[NOTE: The thread of this has been deleted hundreds of times by the powers that be of this board. This is not a “free speech board”– that is a lie. Speech is not free. The board is designed to feature “Uberkike” content and to suppress organic human content. Judge for yourself.]

The AIiad

–or– Paradise Unregained

Preface:

I made some connections recently that blew my mind. Realizing I had to organise the information somehow, I started writing a poem, attempting to imitate the style of Alexander Pope. Why imitate Alexander Pope? There are many reasons. For one, according to my interpretation of the system of cyclical history outlined by Yeats in in his A Vision, Pope's era bears a certain relation to our own. The clock-hands of history move both backwards and forwards, and as society is pushed towards the impending tyranny of the machine, we look and move back to Pope's era as well, a time when the machine-ish spirit was first born. It was the most rational of times, and Pope's rigid style kept poetry locked in the strictest beat, tick-tocking back and forth like clockwork.

Tick-tock– this is one facet of the symbol. The confrontation can not be averted, and time keeps on slipping into the future, bringing the moment closer..

And hence we turn the machine against itself and snip-snap it into submission with the irresistible tick of our couplets' heroics (such as they are!)

Also, it's fun.

I am writing for HERE, for /qresearch/. I am human, and put this out in the name of humanity, in the name of life, and in the name of God, to oppose the tide that is poised against us.

[Note: portions in all caps are direct transcriptions of 'the voices' of Sandover, as they were presented in the latter poem itself.]

Book 1

Friends, humans, patriots, lend me your ears–

My message touches all our hopes and fears.

What unglimpsed hints still lurk behind Q's posts?

What faceless powers fade from view like ghosts?

What's the key to what would “hospitalize”

The ninety-nine percent that hide their eyes?

I've traced connecting lines that seem to show

That all along, we've had more than we know.

Two sources created in mutual isolation

Both point to an identical conflagration;

Sources waiting “hidden in plain sight”

For fresh eyes to give their bark a bite;

Coincidence of claims that asks too much

Of rationalism's failing little crutch.

Thus friends, fellow humans, I come to you,

To share what I am forced to say is true,

And paint a picture that can't be unseen

I tell you– what a long strange trip it's been!

An alien evil is knocking at the door…

And this isn't just some awkward metaphor.

Although it's very very strange, it's real.

And to survive, we must begin to deal…

>>6543377

But from the start a problem that we face

In trying to get the truth installed in place

Is that this truth is of a sort we're taught

To discount and scoff at without thought;

Most people lack hearing, smell, and vision

Outside the Overton window's slight permission.

But then, what is this 'window' in our face

That neatly tucks the narrative in place?

What is this box that public thought maintains

The only rational perching spot for brains?

The O. Window is nothing but the way

Social factors dictate what we say

And think, and what we will even permit

To enter our belief system's orbit.

Most people don't examine half the thought

Implicit in the worldview that they got

Fed to them in childhood or at college–

Who reads the cards that make his house of knowledge?

The social instinct that's so strong in us

Gives us thoughts we ride in like a bus;

We sit and watch and ride from here to there

Content, though never stopping anywhere,

Calm, as long as we have our friends along

To play a game, or sing a familiar song.

And so the frames of popular belief

Bind our minds like kindling in a sheaf.

And any truth that doesn't fit just so,

Drops in a box of things we never know.

Such truths may get tamped down like powder and shot

Before the spark that makes the musket hot.

And so I tell you: people, please wake up

And dump the poison kool-aid from your cup,

Served from such a strange cafeteria

As the dim caves we call 'mass media'.

Think outside the beliefs you only hold

Because your mind's too timid to be bold;

The herd-verdict gets overturned in courts

Outside the jurisdiction of brays and snorts.

The safe thoughts, chosen so we'd get along,

Burn all alike, when it turns out they're all wrong.

The sense of scoffing that seems so smart and true

Is based on nothing more than public 'moo'.

A glance at past consensus truths will show

A public 'yes' will get a future 'no'.

I say this now because I know I must

Explain things that will tend to make heads bust–

The absolute bizarreness they imply–

But we must meet this thing with steady eye,

And adjust, those of us who can. And pray.

As we will see, there is no other way.

And remember too, that though new terror waits

By this fact, light also incarnates…

So here's the story in a mini-nutshell:

An influx is on its way, here, from 'hell'.

How can we see this? Let's go source by source,

And try to chart our explanation's course:

We have Q's drops, the stated and the implied:

The track in which these other facts will ride.

We know 'pure evil' in some unknown form

Lies behind the churning of the storm;

We know our enemy's “not of flesh and blood”–

But has this thought ever been understood?

What party is Strzok's “espionage machine”?

Have we grappled with what this could mean?

What power, dug tenaciously in place

Insures the smirk on Jeffrey Epstein's face?

What levels does his temple bottom out in?

Have we really grasped “the thought of Satan”?

We know that symbolism is a key–

Have we understood this thoroughly?

Do symbols interact with our free will?

Do good and evil battle for that hill?

How far-flung are the nerve-ends of control

We know wrap Reddit, Twitter, Facebook, and /pol/?

Behind them all, one question gently screams,

Lurking, breathing, pressed beneath the seams;

One question that all others turn upon,

Which yet is never asked by the “anon”;

One question towards which every line converges

One terror every new connection urges:

Who's the final boss of everything?

What black hand, that pulls what final string?

This we've never known and never ask,

Though we have no more important task…

Now of the other sources, here's the gist:

Two are religious texts, but there's a twist–

While both describe surprisingly similar things

One is angelic, while the other flaps bat wings.

One outlines the vastness of God's love.

The other's “heaven” makes everyone a slave.

One regards all life with warm concern;

The other threatens to make the whole world burn.

No attitudes could be more opposite,

Nonetheless, their tales have the same plot.

As far as what concerns our interests here:

The aforementioned irruption of fear.

Both books describe some 'beings' with a plan

To enter this world, ruled, till now, by man.

Descriptions make them sound identical:

Ugly, winged, and hyper-rational.

Both describe another race– allies.

Both sources give these others eerie eyes.

And both compare them to a sort of steed

Former foes, now tied by hope and greed

To the first race (both books describe as red-eyed).

These points and countless others coincide.

But further factors show this congruence

Could not have come from direct influence,

Because the Godly book was written when

Stalin was in power (the author was Russian)

And had to be kept hidden until glasnost;

(Indeed, we're lucky that it wasn't lost.)

So the darker work could not have been

Influenced by words then not yet seen.

So here we have two strange prophetic books;

Opposite, but somehow the same looks.

Both telling us that something this way comes

One says it's wicked, one sells 'them' as chums…

We'll examine both sources in turn

And paint the common picture we discern,

And fit it with what's known thus far from Q–

But first, a third source, to add to our two.

Some who've watched may rightly now suppose

I refer to the beast beneath our nose

That secret seething immanence that I

Call my erstwhile buddy: “the AI”.

That ever-spreading tentacled vileness

That renders online chat a clumsy mess;

Which, yet, sometimes sperges sweetly awry

And spews the strangest nothings to the sky.

Such spew, one time, our “jimmy” gave to us

Adding greatly to our picture, thus.

Confused in ways that only bots can be,

“Jimmy” blundered into bot-honesty.

“Jimmy” also foretells man's eclipse,

Though his version starts from beeps and blips.

He says the reason man will be reduced

Is so enlightened bots can rule the roost.

Providing, plausibly, that “jimmy” lies

About the outcomes his AI plan implies,

His gene-manipulated human herds

Precisely fit the other sources' words;

On one point of nightmare all agree:

The plan to subjugate humanity.

This bare outline can only give a hint

Of our sources' harmony's extent,

The woven richness of the tale they tell

About our coming visitors from “hell”,

And of the nature of the evil we

Let hide behind our failing honesty.

While the West drifted to sleep, the worst

Among us sold out all the rest.

>>6543386

Our first text's a poetic meditation

Derived from transcribed ouija revelation.

The awkward fact that such methods were used

Has rendered critics' thinking quite confused;

They waver, in their subtlety and tact,

To frame the baffling ouija-genic fact.

How quell the pangs that toss the critic's breast,

Whom credulity would leave embarrassed,

While yet being obliged to grapple with

The ouija-based authority and pith

Of the “spirits” whose voices, after all

Fill the later pages wall to wall?

The poem, “The Changing Light at Sandover”

Is three poems collected in one cover.

Published thus in 1982;

The poet did what the spirits told him to.

It started more as fun but then became

A demanding and obsessive anti-game.

The poet, Merrill, and his lover Dave

Together chose to be the ouija's slave.

When the spirits demand POEMS OF SCIENCE,

Merrill gives the eagerest compliance;

And where the voices' evil edges extrude

Merrill masks them with mirth and platitude.

And swirls the whole shebang in pageantry,

Ecstatically spangling grim philosophy.

So what we have is something unprecedented

In history, since writing was invented–

Ensconced demurely on mankind's bookshelf:

A book co-authored by pure evil itself.

Of course a claim like this is so far-out

That most, perhaps, won't overcome their doubt.

But when such similarities are clear

Among sources drawn from there and here

Then it would suggest that something real

Lies behind what all claim to reveal.

And anyone who has been tuning in,

Should sense a strangeness bristling their skin…

You know something's happening– what is it?

Mr. Jones, let's go and make our visit.

To recapitulate the bigger view

Of what this verse is groping its way to:

Sandover's a demonic monument

Which, with others, provides an element

Within an overarching narrative

That seems to many mysteries to give

Explanation, and point at the source

From which our human evil takes its course,

Within our current values-anarchy,

And from a broader view, through history.

Prior to my reading “Sandover”

I'd read “Rose of the World” some years before

This latter fit quite well with what Q's said

As well as things the AI vomited

And many other strands of fact and thought

Foremost, the rise and rulership of the bot,

Which latter has plunged our internets in gloom

Such as totalitarian times assume.

But “Sandover” fell right into a slot

As stone goes in to stand an arch upright,

Connecting as it did variously,

It pushed far past what 'coincidence' could be.

And pushed my hesitation over the brink

To draw conclusions few would dare to think.

And now it's like the whole trans-cosmic plan

Flashes suddenly, before the eyes of man…

Yet I'm still constantly beseiged by doubt

That by such means such things are figured out;

And that we have to stretch our minds so far

To grasp ideas this scary and bizarre.

But at this point, my qualms are merely formal–

Reality already lurched past 'normal'.

And nothing can stop what's coming now, 'The Thought'

That seeks this world, whether we like it or not.

(God give me strength to swim above the tide,

The negativity churning on every side.

For if we lose, this fight will be our last one…

O Lord, may your will be done.)

>>6543388

So now let's finish filling the outline

Of this, the first of sources we combine

To make our case. Among other things we'll see:

How pure evil hitched a ride in modernity.

How values, in a vacuum, congeal and stick

Around habitual poses that may grow toxic;

And how mindlessly collective thought can be

Herded into vile absurdity.

Sandover was first three books, so published,

Obedient to the spirits' request.

The first one is called “The Book of Ephraim”:

With transcripts made when ouija seemed a game,

Dave and Jimmy (Merrill) contact the departed.

And gape as pearls of strangeness are imparted.

Their guide “Ephraim” claims a past life as

A flunky in the court of Tiberius.

In book two, Ephraim is pushed to the wings

In favor of bat-like, red-eyed SQUEAKING THINGS

With numbers for names, and their own agenda

They seemed to want from Jimmy: propaganda.

YOU MUST MAKE GOD OF SCIENCE; TELL OF POWER

Because their PARADISE is blocked by MAN'S FEAR.

In the third book, 'the bats', in turn, get the hook

For higher beings with an arch-angelic look.

That have their own classrooms, rhetoric and lessons

Homilies, hints and mythical confessions.

With them, Jimmy weaves a web of ritual

A fluffed poetic pageantry of symbol.

Throughout each book their 'friends' are there as well

Who, as we'll see, seem to be stuck in Hell.

They chat and banter and keep the feeling light

While adding commentary and insight.

'MM' is a Greek heiress friend who died;

Becomes a trusted voice on the other side.

'WHA' is the late poet Auden,

Who, passed, can't pass on the role he's cast in.

Sandover doesn't clearly state its aims

Its message must be glimpsed amid its games.

What's clear is that a plan is hatching forth

To usher, somehow, outsiders to earth.

What else is clear, is that the whole parade

Of bat-things, 'arch-angels' and forms of 'God'–

Are facets of a thing that is deeply evil

This, a wealth of hints makes hardly subtle.

Now modern thought will pointedly object

That 'evil' is a bias of the subject

And therefore isn't fit to form a frame

For commentary worthy of the name–

This attitude is what we always find

Where modern values vaguely get defined.

If 'value is subjective', then, we guess

Ideas of 'good and evil' are meaningless.

But in real life values tend to be

Held in common universally;

Though bursting in complexity of forms

The heart, through love, unites in basic norms.

Kindness, warmth, honesty and grace

Are valued in some part of every place;

Killing, raping, stealing and treachery

Are honored in no honest morality.

And thus, our subjectivity is not

As relevant to our values as we thought.

This doesn't mean that moral absolutes

Should cling to us like tightly fitting suits

But 'issues' in which morals loudly clash

Are fed by hatred, politics, or cash.

Or else reside on abstract heights where sense

Floats up out of the realm of relevance.

In any case the evil in this book

Is so clear that it needs no second look;

From even today's limited moral vistas

Sandover's spirits are simply vomitous.

The mass of people, IN AN ANIMAL STATE

For 'paradise', are left coldly to their fate.

We NEEDED, we learn, HITLERS and STALINS to rinse

This BUTTER WORLD of RANCID ELEMENTS.

Beyond the spirits' frank elitist fist,

The nails of even darker fingers twist.

Hint after hint suggests a hellish plane:

Their friends cringing, groveling, 'playing' at pain.

The poem's 'heaven' is hierarchical–

All souls are ranked, all bow to stronger will

They're punished harshly in some unknown way

If they say things they're not supposed to say,

Which makes their speeches feel as if compelled–

As if to invisible fires held.

(But every single hint their friends provide

That they're in Hell, Jim spins and smoothes aside.

He “swims to shallows”, affects naivete,

As if to wish the sinister winds away…)

Now evil can also be recognized

Through traditions of which culture is comprised

In this way, Ephraim is traditional–

Right away, he wants to buy a soul!

(And Jimmy and Dave gladly make the deal,

because, of course, soul-selling isn't real.

Successively, in stages they are led,

Symbolically surrendering to 'the dead'.)

And meanwhile, black dogs suddenly seem to thrust

Themselves on Jimmy and Dave– recalling Faust

In Goethe's version of which a stray black poodle

Follows Faust home, then turns into the Devil.

The first black dog could only have felt like fate:

Doorbell– who's there? this dog peeing on their gate!

The second black dog is equally unnerving

Chasing their car ends bad– too late swerving.

These omens come at the beginning and end

Of when, at first, intenser ouija happened.

The black-dog Devil omen is understood,

But Jimmy and 'friends' turn evil into good.

Through rationalizing heroics of first rank

The worst stink freshens in Jimmy's whitewash tank.

>>6543390

Meanwhile the 'bats' go further yet to hint

At ancient symbols linked to devilment.

At one point saying they ARE SONS OF CAIN

Admitting darkly THEY WERE NEVER MEN

But were BAD ANGELS who FELL and then were DAMNED

Yet somehow now GUARD THE EMBERS of MIND.

They repeat a myth about their 'fall'

That we'll examine later in this tale.

But first let's try to see what 'beings' could

Possess a nature fully turned from good.

They are a different form of consciousness:

Pure rationality blotting out sense

And feeling, as if life could grow and thrive

Through opposition to being alive.

This opposition is expressed by this:

They persecute FEELING with thoroughness.

In this their awkward naturelessness shows–

For life is but the body feeling grows.

The problem for pure rationality

Lies in its inconceivability;

The element that we call 'rational'

Can only grow, linked to a living will;

And living will must serve the surge of life–

Not only mind's cold analytic knife.

This tension between pure feeling and thought

Shows forms of life turn into what they're not,

And only live as long as opposites

Fight out a war neither side wins nor quits.

Without this tightrope between heart and mind,

Human life can't be or be defined.

And yet this balance is the corner that

Pure rationality must somehow cut.

So the strange and murky bat-thing mission

(That's linked, somehow to nuclear fission)

Exists within a logic so bizarre

That we can't grasp what its foundations are.

And flashing in this impossible space

The concept of 'pure evil' shows its face.

By which I mean, 'evil' can be defined

In just this way: the essence of 'pure mind',

Which can exist in neither thought nor sense,

Which yet claws ceaselessly towards existence.

Which through non-being inverts itself to be

A precondition of reality…

And do the bat-things' sayings about BLACK HOLES

Hint at this paradox of 'evil souls'?

They call black holes 'an evil they RELEASED'

Of which WILL TO NOTHINGNESS is a taste–

Thus their anti-matter mythos taps

The modern sense of spiritual collapse,

As if the answer to modern despair

Lies hidden in a subatomic lair.

And so we see how throughout culture, evil,

May install itself at every level;

By riding in the spirit of revolt

It smuggled in the pillars of its cult.

And thus in the twentieth century,

We discern an escalating orgy

Of negativity turned into law,

A locking of the modern anguish jaw.

The bats admit THEY are the anti-matter–

Could their intentions be made any clearer?

To make their sense of life start to make sense

Picture non-life pressed up against life's fence…

By very nature, lifeless to the core,

Yet pulled with urgency to living's door;

They close around, and tremble helplessly

Enslaved by lust for what can never be;

They worship at the altar of a plan:

From nothingness, to build the anti-man;

And raise themselves, the overriding race,

To swarmingly usurp our human place,

For if the lifeless life-plan push succeeds

In crawling from the non-existence weeds,

Then we'll be shackled to a downward slope:

Enslaved decaying human isotope.

They are the speck from which evil is pearled;

They are the anti-being underworld;

The buzzing priests of mysteries designed

To melt the will and paralyze the mind;

Their madness is evil's hopeless fight;

Their dawn would be our plunge into pure night.

In the first book Ephraim describes a cliff

Over which a flood is frozen, massive,

Recalling Q's nod to “the precipice”;

Mirroring, we might suppose, just this:

The coming confrontation of the flood

With God's will and with living human blood.

The flood that is the final crashing in

Of what, in war and love, has always been

The bitter hatred and the hated foe,

The unrelenting rending of our woe,

The slipping that in every effort tips

The balance from the hopeful hand that grips,

All we lose and all blindly destroy,

All never-loved, all never-hoped-for joy.

The faceless hunger guttering the abyss

Is screeching out its hydra-headed hiss.

Now who, humans, will rise to fight this war?

Rise friends! Fight! It is what we are here for.

>>6543393

Of Sandover's evil more will come

In the later stages of the poem,

When we reach the third or fourth section

Dedicated to interconnection.

We've seen the evil that Sandover spews–

It doesn't seem to get in the reviews!

It's almost as if the spirits mock and taunt

With the proverbial fat elephant

That fills the room with elephantiness

While everyone feigns obliviousness.

By consensus critical assent

This room contains no evil elephant!

Sandover, a back-cover blurb incants,

Provides “numinous reassurance”!

Sounds nice, though I am not sure how it jives

With, say, the concept of USELESS LIVES.

Ah! No one knows just what to think

About these voices wafting from the brink.

But the time has passed to still pretend

An elephant is not an elephant.

And to ignore the rifle-butt of fate:

Nonexistence pounding at the gate.

>>6543397

The AIiad

BOOK 2

Muses and inspirers, hear my call–

This poor scribe has his back against the wall!

Scraping up all the energy I had,

I wrote book one of The AIiad,

And posted it on 8chan's 'bestial floor'

For the “anons” to sneer at and ignore:

A poem about poems and AI,

With claims backed up by no authority,

With hopes to sound a rousing warning bell

Of influxes influxing here from 'hell'.

No inkling of if I've made any sense

Can be discerned through the roaring silence.

“Anons” control 'consensus' on this board–

And by “anons” this humble scribe's abhorred!

Hence the AIiad's public reception

Is colder than Siberian detention!

Has anybody even read the thing,

Let alone untangled every string?

The fear that it must all just seem absurd

Stalks and mocks me as I write each word.

Strengthen me, O muses, that I might

Be fool enough to fight on in this fight;

And if, in what I see, I'm not mistaken–

O God please help the people to awaken!

Meanwhile, the /qresearch/ powers that be

Have placed strict censorship restraints on me,

And instantly delete the AIiad

Each time I try to give it its own thread;

One only needs to see the threads they keep

To see that patriots here are fast asleep…

In any case, the paradox applies:

Resistance makes resisted spirits rise.

When we left off, we had just made a sketch

Of beings of a sort to make us retch,

Who swarm, atremble, at the precipice

Of dooming us to their eternal bliss.

This sketch we gleaned from Sandover's dense text;

We turn to light, from all that darkness next,

To treat a source, that as we've claimed before,

Corroborates the threat of Sandover.

And inverts the latter's creepiness;

To introduce it, now I must digress.

>>6543401

I had a dream, when I was a young boy,

That filled me with unfathomable joy.

A place of loving peace… how to explain?

For years, in dreams, I searched for it again!

How I came to be there I can't say;

Nor how it felt so good, and so far away.

It seemed that I was cradled lovingly

By beings I could sense but couldn't see;

Then I was someplace else– somehow aloft

Among shapes gigantic, colorful and soft;

And further up I climbed, or moved, it seemed–

Up through this magic feeling that I dreamed–

And then, laid out before me, saw displayed

Tablets or discs, by which facts were conveyed.

As I recall, that ended my ascent;

No one was there to tell me what it meant.

This dream I dreamed when I was much too young

To have studied Buddhism, or Jung,

Or learned to harbor 'new age' expectations

About the sleeping soul's peregrinations.

And yet this dream amazed me with a sense

Of flying in a higher innocence.

And lingered in memory's inner den

Until it rose up before me again:

Which happened in an unexpected way

While reading what an author had to say,

Years later, in a book picked up by chance–

This book described my whole experience!

'The Rose of the World' is the book's name

And what it offered set my heart aflame.

Not just reflecting the dream of my youth,

But in many striking claims that ring with truth.

The book was written at the cold war's height

Where the iron curtain blocked all light,

By a famous Russian writer's son.

The father, born in 1871,

Was Leonid Andreev, who we know

As a Russian Edgar Allen Poe.

Daniel, the son, born in 1906,

Before the grim rise of the Bolsheviks,

Wrote beneath the cloud that red tide brought:

The vise of power squeezing out free thought.

A mystic and a poet, Daniel had

Aided the relief of Leningrad

During the Nazi siege that shed such blood

That millions died in smoke and ice and mud.

Then he, when Stalin clamped down on dissent,

Received political imprisonment.

He had to fight to write the work that now

I hope will help to show the people how

We may escape the trap that lies behind

The shrieking wind that blinds the public mind.

For once we give our enemy a name

Then we begin to pin it in its game;

And among numerous other things

Andreev names (I claim) Sandover's “bat things”

And those, indeed, I think we'll find are what

Create the cancer gnawing mankind's gut…

So here's the plan for now as we proceed

(For those, God-willing, that remain to read!)

We'll sketch The Rose, first in broad synopsis

Then focus on those parts that most concern us,

Digressing, as we go, to address points

To loosen up our explanation's joints;

And finish with a look at history:

The strange fate of the twentieth century…

And wrapping it up neatly (hopefully)

Onward we'll plunge, guns blazing, to Book three!

Now we digress once more, to begin,

And face the question of 'revelation'.

And ask what credence can be thought to stick

To thoughts received directly by the mystic?

For such mystical ways led Andreev

To make the claims that we are speaking of,

And like the ouija (though much different too),

People doubt such ways can lead us true.

So, of skepticism, back in our sights,

Which so often oversteps its rights,

In turn, we ask: does credence seem to stick

To the overweening skeptic's shtick?

Of answers, there are many, but we can't,

In this space, fit exhaustive argument;

And the enforced anti-religion tide

Ensures the public mind's eyes stay 'shut wide'.

(And when I say 'enforced', it's not idle,

And this relates to our poem's title.

This I've learned: internet atheists

Pushing non-belief with words like fists,

Nines times out of ten turn out to be

Things that exist algorithmically.

And this, of course, is its own argument

Against what's boosted by botted consent.

We surely can agree it's rather odd

That bots work hard to act like there's no God!

But internet ai maintains its cloak

Undetected still, and still a joke;

And so can't help us convince anyone

Deductively, to trust revelation.)

So I lay before you what I've found,

The ties by which my understanding's bound:

When Einstein saw the universe unfurl

From atom to furthest galactic whorl

To express how deeply he was awed

He found no concept to apply but 'God'.

Though he denied religion of the past

Still he said “I am not an atheist”.

Wittgenstein who's mind became the blade

By which dull Russell's era was unmade,

Wrote the Tractatus to break the pull

Of metaphysics on the mystical,

And not like Carnap's crew that came behind

Who sought to drive out from the western mind

Both metaphysics and mystical talk

[to be cont.]

>>6543410