Sunday, May 15, 2016
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Friday, February 19, 2016
this is only the beginning
part 9
It is funny how a world formed by fire and floods can be so still, for so long. There are places, of course, that heave and buckle under the pressure of chaos, but in this place, in the time of Pasta-louis and Mary Louisa, and Terry-today, and yesterday's-Moe, most of life is static and plodding and boring as hell. Men and women meet, and they talk on their phones. Sometimes they kiss and talk on their phones. People will drink and smoke, they'll watch sporting events and think the world is ending when their team comes up short. Occasionally someone will choke on a chicken bone and either die, or live because someone else knows the Heimlich maneuver. Then come the important things, like sculptures and kitchen utensils and innovative hairdos. Great minds invent great things: Bird nest wigs, fishbowl shoes, a coconut for your linen drawer! But none of that entered the mind of Mary Louisa as she struggled for command of her mind and of her very motions. She won one battle, perhaps the smallest, most insignificant, and more important skirmish of her life.
Mary Louisa opened the door.
She didn't know who to expect, she didn't think beyond the thought that music knocked upon her door. Voices filled her ears, wafting through the bricks and wood trim and plaster and caulk like they didn't exist. Only hours before she expounded on updrafts and eagles wings and whiplash flights of fancy, but now she knew real harmony: how it could hold back the flood, how it could push back and retake fertile ground.
It wasn't quite what she expected. “Oy, hello Mary. Mind if we come in?” They came in, the group of carolers only they weren't that at all. Mary Louisa couldn't know exactly what she was seeing because the visitors wore helmets and suits and most importantly, they all had disfigurement devices on their belts, and switched on. She had seen, or more accurately, had not seen them before, on the local news. Visitors, aliens maybe? From another world, or the future, or the past? Nobody knew and they weren't saying either. “S'cuse me,” said one fellow, and he pushed by her carrying something large by its handle. Hesheit barreled through the rooms and kitchen, smashing into corners as it went, and disappeared into the offensive yellow room. The others followed; Mary Louisa could not get a solid count, or even how many limbs they might have possessed. Was it her eyes that deceived? She was seeing very clearly, but her brain was muddled.
She followed. In the room, where the walls emitted their yellow screams and the Shmear bloated freakishly, dancing and spitting filth, Pasta-louis had torn his shirt off and was feebly swinging on a rope. The lead pipe had bent profoundly and his knees touched the floor where the wood had been demolished. Pasta-louis sputtered and blinked at the visitors, but beyond that he behaved normally.
“There it is,” gurgled one of them.
“We were going to rule the world,” she said from beneath the archway. “Everything was ours, it was all in reach.” Mary Louisa stared at Pasta-louis, and she looked at the gunk cavorting in the middle of the yellow wall. Suddenly she noticed the sledgehammer leaning against the doorway, and without pausing she hefted it up, and rushed at the wall, straight at the visitors, to attack the Shmear, to rid it from the world.
They formed a line and stopped her, a tall visitor gently took hold of her arm, and Mary Louisa gave him the hammer. He held her for a moment, and said, “Look.”
The visitor carrying the case strode to the wall, and set it down. He opened a small door, then reached out to the wall and pulled at the gunk there, and it released with a loud sucking smack. “Be a good Globby,” it said, and shut the dribbly shmear in the case. “Globby does get out sometimes, bad Globby.” The visitor took the case and left, with the others in tow. The last fellow halted at the doorway and looked back at her.
“I like what you've done to your house. Can I get the name of your decorator?” They left, whatever they were. She never saw them again, or their Globby, and that made Mary Louisa very happy.
After a bit, she went into the room and removed the noose from his neck. Pasta-louis looked at her sheepishly, but remained on his knees. He wiped the spittle from his lips. “I'm not much,” he said. “And even less now. This floor is ruined.”
“And the walls,” she agreed. “We'll fix it. There's all the time in the world.”
The end.
For the Tenth Daughter of Memory.
It is funny how a world formed by fire and floods can be so still, for so long. There are places, of course, that heave and buckle under the pressure of chaos, but in this place, in the time of Pasta-louis and Mary Louisa, and Terry-today, and yesterday's-Moe, most of life is static and plodding and boring as hell. Men and women meet, and they talk on their phones. Sometimes they kiss and talk on their phones. People will drink and smoke, they'll watch sporting events and think the world is ending when their team comes up short. Occasionally someone will choke on a chicken bone and either die, or live because someone else knows the Heimlich maneuver. Then come the important things, like sculptures and kitchen utensils and innovative hairdos. Great minds invent great things: Bird nest wigs, fishbowl shoes, a coconut for your linen drawer! But none of that entered the mind of Mary Louisa as she struggled for command of her mind and of her very motions. She won one battle, perhaps the smallest, most insignificant, and more important skirmish of her life.
Mary Louisa opened the door.
She didn't know who to expect, she didn't think beyond the thought that music knocked upon her door. Voices filled her ears, wafting through the bricks and wood trim and plaster and caulk like they didn't exist. Only hours before she expounded on updrafts and eagles wings and whiplash flights of fancy, but now she knew real harmony: how it could hold back the flood, how it could push back and retake fertile ground.
It wasn't quite what she expected. “Oy, hello Mary. Mind if we come in?” They came in, the group of carolers only they weren't that at all. Mary Louisa couldn't know exactly what she was seeing because the visitors wore helmets and suits and most importantly, they all had disfigurement devices on their belts, and switched on. She had seen, or more accurately, had not seen them before, on the local news. Visitors, aliens maybe? From another world, or the future, or the past? Nobody knew and they weren't saying either. “S'cuse me,” said one fellow, and he pushed by her carrying something large by its handle. Hesheit barreled through the rooms and kitchen, smashing into corners as it went, and disappeared into the offensive yellow room. The others followed; Mary Louisa could not get a solid count, or even how many limbs they might have possessed. Was it her eyes that deceived? She was seeing very clearly, but her brain was muddled.
She followed. In the room, where the walls emitted their yellow screams and the Shmear bloated freakishly, dancing and spitting filth, Pasta-louis had torn his shirt off and was feebly swinging on a rope. The lead pipe had bent profoundly and his knees touched the floor where the wood had been demolished. Pasta-louis sputtered and blinked at the visitors, but beyond that he behaved normally.
“There it is,” gurgled one of them.
“We were going to rule the world,” she said from beneath the archway. “Everything was ours, it was all in reach.” Mary Louisa stared at Pasta-louis, and she looked at the gunk cavorting in the middle of the yellow wall. Suddenly she noticed the sledgehammer leaning against the doorway, and without pausing she hefted it up, and rushed at the wall, straight at the visitors, to attack the Shmear, to rid it from the world.
They formed a line and stopped her, a tall visitor gently took hold of her arm, and Mary Louisa gave him the hammer. He held her for a moment, and said, “Look.”
The visitor carrying the case strode to the wall, and set it down. He opened a small door, then reached out to the wall and pulled at the gunk there, and it released with a loud sucking smack. “Be a good Globby,” it said, and shut the dribbly shmear in the case. “Globby does get out sometimes, bad Globby.” The visitor took the case and left, with the others in tow. The last fellow halted at the doorway and looked back at her.
“I like what you've done to your house. Can I get the name of your decorator?” They left, whatever they were. She never saw them again, or their Globby, and that made Mary Louisa very happy.
After a bit, she went into the room and removed the noose from his neck. Pasta-louis looked at her sheepishly, but remained on his knees. He wiped the spittle from his lips. “I'm not much,” he said. “And even less now. This floor is ruined.”
“And the walls,” she agreed. “We'll fix it. There's all the time in the world.”
The end.
For the Tenth Daughter of Memory.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
the voice of angels
part 8
The day and night turned into a consummate painting, a masterpiece, and it zoomed along on rails of silver in a tunnel of light. They kissed like astronauts running out of air.
Pasta-louis reclined on the couch alone, smoking his second cigarette of the day. He inhaled slowly, expectantly, and exhaled with a caution, amused and saddened by the curls of smoke that lay tendrils across his cheek and tickled his nose hairs. In this room there was solace, everywhere else was frivolity or tedium. Or, in the wall room, in the Shmear, there was reverence, and duty. And the grandeur he so desired. Out the window the pinks began to blend with the blues, and darkness gathered in the low branches. There was much to do yet, and night was only the beginning. Pasta-louis dragged heavily on the spent stick and crushed the last glowing embers out in the sooty ash tray.
He left Mary Louisa in their bed, with the tiny notebook open on the sheets. She had read to him her poetry until they both nodded off. But Pasta-louis rested briefly, and rose again with purpose. That he had meditated with tobacco, seeing in the distance red, green, blue, white, did not diminish his concern. He knew not the outcome, but Pasta-louis felt his road was well paved and straight, and the guardrail was solid. It would not break should his cynics place an obstacle. He pulled on socks and shoes and stood, then moved through the rooms with the languid locomotion of a jellyfish in calm waters. In the altered room he wavered amid the creaking floor boards. Only dim light from the kitchen filtered into the room, but the great black and bloodied Shmear pulsed like a wound out of the sickly, decaying canvas, and Pasta-louis was pulled from within closer to the beacon. He stopped only when his palms met the wall and his outstretched arms ached. His elbows quivered from the battle, but finally the Shmear relented and Pasta-louis stood panting before his god. He looked into the Shmear and saw nothing but all he was meant to see, and the mantra echoed in his skull, playing and skipping like a broken record. I am your tool... I amI am. Your tool. I am your tool.
The day and the night slipped like a
fish through fingers, or maybe a flying disk that skipped....
The day and night turned into a consummate painting, a masterpiece, and it zoomed along on rails of silver in a tunnel of light. They kissed like astronauts running out of air.
Pasta-louis reclined on the couch alone, smoking his second cigarette of the day. He inhaled slowly, expectantly, and exhaled with a caution, amused and saddened by the curls of smoke that lay tendrils across his cheek and tickled his nose hairs. In this room there was solace, everywhere else was frivolity or tedium. Or, in the wall room, in the Shmear, there was reverence, and duty. And the grandeur he so desired. Out the window the pinks began to blend with the blues, and darkness gathered in the low branches. There was much to do yet, and night was only the beginning. Pasta-louis dragged heavily on the spent stick and crushed the last glowing embers out in the sooty ash tray.
He left Mary Louisa in their bed, with the tiny notebook open on the sheets. She had read to him her poetry until they both nodded off. But Pasta-louis rested briefly, and rose again with purpose. That he had meditated with tobacco, seeing in the distance red, green, blue, white, did not diminish his concern. He knew not the outcome, but Pasta-louis felt his road was well paved and straight, and the guardrail was solid. It would not break should his cynics place an obstacle. He pulled on socks and shoes and stood, then moved through the rooms with the languid locomotion of a jellyfish in calm waters. In the altered room he wavered amid the creaking floor boards. Only dim light from the kitchen filtered into the room, but the great black and bloodied Shmear pulsed like a wound out of the sickly, decaying canvas, and Pasta-louis was pulled from within closer to the beacon. He stopped only when his palms met the wall and his outstretched arms ached. His elbows quivered from the battle, but finally the Shmear relented and Pasta-louis stood panting before his god. He looked into the Shmear and saw nothing but all he was meant to see, and the mantra echoed in his skull, playing and skipping like a broken record. I am your tool... I amI am. Your tool. I am your tool.
Up
the stairs and down the hall, Mary Louisa sat abruptly, clutching the
sheets up to her chin and spilling macaroni onto the carpeted floor.
She could feel the power pulsing up the walls and rattling the
springs beneath the bed like the clammy fingers of a cadaver. She
swung her legs from the mattress and quickly pulled on her jeans and
blouse. The power drew her from the bed, and without knowing how she
was on the steps and then the landing. The yellowness crept out from
the room. Pasta-louis was nowhere to be seen.
Although
the night had conquered, and outside there was no sun, the light had
not gone out. Up the lane and to the door came a group of gaily
dressed strangers. They held sheets of white paper and brought joy
and love and a message, and they knocked upon the door, and they sang
even before invited. Mary Louisa hesitated, but the pull of the
Shmear was strong. She stumbled by the front door. For a moment the
voices faltered. Each of the carolers chocked and coughed, but they
laughed aloud and cleared their throats. From inside she heard them
again, and their voices leapt joyfully out from shining faces, louder
than before. Mary Louisa stamped her foot, and she thrust her hand to
the door, and turned the knob before the room could devour her soul.
underground, understood
part 7
“Hold
that up,” he said. “Repeat after me, I swear to the divine Shmear
that I will uphold the law of its subject, the master Pasta-louis,
and do unto others as the Shmear doth command. Say that.”
The
initiation began with stripping down to the bare essentials, then
covering the offending bits with postcards from picturesque places.
Mary Louisa giggled and thought it was foreplay. Pasta-louis was yet
to show her 'the wall', and they hadn't progressed beyond the front
room, which was a twelve by fourteen shag carpeted rectangle
containing a threadbare couch and a stack of encyclopedias for use as
an ash tray holder. Pasta-louis only smoked two cigarettes a day, and
now that his follower had the Eiffel Tower and Stonehenge
scotch-taped to her twin cups, he lit the first one up.
He
suddenly stood, having had a thought, and shambled through the high
shag to the kitchen, retrieved a souvenir letter opener from a junk
drawer and returned, thrusting the scimitar-looking nick-knack into
Mary Louisa's hand. The Grand Canyon had fallen from his Bvds, and
Mary Louisa giggled again from her position against a turquoise wall.
“Hold
that up,” he said. “Repeat after me, I swear to the divine Shmear
that I will uphold the law of its subject, the master Pasta-louis,
and do unto others as the Shmear doth command. Say that.”
“I
swear to, uh, the smear,” the scimitar dipped.
“Hold
it up... to the Shmear that I will uphold...”
“I
swear to the Shmear to uphold...”
“the
laws of me, Pasta-louis...”
“the
laws of you, Pasta-louis...”
“and
to do as he says, or you'll rue the day!”
“uh,
and do as you say, because or else,” she finished up, then swung
the letter open around for effect. “Now can we?” Mary Louisa
began peeling postcards from her bra.
Pasta-louis
was pleased, very, and he took a drag from the cigarette and smooshed
it out in the glass ashtray, over volume eight of the Encyclopedia
Britannica. He took her hand before she could reach down below to the
catacombs and pulled her through the kitchen then spun her around by
the shoulders. Pasta-louis gently backed her up to the dividing
archway, until Mary Louisa's bare feet straddled the line between
linoleum and wood planks. He looked at her seriously, then
beseechingly, before slowly turning her to look beyond the room to
witness the yellow wall, and great glaring Shmear.
“See
the Shmear, and believe!” Pasta-louis proclaimed, thunderously. He
threw his hands up and hawed.
She
dropped the opener and put her hands to her mouth, and she breathed
in deeply. “I must see this,” she said, but she said it to
herself. Mary Louisa stepped into the room, zigzagging through the
obstacle course that was a broken floor and swinging nooses, until
she stood before the glob of offensive gunk. “It's everything you
said it is, all it could be.” She touched the sticky splat, and
appreciated the mounds and folds of its landscape. She pulled her
finger out, and a string of tenuity followed behind until it broke
and fluttered back to the wall like the gossamer thread of a
spiderweb. “A great booger from beyond, and we are here.”
From
beyond the room, Pasta-louis watched, and he grew in stature until
Mary Louisa came back to him and folded him into her arms. She led
him back to the couch. “We are going to rule the fucking world,”
she said.
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
she wants him bad
part 6
At the Choke & Puke Bar and Grill he found her, Mary Louisa, on the open mic stage standing like Gary Cooper, hands on hips and gazing over the nonplussed heads of seated patrons. She'd just delivered her epic poem “Out of the Lips of Eagles” and was triumphant in the roar of hushed silence. Mary Louisa curtsied and stumbled off the platform to a wave of more increased wanting aplomb and vanished into the crowd, where she took a seat and sipped from a straw. Pasta-louis clapped in the doorway, then sidled up to the bar to order a frou-frou aperitif, something with a cherry or an umbrella floating in it.
The walls here were brick, but painted black, and from floor to ceiling they screamed graffiti epithets and obtuse colloquialisms that only whiskey softened sots believed. Pasta-louis watched her from the glossy bar, and in the shattered light her legs seemed to separate under the curve of the booth and protrude like stuffed dummy limbs from beneath the cushions. Unaware of her silly appearance, Mary Louisa continued staring vacuously into the void while sipping what looked to be a dark soda. Pasta-louis ordered her a refill and when the waitress set it on her table, gesturing to the bar, he lifted his colorful drink in the air and dipped his head appreciatively. She blushed, and unsurely motioned to the opposite bench. He swiveled about and crossed the darkened floor to join her.
Up close her legs were more than normal, and not at all contorted. Pasta-louis shrugged happily at this wonderful turn of events, and wiggled into the seat. He found booths uncomfortable and restricting, but this wasn't the time for callous rebukes. Here was an obviously talented and intelligent young lady. She was the perfect start for a home grown legion. He introduced himself.
“Your verse is uplifting. It's poignant too, so ironic... for eagles are lipless!” Pasta-louis bent an elbow and smacked his lips.
“Oh, yes. They are!” she blurted. “My name is Mary Louisa,” she said and reddened again.
Pasta-louis peered at the woman suspiciously under heavy brows. Pleasantries accomplished.
“I have some very important business here, and at my home some very inspiring art, it is an homage to a great overlord who is going to come here, to the Earth, and rule us all. I am to be its mouthpiece, and a great leader here, on the Earth. The art is more than art, and at its center is a wonderful relic. It will be sticky, so don't be alarmed at the sticky appearance. I want to take you there, to see it, and of course be assimilated into its purpose, here on the Earth,” he said. Pasta-louis had thought about what he would say, and it came out pretty well, almost word for word. “Are you up for it?”
On stage a gross, sweaty couple had begun plucking their ukuleles and singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Out of tune. Mary Louisa didn't notice; she grinned happily and shrugged a little, and blushed. “Oh yes,” she squeaked, and grabbed her big purse from the booth. “I'd love to see your house!”
Pasta-louis reached across the table to take her trembling fingertips, and together they left the bar. He looked around to scan the other patrons, but they were too engrossed in themselves and their sweaty drinks to notice greatness, so Pasta-louis left, with his first disciple in tow.
At the Choke & Puke Bar and Grill he found her, Mary Louisa, on the open mic stage standing like Gary Cooper, hands on hips and gazing over the nonplussed heads of seated patrons. She'd just delivered her epic poem “Out of the Lips of Eagles” and was triumphant in the roar of hushed silence. Mary Louisa curtsied and stumbled off the platform to a wave of more increased wanting aplomb and vanished into the crowd, where she took a seat and sipped from a straw. Pasta-louis clapped in the doorway, then sidled up to the bar to order a frou-frou aperitif, something with a cherry or an umbrella floating in it.
The walls here were brick, but painted black, and from floor to ceiling they screamed graffiti epithets and obtuse colloquialisms that only whiskey softened sots believed. Pasta-louis watched her from the glossy bar, and in the shattered light her legs seemed to separate under the curve of the booth and protrude like stuffed dummy limbs from beneath the cushions. Unaware of her silly appearance, Mary Louisa continued staring vacuously into the void while sipping what looked to be a dark soda. Pasta-louis ordered her a refill and when the waitress set it on her table, gesturing to the bar, he lifted his colorful drink in the air and dipped his head appreciatively. She blushed, and unsurely motioned to the opposite bench. He swiveled about and crossed the darkened floor to join her.
Up close her legs were more than normal, and not at all contorted. Pasta-louis shrugged happily at this wonderful turn of events, and wiggled into the seat. He found booths uncomfortable and restricting, but this wasn't the time for callous rebukes. Here was an obviously talented and intelligent young lady. She was the perfect start for a home grown legion. He introduced himself.
“Your verse is uplifting. It's poignant too, so ironic... for eagles are lipless!” Pasta-louis bent an elbow and smacked his lips.
“Oh, yes. They are!” she blurted. “My name is Mary Louisa,” she said and reddened again.
Pasta-louis peered at the woman suspiciously under heavy brows. Pleasantries accomplished.
“I have some very important business here, and at my home some very inspiring art, it is an homage to a great overlord who is going to come here, to the Earth, and rule us all. I am to be its mouthpiece, and a great leader here, on the Earth. The art is more than art, and at its center is a wonderful relic. It will be sticky, so don't be alarmed at the sticky appearance. I want to take you there, to see it, and of course be assimilated into its purpose, here on the Earth,” he said. Pasta-louis had thought about what he would say, and it came out pretty well, almost word for word. “Are you up for it?”
On stage a gross, sweaty couple had begun plucking their ukuleles and singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Out of tune. Mary Louisa didn't notice; she grinned happily and shrugged a little, and blushed. “Oh yes,” she squeaked, and grabbed her big purse from the booth. “I'd love to see your house!”
Pasta-louis reached across the table to take her trembling fingertips, and together they left the bar. He looked around to scan the other patrons, but they were too engrossed in themselves and their sweaty drinks to notice greatness, so Pasta-louis left, with his first disciple in tow.
a careening rush
part five
There was a theme running through his dreams. In the moments before Terry-yesterday awoke, visions of vegetation, a return to nature, and haste entwined in an attempt to rock his body to action. Pasta-louis-this morning thrashed on the floor, the cold, hard wooden boards, and sat up straight covered in the dust and debris of last evening's endeavors. He rose today a different man. Not the timid Moe of last week, or the bothered Terry-today of yesterday, but as Pasta-louis who dreamt plants grew and flowered from his face with the nectar of the gods. His body was bronzed and driveling sycophants shaded him with leaves the size of small automobiles. This monstrous, self absorbed Pasta-louis could unabashedly surround himself with the hoi-polloi he required... he deserved!
Though disheveled, Pasta-louis felt dapper. Up, up he proclaimed, and so he stood and gazed upon the creation he wrought upon the once-was-wall. Bits of plaster and slivers from the busted wood planks shed from his rumpled, majestic garb. Crusty globs of cheese sauce flaked from his face and bare forearms, and he picked off a morsel and placed it on his tongue, savoring the breakfast like it was manna from the heavens. Today Pasta-louis was reborn, and he was overflowing with genius; godliness given by the great globular shmearing eye that glared from across the room.
There was no time to lose, not now, and Pasta-louis pulled his fingers through his hair and patted down his rumpled attire. The shmear, the Shmear!, demanded attention, and acolytes, and a throng besides. Pasta-Louis was Its ambassador now, he was the Shmear's prophet and Pasta-louis bowed in deference to the assignment. With this duty, he gained sizeable power on this Earth, and would command an army of followers, and be the greatest of the great!
The Shmear pulsed, and vibrated, and it howled as the power passed over the expanse and bloomed in Pasta-louis' chest. He nearly exploded as the sensation grew, but the current held steady then diminished as it found a place in every living cell of his body.
He turned and fled the room, and the house in an exalted spate, a haste to absolve the populace of the humanistic crutch that tied it down so close to the dirt of this world.
There was a theme running through his dreams. In the moments before Terry-yesterday awoke, visions of vegetation, a return to nature, and haste entwined in an attempt to rock his body to action. Pasta-louis-this morning thrashed on the floor, the cold, hard wooden boards, and sat up straight covered in the dust and debris of last evening's endeavors. He rose today a different man. Not the timid Moe of last week, or the bothered Terry-today of yesterday, but as Pasta-louis who dreamt plants grew and flowered from his face with the nectar of the gods. His body was bronzed and driveling sycophants shaded him with leaves the size of small automobiles. This monstrous, self absorbed Pasta-louis could unabashedly surround himself with the hoi-polloi he required... he deserved!
Though disheveled, Pasta-louis felt dapper. Up, up he proclaimed, and so he stood and gazed upon the creation he wrought upon the once-was-wall. Bits of plaster and slivers from the busted wood planks shed from his rumpled, majestic garb. Crusty globs of cheese sauce flaked from his face and bare forearms, and he picked off a morsel and placed it on his tongue, savoring the breakfast like it was manna from the heavens. Today Pasta-louis was reborn, and he was overflowing with genius; godliness given by the great globular shmearing eye that glared from across the room.
There was no time to lose, not now, and Pasta-louis pulled his fingers through his hair and patted down his rumpled attire. The shmear, the Shmear!, demanded attention, and acolytes, and a throng besides. Pasta-Louis was Its ambassador now, he was the Shmear's prophet and Pasta-louis bowed in deference to the assignment. With this duty, he gained sizeable power on this Earth, and would command an army of followers, and be the greatest of the great!
The Shmear pulsed, and vibrated, and it howled as the power passed over the expanse and bloomed in Pasta-louis' chest. He nearly exploded as the sensation grew, but the current held steady then diminished as it found a place in every living cell of his body.
He turned and fled the room, and the house in an exalted spate, a haste to absolve the populace of the humanistic crutch that tied it down so close to the dirt of this world.
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