Sunday was not a good day, but though Sid pores over it and the events leading up to it, she can't think of any way it could have gone differently. She can't help but go over it, though, every moment every instant every second together and apart. It is her curse, to analyze. To examine until no stone has been unturned, paranoid that she's missed some important detail, some thing that can change their fates. It is her purpose to see where something is wrong, follow it back to the source of its wrongness, and to fix it. This is wrong, this isn't right, but there is no fixing it. There is no step that could be changed, no conversation that could have gone differently. Nothing will bring Jim back to her. Nothing will take the pain out of his face when he left her.
She tries not to let herself grieve too long. Ultimately, though it certainly doesn't make it hurt any less, she can't say that she's surprised by what happened. Which in a way makes it an easier burden to carry. And she has to carry it. There are chores to do around the house. There is a realization that must be followed to its logical conclusion and so there are plans to be made. Flights must be booked. Cecelia needs to be fed and exercised and put through her tasks. The raven, dark-winged and beady-eyed, watches her weird-red-raven curiously. What is that liquid on its face? What means this shaking of the shoulders? It means her heart is broken, you stupid bird. Sid cracked herself open and revealed all of herself, but she could not be accepted for what she was. She could not be forgiven for what she's done.
No, she cannot change what's happened, but she can be watchful for the next time. If there even is one. She doesn't think there will be.
=====
Monday dawns a little brighter. When Frank steps into the baggage claim at DIA he finds Sid there. "What're you doing here?" he asks, surprised but pleased to see her there. She was supposed to pick him up at the curb in a few minutes, not meet him inside. He goes to hug his roommate, his friend, the woman who is like an incredibly attractive white little sister, but stops before he does and he studies her face. It's not hard to tell that something's wrong. Sid is paler than usual, her eyes are puffy, the skin around them reddish but also grey from a lack of sleep. "What's wrong?"
Sid just shakes her head. Turning away, she pulls her keys from her pocket and holds them out to him. He's had her keys in hand before. A look tells him they're down a room key. He looks at her, searches her face. "Sid, are you--"
"Going on a trip?" she finishes quickly, forcing a pained smile. "Yeah. I have some stuff I have to take care of back home, but I'll be back in a few days. Take care of Cici for me, okay?" Frank pulls a face. He doesn't like taking care of the raven because the raven eats meat, not kibble or dry pet food. It's only when she's walking away that the rest of what she said sinks in. Back home. Sid's never talked about home before. She's never talked about anywhere outside of Denver before, and they've lived together for over a year. She's gone on her way to security before he can catch her and ask.
She travels light. Just her messenger bag and a bookbag with a couple changes of clothes, an mp3 player Frank gave her ages ago, and a book [Essays and Poems by Ralph Waldo Emerson]. The first leg of her journey will take her Charlotte, and includes a four hour layover before she boards a flight to her final destination. All told, her trip will take eleven hours or so. A long time to try to keep her mind off of yesterday, and the love she had but lost. It makes sense, though, in a way. She meant what she said to Jim, that telling him everything would start something, but first things had to end. Going back to where things first went wrong means going back to the time before Sid Rhodes, and so that journey must come to an end. As she boards the flight she slips out of that name, and into another. Eleven hours is a long time to become reacquainted with Amelia Weston.
=====
Sometime around 11:30PM Monday night, Amelia sets foot inside her hometown for the first time in four years. She finds the bank of pay phones inside one of the terminals, and she calls a number she hasn't used since before she...before what happened to her, a number that is as permanently seared into her memory as Jim's face when he walked out the door. The number does not go through to her childhood home in the neighborhood of Manchester, however. It goes to some guy named Roy who really doesn't appreciate having been woken up so late on a Monday night, "Do you know what time I have to be at work tomorrow, bit--" She hangs up, because she really doesn't need anyone reminding her of what a horrible human being she is. Not on a fucking Monday night in fucking Pittsburgh.
Sighing, she heads out to the curb, doing a mental calculation of what should be left in her checking account after the last minute plane tickets. She'll have to move some money around, and for that she'll have to find a computer, but the libraries won't be open until the morning, and to get to the morning she has to find a place to stay. Amelia has the cabbie take her to the closest, cheapest motel. It has a similar feel to Jim's place. The bed has a similar stiffness, the color scheme is just as unpleasant. But it doesn't feel like him, doesn't smell like him. His psychedelic, stoic, addled, empowering presence is not soaked into the walls. When she turns off the light she can almost forget, and in almost forgetting she can sort of sleep, which she needs.
Tuesday is going to be a busy day.
Payback's a Verbena Witch
There is a sluggish start to Tuesday morning. Amelia wakes up slowly. Even before her eyes crack open - and crack they do, lashes tearing free of lashes glued together by dried salt water overnight - she knows that this is wrong. The feel of the sheets against her skin is wrong, the smell of the room is wrong. When she manages to peek her eyes open, she looks at the crack between the blackout curtains and the fall of the light is wrong.
Today is the day that she makes everything right, or almost everything. First things first. There are morning rituals to be observed, so a shower is taken, her teeth are brushed, her hair is combed. She puts on a clean t-shirt and yesterday's jeans beneath her heavy winter coat, pushes her feet into her Vaans, and heads out. There's a McDonald's close to the motel where she gets a McGriddle and hash browns before getting the hell out again.
The first stop is Andy. Young and stupid even at twenty-six, Amelia figures he's going to be the easiest to find and she's not wrong. After all these years he's still working at the same auto shop. She enters, asks after him and as luck would have it (luck, hah, like she's not very good at bending fate to suit her purposes) Andy's working today. Someone called in sick and he had to take his place. After a few minutes of waiting Andy enters the lobby from the garage, dressed in dark blue coveralls and wiping his hands on a dirty rag. His hair is a dirty, grimy brown stiff with grease from running his filthy hands through it over and over throughout the morning. His eyes are a bright clear blue that can become quite wide, as they do when they settle on the tall red haired woman.
"What's the matter, Andy? You look like you've seen a ghost." He has, she's dead, she's supposed to be dead, he saw her dead didn't he? She knows, but she can't help the quip as she jerks her head, indicating they should go outside. Stunned, the younger man can only follow her out into the harsh, bitter Pennsylvania winter.
The cold here is harder than the cold in Denver. It crystallizes in the lungs and pierces to the bone. Andy, stepping out without a coat, furiously rubs his hands together to warm them, but stops when Amelia turns to face him. The Arctic Circle would be warmer than being trapped in that cold, hard, angry stare.
"You're going to delive a message to Cody and Eli for me."
He tries to shrug her off. How much can she have changed in the last few years? She's still the nerd, the scientist, and he remembers the daughter of the junkie didn't fall far from the tree. "Why should I--"
"Don't." He throws up his hands, hey hey don't hurt me, and that icy look of hers turns positively glacial as she steps into his space. She feels empowered and she feels fucking ecstatic, but most of all she feels desperate. Desperate people can do some amazing things, he's seen it himself a time or two. And he has no idea of the power coiling around her now, the way she digs her nails into her palm hard enough to draw blood so she can focus.
"That didn't work for me," she says, her voice so low it's nearly lost on the wind despite their closeness. "I don't have to let it work for you. You're going to deliver a message to them for me. Tell them to meet me at the field at two o'clock this afternoon." Her own message delivered she turns and starts to walk away across the parking lot.
"Which field!" he shouts after her. Without pausing, she turns to glare at him over her shoulder. "The only one that matters!" she calls back, and she lets go of her weaving.
=====
Two o'clock rolls around and no one is at the field in question. It's not really a proper field, more a snow-covered expanse between a freeway and a shopping complex. Not really the best place to dump a body, but they were trying to make a statement. They were leaving a message and now, after all of these years, she's making her own statement.
A little after two a car pulls into the lot not far from her. Amelia slides down in the seat of her rental, watching them. She is a steak knife sitting on the passenger seat, its serrated edge stained pinkish, and a swath of sticky dried blood dabbed on her left forearm. Magic coils around her again, hovering near her until she sees one, two, three people step out of the other vehicle. Andy either decided or was dragged along. Chances are, it's the latter. No matter. He is not her target.
She watches them for a few minutes, gathering the last few tendrils of the Tapestry where she wants them to be, making up a pattern as she does. Outside the men are talking. One of them smacks Andy upside the head, no doubt annoyed at having his time wasted. The other one is searching, searching, searching, there. He sees her seated in her car and starts toward her, but goes no more than two steps when he feels it. It starts as a dull throbbing ache in their right shoulders and it spreads from there. She does not cause any physical harm to them, but it feels like she does. It feels like their legs are broken, their ribs cracked. It feels like the bone wants to break free of the skin of their arms. Amelia doesn't have the knowledge to fill them with her memories, her fear from that day, her abject terror. She can do something this, though. She can make them feel her pain.
Two of the men, Cody and Eli, drop to the ground to writhe helplessly in the snow and the frozen concrete, with Andy standing over them, bewildered and confused. Amelia spares him the slightest glance before dropping to a crouch between the men.
"I don't think you'd be here if you didn't know who I am." If not for an undercurrent of fury she would almost sound conversational. "Do you want this to stop?" Taking their groans, their creaks and guttural sounds for yesses, she pulls a plain white bottle that rattles with pills from her pocket. "I know you've assaulted someone recently," that's a lie, she's assuming, but she doubts her assumption is off the mark. "You're going to turn yourselves in. Both of you, now. Do you understand?" Again, their whimpers are taken for yes. Untwisting the cap, she shakes two pills into her palm before closing and pocketing the bottle again.
"What's that?" asks Andy.
"The antidote." Another lie. It's acetaminophen. She shoves a pill a piece into each of the men's mouths, not terribly concerned they'll try to bite her. She may not trust in people's emotions, but she does trust in their survival instinct. They want this pain to end, she'll make it end. Once she's sured they've swallowed what she's given them she rises.
"Where's Vincent?" This to Andy, who looks down at his...what, comrades? Friends? He could do better, or maybe he could have done better. Maybe it's not too late for him. Amelia shifts, limbs adjusting like to move toward him and the movement catches his attention. He startles and he takes a step away from her. Part of her feels satisifed, yes, be afraid. Know what I went through.
Another part of her is not so happy. He was always just a kid to her, an underclassman who fell in with the wrong crowd. It makes her think of those kids in Boulder she and Pan found. They were young and stupid, too, and on their own. But their stupidity had one of them leveling a shotgun at her, so. Her pity for him, for all of them, is a fragile, temporary thing, a slip of paper burnt to a crisp when the memories flare up in her mind's eye.
"H-he's at the shop. We got some, some new product in," he offers, but in hopes of what she does not know and does not care. Already she's turning away.
"Make sure they do as they're told, Andy. You're not going to like it if I have to come back." When she gets to the car, she lifts her Working and lets them go.
=====
The shop is a small house in a neighborhood well out in the suburbs. It's quiet there when Amelia pulls up to the curb. She does a scan of the area, namely the house. It's not completely empty but she doesn't count many Life patterns. When she thinks she feels the one she's looking for her body tightens and her teeth grind, but she holds herself back. She does not go tearing off inside of there. Falling back into the old trap will accomplish nothing for her.
The steak knife she stole is already filled with Prime energy. Now she waits, carefully braiding and bending the strands of Fate around those patterns she feels. The four people inside are probably aware that an old problem has surfaced to come calling, stirring up dirt where the dirt should have been settled years ago. They think they're prepared for the scientist. Those unlucky bastards don't know what's coming.
It's a nice, quiet little neighborhood. The residents to eiter side of this house likely have their suspicions about the people who use it, they've seen them, they've seen the sorts of people who come here. They're not going to cause any trouble by looking out in its direction when a pretty redhaired woman walks up the drive to knock on the front door. Soon as it's opened she pushes past the one who stands there, one of the guards, a lackey or something, she doesn't care. She just ducks beneath his arm and slips inside.
"Hey you can't-!" he tries, but she lets Fate drop around him and all the others. The man at the door starts for her, but trips over a bend an area rug and falls to the floor, knocking his head into the edge of a coffee table, rendering himself unconscious. Somewhere, two other thumps sound as the other two fall into a flailing jumble of limbs from which they won't be escaping any time soon.
Amelia moves through the house to find the one she seeks, and she finds him in a back room lounging in a chair watching the television. It's an act, it must be, no one comes here to relax, it's not a vacation home.
"Vincent," she says, leaning against the door jamb. He looks at her and he gives her a queasy smile that turns her stomach. He looks the same as the last time she saw him. Very round and not very tall, with greasey blonde hair that's fading to white at his temples. His dark eyes twinkle with malice at her.
"Amy! Long time no see," he says, like he's surprised, but there's a gun in his hand that he aims at her. "I should have done this years ago," he grumbles, like he's been reminded he needs to do the dishes or clena out a cat box. Amelia's blood goes cold at the sight, and a tingle of fear travels up her spine. If he shoots her, she still has a chance, if he shoots her...He pulls the trigger but the gun jams in his hand. Instantly, that fear turns to a fire of hate and anger and sadness and grief. She crosses the room, knife in hand. She presses it to his throat, and for one, two, ten, thirty seconds she struggles with the desire not to slice across the soft, pudgy flesh. All that anger that she kept locked away inside of her comes loose, because of what he did to her, what he allowed to be done to her. It was his voice coming from the front seat warning the others "Not yet." It was he who said, "You know what, forget it, it shouldn't be this hard to fuck a girl." He was the one who entangled her mother and made their lives hell. If it wasn't for him she wouldn't have had to run away. She wouldn't have gone to Denver and Jim wouldn't have met her and everything would be okay.
Even as she thinks it she knows that it's not true. She doesn't know what fate would have befallen the Cultist if she hadn't met him. She doesn't know what road her life would have taken if she'd never left or if she'd never Awakened. Tears well up in her eyes and as they spill over her hot, reddened cheeks, Amelia knows she's not going to do this. She's not going to kill him because she's not a murderer. Much as she would like to be in this moment.
Swiping at her cheeks, she says to him, "You're going to sit here. And the police are going to come and they're going to put you away for a long long time." Yes, justice. Not vengeance. Justice. That will still make things right, and keep her soul from turning very black.
He has the audacity to laugh at her. Probably because he knows she's not going to kill him. She doesn't have the guts. "You think they can keep me away?" he asks, incredulous. "You think I won't come for you when I get out?" He starts to move but she presses the knife to his throat a little harder. One of the little edges catches and tears at his throat. His eyes widen, because that pain is surprising. It can't be pleasant feeling your Pattern tear. Amelia's eyes narrow on him.
"I do, and you won't. You're going to stay where they put you because if you get out I'm coming back and I'm going to put you in the ground. For me and for everyone else you've ever hurt."
"You gonna put me next to your ma? Man I gotta say, I miss lookin' at that ass of hers, did you get it? Turn around for me, sweetheart, let me--"
Her eyes widen, then narrow as they fill with tears. Her hand shakes, tearing at his skin a little more and a little more. His eyes squeeze shut and he grunts with the pain of it. Finally, she pulls her hand away from him because if she doesn't she's going to kill him. She's going to kill him she's going to kill him she's going to--
Suddenly she traightens. Straining her ears, she hears it. Hears them. Sirens coming in the distance. She smiles down at him. Andy said they had a shipment today. With Fate working against them, no one in here is going anywhere until Amelia's out of range or lets them go. Pocketing the knife, she steps away. "No." She backs out of the room, and if she knocks into something on her way so what. This is enough, she tells herself.
This is enough.
=====
niko @ 11:30PM
In other news, magic dice, let me know a thing. [WP, +2]
Roll: 7 d10 TN8 (3, 3, 3, 5, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 2 ) VALID
jamie @ 11:31PM
What was that
Samael @ 11:31PM
Witnessed!
niko @ 11:31PM
Nothing ¬_¬
niko @ 11:32PM
Again
Roll: 7 d10 TN8 (1, 6, 6, 6, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 1 ) VALID
niko @ 11:32PM
And again
Roll: 7 d10 TN8 (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 9) ( success x 1 ) VALID
niko @ 11:32PM
And in conclusion
Roll: 7 d10 TN8 (2, 3, 4, 4, 5, 7, 7) ( fail ) VALID
niko @ 11:32PM
Awwwww
jamie @ 11:32PM
http://i.imgur.com/NQHKSVE.gif
niko @ 11:33PM
Hahahaha
A rose by any other name
Doesn't have an advanced degree
She wants to leave immediately. Soon as she's out the door she wants to get in that rental car and take it straight to the airport. The things left in her motel room, they're not that important really, all she needs is her wallet, her ID, what's on her. She would get home in the middle of the night.
Frank would have to come get her, there is no one else she would ask to pick her up at that time. She would fall asleep on the plane whether she wanted to or not, closed in with nowhere to go and strangers pressed in all around her.
No. She won't go immediately. She can't, anyway. There are things to do, people to see. One in particular, but first Amelia has to find her and as she pulls away from the curb - unnoticed by the neighborly types who like to pretend that house does not exist - she knows the libraries are going to be closing up soon. Tomorrow, then. Everything will be done tomorrow.
So, it's back to the motel for the night, to close herself into her room and shut the world out for a while and think about what she's done. There is a sadness that weighs on her, a sense of loss. But there is also delight, and a giddy, delirious budding euphoria of freedom. They cannot get her now. Justice of a sort will be served, and soon, soon she'll no longer be a fragment of a person, a branch snapped from a tree and left to try and be another plant.
These feelings chase each other round and round as she watches Late Night. Her mind is still going, turning over the events of the last several days again and again. She thinks about life and death and joy and sorrow and love and sunlight until she falls asleep.
=====
Wednesday mid-morning, Amelia is standing in Allegheny Cemetery. The day is cold and grey and her boots are wet with snow, but she doesn't notice these things. She doesn't notice the bleak cast of the barren trees against the cold grey sky or the dilapidated buildings of the Allegheny Arsenal.
She's looking down as she's been looking down for almost an hour. There is a small clear spot before her, an opening cleared in the snow with the toe of her boot. Through that small clearing she can see a small plaque, part of a simple headstone:
Ju
Wes
Ma
As if by some unspoken and unseen signal, a dam breaks inside of her. Amelia lets out a small choked sob as her face reddens and her eyes blur with tears. Dropping to her knees, heedless of the snow seeping through the fabric of her jeans, she starts digging at the headstone with gloved hands. Scrape scrape scrape, shove, until the whole of it is there before her.
Judith Weston
May 14, 1967 - March 23, 2011
One year, three months, one day. That's how long Judy Weston survived without her daughter to take care of her, to pay her bills and make sure she didn't die of an overdose. Amelia doesn't know how she died or how she was found or who found her, she didn't want to look up the obituary. She knows the chances she died before then but no one knew to look for her. None of Amelia's friends or loved ones had high opinions of the woman, her headstone is as basic as it could be, but Amy loved her. She took care of her because that's what you do for family. You're there for them no matter what, but when she went away, when she became Sid Rhodes and left to start a different life, there were consequences.
She kneels there for a long, long time, hands clenched together atop her thighs, tears pouring like a waterfall, face contorted with a grief that has been hovering in the background, waiting to be discovered for almost three years. At least for now the grief is singular. These tears are only for one person and not a lifetime left behind to be lost, and not a future that can't happen anymore. When the crying subsides from torrent to trickle she shifts where she knees, lowers her weight onto her hip and continues down, down, down to lie in the snow. It makes sense, or will later when she thinks back on it. The life of Amelia Weston was interrupted by a moment just like this, with her lying on the ground in unbearable pain. It makes sense that it picks up here again. Except it doesn't really pick up. Sid Rhodes is not a phantom, a figment of the imagination, a ghost that will fade away into nothing. She is Sid and she is Amelia. She has a life in Denver and she has a history in Pittsburgh. They are both true, they are both true. For the moment they are still separate, but soon. Soon she'll begin the process of tying those lives together into one.
=====
Life forges steadfastly ahead. Amelia makes contact with an old friend who cries and rejoices and scolds her for her disappearance. She can tell he wants to ask where she's been, but he can see the ashen pallor of her complexion, the red puffiness of her dark eyes, her mouth chapped and cracking. It's not until much later she feels a rush of relief that he held himself back. She spent too many years thinking the bridge leading back home had burned to ash to fall leap back into the lives of the people there. Soon, she promises, getting his phone number, his email. They'll friend each other on FaceBook probably, and once people see her face and her name she'll be flooded. From a distance it'll be manageable. She's not at that distance yet, though, so he tells her he'll find her belongings and have them sent to her address in Denver. Somewhere in there are her degrees. Even in the first stages of a grieving process that could take months, years, the rest of her life, she has to fight to keep from asking for the location now. She wants those in her hand immediately. She wants proof of her hard work, her success, and that she doesn't belong working as someone's office assistant or a stock girl or behind a customer service desk.
Late Wednesday night finds her back in the city that's now her home. Frank came and got her from the airport and slowly, tentatively, she began to tell him about Pittsburgh. He's not her best friend, but he's closer and more dear than anyone else in her life. Besides, he has a right to know who's been living under his roof, who he helped in her times of crisis while she tried to find a stable job. They get home and she greets Cici, inviting her raven to perch on her arm with a clucking of her tongue. Frank asks if she wants anything, and she knows what he means. Ice cream, root beer floats, and something cheesy and the opposite of romantic on Netflix. She smiles, gives a small shake of her head, and heads downstairs to her room for a shower and to unpack.
And unpack she does. Once Cecilia is settled, Amelia - Sid - both, steps into her closet to put the laundry from her trip into the basket and put away her bag. That's when she sees a corner of dark cloth hanging down from an upper shelf. Frowning, she tugs at it, but it's not until it's falling down all around her that she remembers putting away the tapestry for the winter. It fills the small space of her closet, half inky blackness - faded from washing - half colorful nebula. She remembers the day it was given to her, well before any declarations of love. The memory is tainted now, as are all the ones that came after, the happiness diminished, the comfort turned cold. Still, she wraps it all around herself as she sinks to the floor. This time when she cries, everything comes out. All the hurt and loss and pain. Her mom, her old life, the people she loved then, the people she loves now. Jim. Coming to see her at Luke's clinic. Would he have done that if he'd known? Would he have come to get her when she called, would he have been understanding of her other sins if she'd given him a choice?
She cries for hours. Every time she thinks she's done, some new memory rushes up to replace the last and she starts all over again. All things must end, though. Love, pain, even grief. They don't last forever.
As her heart and her mind empties out, she drifts off inside that closet wrapped in the cosmos. Stars all around her, stars all inside her, stars binding everything indelibly together. Everything connected, people, elements, feelings. When she closes her eyes she doesn't sleep.
She goes to some other place instead.
=====
because i did not want to assume she ran off scott free:
niko @ 6:25PM
Private Message to Samael
[psst! something for an impending moodpost: a normal person's percept score, +2 diff because no one wants to look over there]
Roll: 3 d10 TN8 (1, 4, 4) ( fail ) VALID
Samael @ 6:27PM
Private Message to niko
Witnessed!
niko @ 6:40PM
Private Message to Samael
thanks!
Reawakening Isn't Easy When You're Tired
Wednesday Night/Thursday Morning
So much can change between the closing of one's eyes and their opening again. When Amelia found that blanket in her closet she cried and cried and cried until she felt hollow, gutted. Empty.
When she opens her eyes again, she feels relief. And she feels clean, purified of the guilt and the self-doubt that clouded her sense of self in that moment. There is still hurt and there will still be hurt for a time to come, but it doesn't cripple her. It won't knock her to her knees again. She will recover and she will be stronger for all that's happened.
Her eyes open with an effort, the lashes crusted together with dried tears, the skin around them red and puffy and swollen. In the darkness of her basement bedroom with only a small, high set and narrow window to offer a view of outside it's difficult to tell the time. Has it been a moment? An hour? A day? Sid gets to her feet and looks out into her room which is so empty and void of personal effects still. Cecilia resting peacefully on her perch, heavy beak tucked over her shoulder, is the first sign that hardly any time has passed. The fact Sid didn't wake to find Frank hovering worriedly over her is the second. Her time in the place of her Avatar's making had seemed so long, a day at least, but hardly any time at all has passed.
She takes in a deep breath, and it seems to her she can still smell moss and crushed grass. The light around her seems to bend to a greenish cast, like sunlight through the thin membrane of a new spring leaf. Once she lets that breath out she looks back into the closet where she had her latest epiphany. Picking up the blanket crumpled on the floor, she looks at it a moment, at the colorful clouds of celestial gasses, the bright burn of distant stars. Rather than folding it up and putting it away again, Sid drapes it over the end of her bed. It was given to her by a very dear friend before she knew how much he meant to her, and despite what's happened between them she still loves. She has no regrets. It would be wrong to keep that hidden.
She makes a call before she finally climbs into her bed, not to the one she worries about but to another friend, someone who would be welcome. Then she sleeps the deepest, most restful sleep she's had in ages. As she drifts off Sera's words come to mind, and for the first time Sid actually believes them.
They're going to be just fine.
|
