A collaborative project between Dublinjd, VenomRealmCreepyPastas, Sater, and I, IdealisticPrawn.
Written by Dublin, Venom and Sater, and edited by Prawn, we four all hope you find this pasta worth your buck.
Alas, enjoy!
I: Prophecies[]
1[]
"Convinced myself, I seek not to convince."
- Edgar Allan Poe
DECEMBER, 1983
Here’s what happened. I was driving to home for the weekend earlier this morning, my wife sitting in the backseat; I was so happy, my wife was going to have a baby tomorrow - I couldn’t fight off the smile – and we thought it’d be a great idea to have my child in the place where I was born, as she was from the big city and most hospitals there are busy 24/7. I drove for a few miles further, the landscape rushing by, and I looked back at my wife.
“Honey, I have a great idea for the name!”
Before I could express this idea, I looked out the window and I saw a figure in the black.
It was a yellowish, winged figure, leering at me from its position in the road. Somehow, I seemed to vaguely recall who it was and I turned the car before it smashed into a tree. I blacked out after I caught a glimpse of the figure flapping its wings and soaring off.
I awoke to see a pole from a billboard near the tree, stuck through the backseat; my wife wasn’t there.
“Rosetta?!” I called out into the smoldering abyss of trees and fog.
No answer.
I needed to get out of here, to find my wife, so I took out a shard of glass from the broken windshield and cut my seatbelt as to allow me to exit the car; I struggled my way out of the door and began to walk down the road as fast as I could, albeit my being an injured man.
After about half-an-hour, I reached the town of Oldford. I grew up here, but it seemed almost entirely empty and devoid of its usual cheer. I ran inside the close building, which was a gas station, trying to find help.
No one, just like I thought. My pulse was quickening, and I was beginning to become uneasy. As I scrutinized the inside closely for any sign of human beings, I looked out the window to the nearby, slow-moving Stonefield River.
I was shocked.
Last time I was here, the bridge had been out after it grew tired like other bridges in West Virginia in the past. I couldn't believe it. A year ago there was a bridge there, an intact one, one which I actually began to walk across. The bridge was devoid of vehicles, and looked like it had stood for centuries under the reign of intense weather and age. Normally, the bridge would head to what people called the ‘slums’, although this town wasn’t particularly rich in the first place.
It was then that I heard a creaking noise.
I took the hint and backpedaled before sprinting right off the bridge as it fell and crashed in a cantankerous heap of metal, which than proceeded to be dragged down the river, plowing its banks. I covered my head as the screaming of alloy overwhelmed me for a second.
On this note I ran back into town, further pressing forward on the segment of highway that divided the town in two and served as a makeshift business strip that most of the town’s money makers were situated on.
It was empty, the whole place seemed to be awfully desolate. I walked into a nearby café to use their phone.
I picked it up, and dialed 911.
There was no ring.
I could hear the buzzing noise, and strangely enough I started to fall asleep; my head throbbing, I quickly left the store before falling on the ground. The last thing I saw before blacking out was, once again, the yellow figure.
I woke up, again, several minutes later to an apprehensive, oppressive feeling deep inside me.
I stumbled onward, entering a hostel, wondering if there would be anyone still in their rooms.
As I entered the lobby, I saw the yellow figure again gloat at me silently before disappearing up stairs. Giving in to my primitive urges, I followed it, and the fleeting creature vanished through a door. On the other side of the door I could hear a mattress creaking and a woman lapsing into a series of orgasms.
I opened it and, to my horror, I saw my old bedroom back home, with a doppelganger of myself, half-naked, banging away at someone else who wasn’t my wife, but instead a complete stranger I hadn’t met before. My doppelganger looked at me, before saying “What the fuck are you looking at?” in an embarrassed and angry tone of voice.
I backed away, my breathing becoming shallow. Something obviously was going terribly wrong; as far as I was concerned, this alternate, sex-crazed version of me was an obstacle in the quest to find Rosetta.
My wife and my baby were at stake.
At this point I kicked at a glass box (‘IN CASE OF FIRE BREAK GLASS’) on the wall, shattering it; I retrieved the axe and, adrenalin coursing through my veins, I ran and lunged at my doppelganger.
The woman screamed as I heaved the axe in my double’s side, causing him to fall off the bed and onto the floor headfirst. He tried to clamber away helplessly, but I climbed over the crying woman and brought the axe down was once again, severing off his head sloppily in a torrent of blood. I swung again, and again, and again, mangling the bastard’s face while screaming “You are not me, you motherfucker!!” I buried the axe in his chest before I fumbled across the carpet and fell down crying.
I looked around. The bed and the woman were gone; the only piece of furniture was a mirror, which I picked myself up off the ground to look at it. I advanced for it carefully and, upon closer inspection, the face wasn't mine. The face in the mirror was of a different man. This was the final straw; I swiftly exited the room, sobbing as the hotel’s double doors closed behind me.
I took a seat on a nearby bench to recollect myself.
“What's going on?” I said to no one in particular, before the buzzing happened again.
That goddamn buzzing. It filled my ears as the town became more eerie, like it was transforming. I promptly got up and I tried to escape the buzzing by entering the diner across the street.
I walked inside, to see an odd glow at one corner of the room; the glow diminished, revealing another doppelganger of mine eating what appeared to be a whole buffet. He looked at me as he crammed food into his mouth, and I returned to my position on the sidewalk, where the buzzing seemed to have stopped.
Walking further down the street, I saw a vision of me and a homeless man; he asked me for a dollar, and I gazed into his pocket where he already had reserved about a hundred dollars in cash. Instead of contributing to this fucker’s war fund, I spat on the homeless man mercilessly and continued on my journey. As the vision faded, I had the lingering feeling as though I was in hell. I could see a bench, with myself on it, just… sitting there. These freaky hallucinations were wearing me down, and I rubbed my tired eyes with my hand.
I sighed, the power of unhappiness effortlessly exerting its control on my mind. I walked past what I saw to be a bike shop; I heard voices coming from inside. With just a pinprick of hope, I meandered inside.
I could see a vision of myself punching and kicking my wife around the living room like some sort of fucking punching bag.
I was shocked; I couldn’t bear it. He didn’t notice me, so I rammed into him and thrust him off the balcony before he could protest, watching his descent and eventual splatter on the street.
I looked back. Predictably, the battered version of my wife wasn’t there, and looking down to the street, my second doppelganger was missing too.
I turned back and the room was no longer what it had been before; now it was what appeared to be a graveyard, although the only two graves present were those of my parents. The monster was standing behind me, looking at the back of my head with a grin on its yellowish face.
Without turning to face him, I asked “What do you want from me? I suffered enough... ” The figure approached me, its feet crushing. I was frozen in anticipation and in fear.
“Where’s my wife?” I demanded, stammering with nervousness.
It didn’t respond, instead whooshing right above my head and off into the sky. I lost my balance and fell. However, there was no ground to catch me; I kept falling and falling into the dark void, screaming.
2[]
"Love is so short, and forgetting is so long."
- Pablo Neruda
G̾̏̇̆̉ͪo̶̵̡̾̉̄o̊̎̇ͩ̓̋d̵̛ͭ̅̈́ ̒̿͋̓̒ͩ̚͏e̐̋ͧ̑͐́ṽ̉̌͆̒͏҉e̐̿͊͐̇̽ͭ̚҉́n̎ͥ͝͡ǐ̌ͣ͛̿͆͌ͯ͜n̶̆͂̚ǵ̴̨̇̅ͯͤ̃͠.̢̛̊́͊ͮ̈ͬ͌͝ ̛ͮ͌ͭ̈́Y̢͐̌̓̚͟oͩ̉̽͆̍ͯ̇҉̨ư̶̍ͯ̑ͬ ̢̅̈́ͮͤ͗̓̑̃m̶͑̂ͫ͌̀aͧ̑̔̎̌͏̷ÿ̓ͩ̓͆̏ͭ ͨ̍͝ŗͨ͛ͦ̌ͦ͌͐̓̂͝ë̴̔ͫͮ͐́fͫͧͥͭ͞ȅ̶̢̄r̉͛̇̅́ͮ͝ ͗ͣ̈̔ͥ̓̑͜t͋̈̂̓́oͣ͌̄ͭ͊̏̄ ̡͛̎̐̈͢m̢͐̿̑̔͂͌̋ẻͪ҉͜ ͋̊̈́̅̉̏ͭ͜ǎ̿ś̴͜ ̛̌̋͌͑t̓̄́͘h̨̆̉́é̊͗ͩͩ̐̉͆͟͏ ̄͌ͧͦͧͨͪͣ͘͞m̶ͨ̑̌̈́͆͛͡ìͦͨ̂̽̎́͘͝n͒̉̎̋̾̎ḑ̵̐̑̈́̚͢ ͌̽̏ͤo̴ͨ͒̑ͮͩͥ͆̈͞f͗̒͆̊̃̐̈͏ ̉͌̄̑̇ͪ̓ͩ͟͡aͬ̂̅̊̓̿̒ ̅ͯ͂̓҉͢g̨̨̀͆̒͊ͤu̷ͭ͋ͩḯ̉ͧ̆ͦ̐͠͡lͬͯ̋̓t͐̔̑̌̑̿̇ͥ͏ỷ͐̓͑ ̌̌͆͑ͤ̃̓͆m̀̓̓̊ͤ̆a̵̅̌̏nͩ͌͋͛ͩ̃̓̉.̸̏̇̓͑ ̑̓ͬ͛̈̾̓ͩͥ́͢I̐̈ ̴̊̾ͪ̾̎͋̀̓ḧ́̈́ͯ̿ãͮ̋ͧ͞v̒ͮͥͨ͒eͦͭͤͦ̆͋́̿͏ ̓͆ͬͣ͐̀͌m̡̋̈́̅̑̄̔̾ȧ̶͋̇̍́͏n̉͐͏͟y̆ͨ͞ ͯ͛͂͐̐ͣͯn̷ͨ̚̚͢aͤ͟mͪ̌͒͡ě̡̛̐̀͂̇sͫͨ̉ͧ̐͜.͗͑͂͜͡ ͛ͭ̇̋ͥ̌̋͂ͥ͡Ǹ̂̓ͣ͒̽ͭ̚ŏ̶̐͂̏͛ͯͤͪn̷̨ͬͫ̆ͬ͑͞ě͐ͧ͋ͭ͆ ̾̋͞o̐ͭͦͪ̑͘͘f͆͌͒̒́ͩ͆̄̀͠ ̊̅́ͯͪ̊ͥ̕͏̀t̵̓͑͝ḣ̈́̂͌̐ͬ̓̕e̽̐͛̿͊͗͑̽mͣ̌ͪ̀ ͥͣ̈̐ͮ̀̚m̎̾̂̒̆͛ẽ̡͆̒ȁ͒̀ͯ҉̶̸n̊ͯ̓͒ͭ͌̀͜ ̶͆̔̎̒͊ͬ̈́ͩͧ́͠a̍̿̑̑̽͆̾ͮ̃҉͡n̓̉ͬ̈̏҉̴y̑͂͛̕͘t͂͆ͯͧ̈ͫ͢͝h̢̆̃̑̏ͮͤ͟i̵ͨͣn̂͗̍̄͆ͬ̕gͯ͊ͯ̐̕͟.̊̓̅̇̍̕
̃ͮ̓͢A̵̓͆͋ͬ́̒̓͞s̸̉͆ ̵̆̾͢h͛̾̎̔̾͌͝e̽̿̓ͧ҉͠͠ ͊̋̈ą͊̂̋n̶̸̉̒̅́d͐̈́͞҉̨ ̨̨̍̔͑h̊̌̋ͫ̄ͩ̍҉͜͡i̸̢̓̂͒ͬ̊͢s̈́̂̐̿̀ ̊̈w͆̾ͩ̆̉̌̀́͡͠ȉ̶ͮ͜f̛͛͌̿̃̉̾̂̈́̍͜eͪ̊ ̴̢͐ͨ͆̾̃ͥ͜d́̓r̶̨̃ͩ͆̈́oͯ̄͆͐ͤ͋v̷̡ͪͩ̽͟e̢͊ͦͮ́̀͝ ̵̉͑̏ḩ̾ͨͭ͗ͪǒͬͩ̉̾ͥͬ͠m̊̓ͣͨ͠e̷̾͂͆̋͢͡,̏͌ͩ̃ͣͨ̏͢҉ ̵̌ͧ͛͒ͩ̆͛̒I̅ͩ́ ̡̔͒͘͜n̋͊͐̀͠ǫ̽̏̏͜͟t̴͒ͧ̋̏̀ͦ͐ͦi̶̶̿ͧ̃c̵͗ͣ̐̈͢ė̷̌d̅ͬ͑̔̉̊̎ͭ̕ ̧ͧ̇̃̿̽̌t̶̢ͭ̃ͪ̂̈́͋̽̍ͮh̶͐ȩ̵̀̓̄̉̎̍ý͗͠ ͧ̊ͬ̅͗ͪͩ͂͏́̕w̢ͯ̋͠͡ẻ͒͝҉r̶ͯ͋ͫ͋̂͑ͭ̅ȩ̶̍̅̎ ̒̆ͥ̆͑̓̒͋̆͘h͗ͪ̇͒ͧ̌͛a͂͒͜͡p̴̌͗̿͢҉p̉́̃̉́͘yͬͧ̈̾ͣ̕͟͡.̌͒͒ͨͯͥ ̉͂͒̿͋̋Ĩ̵͑̆ͧ̄̆ͪ͂̓t̛͊̄̏̃͂ͯ́̓͟ ̷̑̈ẁ͡ȃ̸ͮ̊̌ͧͭ̔sͮ̋̂̿ͪ͡ ̴̐ͥ͌̓ͬ͛̑s̔̊ͬ̚̕ȏ̾̄̓m̨̏ͯ̌ͮ̌ͩ͂́e̛͐̇̓̑̉t͌̈́͠ḩ̵̆͒́͆̏͗̏̀į̴̉͋ͤ͒̓ͥ̍n̛̎̈́ͥ̀ͧ̇͢g͛̈́ͦ̃̽ͬͬͤ̀ ̛̋̄̏I̴ͯ̾͂̒͢ ̓ͮͪ̃w̶̾́̃͑ͦ͗͟a̵̛ͤ͋͗͐ͨ́͛̚͜s̐ͪ̌͏ ̆̐͒̽ͩ͐̋ͫ́͢ḑ̓ͩ̈́̈́̐ͪ̐͌͏e̴ͣ̓͑̆̽̀ţ̴ͥ̉̏̒ͨ̅̏̍e̾̿͋̀ͦͧ҉́ŗ̷̓̓ͧ̐͐̏ͮ̔m̿͒͏i̡͑͆͆ͣ̿̒ͨn̸̨͒̎̌̍͒͆͆̕é̶͐ͮd̡̈̇̒ ͋ͨ̇͐̀͂͡ţ̿̎͜ȏ̎̈ͤͯ̑̀ͮ́̚͞ ͩͪͮ̓̋̀ͪ͘f͌ͩi͋͂̾̽̇̽̏ͥ͡x͗͋̽ͩ̄̓̎͜.̡͗ͭ͗ͦ̈́̕͝ ̡͒ͪ͝H͒̋͋̇̒̌̾̏͘aͪ̐̈́͛̆̐ͮͧ͘p̎̌ͪͥͥ́p̓̚i̢̒̉̉̃n̸̆̈́̍̂̋ͫ͋́ë̸ͪͥ̽͊͊͠s̵ͮ̃́̉̉s͌̋̾̊̽͊́ ̛̃̉̎͋͛͘i̛̓̇ͮ͆͞s̢̆̒͘͜ ̧ͤ̾͛̀s̓ͫ̾̄̆͡ò̆̄͊̂̒m̴͗ͮē͗̊͜͠tͬ͆̈ͥ͌̎̚h̛ͯ̍i̓͛̈̾ͮ̊̚ň̂̃͗͌g̸̐̈̀͌͒̃͆̚̕͡ ͪͫ̕͟t̊͗̕͝h͊͊̕̕aͥ̿͘ţ̑̋ͭ͊͞҉ ̨ͬͭ̾ͧ̅͑́̚h̋̏ͣͮͩeͧͮͣ́ͪ͏̢͢ ̍ͪ͒́ͫͫ͘͡ḑ̚͜ô̡̒͜͠ȩ̅̽̔̐ͣs̉̚͡ ͫ͌ͥ͊̽͌͝͏n̶̏̃̐̽ͣ͢͝oͧ͑ͣͥ̊̚͞t̎̈́́͞ ̓ͩͪ͂ͣdͬ̉̎̿͏̛͘eͦͣ͑̐̈́̈́̓̎̓̕s̶̆ͯė̷̛ͥ̓r͛̓ͪ̉͘̕v̶̢ͩ̾͗ͥȇ͆̍͋̏̚̕ ̢ͥ̓ͫ̅ͧ͊ͪ̕t̊ͮͩ̚͟o̵̓͋͛̓͑̊̽ ̨̉͆ͦ̑̄̍͢͝e̿ͦ̎҉̷x͐͆̉p̋̎̚͠e̛͊̂ͪ̈́͊̇̎̃͠rͦ͜͜iͪ͡҉̛e͋ͥ̓͐ͮ̕͟n̄̏ͦ͌̀͋ͦ̊̄ç͌ͪͧ̂̈́̔̇͂ę͑̾̅͐͊̀.̨̿̔ͤ̆ ͬ̚Y̷ͧ͌̐̂̓̾͜͝o̶͑̿̉ͦ̍̍ͦͪư̶ͮ͆͊̂ͣ̉ͫ͡ ̌ͨ̽̔͏͞͝s̵ͦ̆͌̈́̃̑̔ͧe͑ͤ̿̓ͤ̇́͒͠e̴̡̓ͫͤ͛̈̑͝,̢̒̿ͮ̾ͩ̓ ̡̀̎ͣ̓͋ͤ̓͘͝İͦͩ̃̎ͥ̄̆͢͠’̴ͬ̒̈̀̽ͯ̔v̷͑e̵ͫ̎̔̎ͫ́ͦ̾ ̨̡̃k̴̎͒̑̓̋̆́̚͜n̡͒͒̊̾̏̕ő́͊҉̸wͬñͪ͑̒̈́͋̽ ̑ͣ̉͂͂̍t̶̆̆͆̉͗̂͛ĥ̢̌͌͢͜įͬͩͮ̃̆ͣ̚s̴͒̑͋̃͋ ͨ̈͊̎͑̏͢͟͠m̸̛ͫ͊̀̏͗ͨ̚àͪn̴̾ͩ̈́̇ͧ̒ͯ ̷̈̿̌̽̚͢s̆̔̄͊̈̎͡i̧ͪ́̌̋ͪ͆̊̆̈́n͆̌ͤͧͤ̄c̿ͬ͆̏̽̏͢ȩ̎̽́̋͑͋͘͡ ͋̈́͝h̴̅̿̿̂̓͟e̶͑͒͆̀̔ ̽̒̂̓ͤ͑̋ẅ̨̢̂ả̓̓ͪ̑́ͤ͢s͊ͫ͛͛͒ͭ̈́̉ͨ͜ ̵̈́̓̈́j̐̚҉ǔ̈ͪś̢ͮt̡̊͂̾̊̀͞ ̸̷̅ͣͪ͛ͯá̓̑͞ ͌ͦ͘͜čͧͫ̊͗̐̄ͯh̃̎̾̏ͦȉ̸̃͊ͮ͝l̆̐͘͟͢d̷ͭ̃́̅̓͘.̈̆́ͯͫ͆͏ ̡̈́̆̐ͥĮ̈̓̇̽ͮ́͡ ̡͐̓ȍ͒͐͐͑̉̓ͦ͘fͯͯͤ͐̅̾͟ ̓̂a̧ͬͥ͋ͩ͛̒ͣlͦ͛̾͏̷͏l̓̂̽̇̈͐ͪ ̢͂ͪ́͂̅ͭt̅ͪ̎͋͛́h̵̽̅̈͑̏̋ͫ̾͌҉ĭͣ͌̌ň̛̉ͨͪ̂͛͠g̛̿͋̃̒ͨs̨͗͗́̊̎̎͋͊́͝ ̨̃͋̿̃̊̂ͯ͢w͊̋ͥ̚͟ơ͛͊͢u̔͛͊ͩ͗̇̓́͟l̸̒͋ͤ͠d̵͗ͤ̿̓ ̾̀ͧ̐ͭ̆̍̾̏͜͞k̨͗̎ͯͧͧ̎̃̅̐͜n̈́̊͌͛̒͌oͮͪ̃͒͑̇̆͂̇͢wͣ̉̕͝ ̢̂͊̏ͧ̍̓̒̒̃͝t̴ͨ͒̔̋̂ͪh̄̀̕͟a̶͊̚t̐͌ͧ̽͑ͬ́͡.̽ͮ̌̑̔̊͊̚
̵̷̿ͧͪͩ̍́A̡̒͟s̋͊̉ͨ̌ ̢͂͛I̶͌ͩ̄̐̊ͩ̍ ̧̆̋͛̄͑͌ͮͨ̒͝͡ẃͫͨ͌͆ͯ̃ͨ҉҉a̷̢ͥͣ͢tͭͥ̽̓ͬ͊c̸̃̄̈́̈́ͣ͂ĥ̉͐̏̄ͮè̷̵ͫd̶̢̨̊̓̔̉ͫ͛̏ ̡̧̑ͯ̓̀ͯ̑̈̑͑͠h̉̊͂ͩ̐̎͏i̶̅ͤͨ͆̀͜m̆ͯ̀ͯ͘͠ ̸̿̏̈́̅͌ͥ͘͝a͗͂ͨͪ̅n̈́̽̏͋͠d̔͆̔̉ ̛̌̓̈͗̃͛ͣ͘h̛̃͛i̢͑͛ͥ͑̇̑̎͠s̡̒͝ ͒́w̴̧̄̂ͦ̾ͤ̉̂̊̈́͟i̷͌͊̈͘͞f̆͐̇ͥ̈̂ͩ́̕e͒͛̑̒̔ͧ͊͆̾͜͝ ̧̅̅ͤͩ̂ͥͤ̊sͤ͑̾́͘c̡͗̑̓̀̚͠r̷ͧͦ͝e͆̓ͪ͆́aͣ̈́͜m̷͊ͫ̎͘ ̴̷̉̀̾͢h̑o̶ͫͮ̃ͤ͋͜͠r̷̈́̽̅̒͐̂͌̓҉r͐ͫ̔̄̒̋̽̇̂ǫͤ̇ͧ̀r̛͑ͥ͘ ̡̍̄ͪ͐ͥ̋̋̋҉̡b͑ͫͤ͛̓̓͆̆͢e̽̄̈͆ͭf̈͗̓͋ͩ́̐̀͡ô̵͋͊̏̓̈́ͩ̚͝r̡ͫ̏ȩ̸͗͗̿̀ ̵̨̈́̓͒͋͋̋ͭ̔͞t̿͐͛̒̊̅͗̕͘hͨ͋ͫͫ͆̆ͨe̷ͪ̋̿ͩͮ̎͜i̡ͯͥ͐ȓ̶̌̆ ͆͂ͧ̈̓͘͝͡c̀̓͌͋ͬ͞aͦͨ̔ͧ͒̉r̵ͫ̽̏̎̌̉͢͞ ́c̎̈́ͦ̀͏r͋͆̒̃́͜ư̽̋̒ͥ͋ͦ̔̈́͢m̋̄҉p̌̄̀͐͂̓͘͜l̡̢̡̓͐̋̾ͯͨͥè̸̸ͧ͊̇͐̅̑̚d̸̶̵ͣ̇̇ ̡̢͂̉̏͊͜a̵ͣ̎ř̡ͫͩ̇͟ǫ̶̉̎͆͛̃̌̚̕u̷͒͆̕ņ̵͊̓̒ͭ̇̽̈́̆́d̵̂̄̑̏̽̾͢ ͫ́ẗ́̏̏ͭ̀͒̕ĥ́e̷ͤ̓͊̅ ̸̎͂͠bͮͣ̾͏̴a̽ͪ̇ͧͫͧ͊̇͐s̡͒̊̀e̔̿̄͂͐͋͢ ͌̈ͧͩ͏͏oͫ̏̆̚͏͝fͫ̈̆͒ ̊ͫ̾̒̄́͘t̔ͬ͂ͮ͆h̶̛ͫ̈̿̏e̵͐ͬ̊̓͏ ̀͑́͋̀͜͡tͬͭ̉̆̀r̒̓ͬͦͨͩ́̿e͐͐̀ė̂̔ͬ͞͞,ͯ̎̇̍͠ ̵ͮ͐͢͞I̶̊̓ͬ̽͘ ̧̓̏̄͒͂w̎̎̒ͦͯ̄͂ỏ́́ͦ̌̾̕͜n̸͗͊͐͐́̋͊͞d̒͛̋̌ͥ̕ẽ̑ͬͥ̀̍̿̋͏̶r̍ͫ͗͐̃͒̌͟͟e̐̒̎ͮd̅͒̿̈́ ̴̓̽̍̈ͦ͒͋͜i̴̒͛͋͞f̛̒͐ͩ́͛́͂̀ ̶͆̌h̛̓ͧͨͯͯ̿̈́͠e̊̋̾ͫ̽͟͡ ̴̿̉̋̀̑r̅̓̇̋ͮ̚҉͠ȩͣͣ͘҉ḿ̨̢̉̽̀e̡̢̍ͪ͡m̶ͭͩͨ̍̚͞ḃ̷ͬͧͦͤ͒e̋ͨ̅̏ͤ͘͝r͗̊͆͊́ȩ̨̈ͩͥ͏d̷̀̎͛ͧ̑̾̿.̶̶̎̒́̆̍ ͑ͦ̎̀ͮT̸̛̎̓̀ͬ̓̋ḩ̴̑ͩ̽̎̐ͨ͑e̓̄̉̊̉̾͋ͭ͢ ̄ͤͫ͐̓͋t̸͐̾͂̽͟͢w̵̌̂̅̚ȉ̾̓͝͏sͥ̓̎̒̾ͯͣ́͝͏ṫ̈́̊ͮ͂̄́e̶̾̎̔ḑ͛̎ͣ ͣ̆̔͌͏m̒̋ͬ̓͐͊͆̏e͛ͯ̊͒͗̓͡ṫ̷ͤ̿͌͠aͭl̡ͪ̽̐̏ͩ͜ ̸̛͊ͩ͑w̑̐̈̇ͪͦ̏r̄͆̄̆ͬ͢͝ē̢ͨ̎̇͝͏cͯ̓̃ͧ̂̈́k̀ͥ͊̓̋̿̓ ̛̑͆̅ͨͭ̔̚̕͟ẇͣ͢͠h́̏̚͟͠ěe͒ͤ͊ͭ͒ͭͮz̉̽̐҉é̵̂ͬ̄́͋͐ͩ͜dͭͩͯ͂̂̏ͪ ̡ͥ̄̚͜͜l͒͆̚͏̴͘ö̡́̃͗͒o͗̓̾ͥ͐̀̿̾͢k̵ͨ͆̇̈́̄̂ͩ̉̕e̢͆ͣd̢̏̿̿̾͐̄̓̀ ͯ͘l̷̡̛̔͗ͤ̏̅̚̚̚i̎̓̂ͣ͗̒͋̾͘k̶ͪ̚ė̛̌̇͢ ̷̓á̴͌̀̈̀nͨ̅͐͜ ͪ̾͏̕ǔ̷̑̏n̡ͦͩ͟͡fͭ̒̋̊͡o͋̋͌̿̾͐͆̕l̷̐ͥͪ̃͝d̃͋̿͞͝iͫͤͨͬ̿́n̸̐ͧͩ̑͊g̡̓͒ͫ̀͟ ̷̡̔͑͡c̆̑͛̎ͥ͐͜a͐̍̄͏͟͝n̆̃ͤ̾ͣ̚d̶ͣ̂̅ͧͫ̈́ͮ̾̕yͦͪ҉͢ ̒̉ͫ̃͏̨wͩͨ̋̿̂ͨ͛̕͝ṙ̡̽͒̿̕͠ą̛ͭ͐̾ͫ̓ͣ͛́p̸͛̓̒̏̚p̴̒̓̔̀e̡̒̈́rͥ͂͋́͌͑͂̕͜.̂ͫͯͬ̚͝
̂͟I̶͛͏̴t̨̐ͮ́̔̈̌̍͗͜ ͥ͗̂̚͘tͪ̒̀̎̒͜͞ȏ̆ͬ͂̃̒ͫơ̈́̏ͥͥ̆ͪ͛͝k̍͋̕͘͟ ͬͯͯ́͡h̷̶͗̊̒̑i̶͐̌͆s̊̍͘ ̌͗͑ͮͣ͋ͮͧ͘w̶̾̓ͬ͊͏iͭ͐͜͞f̉̾eͣ͌̇̐͂͆̀ ̶̂͌͟o̵̔̆͛̓̎̒͗͛̀̚ų̒͑t̛̍ͣ̓͘͢ ̛͑ơ̔͒̎̇͞҉f̶ͯ͐ͭ́̏̈ͦ͛ͧ͘ ̛́̓̈́̀̊̐̚t̷̵̋͂̇̐̾h̵ͨ̔̈́̓ͥ̄̄e̎̀͘ ̨̏͐͛̔ͣ͛̐͞ě̏̋̏ͪq̨̃̓̀ųͮ̾̾͛͠ã̀̓̈́͡t̽͝i̿̓̅͋ͥ̓̚̕ǒ̿ͭͥͩ́̚̕҉n̿͠.̷̍̊̅̾̎̄̉ͪ͢͡ ̓̋̊͒ͭͨ͗̀S̓̿̎ͥ̌ͥ͘hͧͣ̾̾e̸̢͐͊ ͗́m̂̈́̏̅́͝͠ë̵́̇̍a͊̂̋̉̋̕͘͝nͬ͑ͥ̓͊̿͑̇̀͢t̴̑ͤͣ̂͜ ̨̋ͣ̄̋̑͒̋ͭ͑͟n̶̿ͧ̊͒ͧ̍o̶͊̑̈̈͑ͣ̽̚͜t̴̐̍̔͆̏͗̓̾͝ḧ̉ͩ͐̄͛̓ͬ͜īͥͨ̎͡ǹͯ͑̾҉͠ģͤͭ͗̒̿ͯ̏͘ ̑ͪ̆ͪ͛ͤͯm̏ͪ̓̕͞o͑͟r̾ͮ̇ͮ̾͂́͏ě̇ͪ̆̓͆̋ ̛ͪ̏̀̉͑͟t͆̆ͤ̄̎̾͒̔͟o̴ͦͦ͂͊͡ ̔̍ͭ̃̆̔̈́̋͝m̨̍͒͛͞eͮ͐̿ͨ̄͐̓͠ ̶̴̧̐̏̏ͣ̐ṫ̢̅̂͆ͧ̑ͨ͟͝h̢ͤ̀̈͐͢aͫͯ͢n̛̊̓̌̔͑͊ͦ̽ͤ͝ ̡̛͗d̵ͫ͌ͤ̽̐ͣ̑e͂͆̒̆̿̀̓͏̕b͋̀ͣ̑͘r̀̈́ͩͮͣ́͠i̡̎ͮ̇̒̐̋̀͏s̈́ͫ́ͦ̏͆̂̿̕͟҉.̵̴̢ͮͩ ̀̀̕͜T̡̈̌̈́̕hͤ̉̓͐ͥ̅̋͝ḯ̴͋͐͑͛̇͘̕s̶̉,͒͒͡ ͮ͒̈ͧ̌͛͢t̸ͨ̆ͯͤ̇̈͡ḩ̧̅ͪͤi̿̽̍̋̐̆͡s͋̆̂ͯ́ͪ̾̄̃́,ͮ̃̑͒̆̿ͤ̈͠ ͩ͝w̶͛̓̃̑a̿ͯ͑̾̿ͦ̇ͪs̴̢͊ͥͫ͑̄̆͠ ̨̅̑̐̇ả̈́̈́̐̆b͗̽ͨͮ̏͂̉ô̎͑ͯ̑̈́ͣ͑͆u̓̍̆̓͒ͪ̊ͪ͑͢t̴͗ͨ͝ ͮ̉́ͦ͑̇̓̽͡h̵̡ͭįͯ̾̽̚͏́m̍ͮ͌ͯ̎ͥ͠͡.͒̄ͩ̉̌ͬͧ͗ ̒ͮ͐̌ͪ̒͊̄ͦ҉͝H͒ͩ̀̍̐ͭ͐͢͞i͆̌ͪ̍ͨšͤ̓̍̔̾͆͂͜͠ ̨̄̓͐ͭͫͧ̉͞j̛̿ͩ͑́ͪơ̷̈̈̚u̍̎̚ṙ̃ͨ҉n̆̏̇͌ͫ͋ͯ̅̀͜e̋͗̽ͨ̒͟͏̢y̷̐̊ͫ̅̔̃̔.̇ͨ͘
̢ͯͩ͌ͥ̃̿̐Ĥ̶̛͂͝e͒͌ͣ̋̒̏̿̀́͜ ̶̵ͮͩ̐̿̂̂́̓͆a̡̿̾̕w̔̐̆ͧ̄̋҉̵̡o̎̏͐ͪͤk̶͂̽ͮ̓͊̐e̿̏ͫ̐ͨ͌͊̀n͒̈́͂͗͒ͣ̔͟ ̒̈́s̉́̂͒͒ͬͯͣc̀̔͋̐͛̾̊͢͠áͥ͘͝rͮ̓̂͊̇͛ͬ̽҉ĕ҉dͮ̐ ͩ̆̕a̐͒̌ͦ͝n̓͠͝d̷͋͂ͥ̅ͮ̓͐̎͜͠ ̔̂ͣ̿ͬ̎̕͜͢o̅̂̋́͢n̍̽ͧ̕ ̵ͮͪ́a̾̄ͬ̉͊͗ ̨́ͤ́ͭ͂͋j̢̈͒̀ͬ͗͒̃́o̸̢̾ͤ̑u̓͛̔̉͛̿̓̂̀r̶̒̈ͭ̓n̆͆̊͒͢͡e̵̎ͮ͒͋̍́ýͭ͊ͮ̂̄̐͟͡ ̸͑ͩ͜t̶̴͗͗ͤ̂͗̀̍ͫŏ͆̓ͫ̓̽͛̽͠͏ ̈́̑͑ͮf͛ͭ͛̌̉̓͞͡i̛̒͌ͯ̋ͩ̐ͬ̎́n̴̒̈́͐̊́d̛ͧ̐͘ ͨ̓ͮ͐͠h͗̀̈́̐̌ͧiͧ͊̅͑ͦ̋̒̃͐̕s̡̔̍͋̒̽ͯͤͣ͑ ͊̎̀b̐̏ͤͭ͜ę̸̇l̴͌ͪ͂̿̄͗͆̀͡o̧̧ͦ͌͊͡v͂̒͂͏̶̀ē̚͜d̐̈ͬͩͭ̕ ̸͌ͫͭ̌ͬ̆̐wͤ͛̍ͣ̑̀̃ͪͣ͜͝͡i̾ͤ͛̋̅ͦ̽ͬ͜͠fͣ̾͌ͤ̆ͪ̀͏̛ĕͪ̽̏͑̑ͮ̆.ͪ̓͏͏ ̢̢ͪ͛̈́̒ͣ̒ͬH̷̶̀̔͛i͐̇̒̃̿̑̀͘s̿ͤ͗̑͟ ͯ͑̌ͣͭ͑́͑̏͘̕͢oͧ̍̋͐̀̍́ͪ̀͜b̶̈́̉͝l̸̵̒̊ͣͤ̈̒̚̚ǐ̴ͤͣͫ̀v̂ͮ̀i͛͛̄ͦo̧ͪ͒ͨ̓͛ͬͣn̴̡͛͠ ͤ͐́̕sͧt͋͢r̴ͮ͐͗ͥ̊̏ͫ̐͆u̓̈́ͦ͋ͫ̂͢c̴̨̒̓ͨ͊͐̆́k̂̆̓ͤͩ͑̉̊ ̸̧ͬ̎̒ͨͣͪȃ̴̿ͯ̓̄ͪͮͣ͘̕ ̑͋͐̇̚҉̴̷c̡͆̓ͮͤ̌ͬ͡҉h̒ô̍̃̅ͤ̀͜r̢̈̅̈̎ͮͬ̓ͩ̽̕d̨͊̐ͤ̽ͨ̂͗͢ ̨̛̌̂ͬ͟w͗̌͐͜͠i̴ͤͯ̐̈́͌̀̑́tͭ̄ͨ͗ͬ͛҉h̡̒̓ͦ̾̋ͭ̆͢i͐̓̾̐̃̓̚҉n͆ͧ̄ ̨̡̧ͥ̏̇̽̐ͣ̔̚m̢̃ͭͩ́ë́͏̛.̂̓͌̆̽ͩ ̧ͮͤ̕I̎̀̌́͗ͦ͏f̶ͥͦ͐̽͂̿̏͞͠ ̡̀o̔̽ͧ̋ͥ̏ͬ̚n̨ͨ͆ͩͪ̒ͮ͑͢l̀̍͛ͣ̍ͭ̐̀͘͝y͐̾̓҉ ͐ͧ̑̏̇͏hͤ̈́eͤͮ͑̅ͦ͑͢͢ ̧̡̑͗̄͋ͬ̀rͣ͊̎̽̌ͯ͏͠ȅ̄̊̐m̴ͤͪ͊̀͆̄e̒̑͌ͮͩ͆̕͜͠m̴ͯ͆ͣ̕b̵̶̈ͣ̂̀͐͞e͋̀ͨ̽̀̌r̽̿e̸͑̄ͦ̾͑̆̈̿̚͡d̈́̀ͤ̐̉̿̊̀ͭ.͑̽
͂̑ͭ́̂́͞I͑ͬ͋͛̐ͧ ̷̧ͧ͒̐͘fͧͬ͊̔̉ͬͣ̾́͠͞ȏ͢l̸̈́͛̀͠l̸̐̾͒̐͞o̢͂̎̔̈ͭͮ́͜w̛̓̋̆̋ͯͦͤ͟͞ȅ̂̾͂̀̌͊͑d̵̑͡ ̈́ͧͤh̵̛͌̍ͩ̾ͨ̆͠i̵ͥͯ̍̊͂̽̍́̚m̵̋̾ͬ̍͐̌͟,̾̓̈̾̉ͩͤ͂ ̈̉ͮͬ͑͑̓̕f̧ͤ̽͑͋̌ͣ̇͡l̽̀ͪ̉̎̕y̶̋̐͋͑ͫͯiͨ̊͘̕n̷̐͌̓͒̀͒͆͠҉gͣ̾ͦ̏͊͛ͮ͠ ̶ͧ͒̌ͦ͑́̔́͘ṫ̵̨̑h̸̽̎̎͊̃ͣ̐̔rͫ̍̆̓ͨ͒͏͡o̷ͭͩ̊̃ͥ͌ͬ͘͞u̧ͬ́́̒̓ͣ̓͗͢͡g̷͊̈́̓̅̋̈̃̃h̴̀̀̾ͭ͋̚͞ ͌͗̆͏t́ͫ̄̊ͪ̔͊̓̒h̐̓͗ͤ̐̓ë́̈̉̋ͨ̍͐́͡҉ ͯͩ̏͟oͪ̋̿̄͢v̴͑͛̓̋́̚e͐̋ͮ̃ͩ͗͒̇́r̵ͦ̓ͨ͐ͭͯͨͤç̿̾̉̌̈́a̶͒͊̿̋s̴͌̅ͥ̀̒́ͫ̕t̽ͮ̏ͭ̑͟͢ ͯ͆̈́҉̨͢l̨̔̔͐̃͝i̴̎̉ͮ̚k̃͛͊́̅̎̋ͫ̍̕҉͠e̵͛̊̇͂ͨ͐ ̵͑̎͟a̸͌̊̀̕ ̷̒̓̉̂͆͌̚f̢ͨ͘e̐͢a̷̋ͨ͌̄ͮ̋͟t̵͒̒ͩͪͫ̄ͫ́̂͝h̀̽̍̀ͯ͗̾͏͏e̴ͬ̋̍̉̇̊͒̚͢r͂́͌͘͠e̐̂́d̎̐̎̅̉͛̇ͯ͒͞ ̷̛ͦ̆͒̃k̈̇n̷̒͡iͮ̽̿̓ͫ̑ͩf̆̚eͭ̿̀̚,̀ͭ̓̎ͮ ̆͂ͨ̐͋̒ͣ̃w͊̃͛̂̀i̴̵̓̃̋̚nͯ̓̃̌̀̀͟g̈͋ͧͯͩ͡s̍͘͞ ̌ͣ́́ͮc̈́̓̀̊̐̐͗͒̓҉͏͡aͤͣ͛̿̔͞sͬ̿t̓ͩ̀̚ȉͬn̄̽̋͒͗ĝ̨͊͑ͭͤ́͏ ̷̏ͪ̓̚s̡̛ͩ͝ḩ̶̿̒̂̇ą͐ͧͣͦ͒͋̏̐̔d̡͛͋̔̚o͗͌̄̃ͤͧͮ́̚͢wͮ̈̓͒̿͘͟s̡͆̓́ͥͥ̉̓ͮ͛͟ ̴̊͛ͦͥͬͯ̐ͧo̍̈͗̉͗̀͠ñͫ͟͟l͋ͧ̐̉ͥ͏y̨̐̇͌͌ͪ̑̎ͦ͘ ̔̋̊̕I͗ͣ͂͡ ͤͤ̄̾c̋̄͏̡̢ờͣ͠͡uͫ̇̔ͤ͢͡ľ̨͋̀̍̄̚d̴̶ͤ͊͆ ̊̓ͨͬ͌ͤŝͫͣͬ̋ͬͪ͐̚͘͞e̵ͧ̈̍͡e̍ͫ͂̃ͬ̃ͦ͛͘.̉͢͞
ͧͯ͛ͬ͟T͐ͩ̋͘̕͏hͪ̓͊̉̾͐̀͏o̵͒ͭ͌ͮ̌ͣ́ş̓̇̓̿ͬ͑̚ĕ̢͌̃͛ͯ̽ͥ̍̎ ̨̔ͤ͘ş͛̾̓́ͦͧͩ̂̕tͧ͟͝r̛̍̒͡͠i̛̔̒̔͛n̄̅͂̏̔̀g̴̎̃ͪ̋̆ͮ̀͠-̸͆̄͝d̵̢̀̄ͩ͐̉͆̐r̷̆͌ͧ̒aͪͤ͒͗̿͆͝w̸̶̴͛̓n͛ͧ̿͛ͣͦ̋̄̔҉ ̶̅̉̀̍̃͋ͪ͞͠m̌̃͐̃ͦͫͧͧ͢aͭͫͧ͗̚͡ŕͩ́́į̍͐̔ͣ͊ǒ̅̐n̡̡̢ͬ͑ͣ͆̀̚e̽̏ͭ̀̓̍ͥ̚t̴̷̅̓̑̽̏̃̄̚tͫͩͦ͆e̛ͫ͛̌͛̔͒ͦs̎ͮ̊̋̉̕ ̵̐̄ͦw̸̴̓ͦ̄ĩͣ͑͗̌̇̏͟t̵̷̋̆̃̉̃̃́̚h̶̃ͯͨͥͮ͠ ̆̆͌͋͊f̔̀̚͞͞a͂̐̽͟͠k̨̉̓͐̇͋͑e̡ͣ̃ͣ̾ͧ̅̕ ͤ͋̿̃̀͐ͥ̀͜e̡̍̔͂̔͒͜xͣ͊͢p͒ͦ͜͡r̽͐͗ͩͮ͆̕e̓ͩͭ̅͢sͤ̋͊s̈́ͣ͂̽͊͐͡i͋̐ͨ͆͆ͣͬ͘͏o̸̓͂͑͊ͫ̐͌̔̀͠nͤͫͧ̍s̡ͯ̕ ̸̃̏͑͆͑͊ͣc̴̢̅ͤ̄̒̒̾̃͝a̢̽̈́̈́̋͂ͤ̊ͭ̕r̀v̶͆̒ȅ̶̸́ͥͩ̾̈́̍̾̀dͩ̐̂͞ ́̈́̕i̡͂ͮ͋̎͒̄̏̚n̾̎͂̌͜t̴̃̿͊ͨ̄͢ŏ̆͂̂̅ͭ̓́̕ ̴̏ͫ̓̐̚t̸͒̒̏͆̊̉͢҉h̛͂̅ę̐ͬ̌ͪ̏ͤ͒̓̕iͬ͋͂̆ͥ͛̾͑͏͏r̷̛̔͛ͯ͋̈́͗̅ ̢̋́̚fͦ͊̿̆̔͡aͭͦ̌͏ċ̃̌̚e̒̈̌̎̈͋҉͝͝sͨ͑,͑̌̀ ̽͐͋͛̿͝v̡̛ͬ̋̎̓ͤͮ̋̅o͂̈ͪ̎ͮo̴̴ͤ͐̏ͩ̎̃͂ͦ̇͝d̉̔̂̿͗̿͛oͣ̊̑̾͢ö̷́̆ͩ ͦ̽͋̍̓̎̉ͯ͞d̵͌̓͗̿͘͏oͨ͑̎̉̐͑͒͢l̷̔ͫ̀̔ͩ̔͜l̢̛ͮ̇̏ͤ͐̑ͨͥ͛͞sͤ̓̿͝ ̴̿͊̕o̴͆ͪ̐ͩͩ͛̓͝f̵͂̐̀ ͂̑͘҉͡p̡͋͂ͪͭ̒ͯͣ͝͠ẻ̅̐͐͝oͯͥͩ̿͂͑̓̋̀p̴̎̒̾̔͒̾͑͌ͯl̨͆̃ͫ̎ͧ̃͟͞e͗̓͂̀͏ ̷ͬͪ̅̈́̆͆̐f̨͆̀̐͌̐͌͌̅̕r̿͐̋o̧͒̆ͬ͒m͗͌̊̋͂͊̿ ͭ̍̓̔̓ͪ͜ẗͤͫiͣ̐̓̋̽m̶̈́̉ͮ̽̀é̶̡͛ͭ̐́šͫ̔͒͜ ̷̨̇̀̑̽ͬ̍a̴͑̃͛́͜n̸͋̆͒ͣͭ̊̓̈͝d̡̊͐͐̚͜ ̆ͤͯ͘͏p̛͆̂l̡̅̂̅ͨ̔̾͗åͥ͂̂ͦ̑̈́́̀c͆͋͂̏̿̀͟͡e̸̴̾̄ͥ̂͒s̵͑͢ ̨̓ͬ̓p̶ͧ̾̐ͬ͡͞ą̿̋̀́̌̉sͣ̈̑҉t̷̔̽̾̏̉̕;͗͆ͮ̆̌̍ͮ͞ ̡̛ͯ͂͗ͤ̂t̍̃̾̄̓̉̏ͪ͡h̛̔ͫ̇́́ė̵̒͐͗̃͌͘ÿ́̄̆̅ͩ̐̚͘͟ ̂ͨ̓ͣ̏̈́̀a̴̛ͭͪ͡r̔̍ͩͯ͗̀e̵ͨ͋ͮ ̡̓ͪ̏̎̆͋̔̓ͩ͢a͆̍̅̔̃ͯ̀͘ ̷̢̈ͮ͋̈̀M͐̔ͬ͆̂́͟͡e͛̿͑̔͂̾̚͡m̊̿o̷̢ͤͪ͗̎̇̐ͫ̌r̓́҉̨i̸ͪ͂̇ͣ͊̽͡͠eͨ̍͢͢sͬ͟͟ ̢̈́̈́͐͊̌͗͡ả̿̀͟rͤ̆͛̈͑e͛̈̐ͯ ̾̓̀l̇̈́ͭͨ̚͡i̷̛͗̽̓͛ͫ͠k̢ͭͨͪ́͜͢ę̇̏̍̽̓ͦ̀͠ ̴̡̑͂ͧŞͫ̓ͯ̎͗̓̊͟͠i̸̵̓̀͒̽l̡̧͐̽ͨ̌ͩ͆̆̏͘l̡̈́ͥ̈́̿ͪ͛̉͟͞y̵̛̛̓ͧͬͧ̏̍̈̿ͧ ̒ͣ̆̓ͦP̨͆̐u͂̇̆̋͘̕t̊ͫͬͣ̆͊̌̚tͣ̅̀ͮ̐y̓;̶͊ͫ̓̈́͡ ͣ̏̾͜͜ẗ̸́̉̆͗̚͡͝h̸̄̔͆̆̄͛̈́̀̚êͩͯ̕y̛͂͋͑̈́͛͊͗́̕'̉̏̑͂̕r̊̉͏̡e̢̧͒̒ͬ̍̂͋̾ͩͣ ͐e̢̋̉́xͮ͋̓ͣ͋t̢͛ͩ̓ͯ́͠rͧ̅̆͋̔̾e̔̊̀̕҉m̌ͯͧ̈́̃̎͋ͫē͋ͤ̊͊l̵̓̐ͨ̉͐̾̔̅̂y̸̌̂ͦ͠ ̡͑̉̽ͧ̀͘fͨ̓̾l̒̾ͧ̾͆̾ͭe̢̍x̀ͧ͑̍͗ͩ͑͟i͌ͩͫ͋̌̇͘b̐̒͢͟͞l̴̎̽̏ë̀ͬ͋͌̚,̛̏͝ ̸̡̌͡a̡ͯ͋ͧͮͮ̀͆bͫͤͥ̎҉̨lͣ̈́̽ͩè̆̚ ̴ͥ̈́t̴̉̾o̧̽̈ ̶̐̇̀͋́b̶̾́e̵̓̆ ̎ͥ̆ͩ̆s̈́̍ͫͭ̑ͪ͠h͒ͩͣ͋ͯ̊ͣ̌͞a̷ͤ̇p͋ͬ̄ͨ͊̉̕ę̓ͣd̢̛̔ͯ͛ͬ ͭ͒́͐͡ì̵̊͑n̸̡ͯ͆͗̓͏ẗ͗̐̎͢ôͮ̅̄̈͌̈́̈́ ̐̅̑͛͒ͥ͞ǎ͘̕n̋̓̈̐̌ͭͥ͛ͨy̋͐͌ͤͥ̔ͨ͏̵ ͂͂ͭ̓ͥ̇͐̈͟͡f̡̈́ͦ̉͟͡o̵̧ͮ̈͑̔̃̇͘r̛ͥ̅ͧͬ͝m̢͗̓ͣ ̸ͪ͌ͫ̂̃̅ą̆̈̃̔̌͋͡sͨ̽̎ͩͭ̈͝ ͯͪ̎̃͂́̚҉̴f̈́á̈r̈̈ͦ ̐͑̑ͨ̍ͣ̄͑aͬ͋͛͢͠s̵͒ͥͤ̅̀ͨ̈́ ̇̊t̸̛̛ͬ̀̍ͪ̇ͪhͫ̌̓̄̊͟ê͊ ͂́͐͛͑̊ͬͬ̈̀͏l̴ͤí̢m̸̷ͤ̋̃͗ͯͨ̏͡i̾̀t̴̸ͭ͋̾ͤ̔ͮsͤ̓̆̇ͮ ͩͣ͆̐̚f̓̂͡o̔͒̈́ͨ̀ͫ̾̑͘͢r̿̾c̅̍ͦͪ͛҉͢e̴̛ͪ̎ͨ̈́dͥ́̆̋̄͆̀ ̵̵̢͊̌u̢̔͐̍̊̌̎ͨ̚ṗͧ̂ͩ͑̓̋͒͟ȏ͂͂ͫ̊̎̇ņ̅̎̈̾͐̋͗ ̵ͪͣ͋̂̾ͪͩ̔̀ǫ͌̃̉̇̾͡ñ̑ͩͬ̍ͫͥͨe̷͗̅͟s̸̢ͨ̐̓͒͛̈́́͜eͧ͞l̂̌͋ͫͭͪ͂͌ͭ͞f̅ ̢̆ͭ̆͊́a͋ͬͩ͐̀r͗̏͗̎̒ͤ̃̽̕êͮͦͬ͏.ͫ̂̈ ͐̄͒̂҉͏I͊̂̓̓t̓ͦ͏ ̧̧̾̍ͬ̏r̷ͫ͐́e̴̎̆m͊̏͟ȋ̄ͯ̿nͯͦḑ̵͒̋͂ͩs̅̆ͨ̃̚ ̂̀̌͑̈͢ů̧̆̑̓͐ͬͫ́s̡ͬ̅ͣ͐ͯ͜͞ ̇̔̑͏o̧̧̾͌͒ͣͬ̀̀͐f̨̄͐ ͪ͗ͩ̊ͪ͑ͭt̸̋ͬ̈̍̊ͣh̵̃̎ͫͨ̆͞͞e̊͊͊ ̶̈͂̉͗͑b̸ͧ̌̎͑̓̄̽̈̒͞͡a̢̒̾ͩͩ̈̈̏͑ͯ͝d̴̢̀̏̏ ̢̢ͮ̈̆̆͒ͥ͜w͐͆eͫ̇̒ͨ̎̏̄͘ ̵̴́͋͌͡dͬ̎ͬ̅̈́͂̌́͘ĭ̵͐̋̔͑̀d͗̈́ͫ̃͛ͤͫ̈́̕,̏͗̃ ̵̔́͌e̊ͪͯ̓ͨ҉͝şͣ͑̄̚p̢̛͑͞e̴̛ͭͩ̈́́c̷͂͑ͩ͐͊ͩ̊̂͡ḯ̷̸̓͒̎͊͜a̢̓̄̅ͭͦ͌͑͒̊l̶̸ͬͦͧ̕ļ̓̋̆ͭ̄̏̆̍͢͞ẙ̡̐́̈́ ̸̽ͭ̈̔͜͝f̷ͣͩͨ͂̆̅̌͂͜o̴͐̅̈̈́̒ͫͨr̡̡̂̓̕ ̓̃̈ͤͪ̎͂̄ͩ͘͢͞h̨̡̏ͬi͌ͬ̾̋͐҉͘m̉ͧ̅ͨ̕͝.ͬͩ͋ͥ̃̆
̈́̒̀̕Ȉ͜ ̓ͪ̈́͛̄̃̕͟d̡̨̀̐r̡ͧͪͮ̍̓̃͜͞e̋̃̂̋̒͢͠w̒̃ ̴̴̀͛ͣͫͫ̊h̶̏͊̒͆͛́̇͌̿i͐͋ͦ͂͐̉̏ͬ͋͏҉̸s̵͛̒̓̑̈́͝ ͭͤ̍a̴̿ͦͮ͋͋͜ť̚t̢ͥͩ̑é̇́̿̒̽͑͘̕n̍̔̈́̆̈͌͝t̶̓̽̑ͥi̡̡̿̌͋ͪo͗ͥ̈́͋͘͢͡n̛ͨ̈́ͪ̆́ͯ ͑̑ͬ͌҉t̓͌ͭ͐ͫ̈҉ớ̴ͬ͘ ̒ͩ͛͟ḣͭ̀ͩ͑̒́͡i̢̢͌̃ͩ̓͒ͯͣͦm̏ͬͦ͊͋̆͝s̛ͭ̈ͮeͧ̋̉̋͢l̑͂͞f͒͋̍̇́̀̚.̨̄̆͂ͬ̌ͯ̅ͤ̕͢ ̴̛̀̎͌͑ͣͣ͝I͊ͣ͒̑̆̓͘ ̀ͪ͘͝mͥ̊ͩ͌̅ͧ̐͌à̧̅͗͛͗ͣͯd̸ͦ̌͌̾͆̉̓͞͠e̵ͫ͋ͩ͢ ̨ͪ̄҉h̄ͨ͋̅̈́̊͟i̧̛͑ͫͨͣ̊́ͧ͊̚͞mͩ͊ͫ̉̇ͬ̐ ̎̃ͪ̎ͬͧsͥ͋͟t͐ͧͪ͆ͥ͟͏âr͑̔͘eͭ͒ͧͨ̔ ̊̓ͭͪ̌̚̕͏a̡ͫ͒t̢̄̈́͌̀́̽́ ͩͪ̌̋ͩ̾͒ͫ̚h̶̋̓̋̑ͥ͜į̿̽̇̈́ͦͪ͒͗͋͘s̨̊ͪ͊͌̊̓͝ ͮ͐͂́́̓͏s̡̛̛͒̍̿i̵̋͂ͦ͆ͥ́n̛͐͆̽ͧ̉̆͊̏͟fͪͫͪͭ̉ͮ͘uͮͣ́̕͠l̵͒̿ͭͮ̓̉̅ͨ ̛̆̕͝d̵̉̍ͭe̽͋ͨ͊̋̀̚s̈̇̿ͩ̔ͯ̂͜i͂̃ͯͬ͏͏r͌͒ͫ̎͊̃̄̈̍͏͝ë́̈́ͭ̇́̉ͣ́̚͠͠ş͑̏ͮ́͝.̷̛̄͊̇̾ͦͯͦ̊ͥ͠ ̧̌̆̑ͨ̅͗ͧ̚̚Ĥ̡ͮ̄ͥ͠eͨͩ͛͆̅́ ͌̏̽̇̾ͯ̆ͦͭW̅͑ͫ҉A͗̑͂̋̾̓N̸̛ͨ̃͊̄T̆ͭ͝͠͏Ëͪ̅͗҉D̄̾̐̎͢͏ ̶̡̐͂ͫͮ͒͆͑͊̿ẗ̶̿̿͗̃ͪo̶̓̃͒ͫ͋͆͆̚ ͐͂̔ͫ̒͌̉̚͡͠f̷̈̈̎ͦ̔̂̊̀ư̸͛͑ͫ̆̃̕c͗͌ͬ͜kͤ͋́ͯ̏ͩ̆͌ͮ ̴͗̈́͗́͒̔̐ͫ̈́͜t̢̑ͨ̓hͬͭ̀͏͏aͤͧ͏̸͟tͬͬ ̏̿̕gͧ̔͑̕i̢͆͌̾̂͋ͨ̒ͣ͢r̀͆ͩ͂͒̌̂̔l̎ͦ̔̕͜͝.ͥ̃̂ ͊͛ͫͮͦͭ̈Ḩ̶͊̃̌̂Ę̓͐̎̑̀ ̴͋͗̄͌ͯ͞W̡̽̿ͥ̈̎̑ͤ͑A͒̃҉̕͠N̈̈́̉̅͏T̨́E͒͘D̛̅ͯͮ̾͂̊̒̍ ̆̋ͭ̆͒͟͜t̂ͨ̇̇̾͝͠o̎̌̐̎͑ͨ̕ ͤ͌̄̂͂ͪ́̚͘͝f͒̇̔͐ȕ̶̒̽̌̽̂͟c̨̓̓ͭk̷̸͛͒̌̚̚ ͑̐͛͘ť̷̡̋͢h̾͑̐͋̓̍̐̽͘aͯ̓̐̃ͦ̽͂̀t͛͊̊ͭ́̎͛̓ ̡̧̆̏g͋͞i̽͋̇͌ͫ̃̑r̶͗̌ͣ̄̎l̴̾̔̓̃͑ͧ͗́̕.̛ͨ͐́̓̏ͤ͋̔̔͏̢ ̑ͨA͗ͪ̇͘҉n͒͌̊̉ͪ̔ͣ̀͡y̸̧͒ͥ͐̄̎̈́͂̀wͪ̾͗͋̋ͩ͢aͯ̏͐͑̄̄͆́́͡y͑͗͘͟s̛̿ͭ͒̅ͭ,̷̡̡ͤ́̈́ͮ̇̓ ̍̄́i̢ͨ͊͋̽͠t̨̨͐̀ͩ̌̚ ̿ͥ̈͆ͬm̌͌́o̵ͨ͋̋͑ͩͬ̉v̷̵̒͟ĕͪ͒̐̈́̇̃d̶̄͐͜͞ ́̂̈́͂ͭ̐͏h̸̉͂i͊mͩͨͥ̿ͩ̊̓,̸͆҉ ̡ͫ̒̐ͮ͊ą̶̶͋͊̂̋n̎̉́͠dͯ̾̇̆̎ͦ̐͂ ̧̌̌̊ͫͭͩ҉h̸͊͜èͨ͟͞ ̽̀͐ͦ̉̚͟͠f̎͆̂̎e̵ͧ̋̐͐ͣͫ̾͛l̽ͫ̄͌̌͊̋̔͠t̢̢̛͊̓͐́̃̓ͨ ̾͆̋̌͐̅̍͌̓̀̕͠t̶̅͐͛̾͐͆̀h̶̛͋̆̀ͣ͌̈̿ͧ̿͠r̡ͬ̃̇̀̀̓̐́̃eͬͧ̒̂͌͌ä̸̴͡t͒̀ͭ͛̃ͩ̊̒ͯ͠è̈́̀͡nͪ͛ę̶̀̅ͦ͗̂̚͢dͦ̌̂͂̄ͣ͏ ̓̉̃͌̅ͪ͏̡i̵ͯ̌̓̉̐n͛͌̀́̕ ̢̍̄w̵̵̴̽ͥͩ͗̈́̏ͮh̶̃ͫ̂͆͝a̷͌̑͊̒t̴̉͟ ̀̊̓̚͡sͨ̇̏ͧͦe͆͏̧e̊ͧ̇̂ͤ̎̏m̢ͬ̃͑̎e̢͑̎̀͜d̵̿͗ͧ̄ͣ͗́͜ ̸̡͐ͪͩͬ͑̐̀t͆͛̕͟ǫ̸ͨ͐͐ ͛ͪ͑̒ͭͭb̎̃̓̆̐͒̊ͤ͝e̷̔ͨ̃̿̇̒ ̷̢͛̉͗̿ͩ̍̐ť̉͗̕ḩ̴̧ͨͮ̉̌̍ͣͣe̋ͪͦ̆ͧ҉̀͡ ̎̅̂̏ͮͬ̀͢͠m̡ͦ̿̏ͧ͌ͮ̋aͦ́̄͟͡n̽̉̅̚͏͏̶ṅ̵ͬé̷̛ͯ͗̉ͥ͒͞rͬ̓ͩ̂́ ̓ͣ̌͛̔̕͢͞oͪ̅̇̏̉̊ͭ͊́f̈́ͬ͊̑̍̍͋̈ͮ ̛̓͌ͯ̇̏͢a̴̎͆ͪ̐́ ͯͫͬ̽̄̿͐̅͝sͩ̂̑̑͛ͣͨ́͘m̈́ͧ͒ͩͪ͏a̷̛ͬͪͮ̄͂̎l̊l͆ͮͪͬ̑̉ͯ͟ ̴̄͐͞ä̢́͛̌́͜ņ̛͂̉̇ͣ̆ͥ̓̎̈́͟įͥ͛ͭ̄͊̈́͛̑ṁ̑͛̂̈ͮ̔͟͏aͥͨ͆́l̛̑̒̏ ̨͆̅ī̓̍ͦ̒̄ͨ̓̚͜͡n̢ͯͯ̽ͭ́̇͗̚͡ĉ͗̅̍ͥȁ̔ṗ̷́̈̚a̓̉̓̿̔̆ͥ̎ͮbͤ̓ͫ̈́̈̄́͌ͨ͏͢lͩ͠͏e̶̅ ͫ̓ͨ̑͂̀o̾̂ͥ̏͜f̍̍̐̎̉ͦͮ͋ ̶ͫ̋ͮ́ͯ̍̀̓ͨr̨̡̅̓ͥa̴̍ͨͥ̄ͭ͌́͗͋t̢̛̊ḯ̇̊̚o̶ͬ̏͛n̸ͧ͜a̵ͭ͛ͭ̌͟͠l̓͛ͬͤ̂̑́̕i̾ͩͣ̓̄̽͡z̴̒̊ͯ̀͜i̢͊̈́ͤ̔̊͒̃͘n̴̸ͨ̔͒g̵͊͌͗̾͑ͣ̓͜͡ ̆̌ͧ̏̎̇͒͠ş̿͗ͦ́̕ǒͭ̾̄̈̎̋͛͝͝ḿ̚͘͜e̍ͣ̽̈͋ ̡ͯi̴̸ͦ̋̏̾̓̌n̵̶̆̋c͐o͐͊̕͡m̛̔ͤ̆̽̈́̾ͯͦ͡p̨ͩ͌̎͆̽͌͟r̸̴ͪ̈́͑͒̈͐ͯͩèh̴̢̎ͯ̾̔e̢͊͒ṅ̡ͭ̀̔ͨͧ̾͋̀͡s̵̄ͤ͂͗̉̚͢͝i̶ͯ̉͗̇͌̚b͐͡ĺ̡̛̅̽ͬ͂̀ͥẏ̴ͣͯͧ͌ ̷̅̄̾̐̌̎ͨ͋͋͘͠v̧̛̈́̓̆̿̊͛̌̈́͘į̴̨ͬ̍̂̈̒̒̀lͯ̿͘͏̶eͦ͒̔͂̄͝ ̶̷̑ͫ̊͐ͬ̇́̾̚e̵ͣ̋̔̏n͗̑̑͢t̏ͫ͆ͥiͤt̄ͮ̿̆͌y̴̽͛̈́̉͘.̴̈̄́̀ͣͯ̑ͩ ̸̷̡ͦ̇ͣ̒̎Hͫ̑̅̓ͥ̎͆ͯ͘eͥͪ͏ ͨ͋̌ͪ̄ͦ͝t̶̨̢̾ͬͤ͛̉ͨͪ̎̿h̸̢̨̏͗̊͒͆e̵ͥ̇̍͡͝ň̎ͭͮͦ͒̒͜ ́̇̄͒ͪͨ̈́̀ṕ͋ͯ̒̑͆͏r̵͑́ȏ̈́ͧc̴̷̡͊̅̓ͩ̚e̢̍ͣ̏͊̇̂͢͠ę͋͌̈́̾̈́̽d̢͋̄͝҉e̎ͬͯ͛̅ͩ̀̀d̾̍͑ͫ͐̍ͧ̒ ̐̍͗͆ͣ̎͗͛t̽̂̓ͬͯȯ̒͐̎̈́ͧͦ́͘͜ ̷̆ͮ̑̾̑͑͘͝s̽̑ͯ̃̽̈͒̀͜͝l̃͂͒̓́͞҉a͆͆͐̓́͟͢ş̈̎͏h͛͏̵̛ ̨ͩ͌ͩ͐̈́ͨ͑͐̿̀ų̄ͧ̽̐̂̚͘p̓͋̐ͯ́ͯ̋͟ ̴̃̅̏ͬ͝a͋̔͐͗ͬ͐ ̧͌̆͏p̃̆ͫ̎̾̉͊̒ͥi̽ͧ̃͒̔̿̐̅̈́e̸̡͌c̍ͣ̒͑͑̇ͪ̾͞ẽ̷̓̿̓̏̉͂ͨ ̧ͨ̈́o͐̇ͦ̿͂̒̏f̸ͯ ̴̧̀ͤ́̔̑̀m͌̏͐̓̉̄̉̐y͑͗ͨ̂͟͠ ̧̨̋̾͆̒̚͢w͂͞o̴ͯ͂̂̑r̴̡͐̿̔͌̐k̈͌̕!̌ ́̿͗̓ͯ̾̈͌̃Hͮͯ̈͗ͯ̀̕e̵͋ ̐̕҉҉dͭ̿͜͠ëͩ̈̕ś̆̑͞ẗ́̀̾ͧ̏ͭr̨̢̈́̂̌̾̎ͯo̡͑͑ͪ̿͢y̢̋ͤ̉̓e̴͆ͬ͋͊̎̉͞d̶̢̡ͣ̓̈̈́̾̍ͤ ̈́̐̾̚͠w̢̄͂h̨̒̋a̸̢̍̄̌͊̊t̵̾͛̈́ͪ̐̒̏͘ ̉̎͂ͪ͑̋t̃ͤ̅͒̅͊́͜͢r̢̅͘͘u̵ͣ̈́ͫ͋ͮ͑͆̋́͠t̍̉ͦ̈́̊͒ͯ͐̑́ḣ̵̡̓̅̍ͬ͛̇ͭ ͮ͑ͯͣͮ̇͝͝͡w̃́͏ä̧́ͪ̃̈͛̕sͩ̌̐ͭͧ͊ͦ̐ ̡ͮ̀̿͛͗͊̔l̴ͦ̾͞ë́̃͛fͬ̓̄͌ͫ̕tͭ̈́́ͯ҉ ͆ͪ̄̿̈͒̆͒͘i̸ͪ̿̎̊ͦ͠͠ṅ̶ͪ͋ͩͮͥ̕͞ ͆͆̇̓͜͠͏s̷̨̀ͯ͛iͨ͛̚҉̕d͗ͧ̂͆ͤ̇̌͗̏͘͜eͪ̀͌͒͑ͥ͑̓ ̄͊͡o̷͂̎͆̈́ͮf̴ͮ̆͡ ͫh͑͆̔͛ͥ̈͘҉̡i̒̋͒̂͌ͥͮ̀̏͟m̧ͩ̈͜s͊̋̿ͯ͢͢eͤ͋̉̓ͤ͜͡l̨ͯ͆̀̑̅̇͠͡f̍͌̈͞.̃͛̃͂͗҉̡̛ ͋̌ͧŞ̨̽̓̓́y̅͐͂̋m͋̈ͩ͗͂̈̏͡b͂͒̐̔̒̏͗ͯ͝ō̡̒̀l̵ͭ́̈́̿́iͤ̽̐ͫ̉͡c̄ͫ̓́̌̒̔͡,̸̄ͯ̑̏̒̿͜ ̧ͯ̏̓͋͗r͒̒̎ͤ͢͝e̢ͭ̌̃ͭ̉ͦ͜ä̴́̈̊̎̐̅̅͞l̓̏̔͑͘l̄̐̎ͯ̀y͛͐̈́̇́ͤ.̶̈́̑̂ͣ̒́͞
̧̀̑̿́S̷̀̇ͮ͛͒ͨ́o̎͌̐̚͠͞m̡̋ͣ̽e̴̸̛̍̐̆̏t͗̾̐͋ͦ̇ͫ̎̀͜i͒́̏̀͗ͪ̿̚͜m̃ͬe̓́̿̀͂̊̇͟s̢̈́ͨ̌͑͟͡ ̏̈́̎ͩ̓͠͏I͌͌̅ͯ̅̋͂̐ͮ͏̢ ͌͐͛̔̓g̒͋ͨͥe̶̅̈́͒ͥͧ͊̅̕t̵̷̵̆̓͆ ̶ͫ̍͌̒ͮͯͪ͡f̴̸̊̑̈͌ͣ́r̒ͯ͝͡u̐͛͐ͤ̐̓̈̄͝͏̛s̴̃̆̔̾̀̈́͝tͮͣ̉̈̂̏̈ͥ́͢rͨ̑̒̌̀̿͡a̷̡ͤ̄̇͐̎t̡͗ͮ̃̈ͧ̐e̢̓d͒͒ ̢͌̇̌̚͡͡a̎̾͝tͪ̈́̿ ͨͭh̍ͭ̋̂ͭȉ̵̸̊́sͩ̿̈́̽̾͊͒̚ ͌͊i̒͒ͦ̔ͬ̅̋͢͝d̶̸̾̆̿ͣ͆́̐̊͞iͬ̊ͣ̓ͬ͐̈̚͏̀o͋̆c̓ͦ͛͆̅҉͏̵ỷ̄͋͒̏.̔̓̋̉͋̌͑̚ ̉̓͜҉H̸̆ͭ͐̇̿́̚͢e͛ͯ͏̨ ̸̡͋̉̓̽ͨ̑̔u̸̢̐̋s̛ͭ͆͘e̢̧ͥ͛̿ͬ̃d̅̐ͥ̒́ ̈́̔̑ͧ̀͠͝t̶ͭ̕͝o͗̓̀̓̈ͤ̚ ̃ͥ͝b̡̈́̋ͩ̚͟eͬ́ͥ̈̀͗̎̌͏͝ ̶ͪ̓s̚҉͘u͊̿͑̐̿̕c̔ͫ͡h̨̍ͩ̂̉͏͟ ̧̢̂̉ä̷́̆ͥ̚͠ ͧ͆̒ͪ͗͡͡şͦ̅̈̓ͤ͆m̷ͯaͬ́̆̑̎ͤ҉rͪͤ͛̿ͩ̽ţ̑ͬ̀ ̂̏ͥ̐ͤ͒́f͊̊̓̑ͨ̀́e̍̽̓͂̌̾̀̀͠lͣ̌͑l̡̅̂őͬ͒͒ͩ̀w͊̉̅̅́.̀ͧͧ́҉ ͣ̚̕H͑͂̎̇̂ͣ͗͘e̷̸ͥͤ̀͛͛ͨ ̛̌̆͘͞u̧̢͆̉ŝͯ͆ͥ̂̆͑͐́ê̈̆̊͌͑̔d̸̒̓̆͛͞ ̍̿̕͡t̡͛ͩͮ͆̏̍́ǭ̴͊̓͠ ̡̨͆͗͒͒͛̅ͤḟ͏͜a̡̾ͦc͂ͣ̽ͨ͑̀͌́ȇ̂̓̉̆͋ ̂̈͆̄ͮ̚͏t̨̓̊̐ͥ͂ͯ̀ͤ̎̕͘h̓͑͡҉e̷͌ͬ͗̚̕ ̨͋̈́̅̿͒̔̉ͤ̅͡w̨̾̓͝r̢͋̐̋o̓̊ͧ͛̈́ͧ̈́n̵͒͌͟g̴̵ͬ̃͢ ̡̒́ͧͯͮ̐̓̂͛͘h̐͗̈́͒͟e̒̍̐̀̐̀ ̸̎̑̎̽h̡ͤa̴͗̌͡s̈́̔͌̽̂͒ ̶̍̊̌ͩd̢̾͗͞ǒ̷̧͒̋͌̾̑͑ñ̡͒͌̐ͩ͢e̶͒̇ͦ;̢́̑̂̇́̚ ̊ͮͮ̇ͨ̐̓ͪ́͞ḩ̸͗̓̄́ȅ̶̡̨̉́ͣ͗̓ ͯ͗̌̍̇͒͆ͫ͠h̷̨̏̑̈̃̈́̉́͜ă͞s̵̶͗͑̊ ̡̢͊̿̈́́̌͡sͥ̑͟u͋͂̎̌̓͏҉̛p̴̎̇̉̆̊͂̏̔͏p͊ͤ̈́rͧ̃́̕e̷͑s̶͊ͧͨ͂ͦͨͪ͐̚͟͜sͪͩ̊͆̃ͩ͘e̵̷̡͊̉͑d̆ͮ̄͛ͤ̿ͤ̉͢ ̷͒ͩ̄ͭͫ͗ȉ͜tͫ̈́҉͟ ̵ͣn̂̓͑ͩ̿̌҉ȯ͑ͬw̷ͣͮ̑̌ͤͩͭ̊́,̡̀̎̌̉͠ ̍́̽͌ͨ́ͭ̚͡l̛̄͑͠ĩ̶̛̐͛̒̋̓̚k̷͐̇̑ͫ̇ͦ́e̎ͪ͂͡͠ ̨ͧ̊̍s̴̡ͦ́ỏ̷͆͌̎̈ͨm̵̨̍̅̊̑̉̎eͭ̃̐͑ ͊̀̐͂ͩͤ͛̚eͪͭ̄̀́͆ͮ҉m̴ͯ̃͏͏b̸̾͆̃͘ą̅r̿̆̔ͦ͐ͬ́̚͞r̶͐͗aͣ̃̽͝s̷̨͂̐ṡ̶͜i̛͌̋̌ͧn͑̍͑̓̇͜͡g̓ͮ̊̔ͯ̇̅ͤ͏ ́̍ͣͮ̑ͧͤ̀s̎͛ͭ̆ͬͨ͂̀͞͡o͋͒͟͝͏c̵͛̂͌͋̒ͨ͐ͧ̓iͭͧ̅̎̀̈͂̚ă̶̢̧͆̇ͬ̔͊͆̚l̔̿̒ ̨́b̐͑ͥ͡l͋ͯ͐ͯ͋ͭ͏uͦ̿̑̑̄ͣͪn͋͆̋͏̸d̢̡̀ͮ̃ͧͭͭ̾ͪ̄ě̸̏r̡ͮ̾ͥͨ́,͊ͥͣ̎ͧ ̶̄̐͐ͬͩ̚͟l̴ͯ͛̈̇ͤ̀iͤ̑̈ͦ́̍̀̀͟͞k̅̐ͩ̐ě҉̢ ͧt̴̍̽͏͜h̸͋̈̇̊ͤͫe̓ͩͩ ̢̄͊́ͫ̅̿̾ͥͬơ̅͊̚҉n̡̾͛̎ͣ̏̈̏eͭͧ̌̿͒̂̌́ ̎ͪ̎̒̚̕ṫ̄ͧ̓ï͗͆ͥ̆̀̇͢mͬ͛ͥ͛̿ͯ͌ͫe̍͂͛̂̇ͤ͛̃ ͆̎ͮ̀h͂ͪ̅̏ͨe̴ͮͪͬ͡ ̴̢̇ͪͩͦ̂̑sͧ̔̊͑̂ͣ̿͌́h͋̊ͧaͦ͛ͩ̉͟t̸̿͛̚ ̿̏̔̎ͯͨͣ́̚͞w̋ͨi̶̅ͣ̉ͯ͐̚t̴ͯ̓̌̊̽ͧ͛̏͟h̶͛̍̃ͨ ͫͫ͛́͐̉ͫ͏̛t̷̆ͮ̆ͪ̀h͑ͥ̒̐ę̅ͤ̆̌̚ ̸̔͊̆ͥͦͮ̑ͪ͌dͮ͐͏̷͡o̓ͫ̀̐̆o̵̷ͨ̽ͫ̓̌͞rͥ̑̀͝ ̨͌̆ͪ̄͟ǫ̧̑͒̎ͧ̀ṗ͆̑̔͗̒̊ͣ́͜ȩ̔̌̽n͛̓̏͞.ͧ̈͂ͫ́͜ ̸̨̓͗̐ͦ̈́̇̚̕H̶̀ͯͣ̑͛̀e͐̏̏ͣͥ̄ͪ̂ͫ ̸̡́ͫ͊̚d̛̛ͧ̂̈o͊͋͡e̋̅͗̾͜͝͞s̈́ͯ̆ṅ̔͋̑͌̈́ͤ̾͟'̧̽̌̿ͯ̅t̑̎͒̍́͡ ̢̀ͧ͝h͌ͩ̑̀̓̆a͒ͫͪ͞v̵̢̍͐͆eͦ̂ͫͤͦ͘͘͞ ̵̧͗̉̅̋͒ͣ̅̿̎̕tͮͩ͏̀hͯ͐́̿͌͠ê̴̄̂ͥ͑̆̄ ̅ͬͥ̊͑́͘͠sͦ͗ͤ̑͋̋l̸̴̢̅̓̅̈i̐ͬg͗͒̽҉h͆̇͑̆̄̓ͩ̚tͤͧ̾̍ͯ͏̴eͯͭ̎s̨͋̅͆̃̓ͧ̾̄ͭt̵ͧͦ͋̏́ ̆ͤͮ͠҉̡i̶̵͌͐ͯ̃d̴̔ͥ̆͋̏̽eͥ̋͊͐͑̆̚̚ã̢̏͞ ̈́͑̍ͯ͂ͮo̔͒̌ͭ̅ͤ̈́̀͠f̵̷ͦ̏̇ͭͨͭ̚͟ ̉ͦ̍ͥ̅ͥ̈́͑̃͢͞͝w̉ͦ̅̐̊̚h͒̔͐̽̿ͣ̒à̵͌̉͐̑̄͠ṫ̡̈̾̓ͩ̋̅̓̀'̢̓̓̄̈͘s̢̈́̎͊͟ ̢ͭ̐ͪ̎̓͘g̴̿̊oͯ͊ͫ̔̌ḯ̢ͮ̂̊̓̀n̂ͩ̀̆͟g̷̶̷̃ͧ̌ ̸͑̇͂͗ͦ̚͝o̔̇̎ͫͣ̐ͣ́̕͟n͌̌̊҉̀ ̶͗ͫă̇̍͌͐ͥ҉n͂ͨͯ͛̑̽̉ͮ̍͘͝d̊̓̓̀ ͂̆̚͟͢͡i̿̽ͮͦ͡t̍̈̀̉͆̑'̴̛̓̈́ͧͭ͘ŝ̓ͫ̇͂͜͝ ̶̨̂̓͒̎̋m̓ͪ͒a̽ͫ̒ͦ̋͞k̃̇ͧ͏͠i̒̃̍̔͂ͩ͂̄̑͏n̈͋ͤ̀̃̓͒̇͝g̶̸ͬ̊̓ ̈́̽̌ͭ̚̚͘m̡̋͐͐͊́ͬ̕e̸̋̃ͫͨ̄̋̎̊͂͢ ͐ͩͤ̍̽̅̿͛̚͜͞l̶̢̡̔ͮ̄ͧ͒̎͌i̿̈́ͬ̀̕v͌̅ͧ͐͘i̶ͤͣͤͮ̒͡d͂ͨͧ̓́̿̒҉̛́.̑͛͋͘͝ ̓́̎͛̓͐͜͡H͂͡ę̸̈͗̾̂̓̈́̀͌͜'̢ͩ̄ͩs͑̈́͛̽̍̌ͦ͌ͪ ̸͂ͯ̉͑ͤ͊͆ͪa̛̍͊̏͑̒̀ļ̶͆͑̎̎̃ͭm̴̐͊͒͡o̡ͨ͐͐̈́s̎̔̇ͬ͗ͨ̅̚t̡̾ͪ͑ͤͤ ̈͋͗̌̂̂ͮ҉̧s͑͋ͪ̾̽ţ̍̊̇̒͐̕ừ̵̀͆̃̔̓͘b͊ͣbͪͮ̆̾̍̓ŏ̶ͮ͐͌͂ͭ̔̃̀r͐ͨ͋̔ͨͯͦ͐ͩn̴ͯ̅͑͠ ̃͐̎ͫi̎̕͢n̷͒ͩ͒ ̵̄̅͝h̓̄̐̆͜͠ǐ̧̿ͧ͗̊̚s̉̑̽̏͆̚͢͜ ̷̸̨ͭ̔į̽g̐̍ͭ̀̈̽n͌͒ͣ̏̀͘ö̷́̔ͧ͂̈͐ͣͦ̀̀r̅͑̋̉͢͡aͫͦ̇̄̈ͭ͂̿͞͡҉nͦ͂̉c̡̛̈̒̈̔̉̿ͨě̷ͮ͂̚͡.̆̔ͦ̽̽̋̑͂
̿̐ͨͯ͂̇Ĩ̷̵ͧ͐̄ͭ̿̌̒͜ḟ̴ͭ ̵̑ͭ͑͋̉͠y̨̾͡͠ò̏̈́ͧ̽̎̽͛̚͟͜u̵ͬͣͤͥ̒ͪ͜ ͐͛ͧͮ͗̆ͯ̀͏sͥ͊p̢̛ͮ̾ͬͦ̀͌͝a̷̅̄̿͝ŗ̸̐͊͌̔̒e͑ͬ̉ ͨ̅̉͋̎̓͋̇ť̛̾͟h̷͐ͩ̄ͬ̿̉̽̕e̵̎̐̋̾ͤ̿́ ̷͊̾ͧ͂r̛̊ͭ̾ͨͯͬ̾͘o̴̵̿̒ͮ̔̄̿ḑ̴̉̌ͧ̚,̊̿̉̊̚͟ ̴͗͊̊ͨ͌͘y̑̏̍҉o̢̽̾̊ŭͣ́̌͐͛́͘ ̧ͧ͛͘s̉ͧͮ̒̉ͤ͝͞p̡ͪ͒̇̐ͯ̀ó̋̃ͬ͂̂̃̓į̸ͦ̎̉̓ͣ̌̒ͭl̸ͫͧ͐̑̌ͦͮ͑ ͨ͜tͪ̅ͨ͆hͣ̃͢͏e͋̔̕͢ ̽ͨ̔ͨ̅́̀͐͜҉c̃͆͜h̵̔ͩͧ͑ͪ͢ȉ͐͊́ļ̷̛̃ͪd̆ͪ̅̒̇ͣ҉̡.̷ͨ̊̈́͝ ͨͦ̆̿̚҉I̾̈́̑͡ ̷ͩ̓͠w̸̋̂̐͒̾̄̈́ͥ͝ă̶̈̾͘ţ̸ͩ̆ͮͦ̀c̡͛ͩ̈̔̉ͦh̡̏͐͋̊̒̈́͟͟e̐ͦ̀̇ͣͩ̚͠d̡̎̆̑̽ͬͤ͞͠ ͨ̓̔̽̓̾̊̓͘͞͝h̡͒͜i͌ͪ̒͑͊͠͠m̵̛̛̄̂̄ ̐̊͌̋̊͊͠t̷̾̐̂̅̏ǫ͂̂͐ͥ͌́ͮͯs̢ͣ͆͆̎͟s̄͝҉̧ ̶ͫ̓̋̐̎̋ͭ̇̚͠t̶̴ͮͤͬ̈́ͣ̇h̷̉̋ͫ́ͣ̃͌ͥ͡͞a̓ͨ̂̂͛̏͢͞t̏̆̽̈́͘͡͞ ͣͯ͑҉i͂ͭ͆͗ͩ́̀̚m͗̂ͥ̇̏ͩͩa̛̽̒̋ͭ͐͠g͛̋̅̆ͩͦ̔̃̚͏͜iͪͨ̒̊ͮ͘͝n̴̈͛a̔ŕ͗͗͢ÿ̡́̆̊̇̀̒̋̐̀͢ ̾͒m̨͐͛̈́ͧͭ̄̎̌̽e͑̿̇̓̈ͮ̀ͨa͆̇̌̎ͤ͏͏̴tͥ̃ ̷͐ͮͭ̅ͯ̌p̒̒͛͏̛͢ứ͑̊̂͘͝p̸̊́̆̒͆ͣ̄p̸̀̑̃ͨ̉͒̍ͣeͨ͌͛ͨ̿̄t̸̢͗͑ͤͭͩ̏͋̀ ͫ͋ͣ͂̔ͧ̋ͧ̊w̒̔͌ͭiͥ͐͂̊̿t͗ͫ͗ͣ̂ͯ͐ͪ͠ḩͬ̒ͮ̂ ͣ̐ͯ̔̉ͫ̀̇h̡̧̿̓̂͐ȋ͗͌́̂̕͟sͥ͛̋ͦ́̌ͬ҉̸ ̑f̑̽ͮ͗̃a̴̧ͯ̈ͫ̃͛͘c̃̃͐́͞eͧ ̅ͨ̋ͫ̐s͋͐͌͟lͫ͐̿̾ͯͪͤͦa̿ͭ҉t̑ͬͭ̍͐̃͘h̸̔ͣe̸͛̆̈̓̒̄ͯ͠r̨̡̀́̌͠ê̷dͦ̍̋̋̅ͭͥͯ ͮͮ̿ͨͯ̍́̕oͩ̾̽́̃̈́ͬ҉̷̕ń̅ͯ͊҉ ͊̆̀ĩ̴̓ͮ̽ͥ̀t͂͋͂̄͢͝͞ ̛͂̊ͥ̍ͩ̅ͩ͡l̵͑͗͐ͯ̌̔i̷̴̸͊̇̏k̶͊̃̉̒͑͒ͬͧ҉̢e̵̡͆ͮ̑̏ ̵̸̨ͧ̈͗̍ͧc̋ͪ͂̊ͯ͂̏ͦ҉o̷͒͊ͫl̨͒̆̃̅̄̓dͨ́ ͐͌̈ͭĉ͛̒̀͒̀ͭ͏̢r͌ͫ̒̎͛e̸̐ͮ̒ͮåͭ̍̎̓̽͑͠mͩ̉̆̏ͯ͝ ̄͐ͣ́͟ö̴̂v͂̾ͦ̓͆͌҉̧ë́̂ͮͨ́ͪrͮ̒ͫ́̎̓̌ ̵̴ͯ͛͊̇̃̉͘t̐ͩ͋ͮͪ́͌̚͘h̛̍̅ͩ͛͐̃ͭͪ̀́e̍̄ͪ̏ͭ̈͏ ͊ͭ͗ͣ̽̎̄͏b̢ͣͫ́͊ā̡̢ͦͣ͌̿͘l̾̽͗͟͟͡c̽͆͠ö̷́͆͆ͮͨ͝ņ͆̈́̆ͨ̾ͯͯ́y̵̽̆̈̉̋̽ ̊̓̽̑̓ͪ̉̋̀͡a͆̃̂̀͛ͣͣ̕n̶ͪ̉d̐͊͐ͯͮ̂̔҉ ̡ͥͦ͗̑̌ͩ̉ͦͨ̕o̡̅n̛̉̏͋ͦ͡t͗̇o̡ͮ̊̆̋ͯ̾ͣͨ ̷̈̐́́̀t̡ͦͣ̊̊͠h̉ͨ̋eͣ̾̎̐͗̽̀͘͢ ̷͗̿͐ĝ̎̔̿ŕ̵̔ͨ̄ͯ̊̚o͗̒̓͗u̾ͮ͐͋̔ͣ̇̃͟͢n̵̛̂̎d͊ͭ͐̏͐ͩ̑̀̚͟.̐ͯͦ͢
̵̸̷̍ͬ̀͐̋Iͨ̊͝҉ ̢ͧ͠b̸̓͂̃͛͘͠u͗ͨ̏̂̅ȋ͌͆̈͏l̆҉d͆͛ͦ̅͑̓̑̎̚͢҉ ̇ͪ̆tͥh̊̇ͣͪ̔̽̚͜i̴͒͑̿ͬ̿̽͌ͩ̚n̨̂̿͟gͤ̈́̿̕҉s̸ͦͧ͑ͬͭ͗ͨ͜.̐͛̿̋̅̆͡ ̨ͭ̌̿̏͆ͨ͗̊͊́͝T̶̨ͫ͌ͩ̂ͤͨͧ̔̆҉h̢̓ͫͬ̾ͦͧ̒̏e͂ͣ̒̈ͫ̂͗ͫ͢҉ ͮ̉҉̷m̨̉̈ͪ̓̇́͠iͦ̆ͫͦ̅n̡ͧd͑ͯ̔̔҉ ̢͊̃̄̎i͂̆̿̒͋͂͑̓s͑͑ͬ͑̍̿̀͟ ̃̓͐ä̶̢́ ̢̿̍̔̎͗҉v̸̐ͦ̅ͣ̀ͫͨ̇ͧ̕ȇ̍ͣͨ̾͆̈ͯ̚͜rͣ̿̓̂͏̢͢y̛͒͊͌ͯͩ̇̌͢ ̢͑ͬ̌͌̿͌c̛͒ͥͥ̓̑̄ͫo̎͊ͫ͗͑̽m͗̈́͌͌͏̸p̡̓̏̑͊̽l̄̒̉́̎e͒͒̀ͣ̑҉҉x̿̄͋͑͂ͯ͑͢ ͫ̚͘͠t̡ͨ̊̑̋h̸ͯ͆ͣ͜i̊͐ͧ͟͞n̓̾͋ͬͣ̈́̋͟g̓ͮ̒̑̾̐̚͘͞;̑ͫͨͦ͐ͭ̎̔ ͌̈͛ͥ́ͭ͜n̨͒̃̄̽̆̏ͫ͜ơͭ̇͂͝t̷͑͑̌̈ͤ̓̽̚͠ ̨͆́͐̾̿͒ē̸̸̒ͥ̑̄ͭ̏͝v̇ͧeͪ̏̐ͦ̄̑̊͜nͮ̉ͬ̓͛͐ ̸̷ͮ̍͊̈́ͫ̅t̸̡́̽̚ȟ͂͋ͤͯͭ͊ͪ͢e̵̊̄̍͠ ̢̄̈́̉ͯ҉sͮͧ̅̚͡m̷̧̏ͧ̓ảͦ̈̏͢͝rͭ͢t̵̓ͯ̎̅͐̆ę̀͋̌ͩs̶̷ͪ̿̚t̶̴ͧͯͤ͌̄ͯ͒͠ ͑ͩ̏ͯ̉̒̓ͩ͂̕͟pͪ̑͒ͤ̾ͪ͏ȩ̧̇ͣͬͯ͗̾ͨo̵̡͊͐ͫ̄̏̓̚̚̕p͒͊̒ͮ̃͞lͯͤ́ͥͩ͞e̒͏͘͟ ̢ͦ̏̃̊̐̈͊̏͢ǐͦ̋͊̆͐n͌ͤͫ̃̾̉̾ ̧ͧ̚͘tͭ̂̓͂ͫ̈́͐͝ḩͣ͊̒͠e̷̡̋̈ͩ̎ͯ͛̑̎ͦ̕ ̐̒̅̈͂͢w̐͛̊͜ȏ̢̢̂̅̄͂ͪͮͤr͛͂҉l͂̚d̈́ͮ̒́̒̑͊҉ ̵ͩͯͨͣ͆̍̉ưͩ̏̓͐͒͂̓̕n̓͟d̢̄͆̌̈́͋̉͊͜e͊̽̅ͬ̋͊̚҉r̽ͪ͑̓̈́͌̀s̸̔̆̒̒̉t͗̑͂ͥa̒͗̆̓̏ͪ͠n̂̔͌͘͠͞d̵̂̋͘͟ ̢͂ͪ͆̄ͪi̎̍͛ͯ̈̍͑͢҉ẗ́́ ̢̈͠ć̷̀̓ȏͨ́̚m̷̨̢͒͐̋̃p͂ͧ̏l̶̡̈́ȅ̐͂ͥ͗ͩ̎̕t̶̾́̐͗̅̀͠e̅́͛ͦl̄̓͘y̢͌̀.ͤ̋͗͏͜ ̸͒̈́̄͑S̸ͪ̅ͮ̀͒̂ͪ͝͠ȏ̸͟͡ ͮ͑̀͘i̿ͦͩ̊t̐͛̄͋̓ ̴̢̄̊͑̔͟m̧̐̓̀aͫ͋ͤ̔̔̐҉͡k̊́ͤ̐͆̾͑ͮ̎e͌͒͂ͥ̄̒ͫ͛s͌̀̾ͩͣ́̓͂̔́ ͩͩ̆̏͢m͑̋̕ỷ̴ͯ̃ͯ̆ ̄ͩ͆́̓ͣ̑҉̵j̀ͧ͐̀̒o͆ͮͬͯ͂b̴ͮ̽̿̐ ͗̊͛͊ͣͯͦͭ͌͘ė̴̓̈̐ͣ̚͠a̧͋ͥ̂̂̍̒̂̾̋͏s̷̵̅̾̐̄͞i̧ͯ͊̊͘͝ẽ̴ͩ̓ͨ̈̊̾͢r̷ͦ͌̂̾ͣ̈͡.̨̊̒͋̔ͪ́̈ͣ̕
̡͌̑͞Hͣ͞ȱ̓̚w̧̧ͩ̄ͦ̈́̄ę͒ͦ͜v͗ͤ̏ͥͮ̌̈́̔̏͝͠e͗̎ͧ̌̀͛͊̑҉́ȓͩ̐ͣ,̡̛̋̅ͦ́ͪ̿̊͋͞ ̶ͣ͌̑̓̍̀̽̐͠h̨ͨ̿͌͋́e̿̉̀̓͊҉ ̉̃mͪͨ͌̅͂͗͡҉̛i̓̐̓̿̅̑̎ͪs̷̛̐̾i̸̢ͩ͋́̃́ṅ̸̡͡t̷̿ͤ̌ͥ͋̔͐ͭ̕͜ȩ̾̈ͭ̀̊͐ͯͣ̀rͣ̒ͣ̃̌̂҉͏p͂̽̿͌ͯr̓͂̆ͭ̐ͯ̃̕e͐̀ͦͨ͋ͥͣ̎̉́t͐ͩ̄̃̍ͩ̔̓͆͜͜͠e̎ͩ͗ͨ͐͗̐͒̚͞d̐̔͗͒͂̈͠ ͦ͑ͦ̀҉ẻ̡͑ͧ͋͒ͯvͣ̔ͧê̡͑ͯ͢͞rͭ̃͡ý̧͜ ̉ͭ̆̊͌̑͛͠ǫ̓̄ͫͮͣ̉͘n̴ͧ̀ĕ̸̏́̾̂̍̃ͧ͠ ̴̡ͤŏ̷̌̂̏̓ͪ̓f̉ͥ͗͂͌̎͊͆ͩ̀ ͨ̈́͢m͐͆͜ẏ̡̀ ͑͗ͨ͐͌͋͋̚͠m̂̃͛ͨͩ̒̇ͭ̅é͒ͪ̉̕s̶ͬ̋͆̓̋͐̅̎̀͢ş̨̓̇̎̂ͮ̚a͗̎͋̌̽͏g̸̸ͥͨ̚e̢͆̊ͭͭ̎̓ͯͫͩs̴̢ͨ.̍ͬ ̢̈̓ͥ̅̓͞S̓̎̄̿͐ͩ́o͗̌ͨ̆́,̊́ ͭ̄̄͂̂̃İ̵̴ͪ͠ ̛́̊͐c̓̂̊̀̕a̴͑ͦ̓̂͂̀͌͐̂͞s̵̉ͨͯ͢t͗ͦ̿͡ ̄̅ͤ̀ḩ̷̉̿̋͑̆͛̄ͣ̿i̡̛̐̒̚m̢̏͗̾̑̐ͮ͂͐ ̨̿̾ͣd̽ͪ̋ͭͣ̇͊̀͡ǫ̈́̋ͤ̔͌͆̈w̏̅̀ń͒̃̍̕ ̧̊̏ͮ̇ͨȋͭ͊̈́͊ͨ̄ͫ͞͡͏n̍͒̒ͬ̄͟ţ͂ͭ̓ő̢͌͜͞ ͥ͐͋͋ͥ҉͞t̨̃͐h̾̂̑̍ē̕͢ ̡̉ͭb̔̓ͯ̕͟l̇̌͋̒̔͒͟ác̶̋̋ͮ̂̓͂͡k̿ͧͧ̀̓͒ͯ̄͠͠n̵̽ͣ̊̎̎҉̢e̷͑̀sͫ̔̽̆̍̐ͨ͌ͮ͡s̈҉҉͘.̧ͧ́ ̃ͬ̏̂҉T͒́̓̇͢͡h̢ͣ͊͐ͩ̋̐̊͡ę͋ͣ ̑̍ͧͭͥ͛̓u̵ͯͫ͋̐ͮ̓̿͢n̉̄̐ͫͧ҉̸c͊̆ͮ̔̌̋̍̉ẻͥr̛ͣͣͦ̈́̔͟͞tͦ́̀̒ͮͧͨ̍͜͟͞ã͂̒͌́͆̈̃̑͞i͐̎̍̂n͋̕ẗ́̈ͪ͂̽ͫ́͜͟y̆̄͂̌̐̄͂.ͦ̓̍͐̋̋ͨͣ͊͠ ͊ͯ́́̚̕M̴̵͋̅͊ǎ͌y̑ͯ̑͗͒ͣ͡b͑̿̾̄̎̀͡eͧͥ̒ͦ̉͛̇ͨ̉͠ ̛̈̋͑̏ͧh̷̅ͣͫ̓̀͏e̷̒ͦ̆̇͋͡'̵̨̑͆ͦ͗ḑ̐͠ ͪͯ͛ͦf̶͆̓͘͝i͗ͮͯ͂҉n̴̛ͧ͒ͩd̸͌̎ͫ̒ͮͯ̕͟ ̶̃͗ḩ̈̑̆͒ͮ̒̂̚͡i̷ͩ̒̊̈ͨ͐̀s̃҉͞ ̄̋̂͗̈ͧ̏a̵̛̋̉̅̑̌n̉͊̉ͬͯͣͧ̈́̀sͮͦͨͮͪͣ̕͜w͌̓̆͋̓͐͆͟ȅͩͮ̎̏̅̓ͩ͟r̊̂š̢̎̿ͨ̌͋ ͯͯ͟͠d̴̢̊ͤ͂̂ͣ̀ͫ̅o͐͂ͯ̒̓͟͝w̸̷̋̈́ͨ̅͗̈́̆̓͌n̈́ͬͮ͟ ̡̛̔̃͆ͧ͌ͣ̊̚t̴̛͂̈̅̇̈h̆͐͛̇̂̏̇҉̕e̎͌ͯ̓̍́̚͘͜rͤ͢͡e̴͒̆,̷̷ͭ̇͂͟ ́ͥ̊ẁ̄͟ḧ̍ͨ̀ą̛͌ͫ́͒ţ̀ͧͬ͟e̷ͦͫ̏̆̑͜͞v̧̓ͯͬ̓̀͢e̢͗r̄̋̊̿̋͟͢҉ ̢ͬͣ̌͋ͨͬ͗͞t͗̈h͐̓̔ȇ̶͆̓̾͡yͩ ͌̄҉͟m̴͐̋̈̐̽͋̃ä̡ͣ̓ͫ͢yͨ͒̋ͤͫ͌̏̕͢ ̨́͢bͭ̇̍ͩ̚̕ē̢̨ͫ̉̄̿ͮͦͦ.ͤ͂̐̈́̀͡ ̷̴ͦ͑ͤ̀͋A̶̷͌͌̆ͩ̂ͪťͪͣ͌͟ ̸͂ͮ̃ͬ͂ͨ͜͏ļ̈ͫͦ̐e̴ͤͪ̀͜a̋̂ͤ̃̑̒̔̒̀̕s̏̃̓̚̕t̶̆ͣͪ ̃ͥh̸̛͑ͧ̔ͨ̂̾͡e̛ͨ̚'̉̅ͬͨ̂͂̓͜d̶͂̎ͩ̾ͨͫ͠ ͤͥ̀̚͢h̛͊̋͑ͨ̅̉ă̸̎ͧ̾̒̃ͦ͂v̛͌ͬ̅͊͂͑̄̀͛҉ë̛̎̉̆ͯ̓͗͟͡ ̨ͣ̓ͬ͒̕a̴ͫͪ̅̾͢n̴̶ͤ̍̀̈́͝ ̷ͮͤ̎͌̐͗̕ą̵̑p̍ͯ͏҉p̽̏ͥ͌ͤ͋ͧŕ̋͡ŏ̸̶ͧ͊̿ͬ̇̌p̏ͤͤ͌̾̚̚͘r̅ͯ̄̿̊͐ȉͣ͊̆͝a̡͆̊̅̆̃ͧt͗̏͂͟e̋ͪ̆̕ ̶ͩ̒͌̿ͬ̔̔̆c̛͛̃ͦͫ̌̏ͯ̚͜͡h̸̡̋͐̄ͩ͝â̧̨̚n̶ͫ̔̉̉̎ͩͫgͮ͛̿̆͑͗e͌ͥ̍́ͯͭ҉̵҉ ̴ͯ̊̓ͯ̌͝o̸̧͛̆͒̍ͧ̀̚f̌̂ͧ̅̑͛ͫ͜ ͊ͧ̒͆ͩ҉ĥͯ̊ͧ̀̌͗̔͠e̶ͮͫaͬ̒́ͫ̅̚r̵ͥ̅̇ͥ́́ţ̢̇ͩ̇͊̅͌̾ͮ.ͮͦͯ̿̎͜
3[]
"I drink to our ruined house, to the dolor of my life, to our loneliness together; and to you I raise my glass, to lying lips that have betrayed us, to dead-cold heartless eyes, and to the hard realities; that the world is brutal and coarse, that God, in fact, has not saved us."
- Anna Akhmatova
FEBRUARY, 1968
"Girls have cooties, Fred. Didn't your older brother teach you?"
Frederick Nystrom was ignoring his acquaintance. That's what his mother told him to do in situations like this, anyways. His mother was a rather kind-hearted soul, very patient, especially when Fred's older brother David was drafted to go to Vietnam.
That was the first time his mother told him to ignore what was happening, actually. Fred's father was yelling at the entire household the day they got the letter. David assured that everything would be fine.
Now there was talk about a 'Tet Offensive' and his mother wouldn't stop crying when she read the newspaper. Father had already gotten his feelings out before; this time, he was the solemn one.
Fred was now the oldest son of the family, the oldest child in fact. Besides David, Fred had Simon, his younger brother.
Fred was relaying these facts in his mind when Gerald Trask, the class bully, asked the question again.
"Didn't your older brother teach you? My older brother taught me. 'Said you'd turn into a GIRL if you catch cooties. He's not an IDIOT like YOUR brother."
Fred silently scowled Gerry. The bully was a member of the same class, and on the first day of school, each member of said class had to exchange facts about themselves to further advance the school's agenda of community amongst the students. Gerry and Fred both had older brothers. What Fred didn't know was that David was just as much, if not a bigger bully when he was Fred's age.
Of course, David didn't dare to even lay a finger on Fred. As a matter of fact, it was around the time that Fred could actually communicate that David began to play a bigger role in his life. Father had work to tackle, thus David was the man of the house the majority of the time. In short, David was more of a father than Father was.
Gerry's older brother, holding a grudge of misery for the former year, had told Gerry to go pick on someone vulnerable. And what better subject than someone who was chatting with one of the opposite gender?
At this point, the girl in question was livid, although she tried to disguise it.
"Wow. Mom did say that you boys were immature.... I just wanted to talk about The Beatles playing, or something, you know?"
"The Beatles? You mean that GIRLY music? I guess Fred really IS a girl, isn't he?" Gerry sneered.
Fred was dead silent. The girl glared at Gerry in anger before speaking through gritted teeth. "Or maybe he just likes what his mother listens to. Right, Fred?"
Fred nodded as Gerry clamped his hand on Fred's shoulder, his face that of a father about to give the Talk to his son. "It's what happens when your dad isn't there... you turn into a girl, Fred. You turn into a BITCH."
On the last word, the end-of-recess bell rang, followed by multitudes of screaming children running for the classroom doors to begin second period; math class. Thus, Gerry's dirty word went unheard and, in turn, nonexistent.
The two would cross paths again in class, when the order of the moment was to hand out tests. The teacher asked for volunteers, as usual, and naturally none of the children raised their hands.
"Fred, would you hand out the tests?"
As Fred racked his brain trying to deduce how he had offended the teacher as his feet moved to the desk by themselves. The teacher gestured toward a stack of papers and Fred obliged.
When Fred arrived at Gerald Trask's desk, he was overcome with a surge of mixed anger and disgust. Gerry, in response, happily stuck out his tongue.
Fred was boiling.
Delighted with how the events were proceeding, Gerry gleefully opened his mouth.
"My brother says people like you are QUEERS."
That was it. The ultimate middle school insult: 'You're gay!' Fred ripped off a page of the bully's test, to which the bully became irritated.
"Mr. Cartwright, may I use the stapler please?"
"Yes, Fred. And be more careful next time, will you?"
"Yes, Mr. Cartwright."
Fred arrived back at Gerry's desk with a wide smile and eyes full of malice.
Mr. Cartwright did a double take when he heard a bloodcurdling scream from across the room. Sitting in his chair, frozen with apprehension, he peered across the room to see Gerald Trask writhing in torment. Tears were filling his eyes and soaking his face, mingling with the blood that was trickling from the staples in his forehead; he was wheezing loudly and shrieking at the very top of his lungs, like a little girl. He then moved his eyes to the usually quiet and reserved Frederick Nystrom, who was now stapling Gerry's hand to the desk. All while this was happening, no student dared to intervene.
"Who's the queer NOW, bitch!?" Fred seethed, his attention beyond the horrified stares from his now-shuddering classmates.
4[]
"Draw a crazy picture,
Write a nutty poem,
Sing a mumble-gumble song,
Whistle through your comb.
Do a loony-goony dance,
Across the kitchen floor,
Put something silly in the world,
That ain't been there before."
- Shel Silverstein
DECEMBER, 1979
Fred stood at the edge of his seat. He had his hands plastered onto the rails.
The incident in '68 had absolutely no impact on him, as he was given a probation and came back to school. Shortly after, he graduated from college.
Fred stepped off the bus, he had his briefcase in his right hand. The dark colored snow was from the coal plant and paper mill. He placed one of his cigarettes in his mouth and lit it. Fred stood at the edge of his house, fixing his tie. He then started to knock on the door.
The door opened to his mother. "Oh, Fred! You're home!" His mother reached her arms out to hug him, and he extended his arms to accept it. "Hey Ma, where's Dad?" His mother shrugged her shoulders, "He's at the grocery store getting food. Come in and see the family!" Fred walked into the living room, his older brother David sitting on the couch. "Oh, look who it is? The Big City Man!"
Frederick chuckled.
"Go fuck yourself, hillbilly."
David stood up. "Hey, fuck you."
Fred smirked cheekily at him. "Last time I heard about you, you were getting your fucking ass kicked by the Vietcong in those Laotian jungles. How fun was it to shit into a trench every-time you needed to dump your load?" David scowled, "Says you, living in your big hotels and your silver screens." Fred shrugged his shoulders, "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." Fred walked back out of the living room to his bedroom.
He sat down on his red-sheeted bunk bed, his 11-year-old brother below him. "Hey Fred, you back?"
Fred looked down. "Hell yeah, I am."
His brother smirked at him. "Hey, ugh. You didn't hear about Trask did you?"
Fred looked up.
"Gerald Trask? What happened?" Simon looked down at him, "Ugh...He and his family were murdered a few days ago. Fred looked down, "Huh... he was an asshole, but nobody deserves to die." Fred laid his head on his pillow, the darkness from outside almost shining in. The moon circulated around the sky.
Fred closed his eyes, shaking himself around. Something was bugging him. He lifted his head up, looking about. "Ugh, what time is it?"
The alarm clock showed 3:00. (?) Fred got up, and walked out to the kitchen to get a snack. Passing into the living room, he saw all the lights on. His father sat down at the leather couch. Fred looked at his dad.
"Hey Dad, how've you been?"
Richard looked up to Fred. "I got laid off at work...I've worked there for 30 years, and now I'm unemployed." Fred opened the fridge, taking out a Budweiser can. He opened the tab, taking a swig.
"Well, that's shitty luck. You check the classifieds?"
Richard scowled. "I'm not going to get another job...I'm retired now. But you...You've got a job, haven't you?" Fred shrugged. "My job working as an office clerk isn't the worst job ever." Fred took another sip from the Budweiser can, looking down at Richard's legs. He noticed a large amount of beer cans gathered around his father like some kind of perverted congregation. "You've been drinking, haven't you? You want to go to bed?" Richard stood up, shakily. "Fucking touch me and I'll kick your ass." Richard took off his leather belt.
"You're getting a spankin' boy. Just like the good old days." His brain spun rapidly. Fred shook the disposition out of his head, pushing his father back onto the couch. "Get the fuck off me!", barked Richard as he lunged at Fred, tackling him onto the ground, smacking Fred's head into a drawer. "Prick!", said Fred, holding his Father back. Richard started to deliver punches down onto Fred's face. Fred's nose started to bleed before he tossed Richard off.
Something ticked him off. Fred walked into the kitchen. reached into the pantry. Taking out a boning knife. The voice inside his head shouted, "DO IT! KILL HIM!" Fred lunged at Richard, placing the boning knife in Richard's throat. Pulling it out, he delivered another blow to the head. He slammed himself back into the corner, the pit swallowing himself onto the ground. Fred took the knife, the voice inside rung out. "Now, don't leave witnesses." Fred smacked his head off the pantry, "Get the fuck out of my head, you sick cunt!" The Voice shattered, "Do it." Fred swung back into his killer form.
Fred walked into David's room, knocking on the light. The knife drenched in blood. David closed his eyes, blocking the light from his eyes. "Ugh, what do you want?" Fred sat down on David's torso. Stabbing him in the chest multiple times. "Ah!" David's face was drenched in blood as the knife reaching down into his stomach. Fred slammed his way into his Mother's room and pulled the large TV from the room out of the chords. His mother closed her hands over her face. Fred smashed the TV on her face. Killing her instantly.
Fred finally kicked his way into Simon's room. "Simon, Olly Olly Oxen-Free!" Simon cowered behind the bed. Fred burst in, looking at Simon. "Simon, I can't hurt you...But you are going to rat me out." Fred pulled Simon onto the bed. Simon started to scream. Fred pulled out Simon tongue, cutting it out from his mouth. Fred started to slice off Simon's hands. Simon started to cry painfully. No being able to issue a word without his tongue. Fred stood over Simon, "I did this for you." Fred walked out of the house, placing the knife in a drain. "Nobody will find it." Fred started to make a dash into the woods. From there he was free, but he wasn't was he?