I have not been able to write for a while. I began to get discouraged, not knowing whether or not anyone ever read my blog. Was I just writing for the wind? Did anything I perceived matter to anyone?
Shortly after, I learned that the pravastatin which I had been taking to lower my cholesterol can have side effects of causing and/or increasing depression, bringing on insomnia, anxiety, nightmares, etc.....
I stopped the pravastatin, and slowly, the lead blanket of depression lifted.
And then I received the note from a kind friend who had read almost all of my blog and found it terribly depressing. She was praying for me to feel better.
I almost abandoned this new project. Over the days since I last wrote something here, I have thought a lot about the writing and songwriting I have done since I was very young.
Somehow, I was born with a different set of glasses from most people. God gave me an ability to empathize with all the people I meet. I have always felt a connection with people whose lives were far different from my own. I find myself deep in prayer and meditation for friends and family, but the meditation leads me to new places. I do not steer the meditation.
One of the first songs I ever learned to play and sing was "There But For Fortune", written by the singer/songwriter Phil Ochs in 1963. I was so drawn to this song, as I believed that compassion should be the guiding principle of life. I should never forget that I am connected to every living being on this planet, and that it is only by the fortune of birth or experience that I have had certain advantages or escaped haunting pain.
Any child could be my child. Any poor person sifting through trash cans for food could be me. Any family torn apart by war could be mine.
I try to write about life as I see it. My adopted Laotian brother, Bounchanh, is a devout Buddhist and has even spent time as a monk in the temple in Vientiane. Many times we talked about spirituality. Buddhists accept that life is full of suffering. The greatest goal, therefore, is to be compassionate.
Compassion, love, faith, hope: these are the powers which carry us through the sufferings of life and which can transform our experiences into something of meaning and something which can be used to help another person.
So, to my dear friend who was so troubled by my writing, I have always seen the world through this set of glasses. I have always dealt better with the suffering in life by staring it straight in the eyes. My songs, my poetry, and now my prose reflections are all an extension of the pair of glasses God gave me long ago. I look for meaning in it all, and I try to express the deeper levels of spirituality and humanity that I see in the world around me.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Dawning of the Day
A friend of mine is going through the shock and grief of losing a friend to "suicide by cop". Not only is she dealing with her own loss, but she is also trying to support the family of this man through this journey. Over four years ago, a dear friend of mine took his life, and about twenty of us who had known him well through all the music we had shared returned to our alma mater to conduct a special memorial service for him. As I struggling with my own deep pain, a song came to me to write. I told my friend in California that I would post the words to this song, which I sang at that service in Vermont.
There are never adequate answers for suicide. There are so many questions, so much unknown, both anger and grief. I wish I could post the entire song, but I am still working on mixing the recording of this song. So, for you, Jaimie, here are the words. They reflect my own struggle and grief. I hope these words may help someone else.
A DAWNING OF THE DAY
(c) Mary Lou Worster Anderson 2006
(written in memory of Tim Rowe)
What was the sorrow inside of you?
What were the words you couldn't say?
What was the shattering that broke your heart?
What deep despair took you away?
But, rest, my friend, now, for all is well,
The angels guide you on your way;
Peace, my friend, you are still so very near;
There will be a dawning of the day.
What is this mirror we hold in hand,
The light so dim we cannot see?
It is by trust we tread this pathway;
Life finds its way through mystery.
But, rest, my friends, now, for all is well,
The angels guide him on his way;
Peace, my friends, he is still so very near;
There will be a dawning of the day.
One day the veil will be lifted,
And we will see the sky above;
There is a power surrounding us
With faith and hope and love.
But, rest, my friends, now, for all is well,
The angels guide us on our way;
Peace, my friends, those we've lost are still so near;
There will be a dawning of the day.
But, rest, my friends, now, for all is well,
The angels guide us on our way;
Peace, my friends, those we've loved are still so near;
There will be a dawning of the day.
There will be a dawning of the day.
There are never adequate answers for suicide. There are so many questions, so much unknown, both anger and grief. I wish I could post the entire song, but I am still working on mixing the recording of this song. So, for you, Jaimie, here are the words. They reflect my own struggle and grief. I hope these words may help someone else.
A DAWNING OF THE DAY
(c) Mary Lou Worster Anderson 2006
(written in memory of Tim Rowe)
What was the sorrow inside of you?
What were the words you couldn't say?
What was the shattering that broke your heart?
What deep despair took you away?
But, rest, my friend, now, for all is well,
The angels guide you on your way;
Peace, my friend, you are still so very near;
There will be a dawning of the day.
What is this mirror we hold in hand,
The light so dim we cannot see?
It is by trust we tread this pathway;
Life finds its way through mystery.
But, rest, my friends, now, for all is well,
The angels guide him on his way;
Peace, my friends, he is still so very near;
There will be a dawning of the day.
One day the veil will be lifted,
And we will see the sky above;
There is a power surrounding us
With faith and hope and love.
But, rest, my friends, now, for all is well,
The angels guide us on our way;
Peace, my friends, those we've lost are still so near;
There will be a dawning of the day.
But, rest, my friends, now, for all is well,
The angels guide us on our way;
Peace, my friends, those we've loved are still so near;
There will be a dawning of the day.
There will be a dawning of the day.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Fire On Upton Street -- UNSUNG ANGELS
UNSUNG ANGELS -- written in May, 2008
It has been three months and five days since the fire that changed our neighborhood. Between then and now, I have moved, though only five blocks away. I have spent almost all of my energy trying to get unpacked and resettled.
For me, this takes longer than for some people, as I have had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome for seventeen and a half years. During this time I have reflected a great deal about the senior citizens and disabled adults who live in the high rise, subsidized, city run apartments directly behind the house that was on fire. I have interviewed my friend, Fran, and spent time standing in the parking lot where many of them were that early morning, trying to imagine just what they experienced.
Fran was awakened sometime between two-thirty and three by the smell of the smoke and the bright light of flames that flashed out of the house's windows, arcing upwards from the first floor window into the second floor. One whole side of the high rise building faces that ill-fated house on Upton Street.
Fran was one of the first to call in the fire to 911. She immediately got dressed to go outside, transferred into her motorized wheelchair, and headed for the third floor elevator.
When she pushed the button and the door opened, there was a man who was so panicked about checking his car that he tried to make her wait for the next elevator. Fran knew this was all very irrational and forced her way onto this elevator.
Between fifteen and twenty people from the high rise went to the parking lot next to the house that was burning. There was a great deal of fear that their own building could catch fire, a very real concern since the branches from the tall trees behind that house had not been trimmed by either the City of Rochester or Rochester Gas and Electric.
These branches brought the trees closer to each other and closer to the high rise. If there had been even the slightest wind, the apartment building could have easily caught fire.
While trying to understand just what my neighbors experienced that night, I was greatly disturbed to learn that the City's Housing Authority and Fire Department had no set plan to rescue wheelchair bound people from that building. There never has been a specific plan, so most of my friends in wheelchairs assume that, should there be a fire, they will simply go up in flames with the rest of the building.
Some of the people in the parking lot that night were simply terrified that they might lose their homes. They were afraid that disabled neighbors might not get out.
Some were simply in shock, watching the flames shoot out of the building in surreal patterns.
Others were there out of great concern for the Rochester Institute of Technology students who lived in that house, as almost everyone in the neighborhood greeted them on their way to the Corner Store.
Blankets were brought out to try to keep the girl and the two young men warm. Clothing was brought for the girl, who had run from the house stark naked. People stayed near to her while she sobbed. Others watched the two young men who paced back and forth, just keeping an eye on them.
For most of my neighbors who went out to the parking lot that night, it was fear, concern, and kindness that led them there. They were the unsung angels.
When the Red Cross volunteers talked to the building's social worker a few days later about visiting the residents of the tower, she said that they would have been asleep and wouldn't have been affected by it at all.
I have wondered many times if this City employee ever even spoke to the residents of University Tower about the fire. How could she have turned the help of the Red Cross away, when these wonderful neighbors needed someone to talk to afterwards just as much, if not more than, anyone else in our neighborhood? And why did she assume they did not wake up? Why did she think it had not affected them? Did she know of their kindness?
The social worker did not live there. Her answer revealed that she did not even know the senior citizens and disabled adults for whom she was supposed to provide service.
On Friday night, I placed the two roses on the gate in front of the house: one for Seth and one for Sayid. More flowers and other symbols of the love and sadness of our neighborhood, appeared over the next few days.
On Saturday morning, my friend, Fran, went to the Public Market in her motorized wheelchair. She was the President Pro Tem of the tenants association for the building. She wanted there to be flowers in front of the house from all of the residents. Seth and Sayid had chosen to live in our neighborhood, instead of miles away on the RIT campus, because they loved it there.
Fran wanted to find locally grown flowers that would last a while in the cold. A local flower seller at the public market suggested some tiny, purple flowers that were very sturdy. On her way home, she found a vase at the flea market. Everything was from the neighborhood, which was what Seth and Ali would have wanted.
I wish I could have witnessed what happened later on that Saturday afternoon. I have imagined it many times in my mind.
We live in a city full of violence, in which the tension between rich and poor, and people of different races is felt by all. This one act on behalf of the residents of the high rise apartments gave me hope.
Fran is Caucasian. Her friend, Cherylnn, is African American. Both women travel by wheelchair. These two neighbors set out in their motorized vehicles down the elevator, across the sidewalks, and across the parking lot to the gate in front of the house on Upton Street.
One of them carried the vase with the beautiful purple flowers. The other carried a Bible.
They placed the vase in front of the gate, where it could be easily seen by all. It was nearing the end of the day. It was that time of the year when twilight seems to come so early. Soon it would be dark.
These two women living with disabilities, from two different races, stayed near all the flowers by the gate. They remained together in front of this place of tragedy. They held hands and read the 23rd Psalm together.
I do not know which translation they used. I have placed here the one most familiar to people. This quiet act of deep spirituality spoke louder to me than the voices of a thousand choirs. Truly, the voices of the angels spoke through these two women in their gentle tribute to two wonderful young men who had been their neighbors.
"The LORD is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down
in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul;
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil:
for thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff
they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me
in the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil;
My cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life;
And I will dwell in the house
of the LORD for ever."
It has been three months and five days since the fire that changed our neighborhood. Between then and now, I have moved, though only five blocks away. I have spent almost all of my energy trying to get unpacked and resettled.
For me, this takes longer than for some people, as I have had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome for seventeen and a half years. During this time I have reflected a great deal about the senior citizens and disabled adults who live in the high rise, subsidized, city run apartments directly behind the house that was on fire. I have interviewed my friend, Fran, and spent time standing in the parking lot where many of them were that early morning, trying to imagine just what they experienced.
Fran was awakened sometime between two-thirty and three by the smell of the smoke and the bright light of flames that flashed out of the house's windows, arcing upwards from the first floor window into the second floor. One whole side of the high rise building faces that ill-fated house on Upton Street.
Fran was one of the first to call in the fire to 911. She immediately got dressed to go outside, transferred into her motorized wheelchair, and headed for the third floor elevator.
When she pushed the button and the door opened, there was a man who was so panicked about checking his car that he tried to make her wait for the next elevator. Fran knew this was all very irrational and forced her way onto this elevator.
Between fifteen and twenty people from the high rise went to the parking lot next to the house that was burning. There was a great deal of fear that their own building could catch fire, a very real concern since the branches from the tall trees behind that house had not been trimmed by either the City of Rochester or Rochester Gas and Electric.
These branches brought the trees closer to each other and closer to the high rise. If there had been even the slightest wind, the apartment building could have easily caught fire.
While trying to understand just what my neighbors experienced that night, I was greatly disturbed to learn that the City's Housing Authority and Fire Department had no set plan to rescue wheelchair bound people from that building. There never has been a specific plan, so most of my friends in wheelchairs assume that, should there be a fire, they will simply go up in flames with the rest of the building.
Some of the people in the parking lot that night were simply terrified that they might lose their homes. They were afraid that disabled neighbors might not get out.
Some were simply in shock, watching the flames shoot out of the building in surreal patterns.
Others were there out of great concern for the Rochester Institute of Technology students who lived in that house, as almost everyone in the neighborhood greeted them on their way to the Corner Store.
Blankets were brought out to try to keep the girl and the two young men warm. Clothing was brought for the girl, who had run from the house stark naked. People stayed near to her while she sobbed. Others watched the two young men who paced back and forth, just keeping an eye on them.
For most of my neighbors who went out to the parking lot that night, it was fear, concern, and kindness that led them there. They were the unsung angels.
When the Red Cross volunteers talked to the building's social worker a few days later about visiting the residents of the tower, she said that they would have been asleep and wouldn't have been affected by it at all.
I have wondered many times if this City employee ever even spoke to the residents of University Tower about the fire. How could she have turned the help of the Red Cross away, when these wonderful neighbors needed someone to talk to afterwards just as much, if not more than, anyone else in our neighborhood? And why did she assume they did not wake up? Why did she think it had not affected them? Did she know of their kindness?
The social worker did not live there. Her answer revealed that she did not even know the senior citizens and disabled adults for whom she was supposed to provide service.
On Friday night, I placed the two roses on the gate in front of the house: one for Seth and one for Sayid. More flowers and other symbols of the love and sadness of our neighborhood, appeared over the next few days.
On Saturday morning, my friend, Fran, went to the Public Market in her motorized wheelchair. She was the President Pro Tem of the tenants association for the building. She wanted there to be flowers in front of the house from all of the residents. Seth and Sayid had chosen to live in our neighborhood, instead of miles away on the RIT campus, because they loved it there.
Fran wanted to find locally grown flowers that would last a while in the cold. A local flower seller at the public market suggested some tiny, purple flowers that were very sturdy. On her way home, she found a vase at the flea market. Everything was from the neighborhood, which was what Seth and Ali would have wanted.
I wish I could have witnessed what happened later on that Saturday afternoon. I have imagined it many times in my mind.
We live in a city full of violence, in which the tension between rich and poor, and people of different races is felt by all. This one act on behalf of the residents of the high rise apartments gave me hope.
Fran is Caucasian. Her friend, Cherylnn, is African American. Both women travel by wheelchair. These two neighbors set out in their motorized vehicles down the elevator, across the sidewalks, and across the parking lot to the gate in front of the house on Upton Street.
One of them carried the vase with the beautiful purple flowers. The other carried a Bible.
They placed the vase in front of the gate, where it could be easily seen by all. It was nearing the end of the day. It was that time of the year when twilight seems to come so early. Soon it would be dark.
These two women living with disabilities, from two different races, stayed near all the flowers by the gate. They remained together in front of this place of tragedy. They held hands and read the 23rd Psalm together.
I do not know which translation they used. I have placed here the one most familiar to people. This quiet act of deep spirituality spoke louder to me than the voices of a thousand choirs. Truly, the voices of the angels spoke through these two women in their gentle tribute to two wonderful young men who had been their neighbors.
"The LORD is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down
in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul;
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil:
for thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff
they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me
in the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil;
My cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life;
And I will dwell in the house
of the LORD for ever."
Friday, November 6, 2009
The Fire On Upton Street - Changed
In the early morning hours of Friday, November 9, 2007, a fire occurred two houses away from the house in which I had an apartment on the first floor. Two of my neighbors died in that fire.
I wrote a seven part account after that fire. The anniversary comes in two days. Seth and Sayid have been 0n my mind. Today I walked past the building that housed this tragedy. I am going to post my writing from two years ago.
In memory of Seth and Sayid
CHANGED
Saturday, November 17, 2007
I find myself unable to sleep tonight, for my heart is unsettled and sad. It was during these early morning hours only one week ago that life in our neighborhood changed. I had fallen asleep on my son's bed, where I had been sleeping since he had left for Amherst College. Our big, black bear of a dog seemed more content when I slept there in that familiar space next to her.
About 3 a.m., I awakened to her barking."It's just a truck, Tasha," I told her. "Be quiet and go back to sleep."
The barking continued, only by now it was getting louder and more urgent. I dragged myself out of bed and towards the front door. When I pulled back the fading white curtains in the door's window, I could see one of our city's big fire trucks with its lights flashing. It was parked directly in front of our apartment.
"It's just a fire truck, Tasha," I said, just barely awake. "Thank you for telling me. Now, stop barking and go back to sleep."
I had barely stepped next to the bed when the barking started again, and I knew Tasha thought we were in danger. This time I looked out the dining room window and saw another fire truck and two police cars. There was an eerie lightness to the normally dark living room, with flashing red and white lights changing the nighttime hues to a surreal combination of light and dark.
I looked out the living room windows, then out the window to the front porch.There were six or seven fire trucks, police cars surrounding them, hoses and cables stretched along the side street, a strange smoke that touched everything around it, and meticulously organized groups of firefighters going back and forth from some house I couldn't see. I slipped on my shoes and put Tasha on a leash. I wandered out to see what was happening.
It was like walking out into a movie set, but there was no magic of film here. Everything had a disturbingly powerful smell of smoke, but I could not see the source. I was told that the house two doors down was on fire, but that the fire department was working well to contain and extinguish the fire.
I saw my immediate next door neighbors across the street. Shouldn't I leave, too? There was less than eight feet between my apartment and his house, and less than eight feet between his house and the one on fire.
And what about my two cats and the three cats of my upstairs neighbors who worked the night shift?
I was told to go back into my house, that they would let me know if I had to leave. I quickly gathered a few precious things: my young adult son's Panda Bear, a picture of each child when they were babies, a heart-shaped picture of these same two children as toddlers "reading" together on the couch, a small picture of my mother and father, my violin, the dog's leash, a blanket and my jacket. For the next two hours, I was in a daze watching the work of the firemen, frightened for my own safety, and overwhelmed by the feeling that none of this was anything I could control.
I finally fell asleep, curled up in the recliner, with my dog at my feet. When I awoke at eight in the morning, there were only two or three fire trucks left, and several police cars keeping some sense of order. The other vehicles had been replaced by vans from the major TV stations, reporters with mikes, and stands stabilizing cameras.
Once again I went outside with Tasha. I asked the first reporter I could find if anyone had been hurt in the fire. Her eyes filled with tears as she told me that two young men had died in that house and a third was in guarded condition at the hospital. What I couldn't have seen from my side of the house a few hours earlier was the flames that sped through this house so quickly that even working smoke alarms made little difference.
One young woman, an overnight guest, had fled from the first floor out into the parking lot of the high rise apartments next door. Two young men had climbed out onto the small second floor porch and jumped onto the top of one of the cars below to safety.
Many of the senior citizens and disabled residents of the apartment building had come down to the parking lot just to be there with these students who screamed and cried, totally in shock. Blankets were brought to keep them warm, but there was nothing else to do but watch the flames shooting out from the windows.
For the others, there simply had not been enough time. The firefighters rescued the one young man from the second floor, not knowing if he would live or die. The other two young men had died in this nightmare of smoke and flame.
All who had lived there were students at the Rochester Institute of Technology. The two who had died were fourth year students, very smart young men with their whole lives ahead of them. In a few short minutes, those dreams were ended.
"Those were my neighbors," I cried.
I sank down on the front lawn outside of my home, my arms around my dog, holding onto her for comfort. I wept and wept and wept. "Those were my neighbors. Those were my neighbors."
There was still smoke in the air, a burning stench that was inescapable. There was, also, another kind of smoke: a blanket of intense pain that had fallen over all of us, a dull sense of shock that filled the streets of our neighborhood.
In the quiet of an autumn night, two of our neighbors, wonderful young adults, were taken from life too soon. Two of our neighbors had died.
An uninvited guest had taken residence among us. A deep sadness had entered all of our lives in those early morning hours. Our neighborhood had been changed forever.
I wrote a seven part account after that fire. The anniversary comes in two days. Seth and Sayid have been 0n my mind. Today I walked past the building that housed this tragedy. I am going to post my writing from two years ago.
In memory of Seth and Sayid
CHANGED
Saturday, November 17, 2007
I find myself unable to sleep tonight, for my heart is unsettled and sad. It was during these early morning hours only one week ago that life in our neighborhood changed. I had fallen asleep on my son's bed, where I had been sleeping since he had left for Amherst College. Our big, black bear of a dog seemed more content when I slept there in that familiar space next to her.
About 3 a.m., I awakened to her barking."It's just a truck, Tasha," I told her. "Be quiet and go back to sleep."
The barking continued, only by now it was getting louder and more urgent. I dragged myself out of bed and towards the front door. When I pulled back the fading white curtains in the door's window, I could see one of our city's big fire trucks with its lights flashing. It was parked directly in front of our apartment.
"It's just a fire truck, Tasha," I said, just barely awake. "Thank you for telling me. Now, stop barking and go back to sleep."
I had barely stepped next to the bed when the barking started again, and I knew Tasha thought we were in danger. This time I looked out the dining room window and saw another fire truck and two police cars. There was an eerie lightness to the normally dark living room, with flashing red and white lights changing the nighttime hues to a surreal combination of light and dark.
I looked out the living room windows, then out the window to the front porch.There were six or seven fire trucks, police cars surrounding them, hoses and cables stretched along the side street, a strange smoke that touched everything around it, and meticulously organized groups of firefighters going back and forth from some house I couldn't see. I slipped on my shoes and put Tasha on a leash. I wandered out to see what was happening.
It was like walking out into a movie set, but there was no magic of film here. Everything had a disturbingly powerful smell of smoke, but I could not see the source. I was told that the house two doors down was on fire, but that the fire department was working well to contain and extinguish the fire.
I saw my immediate next door neighbors across the street. Shouldn't I leave, too? There was less than eight feet between my apartment and his house, and less than eight feet between his house and the one on fire.
And what about my two cats and the three cats of my upstairs neighbors who worked the night shift?
I was told to go back into my house, that they would let me know if I had to leave. I quickly gathered a few precious things: my young adult son's Panda Bear, a picture of each child when they were babies, a heart-shaped picture of these same two children as toddlers "reading" together on the couch, a small picture of my mother and father, my violin, the dog's leash, a blanket and my jacket. For the next two hours, I was in a daze watching the work of the firemen, frightened for my own safety, and overwhelmed by the feeling that none of this was anything I could control.
I finally fell asleep, curled up in the recliner, with my dog at my feet. When I awoke at eight in the morning, there were only two or three fire trucks left, and several police cars keeping some sense of order. The other vehicles had been replaced by vans from the major TV stations, reporters with mikes, and stands stabilizing cameras.
Once again I went outside with Tasha. I asked the first reporter I could find if anyone had been hurt in the fire. Her eyes filled with tears as she told me that two young men had died in that house and a third was in guarded condition at the hospital. What I couldn't have seen from my side of the house a few hours earlier was the flames that sped through this house so quickly that even working smoke alarms made little difference.
One young woman, an overnight guest, had fled from the first floor out into the parking lot of the high rise apartments next door. Two young men had climbed out onto the small second floor porch and jumped onto the top of one of the cars below to safety.
Many of the senior citizens and disabled residents of the apartment building had come down to the parking lot just to be there with these students who screamed and cried, totally in shock. Blankets were brought to keep them warm, but there was nothing else to do but watch the flames shooting out from the windows.
For the others, there simply had not been enough time. The firefighters rescued the one young man from the second floor, not knowing if he would live or die. The other two young men had died in this nightmare of smoke and flame.
All who had lived there were students at the Rochester Institute of Technology. The two who had died were fourth year students, very smart young men with their whole lives ahead of them. In a few short minutes, those dreams were ended.
"Those were my neighbors," I cried.
I sank down on the front lawn outside of my home, my arms around my dog, holding onto her for comfort. I wept and wept and wept. "Those were my neighbors. Those were my neighbors."
There was still smoke in the air, a burning stench that was inescapable. There was, also, another kind of smoke: a blanket of intense pain that had fallen over all of us, a dull sense of shock that filled the streets of our neighborhood.
In the quiet of an autumn night, two of our neighbors, wonderful young adults, were taken from life too soon. Two of our neighbors had died.
An uninvited guest had taken residence among us. A deep sadness had entered all of our lives in those early morning hours. Our neighborhood had been changed forever.
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