Goofing Around-5

It’s January, and my ed2go classes are brimming over with students, hence my absence from this arena.  But this is old news to me, a variation on the problem of, “How can I find time to write?”  Welcome to GA-5:  “Poem of the Day.”


The “Poem of the Day” idea helps you grab a moment and do some writing.  Because you use the word “poem,” you’re free to think small.  Because they are not intended as major works (feel free to write poorly!), you suddenly have permission to just write and see what comes out on any particular day. 


“Poem of the Day” will quickly become a file of dated, simply titled blurts that you will develop a fondness for.  You will surprise yourself.  Here is my “Poem of the Day.”  You’re on next!  And to quote MacArthur, “I shall return” as well.


012909:  Hello to my friends out there!


Yep.  I should be working.

(I’m not.  Ha ha ha!  I’m writing instead!)

It’s been killing me to just work,

even though I enjoy my job

and get to write all day long about what I love most.

But I miss my blog and my old friends.

GA-5 has been sitting heavy on my mind

until today

when I suddenly realized

I knew exactly how to share this new




54 responses to “Goofing Around-5

  1. Icey roads, skidding trucks,
    Wreckers abound, getting rich.
    Broken limbs,
    Of trees and of body.
    Bruised egos
    And bums.
    Slip and slide into work
    Cussing the stupid jerks.
    Who decide to clean the streets,
    Or not.
    But the coffee’s hot,
    the Secretary’s not.
    Time to check
    Who’s Goofing Around.

  2. How completely satisfying, Walk. Love the secretary. You’re good.

  3. My work day is done.
    Now I’m trying to squeeze
    all the things I love to do
    into the hours before
    I collapse.

    I’m often stressed cuz
    there’s much I want to do
    and so little time.

    I tell myself to relax
    to try to go easy
    through the day.
    And that works for a second or two
    then I’m squeezing again.
    Squeezing the most out of
    every minute that’s mine,
    mine alone.

    Always straining for
    that elusive thing
    just out of reach.

    I fear I’d fade away
    if not for the reaching.
    Reaching for something
    Reaching for answers to questions
    lurking in corners of my mind?
    Reaching for anything, just
    because I don’t have it yet?

    But, to reach is to try
    and to try is to sometimes

    I have to respect my reaching,
    If I’m to respect myself.

    (Ann, thanks for thinking of us, motivating us and mostly for being our friend).

  4. Dulcimer speaks
    in a voice redolent of Appalachia,
    of coal mines, music,
    too many children
    born to hard working people
    who have too little.

    “You don’t love me anymore.”
    It leans against the belly of Guitar
    in a corner
    of the bookcase near the stairs.
    Guitar is mute,
    has been for years.
    Now it’s covered with a mist of dust.

    Didgeridoo drones
    from the living room.
    “What about me?
    I’m lonely too.
    Was it only because I’m made
    of woolybutt eucalyptus
    that you brought me home
    from Australia?”

    “You have a new love,”
    accuses Dulcimer.
    “That computer,
    that’s your love now.”

    “Mea culpa, mea culpa.
    What you say is true.
    It’s writing that I love now.”

    “What about spending time
    with us,
    instead of playing
    Spider Solitaire?”

    “I play Spider Solitaire
    while I wait for my muse,
    not to waste time.”

    “We can help
    find your muse.
    When you play
    you are channeling
    your creative spirit.
    Perhaps that is where
    your muse takes a breather.
    Pick me up,
    lay me across your knees,
    let’s visit your soul.

    How can I refuse
    Such an offer?

  5. Morning ticking away
    In this creaking house
    Silent, silent. Silent.
    There are no verbs here.

    Only one small lamp burning
    Casting shadows
    Down the hall
    There are no verbs here.

    How did it come to this
    Where’s all the laughter
    Where’s all the tears
    There are no verbs here.

    The backpack hangs in the closet
    The tent stuffed in its bag
    Boots in the corner
    There are no verbs here.

    The trail book with all its maps
    Discovered on the shelf
    A whisper from the pages beckons me
    There’s verbs out here.

  6. Ode To Ann Linquist

    I often wonder where I’d be
    If I hadn’t stumbled upon thee.
    Would my words be many?
    Would my words be few?
    What would be my inspiration
    That would tickle my muse?

    What if I never met
    All these friends upon the Net?
    Where would I go
    To find so many friends and foes
    With one thing in common
    With each other?

    We started in the Beginning
    And all became Writers
    From that same Workshop
    Where we were given permission
    To write bad
    Where we met John and Martha
    And candy wrappers.

    We don’t know just how many
    Hundreds or Thousands, I’m sure plenty.
    That’s been transformed
    Through your work, your norm
    You are more than a teacher
    More like a guide through the mountains
    That lead us along the trail
    Of writing satisfaction.

  7. Wandering on
    the internet
    I found some friends
    hard to forget

    I’d better stop and say hello
    So they will know
    …so they will know


  8. Screams from
    adrenalized alarm clock.

    Hit snooze.

    Horizontal slashes
    of sunlight spilling
    through plantation shutters.

    Huddle in warm depths
    of down comforter.
    Drift off.

    More vehement shouting.

    Hit snooze.

    Pull covers over head.
    Snuggle downward,
    deeper into yawning
    bottomless mattress.
    Drift off.

    Sudden, frenzied, vehement threats.

    Toss off blankets.

    Bellyache, bleat
    beef and bitch
    while facing
    Old-Testament cold.

    Stumble into shower
    wishing alarm clocks
    could feel pain.

  9. All original and creative. I’m not at all surprised.

    KathyH, you made “lemons out of lemonade”. Who knew the last, evil, ugly, “no verbs” assignment could be woven into such a moving poem? Roses at your feet!

  10. I am humbled and overwhelmed by all your responses to GA-5.

  11. Poems of the Day. The title suggests that tomorrow or perhaps next Tuesday you may have more words waiting to come out. Feel free to share your treats with your friends. I’m warming my hands on these fires.

  12. just for today…

    I stared at the flashing cursor in
    this comment box.
    I sense it’s impatience with me
    Okay, okay,
    here I am.

    I just sat and stared
    for a while because–

    I’m weary today,
    dragged down.
    Starting on Jan. 21st,
    I took a stab at
    the online class–
    “Write Fiction Like a Pro”
    and unfortunately,
    it stabbed me back.
    I bleed,
    I’m down
    under the heavy load.

    story and plot,
    passion, theme, character, premise,
    Act 1, Act 2, Act 3,
    and on and on…
    they’re plotting
    against me.
    I swear
    I can barely breathe.

    I believe these are
    honorable words
    but they
    are killing
    me with their

    My joy comes
    from the freedom
    I feel when I write.

    I ask myself,
    what if I pull
    the knife from my gut
    and I walk away
    from these things
    that make me panic
    and feel bottled up.

    I can’t make
    my story idea
    stretch to contain
    all these demands.

    Structure is suffocating
    my ability to write.

    I read the lessons,
    one, two and three.
    my brain cringes,
    I feel confused
    my shoulders tighten
    and my gut jerks.

    Must I endure
    these demons
    to be a writer?

    I don’t know
    and so:

    Today I walk away
    from writing
    to find joy in reading
    someone else’s words,
    in the book,

    It’s another day.

  13. Hang in there Shaddy. Yes, I know it’s like having Ann’s Frightful Four sentences compounded and hurled at you twice a week, but there’s lots of good info in Steve’s structure class. Don’t hesitate to dump your non-conforming story and start another. I did that at lesson seven of the mystery writing class, and had a blast afterwards. In fact, I just might carry that story through to conclusion. One last word: that fiction class ain’t for sissies, and I know you aren’t a sissy, Triathalon Lady.

    Plus, a word of empathy. The biggest problem with what STeve is trying to teach is that there doesn’t seem to be an optimum sequence of lessons, and it feels like you must have a total view of the entire structure before you can comnplete one lesson. Does that make sense? In other words, when you’re doing one lesson, there’s something in five lessons ahead that you should have known. So, just print out the lessons, keep them in a binder, and struggle through. Then you can go back through at the end and everything will come together.


  14. Walk With Me Wilson

    Wilson wake up
    Yes, I know it’s early
    Come on, Wilson
    Walk with me Wilson.

    Wilson wake up
    Yes, I know it’s cold
    But we’ll warm up
    Walk with me Wilson.

    Yes, I know you’re old
    I ain’t no spring chicken myself
    We’ll start slow
    Walk with me Wilson.

    What? I’ve ignored you?
    Hey, that’s a two-way street, buddy
    I know our relationship is lukewarm but please
    Walk with me Wilson

    No Wilson, I don’t think we’re fair weather friends
    I’m sorry you think I’ve used you
    And then abandoned you, come on
    Walk with me Wilson.

    I realize the awkwardness, the grudge you hold
    But I also remember how we’ve clicked before
    Like two souls into one
    Walk with me Wilson

    Wake up Wilson
    Yes, I promise to stop using you
    As a clothes rack and a catch-all
    Walk with me Wilson.

    Wake up Wilson
    Yes, I promise to take down
    The “life’s a treadmill” sign
    Walk with me Wilson.

  15. Not long ago I told a friend that I’ve come to a place in my life where making a fool out of myself is a step up for me. Let me be the biggest fool out there. Well, the above “poem” declares me the winner. Now where’s my winners crown?! And yes, my treadmill is Wilson. I named him when I first got him. He’s named after Wilson in Tom Hank’s movie, “Castaway”.

    I am enjoying reading everyone’s poems. You all are top-notch poets.

    Shy: Thank you for your comments on my verb poem. Just like my muse to show up two weeks late, drop off the poem, and then take off again. The above poem is proof that I was on my on my own this morning! P.S. Why don’t you tell me who you are? I won’t tell. I promise….

  16. Oh, I clicked the Submit too soon.Guess I was in too big of a hurry to nosedive under the table! I wanted to say Hi to Maureen. I’m glad you’re here. Your poem is beautiful. In such few words, you scooped us all up and called us friend. Like it was the most important thing for you to make sure we knew that.

  17. Eternal Hope

    She crouches
    at the sliding glass door,
    glares at the offending snow
    with icy blue eyes,
    as if she can make it disappear
    by force of will alone.

    The snow interferes
    with her appointed rounds.
    She has places to go,
    voles to catch,
    sea birds to watch.

    The door is opened,
    snow falls on her paw.
    She retreats,
    licks off the cold snow.

    She checks
    every glass door,
    and there are many.
    Is the weather different
    At this one?

  18. Gully, I love this! I can just imagine her cat mind thinking
    One of my portals MUST lead to the warm sunshine place!
    If only I could find the blasted thing!

  19. Bravo, my friends,
    Amazing writing once again.

  20. As I reach for more,
    more writing skills,
    I grope as if
    in the darkness:

    For me,
    If there’s
    no pain,
    there’s no gain.

    I’m writing again,
    covered with bandaids
    to hush the bleeding.
    From inside rumbles
    “I can do it,
    I can do it”.

    Thank you, Gully,
    for your constant
    heads-up strength,
    your strong shoulder
    for leaning.
    You inspire,
    and always
    make me want
    to be

    The hook,
    the backstory,
    the trigger–
    they may draw
    more blood.
    I have today,
    tomorrow and
    Tuesday to
    present my case
    before Lesson 5
    drops its

    My finger will shake
    when I reach
    for the SUBMIT key
    but I’ll fight thru
    the self doubt
    that wants to
    paralyze me.

    I’m no sissy,
    and I can bear it.
    no pain,
    no gain.

  21. KathyH,

    I love “Walk with me Wilson.” It’s cute as the dickens and oh so cleverly creative.

    A fool you certainly aren’t!!

  22. Gully,

    I empathize with your
    ever optimistic feline friend.

    She will be rewarded
    one day.

  23. Kathy H, Front and center. Don’t you even think about nose-diving under the table. Walk with Wilson is awesome. You Rock (and walk, too!). You should submit that to a women’s fitness magazine. Really!

  24. We would walk through
    the valleys.
    We would walk through
    the hills.
    The breeze was
    our companion.
    We created it
    Just you and I.
    And then you left.

    I waited.

    You said you’d be back.
    Be patient you cooed
    Give me time.
    Time was all I had
    to give now.
    You knew that.
    We had secrets
    Just you and I.
    And then you left.

    I waited.

    Snowflakes danced and feuded.
    Blossoms exploded.
    Sunshine browned your skin.
    Leaves whirled and fell.

    I waited.

    All this time, I was
    hidden in the shadows
    Praying but
    you never came back.

    I’ll still wait.

    Love, Wilson

  25. Kathy: That was for you. I agree, send it somewhere. I don’t care where, just send it.

  26. Poem of the Day: I hit my head

    I hit my head on a door.
    By accident.
    I tripped on a white New Balance gym shoe
    and fell smack into the edge of the door, forehead first.
    Four stitches, two black eyes.
    Doesn’t really hurt much.

    Why do I record this?
    For memories sake?
    (picture if you will, me, reading this 20 years from now)
    Because I am an egomaniac?
    (fancy yourself a poet, do you?)
    Because I like to type?
    (fingers clicking on the keys—I’m fast; I’m good at this!)
    Because I like words?
    (so sue me. I like to write stuff)
    Because I have fantasies about meaning something
    (me AND the words)
    Because I imagine my stuff will be read after I’m dead
    (what a good writer Ann was. Too bad she’s dead.)

  27. Peanut Butter Sandwich

    Eating a sandwich
    Of peanut butter and bread
    Some lettuce fresh off the head.
    Crust is still on
    I don’t know why
    But I have this craving
    For some Boston Creme Pie.

    What I’m eating
    I know you don’t care.
    But I thought I would share
    Just a little of my typical day
    How boring it is I can’t always say.
    But now it’s lunch time and I’m happy
    That this poem ain’t too sappy.

  28. Ann, I hope your poem isn’t how this day has gone for you. If so, your week can only go up from here. :>) Here’s to your fast mending.

  29. Down all the days,
    wrote Christie Brown
    as he doggedly typed
    with his left toe,
    the only part of his body
    he could control.

    Down all the days,
    body flying,
    against forces

    Down all the days,
    rock and a hard place?
    So close,
    yet so far to go.
    Make mistakes,
    back up
    and try again.

    Down all the days,
    different colors,
    different places,
    in a strange place
    after all.

    Down all the days,
    covered in armor
    for protection.
    Listen to them jeer,
    listen to them cheer.

    Down all the days.
    Do your best,
    try again.
    Almost, almost, almost.

    Down all the days,
    Or, should it be
    downs all day?
    Makes no difference now.
    Pittsburg won.

  30. Interminable waiting,
    the talking heads,
    listening and waiting,
    waiting and listening,
    any minute now…

    On and on
    they jabber,
    they warn,
    any minute now…

    Big deal,
    what a deal,
    how to deal,
    just deal,
    any minute now…

    Any minute now…
    Eat breakfast.
    Any minute now…
    Eat breakfast.
    Any minute now…
    Ad nauseum.
    But, any minute now…

    Magma moving,
    shaking the earth,
    steam rising,
    any minute now…

    Will she?
    Will she not?
    Any minute now…

    Wear a mask,
    stay indoors,
    don’t breathe.
    Such a fuss,
    Any minute now…

    Don’t drive,
    don’t fly,
    or you might
    fall from the sky.
    Any minute now…

    Okay, Redoubt,
    make up your magma.
    It’s time to blow
    or get off the news.
    You’ve exceeded
    your fifteen minutes of fame.

  31. I think I’m in trouble. This poem of the day thing is addicting.

  32. For Walk and his peanut butter sandwich

    Off to work, lunch in hand,
    gray panels a daily prison.
    Work a drag, boredom reigns,
    look to lunch for diversion.

    Peanut butter on some bread,
    lettuce added for the crunch.
    Is there jelly or banana,
    or maybe mayonnaise?

    Salmonella, botulism,
    Intestinal paroxysm.

    Disregard the warnings strong,
    to return the products now,
    peanut butter’s not your friend,
    peanut butter’s toxic waste.

    Is it bad or is it good?
    Talking heads will let you know,
    click on their link and they will tell
    all the peanut no-nos.

    Salmonella, botulism,
    intestinal cataclysm.

  33. help me rhonda help help me…

  34. It *is* addicting, Gullie. Keep everything. Some drizzly April day you can weed out the dross and giggle over the gold. And gold there is!

  35. Please, don’t make me go.
    It’s cold out there,
    And blowing snow.
    Please, don’t make me go.

    You must, you must,
    You have to go.
    It’s your only chore,
    That, and opening the door
    For the cat.

    Please, don’t make me go.
    Even the cat
    Is hiding inside.
    Please, I don’t want to go.

    You must, you must,
    Check on the boat.
    Make sure the prop is up,
    The heat is on,
    bilge pump works,
    and the fan blows.

    It’s hard to see,
    The wind blows so.
    Please, I beg,
    Don’t make me go.

    Put on your coat,
    Your hat, your gloves,
    And boots with cleats
    upon your feet.

    Rats! I have to go.
    If I’m not back
    by March the first,
    You’ll find my body
    In the snow.

    Oh, for heaven’s sake,
    You’re making such a fuss.
    You used to play all day
    In weather worse than this.

    Frozen, stiff and cold,
    On my last mission
    To check the boat,
    while cat stayed warm.

    I see you’re back
    And on the same day.
    Now tell me true,
    Was that so bad?

    My cuffs are wet,
    my nose it runs.
    I’m out of breathe
    From hills so steep.
    You want the truth?
    I’ll tell you one:
    I notice you
    Stayed with the cat!

  36. Writing Soliloquy

    To write, or not to write: that is the question;
    Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
    The slings and arrows of outraged editors,
    And by writing, disgust them? To write: to sleep
    No more, and by writing to say we end
    The pressure words can bring to an over-filled mind
    That we are prone to, ‘tis a consummation
    Devoutly to be wish’d. To write, to sleep;
    To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
    For in that dream of sleep, what words may come
    When we had thought us rid of them?

  37. Beside me is
    a glass of wine,
    nearly empty,
    aw, shucks.
    It goes
    so quickly
    as if
    into thin air,
    but enough
    down my throat
    to release
    my shoulders
    and ease
    my mind
    of today.

    If I could
    I would pour
    each of you
    a glass and
    we’d make
    a toast to
    all that
    we enjoy
    at this

    to you,
    my friends.

  38. I Walk, butt waite
    A desirable fate
    I Walk, onward bound
    To delicious words found
    I Walk, wax all poetic
    But they turn out pathetic
    I Walk, try time after time
    But all I can do is rhyme
    I Walk, infected with cursory
    Writing poems for the nursery
    I Walk, rhyme time after time
    Maybe I should be a mime?

  39. Gully in the Cove
    Would be a sight to behold
    Can you rig up a web cam
    To show where you am?
    All us’em buddies of yours
    Would like to see Halibut’s shore.
    So on your next trip about
    Log on a give us a shout.
    We’ll watch you go to the dock
    On your appointed walk.
    I’m can’t stop this silly rhyming
    So I think I’ll go mountain climbing.

  40. cheers, Shaddy!

  41. I don’t have a house
    on the ocean
    No summer house
    by the sea
    I don’t have a house
    in the mountains
    No purple majesty for me
    So many things
    I had hoped for
    just never came to be
    I don’t own a house
    on the ocean
    I guess it wasn’t meant for me

    My house
    is smaller than I’d hoped for
    My house doesn’t have much
    of a view
    My children
    have to share a bedroom
    Good thing
    I only had two!

    But we have
    all the food we need
    My kids
    are safe and they’re warm
    Our house
    has fresh running water
    My children
    are protected from harm

    How could I ever ask for more?
    What else could I
    ever need?
    I might long for a house
    on the ocean
    but truly
    I have all I need

  42. Cool, Maureen. Absolutely thumbs up cool.

  43. Been doing some pondering
    Some thinking too
    I’ve come to the conclusion
    Maybe I think too much.

    I must stop thinking
    My brain will explode
    Give it a rest
    Try meditation but my brain protests

    I pace the floors
    I sing a song
    I drive around
    But it follows me.

    I’d scream if I thought it would help
    I’d run ten miles
    But I know it’d go with me
    I must find an escape.

    Working on a battle plan
    But I feel myself falling
    All I want is a peanut butter sandwich
    And a piece of Boston Cream Pie.

  44. P.S.
    Thank you all for your remarks about Wilson. I swear he’s been grinning a big goofy grin for three days now.

    Shy: your poem was so sweet. I loved the walking through the changes of seasons. Gave me a bittersweet feeling. Wilson has been my unsung hero. And now he has two poems written about him. He’s never going to stop grinning…I wonder if he can walk and grin at the same time?

  45. I awoke, at the insistance of a over-stretched bladder.
    I arise, feeling the warmth of a carpet floor.
    I walk, to the Room, yes, that Room.
    I squawk, forgotten cold tile floor.
    I slip, relief comes too soon.
    I mop.

    Forgive me but this came to me as I showered this morning, it gave me a chuckle so I had to share.

  46. Gave me a chuckle too, Walk. Thanks.

  47. Maureen,

    I love your poem. I’ve heard it said that “the richest man is he who needs the least.”

  48. Today I registered and
    thus committed myself
    to train for the
    Trek Triathalon in
    Pleasant Prairie,
    in July.

    So I must
    become serious again
    about swimming,
    biking and running.

    During these
    cold months,
    I will forfeit
    a relaxing lunch hour
    for a workout
    at the Y
    a mile from work.

    I’ll train hard
    to be ready
    for the day
    when the gun fires
    and thousands of us
    push ourselves to
    swim a half mile,
    bike 12 miles
    and run 3 miles.

    One by one
    we’ll cross
    the finish line
    to cheers.

    The crowd’s noise
    will be blurred by
    the din within
    each finisher–
    joyful emotions
    swirling around,
    pride and
    dancing and
    high fiving
    each other.

    I’ll hold
    that moment and
    treasure all
    I endured
    to earn it.

    I advance to
    the sixty to sixty five
    age group
    this year,
    one more
    good reason
    to keep

  49. Sorry, guys. I just couldn’t stand it! Here is the poem of a few days ago, with the revised ending. Thanks, Sharon, for your vote! Now I’ll do my best to get OVER it and come up with something new!


    I don’t have a house
    on the ocean
    No summer house
    by the sea
    I don’t have a house
    in the mountains
    No purple majesty for me
    So many things
    I had hoped for
    just never came to be
    I don’t own a house
    on the ocean
    I guess it wasn’t meant for me

    My house
    is smaller than I’d hoped for
    My house doesn’t have much
    of a view
    My children
    have to share a bedroom
    Good thing
    I only had two!

    But we have
    all the food we need
    My kids
    are safe and they’re warm
    Our house
    has fresh running water
    My children
    are protected from harm

    How could I ever ask for more?
    What else could I
    ever need?
    I might long for a house
    on the ocean
    But the view here
    is lovely indeed

  50. Yep. We’re all addicted. Perhaps we should have a 12-step program.

    On the other hand, who wants to stop? Not me. I love reading these.

    I once read an article long ago that posited the idea that the world is not made up of matter or energy but rather bits of information. With that model, I can imagine us tied together by minute particles of thought, linked in some real way by words that spin out from each of our centers.

  51. I was going through some old junk of mine and found this. The title is “Why I Don’t Write Poetry”.

    I walk,
    Leaving a trail of footprints.
    I seek,
    The road I can call my own.
    I find.
    Now will I follow?

    The heart,
    Will never fail to lead.
    The mind,
    Will never fail to comprehend.
    The soul,
    Will never fail to be fulfilled.

    If you let it.

  52. Walk, I think you must change the title of that poem to something less self-deprecating and more along the lines of giving yourself permission, or following your heart, or whatever. Nice work, but ditch the title.

  53. I’ve but a minute
    to come in and
    say hello.

    I’m bound from
    southern Wisconsin
    to Door County
    for a long
    winter weekend.

    You must think me
    crazy to choose
    to go further north
    than I already am
    in the middle
    of winter.

    A winter festival
    in Fish Creek
    will entertain us.
    On cross-country skis
    we’ll slide through
    Peninsula State Park
    and enjoy a
    candlelight ski.

    Cherry pie
    in front of
    the fireplace,
    under a blanket.

    Maybe I’m not
    so crazy after

    I’ll miss all of you,
    my “goofy” friends.

  54. My Mistress Is Calling

    The wind is blowing
    From the deep Southwest
    Running through my hair
    Chapping my lips

    The cows are bedded
    The beans all ate
    Another day on the Trail
    But I’ll be ridin’ till late

    I’ll whistle as I ride
    To calm the cattle down
    My nerves as well
    In this dark shadowy night

    Tomorrow we’ll hit Dodge
    The end of the ride
    Don’t care for the saloons
    Feel too boxed in inside

    I’ll pocket my pay
    And hit the trail
    The stars watching over me
    And my trusty Paint

    Two weeks I’ll be home
    Ma’s cooking, Pa’s corn squeezin’s
    Until I answer once again
    The call of my mistress

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