Alone (Fiction)

A few people have asked for the full story excerpted in this post. Not sure if this is anyone else’s experience of high school anxiety, but here’s one attempt to replicate it:


Freshman year, this kid I played baseball with in the summers, he bets me who’ll win a football game on Sunday, says he bets me a dollar, and on Sunday his team wins—

And that whole Monday, I don’t have any money in my pockets, I’m scared and waiting for him to show up, wanting his fucking dollar—

Of course he never does, I’m just an idiot—

People talk and don’t know what they say, I listen and I want them to listen to me and know what I say as much as I notice them, nobody does

Or same year, a kid a year older than me, but we look alike, people say we’re brothers, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed by this, but we both come in one day with the same haircut just about, and I’m terrified he’ll mention it, or that he sees it but doesn’t mention it, just hates me—

I’m such an actor, so fake—

I can’t stop acting—

I’m just nobody—

When I was little, I would stand in front of my window while I was changing, and I’d flick people off, flick them off just in case there was somebody I couldn’t see who was watching me—

A fucking eight year-old, doing that, there’s something wrong with that—

I’ve never been able to not feel like I’m being watched, ever—

            And my room was on the upstairs, I still imagined people, floating there, watching me—

            I never closed the shade—

It wasn’t that I could hide myself, it was there was always someone there—

            I hate myself, that part of myself, I can’t get it off me—

            I have no idea how I look to other people, I feel hunched over—

            The paranoia’s worse and worse, until this is just who I am now, I’m constantly nervous around anyone and doing anything—

            Well maybe not constantly, meaning all the time, seventy-five percent of the time for sure though—

            I never feel totally comfortable, which is why I can’t tell anyone any of this, I can’t even write it, I’m a coward—

            Fucking actor—



            Can’t even say it right, how would I even put it—

            I can’t take anything that talks back, I can’t take anything that just listens—

I can’t take anything, I hate myself, there’s no reason I should be like this, nobody’s watching me but I know they are—

            I don’t think the world’s horrible, I’m not like those kids who pretend to be deep, the ones as afraid as me who act like intellectuals, talk and talk, it all boils down to how awful the world is, what a pile of shit—

            I mean I do hate everybody, they’re as fake as me but they like it, but I don’t see the point of talking about it, like it’s a mystery or something you fix, the sun comes up in the morning and I hate everyone, so what—

            It’s just bullshit, the dumbest bullshit, in the lunchroom with like three hundred other kids, freshman to senior, even some kids walking past from the fucking junior high, and passing through the lunchroom are football players who’ve just worked out, and I see their legs or their arms, and I think everyone else does too, and I think they’re just comparing me to them, Look at him, his legs are shit, his arms are shit, how can he stand to be in here—

            It’s not violence, they’re not going to come and beat me up, I see the kids who get beat up, I’m definitely not them, at least it’s not that—

It’s a look, it’s what’s going on in their heads I can’t figure out, that I’m sure is about how ugly I am, how quiet, how stupid—

            And there’re other juniors, there’re even seniors—even teachers, fucking teachers!—who’re smaller than me, skinnier than me, or fatter—and the kids from the junior high, how bad must they feel, do they all think this way—

            They can’t, I’m obviously the only one—

            Imagine the world if everyone thought like this all the time, maybe they do, maybe that explains everything—

            And if they do I don’t know about it, it doesn’t matter anyway—

            I’m such a—I’m such a fuck, such an actor, so fake, I’m all those, I’d think of more and they’d all be true—


            I can’t even put this right, there’s no way to talk about it, I don’t even make sense to myself—

            I think people notice how I’ve worn the same pair of pants all week, or how I wore the same shirt two Wednesdays in a row, I assume they notice it, but then I realize I’ve never looked at anybody’s pants, I don’t pay attention to what people are wearing—

Unless it’s girls and it’s something tight, it’s hard to not notice that—

            I think it’ll get better, I think it will if I give them what they want, what I think they want, make sure they’re happy with me—

I don’t like it when people are angry with me, all I do is avoid arguments, I don’t want to know anybody’s opinion of me—

            But I do, that’s the problem, I so do—

And some people that’re sort of like me, they’re lucky, they’re quiet like I am but they absorb people, they’re sponges, they can’t talk about it but they can get people’s emotions, they can figure people out, they have a way of knowing people, they can trick them in a way, they can predict what people’ll do, I’ve seen it—

I’ve seen people when they see somebody kissing up to a teacher, coming on to somebody, they smile, and then I notice it too—

It’s like you’ve caught them acting, it’s like you pulled their mask off, it’s all an act, you smile at it when you see it, a guy trying to pick up a girl—

A guy’s always trying to pick up a girl—

            I’d die to be able to do that, to be nosy, to have that advantage, to see what other people can’t see about themselves, but all I can see is what I’m not, or what I am, just shit, scared, terrified, can’t even talk or explain anything—

            A girl in study hall with big beautiful eyes and a weird smile because of her braces but she’s gorgeous, but I don’t look at her because I know someone will see me looking at her, or she will, I just want to look at her—

            I even sat with a girl once at a basketball game, I was stunned with all these people around that she sat next to me, wanted to talk to me, but it was nonsense, I couldn’t talk to her for more than a minute, all I could see were everyone else’s eyes on me, everybody was whispering to everybody else, He’s sitting with a girl, look at that, he’s sitting with a girl—

            But what’m I supposed to do, I can’t talk to anyone, I can’t write it down, I can’t show it to anybody, nobody knows it about me, to anybody else I’m just shy or quiet—

            Or they see me for a fucking actor, false, afraid, they don’t see why I act—


            What’s the point of it then, if I can’t use it, just tripping over all of it, what’s the point of being able to talk, being able to think, dragging myself around in this stupid body that doesn’t make any sense, what’s the point if it’s all clumsy and dishonest and scared and full of crap—

            I want to look someone in the eye but I can’t—

            What’re the point of eyes if that’s the end of them, I can’t look at anybody, I don’t want them to look at me, what’s the point of eyes, I want to look at someone and let them look at me, why don’t I take my eyes out if I can’t do something with them—

At least blind I wouldn’t fuck with these games—

            But whatever the reason for my feelings, they are my feelings, and if they’re just being blown out of proportion, I’m sorry, they’re serious to me

            About the only thing that is serious to me—

            And I used to want to tell my parents, Listen, although suicide is as common in my mind as what to eat next, I have the common sense and will power to not do it, don’t worry

            But what’s the point of that, if I can’t even tell it to them—

            And it’s their fault I can’t tell them—

            How great it would’ve been to tell them that I think about suicide, and all the time, but not like I’m going to do it, but just that I think about it—

How much it would be to just tell them that, without mom going nuts, without dad taking the entire thing personally, how they’ve never done anything to make me feel this way, how it’s just stupid of me to think that way and he’d refuse to imagine it, while mom can’t help but imagine it and would just cry or worry, tell dad to take the door off my room, stupid shit—

I can’t tell them, I can’t explain it, I can’t try to say that it has nothing to do with them, they never did anything wrong, dad would just say that doesn’t make any sense—

And that’s the point, it doesn’t make any sense, that’s why it hurts

It doesn’t mean it isn’t real because it doesn’t make any sense, it means it hurts more because it doesn’t make any sense but won’t leave me alone—

            Why can’t I just tell them, or somebody, it would mean so much if I could—

            But I can’t without it seeming like an alarm—          

            Just to tell someone would make it stop, I’m sure of it, but they’d never see that, and why not, why the hell not—

Why is all of this so hard—

            I’m supposedly someone to care for, to think about, to give a shit about, but through nobody’s fault I can’t remember the last time I felt like somebody cared for or thought about or gave a shit about me at all—

            I can’t remember it, and if it happened, I couldn’t see it—

But I can’t tell anyone without them wrapping me up and taking me somewhere—

            It’s not that serious, but it is, it is that serious, but that’s not the way to do anything about it—

            And it’s even worse, my parents, they don’t drink, they don’t hit me, they don’t yell at me, they’ve been married twenty years, and everyone else I talk to, they get hit, their parents are assholes, they drink, they swear at them or hit them, I’ve got none of that yet I feel this way—

            It’s ridiculous, I’m ashamed—

            Church is fucked and stupid and I laugh when they say sin, but I know what shame is, I’m ashamed every fucking day—

            The biggest and most impossible fantasy of mine is that I would kill myself, return the next day to school in someone else’s body, and try as best I can to get an honest answer to the question What did you really think of me?, and after getting my answers, I would return to the day before, alive and well, knowing the true feelings of others—

            That would fix me, if I just knew—

            I can’t ask, I see everything everyone does, and I analyze it, sometimes I’ll stereotype them, I use my judgment to guess what they think of me, but never really truly know—

            I become obsessed with the memory of a bad or good look that probably wasn’t directed at me, or a glance or a laugh or whatever, and I’ll create others’ opinions of me without their input at all, and then I like or dislike them because of all this, and I avoid or can be friendly to a certain few, because I think they like me—

They seem to anyway—

            But in a way I’m not telling everything, I may just be acting again, but I can’t help that, this is as honest I guess as I can get

            This is the best I can put it, it’s so hard to find words for this—

            It’s isn’t about shooting anybody, you tell somebody you want to kill yourself and they think what you mean is you want to shoot up the school—

            People don’t treat me bad, they just don’t treat me at all—

            I hate them, but not because they pick on me—

            If I wanted to shoot anybody it’d be myself—

            Those kids on the news, I understand them, but that’s not what this’s about—

            Of course it’s the kids with guns who get all the attention, I’m harmless except to myself, as long as I’m the one in danger nobody cares, so I’m safe—

            Fuck them—

            Sure I get mad at girls, they ignore me, or only ones with boyfriends talk to me, I don’t want to kill them—

            One girl I know, I wish I could talk to her, I heard somebody talking about her, her parents are divorced and her dad’s remarried, but she lives with her mom and her little brother, I’ve heard her tell her friends about that, how hard it is, and I just want to talk to her, I hear her behind me and I just want to turn and talk to her, I want to say how I feel—

            I imagine the two of us at the football games on Friday, walking around the track and ignoring the game, or just leaving the game early, going somewhere and talking, I watch my own steps on the sidewalk at night and I think what hers would be next to mine—

            I wonder what it would be like to be funny with her, if I could, take her shoulders and tell a joke and make her laugh—

            I never cried about a girl but I cry about her, when I think about her, if I could do that, if she could stand my voice and I could stand hers and we could talk and listen—

            I look and see her and see pain and the same kind of alone in me—

            I even see her with her friends, people talking, she’s quiet sometimes and I watch her—

            And I just know, if I could just talk to her, I just know we could help each other

            And not like a fucking doctor, not that help, because that doesn’t help, like we’re paying each other to talk to each other, not like some kind of chore, you two are both sad, go talk to each other, but I mean really, I can’t stop thinking about her sometimes, what it would be like to talk—

            And I’m sure if that happened, when I feel like this I could think of her, and how we talked, and how this won’t last, I could think about her and be okay—

            I see her in the hallway, she walks by and dresses weird, I want to say that even though I don’t dress weird, we have things in common, we could talk—

            But it’d be nothing, she’d listen to me for a minute at best, see how lucky I have it, and tell me off—


            I’ve got nothing to be sorry for, she’s got assholes on all sides of her, the only asshole around me is me—

            Or a girl in my geometry class, the bell’s about the ring one day and I just turn my head and happen to see her and look past her, and she just says something like That’s real nice, because I had some look on my face, I have no idea what it was—

How can I do anything, I don’t know how I sound or how I look or what my face does—

Years ago at baseball practice, I was still little then, they had people try to bunt, and when it was my turn I couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t do it, I tried and tried and later some kid says it looked like I wasn’t trying at all—

 I never tried to do anything harder than I tried to bunt those fucking balls, and nobody saw it

And even worse, they saw the exact opposite, how lazy—

Or in gradeschool I was biting my nails like I was at home, and I don’t know why I did it, I bit one off and flicked it behind me, landed on some kid’s desk, a friend, I see him out of the corner of my eye brush it away, stare at me, I’m too scared to say I’m sorry or I don’t know why I did that, I just freeze and act like it didn’t happen and look even more like an asshole—

This is all so complicated, my head explodes that this has been going for so long, I can’t put it right—

So how am I supposed to approach a girl, or talk to a girl, or try to see if a girl likes me, or find out she does and ask her out, and go out with her and hold her hand in public, and talk to her on the phone, how’m I supposed to do any of this when my voice won’t let me, my body, my face—

That seems impossible, how do you know somebody so well that you can see them naked and let them see you naked when you can’t stand to see yourself naked, my body is sick and I have no control over anything, I can’t talk to anybody—

I don’t even jerk off, I can’t even do that, I’ve never tried, I just think of my dead grandparents or my neighbors watching and I can’t do it, I can’t do it there and it all comes out while I’m sleeping and mom has to wash my underwear and it’s all just shame and sick—

Don’t tell me this is how I’m supposed to be

I can’t imagine showing myself to anybody, I hate how my underwear dries yellow after that happens, and I know everyone knows about it—

            Or I wake up in the middle of the night to piss, I sit down to piss, dad’s sleeping in the next room but I know he’d be awake if he heard me, I think if he heard me he’d be timing it somehow, he’d be assuming mine was big or small by how long I pissed—

How stupid, my dad with a fucking stopwatch at four in the morning timing how long I’m fucking pissing, like that means anything, like that even sounds reasonable—

            But it’s all I do—

It’s all I fucking do—

It’s all I fucking do and I cry about it and am scared to death and I feel relieved but it just comes back—

It’s all I do—

That and a million things like it, tear myself apart with it—

            I fantasize about girls, I like a certain girl for a month or a few months, one of them I liked for almost the whole school year, some pathetic replacement for what I should be doing, I imagine whole conversations, things I do myself I imagine doing with her, how I would do it, a movie or whatever, I’d hold a door for her or buy her dinner—

Yeah, and with what money

And when I stop liking her it’s like breaking up is in movies, ridiculous, I feel sad for awhile and then not, and when I see them again I feel sad but happy at the same time, some dumb shit feeling, it’s like I’ve experienced something but I haven’t, it’s all just garbage—

I haven’t said a word or done a thing except in my own head, my own head that betrays me—

All I’ve actually seen and done is seen her walking down the hallway with somebody she wants to talk to, not even a guy she likes, just a guy, doesn’t matter who, and how the guy makes her laugh and how she shoves him in that silly way girls shove guys who make them laugh, how they lift their heads when they laugh, how their cheeks rise and their eyes squint when they laugh, that’s all I see—

That’s all I fucking see

I see that—

And I want to tear at them I’m so angry, and I sit in the car or I drive home and I shut the door, and there’s nothing, it’s all just shit—


            I can’t say this at all, I can’t even say it—

            On the weekends I barely leave the house, sometimes I don’t, in the summer it’s even better, I count how many days it’s been since I actually stepped outside, in gradeschool it was how many days since I washed my hands, or when the mailman comes I stand in the garage for a minute, five minutes, waiting and making sure no one else is walking or driving down the street, I don’t want to see anyone walking or driving by, I don’t want to say hi or say the wrong thing, I don’t want to say nothing, I don’t want their looks whatever I say—

I don’t want to see anyone

            I just wish there was one person I could be alone with, one person I could ask to stay—

            But there isn’t, just a three-minute twenty-two-second song I listen to on repeat—

No singing or words, might as well not be listening to anything—

            Tell me I shouldn’t kill myself, just tell me and I will—

            I tried to sleep two nights ago but my head was going all over, I rolled around in bed, turned on every side, opened the window—

            I put my head on the sill and looked out at the street and it was so quiet, no cars going down the street and none going by on the main roads—

And I almost, I just almost, I was there and there was this wind and it was so quiet, I heard the leaves falling from the trees onto the roof, against the window, it was so quiet and I thought I was calm, I was finally calm, when a car drives by—

            And it took everything in me to not jump out the window and off the garage to chase that car, to just stand up and scream—

It’s like a bug in the middle of my head that I can’t dig out—

            And the wind was blowing in and rattling my door and I was sure mom or dad had to hear it, they do every other night, and I waited by the door for them to get up and tell me to close my window, or put a shoe in the door, or just yell it from the next room, but it never happened—

            Even they don’t give a shit, I’m so confused—


            I don’t want them to bother me, I’m sick of their nagging all the time—

But I want them to bother me, I want them to notice, I want them to hear the door rattle and know that the window is open and that I can’t sleep, I want them to know everything I can’t say, and tell me what I can do to fix it—

            And I open my door and go downstairs and there’s nothing, nothing, nothing from their room, I’m sure they’re ignoring me, I’m sure they don’t care, they don’t have anything to worry about, nothing keeps them up at night, they decide to go to sleep and it’s over in a second—

            And I go to the couch in the living room, and I kneel there, and it must be midnight, and the street is as quiet as it was upstairs, and the lamps outside light up the houses, the driveways, the garbage cans, the lights in other windows, it’s all in black and white, it’s not even a real world, those trees in the front yard I go by when I’m mowing the lawn, those aren’t the same trees I saw then, they were pure black in the dark—

            And I pound the only thing I can that keeps this quiet, I pound the cushions of the couch, and I remember that I’m kneeling in front of the couch in the same place as my father, in a picture of me after I was born, holding me in his lap—

And why the fuck did they make me, to feel like this—

I throw myself at the couch and the noise in my head, everybody’s eyes and all their voices, and I keep looking at the steps, I keep looking at the steps, I keep looking to the steps to see my mom come down the stairs to see what’s wrong—

Don’t they know there’s something wrong, has there ever been anything more obvious—



Not even a bad dream—

            I used to think something that would calm me, I used to think of a space ship blasting off from earth, and I’m just looking down as it goes, and I see everything get smaller until I’m out into space and even the biggest things get smaller, the earth, the other planets, the sun, I’m going away from all of them until it’s just black and so dark I don’t even know if I’m moving—

            I don’t even know if I’m moving—

            I tried to think of that, I tried to think of that, I tried to think of floating and quiet, I tried but my head wouldn’t let me, I just wanted to crack open my fucking head and pour it out and not think this way anymore—

            And I know where all the guns are, I know where all the guns are because dad told me where they are, in case there was ever a burglar, over the mantle and atop this shelf and under his bed—

            And I thought how I could get to that quiet with just a run to the mantle and swallowing the thing and I’m gone—

            And I thought how I would never wake up ever again on a Monday, or on a Thursday I wished were a Friday, how I would never have to wake up or eat or walk ever again, no more eyes and no more listening and no more anyone—

            No more wanting anyone and wishing they wanted to be with me—


            But it’s always my mother, I think of how it’d all be over in a second, it’d be so easy, but I know she’d be the one to find me, my mother I’m nothing but a trouble for—

I’ve thought of taking one of the guns and driving somewhere, anywhere, it doesn’t matter, it could be on top of a mountain a million miles away, and they could report me missing, and the entire world could know I was missing and go looking for me, and I could shoot myself in a cave in India, and she would be the one to find me, the same as the kitchen downstairs, her only child with his head blown off and why did I do it, and she kneels and lays me across her lap and screams and sobs, and I can’t do that to her—

            I thought of telling them off, I think of what the most horrible thing I could say to them would be, to where they’d kick me out of the house and say they never want to see me again, but they’d never do that, I’d never say a horrible thing and they’d never react that way, neither of us are that way—

I’m so lucky and it’s only the thought of her coming to my grave that keeps me from it—

            And that’s how I see how silly I am, some woman I can’t talk to and who can’t talk to me—

            I’m willing to put up with sixteen or twenty hours of this shit a day, just on the off chance that someone whose house I live in might talk to me, or me to her—

            I’m sure it’s me who ignores her, it’s not her fault—

            It’s not her fault, it’s not mine, I wouldn’t know how to talk to me either, it’s nobody’s fault and it’s just shit, this is just how it is, I can’t even talk right—


I act, and I’m nobody, so’s everybody else, how couldn’t they be—

            Everyone’s stupid, everyone’s afraid—

            The people my age who act like they aren’t afraid will just grow up to be like our teachers or my parents, acting and nobodying and doing nothing, fuck them—

            Tell me where there’s an adult that isn’t just a kid, I used to think being older meant something, I remember I was five and dad said he’d play catch with me at night, but then he couldn’t, something came up, it was the first time that happened—

It just shattered me being that little, and being lied to by my father

Not actually lied to, but that’s how it felt, I was only five, what did I know—

            And in gradeschool, after some kid gets beat up, and the pastor takes everybody in our class, all the boys, and we’re in this tiny room for two days, two whole days of trying to see who did it and why, telling us how to treat other people, I had nothing to do with it but was put in there with them, and so many others, none of this is fair—

They just tell me to figure out a way, to just get through high school, everybody goes through this when they’re young—

            They just tell me I’ll grow up and get married and have a house and two cats—

            Fuck that, that doesn’t do anything for me now, tell me I’ll have a wife and I’ll see her one day sleeping on our couch and wake her up so we can go to bed together—

            Fuck that, when—

            Ten years from now, twenty, just five—

            I can’t see past next Monday—

            Everything is so uncertain, I cry at music or a movie or a memory and feel I’ve gone away from this, but then come out of it and everything else is just how it was—

            I won’t make it till then, I won’t make it till thirty, I can’t stay here anymore—

            The people who ignore me, they’re mean and cruel and stupid, they don’t know a thing, they can barely read or talk—

            And the girls who ignore me, fuck them, they’re whores, they wouldn’t look good with me and that’s all they think about so fuck them, I don’t need them, all they do is live for people to look at them—

I used to think being older meant something, but it means being exactly how you are now, except with more money—

            I can’t stand other people—

            I don’t want to think about them, I don’t want them to think about me, I want to be left alone—

And somebody said this once in one of our classes, how fake and acting and insincere everything is, and the teacher comes back with God, You can’t leave God out of this, once you bring God in it all changes

            Bullshit, God’s a funny one, I used to pray every night, now I don’t pray at all, I don’t see any difference—

            Because am I like this now because nobody’s praying for me—

            And do I deserve this—

            I don’t feel protected, I don’t feel loved, I don’t feel like there’s any respect for anything, I don’t think there should be, what does God have to do with it—

            If God is how they say he is, God doesn’t matter—

Dumbasses like to be shocking and say they don’t believe in God, who cares, it doesn’t matter—

All people want to do is be noticed, to shock—

I don’t want to shock, I want to be left alone, I want quiet, I want my head to empty out and be quiet—

The only thing that calms me now is something else, it’s almost too big for my head—

It’s that there was never an earth, and never anybody on it, and then it’s that there was never a universe, and nobody and no life, no stars or planets or heat, or those gasses, clouds, nothing moving ever

And I keep going back and back, like in that spaceship, and all the lights go out, until I’m not even there—

And there was never anything, no life ever anywhere, nothing ever anywhere—

I see it in my head like a movie and it makes it hard to breathe and I smile, it makes perfect sense in my head, how big a thought it is—

Not if life never happened here, or if the past never happened just here, but anywhere, a simple huge nothing—

I just can’t say it right, but it’s so great.


14 Comments Add yours

  1. WOW !!!
    What a way to start the morning !
    A very brave piece—takes courage to make a comment.
    Mixing real life subtly and gracefully in with fictional content.
    Or was it just a giant bonfire of truth ?
    Either way you get a perfect score from me.
    A truckload of reality in a small package.
    Hardcore !!!

  2. BelleUnruh says:

    For people who live in their heads, school is the worst place to be. And there are years and years of it. How nice it would have been to be a girl in medieval times learning how to cook, sew and clean by my mother’s side. Of course then I could have the Plague, or perhaps death in childbirth and probably dire poverty. Still, I think it would have been better than school.

  3. I’m the girl who dresses weird and am glad you finally talked to me. Tim, your honesty is riviting. This is profoundly beautiful…thank you for your courage in writing it.
    “Books taught me that the things that tormented me most were the things that connected me to all people”
    James Baldwin

  4. Your blog as a whole is amazing.

  5. I would love some tips

  6. Tim Miller says:

    Don’t stop writing, no matter what anyone else says.

  7. Your blog is riveting. Keep on pushing!

  8. Don Royster says:

    Love the narrator’s voice in this one.

  9. sineda87 says:

    Reblogged this on Sineda's Sanctuary and commented:
    I can honestly relate to this. Great work by Tim Miller!

  10. Tim Miller says:

    Appreciate the reblog!

  11. Tim Miller says:

    Appreciate it, Don

  12. Tim Miller says:

    A belated thank you, Michael. I haven’t actually read this over in awhile, but I’m pretty sure this was mostly what happened back then. It only took about 20yrs to figure out how to write about it.

  13. Tim Miller says:

    A belated thanks, Donna. Took about 20yrs to figure out how to write it, I’m glad it communicates. In a way I wished I’d seen Baldwin’s quote back then, but high school being what it was, I may have been in too deep for it to help. Thank you for reading!

  14. sineda87 says:

    I enjoyed it very much so I’m sure others will too.

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