, making way for the majestic dark night. The marble is turning cold. For now, I'm merely resting, but soon I shall rest in peace. I absent-mindedly subtract the year of birth from the year of death. If the latter is in the century that follows the former, I divide my computing into two: I subtract the number formed of the last two digits of the first number from one hundred, then add the result to the number composed of the last two digits of the last number. Too many formers and latters, too many firsts and lasts, but at least one's life seems longer if it is extended over two centuries. The longer the computation, the longer the life; two centuries, one milestone in history. But it's often not like that, for a personal history can be so different from the universal one, yet universal history is nothing without the individual truths – another thing they don't teach you in school. It's a special kind of mathematics – that of death. In school, they teach you to divide candies among children, to multiply watermelons by money and to add sheep to sheep. They teach you to compute life; but they don't teach you to subtract life from death. Because death is eternal, perhaps. Yet we only live throughout life. Rereading the thoughts I've crowded on these pages in random order, I reached the conclusion they are chaotic. I jump from one idea to another, without finishing any, then I unexpectedly jump back. They're all interlinked, but there's no beginning and no ending; they're not even cyclic, but more like a Möbius strip that has been twisted endlessly many times, or a hard to grasp maze in a higher dimension, which leads you through the same corridors no matter where you start from or where you try to get. Quite different from life, huh? But what if… what if there's actually no chronology? If I was dead before I lived, isn't it possible for me to live after I die? One of the nearby tombstones has only one date engraved. I leave my half-empty bottle on the ground and lift a pebble instead, which I keep throwing in the air and catching with my right hand as I move along on the pathway, towards the cemetery gate. I look up at the night sky to see an ocean of stars. The air has cooled down and certainly so has the slab. It's all peaceful here now, but I don't rest in peace. For now, I'm walking.
The air around her smelled of ink, paper, and pencil lead. She scribbled her thoughts down but not even then could she even begin to fully understand. The people around her understood so why didn't she. It was like they had created a contract that contained an unsaid rule that everyone around her must never say anything and allow her to destroy the light inside on her own so they wouldn't leave evidence of their crime against her. It didn't take long for the light to almost completely diminish itself entirely. So while the world around her was filled with color, she herself slowly became as gray as the sky before a storm. Though sound was rare in her color drained mind, it still managed to be made by sinking into her invisible world of song. They never heard it fore it was there somewhere deep in her soul, somewhere where the light hadn't yet been extinguished. That little light was the only thing left in her. The only thing that kept her from completely disappearing. The light kept her from giving up on herself and gave her the slightest bit of hope that one day things would get better. Two years later, you can now find that same girl with a smile on her face and a friend or two by her side. It took some time but that little light soon became a flame that regained its strength creating a fire. A fire that she hopes to share with those who have let their light burn too low so they too can become the star they are meant to be. You don't have to be lonely like that little girl was. You don't have to be lonely like I was.
Dear future me, Although life hasn't offered the most clarity, you've come a long ways. You've learned to let go of fear and embrace beauty and pain for what life is. As beautiful yet terrifying as it is right now for me and was back then for you, you've yet still managed to have an abundance of love within your heart to give to everyone. I am certain that this quality of you and me will always remain. You have a heart too big for your body. You ride the waves of life with such ease now. Sometimes, it makes me want to catch up to you faster because often times, when I hit a tide, I seem to crash. I know that my life in the moment is a web of tangled and intricate experiences and emotions that have helped mold me into you. Trust me, I am working every single day to make myself better for you. You're “old enough to know better but young enough to do it anyway.” So, laugh about all the silly mistakes I'm making at the moment and be grateful for that because it lead you to be who you are right now.
Everyone knows this feeling. It's a kind of magic. But what does create it? The answer is quite simple: our family's love, understanding, a kind word. This is a gift that has no price at all. And it's the best. When I meet you, your eyes always shine and I can see this magical light, my dear grandfather. How wise, calm, responsive you are. I've never seen your anger or hatred. The world needs more people like you. You're 82 years old now, but your soul is really young. You smile even at problems, and that smile can heal so many broken hearts. You dedicated your life to millions of children, who went to school. During these 50 years of your career, you inspired your pupils and encouraged them to think unusually, to be creative. It turns out that physics and astronomy are really interesting to learn! You have always thought that every child is individual. I feel incredibly lucky, because you are the main teacher in my life. When I was small, you took me to the park and told me different stories, fairy tales. Your hands were warm and soft. I was sitting on a swing while you taught me to count. My golden days. We looked at the stars and they shone so brightly. The most important treasures for you are books. You've been collecting a huge library and sharing it with me. I inherited this love. Every book has its own smell, history, its own heart. It seems like you travel through chapters and feel emotions of characters. You can laugh with them, cry or hate. For example, philosophical books show us a picture of life. These ideas will never lose the power as our human nature remains unchangeable for entire centuries. Thinkers' words describe our reality. It's a wonderful chance to gain knowledge and open your mind. Limitation exists only in our consciousness. Grandpa, you've always said that self-education and self-improvement is the best way to achieve your dream life. It's necessary to learn constantly something new during your life. Stay curious, don't be afraid of the new horizons. Your example proves it, motivates. You were born in a poor family, had no books. You used to sleep almost on the ground and write on the old pieces of paper. There were hard years after the Second World War. Later you walked miles to borrow some books. In spite of all these obstacles you entered one of the most prestigious universities in our country and became a student of the famous professors. I remember those words: your purposefulness and hard work decide everything. Your favorite game is chess. It's the gymnasium of the mind. A perfect way to develop logical and analytical skills. As for me, the game reflects our society. Black or white spaces, black or white pieces. A pawn can become the queen. The king is strong because of his guard, but his golden crown won't save him. The strong pieces stand behind the pawns, but their destiny depends on the players. The game can last only on a bounded board, and then comes «zugzwang» - it means «no escape». In the end, all kings and pawns go into the same box. It's like in life, isn't it? You suffered a stroke in 2012. Your life was on the line. I was scared, grandpa. I was afraid of losing you, dark colors began to appear in my eyes. My God, no. Fortunately, you stand on your feet again. Your sense of humor is alive. Those days you were so weak, but wanted to solve mathematical problems. Today you still read complex academic literature and memorize poems. This love of life has won. Your kindness has returned to you as a boomerang, granddad. All I want is to save your health. Live long. I still can't accept how short our life is. Why can't we turn back the clock? We have one scenario, one way, one fate. One day a station will be final for us, and we will not be able to come back. After all, everyone of us deserves its own finish. Seconds turn to minutes, the minutes turn to hours, the hours to days and the days to years. Time is an impetuous stream of water that will flow out to the last drop. The stars can live for billions of years, but a child can only live for a few months. Do you manage your time properly or not, it kills you in the end. It lasts forever, so our lives are an ordinary thing for it. Grandpa, I can't imagine that you won't be home one day and I won't hear your voice. No, it's too painful. Every day I pray for your health. I'll continue to make you happy, we'll do everything possible for our happy moments. I'm very grateful to you. On a summer night you take your telescope and look at the stars. You seem like a wizard who understands the mystery of the starry sky. And it's so boundless, charming. The stars are bright as always. They are silent and won't open the secrets of the Universe to us. There are things that we must not know about. But if we believe, we can notice miracles around us. Yes, even a new life is a miracle. ‘Grandpa, will the weather be sunny tomorrow?' ‘The most important thing is to keep the sunshine in our souls!'
Ive had two decades of internal wanderings and what gets me the most is how a life lived freely is decorated with synchronicities. As a whole it's an epic saga which rivals even fiction. However these wandering daydreams could be seen as means of escape. Once in therapy I cried for an hour and my eyes hurt so much I skipped school. Now I travel the world with a woman twice my age and the emotion's so real if I was in school I'd skip it still. These external wanderings match closer to my insides anyways and I prefer to call it destiny more so than escapism. I was standing on a river bed in Spain. Golden pillars of sun fractured through pine trees and glittered over the stones at midday. I stood motionless, lost in a trance of rushing water and white noise. I could hear my girl hiking in the background and I felt philosophical. Internal reflections spawned from nature's simple beauty. That day I began to think I'd found comfort in the constant flux of my personality. Before I had attributed my mutating self to puberty and that somehow I'd one day hit a ceiling and become the person I was to be for the rest of my life. At that river though I realized the day I get comfortable may be the day I stop living. Life was about change, and if I really wanted to make change I may as well break up with my girl right then and there. Maybe my love had run out and it was better to end on a high. I suddenly felt ready to break off on my own. We met a year ago in Scotland when I volunteered on her farm and we just fell into this helpless romance. Before I blinked her farm was rented out and she'd joined me. Now here we were hopping borders and camping out in hostels having the time of our lives. Whoever could alter their life for some kid that fast must be impulsive and reckless. Maybe she's a lost soul grasping for a new direction and I would be wise to get out while I can. These thoughts of new beginnings never did spill that day, but the whole country of Spain was boiling hot from dawn until dusk and this iron tension started to coil up inside me as I brooded and inched away over time. Like water in cracks, love will always seep into it's hidden frailties. The relationship was unraveling and this heavy reality was setting in for us both. It didnt feel right but I was supposed to be mature and stay firm. At least that's what I kept repeating to myself while standing in my underwear staring into the gray haze of a storm one night. My girl had gone to bed early after having fallen asleep crying. Another fight and I stood there watching palm trees warp in gusts of wind. In a drunken state of depression I could hardly hold onto thoughts. What was I still holding on for? I couldnt shake this sunken well in my stomach. As if something had changed inside since I started vocalizing moving on. As it turns out, in the heat of the moment, my partner had just reminded me of what a fool I was for being consumed by the future. How foolish I was to let time expire and quietly plan the demise of something I was still engaged in. Just like that my greatest flaw had been ripped out at last and she'd flicked on the spotlight. Not even once did I sit in the present. In the middle of this rampant Spanish storm the realization struck me that I hadn't yet surrendered. These thoughts of change which ran through my head weren't even tangible, just future idealism. True love isn't about what's coming next; it's like succumbing to a feral instinct where you're lost in a connection without any fear or cerebral engagement. These epiphanies were liberating and sent flashbacks of my father leaving my family when I was young. He had fallen in love with someone else and wanted to start a new career. He was in search of what's next. Neither the new relationship nor the career panned out and he now sits alone and works by the hour. I had to learn from his mistakes and this relationship was meant to show me exactly that. My partner and I can fight all we want about the way to live since it's an age old archetypal debate. The intellectual mind versus the instinctual or as physicist Victor Weisskopf put it, knowledge versus compassion. Strip away the egos and there is no right answer. The key is to find balance. Sure her childlike instinctual purity is what's attracted me, but does a man really need love in order to stay balanced? As a young man the thought of being dependent is terrifying. No, what I needed to survive here was the confidence enough to be open and receptive to our words exchanged, so that I could be changed. All I can ever really strive to be is a man in constant flux. Its in these depressed states with sore and glazed eyes that the mind is permeable enough to feel life's lessons, let them change who you are. And so I've let go of fears and ideas of the future and for now, it feels right. It doesn't matter whether or not my adventures is a form of escapism, because for once I'm feeding off a bit of instinct, and the ride of life rolls on.