Oliver walked back and forth in front of the door of his room, one hand clutching a sheet of paper while the other held a small collection of coins. The twelve year old’s body was tense, his breathing quick, and he only relaxed after one of his toys caught his gaze. The brief distraction allowed him to focus on something else, and he walked over to the small plastic action figure.
“I can’t do it,” Oliver whispered.
The aged visage of Spiderman sat silently on his mostly empty shelf, his face so worn by time that most of it had lost its color and was now white.
“But what about mom? She told me we don't have the money,” Oliver murmured, his grip tightening.
Spiderman said nothing, his empty gaze staring straight ahead as his arms remained raised, ready to web swing away at a moment’s notice.
“You’re right. That's why I got the money,” Oliver murmured, clutching the coins a little tighter. “I think I might be able to do it.”
The toy stood motionless.
“Thanks Spiderman,” Oliver exclaimed before turning back to the door.
With bold, confident steps, the child strode over to the exit to his sparsely furnished room, and gripped the handle. With a twist, it opened, and the boy started to walk down the hallway that led from his space, past the kitchen and into the living room. It wasn't actually that long of a walk, but to Oliver it felt like it took more time to walk it then his route to school.
The floor occasionally groaned beneath his feet, the aged trailer seemingly barely able to hold up even his miniscule weight. As he walked, Oliver caught a glimpse of the trailer park from a passing window, though he didn't look for long. It was too depressing a sight, though that could also be used to describe their home as well.
The fake wood paneling that adorned the walls had faded so badly in some sections that it was almost completely white. The ceiling occasionally sagged, the smell of rodents, and mildew was constant, though that wasn't the worst of it. The most unpleasant aspect of the home was the living room, or more specifically, the sole occupant therein.
The thirty year old woman sat in front of the newest object in the house, a shiny black laptop that Oliver had never been allowed to touch. The p.c’s user sat straight up in her office chair, her long, thin fingers tapping rapidly at the well maintained keyboard. She would occasionally stop to roll up the long red sleeves of her coat, or to smooth any creases that may have formed in her nearly ankle length white dress.
Throughout it all, her small, beady brown eyes never strayed from the screen or the words therein. Even her narrow shoulders were bent forward in concentration, and a line of small, almost imperceptible wrinkles pierced her makeup. Which was a monumental achievement, as despite having been home almost all day, the woman was dressed as though she was still at the office, and was gunning for a promotion.
This professional, no nonsense appearance clashed with her remarkable beauty, and thin, waspish physique. Though at one point she may have had the curves of a supermodel, and the face to match, a change in lifestyle had added a few pounds to all the wrong places. Her cheeks bulged ever so slightly, and her upper arms carried more fat then she would have liked, which was why they were always hidden.
Oliver gulped, and took another step forward. “Hello mom,” he greeted.
The typing stopped, and the woman turned towards the boy, her wrinkles fading rapidly as a smile crossed her face. “Oh hello there Oliver. What are you doing out of your room? Are you hungry?” she asked.
Oliver shook his head. “No. I wanted to give you this.”
He stuck out his hand, all but shoving the peice of paper into his mother’s grasp.
“Oh uh sure,” she muttered, uncurling the sheet of loose leaf. “This is… very nice. Is that me?”
Oliver nodded, and pointed to the woman in the drawing. “That's you, and that's all your money,” he explained.
“That certainly is quite the mountain of gold I have,” she murmured. “Though I noticed that both you and your father aren't around.”
“Oh uh. I didn't know how to draw us,” Oliver remarked, shoulder’s slumping. “Sorry.”
“No, that's quite alright. It's fitting, in a way,” she muttered to herself before placing the paper aside. “Now then. What is it you want?”
“N-nothing,” he stuttered. “I just wanted to give you that.”
“Sure you did. You’re just like your father. You only ever do nice things when you want something in return,” muttered the young woman, arms crossed over her chest.
“I…” Oliver gulped. “I wanted to ask you if it was okay if I had a birthday party and invited my friends from school.”
“You have friends?” she asked, incredulously.
“John, and Jacob Simmons,” Oliver whispered.
“You mean those poor children from down the street?” the woman shrugged. “Regardless, the answer is no.”
“Why not?” Oliver asked.
“Do you really have to ask?” she scoffed, rising from her chair. “How would we feed these friends of yours when we can barely feed ourselves?”
“Don't worry, I got that covered!” Oliver declared, raising his other hand up and opening it wide.
“What is…” a confused expression crossed the woman’s face. “How much is that?”
“Ten dollars and ninety three cents I got from picking up empties around the park. Enough for a medium pizza and a big bottle of mister pibb,” Oliver proudly explained.
The woman swiped the handful of change and deposited it into a pocket before sitting back down on her chair with a dull thump. Oliver’s victorious expression melted away the second he saw the flat, disapproving stare that his mother wore almost as often as her faded red blazer.
“You know your father would never agree to this,” she declared.
“It would be short. Only two hours. We wouldn't even have to leave my room. Except to eat pizza,” Oliver pressed.
“Your father needs all the quiet time he can get you know. He can't rebuild a directing career without ample space and time,” she explained.
“We could just play outside the whole time,” Oliver bargained, shifting from foot to foot. “We could even just go to the park down the street.”
“You’d need someone to look after you, and I can't stop running PR for your father for more than an hour before the work begins to back up,” she continued, a scowl crossing her face. “Not after that last harlot came out anyway. Damn her gold digging ass.”
“That's fine. I can just go to their house and give the money to their mom,” Oliver replied.
The woman sat quickly, staring passively over Oliver’s head. “I don't know. We’ll have to see what your father thinks of this entire thing. He was supposed to be home by now,” she remarked.
Oliver’s eyes went wide. “N-no that's okay. You don't have to do that. In fact, keep the money!”
“No. You wanted a party so bad you thought to bribe me, and now you have to follow through,” she retorted.
Oliver looked around, his gaze immediately latching onto the large window at the front of the trailer home. In it he saw the street that ran in front of their house, its dust and gravel untouched by the wheels of passing cars. The boy ran over and pressed his face against the glass, looking as far to the left as possible.
To where a large, black car with tinted windows drove slowly down the street, its wheels crunching silently. The sight made Oliver’s throat tighten, and his arms instinctively wrap around his sides. The boy could feel his breathing begin to quicken, and for a single panic filled moment he considered simply running as fast as he could.
Then a hand settled on his shoulder.
“Go wait by the door. I don't want you barricading your door again,” whispered his mother in a flat, monotone.
Oliver could only nod obediently, before walking robotically to the entrance of their home, gaze downcast.
There he stood as the heavy, expensive car rolled into their driveway, its door opening briefly before shutting a moment later. The soft footfalls of his father echoed through the entire house like a rhythmic gong in some macabre funeral march. When finally the door opened, Oliver half expected death himself to enter the home, yet the person that appeared shared only a passing resemblance with the reaper.
They both wore black, though his father had a tie, and an expertly tailored suit, rather than a tattered cloak. For a moment Oliver wished that it had been death that was standing before him, but he quickly dismissed that notion.
“What's this?” asked the man in a low tone, glancing expectantly at his wife.
“Oliver was hoping to ask you something,” she replied, her voice rising slightly higher than usual.
“It can wait until I’ve changed shoes,” he muttered.
Oliver remained silent throughout it all, merely watching as his large, and elderly father shucked off his shoes in order to don his battered loafers. Each movement the aged man made was slow and deliberate, his face contorting in pain every other second. Throughout it all the male’s jaw remained tight, keeping his several dangling chins from moving very far while he struggled to change.
Once done, he sighed, and looked down at his son with a flat, neutral expression. “What did you want?”
Oliver gulped. “I… wanted to celebrate my birthday?”
The man stared down at his son for several seconds before setting his briefcase on the floor. “Come on, follow me,” declared the adult.
“No, wait. I don't want to anymore. I take it back,” Oliver pleaded.
“Don't make this any worse on yourself,” replied the man, pointing to the room at the end of the hall. “Now march.”
“I…” Oliver gulped. “Yes father.”
The child trudged slowly down the hallway, his shoulders folded inwards, and his head hung low.
“You should learn to appreciate the things we have left. Your toys, a room, us. Those liars I used to work with tried to take it all away from you,” exclaimed the man in a low, almost kind tone. “One day we’ll be able to move back to the house on the hill and maybe even hire back that nanny you liked so much, but until then you have to stay out of the way.”
Oliver nodded, but dared not speak a word.
Together they walked into the small bedroom, with Oliver’s father closing the door shut firmly behind them. The child walked dutifully over to the window, while his parent put his phone down on a table, and clicked play. Some old rock song from the eighties spilled forth from the tiny speaker, filling the room with the whine of an electric guitar.
“This is for your own good son. Every time you distract me and your mother it adds another week to the time before we can get our house back,” exclaimed the man.
Oliver nodded dutifully, biting back the urge to tell his father that he cared nothing for the house, the toys, or all of the things he used to have.
“Now since you haven't put up a fuss I’m only going to give you a five, but if you bring this up again I’ll double it. Got it?” asked the man as he sat down at the small desk, nearly crushing the child sized chair under his weight.
Oliver nodded once more.
“Good, now lay your head down here,” Oliver’s father ordered, patting his lap.
The child did as he was told, and bent over, bracing himself for the first impact.
“Remember. This hurts me far more than it hurts you. Do better next time and this wont have to happen,” stated the man.
Oliver didn't believe him. Not one bit.
Oliver stood with his arms resting on the narrow lip of the window, his gaze lingering on the small backyard and beyond. The diminutive fenced area was empty save for the numerous weeds and collection of bushes growing off to one side. The only bright spot was a red ball Oliver had left next to the gate, though it was only partially visible due to the low light.
The day was over, and the moon had begun to rise, shrouding the world in darkness save for his small room. Only the lamp atop his desk offered any resistance against the encroaching gloom, its slim illumination barely allowing him to peer into the backyard.
The child grimaced as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pain still lancing up his backside. He tried his best to pretend like the unpleasant sensations werent happening, and focus merely on the tiny yard just beyond the window. Doing his best to ignore the sounds of music playing from the other room, and the constant babble of someone speaking on the phone.
“I wish someone would throw me a party,” he muttered to himself. “If only we had a bigger house, or more money.”
Oliver stood there, with his face pressed against the glass for what felt like hours, imagining the celebration he wished he was participating in. Then a curious flash of color caught his eye, and he looked up to find a strange splotch of pink at the edge of the small yard. Focusing on the spot, Oliver was startled to see what looked like a horse, half shrouded in greenery and looking in on him.
“What the heck is that,” Oliver murmured.
His gaze narrowed, and he peered intently at the strange creature. It was tall, able to peer into the trailer home and meet Oliver’s eye level even while the boy was standing. Not only that but it was frighteningly pink, and wore what looked like a cheap paper mask over its equine face.
A mask that had two upside U’s for eyes, two dashes for eyebrows, and a single triangular mouth. There were no obvious openings, or methods for the horse creature to see Oliver, yet the boy knew it was looking at him. While it silently appraised the boy, the creature’s body remained stiff and its poofy, cotton candy hair defied physics and stood straight up despite the fact that should be impossible.
Oliver gulped, and began to step away from the window, his gaze never leaving the strange equine creature. He didn't make it far before stepping on a pencil and nearly falling, catching himself on the edge of his desk. Immediately he scrambled back into a stand, half expecting the horse creature to be right on the other side of the window.
It wasn't there though, and in fact was completely gone, seemingly without a trace.
“What, where did it…” Oliver trailed off, his gaze latching onto a single solitary balloon tied to a branch near where the creature had been standing.
The teal decoration bobbed up and down, the cartoonish pink eye painted on it facing Oliver constantly. The sight was a strange one, though compared to the weirdly proportioned and bright pink horse creature, it was down right normal.
“I’m probably just hungry,” Oliver reasoned to himself, only to wince. “I shouldn't bother mom or dad though. I wouldn't want to distract them while they're working. I’m sure they’ll bring me supper before bed.”
With a sigh, the boy walked over to his desk, and flipped open his math textbook. He considered sitting down at the desk, but the mere thought of doing so made a twinge of pain shoot up his back.
“What do I do now,” Oliver muttered, only for another strange realization to strike him.
This time it wasn't some strange pink horse creature, but rather the quiet which had fallen over the trailer. It was never quiet after his father got home, there was always music, or the sound of someone talking animatedly into a phone, if not both at the same time. The walls were so thin that any conversation was heard throughout the home, and even the smallest movements were audible at a great distance.
Yet there was nothing, until a chipper female voice suddenly rang throughout the house, accompanied by what sounded like an entire live band.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Oliver. Happy birthday to you!” sang the voice.
Oliver’s jaw hung open, and he sprinted over to the door, only to stop a second before turning the handle. As he was left reeling from the memory of his father’s warning to not leave his room, Oliver noticed something odd slip under his door.
Looking down, the boy saw what looked like a card, one addressed to him in bright, bold pink letters.
“To Oliver. From, your friend,” Oliver murmured, picking up the slip of paper and flipping it open. “You are invited to a party celebrating your birthday. Where? In your living room! When? Right now! So come on down and join the party.”
Oliver stood there in confusion, his mind desperately grappling with the bizarre circumstances that had befallen him. First the weird horse creature, now an invitation to a party? Surely this was all some kind of weird joke, right?
Curious, Oliver turned the invitation over, to find that it was indeed handmade, and that there was one final message for him.
“P.S, your friends are all coming over so don't keep them waiting,” Oliver murmured. “This has to be a test or…”
The boy bit his lip, glancing from his bed to the door and back again before yanking it open and bracing himself for more strangeness. Though definitely odd, the hallway beyond wasn't that abnormal, at least in the grand scheme of things. It was still different though, as streamers, balloons, and other decorations covered the walls and dangled down from the ceiling.
“Woah,” Oliver muttered to himself.
Walking down the hall in a daze, Oliver felt as though he had entered a dream, and briefly wondered if he had fallen asleep. Awake or not, the boy was determined to continue on and find out what was going on.
His rapid footsteps faltered somewhat when he passed by his parent’s closed door, his nose detecting the unpleasant aroma of rotten eggs. Now recoiling in disgust, Oliver pinched his nostrils shut before grabbing the door handle and giving it a turn. Nothing happened and Oliver determined that it was locked, leaving the boy a little confused, though not overly surprised.
As he stood there, the smell triggered an instinctual fear in the boy that left him anxious and unsure of himself. That anxiety didn't last long, as it was wafted away by a new scent, one that was as familiar as it was sweet.
Oliver continued down the hall, sniffing the air and trying to figure out what exactly he had smelled. That question was answered the second he entered the kitchen area, and was greeted with a whole host of snacks. Chips, cookies, candy and more were piled high in brightly colored bowls and lined up next to a half dozen different bottles of unopened pop.
The sight was enough to make Oliver’s stomach rumble, and he nearly launched himself at the table like a ravenous animal. Again he was stopped by something abnormal, this time it was the sound of laughter, familiar laughter at that.
“Is that…” Oliver murmured, spinning towards the living room.
The boy all but sprinted around the cabinets and into the living room where he saw a group of people playing monopoly on the coffee table. They werent just anyone though, as Oliver knew each one by name and recognized their faces. There was John, and Jacob, the two latino kids he had met at his new school, but there was also Mallory, the nanny that used to take care of him.
Nearly everything about her was just as he remembered, including her hair which was the same semi tangled mass of curls that hung down to her shoulders. Everything about her was bright, from her dark skin, to her gold, hoop earrings and her sparkling white teeth. She even wore the same dark grey hoodie and faded blue jeans that she had on the last day they had ever spent together.
“Oh hello Olly,” she greeted, flashing the boy a wide smile. “You never told me you had such funny friends before.”
“And you never told us you had such a hot girlfriend,” teased John with a wide, toothy smile.
“Heh, he wishes,” Jacob remarked, the two brothers sharing a laugh.
“How are you here?” Oliver muttered.
“You invited us, remember?” John replied.
“Yeah you sent us those fancy letters with the girly pink writing in them,” Jacob added.
“Don't tease him. I thought the letters were great, and signing them as ‘your friend’ was a nice, mysterious touch,” Mallory the nany remarked.
“But I didn't do that,” Oliver murmured.
“Must have been your mom then,” John replied with a shrug. “Either way, who cares?”
“Yeah, this party is great. How did you let your parents throw it?” Jacob inquired.
“I didn't…” Oliver glumly answered.
“Hey now,” Mallory began, rising from her spot on the couch and touching Oliver on the shoulder. “Lets not sweat the small stuff eh? Why don't we go get some snacks and play something else?”
“Oh thank goodness. John was about to win again,” Jacob whined, the slightly overweight young boy hopping up from the ratty love seat.
“Whatever. I’ll beat you at any game we play,” John retorted.
Oliver wanted to stop them, and tell them about the smell he had detected on the way here, or about the weird horse creature he saw earlier. Yet he couldn't bring himself to. The words refused to reach his lips, and he just stood there in silence, struggling to utter a sound. Try as he might, the boy simply couldn't bring himself to speak about the strangeness of it all for fear that the illusion may shatter.
A dream, or some cruel joke, it didn't matter, Oliver was going to enjoy this.
“You alright there man?” asked Jacob, waving a hand in front of the other child’s face. “You kind of spaced out there for a second.”
“It's nothing,” Oliver quickly replied. “I was just thinking about what game I wanted to play.”
“Makes sense. You certainly got a lot of them,” John remarked.
Oliver blinked, and glanced over to where a small mountain of brand new games had been piled behind the couch. Not only did they run the gamut of board games, but Oliver could also see that several consoles were amidst the pile. Each one of which had its own suite of brand new titles to enjoy as well as dozens of different movies.
It was like Christmas, only somehow even better then the ones he had when his family lived in their mansion.
The boy walked over to the snack table in a daze, merely following the dark skinned woman as she filled up a colorful plate with food.
“Don't tell me you still need me to get it for you,” Mallory teased.
Oliver shook his head, and glanced up to where the ex nanny was looking down at him with an amused expression. “Oh uh no. Sorry,” Oliver murmured.
“Try to cheer up. It is your birthday party after all,” Mallory exclaimed.
“You better hurry, John looks likes gonna eat all the cookies,” Jacob remarked, earning him a punch in the shoulder from his brother.
“I am not,” he shot back.
Oliver chuckled as he piled a plate high with snacks before grabbing a cup of pop and returning to the couch. There he sat in silence, and though he was still grappling with the strangeness of it all, Oliver was beginning to relax. Soon his worries and cares were all but forgotten, leaving him with a wide smile, as well as a mouthful of the tastiest treats he had ever eaten.
Noone else seemed concerned by the strangeness of it all, and merely enjoyed the party like nothing odd had happened. Once the snacks had been consumed, they launched into a rousing game of risk at the birthday boy’s request. This was despite both John and Jacob complaining that the game was boring, and took too long.
In the end they were only half right, as Oliver seemed to roll exactly what he needed whenever he needed. Resulting in a short game, where the young boy took over nearly every country within a short amount of time. With risk now done, the small group were pouring over the options before them when the oven beeped loudly before popping open all on its own.
“What was that?” Mallory murmured, the woman rising from her seat.
“Wait!” Oliver interrupted, the boy leaping from his spot and grabbing his former nanny by the arm.
Mallory stopped, and knelt down in front of the child. “What is it Olly? Is something wrong?”
“I… just wanted to check first. Just in case,” Oliver murmured, avoiding the female’s perceptive gaze.
“Well alright. You let me know when I can come help you,” Mallory replied.
Oliver nodded hastily before quickly dashing around the corner, fully expecting to see his mother or father standing there with a disappointed expression on their face. Only to be a little confused when he found that the kitchen was empty, save for the powerful aroma of pizza. A glance into the oven revealed three delicious looking pies waiting for him, each another of his favorites.
“Alright. You can come in… I guess,” Oliver muttered.
Mallory peeked around the corner, a wide smile immediately springing to her face. “Well I’ll be Olly. I didn't know you could cook,” she exclaimed.
“They were… frozen,” Oliver replied, flashing his former nanny a wide smile.
“Those are the best looking frozen pizzas I’ve ever seen,” murmured Jacob, who had followed his brother into the kitchen.
“Stand back you three. I’ll take care of this while you find some plates,” Mallory declared.
Oliver did as he was asked, lining up with his friends next to the counter, the two other boys taking position behind him. In no time they had acquired several slices of food, and were sitting down in the living room once more. A movie was put on, and the small party began to consume their meal, no one having noticed that a brand new television had appeared in the living room while they had been distracted.
Time passed, more games were played, presents were opened, and laughs were had. Hours went by, yet the moon remained fixed in the same spot, its presence unnoticed by any of the party goers.
Finally, everything slowed down, and all four of them reclined in their seats, sharing a wide, collective smile.
“This is great and all, but I feel like it's missing something,” John remarked.
“Yeah. But what?” Jacob added.
Mallory smiled and turned to Oliver expectantly. “I think I know, and I’ll give you a hint. What is something sweet that every birthday party has?”
“A cake?” Oliver replied.
“Exactly,” declared the woman.
As if on cue, the door to the trailer opened, and an enormous birthday cake topped with a dozen candles emerged. Covered with multicolored icing, and styled to look like a pair of skyscrapers, the dessert had a tiny spiderman swinging between the two apartment buildings. It was then that Oliver realized that not only was it the most elaborate cake Oliver had ever seen, but it was also the largest he had laid eyes on.
His attention quickly shifted to the person, no, creature, that carried it however, distracting him before he could observe the many hidden details of the cake. Standing tall enough for her poofy pink mane to touch the ceiling, the equine wore the same strange party mask it had the last time Oliver had seen it. A glance towards his friends told the boy that they were unbothered by the entity’s presence, as they were still smiling expectantly.
Oliver sat patiently as an upbeat version of happy birthday played throughout the room, ending when the cake was deposited on the coffee table. A feat Oliver would have assumed was impossible given that it had hooves and not hands, but he did his best to ignore that fact. The second the cake was delivered, the horse creature clapped their forehooves excitedly, an action the rest of the group quickly mimicked.
“Aww man this is so cool,” John gushed. “I know you said your parents were loaded but this is crazy!”
“They used to be,” Oliver murmured, glancing from the now quiet horse creature, to Mallory.
Who smiled. “Well, are you going to make a wish or what?”
“Oh yeah, totally,” Oliver muttered, turning towards the cake and closing his eyes. Even though this is really weird. I wish this night would never end.
With that thought firmly in mind, the boy opened his eyes, and blew out the candles.
Bob trundled blearily up to the front door of the decrypt trailer, his gaze lingering on the expensive looking car sitting in the dark driveway. For a moment he considered reaching out and just touching it, only for a dull throb of bass to cause his hands to spring to the sides of his head. Keeping out the powerful electronic music assaulting his senses was a difficult challenge, especially this close to its source, but Bob tried anyway.
Grumbling curses he couldn't actually hear, Bob awkwardly thumped his elbow against the door while keeping his hands over his ears. Noticing that it barely made a sound, he wound up and gave it a firm kick in an effort to alert the owners to his presence. In a way that happened, as the door slowly opened, and allowed Bob to see within the confines of the home.
“Hello?!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth, only to immediately wince and place them over his ears once more.
There was little doubt in the man’s mind that no one had heard him, and worse still, the music continued unabated. Bob glanced back at his own trailer, and caught a glimpse of his expectant wife and son staring out the window at them. Nancy then pointed to the trailer Bob was standing in front of, a disappointed look on her face.
“Fuck it,” Bob muttered.
Stomping into the entrance, Bob looked around to find that he was alone, and had apparently interrupted a late night birthday party. Streamers hung from the ceiling, balloons hid in the corner of the room, and numerous goodies covered the kitchen table. The man briefly considered shouting again, before giving up and beginning his search for the source of the music.
Which ultimately led him to the living room, and the game console displaying the music it was playing over the speakers. Bob didn't even bother glancing at the screen before flipping the off switch and mercifully stopping the noise.
“I couldn't even hear myself think,” Bob muttered, looking about the room.
It was empty, like the rest of the house, though there were signs that someone had been there recently. A cup half filled with a now flat beverage rested next to a pink plastic plate absolutely filled with pizza crusts. A game of monopoly sat half completed in the center of the coffee table, right next to a mostly eaten cake.
The elderly, and overweight man shrugged his shoulders, and turned back the other direction.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” he yelled. “I just want to talk to you about the music. Oh and sorry for barging in I guess. The front door was open.”
When no response came, the man waddled towards the entrance, and after briefly considering leaving, decided to continue on.
“I’m going to check to see if everything is okay, alright?” he shouted.
Without the music it was deadly quiet, and Bob was certain he could hear a pin drop, yet still, no one responded to his call
“Hopefully they don't sue the shit out of me for this,” Bob murmured to himself before walking deeper into the house.
The first door led to the bathroom, which was predictably empty. Glancing further down the hallway revealed that the smaller of the two bedroom’s was visible, unlike the other.
“Hey uh Oliver is it? Are you in there?” Bob asked, suddenly feeling quite out of place.
Tentatively, the forty something plumber peeked into the boy’s room and found that it too was empty. Not just empty, but all sign of anyone having ever stayed there had been recently erased. There were no personal effects, no toys, and not even the bed had sheets on it.
“Huh. They must have given him up or something,” Bob remarked to himself before turning around.
He passed by the only closed door he had encountered, and was stopped dead in his tracks by an unpleasant aroma. One that he recognized from a job he had taken inside a home where someone had recently died. Rotten eggs, rust, and an oddly sweet tang made the man’s pulse immediately quicken.
“Are you alright in there?” he shouted, gripping the door handle tightly. “I’m going to force my way inside now!”
After counting down from three, Bob backed up, and tried to recall the time as a volunteer firefighter.
“Come on Bob, you can do this,” murmured the man.
After one last deep breath to stifle his nerves, Bob raised his foot and booted the door as hard as he could. The cheap wood shattered, sending the door, and more than a few splinters flying. The instant this happened Bob was assaulted by a tidal wave of rot that nearly knocked him from his feet.
His eyes watered, his nose scrunched up, and the male was forced to lift his ratty white shirt halfway up his face. This seemed to help, and as he clasped the fabric over his features his vision cleared enough to see inside. To where something so alien was waiting for him that for a moment the man couldn't even comprehend what he was looking at.
The closest comparison was a balloon dog, the kind which he had received during his seventh birthday, only far larger. Standing as tall as Bob, the mass was definitely not made from cheap plastic and air, but rather what appeared to be human flesh.
“Oh… oh god,” Bob muttered, falling back into the hallway, his eyes going wide.
Without uttering a word, the man turned and sprinted away, leaving the horrifying object far behind him. Though he had left it behind, that didn't mean the memory of it would ever leave him. For even as he ran, Bob couldn't help but think back to the bizarre sight.
Limbs had been twisted, contorted, and shattered before being bended and intertwined with one another. Bones had been visibly pushing against the inside of the flesh, having torn through whatever muscle was present. Yet despite the monumental violence necessary for such a task, there was no blood at all. Someone, or something had masterfully twisted the two human beings together, winding their bodies into a twisted amalgam.
Their arms made up the dog’s front paws, while its back limbs were constructed from what had likely been the couple’s legs. Its tail stood straight up, five toes sticking into the air and creating the nub at the end of the grotesque creation. The final part, its head, was perhaps the most horrifying part of all, for the flesh of the couple’s face had been contorted through some unknown means.
Whatever being had done that to his neighbors was evidently not from this world, as it had somehow molded the flesh of the two humans. Like clay beneath a potter’s touch, their features had been warped, and intertwined until their heads nearly merged together. That wasn't all though. Their ears had been stretched to the point that they were five times their normal size, and their noses were lengthened to resemble the snout of a dog.
The experience had evidently killed them, and yet the pair wore a conjoined smile on their face. Even in death their eyes remained wide open, their toothy maw revealing a mouth filled with too many teeth. All while they stood stock still in the center of the room, staring emptily towards the entrance, and into Bob’s soul.
As the plumber sprinted back to his home, screaming for his wife to call 911, the flesh animal remained still.
Until at long last the male’s scream died out, and the abomination twitched.
Author's Note
Written as a warmup fic which predictably ended up much longer then anticipated. Might be a series if it gets enough love or is requested by a patron.
Author's Note
These are semi canonical additions written by commenters which I enjoyed quite a bit. Reposted here with permission.
There might be another chapter in the future as well, so if you havent added this story to tracking then I'd encourage you to do so.
Addendum 1
General Info (added by SCPPinkamena)
SCP-62162
Object Class: Keter
Description:
SCP-62162 is mammalian entity in the shape of Equus Ferus Caballus, more commonly known as a pony. Attempts to capture the object have all but failed as of ________ and the entity is still at large. SCP-62162 fur color ranges from a dull muted pink, to a pasty bubbled gum pink, and it’s mane will also follow suit, being a darker shade of pink. Object wears a papier mache mask consisting of a simplistic design of a smiling face with blue and yellow alternating color. Object has shown minor moderately high reality warping capabilities, to the point of moving up to fifteen (15) persons. It can measure from 13cm to 5m in height depending on the situation it was called to and has shown inequine flexibility, such as the act of clapping and bending over backwards to preform backflips and cartwheels. SCP-62162 manifests itself when a child, typically under the age of 15, is found to being abused or neglected on the child’s birthday. In which case a “Party Animal” event will occur. Stage one is that the entity will observe for no where upwards of two (2) hours. In this time frame, it is believed to gather information about the child, such as friends and acquaintances, be they family friends or something related. Stage two is when the child and their friends/acquaintances meet in either the dinning room, living room, or a room big enough to contain all participants. At this point, the child now becomes SCP-62162-b, now having fully participated either part games or opened presents, most of the times both. Stage 3 is when someone mentions a cake, in which case a cake as large as the doorway itself with be wheeled in on a snack cart by SCP-62162-a itself. The “Party Animal” event is over when the child makes a wish and blows out the candles, after which, no trace of the child, the guests, or even a party will be found. The parents, or acting guardians, will almost always be in a semi-conscious state while being _________. In all cases, the parents or guardians are still alive in this state. On site personal are advised to terminate anyone found in this state.
Secure Containment Procedures:
As of today, SCP-62162 has evaded capture. In all known instances of a “Party Animal” Event, all planted agents have been either found mangled, stuffed, inflated with helium, strung up and beat, or in rare cases, found torn open, with small gifts and knick knacks found inside of them. The O-5 council has agreed that such an entity cannot be allowed to roam the world freely and has thus formed a team called Alpha 34, the “Party Crashers” to try an eliminate the entity, if at all possible.
ADDENDUM (added by Powerdrain)
As of September 26, 20xx a previously unknown behavioral pattern of SCP-62162-a has been discovered.
Agent Name Here, embedded in Hospital Name Here hospital, the Netherlands had a chance encounter with SCP-62162-a.
Agent Name Here, who was assigned to the quarantine wing on an unrelated SCP case, reported the sudden appearance of loud, out of place noise; music, singing, cheering, laughing, etc.
When agent Name Here moved to investigate, he discovered no other personnel could be found, despite round the clock care required at his post. Attempts to contact security also failed.
Further investigation by agent Name Here revealed the sounds heard came from within one of the sealed units currently occupied by a young boy by the name [REDACTED INFO], age seven, now referred to as SCP-62162-b.
SCP-62162-b was admitted to the hospital, and subsequently quarantined for Name Long Medical Here, two months prior. During this time, his condition gradually worsened, with prognosis for full recovery below ten percent.
SCP-62162-b had been bed ridden and near immobile for the better part of two weeks prior to the incident, requiring a respirator and had been unable to see either his family, or friends directly for most of his stay in the hospital.
As a later investigation uncovered, SCP-62162-b's birthday coincided with the day agent Name Here encountered SCP-62162-a.
Unable to find any personnel present, agent Name Here, after equipping the required protective environmental suit and following the mandatory decontamination procedure, entered the sealed unit to determine the source of the sounds.
What agent Name Here encountered was, in his words: "Strangely familiar."
The room, normally kept clean, with only the required medical equipment and patient's bed, was fully decorated with balloons, streamers and confetti.
All available cabinets and shelves were filled with various snacks, chips, pizza, cupcakes, etc. With an assortment of soft drinks available as well, replacing any and all medicine and medical instruments normally found there, while the target's respirator was replaced by a portable stereo from which the music was playing.
SCP-62162-b, bedridden and near immobile prior to SCP-62162-a, was found sitting on his bed, showing no signs of illness; laughing and eating a slice of pizza while watching a cartoon on a brand new, 4K television of unknown make and model hanging from a wall. The show depicting various equins of similar nature to SCP-62162-a.
Investigations into this cartoon have yielded no results, as no known media outlet claims ownership to this "pony show".
Found in the room with SCP-62162-b was SCP-62162-a who, until agent Name Here entered, sat beside the bed to keep SCP-62162-b company.
When agent Name Here stepped inside, however, something unusual happened.
Whereas previous encounters with SCP-62162-a between field agents trying to interrupt an event, or capture the anomaly have ended with injuries or death, agent Name Here's encounter with SCP-62162 was completely peaceful.
Agent Name Here stated that: "When I entered that room and saw SCP-62162, I wasn't scared. I wasn't confused, weirded out, or anything like it. When I saw it… her… I knew her. I've seen her before. When I was a kid."
It should be noted that agent Name Here was admitted to Pinkie Pie Can see You hospital at age nine for And She Is Coming For You!. During this time he was unable to see either his parents or friends, while his condition worsened.
Medical records indicated that, despite best efforts, he would not survive bar some miracle.
Agent Name Here continued to state: "I was, what? Nine, I think. Sick like nothing else I have ever had. Lying in some twilight state between life and death, not knowing up from down. But then, somehow, life returned to me, and I can see this weird, pink horse thing wearing a mask look down at me. And even with her face covered, I knew she was smiling. And when I sat up, not sure whether I should scream or hide, she gave me a cupcake…
I honestly thought I made the whole thing up, growing up. Some delusional fantasy of a sick kid who somehow managed to beat the odds. But when I entered that room, I knew her. And I know she knew me. Because the first thing she did when I locked eyes with her was smile behind that mask and give me a cupcake. After that… I found myself sitting behind my desk. I would have thought I had dreamt the whole thing if it wasn't for that same cupcake standing before me, along with a hand made card."
Both the cupcake and card were taken for study by foundation agents after agent Name Here reported his encounter with SCP-62162-a.
The cupcake was later determined to be just that, with no anomalous properties to be found.
The card, made of several different colors of paper, held the following message:
Glad to see you're well, but this party is not for you.
As of this incident, additional agents have been placed within hospitals around the world in case of future SCP-62162 events.
Additionally, after agents Name Here encounter with SCP-62162-a as a terminally ill child, and him encountering SCP-62162-a in the presence of a terminally ill child on both their birthdays had Foundation scientists examine all stored medical records detailing terminal ill children, after which a pattern was found. The fact he was the only one still present, whereas all other personnel had mysteriously vanished, is still being investigated. But his connection to SCP-62162-a as a child undoubtedly plays a major role in this.
It would seem that, beside SCP-62162-a's observed behavior when dealing with neglected and/or abused children who miss their birthday, SCP-62162-a also seeks out any and all children too sick to celebrate their birthday with family and friends.
But where a "Party Animal" event would result in the servere maiming and potential death of one or both parents and/or legal guardians, as well as the disappearance of SCP-62162-b after the "Party Animal" event comes to an end, during one of these hospital visits SCP-62162-b does not vanish once SCP-62162-a leaves, while SCP-62162's family is left alone.
ADDENDUM
After further investigation into the nature of SCP-62162-a's hospital visits, now referred to as a "Clini Clown" event, Foundation researchers have found no less than 631 confirmed SCP-62162 events in hospitals around the world in the last decade, but with signs indicating "Clini Clown" events have happened for at least a century, probably more. With the total of "visited" children numbering in the tens of thousands.
Additionally, 93% of these SCP-62162-b instances were diagnosed with incurable diseases, and were either unresponsive or comatose during a "Clini Clown" event.
After these events, 83,7% of these SCP-62162-b instances would miraculously recover, while the remaining 16,3% have been reported to die peacefully while smiling.
In all cases where a SCP-62162-b instance passed away, a cupcake of their favorite taste can be found on their grave no less than an hour after their funeral.
How SCP-62162-a knows when a SCP-62162-b instance has expired is as of yet unknown.
Author's Note
Written by Powerdrainer and posted here with permission, this addendum, like the last, is partially cannon to the main story. One thing it definitely is, is a great addition, and an excellent story. Make sure to send your compliments to them and remember to treat this as the second half to the other part already posted.
Addendum 2
~~As of the writing of the previous report, all agents are to be equipped with portable, low yield Scranton reality anchors in order to negate the effects of SCP-62162-a's reality altering effects~~
By 05-command, all attempts to interrupt and/or stop SCP-62162-a's "Clini Clown" events have been forbidden due to the dramatic increase of severe injury and death of Foundation agents, GOC agents, the death and disappearances of SCP-62162-b instances as well as increasing numbers of civilian witnesses.
All present Foundation personnel placed within hospitals worldwide have been recalled, except those stationed in relation to other ongoing SCP cases.
These remaining agents have been ordered to, under no circumstances, seek out or stop SCP-62162-a should they encounter a "Clini Clown" event.
No research is to be done in either containing, or neutralizing SCP-62162
Anyone found breaking one or more of these restrictions face either termination or demotion to D-class personnel, pending outcome of investigation into their actions.
Since the chance encounter with Scp-62162-a by agent Name Here on September 26, 20xx and the subsequent increase of Foundation personnel in hospitals world wide, there have been numerous "Clini Clown" events reported by on-site personnel.
However, unlike the case with agent Name Here, these events were only noticed after they had concluded.
As was reported by agent Name Here after his encounter with SCP-62162-a during an active "Cline Clown" event, all personnel had mysteriously vanished.
As has become clear over the course of numerous discoveries after an SCP-62162 event had happened, when a SCP-62162 event transpires, SCP-62162-a uses its reality altering abilities to prevent it from being noticed by outsiders by creating what is essentially a blind spot.
It is hypothesized that agent Name Here was included into this blind spot because of his history with SCP-62162-a.
Because of this, he was unable to find any personnel, just as any personnel present were unable to notice either him, or the sounds coming from SCP-62162-b's quarantine unit.
As the interaction between agent Name Here and SCP-62162-a has shown, this was most likely an accident as SCP-62162-a returned him to his desk moments after interaction.
This accidental inclusion of agent Name Here within this blind spot may indicate that, despite SCP-62162-a's ability to warp reality, it might not have full conscious control over this ability.
However, as a result of this blind spot, agents have not been able to detect a SCP-62162 event.
Doctor Elizabeth Tender, level 3 scientist working on terminated SCP-62162 victims kept in cold storage at site 29, discovered minute traces similar to SCP-And, SCP-She, SCP-IsA and SCP-ngry.
As a result of these findings, she has requested all agents to be equipped with portable, low yield Scranton reality anchors in order to negate the effect of SCP-62162-a's blind spot.
Request approved.
ADDENDUM
At 00-00-0000, 0500 hours, a "Clini Clown" event was detected in Fancy French Name, French.
Embedded personnel were able to negate SCP-62162-a's blind spot through the use of their reality anchors, allowing them to detect and respond to the event as it happened.
Agents Connor O'neill, Arthur Monet and Hidden Identity reported the active event, then moved in to investigate.
At 0517 hours, multiple reports of gunfire and explosions at Fancy French Name hospital were intercepted by Foundation agents monitoring emergency services.
Local MTF-team Omega 32, "The Musketeers" were sent in to secure and investigate the scene.
Equipped body cameras showed a rush of medical personnel and patients being evacuated as they arrived on site, with the hospital's fire alarm drowning out most noises.
Entering the hospital, nothing unusual was reported for nearly fifteen minutes as MTF Omega 32 swept the building. However, upon arriving at the quarantine wing, noticeable structural damage was observed, as well as a large, red smear on the floor.
Closer inspection revealed this to be blood.
The smear of blood started at the now destroyed remains of an airtight door leading into one of the closed units, occupied by You Really who was quarantined for Shouldn't Have Done that!
The quarantine unit was found to be near completely destroyed.
Opposite of the unit, MTF Omega found the shredded remains of agents Connor o'neill and Hidden Identity embedded into the wall; streamers and confetti spilling out of their wounds.
Neither the child who occupied the room, agent Arthur Monet or SCP-62162-a were found.
Mass administering of class A amnestics was enacted, and a cover story was put in place.
ADDENDUM
It would seem that the recent catastrophic outcome of Agents Connor O'neill, Arthur Monet and Hidden Identity's attempt to interrupt a "Clini Clown" event was not an isolated incident.
So far there have been five other events with similar outcomes since the use of the portable reality anchors, with massive structural destruction, and loss of life as a result.
All of these events have put a severe strain on Foundation resources, as the number of witnesses are becoming difficult to manage, and the risk of compromised secrecy has become a real concern.
To make matters worse, these destructive events have also pulled the attention of the Global Occult Coalition who has started their own investigation.
The only positive notion that can be made is the recovery of agent Really Angry, who was mortally wounded, but still alive.
Her recounting of events have revealed a worrying change in SCP-62162-a.
SCP-62162-a's mask, which has been reported to be made of paper-mache with a simplistic design of a smiling face, was said to morph into an angry frown upon noticing the agents. The anomalies mane, which had been described as a curly mess of hair defying gravity, was also reported to change. "Deflating" as it fell down, turning several shades darker while all curls straightened out.
It then procured a weapon, best described as a circus cannon, out of thin air which it used to fire both streamers and confetti with lethal force.
The firing of this weapon is also the cause of the explosions destroying most of the area.
In all events, SCP-62162-b was taken by SCP-62162-a once it left.
analyzing the data, and agent Just a Name testimony has shown that SCP-62162-a has an extremely negative response to our agents breaking through into her blind spot, causing it to react with lethal force.
The use of portable, low yield Scranton reality anchors has been suspended.
ADDENDUM
A worrying new development has been discovered by Doctor Connor when reading the full SCP-66162 report up to this point.
It seems that someone, or something has been altering sections of the files; specifically the redacted portions.
As these files are only accessible on select terminals, and proper authentication codes must be given before granted access, it has been determined no personnel has been responsible for the changes made to the files. A fact only reinforced by the context of the changes made.
As is known, any redacted information will be blacked out. However, through means as of yet unknown to us, hovering the cursor over these redacted segments removes the blacked out portions.
While any and all redacted info appears to be still removed from these files, some portions have been altered to leave, what appears to be, a message.
The alterations read as follows:
Pinkie Pie Can See You!
And She Is Coming For You!
It is unknown if these changes were made either by SCP-62162-a directly, or some other entity related to SCP-62162.
If it is the former, then the anomaly may have identified itself as this "Pinkie Pie". However, because the message is noticeably written in third person, the former seems more likely.
Either option is a worrying possibility, as this may entail there are more instances of SCP-62162-a, with one or more capable of breaching Foundation security without notice.
Foundation agents have been informed to be on the lookout for any possible sign of one or more SCP-62162-a instances, and report any findings immediately.
ADDENDUM
There have been more reports of interrupted "Clini Clown" events, and a breach of secrecy is nearly unavoidable unless drastic measures are taken.
However, the latest incidents resulting in severe damage, loss of life and startling number of witnesses due to interrupted "Clini Clown" events were not caused by Foundation personnel, but agents of the GOC; the latest of which happened in You Brought This Upon Yourselves, Hong Kong as a result of the GOC investigating and interrupting SCP-62162-a.
While the Foundation and the GOC are normally opposed to one another, the rampant increase of SCP-62162 disasters brought forth the decision, and subsequent approval by 05-command to share our knowledge in the hope to mitigate disaster, and prevent further losses of life.
And while the Foundation's core belief is to Secure, Contain and Protect, in this rare instance the Foundation and the GOC are both in agreement that SCP-62162 must be destroyed.
ADDENDUM
More alterations have been found within these case files, all of them becoming more and more angry and accusatory in tone, and the entity responsible obviously blames us, the Foundation, for what has happened.
Reports from liaison within the GOC have confirmed similar alterations within their files as well.
Additionally, while both the Foundation and the GOC have agreed upon a strategic withdrawal, both agencies' scientists are working to find either an effective containment method, or the means to neutralize SCP-62162 using previously acquired data from both completed and interrupted "Clini Clown" events, as well as any and all known "Party Animal" events.
ADDENDUM
Investigation into effectively containing or neutralizing SCP-62162 has been temporarily suspended after lead scientists This Is Your and Final Warning! of both the Foundation and the GOC reported a similar SCP-62162 related incident.
As is noted within the report detailing all known details regarding a "Party Animal" event, SCP-62162-a studies its target from a distance, often leaving behind a brightly colored balloon with a single, cartoonish eye printed upon its surface.
Both scientists reported within a similar time frame the sighting of a blood red balloon near their home. A cartoonish but angry eye printed upon its surface, and placed in such a manner it "stared" directly into their living rooms.
This is a worrying development, as this means SCP-62162-a has diverged even further from its normal routine, and appears to be seeking out those who are seeking ways to stop it.
As a precaution, security to all off-site Foundation and GOC workers, as well as their family has been increased.
ADDENDUM
Despite increased security to ensure the safety for off-site personnel, both scientists You Should Have Stopped and When You Had The Chance!, who previously reported the sightings of SCP-62162-a's balloons, were found dead in their homes.
Their bodies were found in typical SCP-62162 deformation. Though the recorded, deranged smiles found on previous instances located after a "Party Animal" events were replaced by over exaggerated grimaces.
Class A amnestics have been administered to all emergency response personnel on the scene, and all Foundation and GOC Personnel are now permanently housed on site for added protection and to ensure the safety of their families.
ADDENDUM
Despite numerous setbacks and deaths, methods into containing or, more preferably neutralizing SCP-62162 are still being researched.
Remote observation of hospitals, and updated records of all quarantined children since the first failed "Clini Clown" event has shown a troubling pattern.
In the weeks and months since the first intrusion within SCP-62162-a's blind spot, child mortality has gone up 71%, and nearly 97% of all children who do survive have shown lasting health issues.
Compared with records of past "Clini Clown" events, and the great number of patients who were given low chances of recovery, it has become clear that SCP-62162-a has a positive effect on these childrens their health; boosting it to a point where most, but not all are able to recover from their illness.
This boost, however, appears to only work if a "Clini Clown" event is completed in full, and without interruptions.
Due to the Foundation and the GOC's attempts to first interrupt, then look into ways to stop said events, SCP-62162-a has been unable to complete the criteria needed for its anomalous properties to take effect.
After careful review of all actions taken, it has become clear that, despite the intentions of the Foundation to save lives, we have invariably caused a dangerous yet relatively stable anomaly to become far more lethal than it was before our attempts to stop it.
As such, the 05-counsel has decided with unanimous vote to stop any and all attempts to either contain or neutralize SCP-62162 in the hope of placating the anomaly.
However, chances for this are low.
At the announcement for a full withdrawal, the GOC broke all contact and is actively trying to neutralize SCP-62162 on their own, despite the increasing loss of lives on their side.
Additionally, it would seem that the increase of child related deaths as a result of Foundation and GOC operations have had a distinct negative impact on SCP-62162-a's mental stability.
Numerous Foundation sites have reported seeing SCP-62162-a observing the area for no less than six hours.
Descriptions of its appearance have also shown a drastic change from the normal.
It's mane, normally "poofy" and curly, had been reported as flat and darker in color in an earlier report. However, witnesses have stated that SCP-62162-a's mane now looked like an unkempt mess, with numerous strands clumped together, some of them covering the left side of its face. The mask it wears is cracked, nearly split in half, with red smears running down the eyes. And its bright pink coat is matted in blood, dirt and grime.
At all sites SCP-62162 was sighted, numerous black balloons with a single red eye painted on them were found and security is set to the highest alert, with all MTF teams on standby for rapid insertion.
ADDENDUM
[Automated entry]
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[site 13 on site nuclear ẅ̷̹a̶̢̔r̵̻̎h̸̪̚ḛ̴͊a̴̔ͅd̶̰̔ ḓ̶̡̛͚̦͈̮̪̭̠̣͒̎̐̾͂̕̕ͅe̵̡̋̄͌͂̊̃̆͊͂̉̈́t̴͚̬̮̘̙̙̩͔̦̓͋͂͑̑́̓̃̚͝ŏ̶̘̝̦̥̠̹͑̍̊́̿̕͝ň̸̞͈͔̈́à̷̮̫͉͚͓͓͓̹̲͖̿̀͜t̸̝͎̓̅͛́̍̏̀̈̒͝͠e̷̖̬͉̰͇͙͖̩̯̯̊͂́͠d̴̡̧̯͈̯̩͈̘̖̳͊̈́̽.N̶̡͉̝̟̮̯̪͉͗͋͂͊́̐͘͠͝ǫ̵͖͚̭̫͈̅͋̏͜ ̷̧̲͇͍̯̻̘̈̇́͗̓̚͝ͅs̶̯̼̊͗́͑̂ự̸̐̾r̶̖͙͎̤̩͈͍̺͊͒̇͗̈́̈́̌͠͠v̸̡͚̖̭̝͖͍͗͗̎̊̈́́͘̕ͅí̴̝͉̰̮͈̳̱͈̈́̐̑͛͆̊͘͘͜v̴̯̹͓̱̘̾̈́͛͐͑̀͘͝ō̷͈̟̇r̵͚̳̬̰͙̹̻̾͘s̶̡͖͍̐̅̕
[site 67 on site n̵u̸c̷l̸e̶a̷r̷ ̵w̵̧̢̲͔͂̉̒ǎ̶̗͍͎̎͐͐͠ŗ̴͓̥̊͒͜h̶͎̭̝̺̳̐́͐͋͠e̵̲̍̆̿́̕a̸̩̱̽ḑ̵̨̦̬̈́̎ḋ̷̨̢̨͎̺͍̪̖͕̻̹̘̯͚̯̻͌́̂͊͠é̷̢̘̗̻͆̎̍̅͂͑t̴̢̙̮̠̭̭̳͕̱͍̼͍̫̟̘̫̗͙͓̯̉͂̓͒͐͐̏͒̇̎̎̌̕͝ǫ̵̡̧͖͈̦̮͈̦̭͚̤̤̦̮͐̒͆́́͑̌̀̽͑͛͗̃͊͑͌̋́̾̌̄͜ͅṋ̸̢̳͕̫͈͉̱̜̟̗̺̩̩͈̣̜̺̯͚͆̃̍̑̐̅̀͝a̴͓̻͓͈̬͈̹̼̣̟͔̰̔̈̔t̵̢͔̳͓̝̰̹̘͕̘̞̺̖͉̤̗̗͔́̾͐̑͊͗̐̍̀̀͑̔̂̾̊̎̑͘ͅé̶̢̫̤̲̪̺͉̟̟̦̘̦̯̅̐̾̌̆̃̊̆̈́͋͂̈́̿̄̋͊͝͝ḑ̸̢̛̮͍̈́̔͑̿́͌́̉̌̋̕͝. N̶̨͚̝̳̱̩̜͎̝̲̘͚̙̟̄͒͊̽͂͂̍̄͂͠͝ŏ̸͎̫̼̟̣͖̱̮̘̞͓̞̪̘́͒̿̑̍͋̑̈́̚ͅ ̷̨̡̯͖̯̟̠̙̭͖̌͋̿̃͛̅̓̓̕͘̕s̵̼̰͉̯͙̰̈́́́͐͐́̊̈̅̔̒ų̸̖͚̗̩̪̠͋́́̾͌̌̊̕͘ͅr̶̨̡͈̩͖̺̩͕̬͓̪͇̪̲̅̊͊̒̋̊͋̽̚͘͝v̷̰͖̪̭̂̾i̵̗̠̭͔̞͙̙̫̜̮͓͍̖̖̓̇̉̌̔̚͝͝v̶̢̮͚̾͝o̸̱̱̳̐̋̐͐̌͂̽̓̋̌̂̾̈́̈́̈́͋̚ŗ̸͍̺̝̬̎̎͘š̴̛̙̰͓̪̭̬͖̺͓͑̔́̐̀̀̌͌̾͑͛͛̅̿̚
[site 09 o̴̗̯͊̈̌͜n̵͍͜͝ ̴̖̑̿́s̸̮̅̑i̶̼̟͕̽͌t̶̡̺̀ê̷̗̥ n̵̤̤͍̂͆͒̾̆u̴̧͙̞͈̝̺͋̈́̉̈̚c̸̢̲̖̙̞̭̊l̸̺̭̼̻̝̄̒e̸̢̠̙̺̒̇͜͜á̴̗̺͉̅̂̊̈ŕ̵̛͍̖̏ ̸̗̜̦̱̐w̶̖͒̽́̈́̅̅̆̀͠͝͠a̴̻͛̃r̸̬̙̦̫̈̌̄̄̀̃͆͐̋͘͜ḩ̸̛̝̳̥͙̣̲̊̍͌̈́̀̇͐̋͌̏͜ͅe̵͖̙̹̻͎̬̰̦̤̊́͑͆̍́a̵̢̢̛̗̺͍̯͑͝ḑ̸́̿͊̿̕͠d̴̰̼̱͆̋̓̾̀͐̑̌̄͌̽̃̀̑͋̀̐̊͘͝͝͠͝ͅȩ̴̡͓̠̪̗̲̩̜͔̺̭̯̤͎͖͈̫͓̞̲̘͔̒̍͛͛̀̓̂̏̎̈́̕̕t̴̛̻̺̞̺͉̩͙̼̱͍̫̭͓̱͚̿̄̀̌̉̊̑̓͗̈́̄̒̓͌̃̌̚͘̕̕̕͝͝ͅo̶̡̧͉͉̘̻͈̹̟̙͚͍̩̳͕̬͚̜̩̝̥̦̪̺͗͛͋̇̆͂̐̌̑̄̑̐͛͐̅̔̚̚͝ͅn̵͕̪͈͒͗̈́͊̐̌̌́̑̃̆͗̓̄͗̔̔̅͂̅͑a̷̧̪̦̜̟͎͉̣͍̺͂̎͆̕t̶̡̧̛̛͓̪̱̬̳͈̪͔̭̱̝̟͙̀̇̈̎̽͂̾͋̃͐̑͌̅͐̂̄̑̂͘̕͝ę̵̧̜͙̞̰̫̩͖̫͔̙̯̳̯̺̻͚̞̦̒̇̋̐̓͛͗̍͌̉̐̓̾͋͘d̴̢͍̮̞̗̈̑̏̅̎͑́̒́́̃̉̃̂͂̈̎̅͋̈̈́̕̕̕͝͝ͅ. N̴̛̤͍͈̂͒͆̈́͆̅̌̾̇͂̍̚̕̕̕͠ỏ̷̠͎̞̅ ̷̧̞̬̠̼̝́̀̇͗̇̔̎̆͛̒̀́͊̆̕͜͝͝͝s̸͖̻̣̦̜̣̗̣͚͔͔͓̖̪̃̀ͅư̸͇̌̾̇͗̀̓̅̕r̷̢̧̧̛͓̯̼͎̠̠̖̓̄́́̍͜͜͠͝v̴̡̢̙̝̣̦͙̗̫̘̥͍̭̣̙̜͈̟̼̪̤̙̑i̸̛͎̬̔̇̃́̀̍̔́̌̃͒̒̿̈́̍̇̍̇̉̚͘͠v̸̛̫̦̻͖̩̹̲̺̮̞͔͎͔͉͍͈̮͓̲͉̏̔́̾̂͆̒ͅo̵͇͙̝͓̪̗̜͎̺̼̫̯͋̾̑͂̊́̅̽̒̓͋̌̊̽͐͗̈́͌̚ȓ̴̢̦̬̻͓͎͓̏̀͝s̸̨̛͙͇̬̮̙̟̥̻͌̏͊̔͗̈́͆̓́̊̍̕͘͝
[S̵̜̼̻̩̘̏̓̌̔͌̉̾̃͆̈́̏̈́̈͋ì̵̝̖͐̈̃̔̇́̅̽̍̀͗̓̒̒̚t̴͙̟͍̼̝̫͕̗̝͇̠̪̟͍̻͉̪̯̥̓̚͝e̸̯̖͔̗̭̞̤̫̩̖̭̤̜͙͇͇̖̜̮̼͋̀̂̇ ̶̡͚̮̻͙͎͚̼̼̥̻̠͊͋͜ͅ2̵̪͙͉̘͛̌̈́̑̔̌́͊͗̀̏̽́͠2̶̧̨̨̞̝̜̲̹̥̟̝̲̰̱̜̜̘̗̼̬̼̈̋̊͌͝͝ ǒ̸̙͔̹̹͂̾̉̓n̴̬̰͈̰͋̍̒̽̈́͂̓̐͊̒̃̚ ̵̢̩̬̩͕̝̰͖̜̜́̅͝ͅͅs̷̢̰̠̝̫͇̣̫͉̄͒́͝į̸̡͙̜̟̹̣̭̥̞̝̄̄͌̃̍̂͛̑͒̚̚͠t̵̰̻͎̽͛͆̾̓́̉̈̚̕e̴̡̦̼͍͙̩̗̪̫͓͕̱͓̍̾̌́̾͋̃̂̽ ṋ̴̛̦̘͍̬̹̬̣̱̣͍͔͓̘͙̮̮͋͑́̍̃̌̒̓͌̀̓͐̚͠ư̶̧̜̳̹̭̍̑͒͋̐͋͆͛̈̿̽̀͂̕̚͜͝c̴̜̲̲̪̜̭̑̈́̋͊͊̾̐̽̿̂͋̿̄͗̾̕͝ͅl̵̡̧̤̱̖̠̯̪̻͖̥̲̦̓͊̒̃̇͆̍̃̔̓̂̊̊̌̈́̚͠é̸͓̯̻͈̠̤̜̈̆́̽ă̷͈͕͉̜͎̹̩͓̜̯̭̱͛͌͐̽͊̓̈́͊͒̓̌̈́̕ͅr̵̡̫̮̭͕̝͓̲̞̺̘̤̒̄̋͒͛̈͒͘͜͜͝͝ ̷͓̞͆̋͝w̸̛̛̱͕̭͈͙̥̟͇̱̪̙̆̊̋͂͂̄̌̿͗̔͒̈́̈́̕a̸͎̣̺̠̞̭̝͈̠͌̒̄̎̽͑̕r̸̨̨̲̣̬͈̤̤̺̖̜͓͙̪̈́̓̃͑̋̿̑͒̃͒̂̿͌͝͝h̶̺̳͎̙͕̮͚͇̺͈͇̃͆͆̈͐͛̋̉̐͠ê̸͉̙̼̄̍̋͌̏̽̓̋͛̈́̃̽̂̋̅a̷̛͇̙͊̅̅̆̚͘͠ḑ̴̧̨̛̖̻̟̬̝͓̺̞͍͔̮̥͑͆͆̃̌̑̈́́̒̈͛̂̒͜͝͝ͅd̷̡̡̡̡̨̧̨͎͕̭̻̗̘̯̗͓͍͔̩̙̬̣̠͎̥̬̱̬͓̊̄͐͂͑̑̈̓̃̄́́͊̈̎̋́̀̓͊͊̑̚͘͘͝͝ͅę̷̡̨̣͖̣͓͓̯̥͉͖̱̗̻̠̩̤͙͕͍͕̥̟̟̻̜͗̒͂̓͂̂̆̏̃̇͒̉̆̆̾͑̄͒̀̆̊̒̎͆͛̔̊̕̚͜͝͝͝͝t̴̢̨̨̘̱̘͖͖̪͚̜̬̺̻̲̣͉̺̙͙̓̈́͑͑͐͘̕͝õ̷̡̨̡̬̙̭͚͂͒̌͂͜n̷̡̨̡̻̯̻̼̼̣͙͚̮͙̟̪̤̼̺͖̳̱̻̜̼̝̽̈́̍͐͂̀̋͒͒͒̃̏͑̐̄́̍̋̉͘͜ͅã̶̪͖̩͖̖̬̼̙̦̭͓̲̬͎̟̦͚̺͍̙̳͉̦̟̜͍̃̿́̈̀͋̒̓̎́̊̏̇̍͊̂͘͜͠ͅͅͅt̶̢̨̢̨̛̘̪̯̠̬͇̰̬̥̲̗͓̗̮̹̻̝͈̥̠̦͉̩̲̰̞̰̜̮̭̭̲͒̔̇̊̒̓̂̊̓̉̾̊̈́͗͌͜͝͝͝ͅę̴̡̨̛͚̠̩͓͈̘͉̰̠̖̯͕͇̤̜̠̠̞̖̦͎̈́͊͗́̽̔̄͐̇̎̾̓̌̈́̿̉̌̎͂͆̌̈̓͐̃̈́͌͐̊̂̀̈̈́̀̃̚͝ḑ̴̨̛͉̫͔͙̙̟̠̩̲͕̰̯̝̞͚͔̠͓͓͎̞̹̲̀̍̉͊̒͒̉̐̿̄͋̌̆̿̔̊͊̃̋̑͆̄̀̔͊͆͐̕͜ͅͅ. N̵̢̢̢̺̬̹͉̜̬̟̭̝̥̪̜̬̻̹͓̦̺̲̲͎͇͋͋́̾̐͒̉̒͌̇̒̂̇̋͋͌̚̚̕͘͜͝ͅo̵̡̲̟̹̼͆̓̉̑̈́͘͝ ̵̧̧̤̻̳̪͎̞̣̳̤̮̳͕͚̠͊̇̑͋͑͒̉̌̂͐̆̈́̚̕͜͜͝ś̸̛̛̯̮̼̪̠̘̲͎̊̈́͑͘̚͜ǘ̶̢̨̧̹͍͉̲̲͓̯͉̜̯͔̳̻͙̫͉̭̔͌͂̽͋̇̈́́̔̿̍̈̎̄̊̊̏̀̋͑͜͝r̴̨̧̧̢̡̢̗̦̪͙̲͍̜̠͋̔̋̾̾̒͆̆͂̈́̍͝͝v̷̢̛̪̬̩̺̭́͛͗̅͗̆̿̂̒̓̉́̅̆̿̚͘͝͠i̴̧̛̤̞̬͍̳͈̞̮̯͔̣̮̞͖͒͂͆͋͊͒͒̀̆̂̌͊̋͛̕̕̕͝͠ͅv̴̨̨̖͖̹̟̤̻̜͎̌̌̏̎̐́̿͒̊̉̿̈́̂̉̅͋̍́̓̒̐̚̕̚̚͜͠͝o̷̧̧͈̹̥͚̩̯̬̲̞͐̐͂̓́̃̎̾̅̂̍͂̓̈̏̾̀̕̚͘̚r̷͎̩̳͍̱̻͂̋̉͋͑̉̿̆̒̄͂͐͐͐̓̈͛̀̓͐͑́͑͌͊̈̀̀̓́s̷̨̛̛͕͎̝̍̎̏͋͒͒͂̀̒̂͐̓̏͆͑͘
[S̴̛̯͈͚̣̹̱̜͔̗͎̟͈̮͖̪̲̈́̓̊̕͝ͅî̵̛̪̘̭͈̗̺̥͇̈́͂͑̏͛̈́̈́͋͌̒̈́̆͋̃͐͝͝͝t̵̜͚̖̖͉̖̱͈̐͆͝e̵̢̡̧̧̧̡̛̹͍͈̼̰̳̟̱̼̹͖͑̽̈͌͒̍̾̀͂̎͌͛̇̀́̓̉͠ͅ ̶̧̨̻̱̭͖̮̗̦̹̫͇͖̭̰͌̏̈́ͅ1̴̨͕́̈́̂͐͒̒̑͆̏̀̎̈̒̀̈̒͐̒̆͑̕͘͝5̶̨̘̳̩̦͔̮͇͍͕̫̣̙̲̩̱̎͋̒̽́͗̐̋̈́́̿̈́̓̃̊͊͛͘͘͘̚͘͝ o̶̫̻̪̳̩̞͖͔̰̔̉̍͒̒̌̆͆̀̉ṉ̷̄̾̈́̈́̌͜͝͝ͅ ̸̧͈͔̦̦̜̗̹̘̥̭͚͖̜̘̥̠͈͚̼̦̼̣̘͎̖̂́͋̉̍̍̋̿̑͒̃̇͊̑͋̑̇̽̋̀͜͝͝͠͝ş̶̛̳͉͍̯̝̦͓̫̱̰̗̥̫̞͗͂̋̂̆̿̉͊̉̂̓̈̉͛̋̐͑͝͝ͅͅi̷̧̧͈̞͇͔̤͎̪̲͖̯̲̠̠̔͑̑͆̀̒̀̃̆̀̌̈́̑̇͐̎̅̾́͑́̋͒̏̋͊͜͠͠t̴̢̛͙̺̥͚̪̣͖̙̩̗͕̖̗̭̼̖͓͙̥͙̯͎̉̽͂͌̈́̏̆̇̂̾̕͜ę̴̥̻̘͕̞̤͔̖̺̮̣̮̘̥̠͕̱͔̰̼̮̼̥̀̽́͌͆̋͑͆̌̈́͘͠͝ͅ ṋ̷̡̢̙̯̲̲͉̦͎̹̲̞͍̲̦͔͖͙̩̣̫̯̖͈͒͌ͅͅư̶̢͉̩͚̬̼͙̘̗̫̫̥̈́̍̾͜͜͜͝͝c̸̨̡̬̗̥͕͉̰͚̲̹̞̟̺͚̼̬̹̟̖̦͖̱̬̬̔͂͗̏͗͐̃͘͜͜ͅľ̸̢̞͙͓̬̭̳̠͙͕͙͔͇̅͊͒̃͗̍͑̾̏̃͂̽ë̶̫̯́͗̍̑̓́̌̍͘͠ą̴̖̯͎̖̭̼͔͕͛̋̔́̑͒̐̅̍͜͜͝ͅr̴̡̝̠̜͍̙̬̺̠̞̹̰̮̣͉͉̟̈́ ̷̡̢̖̜̝̦̝͕̺̣̲̭̯̝̦̥̼̘̱̞̩͓̇͐̂̓̍͐̓͐̔̌̋͑̑͌̄̓̾̕̚͜͜ͅͅw̷̨̨̨̢̢̢̩̫͍̥͈͓͔̥̱̥̲̝̘͉̘̗͇̟̞͚̳͗̇̐̑̓̇̓̏͗̉̈́̓͐̽̆̏̅̃̅̿̐͗͛̚̕̚͜͝a̴̢̦̖͕̮͔͔̣̤̠̳͙̭͔̗̜̲̭̿͊̓̉͛̿̀͑̈́̋͋̓̑̿̒̋̎̈́̏̄̕͘̚͘͝ŕ̸̢̫̮̦͙͉̠͚͈̳͚̜̀̃͊͑̓̾̈̌̌́̈͐̆͛̃͘̚͝h̸̡̨͇̤͉͚̹̺͉̥̉͋͛̈́͆̾̽́͑̏̾̌́̆̎̿͠ͅͅe̶̡̛̤̺̻̮̣̒̑̌̔͂̏̐̐͊͆̽̊̄́͊̈́̿͊̇̆̚̕͝ȃ̴͓͉̜̆͗͒͊̇̍͑͗d̴̡̡̛̛̛̜̳̳̯̺̫̼̲̱̞̪̮͓̟͕̯̊͂̂̅̾̾̇́̀̐͆̅͐͒̾͂͗̚̚̕͜͝ͅd̸̨̲̠̗͔̮̠͔̤͇̗͍̪̈̈́̈̈́̀̃̓̌͌̏͒̃͐̑͘͜ę̴̧̲͉͙͓̻̠̥̦̣̈́́̈́̏͛̉̓̄̽͆̉̆͒̈́̍͋́̈̃͗̃̕͜͜͠ţ̶̡̨̨̡̢͓͈̺̣̜̦̤͖̥͚̩͉̻͖͔̜͔̣̦̗̮̦̪̪̺͖͈͇͔͚͍̮͂͂̒̒̑̓̑̄̆͑́̑̓̉̉͛͊́͆̄̉̉̈́̐͆͒̚ǫ̶͓͇̳̠̀̒̓̎̉̾̄̂̋́́́͒̅̂̅̍͋̍̃̿͒̅̈́͌͊̓̌̈͒͂̚͘̚͜͠n̴̢̛̛͎̫̱͈͔̖̜̳̪̱̐̔̃͐̔̿͊̓̉͗̎̽͊̈́̒̀̄̾̑̊͆̅̚̕͘͝ạ̴̧̨̡̖̗̪̹̺̘͓̼̫̘̪̻̼̳̰̳̟̘̳̪̠͎̥͍̘̺͇̼̍̐̄̔́͝ͅt̶̢͇̪̖̣̳͚̗̟̩̹͆̅͒̑͝ȇ̸̡̡̧̛̛̩̱̖̗̦̤͓̯͐̋͊͗͂̇͊͜͠͝d̷̨̛̛̖̝̳̜̙̥̯̫̻͔̘̈́̿̄̐̐̆̎̌̿͆͂́̎̊̾̓̆̈́̈́͋̃̈́̈́̇̍̓͆̒̆͂̀̔͝͠. N̴̡̧̞̰̖̗͕̜̠͙̠̙͔̹͕̮̼̫͎̦̦͂̾̌͆͒̄̄̈̈́̍̋͊̓̓̚̕͜͝ͅͅͅͅơ̶̢̨͚̹͓̟̣̼̲̤̲̲̙͉͚̤̗̳͗̈́̾̆͂̂̉͒̈́ ̴̢̡̧̲͙̤͍̥̰̘̗̱̰̦̙̞͖̬͈͍̊̇͆̎̀͛͋̌̌̔͂̓͆̔̒̈́͊͑͛̉̇͝s̷̢̡̧̺̹̜̭̞͚͖̯̗̻͇̩̠̣͓̬͈̮̠͎͓̫͕͍̀͋̽̓̂̔̄̃̄̈́̎̃̋͌̿͂̆́̽̈́̋̀̑͠͝͝ͅͅͅȗ̵̧̹͚͎̳͉̳͔̙͎̻̞͕̥̭̰̜̹̇̈̿̇̋̐͜͜͝͝r̵̢̨̢͙̙̝͕͈̳̫̦̰̺̟̱͈̳̜͓͇̯̯̖̘͑͒̈̊͒̕͜͝v̴̨̧̧̛͔̘̤͍͕̣͕̮͉̠̘̤̞̤̣͚̪̰̫̻̦̺̠̞͗̐̐̀̈̃̓̽͂̈̎͗̄́̑̉͆̾̓̂̉̽͆̌̕͘͘͠ǐ̵̡̨̧̛̛̪̮͙̭͍̮̣̖͖̤͍͚̭̬͍̥͍̝̹̙̤̝͓̓̀͐̐͑͗́͛̿̄́͘̕̚͜͠͝ͅͅv̵̛̩͔̲̭̜͓̮͖̮̠̪͕̳̯̤͕͙̫̻͚̙͚̗̟̠͇̮̳̙̟͙͐̒̓̍̋̀̊͂́͗̓̃̔͂̈́̾̑̃͛͒̆͆̃̂̚͠͝͝ͅọ̷̡̨̧̥̣̻̹̟͎̻̣͊̈́̓̿̓͂́̌̈͗̍̊̔̓̍́͗͆́̽̄̊̎͂̃̍̕͝͝͝͠͝ͅr̷̡̢̲̬̣̜͎̪̰̬͎̭̩̝̳̝̙̤͖̫͛̿̏́ͅs̷̡̢̡̢̢͓̭͔̭͕͍̟͈͖̘͔͚͓̲͇̘͙͚̲͚͔̟̠͖̫̐̒̿́͒̃̆̽̃͐̉̈́̇̇̽̎̃̀̓̕͘͠͝͝ͅͅ
[S̷̡͓͎͚͉̺͖̼̺͔̲̼͍̝͔͒͑̈́͗ͅͅí̸̢̢͇̻̮̻̹̱̯̗͖̞͎̹̗̦͛͋̃̇͋̉̈́͘͜ţ̵̛̘̻̙̠͍̠͚̼̭̙̻̦͍̲̞̝̠̝̱͒͊͑̍̈̌͊͋̄̈̓̋͝ę̶̤̘̼̖̙͉̲̠̼͚̪̐̉͋͊̒͜ ̴̡̢̨̧̛̛̤̹̬̻͖̲͙̣͖̠͖̘͔̹͍͑̔́̍̆͑͆̿̃̓͑̃̉̆̋̊͊͂̇̎͘͘͝9̴̧̧̨͓̹̘̫̤̪̜̝̼̖̺̘̣̟͎̰͖̣̥̠̥̀̆̌͑̌͂͋̉͒̂͐̎̔̽̀͝ͅ0̵̨̡͕̣̝̼̤̪̰̿̈́̽̋ͅ ơ̷̛̛͔͈̎̄̅̓͛̆͂̈́̑̍̾͆̔̈͐̃́̆̌͝͝n̵̨͈̰̱͍̦̘̠̮̹͎̺̻̹̔͗̇͌ ̵̢̛̬̜̺͕̯̹͗̈́̃̎̓̋̉̇̎͛̓̈́̔͐s̴̡̥̝̝͎̭̫̰͔̘̺̯̥̗̞̈́̑̍̀̇́͒̾̏͌́͋̾̾̔͋̕i̶̧̨̨̢̞̲̭̦͍̮͔̳̲̫͇̲͓̤̗̠͍̞͕͚̭̣̬͇̥̟͕͇̥̥̩̣͈̰͎͍͆̿͑͛̀̒̎̔̒̓͗̌̊̓̏̍̏̌͂͑̅̌͒̂́̅̄̓̊̍͒̈́̎̏̓̎̽̆͂̚̚͜͝ͅͅͅţ̶̧̩͔̜̦͖͇̱͔͈̟̳̠̻̭̩͓̱̂̀̌̈͑̀̀͋̽̉̆̐͒̽̒̾̈̎̕̚̚̕͜ẻ̸̡̲̫̮͎͆͂͌̀̐̌̔̍̂͂̈́̿͋̈́́̿̈́̓̈͘͠͝͠ ņ̵̨̢̰̤̣̞̙̖̰̻̣̼̹̥̗̹̫̤͖̳̙̪̐̽̍̀̆̋̌̓͂̒̇͑̕͜ͅu̵̢̢͉͇̬̗̲̝̘̺͈̥̙͇̯̝̻̰̪̹̠̟̻͉̒̏̄̉͌̂̄̄̈́̽͌́̿͘͝c̷̨͕͙̠͕͉̦̞̎̌͑͑͐̀͗͐͋́̽͐̇̚͘͜͝ͅl̸̡̨̩̙̪̬̻̮̻̳̙͓̺̤̩̭͓̹͓̖̰̻̪̞̳̼̣͓̩̽̀̈́̎͛̏̈͊̾̃͌̃́̓̅͘͜͝ḙ̸̢̡̖̑̊̊̾͊̐̊̆̒͗̅͛̀̈͐̚̚͝ͅa̸̧̨̛̯̬̲͈̪̺͓̫͍̠̳̥̳̥͈̝̰͚̹̯̣̱̝̮̜͖̜͓̝̬͒͌͆͜ř̵̠̺̥͐͛̎̇̏̂̿̅͗̏̅̕͝͝ ̵̡̨̫͎̣̝̦̳̹̩͚̃̉̃̆̚̕͝w̷̦̹͎͖̫̩̠̞̳͉̝̰̙̺͊̐̃̋́̈́̅́̉̐̑̽̇͑̓̊̀̆͑̚̚̕̕͝͝͝ȁ̸̢̲͕̜͖̗̱͍̱̞̙̟̜̹̝̪̘̘͎͓̖̇͛̔͂̽̆̅̐̌͘͜͠ͅȓ̵̨̢̨̧̧̨̟̞͉̲͖̯̥̩̙̦̱͉̤̩̙͉̞̤̩̗͕̳̱͍͙̱̹͙̙̰̜̰̖̼̺̝̩͖̭̭h̵̛̼̜̫͎̩͙͙̽͛̈̃͆̑͋̓̇̈́̈̄͛̽͑͊͒̈́̍̿̍͘͘͝ę̷̡̢̡̛̛͉̘͕͔̝̻͉̙̦̜̫̠̗͕̯͓͉͇̜̬̭͇̰̯̦͖̱͕͚̻̅̃̆̿̑̆͋͛̽͌̋̍͐̂͐̄͗̒̇̃́̎̂̆͑̈́̆͛̆̑̎̐̋̅̀̚͘̚͝͝͝ͅͅa̶̧̨̡̛̛̛̛̪̼͓̝͓̬̱̲̘̟̳̩̘̫̫̖̝͎̖̠͙̼̗̹̬͉̼̜̟͚̤̭̞̟̤̻̥̟̙̿͛̊̊̑̔̈́̈́͐̎̍̌̏̏̉̈́̀́̑̇͋̌͑̅̌͆̑̌̍̆̔͊̾͆̒̋͐̚͘̚̕͜͜͠͝͠͝͠ͅd̸̢̡͚̰͎̦̤̲̳͖̻̙̻̞̯̤̯͈͎͐͗͗̈͑́́̄̔̽̽̅̆͗̉͗̌͜͝͠͝d̸̪̉̀̃͐͛̔͛̀̇̊́͒̀͊̅͒́̏̕̚͝͝ȩ̵̡̧̠̘̞͕̤̼͙̼͍̞͉̲̫̝͖̩̪̱̰͈̘̙͚͎͚̻̟͚̘̠͍̫̍̋̃̍͑͐̀̿̀̌̿́̐͑́͐̈́͆̄̐̈͗̌̄͋̈̀̏͒̒̂͌̌͒̀͑͆̋̏̏͛͑̉̚͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅt̸̡̢̢̖͖̗͈͕͎̙̼͓͇̞͔̜͚̹̩̼͇͉̜͙͔̭̥͚̬̫̞̘̤̻̜͇̞̯̻̫͕̣̂̅̄͌̐̉͆͑͑̈́̀̋̋͒̅̒͛̊͋̈́̅̿̿̾̓̓̒͋̓͒̀͆̄͛́͘̚͘͜ǫ̶̧̧̨̧̨̛̝̟̪̜̫̲̟̝͙̰̟͈̻͙̮̝͕̖̩̣͓̭̳͈̲̟̣̪̺̤͉̣̼͖̬͓͚̞̃́̓̂́̀̈́͛̂̈́́̐͆͒̈́̂̓͑͋͐̃̀͊̓͘͜͠ͅͅn̷̨̧̙̳͈̣͔͖̼͉͇̩̙͚̹͚͇͔̪̭̘̜͍̲͍̠̼̰̩̫͇̘͕̙͙̥̝̥͋̅̾̒̀̀̐̓̓̍̓̀̅͛̍͊̂̀̿͑͗͊̈́̎͂̿̊́̃͗͗̑̀̀͒̋͛̔̓̇̈̕͜͝ȃ̴̧̢̨̛͙̙̜̯͚̣̣̘͕̺̺̬̜͍͕͉̼͈͙̩͔̥͇̭̣̹̰̞̯̹̖̮̱̀̀̏͆͛̓̔̆̄́͋̒͌̒̊̿̒̉͛̈́̔̉̒̌̇͆̽̆̀́̾̀̓̽͘͘͝͠ͅͅt̸̢̡̰̻͖̲̮̫͚͎̿̈́̋̄̋̑͛̈́̄̉̈́̈̿̾̀̓̓̌̋̉͗͂̆͂̈́̕̕͝͠͠͝͠ͅë̵̜̦͚̲̖͇͈̩͍̪̺͓̫̤̖̙̣͈͎̤̜͎͙̪̺̪͖́̄̒̽̑̾͂̂͗̽̔̒͒͆̿͗̔̐̐͒̏̓̽̔̊̆̍͌̏̒͋̂͘͘͘̕͝͠͝͝ͅd̸̨̧̨̮̜̭̗̜͉̮̜͚̠̿̍͛̓̉̈́̀͊͗̒̾́̉̀̊̌́͌̀̍̈́̔͛̅͗̋͆͌͋̃̑̈́̏͘͘̕͝͝͝͝. N̷̨̛̛̲͎̜̯̫̫̲̹̜͖͈̘̠͕̝̣͚̩̥̱̰̲̹̫͖͇̰̲̮͉̘̹̐̽́̑̍͊̓̋͑̂̑͆̂͐͋̓̇̊̾̉̏̌̒̂̄̒͆̽̀̽̚͘͜͝͝ő̶̢̢̠̲͍͙̺̹͖͚̣͈͈̟̭̹̳̦̱̯̥͓̣̻̓̿͋͌̊͑͋̄͒̿̄̒̀͊͌̈́͐̄̈́̀͐͗̃͋͒̑̂̏̿̀̊̀͘͝͝ ̵͎̣͇̩̮̳̗̟̺͕̗̺̩̭̥͖̉̐̏̈́̌̃̅͐͛̂̎͠ͅs̸̢̢̹̺͈̟̦̰̟̹̤̫͔̪̝̟̤̘͎̦͖̬̞͔̞̗̼̬͓̖͚̳̪͉̭̝̹̯̺̻̲͍̯̀̐̏̓͆͋̍͑͆̈́̚ͅū̵͈̱͚̪̩͕͈̳͈̜̮͙̮̣ͅŗ̴̡̡͚̼̻͕̯͍̭̙̮̯͕͕̜̝͇͙͖̱̦̺̖͔̲͎̻͍̖͚̙̥͙̺̳̻̹͚̖̦͈́̌̉̀̿̽́̈͆̓̈̔̂̃̋̆͂̈́̌̓͑̽̄̏̂̈̀̓͂͛̌͌̾̃͆̒͘̚̕͜͜͜͝͝v̶̢̛͙̫͇̗̘̥̣̹͆̊̋̿̈́͊̏͊́̅̒̊͐͗̾̈́̔͛̿̈́̐̌͗̿͆̓̆͛̓̆̂͛̉̏̋́̂̌̕̕͠͝ͅȋ̸̢̼̗͖̯͉̰̮͓̮̮̼̲͖͉̏̇͗̀̉͐̊͑́̌̐̓͗́͆̓͌͂̇̍̑̂̌̄̈̔̇̕̕͘͘͝ͅv̶̧̡̡͚̪̪̼̟̩̝̫͚̜̈́͌̑̎̆̄̓̎͆̌̀̓̑̀̊̑͂̔͑͛̅̏̓̽̇́̚̚͠͝͝͝͠͠͠ơ̴̢̧̡̬͙̻̳̭̗͇̙̬͉̜̲̹͇͍͙̩̦͕̱̘̤͙͖̯̱̩̝̝̩͕̙͔͚͎̖̦̙͍͔͑͆̓̒͛̇́̈́̓̐̅̆̌͜͜͜r̵̤̮͖͓̯̜̱̩̹͍̝͉̠̲͐̂͜s̶̡̡̡̲̱͚̥͙͙͇̺̭̮̣̳̱͕͔̬͖͎͕̤̽̈́͂͝͝͠ͅ
[̵̧̡̛̭̯̬̲͙̉̽̌̏̈́͠͠D̶̋͑́ͅa̶̢͕̣̘̎͑̃͘ț̸̙͇͇̒ą̸̱̬͕̏͗̉̑͌̄̚ ̸̞̦͙̺̣͕̑̀͒͋̎̀̕͜͝c̶̡̪͛͛̿̓͆̈o̸͙̳̙̲̥͚̙̘̔̚r̷̡͇͛̃͛̄͊͒ȓ̸̨͓͙̯̘̪̂͂̊̈́̓u̴̦̙̫̳̭͓̥̦͋̐̂̏̂̍̔p̸̧̯̺͍̪̟͔͛̏̌̎͘t̴̨̝͔͕̺̅ͅe̷̼̖̋͛̓̈́̌d̴͖̹̱͕̗̝̳̐̈̊́̈́̓̕͘]̶̙͙̅͗̎̿
[̵̧̡̛̭̯̬̲͙̉̽̌̏̈́͠͠D̶̋͑́ͅa̶̢͕̣̘̎͑̃͘ț̸̙͇͇̒ą̸̱̬͕̏͗̉̑͌̄̚ ̸̞̦͙̺̣͕̑̀͒͋̎̀̕͜͝c̶̡̪͛͛̿̓͆̈o̸͙̳̙̲̥͚̙̘̔̚r̷̡͇͛̃͛̄͊͒ȓ̸̨͓͙̯̘̪̂͂̊̈́̓u̴̦̙̫̳̭͓̥̦͋̐̂̏̂̍̔p̸̧̯̺͍̪̟͔͛̏̌̎͘t̴̨̝͔͕̺̅ͅe̷̼̖̋͛̓̈́̌d̴͖̹̱͕̗̝̳̐̈̊́̈́̓̕͘]̶̙͙̅͗̎̿
[̵̧̡̛̭̯̬̲͙̉̽̌̏̈́͠͠D̶̋͑́ͅa̶̢͕̣̘̎͑̃͘ț̸̙͇͇̒ą̸̱̬͕̏͗̉̑͌̄̚ ̸̞̦͙̺̣͕̑̀͒͋̎̀̕͜͝c̶̡̪͛͛̿̓͆̈o̸͙̳̙̲̥͚̙̘̔̚r̷̡͇͛̃͛̄͊͒ȓ̸̨͓͙̯̘̪̂͂̊̈́̓u̴̦̙̫̳̭͓̥̦͋̐̂̏̂̍̔p̸̧̯̺͍̪̟͔͛̏̌̎͘t̴̨̝͔͕̺̅ͅe̷̼̖̋͛̓̈́̌d̴͖̹̱͕̗̝̳̐̈̊́̈́̓̕͘]̶̙͙̅͗̎̿
[̵̧̡̛̭̯̬̲͙̉̽̌̏̈́͠͠D̶̋͑́ͅa̶̢͕̣̘̎͑̃͘ț̸̙͇͇̒ą̸̱̬͕̏͗̉̑͌̄̚ ̸̞̦͙̺̣͕̑̀͒͋̎̀̕͜͝c̶̡̪͛͛̿̓͆̈o̸͙̳̙̲̥͚̙̘̔̚r̷̡͇͛̃͛̄͊͒ȓ̸̨͓͙̯̘̪̂͂̊̈́̓u̴̦̙̫̳̭͓̥̦͋̐̂̏̂̍̔p̸̧̯̺͍̪̟͔͛̏̌̎͘t̴̨̝͔͕̺̅ͅe̷̼̖̋͛̓̈́̌d̴͖̹̱͕̗̝̳̐̈̊́̈́̓̕͘]̶̙͙̅͗̎̿
[̵̧̡̛̭̯̬̲͙̉̽̌̏̈́͠͠D̶̋͑́ͅa̶̢͕̣̘̎͑̃͘ț̸̙͇͇̒ą̸̱̬͕̏͗̉̑͌̄̚ ̸̞̦͙̺̣͕̑̀͒͋̎̀̕͜͝c̶̡̪͛͛̿̓͆̈o̸͙̳̙̲̥͚̙̘̔̚r̷̡͇͛̃͛̄͊͒ȓ̸̨͓͙̯̘̪̂͂̊̈́̓u̴̦̙̫̳̭͓̥̦͋̐̂̏̂̍̔p̸̧̯̺͍̪̟͔͛̏̌̎͘t̴̨̝͔͕̺̅ͅe̷̼̖̋͛̓̈́̌d̴͖̹̱͕̗̝̳̐̈̊́̈́̓̕͘]̶̙͙̅͗̎̿
[̶̠̲͇̜̙̀̓̏́̔͘D̸̨̡̺͎̰͎̻͋̈́̌̓̉̽̆̃̇͋͜ạ̸̢̨̘̭̼̜͙̘̚ṱ̶̢̬̹̣̳͋̃̒͐̃̏͑́̉̀̌͘͝͝á̷̧̳͍̙͒͑͑̐̑̀͛͗̆̉̉̀́ ̶̛̖̙̖̑̂͋̋͘͠c̸̢̛̬̫̣̦͖̝͉̜̎̐̇͐͗̈́̂o̶̡̡̟̺̘̮͉͚͖͎͖͖͉̺͔͋̽̈́̍́̽͛̊͌̀̽̓͌͊͝͝ŗ̴̩͍̙̥̥̦̳̰͉̱̝͗̈̈̓̃̐̀̈̓̌̔̕̚ͅṟ̵̋͂̉͗̋̿͛͘͘ų̵̼̗̟̙̟̜̯͈̖̟̤̗̖͆̓͜p̵̢̡̛̩̫̭͍̭͖̜̩͖̈́̄̀͑̋t̷̨̡͚͈̖̦̝̘̺̻̊͆̿̌̀̽̑̊̉̀̌͋̚ë̶̢̦͉̔̔̿͛̕͝d̵̙̠̯̝͎͕̠͛̍̍̾́́͘͠͠]̵̫͂
[̷̞̥̫̦͙̯̫͔̞̹̖̝̮͍͎̲̂D̶̢̨̙͇̲̳̬̝̦̼͎̺͖̜̦̮̪͍̙̳̀̈́͊͆͛̅̈́̍͋̈́̚͝ã̶̡͈̭̮̮͙̈́̈́̒̄́͊ţ̸̛͓͇͙͙̥̲͎͛ḁ̵̲̦̦̈̃͒̾̀̕ ̶̢̧͔̬̘̬͙̈́̂̍͂̔͑̎̉̆̋̿͐̏̏̌͐̚͝c̷̡̛̝̤̞̣̺͉̗͓̱̳̳͉͍̩͈͕͇͐̈́̂̆̈̏͑̇͛͋͂̑̈̚̚͜͝ͅo̵̥̯̠̞̭͕̥̬̖̩̫̰̠̖͕͚̠̳̘̲̥̊̐͌̿͋͂̿̒̚͝ͅŗ̴̤̗̼̖͍̹͇͉͍͚̘̫̌̇͂̓͊͊̇͌͌̑͐̄͊̿̈́͊̊͊̃̚͝͝r̵̺̻͚̗͉̙̭̥̣̞̭̙̘̪̳̻̥͍̦̺̥̮̲̈̉͐̾͂́̌͌̾͆̆̊̉ȕ̵̢͎̮̗͖̜̩̺͒̊̂̎̍̋̏̒͊͜p̸͎̎͐̀̿͋̀̚͠͝ṭ̶̡̮̱͕̥̭̫̱͕̟̻̣̯̻̮͍̲̥͂̈́ë̴̥͙͖̜͔̦̖͖̣̰̺̦͎̞͎̿͊̃́̊̒͒̑̈́̓͒̈̊̏̆͊̕̚͝͠ḑ̷̧͈̝̠͉̥̯̣̗̭͙̜̍̀̓̓͐̔ͅ]̴̫̜̘͍̜̤͖͇̤͓̤͎̳͍͚͑̀͊̓̆̏̀͒̋̏͌͛͂̓̆̕͠͝͠͠
[̷̢̡͙̟̦̙̭̮̩͖̟̰̞̺̘̬͔̱͖̋̾̈́͆͜͜D̴̢̻̻̞͎̼͖̭̯̹͓̱͔̰̘̫̦̹̰̭̘͖̘̪̩̯̀̓͆̈́̌̋́̑̾͝͝͠á̴̢̢̛̤̘̥̯̲̠͇͔̠̺̯͙̜̉̆̂͋͌̎͂͊̏̾̊͐̽ţ̸̨̢̩̙̪̮̮̤̬̯̹̬͔̯̠̦͇̞̫̫̲͍̌͆͋̾̓̉̊́͗͐̈́̂̿̃͒͋͒͋̉̀͒̑̔̓̈́̓̇͗̈̚͜͝a̷̧̛̘̳͙̼̖̹̰͓̙̰̎̇̆͒͂̆̔͂͗̈́́̉̌͒͌̿̒̐͂͋̓̐͋͛̈͛ͅ ̴̜͚̖͙͍̬̑̌͋͗͗̆̌̊́̎̑͂̕̕c̵̭̍͊̑͊̓͒͊̂́̎̍̈͐̋̿̋̈́̊̐̕͘̕̚͝͠͝͠͠ǫ̷̛̤̮͍̭̫͈̰̤̯̣͎͓̻̼̞̭̣͔̮̞͇͍͔̤̭̤̅̽̀́̄̎̆̀́̓̊̔̉͛̏͐͊͗̚͘̚̚͠͠r̷͎̈́͆̀͛̔r̷̢͎̜̝͚͕̪̻̳̙̤̪̅͊̔̈́̓̓̈́̀̎́͛̕̚͝ư̷̤̠̜͖̞͈̻̜͓͍̘̯̱̗̈́́͂̾̑̈́̔̊͊̑̒̂̓̄̎̓̓͐͑̿͛̀̎̈́̕͝͝ͅͅṕ̴̛̛̪̳͍͍̀̏̔̉̅̈̽͌́̔̽̊̿͐̿̔̈́́̒̍̽̽̾̈́̔͘͠t̴̢̡̡͇̞̪̳̣̯̗̫̝̯̹͍̪̹̲̹͔͈̟̏͋̐͛̋è̸͍̫̦͙̭͎̟̙͎͓̤̩͖͚͇͉̃̋̏̈́͊̊̎̑͂̆́͠͝d̸̡̲͖̙̬̞͂̍̀̎̇̀́͝]̵̨͇̯͐̀̎͐̎̋̅͐͛̌̀̃͑̏̔́̋̂̾͘͜͝͝
[̵̧̡͔̠͖͇̦̺̳̥͕̘̝̫̝͈̲̙̘̰̤̬̤̹͈̖̙̱͍̱͍̼̤͎̠̠̌̈́͌̃̌̍̋͑̕̕̚ͅD̸̛̬̫̎̄͌̂̎̏̑̆̈͛̚͠ą̸̨̡̡̛͖̹̹͕͍̗̭̻̹͙̬͚̮̲̠̮̗̣̲̝̖̙͇̎̾̔̈̉͐̏͛̾̊͗̑͛̈́̉̈̄͌͆̕͘͝͝ͅt̷̨̢̨̛̞̣͙̲͕̜̩͖͇̼͚̙̞̼̲̟͚̩̰̖͂̄̅̄̑͑̐̓͐̄́̿̏̔̉̋͝a̷͖͒ ̸̧̢̡̧̛͓̖̘̣͍̜̰̯̮͖͇̘̯̤̙̟̤̰͈̮̅̉́̐͐͂̀̇̅̊͂̍̀̾͒̑̽̈́̉͐̆̐̿̉͛̌̌̕͜͜͜͝͠c̸̞̖̙̩͇̳̪͚͗̅̈́̐̐͛͝ǫ̶̡̘̥̦̭̩͕̝͖̪͎͉̠͌͒̍̐́̓r̴̨̡̡͔̻͇͔͈̟̝̫͚̖̍̏̿̀̏̄̔̓͘ͅŗ̵̙͍̫͖̯̝̗̱͈̞̫̙̺̯͓̱̠̪̰̜̥͙̩̗̱̪̖͙̥̻͕̯̂̃̏̀̈́̊͊̉̍̈́̃͗̽͑̇͆̐̍͑̇̚͝͠û̸̧̢̪͙̣̦̜̦̘̺̙̤̓́̓̎͂̇͌̈͒̍͋̀́͗̓̀̊̈́̀̋́̿̏̾̕̚͜͝͠p̶̢̧̢̙͔̘͕̥̥͔͎͉͓̮̼̞̻̬̼̝͇̦̥̉̊̓̉͂́̕ţ̸̧̛̝̥̤͖͈̼͈̬͓̻͚̺͙̟̟͓͇͚͓̒̀̃̂̀͂̈́̌͘ę̵̢̥̣͚͖͍͈̹̦̱͖̳͕͙̪͔̦̜̘͙͓͖̩͈̲̫̭͆̿̎̈̀̀̏̑́̈͌̌̈́͊̓͛̆̆͆̿̑͗̕̚̕̕͜͝͝͝͝ͅd̴̢̛͍̭͚̱̱̯̘̤̰̲͎͍̪̤̱́̌̽́̃͆̏͋̈́̀̽̒̄̍̀́͐̂̄͛͝]̸̨̧̯̦̦͔͖̳͎̻̠̤̘̬͈̮̝͇͖̉̒̈͜
[̸̨̘͓͔̮̰̺̪̜̱͇̞́̏̀̌̓̔̈́͂̐̉̅͑̒̓̄͗̋̓̔̋̏͌̀̋̋͛͘͝͠D̷̡̨̩͋̃̅̒̑͋̎͝͠ȧ̵̭̆̋̐͐̒̄͝ţ̴̡̡̧̡͈̮̻̮̟̣̼͉̱͈͖͓̫̥̻͈̺̬̞͎̠̜̠̳̥͙̜̼͛͂͒͑̈́͂̊̋͐̑̒̇͆́͊̄̽̈͂͛̐̓̓͘̚̚͘̚̕͜͝͝ͅą̴̥̫̦̻̲̞̼̦̇̄͊̔̈̎̒̐̇̐̿͒́́͐͌̅̅̐̃͂̂̔̌̾̂̏̈̈́͒̀̚͝͠ ̸̳̣̩̖̰̤̮̙̣͔͉͓͇̈̉͑̽̋c̶̡̛̝͂̾̐̏̈́̓̅̋͑́͛́̾͛̇̾͗̒̉̊̈́́̀̄͊̂̂̄̿͌̚͘͝͝͝͝o̸̧̧̡̹͍̩̥̟̳̬̭̼͙͓̭̙͍̭͚͕̯͔͔̺̝̯͖͍̲̙͎̝͉̥̖͓̰̳̿̑̉ͅr̷̨̧̡̛̛̜̣̬͕̘̭̞̩̩̥̻͕̞̯͉͉͉͙͓̲̘̯̼͔̳͒͑͋̓͊̿̒͒̿̒̿͌̒̓̉͐̐̈́͗͑̒͘̚͜͜͜͠͝͠͠ͅr̸̡̞͇͓̲͍̪̼̥̱͖̦̊͋̍̄̔͋̑̿̾͒̋̏͊̂̽̆̏̆̿̔͌̋̕̕̕͘̕̕͝͝ų̵̢̺̝̳͍̹̣̮̱̪͈̩̻̣͇͖̜̞͈̩̞̻͖̮̘̦͓̦̖̺̯̋̉́͗̔̾͂̃̀̔̏̔̚ͅͅͅp̷̡̢̛͓͈̦̥̪̫͚͙̻̲̰̻̮͎̬͔̖̖̻̭͍̤̭̤̯͕̪͎̫̻̲͖͆́̿͆̓̉͐̓̓̇̒̂̀̈́̓́̇̎͑̍̈͛́͌̊͐̀͗̈́͘͝͝͠͝ͅͅt̶̢͔̠̝͙͈̤̼̩̝̦̼͚̼͇̟̙̼̮̮̮̹̗͇̻̘̱̟̟͎͇̤͓͙̟͛̔͆ͅĕ̷̢̢̨̧̫͚̝̹͓̞̤̝̱̫͇̬̟̪̟̝̲̱͚̥̬͉̱̘͚̮̯̰͛̉̈́̍̈́̔̔̉̆͋͊̂͊̋̒́͌̒̒̈̊́̈́̀͗̏̚͜͜͝͝d̶̠̖̭̬̤̰̳̜̳̺̞̽̓]̵̗̝͉͔̣̥͓́̃̋̊̂̽̂̈́́͂͝
[̸̹̫̻̩̱̤͔͍̞̯̥͚̦̣͕̲̤̜̙̝̈́͛̿̐̋̽͛̕͜͜ͅD̷̥̰͔͍̒a̷̡̙̱̞̙͓̗͈̰͋̃̆̆̇̂͂̈́̄̎̓̎̋̾͊͑̄̈́̔̊̓̽͐͊̌͗̂͊̂̀̈̊͊̇́̆̽͘̕̚̕͜͝͝t̶̡̛̛͖̠̱͇̥̖͕͈̲̙͙̦̼̖̥̞͖̭̞͈̟͖̰͕̺͚̺̮̦̰͒̓̒̆̅̓͑̀͂̽̆̐̋̒́̈̒̀͗̌͊̄͂̍̊̌́̽̉͋̎͆̎̿͂͌̄̑̚̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅa̵̛̘̙͉̠̓͐̃͋͑̄̓͛͐͒̑̇̀́́͋́͋̾̂̐̽̔͛̄̓̍̾̃̀̈́́̇̏̒͐́͂̑̾̿̈̇͘̚͘̕͠͠ ̷̡̧̢̦̝͉̙̲̠̺̹̞͇̠͚̞̹̣̼͕͕̦͎̫̖̥̃̍̾̀͌̌̽͊̌̓̉̾͑͋̒̏̈́̔̊͋̚̕͘͜͜͜͠ͅc̸͍̝̺͈͕̱͜͝o̸̡̠̠̳͎̯̞̜͖̮̘̲̓̾͑̓̀̀̎̌̓̐͑̀̿ͅr̸̨̛͕̠̦̬͈͉̺̼̘̺̘͓̦̺͍̫̘̩̙͍͙͉̘̰̤͇̮͚̟̗͈̘̖̈̋̔̀̂͒̆̄͊͋̄̅̊̆́͒̏͊̈̂̾̐̂́̚͠r̸̡̡̧̡̢̛̲̝̺͔̩̹͚̞̪̼̘̫̥͈͈͉̬̹͓̯͍̹͍̮̼̝͎͍̻̞͕̪͙̥̹͙͙͔̼̝͓̈́̍̏̀̾̅͒̎̇̃̀̀̓͑͌̾͗͛̽̒͐̉̍̌̓̔͗̑̋͊̽́̄̆͘͝͝ͅu̶̧̡̡̧̡̜̣̹͎̮̩̭͖̪̟̟͚̠̜̼̞͙̹͎̯̣̠̰̱̘̥̘͚̹̜͇̣̗̮͎̦̬̪̤̟̍̏̋̀͊̎̋̽͆͑̓̋͑̈́͗̌̂̓̄̀͊̌̀́̀́̇̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅp̵̡̢̛̛̥̼̝̬̯͉̭̹͇̺̟̬̦̞͈̩̦̥̪̱̿̽̒̀́͒̌͌̈́̈̓̿͂́̽͒̑̓̓͗͐̑̊̈͑́̏̇̂̍̎̾̽̐̾͐͆̈̔̅̚̕͝͝ͅẗ̸̡̛̛̙͇̲̪̙̝͔̭̘̱̪͚̝̻͙͛́͆́̃̂̉̽̓̒̎̉̋́͋̇̂̏̊̒͋̔͐͑̚͜͝͠͠ȩ̷̨̫͍͓͎̯͔̻͍͖̖̩̗͇̭͙̠͓̳̫͓̹͇̳̯̪̔̌̃̓͜͜͠ḑ̷̧̨̛̻̺̭̭̩̤̺͔̠͕͙͕̺͎̹̩̳͎̮͖̘̞͉̙̥̪͇̱̟͓̥̲̹͈̫̜̘͈̞̗͆̏̎̃̿̆̉͂̈́̐̉͛́̇̈̚͜͝ͅ]̴̢̧̪̟̮̩͎̘̺̯̫̞͙̖̣̳̪͉̩̪̦̺̞̜̥̠̮͈̞͚͎̮̝̳̲̞̲̤̳̥̱̳̣̘̳̲̀̅̓̾͗̍̆̊́͐͊͋̏́́̈́̍̔̌͐̃̇̓͘͜͝͠ͅ
[̸̹̫̻̩̱̤͔͍̞̯̥͚̦̣͕̲̤̜̙̝̈́͛̿̐̋̽͛̕͜͜ͅD̷̥̰͔͍̒a̷̡̙̱̞̙͓̗͈̰͋̃̆̆̇̂͂̈́̄̎̓̎̋̾͊͑̄̈́̔̊̓̽͐͊̌͗̂͊̂̀̈̊͊̇́̆̽͘̕̚̕͜͝͝t̶̡̛̛͖̠̱͇̥̖͕͈̲̙͙̦̼̖̥̞͖̭̞͈̟͖̰͕̺͚̺̮̦̰͒̓̒̆̅̓͑̀͂̽̆̐̋̒́̈̒̀͗̌͊̄͂̍̊̌́̽̉͋̎͆̎̿͂͌̄̑̚̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅa̵̛̘̙͉̠̓͐̃͋͑̄̓͛͐͒̑̇̀́́͋́͋̾̂̐̽̔͛̄̓̍̾̃̀̈́́̇̏̒͐́͂̑̾̿̈̇͘̚͘̕͠͠ ̷̡̧̢̦̝͉̙̲̠̺̹̞͇̠͚̞̹̣̼͕͕̦͎̫̖̥̃̍̾̀͌̌̽͊̌̓̉̾͑͋̒̏̈́̔̊͋̚̕͘͜͜͜͠ͅc̸͍̝̺͈͕̱͜͝o̸̡̠̠̳͎̯̞̜͖̮̘̲̓̾͑̓̀̀̎̌̓̐͑̀̿ͅr̸̨̛͕̠̦̬͈͉̺̼̘̺̘͓̦̺͍̫̘̩̙͍͙͉̘̰̤͇̮͚̟̗͈̘̖̈̋̔̀̂͒̆̄͊͋̄̅̊̆́͒̏͊̈̂̾̐̂́̚͠r̸̡̡̧̡̢̛̲̝̺͔̩̹͚̞̪̼̘̫̥͈͈͉̬̹͓̯͍̹͍̮̼̝͎͍̻̞͕̪͙̥̹͙͙͔̼̝͓̈́̍̏̀̾̅͒̎̇̃̀̀̓͑͌̾͗͛̽̒͐̉̍̌̓̔͗̑̋͊̽́̄̆͘͝͝ͅu̶̧̡̡̧̡̜̣̹͎̮̩̭͖̪̟̟͚̠̜̼̞͙̹͎̯̣̠̰̱̘̥̘͚̹̜͇̣̗̮͎̦̬̪̤̟̍̏̋̀͊̎̋̽͆͑̓̋͑̈́͗̌̂̓̄̀͊̌̀́̀́̇̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅp̵̡̢̛̛̥̼̝̬̯͉̭̹͇̺̟̬̦̞͈̩̦̥̪̱̿̽̒̀́͒̌͌̈́̈̓̿͂́̽͒̑̓̓͗͐̑̊̈͑́̏̇̂̍̎̾̽̐̾͐͆̈̔̅̚̕͝͝ͅẗ̸̡̛̛̙͇̲̪̙̝͔̭̘̱̪͚̝̻͙͛́͆́̃̂̉̽̓̒̎̉̋́͋̇̂̏̊̒͋̔͐͑̚͜͝͠͠ȩ̷̨̫͍͓͎̯͔̻͍͖̖̩̗͇̭͙̠͓̳̫͓̹͇̳̯̪̔̌̃̓͜͜͠ḑ̷̧̨̛̻̺̭̭̩̤̺͔̠͕͙͕̺͎̹̩̳͎̮͖̘̞͉̙̥̪͇̱̟͓̥̲̹͈̫̜̘͈̞̗͆̏̎̃̿̆̉͂̈́̐̉͛́̇̈̚͜͝ͅ]̴̢̧̪̟̮̩͎̘̺̯̫̞͙̖̣̳̪͉̩̪̦̺̞̜̥̠̮͈̞͚͎̮̝̳̲̞̲̤̳̥̱̳̣̘̳̲̀̅̓̾͗̍̆̊́͐͊͋̏́́̈́̍̔̌͐̃̇̓͘͜͝͠ͅ
[̸̹̫̻̩̱̤͔͍̞̯̥͚̦̣͕̲̤̜̙̝̈́͛̿̐̋̽͛̕͜͜ͅD̷̥̰͔͍̒a̷̡̙̱̞̙͓̗͈̰͋̃̆̆̇̂͂̈́̄̎̓̎̋̾͊͑̄̈́̔̊̓̽͐͊̌͗̂͊̂̀̈̊͊̇́̆̽͘̕̚̕͜͝͝t̶̡̛̛͖̠̱͇̥̖͕͈̲̙͙̦̼̖̥̞͖̭̞͈̟͖̰͕̺͚̺̮̦̰͒̓̒̆̅̓͑̀͂̽̆̐̋̒́̈̒̀͗̌͊̄͂̍̊̌́̽̉͋̎͆̎̿͂͌̄̑̚̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅa̵̛̘̙͉̠̓͐̃͋͑̄̓͛͐͒̑̇̀́́͋́͋̾̂̐̽̔͛̄̓̍̾̃̀̈́́̇̏̒͐́͂̑̾̿̈̇͘̚͘̕͠͠ ̷̡̧̢̦̝͉̙̲̠̺̹̞͇̠͚̞̹̣̼͕͕̦͎̫̖̥̃̍̾̀͌̌̽͊̌̓̉̾͑͋̒̏̈́̔̊͋̚̕͘͜͜͜͠ͅc̸͍̝̺͈͕̱͜͝o̸̡̠̠̳͎̯̞̜͖̮̘̲̓̾͑̓̀̀̎̌̓̐͑̀̿ͅr̸̨̛͕̠̦̬͈͉̺̼̘̺̘͓̦̺͍̫̘̩̙͍͙͉̘̰̤͇̮͚̟̗͈̘̖̈̋̔̀̂͒̆̄͊͋̄̅̊̆́͒̏͊̈̂̾̐̂́̚͠r̸̡̡̧̡̢̛̲̝̺͔̩̹͚̞̪̼̘̫̥͈͈͉̬̹͓̯͍̹͍̮̼̝͎͍̻̞͕̪͙̥̹͙͙͔̼̝͓̈́̍̏̀̾̅͒̎̇̃̀̀̓͑͌̾͗͛̽̒͐̉̍̌̓̔͗̑̋͊̽́̄̆͘͝͝ͅu̶̧̡̡̧̡̜̣̹͎̮̩̭͖̪̟̟͚̠̜̼̞͙̹͎̯̣̠̰̱̘̥̘͚̹̜͇̣̗̮͎̦̬̪̤̟̍̏̋̀͊̎̋̽͆͑̓̋͑̈́͗̌̂̓̄̀͊̌̀́̀́̇̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅp̵̡̢̛̛̥̼̝̬̯͉̭̹͇̺̟̬̦̞͈̩̦̥̪̱̿̽̒̀́͒̌͌̈́̈̓̿͂́̽͒̑̓̓͗͐̑̊̈͑́̏̇̂̍̎̾̽̐̾͐͆̈̔̅̚̕͝͝ͅẗ̸̡̛̛̙͇̲̪̙̝͔̭̘̱̪͚̝̻͙͛́͆́̃̂̉̽̓̒̎̉̋́͋̇̂̏̊̒͋̔͐͑̚͜͝͠͠ȩ̷̨̫͍͓͎̯͔̻͍͖̖̩̗͇̭͙̠͓̳̫͓̹͇̳̯̪̔̌̃̓͜͜͠ḑ̷̧̨̛̻̺̭̭̩̤̺͔̠͕͙͕̺͎̹̩̳͎̮͖̘̞͉̙̥̪͇̱̟͓̥̲̹͈̫̜̘͈̞̗͆̏̎̃̿̆̉͂̈́̐̉͛́̇̈̚͜͝ͅ]̴̢̧̪̟̮̩͎̘̺̯̫̞͙̖̣̳̪͉̩̪̦̺̞̜̥̠̮͈̞͚͎̮̝̳̲̞̲̤̳̥̱̳̣̘̳̲̀̅̓̾͗̍̆̊́͐͊͋̏́́̈́̍̔̌͐̃̇̓͘͜͝͠ͅ
[̸̹̫̻̩̱̤͔͍̞̯̥͚̦̣͕̲̤̜̙̝̈́͛̿̐̋̽͛̕͜͜ͅD̷̥̰͔͍̒a̷̡̙̱̞̙͓̗͈̰͋̃̆̆̇̂͂̈́̄̎̓̎̋̾͊͑̄̈́̔̊̓̽͐͊̌͗̂͊̂̀̈̊͊̇́̆̽͘̕̚̕͜͝͝t̶̡̛̛͖̠̱͇̥̖͕͈̲̙͙̦̼̖̥̞͖̭̞͈̟͖̰͕̺͚̺̮̦̰͒̓̒̆̅̓͑̀͂̽̆̐̋̒́̈̒̀͗̌͊̄͂̍̊̌́̽̉͋̎͆̎̿͂͌̄̑̚̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅa̵̛̘̙͉̠̓͐̃͋͑̄̓͛͐͒̑̇̀́́͋́͋̾̂̐̽̔͛̄̓̍̾̃̀̈́́̇̏̒͐́͂̑̾̿̈̇͘̚͘̕͠͠ ̷̡̧̢̦̝͉̙̲̠̺̹̞͇̠͚̞̹̣̼͕͕̦͎̫̖̥̃̍̾̀͌̌̽͊̌̓̉̾͑͋̒̏̈́̔̊͋̚̕͘͜͜͜͠ͅc̸͍̝̺͈͕̱͜͝o̸̡̠̠̳͎̯̞̜͖̮̘̲̓̾͑̓̀̀̎̌̓̐͑̀̿ͅr̸̨̛͕̠̦̬͈͉̺̼̘̺̘͓̦̺͍̫̘̩̙͍͙͉̘̰̤͇̮͚̟̗͈̘̖̈̋̔̀̂͒̆̄͊͋̄̅̊̆́͒̏͊̈̂̾̐̂́̚͠r̸̡̡̧̡̢̛̲̝̺͔̩̹͚̞̪̼̘̫̥͈͈͉̬̹͓̯͍̹͍̮̼̝͎͍̻̞͕̪͙̥̹͙͙͔̼̝͓̈́̍̏̀̾̅͒̎̇̃̀̀̓͑͌̾͗͛̽̒͐̉̍̌̓̔͗̑̋͊̽́̄̆͘͝͝ͅu̶̧̡̡̧̡̜̣̹͎̮̩̭͖̪̟̟͚̠̜̼̞͙̹͎̯̣̠̰̱̘̥̘͚̹̜͇̣̗̮͎̦̬̪̤̟̍̏̋̀͊̎̋̽͆͑̓̋͑̈́͗̌̂̓̄̀͊̌̀́̀́̇̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅp̵̡̢̛̛̥̼̝̬̯͉̭̹͇̺̟̬̦̞͈̩̦̥̪̱̿̽̒̀́͒̌͌̈́̈̓̿͂́̽͒̑̓̓͗͐̑̊̈͑́̏̇̂̍̎̾̽̐̾͐͆̈̔̅̚̕͝͝ͅẗ̸̡̛̛̙͇̲̪̙̝͔̭̘̱̪͚̝̻͙͛́͆́̃̂̉̽̓̒̎̉̋́͋̇̂̏̊̒͋̔͐͑̚͜͝͠͠ȩ̷̨̫͍͓͎̯͔̻͍͖̖̩̗͇̭͙̠͓̳̫͓̹͇̳̯̪̔̌̃̓͜͜͠ḑ̷̧̨̛̻̺̭̭̩̤̺͔̠͕͙͕̺͎̹̩̳͎̮͖̘̞͉̙̥̪͇̱̟͓̥̲̹͈̫̜̘͈̞̗͆̏̎̃̿̆̉͂̈́̐̉͛́̇̈̚͜͝ͅ]̴̢̧̪̟̮̩͎̘̺̯̫̞͙̖̣̳̪͉̩̪̦̺̞̜̥̠̮͈̞͚͎̮̝̳̲̞̲̤̳̥̱̳̣̘̳̲̀̅̓̾͗̍̆̊́͐͊͋̏́́̈́̍̔̌͐̃̇̓͘͜͝͠ͅ
[̸̹̫̻̩̱̤͔͍̞̯̥͚̦̣͕̲̤̜̙̝̈́͛̿̐̋̽͛̕͜͜ͅD̷̥̰͔͍̒a̷̡̙̱̞̙͓̗͈̰͋̃̆̆̇̂͂̈́̄̎̓̎̋̾͊͑̄̈́̔̊̓̽͐͊̌͗̂͊̂̀̈̊͊̇́̆̽͘̕̚̕͜͝͝t̶̡̛̛͖̠̱͇̥̖͕͈̲̙͙̦̼̖̥̞͖̭̞͈̟͖̰͕̺͚̺̮̦̰͒̓̒̆̅̓͑̀͂̽̆̐̋̒́̈̒̀͗̌͊̄͂̍̊̌́̽̉͋̎͆̎̿͂͌̄̑̚̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅa̵̛̘̙͉̠̓͐̃͋͑̄̓͛͐͒̑̇̀́́͋́͋̾̂̐̽̔͛̄̓̍̾̃̀̈́́̇̏̒͐́͂̑̾̿̈̇͘̚͘̕͠͠ ̷̡̧̢̦̝͉̙̲̠̺̹̞͇̠͚̞̹̣̼͕͕̦͎̫̖̥̃̍̾̀͌̌̽͊̌̓̉̾͑͋̒̏̈́̔̊͋̚̕͘͜͜͜͠ͅc̸͍̝̺͈͕̱͜͝o̸̡̠̠̳͎̯̞̜͖̮̘̲̓̾͑̓̀̀̎̌̓̐͑̀̿ͅr̸̨̛͕̠̦̬͈͉̺̼̘̺̘͓̦̺͍̫̘̩̙͍͙͉̘̰̤͇̮͚̟̗͈̘̖̈̋̔̀̂͒̆̄͊͋̄̅̊̆́͒̏͊̈̂̾̐̂́̚͠r̸̡̡̧̡̢̛̲̝̺͔̩̹͚̞̪̼̘̫̥͈͈͉̬̹͓̯͍̹͍̮̼̝͎͍̻̞͕̪͙̥̹͙͙͔̼̝͓̈́̍̏̀̾̅͒̎̇̃̀̀̓͑͌̾͗͛̽̒͐̉̍̌̓̔͗̑̋͊̽́̄̆͘͝͝ͅu̶̧̡̡̧̡̜̣̹͎̮̩̭͖̪̟̟͚̠̜̼̞͙̹͎̯̣̠̰̱̘̥̘͚̹̜͇̣̗̮͎̦̬̪̤̟̍̏̋̀͊̎̋̽͆͑̓̋͑̈́͗̌̂̓̄̀͊̌̀́̀́̇̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅp̵̡̢̛̛̥̼̝̬̯͉̭̹͇̺̟̬̦̞͈̩̦̥̪̱̿̽̒̀́͒̌͌̈́̈̓̿͂́̽͒̑̓̓͗͐̑̊̈͑́̏̇̂̍̎̾̽̐̾͐͆̈̔̅̚̕͝͝ͅẗ̸̡̛̛̙͇̲̪̙̝͔̭̘̱̪͚̝̻͙͛́͆́̃̂̉̽̓̒̎̉̋́͋̇̂̏̊̒͋̔͐͑̚͜͝͠͠ȩ̷̨̫͍͓͎̯͔̻͍͖̖̩̗͇̭͙̠͓̳̫͓̹͇̳̯̪̔̌̃̓͜͜͠ḑ̷̧̨̛̻̺̭̭̩̤̺͔̠͕͙͕̺͎̹̩̳͎̮͖̘̞͉̙̥̪͇̱̟͓̥̲̹͈̫̜̘͈̞̗͆̏̎̃̿̆̉͂̈́̐̉͛́̇̈̚͜͝ͅ]̴̢̧̪̟̮̩͎̘̺̯̫̞͙̖̣̳̪͉̩̪̦̺̞̜̥̠̮͈̞͚͎̮̝̳̲̞̲̤̳̥̱̳̣̘̳̲̀̅̓̾͗̍̆̊́͐͊͋̏́́̈́̍̔̌͐̃̇̓͘͜͝͠ͅ
[̸̹̫̻̩̱̤͔͍̞̯̥͚̦̣͕̲̤̜̙̝̈́͛̿̐̋̽͛̕͜͜ͅD̷̥̰͔͍̒a̷̡̙̱̞̙͓̗͈̰͋̃̆̆̇̂͂̈́̄̎̓̎̋̾͊͑̄̈́̔̊̓̽͐͊̌͗̂͊̂̀̈̊͊̇́̆̽͘̕̚̕͜͝͝t̶̡̛̛͖̠̱͇̥̖͕͈̲̙͙̦̼̖̥̞͖̭̞͈̟͖̰͕̺͚̺̮̦̰͒̓̒̆̅̓͑̀͂̽̆̐̋̒́̈̒̀͗̌͊̄͂̍̊̌́̽̉͋̎͆̎̿͂͌̄̑̚̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅa̵̛̘̙͉̠̓͐̃͋͑̄̓͛͐͒̑̇̀́́͋́͋̾̂̐̽̔͛̄̓̍̾̃̀̈́́̇̏̒͐́͂̑̾̿̈̇͘̚͘̕͠͠ ̷̡̧̢̦̝͉̙̲̠̺̹̞͇̠͚̞̹̣̼͕͕̦͎̫̖̥̃̍̾̀͌̌̽͊̌̓̉̾͑͋̒̏̈́̔̊͋̚̕͘͜͜͜͠ͅc̸͍̝̺͈͕̱͜͝o̸̡̠̠̳͎̯̞̜͖̮̘̲̓̾͑̓̀̀̎̌̓̐͑̀̿ͅr̸̨̛͕̠̦̬͈͉̺̼̘̺̘͓̦̺͍̫̘̩̙͍͙͉̘̰̤͇̮͚̟̗͈̘̖̈̋̔̀̂͒̆̄͊͋̄̅̊̆́͒̏͊̈̂̾̐̂́̚͠r̸̡̡̧̡̢̛̲̝̺͔̩̹͚̞̪̼̘̫̥͈͈͉̬̹͓̯͍̹͍̮̼̝͎͍̻̞͕̪͙̥̹͙͙͔̼̝͓̈́̍̏̀̾̅͒̎̇̃̀̀̓͑͌̾͗͛̽̒͐̉̍̌̓̔͗̑̋͊̽́̄̆͘͝͝ͅu̶̧̡̡̧̡̜̣̹͎̮̩̭͖̪̟̟͚̠̜̼̞͙̹͎̯̣̠̰̱̘̥̘͚̹̜͇̣̗̮͎̦̬̪̤̟̍̏̋̀͊̎̋̽͆͑̓̋͑̈́͗̌̂̓̄̀͊̌̀́̀́̇̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅp̵̡̢̛̛̥̼̝̬̯͉̭̹͇̺̟̬̦̞͈̩̦̥̪̱̿̽̒̀́͒̌͌̈́̈̓̿͂́̽͒̑̓̓͗͐̑̊̈͑́̏̇̂̍̎̾̽̐̾͐͆̈̔̅̚̕͝͝ͅẗ̸̡̛̛̙͇̲̪̙̝͔̭̘̱̪͚̝̻͙͛́͆́̃̂̉̽̓̒̎̉̋́͋̇̂̏̊̒͋̔͐͑̚͜͝͠͠ȩ̷̨̫͍͓͎̯͔̻͍͖̖̩̗͇̭͙̠͓̳̫͓̹͇̳̯̪̔̌̃̓͜͜͠ḑ̷̧̨̛̻̺̭̭̩̤̺͔̠͕͙͕̺͎̹̩̳͎̮͖̘̞͉̙̥̪͇̱̟͓̥̲̹͈̫̜̘͈̞̗͆̏̎̃̿̆̉͂̈́̐̉͛́̇̈̚͜͝ͅ]̴̢̧̪̟̮̩͎̘̺̯̫̞͙̖̣̳̪͉̩̪̦̺̞̜̥̠̮͈̞͚͎̮̝̳̲̞̲̤̳̥̱̳̣̘̳̲̀̅̓̾͗̍̆̊́͐͊͋̏́́̈́̍̔̌͐̃̇̓͘͜͝͠ͅ
[̸̹̫̻̩̱̤͔͍̞̯̥͚̦̣͕̲̤̜̙̝̈́͛̿̐̋̽͛̕͜͜ͅD̷̥̰͔͍̒a̷̡̙̱̞̙͓̗͈̰͋̃̆̆̇̂͂̈́̄̎̓̎̋̾͊͑̄̈́̔̊̓̽͐͊̌͗̂͊̂̀̈̊͊̇́̆̽͘̕̚̕͜͝͝t̶̡̛̛͖̠̱͇̥̖͕͈̲̙͙̦̼̖̥̞͖̭̞͈̟͖̰͕̺͚̺̮̦̰͒̓̒̆̅̓͑̀͂̽̆̐̋̒́̈̒̀͗̌͊̄͂̍̊̌́̽̉͋̎͆̎̿͂͌̄̑̚̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅa̵̛̘̙͉̠̓͐̃͋͑̄̓͛͐͒̑̇̀́́͋́͋̾̂̐̽̔͛̄̓̍̾̃̀̈́́̇̏̒͐́͂̑̾̿̈̇͘̚͘̕͠͠ ̷̡̧̢̦̝͉̙̲̠̺̹̞͇̠͚̞̹̣̼͕͕̦͎̫̖̥̃̍̾̀͌̌̽͊̌̓̉̾͑͋̒̏̈́̔̊͋̚̕͘͜͜͜͠ͅc̸͍̝̺͈͕̱͜͝o̸̡̠̠̳͎̯̞̜͖̮̘̲̓̾͑̓̀̀̎̌̓̐͑̀̿ͅr̸̨̛͕̠̦̬͈͉̺̼̘̺̘͓̦̺͍̫̘̩̙͍͙͉̘̰̤͇̮͚̟̗͈̘̖̈̋̔̀̂͒̆̄͊͋̄̅̊̆́͒̏͊̈̂̾̐̂́̚͠r̸̡̡̧̡̢̛̲̝̺͔̩̹͚̞̪̼̘̫̥͈͈͉̬̹͓̯͍̹͍̮̼̝͎͍̻̞͕̪͙̥̹͙͙͔̼̝͓̈́̍̏̀̾̅͒̎̇̃̀̀̓͑͌̾͗͛̽̒͐̉̍̌̓̔͗̑̋͊̽́̄̆͘͝͝ͅu̶̧̡̡̧̡̜̣̹͎̮̩̭͖̪̟̟͚̠̜̼̞͙̹͎̯̣̠̰̱̘̥̘͚̹̜͇̣̗̮͎̦̬̪̤̟̍̏̋̀͊̎̋̽͆͑̓̋͑̈́͗̌̂̓̄̀͊̌̀́̀́̇̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅp̵̡̢̛̛̥̼̝̬̯͉̭̹͇̺̟̬̦̞͈̩̦̥̪̱̿̽̒̀́͒̌͌̈́̈̓̿͂́̽͒̑̓̓͗͐̑̊̈͑́̏̇̂̍̎̾̽̐̾͐͆̈̔̅̚̕͝͝ͅẗ̸̡̛̛̙͇̲̪̙̝͔̭̘̱̪͚̝̻͙͛́͆́̃̂̉̽̓̒̎̉̋́͋̇̂̏̊̒͋̔͐͑̚͜͝͠͠ȩ̷̨̫͍͓͎̯͔̻͍͖̖̩̗͇̭͙̠͓̳̫͓̹͇̳̯̪̔̌̃̓͜͜͠ḑ̷̧̨̛̻̺̭̭̩̤̺͔̠͕͙͕̺͎̹̩̳͎̮͖̘̞͉̙̥̪͇̱̟͓̥̲̹͈̫̜̘͈̞̗͆̏̎̃̿̆̉͂̈́̐̉͛́̇̈̚͜͝ͅ]̴̢̧̪̟̮̩͎̘̺̯̫̞͙̖̣̳̪͉̩̪̦̺̞̜̥̠̮͈̞͚͎̮̝̳̲̞̲̤̳̥̱̳̣̘̳̲̀̅̓̾͗̍̆̊́͐͊͋̏́́̈́̍̔̌͐̃̇̓͘͜͝͠ͅ
[̸̹̫̻̩̱̤͔͍̞̯̥͚̦̣͕̲̤̜̙̝̈́͛̿̐̋̽͛̕͜͜ͅD̷̥̰͔͍̒a̷̡̙̱̞̙͓̗͈̰͋̃̆̆̇̂͂̈́̄̎̓̎̋̾͊͑̄̈́̔̊̓̽͐͊̌͗̂͊̂̀̈̊͊̇́̆̽͘̕̚̕͜͝͝t̶̡̛̛͖̠̱͇̥̖͕͈̲̙͙̦̼̖̥̞͖̭̞͈̟͖̰͕̺͚̺̮̦̰͒̓̒̆̅̓͑̀͂̽̆̐̋̒́̈̒̀͗̌͊̄͂̍̊̌́̽̉͋̎͆̎̿͂͌̄̑̚̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅa̵̛̘̙͉̠̓͐̃͋͑̄̓͛͐͒̑̇̀́́͋́͋̾̂̐̽̔͛̄̓̍̾̃̀̈́́̇̏̒͐́͂̑̾̿̈̇͘̚͘̕͠͠ ̷̡̧̢̦̝͉̙̲̠̺̹̞͇̠͚̞̹̣̼͕͕̦͎̫̖̥̃̍̾̀͌̌̽͊̌̓̉̾͑͋̒̏̈́̔̊͋̚̕͘͜͜͜͠ͅc̸͍̝̺͈͕̱͜͝o̸̡̠̠̳͎̯̞̜͖̮̘̲̓̾͑̓̀̀̎̌̓̐͑̀̿ͅr̸̨̛͕̠̦̬͈͉̺̼̘̺̘͓̦̺͍̫̘̩̙͍͙͉̘̰̤͇̮͚̟̗͈̘̖̈̋̔̀̂͒̆̄͊͋̄̅̊̆́͒̏͊̈̂̾̐̂́̚͠r̸̡̡̧̡̢̛̲̝̺͔̩̹͚̞̪̼̘̫̥͈͈͉̬̹͓̯͍̹͍̮̼̝͎͍̻̞͕̪͙̥̹͙͙͔̼̝͓̈́̍̏̀̾̅͒̎̇̃̀̀̓͑͌̾͗͛̽̒͐̉̍̌̓̔͗̑̋͊̽́̄̆͘͝͝ͅu̶̧̡̡̧̡̜̣̹͎̮̩̭͖̪̟̟͚̠̜̼̞͙̹͎̯̣̠̰̱̘̥̘͚̹̜͇̣̗̮͎̦̬̪̤̟̍̏̋̀͊̎̋̽͆͑̓̋͑̈́͗̌̂̓̄̀͊̌̀́̀́̇̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅp̵̡̢̛̛̥̼̝̬̯͉̭̹͇̺̟̬̦̞͈̩̦̥̪̱̿̽̒̀́͒̌͌̈́̈̓̿͂́̽͒̑̓̓͗͐̑̊̈͑́̏̇̂̍̎̾̽̐̾͐͆̈̔̅̚̕͝͝ͅẗ̸̡̛̛̙͇̲̪̙̝͔̭̘̱̪͚̝̻͙͛́͆́̃̂̉̽̓̒̎̉̋́͋̇̂̏̊̒͋̔͐͑̚͜͝͠͠ȩ̷̨̫͍͓͎̯͔̻͍͖̖̩̗͇̭͙̠͓̳̫͓̹͇̳̯̪̔̌̃̓͜͜͠ḑ̷̧̨̛̻̺̭̭̩̤̺͔̠͕͙͕̺͎̹̩̳͎̮͖̘̞͉̙̥̪͇̱̟͓̥̲̹͈̫̜̘͈̞̗͆̏̎̃̿̆̉͂̈́̐̉͛́̇̈̚͜͝ͅ]̴̢̧̪̟̮̩͎̘̺̯̫̞͙̖̣̳̪͉̩̪̦̺̞̜̥̠̮͈̞͚͎̮̝̳̲̞̲̤̳̥̱̳̣̘̳̲̀̅̓̾͗̍̆̊́͐͊͋̏́́̈́̍̔̌͐̃̇̓͘͜͝͠ͅ
[̸̹̫̻̩̱̤͔͍̞̯̥͚̦̣͕̲̤̜̙̝̈́͛̿̐̋̽͛̕͜͜ͅD̷̥̰͔͍̒a̷̡̙̱̞̙͓̗͈̰͋̃̆̆̇̂͂̈́̄̎̓̎̋̾͊͑̄̈́̔̊̓̽͐͊̌͗̂͊̂̀̈̊͊̇́̆̽͘̕̚̕͜͝͝t̶̡̛̛͖̠̱͇̥̖͕͈̲̙͙̦̼̖̥̞͖̭̞͈̟͖̰͕̺͚̺̮̦̰͒̓̒̆̅̓͑̀͂̽̆̐̋̒́̈̒̀͗̌͊̄͂̍̊̌́̽̉͋̎͆̎̿͂͌̄̑̚̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅa̵̛̘̙͉̠̓͐̃͋͑̄̓͛͐͒̑̇̀́́͋́͋̾̂̐̽̔͛̄̓̍̾̃̀̈́́̇̏̒͐́͂̑̾̿̈̇͘̚͘̕͠͠ ̷̡̧̢̦̝͉̙̲̠̺̹̞͇̠͚̞̹̣̼͕͕̦͎̫̖̥̃̍̾̀͌̌̽͊̌̓̉̾͑͋̒̏̈́̔̊͋̚̕͘͜͜͜͠ͅc̸͍̝̺͈͕̱͜͝o̸̡̠̠̳͎̯̞̜͖̮̘̲̓̾͑̓̀̀̎̌̓̐͑̀̿ͅr̸̨̛͕̠̦̬͈͉̺̼̘̺̘͓̦̺͍̫̘̩̙͍͙͉̘̰̤͇̮͚̟̗͈̘̖̈̋̔̀̂͒̆̄͊͋̄̅̊̆́͒̏͊̈̂̾̐̂́̚͠r̸̡̡̧̡̢̛̲̝̺͔̩̹͚̞̪̼̘̫̥͈͈͉̬̹͓̯͍̹͍̮̼̝͎͍̻̞͕̪͙̥̹͙͙͔̼̝͓̈́̍̏̀̾̅͒̎̇̃̀̀̓͑͌̾͗͛̽̒͐̉̍̌̓̔͗̑̋͊̽́̄̆͘͝͝ͅu̶̧̡̡̧̡̜̣̹͎̮̩̭͖̪̟̟͚̠̜̼̞͙̹͎̯̣̠̰̱̘̥̘͚̹̜͇̣̗̮͎̦̬̪̤̟̍̏̋̀͊̎̋̽͆͑̓̋͑̈́͗̌̂̓̄̀͊̌̀́̀́̇̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅp̵̡̢̛̛̥̼̝̬̯͉̭̹͇̺̟̬̦̞͈̩̦̥̪̱̿̽̒̀́͒̌͌̈́̈̓̿͂́̽͒̑̓̓͗͐̑̊̈͑́̏̇̂̍̎̾̽̐̾͐͆̈̔̅̚̕͝͝ͅẗ̸̡̛̛̙͇̲̪̙̝͔̭̘̱̪͚̝̻͙͛́͆́̃̂̉̽̓̒̎̉̋́͋̇̂̏̊̒͋̔͐͑̚͜͝͠͠ȩ̷̨̫͍͓͎̯͔̻͍͖̖̩̗͇̭͙̠͓̳̫͓̹͇̳̯̪̔̌̃̓͜͜͠ḑ̷̧̨̛̻̺̭̭̩̤̺͔̠͕͙͕̺͎̹̩̳͎̮͖̘̞͉̙̥̪͇̱̟͓̥̲̹͈̫̜̘͈̞̗͆̏̎̃̿̆̉͂̈́̐̉͛́̇̈̚͜͝ͅ]̴̢̧̪̟̮̩͎̘̺̯̫̞͙̖̣̳̪͉̩̪̦̺̞̜̥̠̮͈̞͚͎̮̝̳̲̞̲̤̳̥̱̳̣̘̳̲̀̅̓̾͗̍̆̊́͐͊͋̏́́̈́̍̔̌͐̃̇̓͘͜͝͠ͅ
N̸̹͌ơ̷̳ ̴̬̑P̴̮͘a̷̹̒r̸̰̓t̴̗͝ÿ̷̤ ̴̱̽P̶̑ͅo̵̜͝o̴̱̔p̷̰͝e̸̯͌ř̸͈s̵̡̋ ̷̻̓A̸̖̽l̷̖͛ľ̷͜ô̶̲ẅ̵͎è̷̬ḑ̵͆!̶̿
