Jasnah holds up her bare hand and counts off a list of possible topics.
"No stormlight apart from what you take with you. The same can be said for anything edible. There are the aggressive non-sapient spren along with the aggressive sapient spren. And a sea of beads."
Her voice softens, catches, frays a little on that last one. Her first (unintentional) descent into Shadesmar (the colloquial name for the Cognitive Realm) had been met with a near-drowning, beads filling her mouth and weighing her down and dragging her under.
"And very few people. More now than there used to be."
"Sounds familiar." Yes, he knows environments like that well—alone, without food, surrounded by an inhospitable landscape and creatures that want to kill you. He's lucky he had the gestrals. Otherwise, he really might have gone insane out there.
She nods. His descriptions of the Continent have often reminded her of the harsh living conditions in Shadesmar. And — she realizes — Verso would have more luck than most in surviving that strange space with its strange sun and inverted landscape. A sea where there's supposed to be land. Land where there's supposed to be sea.
"I've been one foot into the Cognitve Realm more times than I can count," she answers — a little airily. Provided the smallish portal remains open, she can pop in-and-out of a single spot with ease. Especially helpful when soulcasting to be able to peer in and pick exactly the right bead to try and negotiate with.
"But a full scale trip?" Well. Another shrug. "Considerably fewer. Months on months trying to find a stable junction to return through has somewhat deadened my appetite for that Realm."
Verso sets his spoon down, the metal clinking softly against the bowl. She'd been talking about the Cognitive Realm in such impersonal, academic terms. He hadn't expected her to admit to being lost in it herself.
His surprise (however mild) startles her. But maybe she's underestimated just how coyly she's circumnavigated the topic before now.
"Last time I'd been stabbed," she answers. Just as cool but a little less careful than usual. "It's when everyone thought I'd died. I made it to the Cognitive Realm but couldn't get back."
"I didn't realize." Had she mentioned it? Certainly not how long she'd been there. Months is a short time for someone like him, but an awfully long time for someone who's only been alive as long as she has.
Yes, there's a similarity to the Continent there, but he'd never been stuck on the Continent, exactly. He could have returned to Lumière, if it weren't a terrible idea. He did return to Lumière a few times, despite the fact that it was a terrible idea. And, if he'd truly wanted, he could have returned to the manor with his tail between his legs, begging for Papa's forgiveness. He'd felt helpless, but not in the way she must have.
"As you said." She holds his eye contact — as steady as though they were discussing something simple. Like the translation of a word or the significance of a glyph. "Harrowing."
The bravery only breaks when, instinctive, she licks her lips like they're too too dry. Remembering the scarcity of water — another thing that doesn't exist naturally in the Cognitive Realm, and traded at a premium — and the difficult choices that had to be made again and again in favour of another cup, another jug, another skin.
Clearing her throat, she reaches for her wine and takes a mouthful of pink.
"A journey though those territories is straightforward enough when you're well-supplied, however. The sapient spren will trade for stormlight. Or even for everyday things brough over from this Realm."
"The ones that aren't aggressive, you mean," he points out. Doesn't sound completely straightforward to him. "—Well, I'm glad you made it back." He doesn't ask for more details; seems a bit traumatizing, and he's loath to make her relive it more than she already has. So, he quickly changes the subject:
"Which do you prefer, Thaylen food or Alethi food?"
The conversation ebbs and flows from there, thankfully without any more major blunders on his part. When they're done eating, he helps her from her seat and takes her back to Jochi's the same way he'd brought her, albeit with a little more surreptitious help. A hand on her back when she seems to be tiring, more 'impromptu' pauses as he points out things around them and asks her questions about them.
Jochi's still downstairs when they get back, thankfully. Verso would rather he didn't witness his (temporary) mangling. With Jasnah on the divan yet again, he heads to the kitchenette, fetching a rag. "Probably better that you don't see this part," he calls.
Storms, but she continues to grow more accustomed to him. From lunch, to the return commute, to the requisite proximity as he helps her up the stairs. And although she requires far, far less direct support today than she has on other occasions, there is something almost more intimate about letting Verso take two or three steps ahead of her— about the way he turns, offers his hands, waits to catch her whenever she inevitably needs their borrowed stability mid-step.
By the time they reach the top stair, she is faintly out of breath, colour high in her cheeks. The divan — her plush prison bench for most of these weeks — is an immediate relief. She sinks into it in a half-seated, half-leaning sprawl, stifling a yawn behind her glove.
However. Verso's warning, offered over his shoulder, has her heaving herself back to her feet with a low groan. If she must, she will follow him straight into the kitchenette to make her intentions known — pausing only to grab her notebook.
"Dessendre," she grinds his name out in a stilted command. "I intend to see each and every part."
With a rag and kitchen knife in hand (sorry, Jochi), Verso turns his attention to Jasnah across the way. She's close enough to the divan that he doesn't rush to be near her, but he does keep a careful eye on her, just in case.
She's certain whatever he's said about sudden movements has been wise but ultimately impractical. It helps — naturally — that Jasnah's the one who gets to define practicality in this moment.
She puts a hand on the end-tables for stability and males a point of watching him from where she stands. See? No risk of falling.
"Don't spare me the hard parts," she cautions him. Knowing even as she says it how silly it sounds. The hardest part remains his.
"Hard isn't the word I would use," he says, because it isn't hard to get hurt. He's done it a million times. "—Ugly, maybe."
It's the part where you have to watch the sausage get made instead of just enjoying it; he can't imagine it being at all appealing. But he can't stop her from watching—sure, he could scurry away to do it elsewhere, but she'd just follow him and risk hurting herself—so he only sighs and lays the rag out on the counter to soak up the blood. He flattens his left hand atop it, fingers splayed out, and lines the blade of the kitchen knife up above the knuckle of his little finger.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he warns, although there's a bit of hesitance on his face as he performs a few practice swings with the knife, before—
"Fuck, fuck—" He quickly presses the rag to the wound he's made, holding his hand close to his chest out of instinct. As he ruins one of Jochi's belongings with a steady stream of blood, he turns away from Jasnah and hunches over his mangled hand, some sort of involuntary protective inclination. "Putain."
Squeezing his eyes shut, he wills the wound to stop bleeding. The gushing stream slows and then stops entirely, and with a couple deep breaths, he straightens up and sets the red-soaked rag down. There's still a little blood on the counter where his disembodied pinky lays, and he makes a perfunctory attempt at cleaning it up before raising his hand.
She drifts from end-table to chair to kitchenette doorway — a hand touching each as she passes, an unspoken promise that she has something to cling to if required. It's not lost on Jasnah that her pride has signed her up for witnessing something she's unlikely to enjoy.
He tells her it's not as bad as it looks. She can't discern whether it's reassurance or warning. Whichever it is, she doesn't believe him. But her temple tilts against the door jamb and she watches with the same cautious silence one might watch a foreign ritual. The rag on the counter. The stretch of his palm against the fabric. The knife's edge — blessedly sharp, she assumes.
It takes a heroic amount of restraint and discipline not to wince, not to cringe, not to shut her eyes against the falling blade and the dull thwock. She doesn't need a language lesson to understand the electric-hot pain and visceral instinct behind his words. Remarkably, even now, she tucks them away for future reference.
Verso angles away from her and (without thinking) she takes a step in his direction. This time, it's not selfish voyeurism but rather a twisting stomach put worry. Care and concern for his pain and how it curls his shoulders that she hadn't anticipated given the rational understanding that he'll be fine. In fact, she mutters his name — Verso, proper — before hanging back with her hand on the doorway. Swallowing down human instinct.
A glance at the rag. A glance at the little finger — severed from its host. Jasnah has watched men boil and burn to death. She and Ivory have severed the spritwebs of enemies, leaving their eyes burnt out and greyed. But all of it seems clean compared to this. This, a wound that even if he couldn't heal it would be negligible in the grander map of humane experience. A wound that — when you think about it — isn't half as severe as her own. Still, an uncomfortable anxiety roils through her blood. Her eyes watch him. Cautious.
Bizarrely, absurdly, her mind is blank except for some archaic snippet of Iriali religious belief. That just as a little finger is one part of a greater whole, each person is one piece of a divine body.
"What happens now?"
Storms, but she's fighting for her composure. It's minor and most mightn't notice it at all. But Verso has lived in her company long enough.
"Will you," she pauses, tongue rolling inside her cheek as she chooses her words, "grow a new one?"
Even after healing, there's a little lingering pain that makes him grind his teeth. It's nothing compared to the litany of hurts he's endured in the past; he's been chewed up and digested, torn apart at the torso, smashed and crushed, vomited himself to death. A little finger is nothing, really, in the grand scheme of things.
So, he laughs. A little breathless, a little raspy, but a laugh.
"I'd rather not. Regrowing feels..." It's hard to explain. Uncomfortable. Itchy. A bit painful. Like the sore discomfort of a tooth growing in, but on a different body part entirely. "Weird," he settles on.
"Besides," he says, "this finger's still perfectly good."
The disembodied pinky finger on the counter twitches a few times, then inches across the stone. Like a worm.
She notes his preference in silence. Regrowing is weird. Dimly, she remembers a story about one of Stormblessed's bridgemen — the Herdazian, what was his name? — who'd been years without his arm but managed to regrow once he became a Windrunner. Unheard of, really. A wound so old and settled and sunk into one's Identity is ordinarily impossible to heal —
— Without thinking, she lays a palm on her stomach.
How much of himself has Verso regrown, she wonders. What bits of him are versions two, three, four, five, five hundred? With a guilty flicker in her eyes, she finds herself wondering whether he's a bit like a fabrial whose gears and mechanisms have been swapped so often that none of the original guts remain.
By contrast, confronting his traveling little finger is somehow less bizarre. Without thinking, running on pure curiosity, she blurts: "Do you feel what it feels?"
So, yes. He can feel what it feels. There's no biological, scientific basis to it, surely—no part of him is normal. He can keep going with a decapitated head, a bisected body, missing organs. All part and parcel of not being real. Of existing with the sole purpose to keep existing.
That's not worth sharing right now, though. Or maybe ever. His pinky finger waves at her.
Slowly, slowly the panic in her stomach settles. As visual evidence of his pain ebbs away, so too does the knee-jerk worry that had caught her so incredibly by surprise.
Jasnah makes no sudden movements as she carefully crosses the narrow space — reaching for the counter's lip as she sidles up next to him. Next to his finger. Next to the scene of the butchery.
"...May I?" She asks, lifting a (very attached!) finger of her own — indicating perhaps that she'd like to touch or prod or poke the pinky. The pinky that's waving at her.
Verso says nothing, but he leans against the counter with an expectant expression, seemingly unaware of or unwilling to recognize how disturbing it might be to watch someone's disembodied finger move on its own. While he does, the aforementioned disembodied finger hops across the counter to meet Jasnah, 'nodding' by bending a couple times in quick succession.
At first, she tries to convince herself that his finger is like some kind of spren. A fingerspren or an appendagespren or any other of the small little emotion— and naturespren that can pop up from time to time. Not the sapient kind, but the kind that simply exist.
But then — just as quickly — she disabuses herself of the thought. She recognizes it for what it is: a coping mechanism. A mind trying had to fit what she's seeing into some familiar paradigm. Replacing fact with belief.
Exhaling, she reaches out and touches the tip of her index finger to the tip of his pinky. A light—but—present pressure held in place before dragging down to the first knuckle. She'd expected it to be cold to the touch. Or (at any rate) cooling.
It's weird of him to be into this. He recognizes that on some rational, pragmatic level. On an emotional level, though, it feels like she's touching him, willingly and readily, and— it has been an extremely long time since he felt another person's fingers against his for any reason other than practicality. He swallows.
"Cool, huh?"
As in fascinating, interesting, exciting. The finger still feels warm and alive. It presses back against hers, playful.
"One time I made one of my fingers crawl into Monoco's bedroll. I didn't know he could scream so high-pitched."
— Because Jasnah is ignorant of that particular linguistic shift for cool. She taps the edge of her nail against a knuckle. And then gives the pinky a slow, experimental squeeze.
"Could you stay separated indefinitely?"
She wouldn't want him to. But the question steals across her all the same. Seemingly, he can stay separated long enough to play a prank without any concerns or considerations.
Girl, you are so weird. But then again, he's the one playing pranks with his disembodied fingers, so maybe they both have something to answer for. Regardless—
"Sure," he says with a shrug. "It's great for multitasking."
To her thin, thin credit — the shock has dissipated just enough that she doesn't even shiver grimly at the implication. And (perhaps a bit problematically) she finds herself looping back to the notion of spren. Sending a finger, a hand, an eyeball (?) off to snoop a room like she might occasionally send Ivory.
Having built up enough courage, she at long last and rather inevitably plucks the pinky off the counter and sets it in her gloved hand.
"You're fascinating," she mutters. At first blush it might feel forced after the day's earlier Lecture on compliments and praise, but the reality is that she's so distracted in her thoughts that it can't be anything but impulsive.
There's a little pang of melancholy in his chest, of wishing he could be fascinating for something that's his instead of every interesting thing about him being owned by someone else. There's no point, though, in dwelling on things that can't be—although he certainly loves to do it—so he pushes the thought out of his mind, smiling faintly and ruefully.
...And she's too busy staring at the little finger — tilting her palm just barely — to notice the tension in his reaction. Jasnah turns to face away from the counter, setting her hip against it's edge. She isn't ordinarily a leaner; however, her injury and subsequent need for a little extra support has turned her into someone eager to take advantage of nearby stable surfaces.
"Not like this," she counters. Not quite thinking through her words. Just speaking, unfiltered, as she finally tears her attention back to him.
Well. The rest of him.
"What about now — right now. Does it still...hurt?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"No stormlight apart from what you take with you. The same can be said for anything edible. There are the aggressive non-sapient spren along with the aggressive sapient spren. And a sea of beads."
Her voice softens, catches, frays a little on that last one. Her first (unintentional) descent into Shadesmar (the colloquial name for the Cognitive Realm) had been met with a near-drowning, beads filling her mouth and weighing her down and dragging her under.
"And very few people. More now than there used to be."
no subject
"Sounds familiar." Yes, he knows environments like that well—alone, without food, surrounded by an inhospitable landscape and creatures that want to kill you. He's lucky he had the gestrals. Otherwise, he really might have gone insane out there.
"How many times have you been?"
no subject
"I've been one foot into the Cognitve Realm more times than I can count," she answers — a little airily. Provided the smallish portal remains open, she can pop in-and-out of a single spot with ease. Especially helpful when soulcasting to be able to peer in and pick exactly the right bead to try and negotiate with.
"But a full scale trip?" Well. Another shrug. "Considerably fewer. Months on months trying to find a stable junction to return through has somewhat deadened my appetite for that Realm."
no subject
Verso sets his spoon down, the metal clinking softly against the bowl. She'd been talking about the Cognitive Realm in such impersonal, academic terms. He hadn't expected her to admit to being lost in it herself.
"When?"
no subject
"Last time I'd been stabbed," she answers. Just as cool but a little less careful than usual. "It's when everyone thought I'd died. I made it to the Cognitive Realm but couldn't get back."
no subject
Yes, there's a similarity to the Continent there, but he'd never been stuck on the Continent, exactly. He could have returned to Lumière, if it weren't a terrible idea. He did return to Lumière a few times, despite the fact that it was a terrible idea. And, if he'd truly wanted, he could have returned to the manor with his tail between his legs, begging for Papa's forgiveness. He'd felt helpless, but not in the way she must have.
"That must have been scary for you."
no subject
The bravery only breaks when, instinctive, she licks her lips like they're too too dry. Remembering the scarcity of water — another thing that doesn't exist naturally in the Cognitive Realm, and traded at a premium — and the difficult choices that had to be made again and again in favour of another cup, another jug, another skin.
Clearing her throat, she reaches for her wine and takes a mouthful of pink.
"A journey though those territories is straightforward enough when you're well-supplied, however. The sapient spren will trade for stormlight. Or even for everyday things brough over from this Realm."
no subject
"Which do you prefer, Thaylen food or Alethi food?"
The conversation ebbs and flows from there, thankfully without any more major blunders on his part. When they're done eating, he helps her from her seat and takes her back to Jochi's the same way he'd brought her, albeit with a little more surreptitious help. A hand on her back when she seems to be tiring, more 'impromptu' pauses as he points out things around them and asks her questions about them.
Jochi's still downstairs when they get back, thankfully. Verso would rather he didn't witness his (temporary) mangling. With Jasnah on the divan yet again, he heads to the kitchenette, fetching a rag. "Probably better that you don't see this part," he calls.
no subject
By the time they reach the top stair, she is faintly out of breath, colour high in her cheeks. The divan — her plush prison bench for most of these weeks — is an immediate relief. She sinks into it in a half-seated, half-leaning sprawl, stifling a yawn behind her glove.
However. Verso's warning, offered over his shoulder, has her heaving herself back to her feet with a low groan. If she must, she will follow him straight into the kitchenette to make her intentions known — pausing only to grab her notebook.
"Dessendre," she grinds his name out in a stilted command. "I intend to see each and every part."
no subject
With a rag and kitchen knife in hand (sorry, Jochi), Verso turns his attention to Jasnah across the way. She's close enough to the divan that he doesn't rush to be near her, but he does keep a careful eye on her, just in case.
"What did I say about sudden movements?"
no subject
She puts a hand on the end-tables for stability and males a point of watching him from where she stands. See? No risk of falling.
"Don't spare me the hard parts," she cautions him. Knowing even as she says it how silly it sounds. The hardest part remains his.
no subject
It's the part where you have to watch the sausage get made instead of just enjoying it; he can't imagine it being at all appealing. But he can't stop her from watching—sure, he could scurry away to do it elsewhere, but she'd just follow him and risk hurting herself—so he only sighs and lays the rag out on the counter to soak up the blood. He flattens his left hand atop it, fingers splayed out, and lines the blade of the kitchen knife up above the knuckle of his little finger.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he warns, although there's a bit of hesitance on his face as he performs a few practice swings with the knife, before—
"Fuck, fuck—" He quickly presses the rag to the wound he's made, holding his hand close to his chest out of instinct. As he ruins one of Jochi's belongings with a steady stream of blood, he turns away from Jasnah and hunches over his mangled hand, some sort of involuntary protective inclination. "Putain."
Squeezing his eyes shut, he wills the wound to stop bleeding. The gushing stream slows and then stops entirely, and with a couple deep breaths, he straightens up and sets the red-soaked rag down. There's still a little blood on the counter where his disembodied pinky lays, and he makes a perfunctory attempt at cleaning it up before raising his hand.
"...Pinkies up."
no subject
He tells her it's not as bad as it looks. She can't discern whether it's reassurance or warning. Whichever it is, she doesn't believe him. But her temple tilts against the door jamb and she watches with the same cautious silence one might watch a foreign ritual. The rag on the counter. The stretch of his palm against the fabric. The knife's edge — blessedly sharp, she assumes.
It takes a heroic amount of restraint and discipline not to wince, not to cringe, not to shut her eyes against the falling blade and the dull thwock. She doesn't need a language lesson to understand the electric-hot pain and visceral instinct behind his words. Remarkably, even now, she tucks them away for future reference.
Verso angles away from her and (without thinking) she takes a step in his direction. This time, it's not selfish voyeurism but rather a twisting stomach put worry. Care and concern for his pain and how it curls his shoulders that she hadn't anticipated given the rational understanding that he'll be fine. In fact, she mutters his name — Verso, proper — before hanging back with her hand on the doorway. Swallowing down human instinct.
A glance at the rag. A glance at the little finger — severed from its host. Jasnah has watched men boil and burn to death. She and Ivory have severed the spritwebs of enemies, leaving their eyes burnt out and greyed. But all of it seems clean compared to this. This, a wound that even if he couldn't heal it would be negligible in the grander map of humane experience. A wound that — when you think about it — isn't half as severe as her own. Still, an uncomfortable anxiety roils through her blood. Her eyes watch him. Cautious.
Bizarrely, absurdly, her mind is blank except for some archaic snippet of Iriali religious belief. That just as a little finger is one part of a greater whole, each person is one piece of a divine body.
"What happens now?"
Storms, but she's fighting for her composure. It's minor and most mightn't notice it at all. But Verso has lived in her company long enough.
"Will you," she pauses, tongue rolling inside her cheek as she chooses her words, "grow a new one?"
Or does the old one reattach?
no subject
So, he laughs. A little breathless, a little raspy, but a laugh.
"I'd rather not. Regrowing feels..." It's hard to explain. Uncomfortable. Itchy. A bit painful. Like the sore discomfort of a tooth growing in, but on a different body part entirely. "Weird," he settles on.
"Besides," he says, "this finger's still perfectly good."
The disembodied pinky finger on the counter twitches a few times, then inches across the stone. Like a worm.
no subject
— Without thinking, she lays a palm on her stomach.
How much of himself has Verso regrown, she wonders. What bits of him are versions two, three, four, five, five hundred? With a guilty flicker in her eyes, she finds herself wondering whether he's a bit like a fabrial whose gears and mechanisms have been swapped so often that none of the original guts remain.
By contrast, confronting his traveling little finger is somehow less bizarre. Without thinking, running on pure curiosity, she blurts: "Do you feel what it feels?"
no subject
So, yes. He can feel what it feels. There's no biological, scientific basis to it, surely—no part of him is normal. He can keep going with a decapitated head, a bisected body, missing organs. All part and parcel of not being real. Of existing with the sole purpose to keep existing.
That's not worth sharing right now, though. Or maybe ever. His pinky finger waves at her.
no subject
Slowly, slowly the panic in her stomach settles. As visual evidence of his pain ebbs away, so too does the knee-jerk worry that had caught her so incredibly by surprise.
Jasnah makes no sudden movements as she carefully crosses the narrow space — reaching for the counter's lip as she sidles up next to him. Next to his finger. Next to the scene of the butchery.
"...May I?" She asks, lifting a (very attached!) finger of her own — indicating perhaps that she'd like to touch or prod or poke the pinky. The pinky that's waving at her.
(Oh. Another roil in her stomach.)
no subject
no subject
But then — just as quickly — she disabuses herself of the thought. She recognizes it for what it is: a coping mechanism. A mind trying had to fit what she's seeing into some familiar paradigm. Replacing fact with belief.
Exhaling, she reaches out and touches the tip of her index finger to the tip of his pinky. A light—but—present pressure held in place before dragging down to the first knuckle. She'd expected it to be cold to the touch. Or (at any rate) cooling.
Huh.
no subject
"Cool, huh?"
As in fascinating, interesting, exciting. The finger still feels warm and alive. It presses back against hers, playful.
"One time I made one of my fingers crawl into Monoco's bedroll. I didn't know he could scream so high-pitched."
no subject
— Because Jasnah is ignorant of that particular linguistic shift for cool. She taps the edge of her nail against a knuckle. And then gives the pinky a slow, experimental squeeze.
"Could you stay separated indefinitely?"
She wouldn't want him to. But the question steals across her all the same. Seemingly, he can stay separated long enough to play a prank without any concerns or considerations.
no subject
"Sure," he says with a shrug. "It's great for multitasking."
no subject
Having built up enough courage, she at long last and rather inevitably plucks the pinky off the counter and sets it in her gloved hand.
"You're fascinating," she mutters. At first blush it might feel forced after the day's earlier Lecture on compliments and praise, but the reality is that she's so distracted in her thoughts that it can't be anything but impulsive.
no subject
"Thanks." A cant of his head. "So are you."
no subject
"Not like this," she counters. Not quite thinking through her words. Just speaking, unfiltered, as she finally tears her attention back to him.
Well. The rest of him.
"What about now — right now. Does it still...hurt?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...