Paradise of Storm

Tag: Orwell

A Dialogue of Brutes: the Successful Attack on the Free Press

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by Guy Walker

All that’s left is constant snorting, rummaging through the garbage heap for an edible morsel. Our language has degraded into a pile of censored insults and sensitivies; our press soon nothing more than congratulatory think-pieces on Donald Trump and Steve Bannon. The president’s administration has one main prerogative—more urgent than the wall, the immigration ban, or repealing healthcare: making all dissidence slander.

When Bannon spoke at the Conservative Political Action Conference in late February, it was the first time he appeared in public since Trump’s inauguration, his aura of putrid steam billowing across the ballroom like a hypnotic glaze. Supporters finally saw their man—the pale greased-up beast, occasionally scratching himself under his bristled chin—as they’d nod and reassure each other how smart a human turnip actually could be.

He sat there hunched. His gelatinous belly heaved over his sweaty and suffocating crotch, the liver spots that dazzle his face almost peeling at their corners. His eyes, tired and cavernous, are the eyes of complete and impenetrable nihilism—as if he was forced to stare at nothing but cat memes for thirty years, and now seeks revenge on the entire world.

His speech made the usual allegations, posturing conservatives as the underdog, as if they are the political embodiment of Rocky Balboa, knowing well that we humans root and holler for such figures. He said they were being unjustly attacked by the “corporatist globalist media that are adamantly opposed” to their agenda. It’s more a sophomoric tantrum than political rhetoric. It’s what they always blame liberals for doing: snowflakes who “cry and weep” when things don’t go their way—then Trump turns and tweets that SNL is “really bad television” because they made fun of him.

As chief strategist of the White House, Bannon is paralyzingly void of political acumen. He’s squirmish in his suit and tie—his natural, more charitable state is in a bulging-tight wifebeater (because it’s not an undershirt, it’s a way of life)—slouched in his sticky sofa, cursing at the news personality on the television as bits of uncooked pork rocket from his mouth. His ‘strategy’ from the beginning has been to silence dissidence, to insult those who question Trump’s infallibility. In late January, he said “the media”—in general sweeping terms—“should be embarrassed and humiliated and keep its mouth shut and listen for a while.” In a way, it makes complete sense for Bannon to hate the news. He was, after all, executive chair of Breitbart News.

The patterned formula for Trump’s cabinet positions is to nominate someone who condemns the mere existence of that position. Betsy DeVos hates public education. Scott Pruitt sued the EPA many times before being appointed its chief administrator. Rick Perry once said he wanted to dismantle the Department of Energy (he actually forgot the name of this department, but later admitted that this was what he meant). They’re like schoolchildren giggling for wearing their underwear over their pants during Backwards Day, almost purposefully mocking the public for making us accept it.

Everything is reversed. A media tycoon hates the media. A 70-year-old baby plays with his toys of the world’s most advanced nuclear arsenal. Language is meaningless. War is Peace. Freedom is Slavery. We’re all floundering in the dark, trying to grab hold of something real.

Writers have long waded into the depths of cliché by referring to the actions of the opposition political party as “Orwellian” (a queer and unfitting word, as George Orwell made a career of opposing tyranny). His concept of Newspeak in Nineteen Eighty-Four is used to describe the more disparaging antics of both the left and the right ad nauseam, leveraged to whatever paranoia is most fitting: from the flailing pettiness of political correctness that spawns from scrawny self-abusing leftists, to the Nixonian litigation of the War on Drugs, condemning every magical cabbage that sprouts its head. But Trump’s administration is something entirely new: a band of shit-smeared pigs haphazardly shuffling pieces on a Scrabble board, squealing triumphantly when they get a three syllable word. When journalists from the New York Times, CNN, and Politico were recently barred from attending a Spicer press briefing—and Breitbart and America News Network greeted quickly in—a new narrative unfolds: only praise will be allowed.

Milo Yiannopoulos, Gavin McInnes, and other professional conservative trolls who pose as free speech advocates, suddenly lose their platform. Their reality-show ideologue hates the freedoms of those who disagree with the minutia of his brutish declarations of absolute power. If he could, he’d fire every dissident, every skeptic and examiner of the truth.

But he doesn’t really need to. A storm cloud of disinformation has overwhelmed the modern political dialectic. The fake news phenomenon is more a pop-culture phenomenon than anything else—it’s yet another symptom of what Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer called the “culture industry,” the churlish beast of mass culture that anesthetizes an entire generation through its pageant of entertainments. In Adorno’s 1951 book, Minima Moralia, he writes:

    “Lies have long legs: they are ahead of their time. The conversion of all questions of truth into questions of power, a process that truth itself cannot escape if it is not to be annihilated by power, not only suppresses truth as in earlier despotic orders, but has attacked the very heart of the distinction between true and false, which the hirelings of logic were in any case diligently working to abolish.”

The bucktoothed carnies are in charge now, chanting their new vocabulary, requiring us to debate only in grunts and farts, the most repulsive one winning a garland of Easter basket nesting in order to better resemble their god. Kellyanne Conway’s “alternative facts” moment was testament to this—a lazy-eyed performance art of Gustave Flaubert’s famous remark, “There is no truth. There is only perception.” She tours one news station after the next, her procedural drawl resembling a sticky-fanged bobblehead, a wax paper automaton smiling larger when she lies, shifting her aching buttocks in front of another green screen. It demonstrates the annihilation of truth is a necessary prerequisite for the rise of authoritarianism—it leaves a void that is naturally occupied the quickest by power and aggression.

And it clearly works. A Fox News poll marked Americans’ distrust of “reporters” deeper than their distrust of Donald Trump. The slithering reality-show host who launched his political career by alleging that Barack Obama was a Muslim born in Kenya, and then officially endorsed by the Ku Klux Klan, has more favorability than the grossly generalized populace of journalists and talking heads. Bannon’s comments are not actual threats to shut the media up—he’s simply gloating that he can say this and get away with it. He thrives on the inflammatory, on offending entire populations of fragile leftists into yet another frenzy.

Orwell never wrote anything that argued specifically against fascism. He took it for granted that Cartesian common sense wouldn’t let a generation go entirely mad. He was, however, obsessed with language. In one of the most important political essays, Politics and the English Language—written a year before Trump shoved his veiny head out of his mother—Orwell conferred that we “ought to recognise that the present political chaos is connected with the decay of language.” He meant the hyper-intellectualization of language—speech used by many economists, politicians, academics with the intent to confuse the reader or listener under a glaze of jargon. He criticized use of ‘pretentious diction’ and ‘meaningless words’ as confabulatory, stupid, and manipulative. If Orwell could look upon today’s political arena, and listen to the level of debate and discourse, he may very well enjoy a fiendish delight in even his most pessimistic concerns being surpassed. There is nothing Daedalean or exaggerated about the Trump-Bannon-Conway approach to their speech, but rather a literal degradation of language, a dogmatically stubborn defense of adult retardation assuming the highest office in the world.

Early-stage fascism is the most opportunistic and consequential, and yet also the most fragile. As the Trump administration takes its first steps forward, it momentarily glances around to see if it can still get away with it—Trump’s affinity for Putin is obvious, as he restricts the press and puffs his chest as he does it. But he succeeds only through the sordid apathy of the public, through our splendor of the culture industry, like bugs flying stupidly towards a florescent lamp.

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Dan Bilzerian and the End of All Life

“Always one times one–eventually that makes two.Dan Bilzerian, completely hairless, commanding a group of ravens shivering in the moonless night.

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The last casino locks its gates. Only a few dazzling neon lights are left, most of them burnt out and looted in a wanton frenzy for bright color, leaving the Vegas strip a squalid Sophoclean tragedy, a small world of dimly lit acheiropoietons who already turned somber. The deserted clubs host only vague starless eidolons, glitter, cocaine dust  .  .  .  a single Louboutin with the heel broken lies in the center of the dance floor. The VIP rooms and dance halls will be flourishing terrariums before long  .  .  .  like scarlet Edens, posthumous humans. The hookers and the DJ’s all died in a massive orgy gone wrong. There is still war and heartache, but because the DJ’s are dead, there is peace. Donald Trump is still locked in a dark fetid bathroom stall, whimpering to himself, as an anonymous half-erect penis pokes him in the ear through the glory hole of the bathroom wall. Even the street-sweepers and the garbage men gave up and got drunk and tried to caravan to South America, but were last seen driving through the desert, waving an enormous American flag behind the leading truck.

A great wind kicks up and a bald girning coyote runs across the street. A homeless man, hunchbacked and wrapped in a Pendleton blanket, walks up and stops at a magazine newsstand, flips through a few of the covers. He stops at Vanity Fair. “Call Me Debra!” one cover reads, with a woman who was once Dan Bilzerian, but she still has fat cheeks and still has bad teeth. “What an ugly woman,” the homeless man whispers to himself, and takes another pull from his fifth of Jack, and drops the magazine on the ground.

When Caitlyn Jenner inverted his/her penis and put on lipstick, the servile affairs of rich people were more or less routine: liberals hashtagged for equal rights, the corporate oligarchy obliterated what was left of the American dream, the oceans acidified, factory farms killed everything, and celebrity kept everyone waving their arms, screaming “Everything is fucked, but I don’t want to pay attention!” Bradley Manning became Chelsea Manning back in 2013, but because she’s merely a whistleblower exposing some of the most egregious modern U.S. warcrimes, and consequently imprisoned for 35 years, she didn’t win over the paparazzi. But when Dan Bilzerian became Debra—or Debs to his closest girlfriends—the heaving androgyny of modern man turned a new page.

Dan was once a big deal on Instagram. He had millions of followers, his photos consisted of guns, escorts with fake titties  .  .  .  and that was more or less it. He had a beard that disguised his resemblance to a female Pavel Smerdyakov, and was once offered $100,000 by an unnamed co-owner of Facebook to shave it off, which he refused. We know that hidden behind Nietzsche’s tremendous mustache was an insane elitist, but only until now do we realize that hidden behind Dan’s beard was a lonely deformed woman. Born the son of Paul Bilzerian, a Vietnam War veteran of Armenian descent who also sports a big mustache, Dan quickly learned the inarticulate madness of a fraudulent existence. Paul was an “American corporate takeover specialist,” even though he’s Armenian, and even though he was unsuccessful in his takeover attempts. He went to prison twice for fraud, has filed for bankruptcy twice—one of which he only paid $400,000 of a $300 million debt, and another declaring assets of $15,805 against $140 million in debts—and currently lives on St Kitts in the West Indies where he has paid $3.7 million of a two-decade old $62 million corporate fraud charge against him. The tepid egodystonicity of trust-fund children are rabid nightmarish realities, the drunken vultures of misery, vacuous orgasms of death  .  .  .  because one of nature’s law is that a life of great privilege leads to great squander. As a kid, Dan brought an M-16 to school, obviously resulting in his expulsion. He got kicked out of the Navy SEALS training program twice, boasts of his poker achievements when his greatest claim to fame is coming in 180th place in the 2009 World Series of Poker; he threw a teenage pornstar from his roof and broke her foot, he kicked a woman in the face at LIV Nightclub in Miami, leaving her bleeding; he paid $1 million to have eight minutes screen time and 80 words of dialogue in the film Lone Survivor, and sued the producers when he was only given less than a minute; he’s had three heart attacks (one of which he got from taking Viagra), has two goats, lasered off his chest hair, and has just announced that he is running for the President of the United States. In a profile of him in British GQ earlier this year, it stated that Dan is 5 feet, 7 inches tall, to which Dan’s social media manager emailed the writer of the article immediately to confirm that he is in fact 5 feet, 9 and a half inches tall. That extra half inch. It’s like a child who says he’s 4 and a half. Dan’s penis isn’t 3 inches, it’s 3 and one quarter inches.

Nietzsche argues that in war, the victor is made stupid. The sword lunges at the throat of madness. There’s a kind of luxuriant ennui, an overwhelming boredom that erupts from his Instagram photos  .  .  .  his lifestyle shots of guns and women and cars are more than just banal modern hedonism  .  .  .  they suggest something of a current war to fight back a quiet overwhelming truth  .  .  .  they are threatened by everything real, everything candid and strong. As Herman Melville declares: “I’d strike the sun if it insulted me!” Dan Bilzerian is forced masculinity. He refuses to take photos with fans who are taller than him. It begs great wonder. It is clear there is a nagging insanity he has with his father  .  .  .  even he has admitted this. In Absent Fathers, Lost Sons, Carl Jung analyst Guy Corneau writes that if the son does not develop a positive relation to his father’s male body, he will run the risk of not developing a sense of self as a masculine, as well as possibly developing negatively towards all bodies, male and female. Dan Bilzerian is the incarnation of Sophoclean tragedy: as the story goes, the 5th-century BC Greek character, Oedipus, unwittingly kills his father Laius, and marries his own mother, Jocasta. It’s a crude innate avidity in us all. In Sigmund Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams, he proposes that all humans are born with this Oedipal desire (or Oedipus Complex), to love or lust for your parent of the opposite sex, a desire that potentially causes much guilt if not resolved. And in classical Freudian psychoanalytic theory, in order to overcome this complex and its accompanying guilt, the child must identify with or grow close with his or her same-sex parent. A boy identifying with his father is the critical psychological experience that establishes a mature sexual identity. If the complex is never resolved, if the boy does not develop through his father, he runs the risk of neurosis, pedophilia, or worst of all, Dan Bilzerian. In Greek mythology, Chronos, the father of the gods, is in perpetual war with his sons  .  .  .  an endless warfare of masculinity. The gods of vanity are before us! The heartache of Youth! Fire, Wine, Death! I swear, I want Misery!

This is why Dan is becoming a woman  .  .  .  the era of guns and cars and g-string women was merely an ephemeral fart of denial. He has already begun the transition  .  .  .  like I mentioned, he lasered all the hair off his chest.

Vanity is no more complex than masturbation: the immeasurable pleasure of touching yourself. In the mirror, the smile, the serious face, and finally, the face of orgasm. But the bloated tit of our generation is declaring something profound. As we are amid the sixth greatest extinction the world has ever known—the last of course being the extinction of the dinosaurs—as the corporate elite is giving this planet a violent permanent skull-fucking, there are somehow great storms of us who cry with wanton support for the Bilzerians and the Kardashians of the world. The point is not that Dan Bilzerian is an elegiac automaton of a human, nor that Kim is a ho, but rather that the masses crave for the insipid alpha figure, for a white wolf stalking behind the trees, conveying leadership and protection. Instead, Kim sucked a dick on camera and has a fat ass, and Dan has the personality of a dry fuck. He wins an estimated 20,000 new followers everyday  .  .  .  an endless conveyer belt of grunting jeering humans, masses of bodies breathing heavily with their mouths open, a fetid orgy of self-induced Orwellian proles, overshadowing every standing army on the planet. Bilzerian has been compared to Hunter S. Thompson, for his pseudo-hedonistic parade of guns and women, but this is like comparing Jonah Hill to Chris Farley (they both may be fat, but Jonah’s still stupid). Firstly, Bilzerian pays escorts to be with him  .  .  .  Thompson was just fly as fuck. Secondly, Bilzerian admittedly no longer does cocaine  .  .  .  Thompson snorted egregious amounts of it, as well as every other dazzling tragedy under the sun. And lastly, and most importantly, Thompson actually wrote  .  .  .  we love him because the gurgling libertinage of youth grabbed hold of him, because he had the gumption to sit and write The Great Gatsby word for word because he wanted to know what it felt like to physically write the thing. Thompson would do cocaine and acid and women all day, and then create a hysterical madness through the written word. Dan just grunted as he gave his pubic hair a buzz. Dan has every right to be a woman, I support him a hundred and five percent. Because he was never a man in the first place  .  .  .  he’s a symbol, a grotesque reeking ulcer of humanity  .  .  .  he represents the death of mankind.

Charles Darwin described natural selection as being granted vast periods of time by Nature, but not indefinite periods of time. To paraphrase, if a species does not improve itself, it will be exterminated. Darwin was warning us against not a vague fustian concept of extinction, but rather a very definite morbidness, a misshapen horror named Dan Bilzerian. He is our cruel punishment, our Hell. He is insomnia and drunkenness. He is Death itself.

War is Peace and Kim Kardashian is Hot

by Guy Walker

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But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:
Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.
O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom! -Arthur Rimbaud

After the entropic fad of humanity has turned everything into chambers of ash and misery and something resembling Beyonce, I crawl out from the rubble, alone and slowly freezing into place, like a horrible and toothless David picking up his stone and sling  .  .  .  And the sky is so damn red I could almost throw up  .  .  .  “It won’t be long now,” I think to myself. I feel the lonely hubristic end  .  .  .  too bad, too bad, too bad. But wait! A rat limps by me, one last step, then quits. I grab him, his gaunt scarlet body clasped in my quivering hand. Thank god, I’ll last another day. But before I eat it, tail and teeth and all, I take a selfie with it, and then tag it #warispeace and #thankgoditsfriday.

No one is alive to realize it, but peace is what brought us to this torrential orgy of cockroaches, twinkies, dead bodies not wearing their clothes, B-rated horror complexes, and the other realities of nuclear winter. It’s because of peace that we love war, and it’s because of peace that we’re all going to die.

The Swedish armaments manufacturer Alfred Nobel created the five Nobel Prizes: one for achievements in Chemistry, one for Physics, one for Physiology or Medicine, one for Literature, and finally one for Peace—for those who have “done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses.” Cordell Hull won the prize in 1945 as the father of the United Nations—but he also voiced “strong opposition” to a ship of 950 Jewish refugees docking on U.S. soil, pressuring Roosevelt to turn the ship around, which he did. Many of those passengers became victims of the Holocaust before Mr. Hull took his laurels. Henry Kissinger won in 1973 for the Paris Peace Accords—but as Nixon’s Secretary of State, he was greatly involved in the secret bombing campaign of North Vietnamese troops and Khmer Rouge from 1969 to 1975, as well as arming South American dictators carry out Operation Condor, kidnapping and murdering thousands, as well as supporting the Turkish Invasion of Cyprus, still considered by the international community to this day as the Republic of Cyprus occupied illegally by the Turkish forces. Mother Teresa won in 1979—but she believed suffering was a gift from God, and opposed the empowerment of women, calling abortion, “the greatest destroyer of peace.” Yasser Arafat won in 1994—he was involved in three decades of terrorism with the Palestinian Liberation Organization, as well as amassed over $1.3 billion while the economic conditions of the Palestinians continued to degrade. We’ve already reached the five year anniversary of Barack Obama’s 2009 Nobel Peace Prize, in which he won for his promotion of nuclear nonproliferation and for his “new climate” of global affairs, including mending U.S. relations with the Muslim world. To be exact, this “new climate” involves at least seven predominately Muslim countries in which President Obama has bombed during his presidency, as well as being the fourth consecutive U.S. President to bomb Iraq. After last week’s midterm election, Obama announced he would seek an Authorization for Use of Military Force from the new and cherubic Congress, which would authorize his killing campaign in Iraq and Syria. The Republican dominated Congress will find themselves in a difficult dialectic: they love killing Muslims, but they also love opposing anything President Obama offers. Which is more important? Yes, it may be a worn-out hoary pastime to blame Obama for the promotion of death and misery across the globe  .  .  .  but there is some evidence that suggests such a claim may be true—after all, he hired Jay Z and Beyonce to sing at his second-term inauguration, and he threatened the Jonas Brothers with predator drones in a piece of incredible nuanced slapstick. Because ultimately, Barack Obama is in pursuit of peace. And ultimately, he will achieve it.

In Oslo, where a spring rain can heal old people of ugliness, where the homeless have dental plans and beauticians, where an Audemars Piguet watch is an alright birthday present for a three-year old, and alcoholism is as good as happiness, the Nobel Committee has also determined that War IS Peace, and that you too can win an award for it. In his award speech, Barack Obama granted that “to say that force is sometimes necessary is not a call to cynicism—it is a recognition of history; the imperfections of man and the limits of reason.” But the “limits of reason” are only brief episodic limits, something akin to the self-correcting building blocks of science, in which reason alone may not resolve many torrential inquests today, but certainly through reason meaning will eventually emerge, even if it takes decades or centuries of the acquiring of knowledge to do so. The limits of reason, in the case of nuclear warfare, do not exist. In 1955, in midst of the Cold War, our most esteemed intellectuals gathered together to agree that creating weapons that could kill every human on the face of the planet was probably a bad idea. The Russell-Einstein Manifesto, written by Bertrand Russell and Albert Einstein, both of whom won Nobel Prizes, in Literature and Physics respectively, and signed by eleven other preeminent intellectuals and scientists, essentially made the claim that nuclear annihilation was not good and we should avoid it if at all possible. The limits of reason then do not threaten our greatest intellectuals, nor do they threaten any three-year-old born with a normal capacity of common sense. But a third of Americans still reject evolution as a viable theory for the creation of life. There isn’t a single openly admitted atheist in Congress, but there have been hundreds of American federal politicians convicted of crimes throughout the course of American history, meaning it’s easier to obtain substantial degrees of power as a proven bag of shit than it is as a cogent secularist. The limits of reason then exist predominantly in normal adults—as torpid fleshy hominids sprawl across the once-pristine havens of the earth, declaring War IS Peace and Kim Kardashian is actually hot.

But President Obama is right about cynicism. Even very recent history suggests that cynicism does not in fact restore aberration to health. “Absurdity is Natural,” is America’s rallying cry. George Zimmerman, for example, the cheerless oleaginous bovine who was a failed insurance salesman and a neighborhood watch guy who killed a black kid for walking home, has started exercising his creative faculties. He painted an American flag that he copied from a stock photo, and printed the words “God, One Nation, with Liberty and Justice for All,” and sold it on eBay for over $100,000. #AlexfromTarget has 743,000 followers on Twitter for having a peach face while bagging China-made toys, while Jeremy Scahill has a mere 163,000 followers for working incessantly to expose American-made war crimes. Kim Kardashian sucked a dick. In other words, the call to cynicism bellows from our fleshy cesspools to heal all the senile delirium across the globe. It’s like the homeless guy I shared a cigarette with last night in the alley who screamed his autoschediastic terrors of “TITS ON RATTLESNAKES!” Because tits on rattlesnakes is a terrifying image. So is Kim Kardashian shaving her unibrow and then trying to be human. So is a Nobel Peace Prize winner orchestrating drone strikes on innocent Yemeni villages, or covering up fouled night raids in Afghanistan, or not prosecuting the bankers responsible for the economic collapse, or expanding the largest domestic spying program in the history of the United States, or making plans to spend an estimated $1 trillion on renewing America’s nuclear weapon program.

What Obama has done is popularize death and misery. Drone warfare has become a Harry & David fruit basket. And his newly proposed nuclear weapons program is very much the warning Dennis Kucinich gave: “Once we are committed to war’s instrumentality in pursuit of peace, we begin the Orwellian journey to the semantic netherworld where war is peace.” Nuclear disarmament is the only way to achieve nuclear disarmament. Even Reagan, amidst all his colloquial sanguinary lechery, once proposed a good idea: START I (Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty), the largest nuclear disarmament treaty in history. It was the bilateral treaty between the United States and the USSR, resulting in the removal of about eighty percent of strategic nuclear weapons in existence at the time. Obama did renew START I, but he also didn’t. He adopted the Cold War mentality proposed first by Eisenhower, in that “we should do what was necessary even if the result was to change the American way of life. We could lick the whole world  .  .  .  if we were willing to adopt the system of Adolph Hitler.” A trillion dollars to lick the whole world. Enough to feed all the starving babies. Enough to send all our kids through university. Enough to completely transform our energy sector to renewable clean energy. And yes, even enough to buy every person on the planet fifteen hits of ecstasy, paid for at street value.

Hegel was right, in that the fear of the lord is indeed the beginning of wisdom. And it’s only the beginning of wisdom. True wisdom is assumingly achieved when obedience and submission to the lord takes place. It’s something that a trillion dollars of nuclear weapons technology helps to ensure. It’s a fervency for lordship and bondage, something that every falling empire hopelessly grabs at to again take hold of. If Napoleon were around today, he too would scream “tits on rattlesnakes.” It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. It’s the final limitation of Reason, when war is indeed peace and absurdity natural.

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