Posted by: David Weimer | March 25, 2010

A Story With No People (told by God)

by David W. Weimer

Some cultures chant in groups, “OM.” (It rhymes with ‘home.’)

Act I.
Luring me backward, The Andy Griffith Show theme song echoes in black and white whistling inside of my head, accompanying a kid walking down a summer lane with a fishing pole over his shoulder.
Act Am.
All the description in the world can’t convey this. When the period stops the flow of words it can’t hold in everything filling the box overflowing forever with sound. How do you write sound on a page? Each sentence is a box of words; the words stay in the box, or are changed and replaced, but the things the words try to describe—that’s the water flowing from eternal fountains with periods holding them apart from one another.

Act What.

I can sit here and swivel my head.  Just here in this chair, sitting.  What I hear.  What I can see…  I check smell.  I breathe deeply and can smell the air.  I taste the last of this tea which I don’t like.  What do I feel?  Belly pressure, a twitch in my neck, dry skin and an itching leg.  Just sitting here, it’s amazing.  It’s a whole world.  And then there’s that place over there, just ten feet away from me, on the couch.  And in the living room, the kitchen, the studio, the upstairs, the downstairs.  Man, it keeps going.  The rest of our property, the lawn, the front yard, the back deck.  I could sit right here, in every square foot of space, and swivel my head around, and pay attention to all this stuff and be blown away by all there is.  One time I rode a Greyhound Bus in Florida and was amazed by the endless reality flowing by my window in the five hours between Lake City and Kissimmee.

Act Now.

Effortlessnes…  What is effortless?  Anger.  Love.  Pity.  Nostalgia.  Regret.  Contentment.  Hunger.  Thirst.  Fatigue.  Joy.  Curiosity.  Sudden comprehension.  This.

Act When.

The best gift life can give me, in my opinion, is a pure quest—something to go after.  Something self-evident and worth it.  I’d prefer a quest, instead of having to react automatically to the bead-like chain of crises and challenges delivered regularly like the mail, dropped right at my feet.  The gift I’m talking about is one that at first seems as far off as that barely-starting breeze over there.  Not felt yet, but somehow noticed.  The far away trees sway a little.  Then it comes in close, like a gradual thaw.  The feeling of coolness on my heated cheeks and forehead in the summer, sweating or working in the sun.  Or a heat-sucking frigid wind blowing snow over a frozen pond.  Here, it tells me.  It’s always something I hadn’t considered before, that seems like it’s worth going after.  It’s a quest for understanding.  A goal.  I climbed that mountain.  I did it. All the while, I’m imagining.  Yes.  That’s what I want.

Act Nine.

Well.  And thank you.  When I don’t know what to say, I do it.  Thanks for the time I get each day, most days, to spend ten minutes staring into the air in front of me, letting go of control.  Depth, profoundness, wonder.  Thank you for that: the wonder.


Words.  The final frontier.  Before the brain and the mind somewhere inside there, are the sounds we make, we use, to describe our world, inside the head and out.  We don’t really describe with them; we scribe with them, waving them in the air up there, drawing pictures with them.  Words are the border between us and not us.  There’s nothing else out there.  There is vacuum and nothingness.  Words reside there, in that no-space, preserved in hard vacuum, never worn by gentle wind nor gale, never faded by water running off of them.  Words are changed and replaced, but they are never changed or altered by atmospheric whim.

The atmosphere, the living space that is, is inside of our heads; that’s where all we live.  Don’t take this as fact.  Don’t take this as something I’m trying to put across as fact.  This is just my opinion—my momentary commentary.  We all live in here, dome-dwellers, looking out from our skulls through orbs down at the world we’re orbiting and out at the world around us.  We’re mountain climbers on asteroids in pressure suits, who never experience the absence of air directly—that terrifying reality surrounding us, mere inches beyond our warm sweating skin.

What are words for?  For passing messages between inmates in adjoining cells.  We never see each other.  We never can.  We toss these words out, bounce them from an opposite wall and they angle into another’s cell, through the vacuum between us, and the other person, looking out through their portholes, sees words tumbling toward them and misinterprets everything.  It’s only natural.

Occasionally, words key in something in the other observer.  When they’re close enough to something felt, when they’re right enough to talk the same talk that’s inside of someone else’s head, then there’s a shared feeling of recognition.  The inmates breathe a sigh of bliss: someone understands me…  And all the rest of the time is spent trying to get out; but there’s no way out; there is only these words, pushed through a narrow slit beneath our steel-clad door.  We’re talking prisons within prisons.  Or maybe not; we’ll see.

We’re trapped inside of ourselves.  Words, streams of them, flow from our prisons, thousands-miles-long, by the minute.  If we ever did get out of our own heads, we’d be a naked, blind brain tumbling through the soulless vacuum of space, exploding and being fried by cosmic radiation while soundless solar winds blast and scour our defenseless gray matter.  We wouldn’t be “we” anymore.  We wouldn’t be anything; we’d be unplugged from our body and removed from our cocoon nest.  But we would be—in a single final second of awareness—contacting space directly.  Unfortunately, we’d also be blind and utterly unaware of our surroundings, as our brain can’t feel anything directly.  We’d explode and become vacuum, all of our separate awareness dissolving into nonexistence.  How can we possess a brain if we are a brain?…

Let’s talk about virtual reality.  Put on a helmet and gloves and maybe a motion-capture jumpsuit covered with green dots.  Interact inside of a world brought to us visually through our orbs.  Maybe this world is in 3-D.  Our brains will interpret what they see and we can play around like we’re inside of the game itself, instead of being separate from it.  This couldn’t be further from the truth.  That’s the inside-out version.  But leaving that aside, let’s talk numbers.  We’re inside of two video games, not one.  Three, actually, to be very honest.

They’re already walking around inside of one virtual meat suit, these humans, equipped with auditory pickups, tactile ability, visual apparatus and taste and smell capabilities.  They’re in a remote-controlled organic robot.  Their brain is sitting inside the enclosed driver’s seat of the thing.  They’re trapped inside of a dying animal—one of my favorite quotes—and trying to separate the two might become fatal (for one of us).

The second video game reality is that technological one; the poor first example composed of mankind’s technology fueled by his Lego-creation compulsion to build, create, improve, add to, reinvent and surpass.  It could be a helmet and motion capture gloves, or it can be our homes, heated and lighted, our cars, comfortable and fast, or our lives in an artificial climate with all of the comforts—a coffee machine, microwave, easy chair, television, computer, hot running water and a garage door opener.  Extend that to include garbage pick-up, cable service, postal and UPS deliveries, a security system and a hot tub.  Who’d want to be crouched under a bush in the dark at night? I agree. Still…

The third video game is the main game.  It’s the one we’re all plugged into every moment of our lives until when?  The end?  Or a crisis when the game freezes?  This game is the reflexive interpretive game called, erroneously, ourselves.  Feel free to disagree.  That would be you disagreeing that you exist, if you can see, looking back, from where I’m going to try to take you.

Well, this main game is what you play every day.  You look out there—and that includes your own thought products generally called memories, opinions, reactions, emotions and moods—you look out there, at the movements of people and objects in your detect-ability sphere (what you can see, hear, feel, taste, smell and think about) and there’s a feeling-response-form automatically, somewhere, inside of us.  You can think of these as pictures automatically forming on the curved inside walls of our skull-prisons.

And like the people in Plato’s cave, we watch those pictures and identify with the characters moving around there.  We identify so completely with them, these thoughts and opinions and judgments, that we take them for reality and are blind to anything else.  Reality is a mind construct.  Reality doesn’t exist because a description by definition is an explanation of something we perceive!  It’s always a thing apart from what we’re talking about.  We’re in a bubble, floating through soulless space, thinking everything is solid.

That’s nonsense!

You think this (still on the inside of your skull, not realizing where you stand in the big picture).

There are no eyes pointed inward!  I can’t see inside of my own head!  There’s no wall in there!  What the hell are you talking about?

And of course, you are correct.  You are blind and touching the smooth lining of your own internal sphere with sensitive fingers attuned to every texture, smoothness, temperature and contour.  Your internal reactions do appear simultaneously as you apprehend something “out there.”  Like goose bumps rising from your arm in response to something…  You feel the feeling-reactions to whatever you perceive.  Exactly!  You see them more directly than your eyes can see a vision outside of your bathysphere.  You can feel them inside of you.  And so you don’t think they are real.  You know they are real.  (We know things we’ve never examined, don’t we?) And your body emanates these ‘feelings,’ echoing them like a pond echoes the stone thrown into its water.

Water ripples outward in concentric rings, expanding steadily, rippling from a central strike point.  Your stomach feels like it dropped off of a cliff, your hands become clammy or sweaty, your face becomes hot, your hands tingle and you tremble as your heart pounds to an adrenaline beat.  These are reactions we all have, daily, and we think they are IT—reality.

We are perceiving reality directly…  Ho Ho Ho.  What about:  We are “feeling” what our body is doing.  Ha ha ha.  Ho ho ho.

Our fingers are on a fishing line and they feel a tentative tugging or a persistent pulling and we intuit/feel/imagine what this tugging and pulling means.  It means nothing, but we interpret what it means.  We take a part of something, and intuit the whole.  It’s our greatest skill.  We assume things and kill each other over our assumptions.

What we feel something means is the lens through which we view this thing.  The feeling-definition lens.  What we’re seeing—a neighbor crossing the street in their bathrobe at noon, a replayed memory of an altercation with a coworker, bully or peer, a love episode—each individual thing, is seen through its own specific lens.  We are lens-crafters.  We have one for everything that we ‘see.’  I question that we ever see what is really there.  I know we don’t.  To see ’what is really there’ would be God seeing what is really there.

We see-feel things profoundly.  We can’t perceive anything we don’t already feel.  By ‘perceive,’ I mean define to myself what something is.  It has to make sense to me.  I can’t perceive anything that I don’t already feel something about.  Perception is comprehension.  If I don’t have a definition for a percept—a thing in my environment noticed—I am as blind to it as someone without eyes.

We’re a shaman, each of us, having continual visions and lucid dreams and photo-realistic hallucinations—all of this while talking at each other (slipping those words out through the slot under that permanently locked door).

Animated bodies, controlled remotely, feeling like they’re really us because we’ve been in the driver’s seat, inside our own skull, for so long that we don’t feel the contours of the seat anymore and have forgotten that it exists; our asses have fallen asleep, in other words.

These bodies of ours have strutted, slinked or sauntered onto a theater stage, stopped on their “X,” faced the character opposite, half-turned to the audience and delivered lines loudly in Sotto voce, ‘interacting’ with the opposite actors while being 100 percent unaware of what they are actually facing.  These bodies of ours could be facing a rock wall.  They could be talking to a cardboard cut-out.  We talk to each other with all of the empathy that a person would feel while talking lines to a cardboard cut-out.  I guess by ‘we’ I mean me.

We’re acting to the walls inside of our prison—I want company, so I’m going to keep saying ‘we’—to the curved theater screen being projected upon.  Those curved walls, the inside of the surface of the sphere of our heads.  We’re inside here, not out there.  And these walls are mirrored, too.  We get to act, prance, strut, gesture—all the while, watching ourselves in the mirror, being disappointed, impressed or pleased with what we see.  This sounds narcissistic, doesn’t it?…

Narcissism refers to the personality trait of egotism, which includes the set of character traits concerned with self-image ego. The terms narcissism, narcissistic, and narcissist are often used as pejoratives, denoting vanityconceitegotism or simple selfishness. Applied to a social group, it is sometimes used to denote elitism or an indifference to the plight of others.

The name “narcissism” is derived from Greek mythologyNarcissus was a handsome Greek youth who rejected the desperate advances of the nymph Echo. As punishment, he was doomed to fall in love with his own reflection in a pool of water. Unable to consummate his love, Narcissus pined away and changed into the flower that bears his name, the narcissus.

That is from an online Wikipedia article, February 2010.

Some people say that our sole duty while we’re here on this planet is to open ourselves to a transcendent realization of the presence of God or Jesus or Allah in our lives.  In this way, we graduate from being a purely self-centered being and, for once, possibly care about the welfare of others as much or more than we care about ourselves.  Well, we care about forcing other people to feel the stuff we want them to feel “for their own good.”  What’s wrong with that?

Others, who may refer to themselves as secular humanists, atheists or just ‘ordinary’ people, say that our highest achievement possible in this life, on a personal basis, is the addition of empathy to our daily experience of living.  Without this quality, they say, we’re merely an intelligent animal.  Empathy, in their eyes, raises us to the pedestal of worship.  And by us, I mean me.  It’s a safe thing to worship, myself, because, for an iconoclast especially, it is the only valid object of veneration since it is centered at home.  An iconoclast sees literally nothing outside of the self as valid to venerate.  Talk about having trouble with authority figures!  I am the one who is feeling something related to what I imagine another person is feeling.

So, two extreme ends of the same line.  On one end, we’re supposed to throw away ourselves and worship another, (God) and on the other end, we’re supposed to destroy everything except ourselves and our own judgments.  Feeling the pain of others or dissolving yourself in the worship of something larger than yourself.  Maybe these are both pretty honorable things to strive for…

But what is this?—feeling what another person is feeling?  What are we talking about?  We’re talking about ourselves, because everything is our inner reaction to our environment.  This is all quibbling about ripples, as they move silently and resolutely away from us into the vacuum between ourselves.  There’s a BIG assumption that we all seem to make at some point in our lives: the assumption that there is another one out there.  Another person.  At least one, right? Something or someone else other than ourselves exists.  We haven’t proven that.

Of course there are others out there—to treat badly or well—there are six BILLION of them and counting.

You can’t believe some of the stuff I’m saying.  I must be crazy.

You don’t have proof, do you?  That others exist?  All you have is what you “see.”  And “seeing” with your senses is at least ten steps away from the first stone-drop of us.  And that stone drop is at least one big step away from something primary at the center of awareness.

We can’t be sure of anything that we can’t directly experience.  This isn’t mincing words, is it?  People are clouded by their grief of a loved one, for example; surely you’ve seen this.  We are moved to violence with an overwhelming urge for retribution and revenge towards those responsible for our loved one’s demise.  We are moved to violence when someone takes our ball on the playground, as a kid.  It’s only “natural.”

Sometimes we are paralyzed by despair or fear or depression.  At times we are giddy with unrealistic idealistic enthusiasm.  So do we, possibly, sanely, claim to see clearly what is really there?  What does “there” mean?  Do we even know a valid place to stand for viewing the interrelatedness called “reality”?  This matrix of the interconnectedness of every molecule of this apparent universe?  Everything is touching everything.  Again: We’d have to be God to ‘get it’ all.  We’re not God, are we?  What is our understanding of “God”?…  Well, more on that after a while.

The empathy-worshipers are at least a degree closer to heading in the right direction toward the truth of the matter.  I’ve heard them say: when we can finally feel empathy for another person, we can for the first time accept another as we accept ourselves.  That seems pretty accurate.

A non-French friend of mine told me, and I’ve never confirmed it, that the French say: to understand is to forgive.  This happens to be one of my fundamental truths.  I see its validity in my own reactions.  When I perceive another person as being the same as myself, the hating, condemning, mocking and dismissing them as anything other than right ceases.  They are right.  Just as I am right, in my eyes, even when I’m wrong.  I’m on my side, so, there’s always some sympathy there.  When I empathize with another person, their actions make sense and I accept them as being as valid as me.  Put yourself in someone else’s shoes and walk a mile in them.

This is true, isn’t it?  A black man hates a white man.  A white man hates a black man.  What is hate?  (Think about that one…)  You’ll never talk them into changing their minds, they’re pretty completely occupied with their internal skull puppet show, but when fate puts these two haters in a situation together, and it somehow dawns on them that the other guy is trying his best to survive and experiences fear, elation, perseverance and dismay just the same as oneself—then those two men will come away from that experience minus one thing.  The hate.  They might not even say it, but something inside will have loosened.  They will no longer be carrying the shield and weapons of ignorance perpetually fighting THE OTHER.

Ignorance is the state in which one lacks knowledge, is unaware of something or chooses to subjectively ignore information. This should not be confused with being unintelligent, as one’s level of intelligence and level of education or general awareness are not the same. The word “Ignorant” is an adjective describing a person in the state of being unaware. The term may be used specifically (e.g. “One can be an expert in math, and totally ignorant of history.”) or generally (e.g. “an ignorant person.”) — although the second use is used less as a descriptive and more as an imprecise personal insult.

Ignorance also means to ignore someone when they are talking to you.

Again, Wikipedia article, February 2010.

Understanding another person is conducive to accepting them.  One follows the other.

I once saw this phenomenon of rejecting or accepting the words, actions and ideas of others as being a direct parallel to our autoimmune system.  Our immune system scrutinizes every bit of material that makes it into our bloodstream, attacking and destroying anything it encounters that doesn’t have the correct ID of “Self.”  This is why transplanted (other) organs are at best tolerated grudgingly after an immune system has been suppressed—but it’s an apparently uneasy peace because there is no “understanding” [accepting] of the other yet.

Well, this autoimmune system metaphor would explain quite a bit about why we condemn and dismiss others as being valid beings.  Maybe our distrust of strangers is a ripple outward manifestation of the prime directive of all life: eat or be eaten; kill or be killed.  Our microscopic immune system kills other cells and viruses so that we may survive.  It’s not a difficult task to extend the logic of this behavior to our relations with others.  We group together in a tribe.  We band together to fight a common enemy threatening us.

Who cares—except this is biology 101 behavior stuff: understanding and reading the meat-suit manual.  Grasping the hows and guessing at the whys.  What about us, here in our heads?  What does it feel like to experience reality directly?  Why do I keep coming back to this?

This may seem to be the vaguest question ask-able, but I think it’s actually the most concrete thing addressable.  What else do we have, fundamentally, other than our awareness?  “I think, therefore I am,” Descartes said, defining himself.  So what can be more essential in our lives?  This sensation of observer.  If we retreat or retract our “looking” back to ourselves, into the very center of ourselves, wherever that is or whatever that could be, what happens?  Nothing! Someone immediately pipes in with certainty while staring, all the while, through the walls of his own cave with unblinking eyes (feeling with fingers his intimate unending flow of feelings about things…)

How can we find nothing when we look at the center of ourselves?  At home, you mean, there’s… nothing?  Then what are we?  Just a nothingness looking out?  Jeeze.

I think we are trapped inside of a sphere on a desert island.  When we stop observing the objects on the small circle of land—palm leaves, sand, birds or waves or shells, sticks and flotsam and jetsam and crabs washed up on shore—and retreat into ourselves, we feel… bored.  What?  I think that we do.  We’re so used to looking at the moving objects outside our windows; our whole attention is outward.  But even so, if we’re determined to get to the bottom of things, and we start digging a hole right in the middle of where we’re standing, what will we find?

If we decide to keep digging deeper and not stop, no matter what, until we find out what’s at the bottom of this place we’re standing on, will we get anywhere?  This is what the Buddha is supposed to have done by sitting under his Bodhi fig tree, determined not to stand up again until he got THE ANSWER to his fundamental questions.

This place is exactly where I’m arguing that we should go, if we want to know something once and for all.  For me, the answer is not “out there” in the arms of a lover or in the words or books of another.  The answer has to be somewhere inside of me, or accessible through me.  It has to be, because when I die, all the books I ever read will go away and I’ll be left with just what I am at that time.

So, all I can trust is what I become:  The experience of truth directly.  Back to that seeming impossibility.  That maddening necessity.  When you eat an orange you experience something directly.  When you read about eating it, that’s something else—a thing apart.  You have certain understandings and assumptions and speculations, but you have nothing fundamentally.  You only have ideas about what might be.  It’s the parallel of that brain feeling something directly.  It can’t.  A self-aware brain floating in a vacuum would be ‘experiencing’ its own reaction to exploding—never experiencing reality itself.  Unless…  Maybe in a sense it is experiencing reality itself.  It’s experiencing what it’s experiencing.  So even though it doesn’t know what the world outside looks like—that doesn’t matter—it is experiencing itself, it’s own reactions to exploding.  But even that more honest experiencing is still a step away from reality-as-it-is.    The only way to experience reality itself is to become reality.  The freezing and exploding brain would have to become space and vacuum to understand space and vacuum.  It would have to lose itself to experience something else directly.

True direct experiencing of reality must be the complete dilution of the minute particles making up that brain—the brain would have to be dissolved into space like sugar is dissolved into water.  That would be a direct experience of space.  But then, there wouldn’t be any more of that brain.  This is the dilemma, apparently.  To fully comprehend life, we have to fully become death.  This is impossible.  Throughout history, however, for thousands of years, people have been saying they’ve been there, done that.

Can we experience reality directly?  Can we become God?


God is most often conceived of as the supernatural creator and overseer of the universe.

(Wikipedia, February 2010)

My earlier ‘definition’ of God is direct experience of what is really there (in another person, in a tree, etc.).  An impossibility, as long as we perceive everything solely through our senses and our lenses of mental judgment-perception.

What about this:  Can we directly experience ourselves completely?  Yes.  If so, we can become God.  The Wikipedia article implies that people think God is the creator and overseer (observer) of the universe.  If we ever completely became one with ourselves—Just-what-we-are—we’d become one with creation.  We are a manifestation of creation.  We are creation!  You may believe in evolution, divine creation, advanced aliens seeding our planet with life, whatever—every one of these concepts is trying to portray a thing-which-is.  Even a dream is a picture of something (an underlying problem, curiosity; random firings of neurons; accidental combinations of memory strands, and so on and so on).

I walk inside of certain truisms.  One of them is:  The Universe is Contained in a Grain of Sand.  If you ever completely understood (by this I mean: became-one-with) a grain of sand, then you would have become one with EVERYTHING.  You will have tapped into a universal condition.  Everything is everything.  And knowing one thing is knowing all of the one-things out there (in the universe) or in there (in our minds).  Again, by ‘knowing’ I’m talking about eating that orange.  Like feeling empathy with another individual and discovering that he or she is the same as you.

In the end, you cannot accept external opinions on any matter as authoritative.  What about doctors?  Okay, sure; they have more knowledge than others about physiology…  I guess I’m talking here about head stuff, wisdom stuff, understanding-what-life-is-all-about stuff.  Tentatively accept some explanation as more reasonable than others, but don’t chain yourself to that accepted belief because you might later watch it sink below the surface of likelihood, dragging you down too…  But then again, maybe you want to die for a good cause or become a martyr.

Back to myself.  To become one with the creation-that-we-are is to become one with the aforementioned grain of sand.  To experience myself directly, without intermediary is to become God.  The same way that the sugar becomes the water that it is stirred into.  Not that the sugar made the water, or controls the water, or operates under any delusions of being all-powerful.  I’m just talking about knowing something by dissolving into it.  To become one with God, in this context, is to know something fundamental first hand.  Dust to dust and ashes to ashes—while still alive.

Wow.  Where does this story end?  With one more thing to tell:  I propose that there are NOT approximately six billion separate individuals out there, all with the unique characteristics born of their specific genetic inheritance and life circumstances, as unique and one-of-a-kind as the fingerprints are all said to be.  I propose, seriously, that there is only one God, ME.  I am all there is.  I am ALL.  No multiplicity.  I am me.  You also say, “I am me.”  So you are me.  You are, literally, physically, who you are.  And I am, literally, physically, who I am.  This is a singular thing; don’t you see…?  Who do you think has been talking here?  Some deluded individual?  Perhaps.  But there is only you, and I am you.

Alright—there’s only one “me.”  There’s only me.  Now what?

Finally, for your consideration, I propose this does not, nor cannot, end with ‘people,’ we higher-than-the (other)-animals “people.”

I have looked into the eyes of my horse, Lucky, while I was a boy.  We would ride through summer fields and stop and eat grass and the sweat would cool off and dry.  I have looked into the eyes of my cat, Grizelda, who felt I was her parent, mother and source.  I have seen a dying deer, steam hissing out of holes in its side, blood on its muzzle, laying, exhausted.  I have observed chickens, rabbits, dogs, geese, turkeys as I killed them.  Flies, beetles and spiders, too.  I was raised on a farm.  I have hunted.  I have lived a life where mousetraps are set, wasp spray is used and fly swatters are swung.  I see me there every time, when I consider the eyes of another.  When I look at them, I watch myself looking out at the world, and me, and my death.

So, this human empathy thing is the tip of an iceberg called All of creation.  Experiencing that iceberg = grain of sand directly is to comprehend = become it completely…  And although we didn’t create the universe…  Although there is likely nothing resembling our personal God…  Although we are a part of some whole that is larger than any comprehension… —If we can understand something completely inside of this picture, we can understand and become a piece of God.  We can directly experience God.  We would be God.

….a part of the body of God opens its eyes in surprise; a localized area of space suddenly becomes aware of itself for the first time and raises its head in a fetal cry, I am.

What happened if you stopped?  Stopped feeling along the inside walls of your skull-prison and just went home?

(c) 2010 David W. Weimer

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