Spacerycore Emojis & Text

˚̩͙⚛ ͙*̩̩̥˚̩͙⚛ ͙*̩̩̥˚̩͙⚛ ͙*̩̩̥˚̩͙⚛ ͙*̩̩̥

COMPUTER SENSORS ii * * ᴬˢ ᵃ ⁿᵉᵘʳᵒᵈⁱᵛᵉʳᵍᵉⁿᵗ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉʳ ᴵ ᵈᵒ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵐᵉᵃⁿ ᵗᵒ ˢᵗⁱᵍᵐᵃᵗⁱᶻᵉ ᵃⁿʸ ᵗʸᵖᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵈⁱˢᵃᵇⁱˡⁱᵗʸ ⁿᵒʳ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵘⁿⁱᵗʸ ᵃˢ ᵃ ʷʰᵒˡᵉ‧ ᔆᵒᵐᵉᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ⸴ ᴵ ᵘˢᵉ ᵃⁿ ᴬᴵ ᵍᵉⁿᵉʳᵃᵗᵒʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʷᵉᵃᵏ ᵗʰᵉ ʷʳⁱᵗⁱⁿᵍ * "Plankton?" Hanna's voice called. "You've been in there for a while." But there was no response from the bedroom. Karen's smile faded as she heard the silence. She knew her husband well enough to recognize when he'd reached his limit. She excused herself and went to check. Plankton was indeed on the bed, his eye squeezed shut. His body was rigid breathing shallow. Karen ached for him; she knew he was in the throes of sensory overload. Karen approached the bed gently, not wanting to startle him. She sat down beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Plankton," she said softly. "You ok?" He didn't move, didn't speak. He just lay there, a tense coil of discomfort. Karen knew to recognize the signs of his overwhelm. The way he curled tightly around his body, the shallow breaths that spoke of his struggle to regain control. He was in his own world now, one where the bombardment of Hanna's sounds and touch had become too much. "Plankton," she said again, her voice a gentle whisper in the room. "You don't have to be out there if you don't want to." The touches, the sounds, Hanna— all too much. Karen's expression filled with understanding. "It's alright," she assured him, her hand gently rubbing his back. "You don't have to force it." Plankton nodded, his body slowly relaxing under her touch. He let out a sigh. Karen knew Plankton's not one for crowded spaces or unexpected physical contact. "Hey, guys, everything ok in here?" Hanna's voice was cheerful, but there was a hint of concern that had crept in. She searched the room, her gaze landing on Plankton's rigid form. Her smile faltered for a second, a flicker of confusion crossing her features. "Is he ok?" "He's... overwhelmed," Karen said. She knew Hanna didn't mean any harm, but she also knew her friend's boundless enthusiasm could be to much for Plankton to handle. Hanna's expression grew more puzzled. "What's there to be overwhelmed about?" Her curiosity piqued. "What's going on with you Plankton?" she asked, taking a step closer to the bed. Plankton jolted slightly, but he remained silent, eye still closed. "I don't get it.." Karen took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "Plankton's a bit... sensitive to stimulation," she began. "He needs his quiet time. Nothing against you, Hanna; just how he is." Hanna grew more concerned. "But I didn't mean to," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just wanted to have a good time." Karen patted Plankton's shoulder, her screen never leaving his face. "It's not you, Hanna," she assured. "It's just that to much noise, touch, all just gets to be to much for him." "How?" "Some people need more space than others. It's not a reflection on you or your company." "But I don't get it," Hanna said, her voice quiet. "What did I do?" "You didn't do anything wrong," Karen assured her, her hand still resting on Plankton's shoulder. "It's just that Plankton's sensory input is overwhelmed easily." Hanna looked from Karen to Plankton, full of questions. "But I didn't do anything weird; did I?" "No," she said, her voice calm and soothing. "It's just that Plankton isn't much... physical affection from anyone but me. And even then, it's on his terms." Hanna's expression softened, starting to reach out to gently touch Plankton's arm. "Don't," Karen said, placing a hand over hers to stop her. Hanna's hand hovered in mid-air, and she looked at Karen with confusion. Karen took a deep breath. "Plankton needs his space to recharge. And when it comes to physical touch, it's something that's... it's not something he's comfortable with, from just anyone." Hanna nods, her gaze still on Plankton. "But, you?" "We've found a balance that works for us. But it's something that took time to figure out. And even then, there are days when he needs more space than usual." Hanna nodded. "But he didn't say anything," she murmured. "I didn't know." "It's not something he talks about. He tries to be strong, to handle it, but sometimes it's just to much for him." "Why does he not flinch if you touch him, if it's sensory?" Hanna asked. Karen sighed. "It's complicated. I've known him for a long time, and we've built a level of trust. He's comfortable with my touch. But even then, it's a balancing act of knowing when he needs more and or when he needs less." Hanna nodded, her gaze thoughtful as she took a step back from the bed. "I had no idea," she murmured. "How long does it take for him to..." "It varies," Karen said. "Sometimes it's just minutes, other times can be hours." "Is he going to remember us talking right now?" Hanna asked. "It's hard to say," Karen replied, her gaze still on Plankton. "When he's like this, he's kind of... in his own world. Sometimes he's aware, sometimes he's not. It's like he's not present. The best thing is to just give him space," Karen said. "Let him come out of it on his own time. Sometimes talking to him helps, but not always." Hanna nodded. "I didn't mean to... I didn't know," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just wanted to make him feel included." Karen gave her a small, understanding smile. "It's alright, Hanna," she said. "You couldn't have known. Just remember, Plankton needs space, and for us to respect that." Hanna nodds, her gaze still on Plankton. "So, how does he act coming out of it?" "It depends," Karen said, her hand still on Plankton's shoulder. "Sometimes he's a bit groggy, other times he's just... tired. And sometimes he's a bit snappy." "What will he remember?" "Probably not much," Karen said, her voice low. "When he's like this, the world kind of... washes over him. He might remember snippets, but it's all pretty fuzzy." Hanna nods. "How do I show him I care?" "Just being a friend—that means the world to him. But sometimes, the best way to show you care is to give him the space he needs." "But I don't want him to think I'm ignoring him." "You're not," Karen assured her, her voice gentle. "Just be mindful of his own boundaries. Sometimes a simple 'How are you feeling?' or even showing interests in his likes, can mean more than any hug. It's a condition where the brain can't process all the information coming in from the senses at once. It's like your brain's circuits are overloaded, and you just... shut down." Hanna nodded, her gaze thoughtful as she took this in. "Is it ok if I can ask Plankton questions about it?" "Of course," Karen said, her voice gentle. "But just be mindful. He might not be up for a lot of talking, especially right now." Hanna took a deep breath and approached, her movements slow and deliberate. "Plankton?" He didn't respond, his body still taut with tension. Hanna looked to Karen for guidance, who offered a smile. "Plankton," she whispered, her voice a soft caress. "Can you hear me?" There was no response, but Karen could feel the tension in his body ease slightly. She knew he was listening, even if he couldn't bring himself to respond. "Plankton's born with a condition called sensory sensitivity," Karen began, her voice calm and measured. "It means that his brain has trouble interpreting and responding to all sensory information from his environment. It can be anything from sounds to touch." "So, like, when we were watching the movie, and I was all over the place with my feelings, that was probably a bit much for him?" "Exactly," Karen said, her voice gentle. "Everything's just... too much for him sometimes." Hanna's eyes searched Plankton's face, looking for any sign of discomfort. "But he didn't say any thing," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "He tries not to," Karen said, her eyes never leaving her husband. "He doesn't like to make a fuss. But when it gets to be too much, he just kind of... shuts down." "But how do you know when it's too much?" she asked, her voice filled with concern. "It's subtle," Karen said, her eyes still on Plankton. "He'll get tense, his breathing will change, bad mood, his eye might glaze over a bit. And when he gets really overwhelmed, he just... withdraws." "So, I shouldn't have grabbed his hand during the movie?" she asked, her voice filled with regret. "It's ok," Karen said, her voice soothing. "You didn't know. Just remember for next time." Hanna nodded. "But what if I miss the signs?" she asked, her voice filled with concern. "It's ok," Karen said, her voice soothing. "We're all learning. Just remember to be patient and pay attention. And if you're ever unsure, just ask." Hanna nodded, her hand now resting gently on the bed next to Plankton. "I'm sorry Plankton," she whispered. He didn't move, but Karen could see the tension in his body start to ease a bit more. She knew he heard Hanna, even if he couldn't respond. "Don't worry, Plankton," Hanna said, her voice gentle. "I'll be more careful next time. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." Karen watched as Plankton's antennae slowly twitched, his breathing evening out as he began to come back to the world around him. It's a slow process, one Karen knew well. She gave Hanna a nod, a silent thank you for her understanding. "Why don't you go grab us board games, Hanna?" Karen suggested, voice low. "Give him a few to 'wake up'." Hanna nodded, her gaze lingering on Plankton before she turned and left the room. Karen watched the door close behind her before turning her attention back to Plankton. "It's ok, Plankton," she whispered, stroking his arm. "You're safe here."

t̷̡̨̼͈̼̦̯̻͋̄̎͂̆̚͜r̵̢̰̯͙̲̪̪̈́̎̊͂̒̀̓̏a̴̦̘͔̘͙̯͗v̸̛͓̻̱̖͑̈͋̓͐̓e̷̯̔͆͒͒̒l̴̡̯̫̎́̋̾̓̓̕ ̵̧̥͖̜͚͓̜̳͋͂ͅi̶̬͙̼͋̃͂͛s̴̨͙̟̙̲̝̥̿͒̍̌̄̚͝ ̴̨̜̰̩̅n̵͖͈̐͛͗̋̓̀͠ò̵͎̈́̌̋̉͌̕̕t̵̪͍̮͓̺̹̘̙̟̃̄̿̈́͛̾͝ ̵͉͓̲̯͂̌͝a̷̘͓͚͇̓̓̏̆͂̏̾̂͝d̴̯̹͔͚̗̀v̵̧̟̹͍͈͛͆̈́̈́͘͜ì̴̧̥͈s̴̡̢̬̹̙͕̗͉͆ͅẽ̷̢͔̹͓͑̈́̐̅̈͊d̶͙̯͎̱͍̬̾̆̍̈́̆͘̚.̷̜̣̟͔̞̫̇̄̍͘ͅ t̷̖̹͓͈̤͇̠͈̣̣̬̰̭̰̬̺̏͛̀̀͑̓ͅr̵̢̗̖̲̙̯͙͔̩͕̣͚͙̎̔̔̃̔̎͆̎̕͘͜ͅa̶̙̦̤̳̞̟̬̯͉̓̄͌͜ͅv̷̪̥̥̲̭̭̯͙͓̘̹̣̦͆̈̒͑̾̊̈́̈́̇͘͠è̵̢̡͙͙̰̟̮̹̼̰̘̙̟̠͙̳̤l̸͖̻̯̺̜͙͔̜̥̥͉̟̫̯͔͕̇̅͛̅̓̊͗̃̚̕̕͜͠ ̸͎͇̽͛̈́̿͗̈́̇̀͐̃̄̓͒̆̀͑̈́i̷̧͓̠̙̦͈͎̖̙̲̘̜͇̋͆̀̆͋̂̓́͐̌̉̅̃̓͘ͅs̸̡̧̧̢̼̟̤̦̯̭͔͐́͂ ̷̛͗͛̒͂̐͒̈̈̌͗̔̍͜͠ͅn̵̖̬̙͖̲̹̯̺̐́͆̒́̃̇̊̄̂̓̔̇͝͠ǫ̴̩̘̹͔̠̩́͐͐͘͘ţ̵͉̟͕̜̥̫̳̫̤͙̣͉̀̎̋͠ ̷̧̝̜͙̺̳͕̪͕̝̫̼̘͚̭͚̀̉̏̋̓̊͛̊̒͊̾͘͠͠͝a̷̜͖͙̣͖͎̬̋̇̀̅̏͛̐̉̀͗̈́̚̕ḓ̴̨̭̺̯̻̉͆̒̈́̂̐̓v̷̺̺͎͕̥͑̉͗͑͆̽͋͐͗̚î̷̪̝̓s̸̱͍͍͚̭͇͙͓̜̜̼̰̐̏͋́͗̔͑͠ͅe̴̠̦͙̳̲̰̤͉̟̽͊͛͂́̚̚ḑ̵̛̩͔̹̠̯̠͖̰̲͖̭͍͉͊̾̔̃.̵̢̠͂̇͌̈́̃͂̄̒̃̊̇̋ t̶̫̣̣̰̮͚̭̯̖̙̫̼̠̘̩̩͎̞̣̹̗̠̏̀̊̈́͊͝r̷̙̪̲̪̥̤͎̰̩̳̫̪̲̳͎̳̮̹͔̜͕̖͂̊̿̇̀̇̉͐̊͗̓̅̎̌͘ā̶̯̤͓̳̱̺̜̯̻̜̮v̸̡̟͍̯̳̪̖̲̮͓͈͚̫̫͔̮̼̖̭͆͂̃̈́̑̓̆͌̔̋̿͛̒̾͒͛́͌͌͌̑̔̀ͅe̷̢͖̭͚̋̑̊͂͌̈́̄̐͊́͌̒̄̈́́̄̈́͘̕͜͠l̴̨̤̣͚͙̝͓̲͈̟̯̩̺̠̰̜̣̩̭̩̈́̑͆̂̈́̀͗̊̄̋̊͑̓̕͝͝ ̶̛̛̣̹͚͖̪̗̯̬͋̈̄͑̀̽͑̈́͑̈́̐̎̀̑̒̎̚i̴̧̭̥̼̗̹̹͉̳̞̰̝̩̖̹̣̰̪̣̥̳̎͊̾͂̽̕͜s̶̡̨̥͕̬̤͉̭̠̖̺̖̖̰̙̺̳̣͙̳͆̊͒̇̋̎̏̋͐͊̚̚͝͝ͅ ̴̛͚̗̌̋͗͗̎͌̊͆͆̃̅̋͗͝͠ṉ̴̨͔̦͖͛̄̄̀͝ơ̴̛̲̗͉̦̯͈̙̼̯̹̍̄͊̋̾̈̌͐̎̓̕t̸̫̖̫̤̙̝̼̔̏̐̇̆͑̓̽̾͗̌͑͗̊̀̇̕͝ ̴̡̖̟̜̗͒̍̿͗̏́̏̔̈̄͒̆̊́̌̓̍̒̕̚͝͝ͅą̵̢̠̬̫̗̤̞̝̱͙͖̭͇̲̟͉̼̯̟͒̍̈́̀̒̔̇͊͜͝d̴̨͖̺͉̱͙̞̭̠̼̫̠̘̤̮̬̩̼̟͈̈́̍̌̉̓̂̈́̃̐̌͆̏̈́̓́̔ͅv̷̡̮͙̗͖͎͉̥͇̀̊̔̇̄̉͒̔̀̽̂̓̐̇́͜͝͠͝͝ͅi̴̢͉͙̜̙̳̫̪͉̺̙̹͓͕͉̜̞̣͇̞̪̱̦̿̎̀̌̍̔͌̓̔̆͗͛̇͐̌̓͘͜͝ș̴̨̟̠̦̻̫̃͐̈́̈́̑͆̃̑̓́́̃̄̆͗̚͜͠ͅȩ̵̼͍̂̓̈̉̊͋̏d̶̢̡̨̥͕̪̫̼̣̰̫̟̹̩͉̞̒̈̀̾͋́͋̍͋͌̄́̔̚͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅ.̴̡̰̦̩͙̣̜̟̠̮͓̠̖̮͚̳͙̙̤̆͑̑̂͒̌͛͊̈́̽̎̈́̔̆̊̓̚

𒐫 ꧅ .̷̼̣̭͆́̈́́̐.̷͙̪̈́͐͝.̵̥̼͑̈̃͌͝.̵̡̧̘̗͇̲̼̓̉̂̈̈́́̀̚͘.̷̧̡̠͈̪̈́͒͘.̷̗̣̜͑.̴̢͉͔̬͐.̷̨̢͕̞͔̺̭͓͒̋̔͜.̴͈͖̤̥͖͈̘͓͐́̏̀̇.̵̦̠͎̬͎͓̭̅̔̈́͋͌͆.̷̧̧̛̬̥̌̈́͆͛̌̔͆̚͘.̸̡̪̈́̇̈̂͒̍͘.̵͍̬̥̲̪̱̞̭̱̂.̴̫͂͑̀̅͠ͅ.̵̡̡̗̮̠̻͉͈̓̍̓̈͑̚.̶̨̛͓̗̗͕̃̆̀̌̃͜.̵̱̀͗̂͘͝.̴̛̳͙͙̜̱͖͂̈́̃͘̚.̶̨͍̩̻̮̼̳͑͘.̵̹̏͒̃͠.̷͈͎͖̻̳̮͇͖̾̎̅̌.̷̪̱̗̲̝̩̚.̷̪̼̰̞̯̳̬̄́̋̾̌̉͊͜͝͠ͅ.̵̭̮̞̩̹͇͚̳͔̈͠ͅ.̶̪͖̯͍͓͕͆͊̑̀͘͜.̴̼̟̞̘̩̽͜.̵̫͛̐́̂̿̒.̴̲͉̥̯̰̥̮̘̓.̸̨͍̔͑͂̈́̈́.̷̬͕̠̳̟̈̈́͆͑.̵̡̠̳͈̊̄̾̌͆̓̃͂̽͝.̴̢̬͔̥͙̠̭͔̳̹͂̀.̵̧̫̗̰͙̇͆̐͑͗̇̉̚.̵̧͚̼̙̱̱̖̳̅.̸̥͇̤̦͓̟͓̓̾̅̓̀̀͒̄̉̈.̵̳̫̦͔̳̯̒̏̇̇̈́͐̀.̶̨͔̼̖͈̉̀͋͜ͅ.̵̧̭̝̩̥͕̫̬̉̌.̸̡̢̣̭̙͔̻̻̝͂̊̍̓́̄̊̑͊̕.̴̳͎̲̟͠.̷̛̟͕͔̠̦͍̻̂̍̿̒͗̒.̴̛̦̬̤͈͉͚̾̎̓͝.̵̟̻͉̗̝̾ͅ.̷̢̡̰̩̝̜̙̄̌̽̊̎̑̋.̷̼̣̭͆́̈́́̐.̷͙̪̈́͐͝.̵̥̼͑̈̃͌͝.̵̡̧̘̗͇̲̼̓̉̂̈̈́́̀̚͘.̷̧̡̠͈̪̈́͒͘.̷̗̣̜͑.̴̢͉͔̬͐.̷̨̢͕̞͔̺̭͓͒̋̔͜.̴͈͖̤̥͖͈̘͓͐́̏̀̇.̵̦̠͎̬͎͓̭̅̔̈́͋͌͆.̷̧̧̛̬̥̌̈́͆͛̌̔͆̚͘.̸̡̪̈́̇̈̂͒̍͘.̵͍̬̥̲̪̱̞̭̱̂.̴̫͂͑̀̅͠ͅ.̵̡̡̗̮̠̻͉͈̓̍̓̈͑̚.̶̨̛͓̗̗͕̃̆̀̌̃͜.̵̱̀͗̂͘͝.̴̛̳͙͙̜̱͖͂̈́̃͘̚.̶̨͍̩̻̮̼̳͑͘.̵̹̏͒̃͠.̷͈͎͖̻̳̮͇͖̾̎̅̌.̷̪̱̗̲̝̩̚.̷̪̼̰̞̯̳̬̄́̋̾̌̉͊͜͝͠ͅ.̵̭̮̞̩̹͇͚̳͔̈͠ͅ.̶̪͖̯͍͓͕͆͊̑̀͘͜.̴̼̟̞̘̩̽͜.̵̫͛̐́̂̿̒.̴̲͉̥̯̰̥̮̘̓.̸̨͍̔͑͂̈́̈́.̷̬͕̠̳̟̈̈́͆͑.̵̡̠̳͈̊̄̾̌͆̓̃͂̽͝.̴̢̬͔̥͙̠̭͔̳̹͂̀.̵̧̫̗̰͙̇͆̐͑͗̇̉̚.̵̧͚̼̙̱̱̖̳̅.̸̥͇̤̦͓̟͓̓̾̅̓̀̀͒̄̉̈.̵̳̫̦͔̳̯̒̏̇̇̈́͐̀.̶̨͔̼̖͈̉̀͋͜ͅ.̵̧̭̝̩̥͕̫̬̉̌.̸̡̢̣̭̙͔̻̻̝͂̊̍̓́̄̊̑͊̕.̴̳͎̲̟͠.̷̛̟͕͔̠̦͍̻̂̍̿̒͗̒.̴̛̦̬̤͈͉͚̾̎̓͝.̵̟̻͉̗̝̾ͅ.̷̢̡̰̩̝̜̙̄̌̽̊̎̑̋.̷̼̣̭͆́̈́́̐.̷͙̪̈́͐͝.̵̥̼͑̈̃͌͝.̵̡̧̘̗͇̲̼̓̉̂̈̈́́̀̚͘.̷̧̡̠͈̪̈́͒͘.̷̗̣̜͑.̴̢͉͔̬͐.̷̨̢͕̞͔̺̭͓͒̋̔͜.̴͈͖̤̥͖͈̘͓͐́̏̀̇.̵̦̠͎̬͎͓̭̅̔̈́͋͌͆.̷̧̧̛̬̥̌̈́͆͛̌̔͆̚͘.̸̡̪̈́̇̈̂͒̍͘.̵͍̬̥̲̪̱̞̭̱̂.̴̫͂͑̀̅͠ͅ.̵̡̡̗̮̠̻͉͈̓̍̓̈͑̚.̶̨̛͓̗̗͕̃̆̀̌̃͜.̵̱̀͗̂͘͝.̴̛̳͙͙̜̱͖͂̈́̃͘̚.̶̨͍̩̻̮̼̳͑͘.̵̹̏͒̃͠.̷͈͎͖̻̳̮͇͖̾̎̅̌.̷̪̱̗̲̝̩̚.̷̪̼̰̞̯̳̬̄́̋̾̌̉͊͜͝͠ͅ.̵̭̮̞̩̹͇͚̳͔̈͠ͅ.̶̪͖̯͍͓͕͆͊̑̀͘͜.̴̼̟̞̘̩̽͜.̵̫͛̐́̂̿̒.̴̲͉̥̯̰̥̮̘̓.̸̨͍̔͑͂̈́̈́.̷̬͕̠̳̟̈̈́͆͑.̵̡̠̳͈̊̄̾̌͆̓̃͂̽͝.̴̢̬͔̥͙̠̭͔̳̹͂̀.̵̧̫̗̰͙̇͆̐͑͗̇̉̚.̵̧͚̼̙̱̱̖̳̅.̸̥͇̤̦͓̟͓̓̾̅̓̀̀͒̄̉̈.̵̳̫̦͔̳̯̒̏̇̇̈́͐̀.̶̨͔̼̖͈̉̀͋͜ͅ.̵̧̭̝̩̥͕̫̬̉̌.̸̡̢̣̭̙͔̻̻̝͂̊̍̓́̄̊̑͊̕.̴̳͎̲̟͠.̷̛̟͕͔̠̦͍̻̂̍̿̒͗̒.̴̛̦̬̤͈͉͚̾̎̓͝.̵̟̻͉̗̝̾ͅ.̷̢̡̰̩̝̜̙̄̌̽̊̎̑̋.̷̼̣̭͆́̈́́̐.̷͙̪̈́͐͝.̵̥̼͑̈̃͌͝.̵̡̧̘̗͇̲̼̓̉̂̈̈́́̀̚͘.̷̧̡̠͈̪̈́͒͘.̷̗̣̜͑.̴̢͉͔̬͐.̷̨̢͕̞͔̺̭͓͒̋̔͜.̴͈͖̤̥͖͈̘͓͐́̏̀̇.̵̦̠͎̬͎͓̭̅̔̈́͋͌͆.̷̧̧̛̬̥̌̈́͆͛̌̔͆̚͘.̸̡̪̈́̇̈̂͒̍͘.̵͍̬̥̲̪̱̞̭̱̂.̴̫͂͑̀̅͠ͅ.̵̡̡̗̮̠̻͉͈̓̍̓̈͑̚.̶̨̛͓̗̗͕̃̆̀̌̃͜.̵̱̀͗̂͘͝.̴̛̳͙͙̜̱͖͂̈́̃͘̚.̶̨͍̩̻̮̼̳͑͘.̵̹̏͒̃͠.̷͈͎͖̻̳̮͇͖̾̎̅̌.̷̪̱̗̲̝̩̚.̷̪̼̰̞̯̳̬̄́̋̾̌̉͊͜͝͠ͅ.̵̭̮̞̩̹͇͚̳͔̈͠ͅ.̶̪͖̯͍͓͕͆͊̑̀͘͜.̴̼̟̞̘̩̽͜.̵̫͛̐́̂̿̒.̴̲͉̥̯̰̥̮̘̓.̸̨͍̔͑͂̈́̈́.̷̬͕̠̳̟̈̈́͆͑.̵̡̠̳͈̊̄̾̌͆̓̃͂̽͝.̴̢̬͔̥͙̠̭͔̳̹͂̀.̵̧̫̗̰͙̇͆̐͑͗̇̉̚.̵̧͚̼̙̱̱̖̳̅.̸̥͇̤̦͓̟͓̓̾̅̓̀̀͒̄̉̈.̵̳̫̦͔̳̯̒̏̇̇̈́͐̀.̶̨͔̼̖͈̉̀͋͜ͅ.̵̧̭̝̩̥͕̫̬̉̌.̸̡̢̣̭̙͔̻̻̝͂̊̍̓́̄̊̑͊̕.̴̳͎̲̟͠.̷̛̟͕͔̠̦͍̻̂̍̿̒͗̒.̴̛̦̬̤͈͉͚̾̎̓͝.̵̟̻͉̗̝̾ͅ.̷̢̡̰̩̝̜̙̄̌̽̊̎̑̋.̷̼̣̭͆́̈́́̐.̷͙̪̈́͐͝.̵̥̼͑̈̃͌͝.̵̡̧̘̗͇̲̼̓̉̂̈̈́́̀̚͘.̷̧̡̠͈̪̈́͒͘.̷̗̣̜͑.̴̢͉͔̬͐.̷̨̢͕̞͔̺̭͓͒̋̔͜.̴͈͖̤̥͖͈̘͓͐́̏̀̇.̵̦̠͎̬͎͓̭̅̔̈́͋͌͆.̷̧̧̛̬̥̌̈́͆͛̌̔͆̚͘.̸̡̪̈́̇̈̂͒̍͘.̵͍̬̥̲̪̱̞̭̱̂.̴̫͂͑̀̅͠ͅ.̵̡̡̗̮̠̻͉͈̓̍̓̈͑̚.̶̨̛͓̗̗͕̃̆̀̌̃͜.̵̱̀͗̂͘͝.̴̛̳͙͙̜̱͖͂̈́̃͘̚.̶̨͍̩̻̮̼̳͑͘.̵̹̏͒̃͠.̷͈͎͖̻̳̮͇͖̾̎̅̌.̷̪̱̗̲̝̩̚.̷̪̼̰̞̯̳̬̄́̋̾̌̉͊͜͝͠ͅ.̵̭̮̞̩̹͇͚̳͔̈͠ͅ.̶̪͖̯͍͓͕͆͊̑̀͘͜.̴̼̟̞̘̩̽͜.̵̫͛̐́̂̿̒.̴̲͉̥̯̰̥̮̘̓.̸̨͍̔͑͂̈́̈́.̷̬͕̠̳̟̈̈́͆͑.̵̡̠̳͈̊̄̾̌͆̓̃͂̽͝.̴̢̬͔̥͙̠̭͔̳̹͂̀.̵̧̫̗̰͙̇͆̐͑͗̇̉̚.̵̧͚̼̙̱̱̖̳̅.̸̥͇̤̦͓̟͓̓̾̅̓̀̀͒̄̉̈.̵̳̫̦͔̳̯̒̏̇̇̈́͐̀.̶̨͔̼̖͈̉̀͋͜ͅ.̵̧̭̝̩̥͕̫̬̉̌.̸̡̢̣̭̙͔̻̻̝͂̊̍̓́̄̊̑͊̕.̴̳͎̲̟͠.̷̛̟͕͔̠̦͍̻̂̍̿̒͗̒.̴̛̦̬̤͈͉͚̾̎̓͝.̵̟̻͉̗̝̾ͅ.̷̢̡̰̩̝̜̙̄̌̽̊̎̑̋.̷̼̣̭͆́̈́́̐.̷͙̪̈́͐͝.̵̥̼͑̈̃͌͝.̵̡̧̘̗͇̲̼̓̉̂̈̈́́̀̚͘.̷̧̡̠͈̪̈́͒͘.̷̗̣̜͑.̴̢͉͔̬͐.̷̨̢͕̞͔̺̭͓͒̋̔͜.̴͈͖̤̥͖͈̘͓͐́̏̀̇.̵̦̠͎̬͎͓̭̅̔̈́͋͌͆.̷̧̧̛̬̥̌̈́͆͛̌̔͆̚͘.̸̡̪̈́̇̈̂͒̍͘.̵͍̬̥̲̪̱̞̭̱̂.̴̫͂͑̀̅͠ͅ.̵̡̡̗̮̠̻͉͈̓̍̓̈͑̚.̶̨̛͓̗̗͕̃̆̀̌̃͜.̵̱̀͗̂͘͝.̴̛̳͙͙̜̱͖͂̈́̃͘̚.̶̨͍̩̻̮̼̳͑͘.̵̹̏͒̃͠.̷͈͎͖̻̳̮͇͖̾̎̅̌.̷̪̱̗̲̝̩̚.̷̪̼̰̞̯̳̬̄́̋̾̌̉͊͜͝͠ͅ.̵̭̮̞̩̹͇͚̳͔̈͠ͅ.̶̪͖̯͍͓͕͆͊̑̀͘͜.̴̼̟̞̘̩̽͜.̵̫͛̐́̂̿̒.̴̲͉̥̯̰̥̮̘̓.̸̨͍̔͑͂̈́̈́.̷̬͕̠̳̟̈̈́͆͑.̵̡̠̳͈̊̄̾̌͆̓̃͂̽͝.̴̢̬͔̥͙̠̭͔̳̹͂̀.̵̧̫̗̰͙̇͆̐͑͗̇̉̚.̵̧͚̼̙̱̱̖̳̅.̸̥͇̤̦͓̟͓̓̾̅̓̀̀͒̄̉̈.̵̳̫̦͔̳̯̒̏̇̇̈́͐̀.̶̨͔̼̖͈̉̀͋͜ͅ.̵̧̭̝̩̥͕̫̬̉̌.̸̡̢̣̭̙͔̻̻̝͂̊̍̓́̄̊̑͊̕.̴̳͎̲̟͠.̷̛̟͕͔̠̦͍̻̂̍̿̒͗̒.̴̛̦̬̤͈͉͚̾̎̓͝.̵̟̻͉̗̝̾ͅ.̷̢̡̰̩̝̜̙̄̌̽̊̎̑̋.̷̼̣̭͆́̈́́̐.̷͙̪̈́͐͝.̵̥̼͑̈̃͌͝.̵̡̧̘̗͇̲̼̓̉̂̈̈́́̀̚͘.̷̧̡̠͈̪̈́͒͘.̷̗̣̜͑.̴̢͉͔̬͐.̷̨̢͕̞͔̺̭͓͒̋̔͜.̴͈͖̤̥͖͈̘͓͐́̏̀̇.̵̦̠͎̬͎͓̭̅̔̈́͋͌͆.̷̧̧̛̬̥̌̈́͆͛̌̔͆̚͘.̸̡̪̈́̇̈̂͒̍͘.̵͍̬̥̲̪̱̞̭̱̂.̴̫͂͑̀̅͠ͅ.̵̡̡̗̮̠̻͉͈̓̍̓̈͑̚.̶̨̛͓̗̗͕̃̆̀̌̃͜.̵̱̀͗̂͘͝.̴̛̳͙͙̜̱͖͂̈́̃͘̚.̶̨͍̩̻̮̼̳͑͘.̵̹̏͒̃͠.̷͈͎͖̻̳̮͇͖̾̎̅̌.̷̪̱̗̲̝̩̚.̷̪̼̰̞̯̳̬̄́̋̾̌̉͊͜͝͠ͅ.̵̭̮̞̩̹͇͚̳͔̈͠ͅ.̶̪͖̯͍͓͕͆͊̑̀͘͜.̴̼̟̞̘̩̽͜.̵̫͛̐́̂̿̒.̴̲͉̥̯̰̥̮̘̓.̸̨͍̔͑͂̈́̈́.̷̬͕̠̳̟̈̈́͆͑.̵̡̠̳͈̊̄̾̌͆̓̃͂̽͝.̴̢̬͔̥͙̠̭͔̳̹͂̀.̵̧̫̗̰͙̇͆̐͑͗̇̉̚.̵̧͚̼̙̱̱̖̳̅.̸̥͇̤̦͓̟͓̓̾̅̓̀̀͒̄̉̈.̵̳̫̦͔̳̯̒̏̇̇̈́͐̀.̶̨͔̼̖͈̉̀͋͜ͅ.̵̧̭̝̩̥͕̫̬̉̌.̸̡̢̣̭̙͔̻̻̝͂̊̍̓́̄̊̑͊̕.̴̳͎̲̟͠.̷̛̂̍

.̣͍͎̿͊͋̚̕.̤̲̤̼̦͌͞.ͫ͂ͮ҉̖̥̝ͅ ͉̰̹̲͗ͤ͂ͨ̀ͅC̙̟͈̠̘̯̰͆͟ͅO̙̫̫̱͓͓̠ͪ͐͢M̵̥̰̜͓͎ͥ̒͐͑Ē̝̝͊͠ͅ ̷͖̲͒.̨̩̯̘̋̚.͈̩̮̮̣̯̠̘̋̈͋ͬ͘.͉̠̝̟̻͎̤̔ͧ́́ ̞̝͉͎̬͌̀.̛̮͔̻͇͓̼̼̌̂̚.̛̗̺̃̓̿̚.̫̻̦̹̘̟̭̋̊ͩ͡ͅ ͌̓͐̋͏͚̯̪̦̱̭H̴̼̫̭͚͑ͫ͗ͅA͓͇̼͚̭̋̔ͧͯ͘ͅŅ̰̤ͥ̚G̫̜̬̮͔̭͈͚̽͑̔͝ ̝̳́͠O̵̝͖̫̱̎̐U͓͕̹̳̠͖͖͒̈̈́́T͙̺̝̖̔̎̀ͯ͜ͅͅ.̡̭̗͈̤̻͒̔.̣̫̫̩̣ͬ͆ͬ́̚ͅ.̖̪̣̗̘̍͜ ̰̟̗̺̫͙̯̀ͨ́.̛͙̲ͤ́̈͑.̈́ͬ͏̘̖̣̖̠͉̤.̛̟̹̮͕̒ͅ ̞͖̈̊͡Wͥ͐̾͏̤̘̗͚I̙̣̰̖̠͕͆ͩ̌̍̕T͚̯̞̘̣͔̱ͪ́Ḣ̢͓͈͙͓͉̦ͯ ̵̯̬̺̹́ͯͭ.̢̘͙̍̈.ͥ́̐͒҉̙͔͓̣͖̻̫̠.͙͚̐̓́ ̧͖̩̦̣̑ͦͮ̓.̷̜̳̞̯̥̝͋̔.̛̰͍̯̣̮͖͔̹͛ͪͩ.̟͈̲͙̱̞́̏ͦ́̀ ̹̱̯̘͖̀͝M̶͈̠̼̻̆͋̔Ê̡̳̗̐̌̌ ̵̩͙̗̭̘͍͑̇̌ͅ.̥̪̜͋̕.̲͍͙̤͉̔͑̏́̚ͅ.̣̙̫͔̊̔ͣ̕

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-ˋˏ ༻ ❁ ✿ ❀༺ ˎˊ-PETITION TOMAKE THIS AN APP!!!!!‧₊˚❀ ༉ ‧₊ ˚. ☘︎

C̹ͬ̂̒̽̉o͛ͥͤ͐͒ͮ͏̗̳͖͍m̷ͣ͊ͫe̥͙͍͑̇͑,̧̣̼͙̭ͩ ͈̬̫̜̞̝͑͌̑A̹ͨͮͨͬ̆̾è̘͚͕̱̯b̖͔̠̦̈o̗͎̱͕̰͔ͧ̿̉̑ͣ́̕ͅṅ͎̠͔̩̯͈ͩa͙̯͉͔͍̗ͬ̒͊͌̽̊̚ȁ͒ͦͨ͋̚͏̹͉͚s͆͊ͬh,͍̲̙͓͕̯̈́́͑͊ͬ́ ͗ͫ̎ͨ͋ͯ͆͘l͉̰̻͎͔͎ͅẹ͎̬̞̣͖͊̂͗͋ẗ͉͉̲̬̫̙̼̍ͯ̀ ̖̜͎̞̮̰̄̎̾̓͢u̯̯̠̬̐̌̍͢s҉̱̖̤̠ ̎̈́ͤ̊̌҉s̭̣̮̼̖̽ͭͤ͐ͯ͟é̥͖͓̄̔͆̎̀ͅe̺̫̗͕̩͋̊͗͢ ͖̐͛͋̓ͬ̅̇í̷̯̤̲̠͙̖̣̂̃̈̌͗ḟ̈ ͯ́y̷̭̬͖̠̪͓͖̎̔ͮǫ̙̟̦͍̀u̴̬͍̙̘͋̓̔͛̇͑ ̙̌̀̋́aͩ̿̂ṟͣͮe̖ͧ̈́͌̊̋ͧͧ̕ ̟̲̳͚̗̉ͩ͒ͬͪͬ͋a̗͇͓͖̟͉͗ͭ͐ͣ̏̐ͪs̘̞̐̇ ̫̯̠̈́̋͐̉ͦ͛͢p͍̤̬͉͍͖ȓ͙͎ͅë̠̩̮́̇ṱ̫͇̩͖̗̻ṭ̨͔ͩy̅̾̏͂ͭ͆ͩ ̺͕̈́̐ͫͧ̆ï̳͕̯̥̝̹̺͒n̢̤͚̲̩̑ͨ͆ṣ͖͕ͩ̔̋ͨ̉ͯ̐i̝̫d̖ͮ̃ͯ̈ė̶̻̲̤͇̼͖͋̑͆ͅ~̦̘̤̺̮̱̍̾ͥ̅̚~̡ͮ

J̷̨̡̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͇̝̪̮̤̙͓̮͇̱̼̪̻̠͕̺̠̯͖̜̰͇͈̲̲̙͓̭͚̘̦̟͉̖͎̙̺̱̲͈̦̮̟͕̼̯̦̞͙͍͖̦̯̞͔̣͙̙̦̩̫͋̊̎͗̈̽͊͌̊̿͛̓̿̾͗̉̃͐̽̉̌͂͌͐̀̐̉̀̽̔̄͋͆̓̆̈́͗̀̍͆̀̇̅͑̾̄̈́͛̂̈̈́̓̈́̃̇͆̋̓̌̌̏͌̏̂̊̾͌̒̃̉̆͂̊̃̐͐͌̒̇̾̆̓̈́͒͐͌̏̌̐͋̃̄̅̿̑̆͆̓́̓̌̈̈́̂̿̄̊̃̊̍͐͂̾̋̿̀̍͊́̈̌͆͛̇͌͛͂̄̒̆̆́̄̀̊̀̌͂̄̉̈͆̎́̂̎̾̿̎̔̂̾͂̅̄̌͑̐̈́̂͑̈͊̈́̈́̇͌̇̓̃̏͐̃̓̓̾̔̀̔̈́̈́̄͑̇̓̈́̈́̿̂́́̈́͑͛͋̃̀̀̒̈́̐̀͂̾̀̐̄̃͘͘̚͘̕̕͘̕̚̚͘̕͘̚̚͘̕̕͘̕͜͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅų̴̨̡̧̡̨̧̧̨̨̧̡̢̨̡̨̧̡̧̢̢̧̨̢̧̡̨̧̛̛̛̻̺̥̼͔̻̯̬̣̺͕̣̙̖̮͕̳͈̖̤̩̰͇̺̺̗͕͓͔̭̭̣̰̲̜͓̮̜͎̗̻̖̟͇̰̣͎̹̰̰͈͚̪̻̺̼̰̱͙̦̣̲̳͍̬̯̝̗̰̯̗̯̹̤͓͓̮̝͖̖̗͔͚̩̖̹̪͖̘͔͍̘̮̦̲̖͕͖̣̥͙̘͈͎̮̫̳̫̻͇̻̰̻̦̰͓̞̻͈̳̰̦̹͕̹̬̳̯̥̘͎̻̞̫͚̗̻̙̤̖͎̹̲͔͚̩̱͙̜͕̯̻̥̻̫̟͉̹̱̭͉̺̙̹̰̱͎̞̳̖͙̞̺͕̝̭̘̹͔͓͔̝̮̤̠̠͕̜̫̖͎̯̠̰͇̠̺͎͇͚͎͍̳̥̻̳̱̘͕̙̠̮̥̞̹̰̩͉̦͇͈̖̯̩̺̝̦̩̮̪̬̞͉͔̱̳̦̩͖̙͔͚̲̮̝̹̣̮̭̟̥͆͌̄̓̀͋͌̾̿͂̀͑̓̽͒̈̿͗̀̃̀̌͌̒̀̎̓́̓̽͛̓̃̈́͛̌̅̓͊͐̇͑̋͑̄̈́͆̾̇̀̓͑̊́̈́͌̈́̋̿̈͆̍͑̈̉̽̍̀̅̏̄̀̎̏͂̾́̈́͂̈̐̂̈́͐̂̂͌̾̀͛̈́͑̎̍̋̓̓̓̑̂̓͂̈̈́̔̍͆̿̽̋̒̽̒͑́͆̈́̾̐̈́́́͌̈́́̆̈́̄̌̌̊̔̐̑͐͒͋̆͑̐̋͋̍̈́̾͊̂̌̌̾̾̒̈́̐͌͆̇̓̅̔̏̿͊̍̋̃̇̉͐̉̒̽͗͆̊̈́̿̐͆͗̐̓̅̎͒̿̓̈̏̃̒̅̋̐̂͊͋͆͋͒̔͌́̎̇̽̂̇͊́͂̅̈́̿̓̔̅̑͋́͗͋̓̔̌̄̄̍̈́̀̓̉̔̽́̋̏̋́͑̉͌̎͗̈́̃̈́̆̕̕͘͘͘̚̕͘̕͘̚͘̕̚̚͘͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅi̷̢̧̢̧̢̨̢̨̢̛̫̼̻̥̝̞̮̤̮̹̬͎̝̥̲̬̘̱̰͈̜͉̹̬̤̘̲̰͇͙̻̩̪̗̗̲̩̭̠̥̳͎̟̙̪̟͔̖̜̟̥̠̟̣̗̰͓̳̫̻̜̞̻̖͍̘̯̠͓͍͖̘̣̫̫̪͉̹͎̠̬̗͚̻̠̹̘̼̙̬̞̭̺͙̰̥̤̺̬̰̫͙͇͚͚̯͈̼̮͚̣̘̲̳̖͖̗̳̠̤͎̹̮̞̞̯̜̼̎͆̊͂̌̓̑̈̉͊͌̎̓́̂͌̊̎̅͑̔̐͑̈́̐̐͋̋̓͌̐́̈͆͊̿̌̃̍̌̓̊͆̉̍̀̿̋̐͐̈́͒͒̾̉̃̒̃̃̔̒͐͐̇̅̅̏̓̍̍̀̊̔̍̔͆̑̀̒̊͛͆̌̄͐̀̔͛͑̀̓̉̇̉̈́̀͐̉̏̇́̂͗̎̓͗̈́̅̈̌̃̃̈̊̈́̅̽̀̍̓͌̏̈̋̓̐̓̏͂̏͊͋̂̉̈́͑̓̃̒̑͐̊̆͑́͊̂́͗̑̒̊͆̀̂͘͘̚͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅç̷̢̧̨̨̛̬̮̗̠̤͎̫̮̤̠̥͙̰̼̰̜̥̗̰̜̯̥̪̲̝͇̩̪̩̤̣̻̩̫̼̰͈̬̥̯̭̘͇̺̦̩̦̗̣̣̭̝̱̻͓̜͈̰̞̠̙̼͍̬͚̳̠͆̂̊͐͛̈́̀̎̈̇́̀̄̈́͗̀̓̀̓̾̀͗̉̄̌̋̆͌͂̀͊͂̓̃͆̓̏͌̅̀͗̈́̎̏̇́͂͘̕͘͜͜͜͝͝͠ͅͅͅe̷̢̧̢̨̧̧̧̡̨̡̢̢̢̢̛̛̛̞̦̥̳̤̮̪͔̟̠̥̭̳͙̲̠͍͍̘̻̘͙͎͖̻̗̣̙̹͍͓̤͇̤̜͕̻͖̮̪̙̱̗̲̤̮͙͇͖͚̩̙͔̮͎̟̞͕͉̘͚̯͖̲̯̗̩̘͔͕͕̥̗̙͉̜͓͓̲̩͕͉̻̺̫̯̙̣̠̩̥̗̲̙͕̪̹̩̪͇̫͈͚̞̭̩̙͉̣̟̩̤̜͎̼̮͈͍̞͈̼̟͚͉̩͎̰͇̦̦͙̫̻͉̗̺̜͙͉̮̣͇͈͇̙͓͙̺͙͚̮͋̉̋̓͌͒͐̀̍͑̍͆̔̈́̾̉̈́̔͌̔̐̎̀̈́̉̒̃͒́͂́̂̌̊̈́̾̿͆͛͋̔͐̐͌̂̎̐̈̂̃̍͛̿̒̿͌͒͐̂̽̍̏̈́̎̓̈́̿̑̃́̏͊̈̈͒̆̈́͗̑̒̅̊̿̓͐̈̊̉̍͌̔̓̆̋͂̍̑͒̓̽̎̃͗͒̈́͛͆̊̽̊̑̑̉̽̔̌͑̎̓̒̓̒͛̓̾̃͆̿̔̉̋͂̒̀̿̊̋͊̊͋̀̈́̽̏̑͛̐̓̄̀̈̉͛̌̈̇̊̎́͆̊̈͒̀͛̃̓́͊̓̑͗̐̆̀̾̍͛̆̅͑̀͂̍̋̂̍̽͌͋͆̀̎̉̆̇̌̿͂̀̊̈͛́͒̉̿̿̇̀͒́͑̏̏̎̇̕̕͘͘̕̚͘̕͘̕̚͘̕͘͘̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅ

i destroy everything i touch i destroy everything i touch i destroy everything i touch i̴ ̴d̶e̵s̵t̵r̸o̴y̸ ̷e̴v̸e̸r̵y̷t̶h̸i̴n̷g̵ ̸i̸ ̸t̴o̵u̵c̶h̴ i̴ ̴d̶e̵s̵t̵r̸o̴y̸ ̷e̴v̸e̸r̵y̷t̶h̸i̴n̷g̵ ̸i̸ ̸ t̴o̵u̵c̶h̴ i̴͔̅ ̶͔̈d̷̛͉e̵͇̕ś̷ͅt̴͙̄r̷̗̈o̵̗͐ÿ̷͎ ̴͖͐ě̴̱v̷̖͂è̵̲r̷̲̃y̷̫͑t̷͕̔h̵̥͠i̴̗͗n̷̙̈́g̷̮̕ ̵͙̽i̴̛͖ ̴͓̄t̵̙͐ỏ̴̭u̶̗͝c̵̗͛ȟ̷̫ i̴͔̅ ̶͔̈d̷̛͉e̵͇̕ś̷ͅt̴͙̄r̷̗̈o̵̗͐ÿ̷͎ ̴͖͐ě̴̱v̷̖͂è̵̲r̷̲̃y̷̫͑t̷͕̔h̵̥͠i̴̗͗n̷̙̈́g̷̮̕ ̵͙̽i̴̛͖ ̴͓̄t̵̙͐ỏ̴̭u̶̗͝c̵̗͛ȟ̷̫ i̵͕͠ ̵̳̋̓d̴̫͒e̶̢͍̅s̸̨̉ẗ̶͓́̃r̴̲̂̀o̶̯̍y̶̨̽ ė̴̻̈́v̶͈͎̍ẹ̴͍̿ȑ̶̖̼͋y̵̛̜ṱ̴̛͝h̸͇̅́i̵̛̝͠n̷̡͘g̶͍̎̂ ̶̢̮̆̉i̶̤̓ ̷̺̲̈ẗ̴̨̙ơ̵̖̏ủ̷̱͓c̷̟̞̒͝h̴͔̩̿ i̵͙̪̇̉̚ͅ ̴̨̹͘ď̷̯͊͝ë̶̯̇ͅs̸̜͌̕͜͝t̶͍̞̠̒͘ȑ̷̠̙̦̄ȯ̴̳̻ỹ̴̟̒͝ ̵͎̈́͆e̵̖̜̓̉v̶̟̜̠͂̔̕ę̸̬̈̄ͅŕ̷̢̠͚̇ỳ̷̮̚͠ţ̶́̌h̵̺̑͋ĩ̷̥̉͋n̵̬͓̱̋̀ğ̷̩̫̈͝ ̷̣͈̫̔͛i̵̱̼͒͊ ̷͙̉t̵̪̞͕̐̀̍o̵̧̿͊u̸͈͙̾͒̚c̸̻͎͝h̸̺̐́̚i̵͙̪̇̉̚ͅ ̴̨̹͘ď̷̯͊͝ë̶̯̇ͅs̸̜͌̕͜͝t̶͍̞̠̒͘ȑ̷̠̙̦̄ȯ̴̳̻ỹ̴̟̒͝ ̵͎̈́͆e̵̖̜̓̉v̶̟̜̠͂̔̕ę̸̬̈̄ͅŕ̷̢̠͚̇ỳ̷̮̚͠ţ̶́̌h̵̺̑͋ĩ̷̥̉͋n̵̬͓̱̋̀ğ̷̩̫̈͝ ̷̣͈̫̔͛i̵̱̼͒͊ ̷͙̉ t̵̪̞͕̐̀̍o̵̧̿͊u̸͈͙̾͒̚c̸̻͎͝h̸̺̐́̚ ȉ̶͚͙͙ ̵̳͑d̷̡̀e̷̮̖͔͇̭͌s̶̹̮͕̔͒̌̑t̷͕͗͗r̵̖̆o̶̻͛̎͊̚y̶͍̓͒̒ ̷̻̃ẹ̸̡͈͈͉̓̎̂̓̎v̶̛̺̼̬̌̿ę̶̤̫̝͍͆̿͋͐̚r̶̟̃̑̄y̷͇͍̜̳̑̉̂͋ͅt̷̤̥̣̍̀̿͘ͅh̵̝̖̔̐̽̓i̶̯̘̇̈́̕͠n̷̦̥͙͔̰̐̒g̵͓̜̰͆̒̑͑͜ ̸͍͋͆̃ì̸̹̫̪͓̐ͅ ̵̨͕̹̗̽͑̈́́͘t̸̹̒ö̸̯̻̠͍́̄̎ͅȗ̴̝͋̈́̍ͅc̵̖̿͆h̷̪̐̇́͝ į̴̤͇̈́̍͝ ̷̌̆̈́͐ͅd̷̗̯͈̰̘̦̆͊̚è̷͍̯̭̯̏̑͑̉͜s̶̛͔̙̭͎̝͛̔̂̒̕t̴̢̖̞͍̃͗ŕ̵̦̃̏o̶̦̅ý̷̼͉̗̌͋̃̉̏̌ ̵̟̫̪̣̝̽̃́͊̌̉e̷̬̟̥̱̥͕̽̉̿v̴̧̱̺͈̓́̀̆ȩ̸̢̻̙̖̹͋̔r̸͈͆̾͐̈́̐͘ȳ̷̰͉͙̄͂͝t̵̖͑͑̓̉̀͝h̸̟̃̔̍i̴̤͚̺̣̲͐͆̐́̎̃n̵̻̎͛͂͂͗̑͝g̵̨͕͚͆̿̃̇͠ͅ ̵͙̗̀̀̑̋͊͛̚ī̵͎ ̷̧͇̬̪̥͕͘t̶̨̉̃́̐́̓͝o̴̖͈̱̐̒͠ú̷̖̟͕c̷̥̝̝̬̻̿͆͝ḩ̵̤͎̠͆̔͜ į̴̤͇̈́̍͝ ̷̌̆̈́͐ͅd̷̗̯͈̰̘̦̆͊̚è̷͍̯̭̯̏̑͑̉͜s̶̛͔̙̭͎̝͛̔̂̒̕t̴̢̖̞͍̃͗ŕ̵̦̃̏o̶̦̅ý̷̼͉̗̌͋̃̉̏̌ ̵̟̫̪̣̝̽̃́͊̌̉ e̷̬̟̥̱̥͕̽̉̿v̴̧̱̺͈̓́̀̆ȩ̸̢̻̙̖̹͋̔r̸͈͆̾͐̈́̐͘ȳ̷̰͉͙̄͂͝t̵̖͑͑̓̉̀͝h̸̟̃̔̍i̴̤͚̺̣̲͐͆̐́̎̃n̵̻̎͛͂͂͗̑͝g̵̨͕͚͆̿̃̇͠ͅ ̵͙̗̀̀̑̋͊͛̚ī̵͎ ̷̧͇̬̪̥͕͘t̶̨̉̃́̐́̓͝o̴̖͈̱̐̒͠ú̷̖̟͕c̷̥̝̝̬̻̿͆͝ḩ̵̤͎̠͆̔͜ i̴̘̯̦̹̪̯̝̋͗̾͊̀͝͝ ̴͍̥͕́͆̊̈̕̚͝͝d̷̢̻͇̳̾͜ę̴̨̡̜̻̫̙͐͌́͋͛͋̍͜s̶̝̱͚̔t̸̡̛̺̖̙͒̓̐̀͑r̸̻͓͐̽̀͝͝o̶̧͇̜͂̏́̌͊͒y̷̰͍̦̰̯̭͙͆̄͂͐͋͋̕͝ ̸̝̣̺̫͈̑́̉e̶̥͇̙̹̼͛̆̀v̶̡̡̛̮̤͔̯̟̽̄͘e̷̙̭̥̞̜̝͕̤̋̎́̇͆̒̃̕r̸͙͙͓̗̾̿̋͗͜y̶̥̔͝ͅt̶̙̤̺̮̽̾͐̍́͠͝ĥ̴̨̭͖̙̰̯̗̒͂͝ǐ̴̱̹͇̘̫̣̟̦̉͛n̸̨͔̍̚͝ğ̵̖͕͚͔̋̐̏̆̋͠ ̸̲̰͇̼̞͗͌̑į̶̨͕̪̜̱̍̌̔̿́̆̕ͅͅ ̴̳̹͉̦͍̻͒̈́̈́̆̓̈́͛̉t̷̖̰̜̥̖̯̅̃̑͌͊̄̈́̃o̵̜͇͖̣̲͛̎͋̃̔͗͛u̶̺̼͌͛͒̽̄͋́c̴̳̼̠̞̤̐̃̀̐̆͐h̵̖̘̫̲̬́͗̈́̚̚͝ i̴̘̯̦̹̪̯̝̋͗̾͊̀͝͝ ̴͍̥͕́͆̊̈̕̚͝͝d̷̢̻͇̳̾͜ę̴̨̡̜̻̫̙͐͌́͋͛͋̍͜s̶̝̱͚̔t̸̡̛̺̖̙͒̓̐̀͑r̸̻͓͐̽̀͝͝o̶̧͇̜͂̏́̌͊͒y̷̰͍̦̰̯̭͙͆̄͂͐͋͋̕͝ ̸̝̣̺̫͈̑́̉e̶̥͇̙̹̼͛̆̀v̶̡̡̛̮̤͔̯̟̽̄͘e̷̙̭̥̞̜̝͕̤̋̎́̇͆̒̃̕r̸͙͙͓̗̾̿̋͗͜y̶̥̔͝ͅt̶̙̤̺̮̽̾͐̍́͠͝ĥ̴̨̭͖̙̰̯̗̒͂͝ǐ̴̱̹͇̘̫̣̟̦̉͛n̸̨͔̍̚͝ğ̵̖͕͚͔̋̐̏̆̋͠ ̸̲̰͇̼̞͗͌̑į̶̨͕̪̜̱̍̌̔̿́̆̕ͅͅ ̴̳̹͉̦͍̻͒̈́̈́̆̓̈́͛̉ t̷̖̰̜̥̖̯̅̃̑͌͊̄̈́̃o̵̜͇͖̣̲͛̎͋̃̔͗͛u̶̺̼͌͛͒̽̄͋́c̴̳̼̠̞̤̐̃̀̐̆͐h̵̖̘̫̲̬́͗̈́̚̚͝ì̶͇͈̭̱̪͔͖̕͜͜ͅ ̴̫̞̺̰͍̀͗̍̒́͌͝d̶̡̹̪͙̞̮͕͔͒̈́̋̚ȩ̶̨̦̣͙͕̟̊̿͑̍̿̇̈̊͠͝ş̸͖̱̱͚̜̳̥̑̄̓͊͂͋̒͝ͅt̶̛̫̙͇̥̦̃͂̈́̂̏͂̊r̶͔͐͋̏̑̑́͋̿͑ǒ̵̜͇̒̿͗̓̿̓y̷̗̞͎͆̚ ̶̬̑͛̏̀͊̔̇͊͐̌ę̷̨̮̥̰̪̩̝̪̍͝ͅv̸̯̞̺͇͚̬̰̖̩̂͋̆̄͘͝ͅȩ̴̨̹̥̥̙̪͈̌̈͛̋͂͛̀̔r̵̛̖̠͈̊̈͆̐̏̍̈́̈́͊y̴̡̧̢̨͕̼̖̰̿̐́̚̚t̸̨͍͉͍͍̫̫͊̈́͝h̸̢̲͎̐̈̋̐̀͌̉̄͝͝i̴̠̝͓͋͜͝ņ̵̧̼̞͍̼͚͓͚̌́́̆̅̆̾͐̌̊g̸̮͙͓͔͍̲̦͑͐́͌̀͘ ̴̡͖̑̈́̓̊i̴̯͓̼̼̳̹͇̘͔̾̑͆ ̴̱̓̽̄̀̋͠͝͝ṯ̵̢͕̙̜̤̉̋͗̎̑͑̓̃͘ò̸̘̺̤͍̟͎̎ṳ̶̧̢̨̒c̶͕͋͂̑́̋̀h̴̨̜̞̻̫͕͌̊̊̔̔͂̀͋̚͘ì̶͇͈̭̱̪͔͖̕͜͜ͅ ̴̫̞̺̰͍̀͗̍̒́͌͝d̶̡̹̪͙̞̮͕͔͒̈́̋̚ȩ̶̨̦̣͙͕̟̊̿͑̍̿̇̈̊͠͝ş̸͖̱̱͚̜̳̥̑̄̓͊͂͋̒͝ͅt̶̛̫̙͇̥̦̃͂̈́̂̏͂̊r̶͔͐͋̏̑̑́͋̿͑ǒ̵̜͇̒̿͗̓̿̓y̷̗̞͎͆̚ ̶̬̑͛̏̀͊̔̇͊͐̌ę̷̨̮̥̰̪̩̝̪̍͝ͅv̸̯̞̺͇͚̬̰̖̩̂͋̆̄͘͝ͅȩ̴̨̹̥̥̙̪͈̌̈͛̋͂͛̀̔r̵̛̖̠͈̊̈͆̐̏̍̈́̈́͊y̴̡̧̢̨͕̼̖̰̿̐́̚̚t̸̨͍͉͍͍̫̫͊̈́͝h̸̢̲͎̐̈̋̐̀͌̉̄͝͝i̴̠̝͓͋͜͝ņ̵̧̼̞͍̼͚͓͚̌́́̆̅̆̾͐̌̊g̸̮͙͓͔͍̲̦͑͐́͌̀͘ ̴̡͖̑̈́̓̊i̴̯͓̼̼̳̹͇̘͔̾̑͆ ̴̱̓̽̄̀̋͠͝͝ṯ̵̢͕̙̜̤̉̋͗̎̑͑̓̃͘ò̸̘̺̤͍̟͎̎ṳ̶̧̢̨̒c̶͕͋͂̑́̋̀h̴̨̜̞̻̫͕͌̊̊̔̔͂̀͋̚͘ì̶͇͈̭̱̪͔͖̕͜͜ͅ ̴̫̞̺̰͍̀͗̍̒́͌͝d̶̡̹̪͙̞̮͕͔͒̈́̋̚ȩ̶̨̦̣͙͕̟̊̿͑̍̿̇̈̊͠͝ş̸͖̱̱͚̜̳̥̑̄̓͊͂͋̒͝ͅt̶̛̫̙͇̥̦̃͂̈́̂̏͂̊r̶͔͐͋̏̑̑́͋̿͑ǒ̵̜͇̒̿͗̓̿̓y̷̗̞͎͆̚ ę̷̨̮̥̰̪̩̝̪̍͝ͅv̸̯̞̺͇͚̬̰̖̩̂͋̆̄͘͝ͅȩ̴̨̹̥̥̙̪͈̌̈͛̋͂͛̀̔r̵̛̖̠͈̊̈͆̐̏̍̈́̈́͊y̴̡̧̢̨͕̼̖̰̿̐́̚̚t̸̨͍͉͍͍̫̫͊̈́͝h̸̢̲͎̐̈̋̐̀͌̉̄͝͝i̴̠̝͓͋͜͝ņ̵̧̼̞͍̼͚͓͚̌́́̆̅̆̾͐̌̊g̸̮͙͓͔͍̲̦͑͐́͌̀͘ ̴̡͖̑̈́̓̊i̴̯͓̼̼̳̹͇̘͔̾̑͆ ̴̱̓̽̄̀̋͠͝͝ṯ̵̢͕̙̜̤̉̋͗̎̑͑̓̃͘ò̸̘̺̤͍̟͎̎ṳ̶̧̢̨̒c̶͕͋͂̑́̋̀h̴̨̜̞̻̫͕͌̊̊̔̔͂̀͋̚͘ ì̷̞̳̜͎̀͂̎̄̀̑͊̔́͝͝ ̷̨͕͉̖̼͇̯̖͉̗̔̈́́d̴̨̳̮̦͖͔͙̟̙̒͌̒̓͂e̶̞̠̹̗̺̙̩͙̲̭̻͌s̶̡̞̼̾̓͒͐̓̀̍͌́̈́͘͝t̸̳̖̠̣̭̗̺̦̉̀r̵͍͉̤͇̭̬̘̖̐̀̀ǫ̸̨͔͓̣͇̦̯̔ͅy̸̨̧̪̮̰̠̠̦̐̋̇̄̈̈́̕͜͝ ̴̢͕̣̮̲̲̼̖͉̟͓͍͗̽̅͆͝è̶̟̙͍͆̎̕̕͝ṿ̵̧̥̺̈́̂̀̂͝e̵̢̧̳̦̭̣̥͍͌̋̋͑́̔͑͜ͅŕ̶̡̨̫̪̝͈̙̰̩̜̣̽̀̈̉́̎̈́́̚̕ŷ̸̮̱̮͇͕͙̙̇̇̀͋͒̈̌ţ̷͉̲͉̱͚̳̩̯͋̊̌̿̕ͅẖ̶̦̜̣̤͍̗̱͉͋͒̈́̒̈́̑i̷͕͚͔̦͆͒̐̌͊̄n̷̨͔̞̗̹͉̯͋̋̽̾͊g̴̛̠̬̳̺̭̱͆͋͋̉͠ ̸̧̞̺̞̞̰̮̳͇̟̾̈́̂̋̄͜i̴̡̥̯̺̮͈͎̝̦͔̰̎̇͐̂̽̎ ̵̛̼̠̪̱̌́͂t̷̡̢̞͎̫̦͓̘͔̉͒̋̾̅̍̎̄ö̷̱̠̱̹̤͉͉́̌̀̄͛͒̃̐̚̕u̵͇͈̝̙̳̬̼͚̖͈̠̟̅̀̄͌͂̆͌͋̊͝c̶̺̅̉͠h̸̢̛̯͒̀̑́̔̓̀̋̉̐ ì̷̞̳̜͎̀͂̎̄̀̑͊̔́͝͝ ̷̨͕͉̖̼͇̯̖͉̗̔̈́́d̴̨̳̮̦͖͔͙̟̙̒͌̒̓͂e̶̞̠̹̗̺̙̩͙̲̭̻͌s̶̡̞̼̾̓͒͐̓̀̍͌́̈́͘͝t̸̳̖̠̣̭̗̺̦̉̀r̵͍͉̤͇̭̬̘̖̐̀̀ǫ̸̨͔͓̣͇̦̯̔ͅy̸̨̧̪̮̰̠̠̦̐̋̇̄̈̈́̕͜͝ ̴̢͕̣̮̲̲̼̖͉̟͓͍͗̽̅͆͝è̶̟̙͍͆̎̕̕͝ṿ̵̧̥̺̈́̂̀̂͝e̵̢̧̳̦̭̣̥͍͌̋̋͑́̔͑͜ͅŕ̶̡̨̫̪̝͈̙̰̩̜̣̽̀̈̉́̎̈́́̚̕ŷ̸̮̱̮͇͕͙̙̇̇̀͋͒̈̌ţ̷͉̲͉̱͚̳̩̯͋̊̌̿̕ͅẖ̶̦̜̣̤͍̗̱͉͋͒̈́̒̈́̑i̷͕͚͔̦͆͒̐̌͊̄n̷̨͔̞̗̹͉̯͋̋̽̾͊g̴̛̠̬̳̺̭̱͆͋͋̉͠ ̸̧̞̺̞̞̰̮̳͇̟̾̈́̂̋̄͜i̴̡̥̯̺̮͈͎̝̦͔̰̎̇͐̂̽̎ ̵̛̼̠̪̱̌́͂ t̷̡̢̞͎̫̦͓̘͔̉͒̋̾̅̍̎̄ö̷̱̠̱̹̤͉͉́̌̀̄͛͒̃̐̚̕u̵͇͈̝̙̳̬̼͚̖͈̠̟̅̀̄͌͂̆͌͋̊͝c̶̺̅̉͠h̸̢̛̯͒̀̑́̔̓̀̋̉̐

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I̵̱̓͆͘'̷̞̰̜̭͚̉͂̈́̌͗m̴͓̼̲͖̮̣̣͒͛̈́̑̿͘ ̷̛͓̖̯͎̱͇̓̉̔̿͝T̵̰̓͊̈́͛͆̀̈́̎̆͝e̶̞͔̤̟̒̋̽̍r̸̨̻̬̲̰̂͑̍̂̋͜r̵̨̫̓̄̀̀͊̔̽͝i̷̢̺͇̒͗́̈́̚͜͝f̸̛̦̱̱͋̾͊̔ị̵͇͙̥̭̜̒͒̆̃́e̸̬̺͉̩̘̬̟̥̊̾ḑ̵͇̪͚̻̾̉̈́̅͗̀̉̀͐͘ͅ S̵̨̛̙͉̈́̏ą̷͔̣̳̙͈̝̫͈͔͋̅̌̎̇̓̎͝v̴͉͙͈̺̖̖̠͉͛̔̆̔͌͑͝ę̴̠̓͊͑̈́M̸̱̠̞̲͗̑̓̉̇̾̋͜͝ͅȩ̶̳̻͚̣͈̱̤͔̩̽͂̽͗̃̈́̀̂̾S̶̨͓͔̠͚̒̍̽a̵̳̩͓̣̐͂̾̈͆́̑̕͘̕v̸̨͔̱̥̭̭̆͒͘ę̷̝̺̖̪̩̭̀̔̑͛̍̔̈́͘ͅM̴̯̮͓̠̘͚̦͚̔̀͂̈́͆͜ę̷̧͓͇̫̗̩͆̿͆̌́͝͠S̴̡̘͖͓̺͖̟͎̓͌͂̅̀̄̈̀͌̈́à̵̢̯͇͙͓̗̣̗͖̂͊̊͘͝v̵̰̟͎̈́̀͒͆͐̅e̵̱͕̰̯̬̹͋̋͐́ͅM̷̱̻̜͔̘̗̱̐͌͂ë̷͍͎̙̖̝̙̝̫͙́̓͜Ş̵̧̛͕̬̭̭͉̫̂̋͑̉̇͜ạ̷̧̯̲͍̠̦̤̞͗̀͌̍̈͋͝v̸̢̰̞̺̟̦̺̝͗é̷̢͈͚̟̙̠̽̆͛̉̃̚Ḿ̵̡͔͔̠̫͓̭͔͖̬͂̐̄̓̅͆͝ḙ̵̹̯͇̭̃̊͂͌͊̚̕S̸̩̒͝a̴̢̪͚̻̦͖͇͆͗̈́̏̈̽͆̔̚v̶̛̾͂̏́̀̉̚͜ẻ̶͕̖͂̀́̏̂͛͒͜M̵̰̭̟̯̩̻̘̭͐͑̋̔̎ȩ̸̛̛̹͉͓̿̈̽̈́͊ S̵̨̛̙͉̈́̏ą̷͔̣̳̙͈̝̫͈͔͋̅̌̎̇̓̎͝v̴͉͙͈̺̖̖̠͉͛̔̆̔͌͑͝ę̴̠̓͊͑̈́M̸̱̠̞̲͗̑̓̉̇̾̋͜͝ͅȩ̶̳̻͚̣͈̱̤͔̩̽͂̽͗̃̈́̀̂̾S̶̨͓͔̠͚̒̍̽a̵̳̩͓̣̐͂̾̈͆́̑̕͘̕v̸̨͔̱̥̭̭̆͒͘ę̷̝̺̖̪̩̭̀̔̑͛̍̔̈́͘ͅM̴̯̮͓̠̘͚̦͚̔̀͂̈́͆͜ę̷̧͓͇̫̗̩͆̿͆̌́͝͠S̴̡̘͖͓̺͖̟͎̓͌͂̅̀̄̈̀͌̈́à̵̢̯͇͙͓̗̣̗͖̂͊̊͘͝v̵̰̟͎̈́̀͒͆͐̅e̵̱͕̰̯̬̹͋̋͐́ͅM̷̱̻̜͔̘̗̱̐͌͂ë̷͍͎̙̖̝̙̝̫͙́̓͜Ş̵̧̛͕̬̭̭͉̫̂̋͑̉̇͜ạ̷̧̯̲͍̠̦̤̞͗̀͌̍̈͋͝v̸̢̰̞̺̟̦̺̝͗é̷̢͈͚̟̙̠̽̆͛̉̃̚Ḿ̵̡͔͔̠̫͓̭͔͖̬͂̐̄̓̅͆͝ḙ̵̹̯͇̭̃̊͂͌͊̚̕S̸̩̒͝a̴̢̪͚̻̦͖͇͆͗̈́̏̈̽͆̔̚v̶̛̾͂̏́̀̉̚͜ẻ̶͕̖͂̀́̏̂͛͒͜M̵̰̭̟̯̩̻̘̭͐͑̋̔̎ȩ̸̛̛̹͉͓̿̈̽̈́͊ S̵̨̛̙͉̈́̏ą̷͔̣̳̙͈̝̫͈͔͋̅̌̎̇̓̎͝v̴͉͙͈̺̖̖̠͉͛̔̆̔͌͑͝ę̴̠̓͊͑̈́M̸̱̠̞̲͗̑̓̉̇̾̋͜͝ͅȩ̶̳̻͚̣͈̱̤͔̩̽͂̽͗̃̈́̀̂̾S̶̨͓͔̠͚̒̍̽a̵̳̩͓̣̐͂̾̈͆́̑̕͘̕v̸̨͔̱̥̭̭̆͒͘ę̷̝̺̖̪̩̭̀̔̑͛̍̔̈́͘ͅ M̴̯̮͓̠̘͚̦͚̔̀͂̈́͆͜ę̷̧͓͇̫̗̩͆̿͆̌́͝͠S̴̡̘͖͓̺͖̟͎̓͌͂̅̀̄̈̀͌̈́à̵̢̯͇͙͓̗̣̗͖̂͊̊͘͝v̵̰̟͎̈́̀͒͆͐̅ e̵̱͕̰̯̬̹͋̋͐́ͅM̷̱̻̜͔̘̗̱̐͌͂ë̷͍͎̙̖̝̙̝̫͙́̓͜Ş̵̧̛͕̬̭̭͉̫̂̋͑̉̇͜ ạ̷̧̯̲͍̠̦̤̞͗̀͌̍̈͋͝v̸̢̰̞̺̟̦̺̝͗é̷̢͈͚̟̙̠̽̆͛̉̃̚ Ḿ̵̡͔͔̠̫͓̭͔͖̬͂̐̄̓̅͆͝ḙ̵̹̯͇̭̃̊͂͌͊̚̕S̸̩̒͝a̴̢̪͚̻̦͖͇͆͗̈́̏̈̽͆̔̚v̶̛̾͂̏́̀̉̚͜ẻ̶͕̖͂̀́̏̂͛͒͜M̵̰̭̟̯̩̻̘̭͐͑̋̔̎

.̷̢̧̨̡̡̧̧̢̨̡̧̢̡̢̡̧̢̨̛̛͚͙̞̱̹̤̲̰̝̲̝͎̳̳͚̥̣̯̭̼̼͓̱̰̤͎̪̟̯͓̻͍̹̱̲̞̱̗͕̲͈̰͕̮̗̞͖͙̫͈̮̪̫̣̙͚̣̖̣̫͕͖̹̠̞̩͙̳̪̥̙̤̰̣͎̜͈͍̟͈̲̣̹͕̹̜̦̱͇͍̬̝̥̝̹̦̗̩̖̣̼̩̭̰͍̻͈͇͈͇̻̬̳̯̭̰̙̟̝̺̞̘̻͚͍͚̙̼͙̥̩̣̺̰̳̪̞͙̰̠̞̹̫̣̭̻̱͔͕͙̘̫̻̹͙͓̼͒͊̈́͛̈͆̅̀̓́͒͂̑̔́̾͋́̇̒͛̃͘̕͜͜ͅͅͅͅ.̸̧̧̢̨̡̢̢̨̡̡̡̧̧̢̛̛̛̛̛͉̜͙̘͖̥̫̥̘̫͙̲̳̻̤̦̟̦̜̮̖̜̙̳̠̣͉̙̠͕̹̮͓̗̺͓͓͍̯̜̥͉͖̮̝̯̖̻̮̥̲̟͚͍̭̩̙̳̻͉̤̙̜̞̠͕̩̦͎̯͖̣̼̰̱̘̩͖̤̲̖̼̙̻̻̫͎̤̻͚͇̠̱͓̫͖̤͙͍̱̝̫̰̘̗̥̗̥͉̝̟̗̞͉̯͇̳̖̱̫͇͙̻͚̪͓͖̟͙͍͉̲̘̖̟̹̭̲̦̥̺̝̦̗̫̤̻̻̤͍̪͚̻̮̼̼͙͍͖̯͔̣͔̘̝̗̰̗̺͖̱͍̥̺̲̥̹̯̠̥̮̜͎̫̭̠̝̗̥̼̙̠̯͕͓̪̤̹͔̳̥͖͖͙͚͉͈̱̹̜͔̥͈̙̮͓̯̣̙̱̣͍̭̻͖̮͇̙̰͖̖̬̼̦̪͓͇̟̭̹̠̙̖̬̲̓̊́̿̾̔̇̈́̈́͒̾͂̈́̏̉̅̀̉̔͂̈́̉̓̀̐̓́́̉̈́͑̈́̋́̉́̍̈͂̈́͆̑̐͋́̄̿̆̇̓̂͒̎̽͂̃̈́̍̇͋̉͌̒̈́̒͑̃̓͛́̆̏̿̏̃̓̓͂̎͂̎̏͛̿̇̀̈̑̄͑̉̆̓̽̉́͋̔̆̊͑̃̾͑͛́̓̔͗͂͐͂̋͛̔̑͑̌͛̇̒́́̅̅̏͛̏͑͆͒͐̄̃͂̿̇͂͛͒̄̈́͛̊̍͆̾̓̌͑̈́̀̊̈́̂̊̌́̏̒̔͛̐̂̏̈͆̄͆̑̿͌̏̐̐̓̃̈́͌̔̌͛͌̄̒͂̃̿͋̃́͌̐̌͆͒̓̔̒̇͛̃͐̆͆̀̍̈̏̀̈́̅̐̄̎̓̔͑͋͛̇̑́̀̾̇̈͐̄̂́̅̚̚̕̕̕̚̕͘̕̕̚̕̕̚̕͘̕͘͘͘͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅ.̴̧̧̡̡̧̡̧̡̨̨̢̧̧̨̧̨̨̡̢̡̧̨̧̢̢̨̧̨̡̡̢̨̛̛̛̛̜͕̰̻̟̩̫̟̺̻̥̹̰͇͎͇̳͖̲̹͖̙͙̤̮͙͙̯̥̱̲͈̟̳̻̘̩̪͕̤̪̜̻̯͔̗͓̳̤̟̭͓̹̣͇͎͇͎̘͍̙̭̜͎̘̼͇̗͇̲̪̼̪͎̺͔̳͖̗̠̰͓̙̺͙̖̭͖̹̦͍̩̫̤̫̖̪͇̤̱̖͕̗̫͍̘͍̮̼̦̹̙̼͕̜̞̘̮͈̯͖̰͔̙̥̖̗̳̘̳͉̠̙͉͈͍̬̝͓̪̰͎̬̬̙̰͇̯͕̥̺͎̬̰̫̫̖̟̬͔̳̬͉͙̮̺̭̻͓͎͕̯͓̹̗̤̪͕̠̩̰͙͕̯̪̫͇͍͙͕̠̺͉̜̻͙̟͙̖̣̖̦͎͕̰̝͖͕̩̫̦͍̩̻̟͔̰̳̦̯̜̙͚̦̠̰̪̺̲̘̞̺̺͉̘̗̼̗̭̰͍̣̲̓́̃̅̍̎͌̈́̏̑̾̈́̓̌͌̑́̈́͊̿̔̀̿̿̃̓̈́̆́́̔͒̎́̊̌͐̾̍͆̆͑̽́̓̐͂͋̏̔͐̌́͆͊̀̐̓̈́͘͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ.̶̢̢̢̛̳̬̗̲͔͖͇̦̹̹̩̱̹͓͎̲͚͖̞̼̞̦̮̫͙̜͙͈̘͙̠̰̞̪̻͍̺̳̤͇͙̱͚̙͉̖̮͓̻̥̰͍̙̝̺͍̯̝̼̰͉͔̤͈͑͒̅̑̀̈́̄̓̑̈́̅̏̄̊̈͆̎̈́̈́́͐̀̃͋̀̅̈́̀̊͛̾̽͑͐͊̂͊̏̃̃̋͆̉̑́͐̀́͆͐͆̓̈́͌̓͋̄̅͐͂̊̀̊̾̓͊͑̂͌͛̄̽͌͂̊͒́̋̾̎̿̋̆̀̉͗̑̀̉͋̀̀͂́͒̏̉̍̃̂̅̓̾́̇͌̌̓͗̏͐̓̄͊͂̾̕̕̚͘̕̕͘͘͘̕͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅ.̶̧̡̢̡̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̯̹̟̲̬͓̖͓̩͈̞̲͓͚̠͙̥̠̤̣̞͚̘͉̝̼̻͙͓̝͍̙̯̞͖̼͕̪̙̼̟̝͍͖̞̭͉̮̦̝̖̺̤̤͇̟̘̈́̂̽̈̎̍̄̏̓̍̔̎̃̏͗͋͗̔̅͋̎͒̏͊̂̊͆͋͊̔͊̃̄͌̽͗͋̀̑̓̓̔̋́͐͋̓̆̅̎̄̉͑̈́͐̉̈͗̓̊̀̒̀̏̌͊̄̔̂̋̾̈́̍̈́́̑͋͆͐̍͛̾̐̉̽̑̿̂̐̒̆̅̈̂̈́̎͂̆̄͌̌̾͂̐̈́̀̾̏̍͌̀̾͑̄̆̔͒̉̉̇̀̍̔̀̈́́̔̓̉̾̉̓͋͂͐̉̍̌̆̈̎͛͑̈́͛̏̿́͑̓̍̓̈́̂͂̔̾̓̌́̾̾̐͌͒͐̈͊͋́̍͐͛̆͌̌͆̆̐̃̍̇̾́̆̑̽̄̇̏͒͆̒̕̕̚̕̚͘͘͘̚̚̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅ.̴̡̢̨̡̛̛̛̝̳̰͚͙͇̻̘͚͖̪̲̖̩͔͙͕̗̮̟͍̰͓̳͕̯̽̈̓̾̅́͑̂͒̅̓͒̔̑̋̃̍̿̓̂́̎̿̾͋̒̍̓̽͗̿̉̇͊̾̄̂̔̌̄̏̊͑́̍͆̇̈́̓̒͗̓́̀̊̆͗͂̿̋̂͌̃̐͛̈́͗̅̔̋́̈́̈́͋͌̂͂̽̈́̄̇̀̄͐͒̌̓͊̑͗͑͊̆́̅̓̊̂̋̀̅̄̑̆͛̀̆̉͌̅̅̋̅̀̍̏̎̊͑̏̇̀̏̓̉̆̃́̏̃̃̀̃̏̒̀̒̈̏̅̈́̈́̉͛̈́͌́̆̽͌̓̈́̀͊̀̓̈́̚͘͘͘͘̕͘̕̚̕̚͜͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝.̷̢̨̡̡̢̧̨̧̧̢̨̨̢̨̡̨̧̢̨̨̨̡̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̰͙̥̰͖͕̯̥͓̮̪͍̠̙͎̺̲̭̠͖͚̼͖̫̘̪̖̦͇̠͉͖̗̼͚̮̦̭̰̫̭̝̰̘̤͎̜̗̜͔̳͚͙̤̣͇̣̻̝̩̥̬̬͈̼̳̙̼͖͈̦͈͚̻̰̘̙̜̳̠̭͙͙̝͕̦͎̰͓̩̗̰͕̯̲̖̮͙͓̼̫͎̰̤̬̼̥̥̪̲̖͕͉̗̭̪̖͕̗̻̪̭͎͖̠̞͙̞̮̞͉̳͎͔͎͍̖̯̜͚͎͙̼̩͚͎͉͙͔̦̤̥̗̬̱̮͙̥̦͚̲̭̭̬̱̲̦̥̘͔̺̱̮̲͙̠̺̞̝̺͚͚̫̼̗̪̤͓͓̥̹̗͍̂͒̀̂̌̓͋̍̍̓͗̈́̍̉͗̀́̀̀̿̆̔̊̉͛̉̈́̽̀̿̈́̍̇̈́̏̈͒͊̀̾̀̉̅̌̓̓̽̀̑̍̃̓́͒̌̌̄̆̀̔̈́́̿̀͂͊̇̉̄̆͐́͒̀̑̓̿̎̔̑͌͛̍̾̌̅͐̊̇͐̆͒̆̾̽̽̀͒̊̍̂̽̓̿̐̈̌̄̉͆͒́̽̈̎͛̉̈́̀̒̈́͋̉́̆͂͌͊͆̿̏̈́̽̅͂́̑̀̎́̊̿͛̿͗̓̄̎̒̊͐̅̔̿̾̓͒͒̓̀̇̋̾̍̈̈́͑͆̽̉̽̒̅̔̃͛̈́͂̀̽́̍̂͋̾́͑̿̽͊̀͆̈́̐̓̆̎͒̀͂͌̄͊͐̌̀̽̽̓͒̿͑̄̑̅̉́͑̂̈͌͛͗́̂͘̕̕̕̚̚̕̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅ.̵̡̢̢̡̡̧̡̧̧̧̡̡̧̧̨̡̡̢̢̡̖̙̦͓̯̹̳̗͎͔͉̙̯̠͔̤̩͎̤͇̣̖̠̪̥̤͚̩̬̝̯̼̟̩̲̘̯̫̣̱̜̯̦͍̬̬̺̙̮̩̺̰̯̪̻͓̬̬̹̜̳͉̦̠͕͙̘̺͎̙̯̗̮̹͕̟͔͔̭̤̥̫̝̖̻͓͉̹̩̱͉̭͉̖̬̬͓̠̥̮̤̤̲̱̱̮̬͈̮̩̱̠̯̗̥͎̰̜̤̹͕̯̬̜̯͉͔̲͔̥̺̠͙̳̤̬͇̼̫̱̬̖̭̠̯̱̗͙̼̩̹̪̤̦̖͚͓̘̲̻̬̫͙͙̙̳͉̝̖̪̻̟̜̙̻̭͙̜̭̮̭͕͙̹̬͓̩̜͙̤̟̱̭͈̪͍͙̭̙͓̭̮̮̼̳͉͚̝̬̲͖̘̥̻̲̩̮̗̠̩̤̮͍̬̘̱̭̩̙̯̪̟̰̻̓͋̎͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝ͅ.̸̢̡̡̧̨̡̡̢̧̨̡̡̡̧̧̛̛̛̛̛̮̖̪̱͖͕̞̬̪̟̻̠̝̤͈͓̠͚̱̠̹͈͎͎͈͎͔̘͖̯̠̞̩̭͙͈̪̦̤̬̲̺̺̗͕̱͖̹̮̰̲̞̬̳̻͇̘͙͍̟͈͚̥̳͇̠̤̙̩̝̙̭͍̗͔͍͉̼̤̔̾͌̌̍́͛͐͑̀̂̊͐͒̅̃́͐͆̉̐̀͑͂̿͛͗̂̐̓͋̄̈́̓̊́̈́͛́̀̀̆͌͂͌̎̈́̐̐́̾̋̉͂̍́̉͋̋̈́͊͛̓̔̒̆̇͒̄̔̆͊͐̇̊̑̉̃̃̇̈̕͘̚͘̚͜͜͜͜͝͠͠͝͝͝ͅ.̸̨̡̢̢̨̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̹̻̙͈̹̬͓̦̠̭̹͉̠̬͙̗̎̄̉̐͊͌́͂̌͒̀̈́͛̋̒͐̅̄͒̈́͗́͊̓͒̍͐̈́̀͑̈́̆̆̈́̂̅̎̆͂̅̽̍̑̓͋͑̀̈́̾̀̎͌̏̅̓͒̃̾̑̄̀̓̍̒̐̓̀͑̑̌͌͗̀͊̉͑̐̄͐̓́̌̍̈́̏̋̐̈̍̈̄̀͗́̓̆́͊̂͌̌̐̃̂̒̆͂̀́͗͒̿̒̏́̔͑̒̉̀̊̓͒̄͌̊̏̌̌̈́͛̋͐͛̅̎̐̅͋̉̑̅̊̈́̋͒͒͛͐͗͛̓̌̐̅̊̀̅͌͑́̃̔͊̓͌̓̿̐̑̎͆̐̊͗̆̈́́͆̈́̇̏́̅̊͌̊́̎̆̔͐͆̔̄̐̓̽́̈̃̕̕̕͘͘͘̕̕̚͘̕̕͘͘̕̚̕̕͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝.̶̢̡̡̡̡̧̧̨̢̢̧̧̢̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͔̝͎̤͚͍̟̙̰͔͙̗̯͈͔͎̭͇̼̭̘͕͍͉̥͙͕͍͖͙̝̗̝̥̖̫̫̺̥͕̬̻͖̦̯̪͕͖̯͈̩͕͇̣̙͕̻͇͔̝̟̗͕̰̭̺̫̲͓̜͉̼̻͖̮̦̭̇̃̄͂̅͌͆̓̈́̾͂͛̆̑͊̃̈́́̽̇͗̈̍̒̅͂͌̈͐̊̈̑̊̊̓̈́̔̉̍̈̊̀̔͂̽̓̓̓̆͒͑̀̉͑̀̓̐̊̅͒̂̿̿̉̃̈́̓̎̋͋̒̿̿͒̉̍̊̇̃̀̿̅̔̑̋͆̔̇̏̓̈́̔͂͌̎̉̀͌̀̏̐̆͋́̒̏̀̑̽̆̋̀͗̏͛̒̀́̓́̍́̓̎̀͊̈̃̎̈́̌͌͒̎̾̀̃͂̒͒̉̎̏̈́͐̏́͐̂̾̓͊̽̓͆͋̈́͋͊̿̒̀̾͛̔̌̇͒̐́̀̃͋̔̎͐̎̄̍̂͐̾̏̅͗̍̾͛͐͌͌̌̽̽̾̅̍̿̉͑̊́̀͐̋̅̈́͌̀͐͆̑̒͑̾̏̉̀̊̈́͂͌̑̉̈́̀̾̏̍̈́̾̏̈́́̑̎̈́͊̐͆̽͆͘̕̕̚̕̕̚͘̕͘̕̚̚͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝ͅͅ.̶̢̧̡̨̨̡̢̡̢̧̧̢̨̢̡̢̡̡̡̧̢̘͙͖̞̬̬̯͖̤̼͙͎̞̳̭̝̯͓̻̠̰͎͖̗̣̫̝̼̹̪̱̘̦̞̹̹̥̦̯̜͔̙̼͙͖̫̘͙̜͔̻̳̪͕͔͔̝̫̘̞̬̭̘̳̜̫̰̣̙̟̭̳͙̘̪̱̭͈̦̫͖͈̩̤̘͔̫̰̤͎͉̬̗̼̲͚͇̗̲̖̲̟̤̱̪̜̥̮͔͕͓̯̬̥̗͎̙͔͎̞͖͇̻̠̲͙̫͇̩͔̙̖̺̻͕͓͇̺̦̭̲̼̰̦͕̥̖̯̭̘͍͎̗̫̜̘͈̞̯̳͍̙̜̬̹͉̭͉̜͙̥͎̤̜̳̗͖̜͔̥̦̝̪̼͚͖̪̜̻̤̮̦͕̥̺͇̬͇̜̪͉̘̦̠̥̘̗̳̣̟̳̩̣̥͇̰͈͎͓͕̻̱͍̘͍̱͉̞͔͉̝̔̂̔̄̿̈́̆̆̐̃̍͒͑̈̌͐̇̇͒̏͆̈́̇̈́̿͂̈́̉͘̕͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅ.̴̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̙̎̒̍̈́̋́̃̈̄͐̃̓̑̈̆̓͆̅͗͛͂͛̄̀́̄̑͂͗͑̏͛͊̀̽̅̒̇̊͋͑̐̐̒̈̈́͑̓͆̆̄͛̀̋̾̄̒̉̒͌̿̌̆̃͑̑͋̿͂̂͗̔̈́͋̈̒͂͋́̀̈́͗̑̈́͊̌̌́́̿̀̔̏̂͌͊̎̀̆͂͑͂́̍͒̌̆̓̽̾̈́̿͑̃̆̃̈́͂͛͌͌̀̿͋͐̍̀͊͗̔̏̿͆͌̔̂̾̀͒̀̄̉̌̀̓̒͐̑̆̓̓̈́̈̾̾͗͛̄́͒̄̏̑̿̏̿͑̈̉̀̑͂̌͐͂̉̓͐̇̉̑̈́͐͛̓̃͑̂͐̑͗́͆̊͐̿͗̃͌̐̄͆͐̔͋̿̇͑̆̈̿̈́͐̓̊̓͑̀̐̍̑͂̓̂̋͆̽͑̋̔̉̅̈́̈͊́͐̿̑͗͛̿͘̚͘̚͘̕̕͘̕̚̕̕̕̕͘̕̕̕͘͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅ.̸̧̢̢̨̨̨̧̡̧̨̢̨̢̨̧̧̨̢̢̨̡̨̛̛̳̝̱̝̲͚̙̺̩͈̻̫̘̹̻̤̟̠̗͎̥̳̝̦̰̬̙̣̜͎̯̮̠̝̲̜̙͈͖̦̝̤̖͇̼̯͎͔̝͔͔̜̼͎̜̙̳̻̟̮͚̞͕̖͚̬͖̺̣̹͇̮̮̫͍̖̻̗̬̤̭͍̺̙͚̻̦̺̝̯̤̦̘̮̰̲̣̖̲̻͎̖̰͓̬̘͎̦́̒̇͌̈̂̔͛̔͌̿͆̾͒͂̋̽̾̉̽͂̓́̔͋͂͌́̋̑̊̏̓͋͌͋̓̑̾̿̎̇̃͂̈̆̊̍̓͑̑̃̍̈́̓̀̿̌̉̀̀͆̾̂̑́̅̔̈͊͌͑̾̑͑̿̃͛̄͛́̍͒̏̓̿̏̓̄̂́̾̐̂͗̔͒͒̏͊͒̀͊̈́͂̒͛̉̽͛̾͐̉͛͆̽͗̒̎̀̓̓̇̀́͑̑̇́̔̇̓͆͂̊͛̽̀̓̿̆͌͗̅̽̚͘̚̕̚͘̚͘͘͘͘͘̕̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅ.̴̧̢̢̧̨̨̨̨̧̯̳̗͈̟̙̖̦͍͎̬͉̺͉̦͓̯͕͇̖̫͕͙̪͉̫̗͉̼͇͈̞̥̞̺͇͈̹̲͈̼̤̮̭̖̣͖̹̮̣̥͚̻̖͕͇̘̰̮̝͔̯̪̗̭̜̞̠̭͔̪̘͙̙̞̯̣̬̹͔̟͍̳̝͔̖̫̭͙̖̙͈̤̗̮̻͚́͑͊̌̈́̈́́̆͆̉́̒̆̍̍͂̽̈́̌͐͂́̑̍̀̄̄̋̒͋͐̓̌͊̓̋̓͒̑͆̿͒̔̓̾̍̑̃̀̀̒̌̕͘̚̚͘̕͜͝͠ͅ.̵̡̡̡̢̢̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̛͉͔̜͈͓͙̩͉̖̹̖̼͇̹̮̲͖̖͍͈̝̩̟͈͎͙̩̙̙̖̝͚͚̯̙̯͍̭̭̱͉͎̘̥̰͎̯̖̼̩͇̭̹̲̭͙̬̝̩̞̼̫̜̞͚̱̳̯̯̳͖̠̣̪̖͙̤̬̜̳͎̺̤̘̬̖̰̪͓̩͉̱̣͉͓͙̻̖̺͚͓̩͔̼̥͇͚͎͖̺͇̤̻̥̤̗̳̻͓͇̗͇͉͚̋͗̍͑̾̎̀̋́͆́̃̄͒̈̉̀͛̈́͂̄͂̓͑̋̽͆̎̅̾̃͆͊̽̃͑͛̊̎̓̾͑͌̇͂̃̌̾̐͗̎͆̏͗̑̐͌̓̅́̔́̈́̌̒̿͛͂͊̈́̀͗̃̀̉́̋͂̾́̊̿͛̂͗͂̓̆̑́̋̈́̏̂̈͛̉͑͛̈́̀̎́̍̒̊̿̿̈́̒̇́̉́̓̃̒̄̍̂̀̌̀͋̾̽̀͌̑̈́̑̈́̌̅̏̋̽̽̅͆̑̇̄̔̃̂͌̓͐̆̆̓̂͊͑͋̾̑̐̎͗̆̈͊̆̆̇͑͐̊̓̐́̄̈̈́̊͐̆̂͛̔͌͂̋̓̈̇͆̎̋̅̀̇̊̀̃̂́̽̍̅͑̌̆̀̑́̎̾̓̆̆̽̈͛̓̓̈́͛̉͛̓͛̏̉͗͘͘̕̕̚̕̕̚̕͘̕͘̕̕͘͘̚̕̚̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͠͝͠͝ͅͅ.̴̢̧̨̨̡̨̧̢̨̛̛̗͍͔̙̣̹̖͇̺̦̬̫̝̤̜̜͚͉̬̩̹̤̘̠͖͕̤̪̰̹̼̪̻͈̲̳͇͈̯̘͉̲̖̝͙̺͇͍͕̯̻̹̖̳̫͖̼̩̮͖̤̺̭̙̪͔̥̰̱̞̗̤̹̟̖̫̦͍̳̪͔̤͚̩̳͈̖̯̞̖͍̤̣̩͔̠͍̻̊͆̆͆͋̃̍̀̾̀͊̔̍̃̓͋͊̀̓̎͆̌̇̒̈́͂̏̇̅͋̅͗̈͒̉̈́̀̏̆̉̈́̀̊̅̐̍̆̐̅͒́̈́̈́́̈́͆͐́͋͋͂̇̒̽̄̽̽̄̀̃̏͒̏̿͊̏͊̊̈̏̈́̽̔͗͒̌́̒̈́̚̕͘͘̚͘͘͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅ.̶̢̧̨̢̧̢̢̡̧̢̢̧̢̨̡̧̨̢̨̨̨͓̼̰̮͙̫̰̮͖̞͉̞̲̩̥͕̫̲̣̞̳̗͎͈̜̠̰̹̩͎̦̳͕̱̟̖̮͇̙̭̗̞͈͕͙͎̺̮͍̪̗̩͉̬͍̻͓̳̦̖̯̣̫̲̜͕͇̹̝̞̘̻̥͈̟͍͙͍̣͓͖͎̬̠͈̬̼̬̠͕̯̺̼̺͚̹̟̰̮̬̥̟͚̻͕̣̘̬̬̝̩̤̥̱̞̠͈̼̻̹͉̪̱̜̦͎̖̪͓̳̩̞͚̳̥̫̩̱̹̳͔̰̰͎̳̳̮̭͇̙̫̰͕̘̺̪̩̳̙̳̹̤̦̠̭̭̯͇̳̹̺͎̯̹̻̩̜̣̗̫͉͚̀͂̾̕͜͜͜͜ͅͅͅ

❮⃝⃟⃝❰⃝❮⃝⃟⃝❰⃝❮⃝⃟⃝❰⃝❮⃝⃟⃝❰⃝❮⃝⃟⃝❰⃝❮⃝⃟⃝❰⃝❮⃝⃟⃝❰⃝❮⃝⃟⃝

WHERES ALL THE YOYLE CAKE LOVING BFB/BFDI/II/BFDIA/TPOT FANZ >_< ;; NEW WRITTER MIMI<3 *teleportz to mimi* you hav zummoned me. (im a bfb fan and im ztarting to watch hfjone lulz) -zombie gutz ^_^

if ur queer and like object shows add my discord its ceru134n ( ^ω^ ) i suck at conversations so um yeah (ᵕ—ᴗ—) ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

COMPUTER SENSORS i * "Karen!" Hanna exclaimed, throwing her arms around Karen in a warm embrace. "You made it!" Karen beamed. "Is the husband home?" Hanna asked, glancing around. "In our bedroom," Karen answers. "I don't think you've met!" Hanna followed Karen through the hallway. She'd heard of Karen's husband, Plankton, but had never formally met each other. Inside, Plankton sat on the edge of the bed. "Plankton, this is my friend Hanna," Karen announced, screen sparkling with excitement. Plankton looked up. He hadn't been expecting company, especially not someone so bubbly and vibrant. "Oh, Plankton," Hanna gushed, reaching out to him. She was a hugger, and she didn't hold back. She enveloped him. Plankton stiffened. It was... overwhelming. "It's so nice to finally meet you," Hanna said, her voice thick with sincerity. Hanna, ever the social butterfly, didn't seem to notice his discomfort. She plopped down on the bed beside him, her energy not even slightly dampened. "So, what do you guys have planned for the evening?" she asked, screen bright with excitement. "Well, we were just going to order in and watch a movie," Karen replied, shooting Plankton a knowing smile. She knew he liked his quiet evenings. "A movie night, huh?" Hanna clapped her hands together. "What's the film? I can stay and join!" Plankton wasn't one for sharing his personal space, especially with someone he just met. The bedroom was his sanctuary, a place of solitude where he could escape the world and be himself. Plankton managed a tight smile, his heart sinking. He wasn't in the mood for a romantic comedy, let alone one with Hanna's constant commentary and unbridled laughter. Karen quickly interjected. "Actually, Hanna, Plankton had his heart set on a sci-fi marathon tonight. You know, his usual Friday night routine." "Oh, I totally get it," she said, patting him. Plankton stiffened at her touch, his eye widening slightly. "Oooh, I know just the thing!" she exclaimed, jumping up and talking fast. "Karen, you won't believe this but I've got a DVD of 'Galactic Hearts' in my bag. It's got a bit of everything: romance, action, and a side of existential dread. Perfect for a Friday night in, right?" Plankton sighed inwardly. He knew he'd have to sit through it, if only to keep the peace. "Alright," he said, his voice tight. "Let's give it a go." With a resigned sigh, he trudged out to the kitchen to grab some popcorn and drinks. When he returned, Hanna had already claimed the spot beside him, leaving him no choice but to sit next to her, so he did, for Karen. The movie started, and Hanna was immediately engrossed, laughing and gasping at all the right moments. Plankton, on the other hand, felt like he was in an alien world of his own. Every time the romantic tension on screen built up, she would lean over and whisper something to Karen, who would giggle in response. The constant movement and noise were making his skin crawl. As the film went on, Hanna grew more and more absorbed in the love story unfolding before them. At one particularly dramatic scene, she reached over and grabbed Plankton's arm. "Oh, isn't this just the most romantic thing you've ever seen?" She gave him a squeeze not realizing the discomfort she was causing him. "Look at those stars," she whispered leaning closer. "It's just like they're reaching out to each other, isn't it?" Plankton shifted. He'd never been one for public displays of affection, and Hanna's affection was uncharted territory. He gently extracted his hand, placing it awkwardly on his lap. "I s'pose," he murmured, trying to keep his voice neutral. time she leaned in to whisper something to Karen, she brushed against him, sending a shiver down his spine. The movie's soundtrack swelled with a sappy love theme, and Hanna threw her arm around both their shoulders. Plankton stiffened. The room felt suddenly too warm, too small. He'd never been one for affection, especially not from someone he'd just met, and Hanna's touch was suffocating him. Her arm remained draped around his shoulders, her grip tightening every time the couple on-screen shared a tender moment. He tried to focus on the plot, but it was difficult with Hanna's sudden exclamations and loud sighs punctuating the silence. Karen seemed to be enjoying it, though, and he didn't want to spoil the evening. So, he sat, endured, and waited for the credits to roll. As the movie progressed, Hanna grew bolder with her displays of affection. She'd lean in close, her shoulder pressing into his, and whisper her predictions for the plot. He glanced at Karen, hoping for a reprieve, but she was caught up in the moment. Plankton sighed and turned back to the movie, trying to ignore the heat building in him. Hanna's hand found its way to Plankton's shoulder again. This time, she didn't let go. He cleared his throat, trying to subtly shift his body away from her touch, but she either didn't notice or didn't care. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the weight of her arm and the way she kept brushing against him. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, begging for the solitude he craved. Hanna let out a contented sigh, her grip on Plankton's shoulder tightening involuntarily. He flinched, and she finally looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice full of concern. "It's nothing," Plankton said, his voice tight. Hanna looked at him. "Oh, I get it," she said, her hand moving from his shoulder to give his knee a comforting pat. "Sometimes romantic scenes can be too much, huh?" Plankton nodded stiffly. Then, Hanna leaned over and whispered, "You know Plankton you're not so bad for a guy who pretends not to like romance." She elbows him, her touch playful and teasing. Plankton's eye widened, his heart racing faster than the spaceship on the screen. He tried to laugh it off, his voice strained. He tried to keep his expression neutral. She leaned in closer, her arm now looped around his. "I think you're secretly a softy." Plankton's discomfort grew. He swallowed hard, his eye darting to Karen for help, but she was too lost in the film to notice his distress. He cleared his throat again, trying to be subtle, but they're oblivious. Karen looked over at her husband, her smile fading slightly as she noticed his rigid posture. She knew he wasn't a fan of the film, but she didn't realize Hanna's personality was making him so uncomfortable. Hanna jumped up from the couch. "Oh my gosh, you guys," she exclaimed a little too loud, her screen bright with excitement. "That was the best movie ever!" Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Karen couldn't help but laugh. "You really liked it?" she asked, hoping to lighten the mood. "Liked it?" Hanna repeated, her voice incredulous. "I'm in love with it!!" Her exuberance was palpable, but Plankton remained silent. He felt a mix of relief that the movie was over and dread for whatever might come next. Hanna, noticing his lack of response, turned to him with a grin. "What did you think, Plankton?" Plankton felt uncomfortable under her gaze. "It's just not really my genre," he said, his voice a touch defensive. Hanna's smile didn't falter. "Oh, come on," she said, nudging him playfully. "Admit it, you were totally rooting for them in the end." "Oh, I was," Plankton said, his voice devoid of enthusiasm. "I was just hoping the asteroid might hit the spaceship first." Karen couldn't help but laugh, seeing the playful banter between her friend and her husband. "Ok ok," she said, standing up and stretching. "I think we've had enough romance for one night. How about we switch gears and play a board game?" Hanna bounced, her energy unflagging. "Perfect! What do you have?" Plankton started to feel dizzy. "I'll grab something," he said, his voice tight. He needed to get away, to regain some semblance of control over the situation. He retreated to the bedroom, going on his bed. ** ᴬˢ ᵃ ⁿᵉᵘʳᵒᵈⁱᵛᵉʳᵍᵉⁿᵗ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉʳ ᴵ ᵈᵒ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵐᵉᵃⁿ ᵗᵒ ˢᵗⁱᵍᵐᵃᵗⁱᶻᵉ ᵃⁿʸ ᵗʸᵖᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵈⁱˢᵃᵇⁱˡⁱᵗʸ ⁿᵒʳ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵘⁿⁱᵗʸ ᵃˢ ᵃ ʷʰᵒˡᵉ‧ ᔆᵒᵐᵉᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ⸴ ᴵ ᵘˢᵉ ᵃⁿ ᴬᴵ ᵍᵉⁿᵉʳᵃᵗᵒʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʷᵉᵃᵏ ᵗʰᵉ ʷʳⁱᵗⁱⁿᵍ *

4̶̧̡̡̧̧̧̢̡̨̨̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͉͈̻̰̻̘͕͍̠̝͙̗͕̬̹̗̰̙̹̜͇͎̙̠͍͚̜̝̬̣̮̫̥͎͚̙̼̝̰̻͕̱̺͕̻͈̺̦̺̥̱̰͎͔͖̲͖̯͖̺̻͙̩̗̩͚̙̙̭̘̺͎̩͇̙̖̙̜̮̪̞̞̲̩̙͖̣̖̬̘̩̟͚̯̮̲̬̱̯͙̱̼͕̟͕͕͈̩͚̹̮̹̱̥̖̺̬̯͈̦̜̜̍͐́͑̿͗͂̏̓̇͗͐̈́́͌̿͌̀̾͑͊̀͑̏͒̂̒̓͒͋̇̄́̀͌͊͋̋̓͛̂̎̈̆́́̔͒̾͂̆̅̊̾̎̓̎͋͋͑̂̈͛͂̋̓̔̈̀̊̈́͂͌́̄͊̏̌́̀̓̋̄̾̆̐̇̇̾̿̈́̂͐̏̊̏̈́̆̉͑̍̌̌̃̆̍̓̕̚̕̕̚͘̕͘͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͠͠͝͝ͅͅ

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🖌 X 💡 lightbulb x painty!!

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̵̝̪̯̉̋̓̌̀͌̎̓̾̍͂͆́̚͝

⠀⠄⡀⠰⣀⠂⠄⢀⠠⢀⠀⠄⢂⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⠀⠄⡀⠠⢀⠠⢀⠠⠐⡀⢂⠤⠀⠄⡀⢀⠂⢀⠠⢀⠀⠄⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⠠⢀⠀⠠⢀⠂⡀⠄⠠⢀⠀⡀⢀⠀⡀ ⠈⢄⠡⠐⡠⠁⠎⠀⠄⠂⠈⠄⡈⠄⠐⠠⠐⠠⢀⠂⠄⡀⠂⠄⡀⠂⠄⡀⠂⠄⠂⠄⠐⡀⠂⠄⠡⠐⡀⠁⠄⡀⠂⠄⢂⠁⡂⢂⠍⢠⠐⢀⠈⠄⡀⠂⠨⢀⠂⠄⠐⠠⠐⠀⠄⠂⠄⡀⠂⠄⠂⠠⠐⠠⠐⢀⠂⠐⠠⠀⠂⠄⡀⠂⡀⠄⠂⡀⠂⠄⠐⠠⠐⠀⠄⠂⠠⢀⠂⠄⠂⠠⠐⠀⠌⢀⠂⠈⠄⡀⢂⠐⡈⠄⡐⠠⢀⠂⠄⠀ ⢈⠂⠱⡈⠄⠃⠌⠂⠐⠈⠐⠠⠐⠈⠐⠀⠂⠁⠀⠀⠂⠄⠁⠄⠀⠡⠐⠀⠂⠈⠀⠌⠐⠠⠈⠐⠠⠁⠐⠈⠄⠠⠁⠂⠄⠂⠁⠂⠌⠠⠂⠀⠈⠀⠀⠁⠄⠁⠀⠈⠐⠀⠂⠁⡐⠈⠀⠐⠠⠈⠐⠀⠡⠐⠈⠀⠀⠁⠂⠁⠂⠐⠀⡁⢀⠂⡐⠀⠂⠈⠠⠁⠂⠈⠐⠈⡐⠀⠀⠂⠁⠄⠡⠈⠀⠀⠀⠁⠀⠐⡀⠂⠐⠠⠐⠠⠀⠂⠌⡀ ⠀⠎⢡⠀⢸⣶⠀⢰⣶⣄⠈⠀⢸⡏⠀⠀⠀⣼⢹⣧⠀⠀⢰⣶⣆⠀⠀⢸⣿⠀⢸⣶⠀⠀⢀⣷⡦⠀⣶⣶⠀⠀⠡⠈⢰⡞⣿⠀⠀⠀⣾⡿⣿⡿⠿⠇⢐⣾⠿⠿⠿⠿⠀⠀⠄⢈⠀⣷⡆⠀⣶⣶⡀⠀⠀⣿⡇⠀⢠⣴⣶⣶⣤⣤⠀⠀⠀⣴⢻⣇⠀⠀⢰⣶⣆⠀⠀⢸⣿⠀⢸⡶⠀⢰⣿⣿⣿⠿⠿⠀⢠⣶⡀⠀⣰⡶⠀⠈⢀⠐ ⠈⡔⢁⠂⢸⣿⠀⢸⣇⢻⡆⠀⢸⣧⠀⠀⢠⡯⠀⢿⡀⠀⠀⣧⢻⣇⠀⠀⣿⠀⢸⣿⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣧⠿⣾⡃⠀⠐⠀⣿⠂⢹⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⡇⠀⠀⢈⣿⠀⢀⣀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠂⠀⣿⡇⠀⢻⡝⣷⡀⠀⠻⡇⠀⣿⣿⡀⠈⠉⠁⠀⠀⢰⡏⠈⣿⡀⠀⠸⣟⢻⣆⠀⠘⢿⠀⢸⣿⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⢿⣰⠟⠀⠀⠀⠂⠄ ⢂⠰⠈⠄⣸⣿⠀⢸⣿⠈⢻⣆⠸⣿⠀⠀⣾⡗⠛⢻⣷⠀⠀⣿⡂⠻⣧⠀⣿⡃⢨⣿⡆⠀⢿⣾⠀⠛⠀⢿⣧⠀⠀⣸⣿⠚⠺⣿⡀⠈⡐⠀⣿⠇⠀⠀⠠⣿⠿⠿⠿⠀⠀⠐⡀⠌⠀⣿⡇⠀⢸⡗⠘⢿⡄⢸⡇⠀⠀⠙⠻⢷⣤⡀⠀⢀⣿⡗⠛⢻⣧⠀⠀⣿⠂⠻⣧⠀⣿⡀⢸⣿⡄⠀⠀⠈⣿⡄⠀⠐⠠⠀⢸⣷⠀⠀⢀⠡⠈⠄ ⢀⠃⡜⠀⣹⣿⡆⠀⣿⡇⠀⢻⣧⣿⠀⣸⣿⠃⠀⠈⣿⡆⠀⣿⡇⠀⠹⣷⣿⡇⢸⣽⡇⢰⣿⡟⠀⠀⠀⠈⣷⡀⢠⣿⡏⠀⠀⢻⣧⠀⠐⠀⣿⣽⠀⢀⠀⣿⡀⣀⣀⣠⣤⠀⠐⠀⢀⣿⣿⠀⢸⣽⠀⠈⢿⣼⣷⠀⣤⣤⣤⣤⣽⡧⠀⣼⣿⠃⠀⠘⣿⡆⠀⣯⡇⠀⠹⣧⣿⡅⣸⣿⡇⠀⠠⠀⣿⡇⠀⢀⠂⠁⣼⣿⡀⠀⠠⠐⢈⠐ ⡀⠎⡐⡀⠙⠛⠃⠀⠛⠃⠀⡄⠙⠛⠀⠉⠉⠀⢰⡇⠘⠉⠀⠛⠛⠀⢀⠙⠛⠃⠘⠛⠃⠘⠛⠃⠀⠀⡁⠐⠛⠇⠈⠉⠀⠀⡀⠈⠋⠀⠀⠂⠙⠛⠀⢀⠀⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠋⠀⠀⠌⠀⠛⠛⠀⠸⠛⠂⠀⠈⠛⠓⠀⠛⠉⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠉⠉⠀⠀⡀⠘⠁⠀⠟⠓⠀⠀⠙⠛⠃⠛⠛⠃⠀⠠⠀⠛⠃⠀⠠⢈⠀⠛⠛⠃⠀⠂⡐⢀⠂ ⠰⣌⣰⣡⣢⣖⡲⣖⡴⣢⢖⣟⢷⣖⣲⡜⣖⠲⣭⢻⣕⣲⣚⡴⣤⣖⣺⡂⢀⠀⠠⢀⠀⡀⠀⠄⡀⢂⠐⡀⠄⠠⠀⠄⢂⠠⠐⡁⠠⠐⡈⢐⠀⣂⠐⣀⠂⡄⢠⠀⡀⠄⡀⠄⡈⠄⠡⢀⠀⠠⠀⡀⠄⠐⠠⢀⡀⠄⠠⡀⢂⠐⡀⠂⠌⡀⠄⡐⠠⠐⡀⠠⠀⠄⡀⠠⠐⡀⢀⠠⠀⡀⠄⢀⠂⠡⠀⠄⡐⢀⠂⠄⡀⢀⠠⢀⠁⠄⠂⠌ ⢂⠌⡹⠓⢧⣚⠷⡧⢽⡹⣎⢯⡟⣮⢿⡬⡺⢽⣱⡷⡾⣿⣿⣿⣾⣜⡿⢷⣤⠈⣁⠂⠌⡐⢉⠐⠰⢀⠒⠠⢈⠔⠉⡐⢂⢂⠱⢀⠃⠅⠒⡈⠔⡠⠃⡄⢒⠈⢢⠑⡤⠡⠐⡠⠁⡌⠰⡀⡉⠤⠁⠔⡈⠌⡐⠂⠐⠈⠄⡑⢂⡑⢠⠃⢂⠔⢂⡐⠡⡑⢠⠑⠨⡐⠄⣁⠒⠈⢄⠂⠅⡰⠈⠄⠌⢂⠉⡐⠠⠂⠌⡐⢈⠐⢂⠄⡉⢄⠱⣨ ⠌⡒⢤⠉⠆⡌⠙⠞⡥⠷⠩⣞⢝⡦⣫⠝⣯⢒⡳⣼⠱⣞⢭⣞⡷⢿⣼⣻⢿⣿⣆⠈⡔⡈⢄⠃⡒⢨⢀⠃⢆⠨⡐⢁⠆⡂⠔⡨⠐⡌⣁⠒⡌⠤⡑⢌⠢⡉⢆⠱⣀⠣⠜⢠⢁⠢⢡⠐⡐⠢⡑⠌⠰⢠⢁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠂⠘⠀⢎⠰⡈⠆⡄⢃⠄⣃⠌⢒⠠⠒⡄⡘⢌⠠⢊⠔⡠⢑⡈⠆⣁⠒⡈⠥⡈⠔⢨⠐⡌⣐⣂⡔⣨⣶⣿ ⣾⡟⣶⣋⡒⡌⡱⢘⠤⢣⠑⣄⠊⡜⠨⣉⢚⡩⢑⠮⢛⠸⣣⢞⣜⠳⠝⡓⢋⠛⠛⠷⠶⡒⠤⡑⡐⢂⠌⢢⠌⡂⠜⡠⢂⠱⡈⡔⢡⡐⢢⠡⢰⢁⠒⡌⢡⠜⣠⢃⡄⢣⢊⡅⢢⠑⡄⠣⢌⠡⠂⠉⠂⠁⠢⠄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⠤⠃⠜⡰⡈⢆⡘⢠⢎⡰⢁⠣⣐⠡⢂⡑⢂⡌⡐⢢⠐⡌⢄⠢⣁⠆⡱⢈⢢⢁⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣛⣿ ⣭⡛⡽⢿⡷⣜⢰⣩⢂⢇⡩⢄⠣⡌⢱⡀⢣⠰⣁⠚⡄⡓⠤⢊⡔⡩⡘⢄⠣⡘⢌⡡⢃⠔⡡⠆⠅⠃⠚⡄⢪⠐⡉⠴⣭⡆⠱⢈⠆⡌⣅⢊⡅⣊⠱⢌⢢⡉⢦⣈⠒⡥⢊⠬⣑⢊⡔⠃⠈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠑⠢⡍⢒⠤⣡⠋⡴⣁⢎⠰⣌⠡⢂⡅⢣⠘⡄⢣⠑⡢⢜⣴⣦⡁⣾⣿⣻⢳⢯⣟⡵⣻ ⢠⢒⡱⢊⡔⣊⠖⣡⠏⡘⡴⣉⠞⣌⠣⡜⣡⠓⡌⠳⡰⢉⢎⠥⡒⡱⡘⣌⠲⡉⢆⠲⣉⢚⡀⢲⣶⡀⢬⣤⣥⣬⡖⣠⣿⡇⡘⢌⡜⡰⢂⠣⡘⢤⠋⣆⠣⢜⠢⣌⠳⡘⡜⠦⢡⠣⣌⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠡⢈⠐⡀⠀⠱⡘⣌⠒⠁⠙⡔⡡⢎⡱⢌⢣⠣⣘⠥⢚⣌⠥⡙⠄⣿⣿⢿⣏⣿⢿⡿⣯⣛⢾⡵⣻ ⢠⠇⡧⣩⠖⣍⠺⡔⣩⠓⢦⡱⢚⡴⢣⡓⡤⢛⣌⢳⡡⢏⡎⣖⢱⢣⡱⢌⢣⠝⣨⠲⣡⢎⠲⡄⢻⣿⣆⢻⣿⣿⡇⣿⡿⠅⣸⡴⡶⠒⡥⡂⣝⠢⡝⣤⠫⡜⡱⡌⢧⣙⠀⠀⠈⡳⡌⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠂⠄⡀⠀⠀⢳⠌⢀⡀⢤⠓⣜⢢⢭⡞⡆⣋⡰⣾⣾⣿⣷⣶⡾⣿⡿⢯⡿⡜⡭⢖⡳⡜⢧⣹⢳ ⢢⠝⡦⢱⣋⢦⠳⣜⡡⢏⠶⡱⣍⢲⢣⡝⡲⣥⢊⡇⢶⣉⠈⠈⢁⡳⢜⡬⢲⡩⣒⠵⢊⡤⠶⠶⠤⢩⢉⣈⣈⡡⢤⠤⣌⠶⣒⡲⡄⡏⡔⣣⠸⣡⠓⡦⢛⡴⢣⡝⡲⢬⡹⡜⣥⣀⠙⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⠀⠀⡥⡸⡜⣜⢪⠳⣌⠞⡬⣛⠴⣙⢥⡊⢭⣒⡒⢮⠭⠭⣕⠫⣖⠹⡜⣣⠽⣙⠞⣰⢫ ⡘⡎⣕⢣⡇⣎⢳⢬⡓⣭⡚⡵⢬⡓⢮⠴⣙⠶⣩⠞⠑⠊⠀⠀⠓⠣⡝⢬⢣⡕⡅⢰⣒⢖⡻⣌⠿⡥⢏⠶⣬⠹⣍⠷⣎⡝⣮⡱⡇⢬⠱⢆⠸⠀⢀⠵⢋⣜⣡⡾⡴⢧⣲⠴⣤⢌⣉⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⢣⢧⡹⢴⢣⢏⠶⣹⠸⣥⢫⡜⢦⣹⢒⡦⡝⣎⠞⣥⣋⠞⡴⢫⡕⢦⡛⣬⠹⣥⢚ ⠸⣅⡏⢮⡳⣙⢎⢮⡕⢦⡝⣜⢣⡝⣫⠞⡍⠋⢀⠠⠀⠐⠀⠀⢂⠐⡄⠉⢶⡹⠞⠸⣘⢮⣓⠽⠊⡱⢉⠞⡰⠉⠈⡑⢦⡙⣆⠻⡴⢉⠞⡸⠈⡔⢋⡴⣛⣮⡽⢶⣫⢟⢮⡻⣝⢮⣛⡽⣫⡳⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣮⢱⣎⡵⣋⠞⣬⠳⣥⢛⢦⢣⡛⣎⠶⣙⡲⡝⣬⢛⡴⣩⠞⣍⢳⡜⣣⡝⢦⣛⠴⢫ ⠱⣎⡵⢫⡕⣫⢞⢺⡜⣣⢽⡘⢧⢺⡱⠏⠀⡐⠀⡀⠄⠁⡈⠀⠄⢂⠈⢆⠀⢧⡀⠀⡏⠶⣉⢆⡀⢡⢉⠦⢡⢃⠄⣱⢣⡝⣬⢳⣹⢈⡞⡁⢂⣴⡻⣜⡻⢖⡻⣏⡽⣛⢾⢳⠯⣞⢧⡏⢷⡽⣎⡷⣢⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⡔⡯⢶⡹⣍⡛⣖⢫⡼⡹⢎⡳⠽⣌⠻⡴⣓⡹⢦⢫⠖⣧⡛⣜⢣⡞⣥⠻⡜⢮⡝⣫ ⢱⢎⡧⣻⡜⣧⢞⡳⣜⢧⢳⡝⣧⢣⠟⠁⡐⠀⢀⠀⠄⠂⣀⠐⡀⢂⠐⡈⢆⠘⢠⠇⣙⢧⡓⣎⠼⣡⢎⡜⣥⠚⠜⣁⠓⢚⡴⣫⡜⡆⠕⣠⢯⡶⣝⡾⣝⡯⣷⠻⣜⡻⣮⢷⣻⡜⡿⣼⢳⡞⣼⢳⡍⣯⠄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠠⠀⠄⠠⡀⠀⠈⠉⠃⠷⣱⢛⡼⣣⠾⠙⠧⡝⡧⣏⢿⡱⣝⠮⠳⠏⠾⠱⠯⢜⣳⢚⡵⣫⡝⢾⡸⢵ ⠬⣇⠷⣱⢏⡶⢭⡞⡼⣎⢷⣚⢦⡏⡏⠀⠀⠄⢂⣀⡴⢮⡝⢧⣄⠂⠐⠠⠈⠄⡦⣄⢸⢲⢽⡸⣝⡖⠋⢀⡀⢬⠤⡔⣆⡻⣜⣳⣚⡅⢰⢯⣞⡵⢯⡼⢧⡿⠀⣀⡷⣻⣜⣧⢷⠋⢹⣞⡷⣝⣮⣳⡝⢶⡃⠀⠀⠀⢀⠐⡈⢄⠂⡡⢊⠁⠤⢉⠐⣂⠰⢀⠈⠋⣶⢹⠆⠀⣠⣓⠧⠛⠊⠁⡀⠀⡄⢠⡒⠠⠀⠂⠌⠙⢖⡧⣛⡮⣵⢫ ⢜⡣⣏⢳⣏⡞⣵⢺⠵⣎⠷⣙⢮⣝⣣⠄⠀⢰⠧⣏⡞⣧⢛⢧⡞⣅⠀⠁⠁⠂⡷⣼⠘⣬⢳⡳⢞⠶⠬⠳⠞⠙⣚⡘⢉⣩⢨⡅⢀⠀⣯⣞⢼⢫⠝⠛⠩⠹⡾⣝⠾⠳⠭⠮⢟⣀⣴⡳⡽⣏⣾⣡⡏⢷⡂⡤⠀⢀⠂⢌⠐⡠⠘⣀⠂⠌⡐⢈⠒⠤⡁⠆⡌⣀⠈⠏⢀⡾⡱⠉⠀⢠⠐⡠⢈⠡⣐⠣⢀⠃⡐⠢⡀⠑⡀⠙⣼⣱⢣⣟ ⢸⡇⣏⡳⣎⡽⣪⢝⣫⡜⡯⣝⡺⢬⠁⠀⢀⡯⣞⣥⣛⡼⣛⠮⣝⡯⠀⠀⠈⣶⢳⡜⣦⠥⣆⠀⠶⡲⢊⢴⢫⡝⡞⡷⣛⡥⠀⣿⣆⡼⢸⢎⡟⢀⡖⣯⡄⣠⠧⠀⠀⠒⠒⠂⠉⢛⡼⢯⠗⣟⢮⣓⣏⢧⣓⠀⡀⢂⠌⡠⠊⠄⡡⠄⠊⡄⠑⡈⠜⡠⢑⠈⠀⢄⠠⠀⢾⡺⠁⢀⡐⠂⡅⠢⠁⡰⡌⢁⠎⠠⠐⡁⠐⡁⠀⢂⠐⣧⢻⡼ ⢸⡜⡧⣝⢎⠷⣹⢎⡶⣹⢳⡹⢞⡇⠀⠀⣼⡱⢏⡶⡹⢞⡵⢻⡼⡹⠇⠀⠀⢸⡣⣽⢪⢏⡷⣤⢀⣴⡹⡞⣧⠻⡼⠍⠀⠀⠀⠓⠫⠝⡈⣿⣣⣄⡿⣼⣹⢽⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡼⣏⠀⣀⣤⠉⢺⡹⠞⡶⣙⠂⢐⠠⢂⠡⠌⠒⠠⠌⠡⡀⠃⢌⠠⠑⡌⠰⡀⠎⠠⢁⠈⡷⠀⠂⢄⠃⠐⡁⡰⡱⠀⠈⠀⡰⢁⠰⠁⡘⡀⠠⠀⢹⢣⣟ ⢮⣜⣳⣪⣟⣺⣑⣫⠞⠁⠉⠉⠋⠀⠀⠠⠓⠾⠹⣺⡙⣷⣚⢧⡝⣧⢇⠀⠁⠀⡟⣲⡝⣎⡇⡟⣮⣳⡽⢉⡸⠁⠁⠀⡀⠂⠠⠀⢀⠀⠀⠈⠷⣩⢷⣞⡷⠃⠀⢀⡠⣔⡲⢘⡷⣭⢟⣟⣾⠃⡮⢽⣹⢚⠁⠀⡐⠂⠔⠂⢌⠂⠅⡘⠠⢁⠜⡀⢂⠥⢀⡑⠈⡄⠀⢂⠀⣟⠀⠌⡐⡀⠀⢀⡱⠁⠆⠠⡐⠀⠀⢂⠡⠐⠡⢀⠁⢸⢳⡞ ⣿⣾⣿⡿⣿⣽⠋⠁⠀⡀⠄⡐⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠴⠎⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠉⠁⠙⠊⢆⢳⡱⢏⡰⠥⠀⠀⠌⠀⠀⠐⠀⠈⠄⠀⠁⠄⠀⠣⢯⡶⡽⣳⡶⣤⡬⣁⣉⣀⣹⣜⣯⣞⢶⣖⢻⡕⡮⢃⠀⠐⠠⠑⡈⠌⡄⡘⠠⢁⠆⡁⢂⠌⠄⢢⠐⢠⠡⠐⢄⠢⠀⡯⡄⠐⠠⡐⠡⠎⠁⠜⢀⠡⠐⠀⠄⠂⡄⢃⠐⠀⠂⣜⠶⠉ ⡇⠞⢿⡀⠀⠙⠀⠀⠂⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠂⠀⠀⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⠀⠐⢠⢂⠀⠀⠨⣭⢓⣵⠂⠀⠁⠠⠁⠀⠀⠠⠁⢀⠈⠀⠂⠠⠀⠘⠍⠀⠃⣹⢧⡻⣕⣻⢼⣣⣏⡶⣚⢯⣜⠳⢊⣴⢋⡀⠈⡐⢈⠰⠀⠆⡠⠑⢂⡐⠌⠠⠌⡐⠡⠈⠄⠂⡉⠀⠆⢠⢧⢳⠈⠐⡰⢢⠀⡌⠠⠀⠄⠠⠌⠠⢁⠰⠀⠀⠀⠐⠁⠀⠀ ⣷⣝⠬⢀⣴⣄⠀⠀⠀⡀⠀⠀⠐⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠂⠄⠀⢣⣝⣺⠀⢀⠂⠁⡀⠁⠀⠀⠄⢀⠠⠀⢂⠁⠀⠈⠀⠀⢈⡚⠳⠭⣛⢞⣳⣙⠦⠛⢉⡄⠤⡞⡵⡪⠉⢆⠀⢀⠂⠄⢉⡐⠄⠡⢂⠐⣈⠁⠒⡈⠀⠁⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⡼⡸⣍⠖⣄⠑⠃⡔⠠⢁⠌⠰⢁⠘⡄⠡⠌⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⢻⣯⡀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠅⠀⠂⠒⠚⠀⠀⠀⠂⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠐⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⣈⣾⢳⡄⠀⢀⠂⢀⠀⠢⣤⣬⣤⣤⡤⠀⠀⠌⠀⠀⢠⣎⢵⣫⢖⣦⢲⠄⠀⠒⠈⠋⠀⠀⠉⠊⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠊⡁⢂⠡⠄⢊⠡⠀⢠⣤⡀⠀⠀⢀⡼⣱⠓⣎⠷⠹⢷⣂⣀⡁⠢⠌⠒⠠⠒⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⠈⠀⠀ ⣿⣷⣿⣹⠯⣿⣧⡀⠀⠁⠀⠀⠀⢠⠖⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⠀⠀⠀⠂⠀⡀⠀⠀⢀⠈⠀⠠⠀⠂⢀⣹⣎⣟⣦⠀⠀⠐⠠⢀⠀⠸⣻⣿⠟⠁⠀⠁⠀⠀⡀⢸⣜⠲⣇⡇⠈⠙⠂⠀⡀⠀⢀⠐⡀⠀⠐⠠⠁⠐⠀⠌⠀⠂⠠⠁⣰⡟⠀⠡⠈⠄⢂⠡⠀⠃⠈⠀⣠⢞⡴⢣⠟⣼⠳⡄⠀⠘⣡⠠⢾⡇⠸⠈⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⠈⠀⠀⠠⠀ ⡝⣾⡻⠃⠤⡈⢻⣷⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠰⡋⠀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⢀⠚⢬⡄⢾⢞⣖⡄⠈⠄⠠⠐⡀⠀⡀⠀⠄⠁⠠⠀⠀⡐⡸⣬⠳⠝⠆⠀⡀⠀⠐⠠⠐⠀⠠⠀⠈⠐⠠⠁⠀⠌⡀⠂⢀⠂⣰⡟⠀⠀⢂⠡⢈⠠⠀⠂⢀⠴⣋⠶⣳⡜⢧⣛⢦⡛⣴⠰⣿⡏⠸⠘⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠀⠠⠐⠀⠀ ⡳⣜⢡⢋⣴⣎⢠⠙⡀⣸⣦⡠⢀⡄⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⠀⠀⠡⠄⡀⠀⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⠀⠰⠻⢀⡳⠜⣌⢫⢼⡛⠡⠀⠁⡀⢀⡀⠄⠡⢀⠱⠈⠀⢀⠀⡗⣧⠀⠀⠀⡀⠐⢈⠀⠁⠠⠀⠁⢂⠀⠠⠁⢀⠂⠐⠀⡀⠄⣰⡟⠀⠀⢄⠠⢀⠰⠲⠌⠙⠰⠚⠱⠞⠱⣎⠷⣩⠮⠝⠊⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⠀⠐⠀⢀⠐⠀ ⣿⣆⣣⣾⣿⣟⣗⡀⣱⣿⣛⣷⠈⡐⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠸⡅⠂⡖⣶⢢⠘⠽⠤⠖⠲⢙⠒⡋⠂⠎⠃⣌⢲⡀⠁⠐⠂⠐⠈⠁⠈⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⣟⠲⣄⠈⢀⠀⠐⠀⡀⠀⠁⠂⠁⡀⠂⠀⢈⠀⠠⠁⠀⠄⣰⡟⠠⠄⠈⠀⠊⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠑⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⢀⠂⠀⠀ ⣿⣿⢿⣿⣹⢾⣿⢿⣿⠷⠋⠁⣀⣁⢃⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⡤⠥⠴⢒⢚⠪⢍⠩⢍⠫⠙⠭⣉⡀⠀⠀⠣⢐⡂⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⢀⣏⢳⢥⢳⣀⠀⠂⠁⢀⠁⠀⠀⡁⠀⠂⠀⣀⣤⠐⠀⠁⣰⠏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⠀⠀⣀⣀⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠄⠁ ⡟⣿⣿⠟⠘⢿⣽⣿⣻⠄⢩⢱⠊⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢴⣺⣉⣀⣂⣁⣉⣂⣦⣥⣬⢤⠖⣖⡻⠽⣍⢻⣀⠀⡸⢘⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡘⢧⢞⣣⢎⡳⣄⠈⢀⠠⠈⡀⠐⠈⣠⣼⣿⠟⠀⠀⣰⡟⠀⠠⢤⢤⢤⡲⠖⠲⠒⠎⢋⡙⡙⣉⠡⡄⢀⣾⣿⣿⡟⠻⠂⣢⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠁⢹⠢⡐⡃⢆⠙⠾⠃⠈⠤⠡⠤⠄⠈⠄⠀⠀⣸⠉⠑⡄⢸⣲⢹⣟⣯⢙⠚⢳⣒⢮⣈⠠⢹⡲⣝⡧⣏⠶⡁⠀⠴⠋⣨⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢮⠹⣎⠞⣦⢫⡵⣋⠳⣄⠀⡐⠀⠙⠛⠛⠉⠁⠀⠀⣰⠏⠀⠀⠰⡀⢆⢢⡐⢎⠥⣩⠜⡡⢆⡱⢌⡒⠴⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣾⠟⢿⣷⡀⠀⠀⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠄⠁ ⠀⠀⢣⣾⣿⣦⡉⠔⠀⡒⢎⡱⢬⠹⡄⠂⠀⠀⢲⠀⠀⠙⠀⡧⣏⣷⣚⣿⠋⠸⣬⣓⠾⡅⢀⡷⣺⡜⣥⢫⠕⡆⠶⣫⠗⡘⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢨⠳⣮⣝⣦⠳⣚⡭⣛⣬⠳⣆⡀⠄⠂⢀⠂⠄⠁⣰⠏⠀⣠⡄⠱⠀⣆⢣⠜⢬⠒⣡⠚⡴⢁⠆⣣⢘⡱⢸⣯⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⣞⣿⡧⡀⠀⢰⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀ ⠀⠀⢘⣯⣟⣿⣿⣷⡄⢑⢎⡱⢪⡍⠇⠀⠀⠀⠘⡄⠀⠀⠀⠸⣱⠸⣟⡼⣧⢰⢧⠯⠾⠹⠶⢫⠵⣛⡼⣡⢛⠀⢳⢧⢃⠇⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠇⢛⣛⠻⠷⠶⠮⢵⣾⠉⠀⠀⠀⠐⠀⢀⠂⣰⠏⠀⣰⠉⡇⠠⠃⢌⡒⡘⣂⠫⢔⡩⡐⢩⠘⡄⢣⠰⢸⣿⣿⡿⣿⣷⣾⣿⣿⣿⣇⠀⠀⢀⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠈⠻⣾⣽⣻⢽⠟⢂⠠⠔⠆⣒⣤⣌⡀⠀⠀⠹⡀⠀⠀⠀⠹⣧⢻⢽⡷⡋⠡⠖⠚⠉⠀⠀⠁⠷⡸⣕⡋⠰⡈⢃⠌⠠⠌⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⢠⣠⣤⣶⣿⣽⣿⣿⡿⠷⠶⢒⣒⣲⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⣰⠏⠀⠀⢡⣴⣇⠠⢃⠐⠦⡑⢢⢍⢢⠱⢌⠡⢎⠰⣁⠚⡈⣿⣿⣿⣿⠏⢉⣙⠛⠟⢋⣤⣶⠸⡿⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠂ ⠀⠀⠀⠘⡈⠻⡽⢋⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⡀⠀⠙⣄⠀⠀⠀⠱⢧⢻⡖⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣀⡀⢒⡜⢐⡡⠔⠁⠢⣡⣶⡀⠀⣀⣠⣴⣾⡿⠿⠛⢛⣉⣩⣥⢴⣲⣾⣏⣿⣽⣳⢷⢸⣶⡄⣰⠏⠀⠀⠢⢀⣿⠯⠐⠀⣈⠁⡉⠤⢤⠀⢣⠘⡆⠎⢆⠥⠚⡄⣟⣿⣿⣿⣇⣀⡹⠸⠻⠿⠿⠛⠂⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀ ⠀⠀⠐⠀⢌⠡⢀⣞⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠿⠓⡀⠀⠈⠑⠦⣀⣀⣈⠫⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠞⠥⠛⡀⠎⡐⠤⠔⣠⠉⠞⡋⠤⢒⣛⣉⡭⣤⢶⣦⠀⣤⣿⣮⢷⣯⡟⠉⢦⠭⡑⢾⠁⠀⢘⠟⠐⠋⣴⠶⠛⠈⠋⣀⡐⢬⠱⠜⡬⢱⡉⢖⡂⢈⠦⠱⠘⠌⠒⠑⠀⠱⣻⡽⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠀⠀⢀⠠⠀ ⠀⠈⢀⠀⠘⠇⣈⢩⣉⣩⣉⣉⢍⡩⢤⠰⠐⡊⣱⣥⡀⠠⠀⢠⣤⡰⠄⠇⠈⠂⢀⣠⢶⣭⢫⢯⠙⣡⠾⠹⠞⢽⡃⡶⣖⣾⣏⣿⢶⣏⣟⣻⢮⡷⣿⠉⢾⣝⣯⢾⡅⠀⠘⣺⠭⡌⣦⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣔⢊⢻⣦⠙⡬⡑⣥⢊⡕⡂⠀⠀⠄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⣞⣷⢻⣭⢿⡿⣿⢯⣿⣻⡽⣟⡾⣟⡟⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠄ ⠀⠀⠂⡀⠐⠀⣾⣶⣷⣦⣷⣾⡶⠖⠰⠿⢟⡓⣈⠤⣆⠀⠌⠀⢿⡃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⢉⣈⣀⢦⡀⢡⡲⢶⣀⠙⠀⢽⣟⢮⣟⢾⣻⠞⡩⣉⠻⣞⢯⠀⣡⣽⢾⡟⣟⣦⣍⣃⣛⣠⣟⡷⣶⠆⠁⠄⠀⠀⢠⢯⣽⣦⡡⠙⢷⡔⢑⢢⢃⣎⡱⠠⢁⢀⠠⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⠀⠈⠙⠷⢿⣻⠛⠙⢫⢾⣻⡽⠿⠛⡉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠠⠀ ⠀⠈⠠⠀⠄⠘⡰⢐⠤⣒⡐⢢⡔⠆⢮⡑⣎⠂⠈⡳⢌⠀⠒⠣⠌⣁⢀⠀⠀⠁⡀⢠⢿⡞⣥⢗⡺⠄⠙⠏⠀⠀⠀⢈⠍⠻⣞⣻⠇⡎⡴⣩⢇⡏⢠⡆⣦⣌⡙⢛⣋⣅⠠⠰⡷⣟⡾⣿⠽⡧⢀⠀⢠⡀⡜⣨⠳⣮⡻⣎⠈⠻⣦⡃⠋⣀⢤⠀⠂⠄⠂⢄⠁⠂⠀⠀⠀⣁⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⣀⣭⠁⢀⠀⡈⠇⠀⡀⢀⠠⠐⠀⠠⠁ ⢠⡁⣆⡰⣠⡀⠧⡙⠲⢤⡙⠦⣍⠀⢐⠺⣔⠣⣤⢹⡘⡆⠀⠐⣈⣀⣂⣅⡒⣐⣠⣀⠙⢾⣱⢾⣁⠀⢒⣀⣂⣐⣊⣁⢂⣀⠹⣾⣇⠳⠼⣡⢾⣳⣄⡁⠹⠿⠇⠸⠿⢋⣠⢶⣟⣾⣽⡡⣋⡷⠈⢛⠿⠇⠃⣃⢖⡙⢷⡟⠓⠁⠘⠷⠌⠚⢀⠄⣠⡘⣀⣂⢌⣠⠥⡴⢈⣀⣀⣠⠁⠀⣠⣤⣶⣴⣤⣤⣤⣀⠒⠀⠤⣐⣠⢂⣡⢂⣁⢌ ⢱⢫⠵⡹⢖⡃⠵⣈⢓⢦⡙⠲⣌⠉⢪⡱⣌⠳⡌⠳⣘⠆⢹⠀⡸⢇⠾⣌⠿⡜⡧⠉⠶⠯⠼⠦⠓⢋⣠⣈⠳⢞⡱⢯⡽⡜⠃⣽⣞⢷⣾⣽⣳⡟⣾⡽⣻⢷⣖⣢⣟⣿⣞⣿⠮⠷⠚⠛⣉⠤⡚⡭⣜⡃⢸⢀⠫⢖⠤⡱⣀⣾⢦⡂⡠⣤⡙⡄⢳⣩⢓⡹⣊⣓⢏⡝⣫⢜⡣⢉⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣟⣿⡿⣟⡷⠆⢁⢧⣫⡜⡭⢎⡽ ⢂⠧⡓⣍⠖⣍⠲⡡⢎⡢⢱⡙⡌⢦⣀⠘⠌⢃⠰⣰⢉⡖⠀⡬⢍⣍⠫⣜⣩⠉⣴⣲⣲⣖⣒⡶⢯⠏⠶⠊⠃⣈⠡⡴⡄⢌⣶⠟⣉⠻⣎⣷⡍⢋⡉⢛⠛⠛⠒⢋⠙⡡⠤⢄⡆⠐⢯⡱⠎⠧⡝⣲⢡⡝⠀⡌⠎⣍⢲⡁⠈⠫⣏⣷⣄⠊⠻⡄⠰⠰⢎⡔⣣⠜⡪⢴⠱⠎⣠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣽⣯⣷⣿⣾⣫⣭⠋⢠⡜⡜⠦⡖⡼⣘⠧⣜ ⢨⢃⠷⣨⠳⡜⠀⡱⢨⡑⢣⠜⣙⠦⢙⡒⣜⠣⠓⣁⣭⡶⢠⣤⣶⣶⣶⣶⣦⣤⣤⣍⣁⠀⠠⢐⡀⣌⡀⢖⢪⡱⠀⠁⢣⠌⠻⠦⠥⠾⠛⢃⠐⢣⢔⡒⢊⠳⡘⠎⡅⠲⢍⠓⣜⢣⠄⠁⠠⠜⡥⠓⠦⡍⡇⠰⠩⣌⠣⠜⣄⠄⡘⠋⠛⣠⡐⠥⢘⡍⢮⡜⢦⠹⢥⢣⠏⣰⣿⣿⣿⣟⣿⣿⣯⣟⣿⡳⣯⠁⡘⢦⠹⡸⣑⢎⡱⢊⡓⣬ ⢠⢋⡜⣂⠳⣘⠃⢱⣧⣭⣥⣭⣄⢀⣀⣵⣶⠾⢟⡛⣍⠒⡀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⡦⠌⠐⠀⣜⢢⡓⢦⠲⣬⡙⢶⠀⠐⣃⠸⡜⠌⡅⢊⠜⠭⣒⠱⠎⡔⠫⢎⠸⠤⠭⡜⠤⢏⠭⠔⢫⢅⡓⠜⡄⠑⢢⡙⡜⢢⡙⣒⠬⠻⣵⠻⣎⠀⠏⡖⣘⠦⢛⢬⠃⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣾⣷⣿⣯⢿⠃⢠⠉⠖⡩⠱⠌⠦⣑⢃⠞⢰ ⢌⡣⠞⣌⢇⢣⢣⠐⠤⠩⠩⠭⠍⢠⠳⠐⠦⣙⣂⣭⣴⡟⣱⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⣾⣶⣌⠒⢙⡎⠳⡆⡝⢣⢄⠸⡌⢧⡙⠥⣽⢫⣎⠳⣤⠧⡜⣌⠱⣈⠎⡥⢓⠬⣙⡌⢎⡙⢆⠎⣌⠳⡘⠄⠱⡘⡔⣣⠒⡥⢎⡳⣈⠻⣽⠀⠣⡜⣄⠋⢈⠐⡐⠛⠻⠿⠽⣾⣿⣿⣻⣿⣾⢾⣿⠀⠢⣉⠜⡡⢃⠎⡑⢄⠪⡘⠤ ⢬⡑⡏⢜⡊⠥⢊⡄⠹⣷⣶⣶⣶⣶⠖⢻⣿⠿⠟⠋⢩⣶⣿⠿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⡶⢠⣤⣻⣿⣷⣄⠘⠡⢎⡑⠎⠬⡑⡜⢂⡜⠢⣗⡳⢬⠹⡔⢳⡙⣊⢇⠰⢊⠔⡡⢊⠤⡐⢆⡘⠢⡑⠢⢁⠓⡌⡂⠑⠐⠃⠉⠈⠀⠀⠁⠁⠉⠀⠱⢐⢢⠁⠢⡍⡄⣯⣽⡆⠠⠤⣀⠄⣉⠉⢉⠙⠃⠀⠛⠤⠚⡔⢃⠚⣐⠊⡔⣡⢊ ⠤⠳⡌⢣⠝⡌⠧⠜⡑⢀⣮⣭⣭⣤⣤⠀⠶⢺⣿⣷⡈⡙⠃⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣛⡅⣌⡛⣿⣿⣷⣹⣷⡄⠱⡈⠭⡑⢌⡒⠡⠆⡵⠎⢧⣍⡚⡍⢦⡱⢡⠎⡜⠨⢆⠥⣩⠒⠱⢌⣦⣡⣉⣁⠉⠒⠴⣡⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⢤⠒⠀⠓⠸⠐⠶⠤⢄⡃⠧⣐⠩⠤⡉⠆⡐⠈⡔⠈⢆⠩⢌⠬⡑⡌⠒⣌⠰⢠ ⠰⠡⡌⡡⢎⡰⢡⠋⣠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢀⣠⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣤⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⢛⠀⡛⢿⣿⣿⣿⣯⡿⣿⣦⠘⠤⡉⢆⠬⠱⡘⣼⢺⡱⢆⡩⡘⢆⡣⢏⠰⣈⠕⡊⠂⣠⣶⣿⢿⣾⣿⢿⠿⣛⣷⠦⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⠣⣍⠣⡓⠆⠀⢀⠀⠀⠈⠁⠈⠑⠒⠉⠂⠄⠃⠀⣘⠨⡘⢌⠢⡑⢌⠱⡈⠜⡠ ⢌⠣⣌⠱⣂⣑⠂⠰⢣⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠋⢘⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣽⣳⡿⣇⠀⡱⢈⠆⡓⢌⡷⠀⡱⢋⡆⠘⣬⡑⡇⡜⣤⠊⣠⣾⣿⣟⣿⣿⣾⣿⠃⣾⣿⣿⣅⠈⠑⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢢⠱⣈⠆⠀⡀⠀⠀⡁⠂⠀⠀⠀⠄⠀⠀⠀⡒⠤⣃⠱⢊⠥⡘⠤⢃⠜⡡⢒ ⡂⢗⢢⠓⡖⠎⢰⣦⡈⢣⣿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠋⢀⣽⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠇⠸⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣯⢷⣿⣽⡆⠐⡁⠎⡔⢪⡝⣧⡙⠧⠒⢘⢠⢹⠐⡰⠀⣴⣿⣿⣾⣿⣿⣷⣿⣿⣆⢻⣿⣿⣿⣷⡄⣿⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠄⢆⠱⢨⠀⠀⡐⢀⠐⠠⠈⠄⠀⠡⠐⠈⠀⠰⡑⢊⠔⡩⠘⠤⠣⡑⢪⠘⡔⢨ ⠐⡌⢢⠑⡌⠀⣿⣶⠶⠀⠁⣾⣿⣿⠛⢿⣿⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠍⡀⢶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣽⣶⠁⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣟⣾⢯⡿⣿⡀⡁⢎⠰⡹⡆⠲⣶⣶⡿⠃⡆⢯⠐⠁⣸⣽⣷⣿⣿⣾⣷⣿⠁⠻⣿⣷⣍⡃⠈⢟⣴⣿⣿⣆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠃⢎⠰⢡⠀⠀⠄⡀⠈⠀⠂⠀⢀⠐⡀⠠⠀⠰⠘⠤⢊⠔⡩⢂⠕⡌⢢⢘⡐⢢ ⠐⡄⢣⠘⡐⢰⣿⣿⣿⠿⠄⠙⣴⣿⣷⣶⣤⣬⣹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣾⣿⠉⠈⢻⣿⣿⣿⡿⣵⠂⠰⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣟⡾⠉⠓⢻⡇⠐⡌⠲⣭⢽⡠⠙⠛⡡⢜⡰⡃⠜⠀⣿⣽⣾⣿⣿⣽⠙⠻⢦⣶⣿⡿⣿⣷⣴⣾⣿⡿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⢀⠩⢂⡍⢢⡐⠤⡀⠀⠐⠠⠀⠌⠀⡀⠀⠄⠀⠣⡉⢆⡡⢊⠔⡡⢂⠜⡠⠒⡌⠰ ⠰⡈⠦⡉⠄⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠄⠋⣴⣿⣿⣿⠏⠙⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡄⠀⠘⣿⡿⠋⢸⣯⡔⠰⣮⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣻⣽⢶⡄⠈⢿⠀⠂⢭⢎⡳⡌⢯⡱⣙⠦⣱⠃⢨⠀⡿⠞⢻⡿⣿⣻⡀⠳⠶⠬⣍⣛⡛⠻⠿⠿⠟⣟⣿⣻⠀⡡⠃⠀⡀⠆⢒⠈⠰⠁⠀⠀⡄⢃⠜⡀⠀⠂⢁⠀⠂⠀⠔⢂⠔⡡⠒⡄⢒⠡⡘⢄⠡⢊⠔⡡⢘⠰ ⠠⡑⢢⠑⡂⢸⣿⣿⡿⣿⣿⣻⠄⢋⣼⣿⣿⡄⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⡿⠋⣠⠀⣾⣟⣡⡀⣮⣽⣿⣿⣿⣟⡷⣯⡿⣿⣲⣤⠀⢐⡪⢏⡳⡙⢦⠓⡍⢞⡄⠈⠆⡄⠃⣠⡼⣿⣟⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠉⠛⢃⣶⣿⡿⡿⠀⡐⢁⠢⡑⡈⢆⠩⠄⡀⢠⠑⡌⠢⣘⠀⠀⠡⠀⠂⠀⠘⡌⢢⠘⠐⠁⠘⢠⠃⠜⡠⢃⡌⠢⢑⠌⢒ ⠠⡑⢢⠑⠤⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠧⠈⢟⣹⣿⣷⣠⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠛⢋⣠⣾⣿⠀⡏⣿⡟⡂⠨⣭⣿⣿⣿⡽⣟⡷⣿⣳⢿⣯⠀⠌⡿⣹⠴⣙⢦⡹⢜⢢⡙⢠⠀⣀⠈⢷⣻⣮⡻⣿⣿⡀⢀⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣾⣿⣷⣿⠃⠠⠌⡌⢆⠱⡈⢆⠱⠀⠀⢀⠣⣘⠰⠄⠀⠠⠁⠐⠀⠁⠈⠔⠡⣉⠀⠄⢪⠐⡘⠌⡔⡁⠦⠑⡌⡘⠤ ⠠⡑⢢⠘⡰⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣻⣿⡿⠂⠹⢛⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠏⢉⣠⣶⣿⣿⣿⡟⢀⣿⣿⣿⡟⡀⠩⣽⣿⡿⣽⣿⡽⣷⢯⣟⡇⠀⢂⢷⡹⢦⠱⢎⡔⣋⠶⢉⠰⡈⠔⡠⠈⢳⣭⢿⣮⣝⣷⠀⠳⣹⠦⠄⣠⣮⣿⣗⡿⠃⢀⡘⠤⡑⠌⣂⠱⡈⢆⡑⢂⠀⠃⠦⠑⠂⠀⠐⡈⠐⠀⠀⠉⠄⠃⠀⠀⠌⡄⢡⠘⡈⠄⠄⠡⠊⠄⡑⢈ ⠠⡑⢌⠢⡑⢂⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⢗⠰⠟⡛⠛⠟⠋⢉⣠⣤⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠇⢸⣿⣿⣿⣾⡗⠀⢭⣽⣿⢿⣭⣟⣯⢿⡽⠀⡘⣀⠢⡹⠌⠓⠉⡈⢁⠙⠀⠣⠌⣂⠑⠢⠄⠙⠻⣮⣟⡾⣶⣤⣁⣥⣞⡷⣯⡽⠎⠁⠀⠂⠒⠐⠁⣈⣀⣡⣤⣤⣮⣥⣶⣤⣤⠐⠀⠀⡁⠠⠐⠈⠀⢃⠒⠤⡉⠜⡰⢈⠆⡘⠤⡉⠌⡅⢣⠘⡰⢈ ⠠⡑⠊⡔⠡⢊⠀⢿⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⣷⠀⡾⢿⣦⡈⠻⡿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡛⢀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣾⡇⠀⢩⣽⣻⣻⣽⡾⠻⠃⠀⠥⠠⠑⠀⡠⠈⠠⠀⠠⠈⠐⡀⠁⠀⣉⡑⠈⠱⢀⡈⠑⣟⣷⣻⢏⠻⣞⣿⣻⠀⢠⠊⠀⣠⣴⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠿⢛⣩⡄⠀⠠⢀⠁⠄⠀⠀⡅⢊⠤⡑⠌⡄⢡⠊⠔⡡⢘⡐⠌⡄⢣⠐⢌ ⠐⣀⠃⡌⠱⡈⠆⠈⢱⣿⣿⣿⣷⣦⠀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣶⣀⠘⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠏⢀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣫⢿⣷⡷⠀⢠⣴⣿⣿⠅⠀⠈⠹⠤⡄⠒⠠⠀⠂⠓⡈⠑⢊⠀⢀⠊⡐⢀⠈⢱⢢⠀⠀⠀⣯⡿⣿⣬⢱⣿⠛⣿⠀⠂⣀⠠⣙⣛⣛⣛⣛⣛⣉⣩⣭⣤⣶⣾⣟⣿⣧⠀⠐⢀⡀⠀⠀⠘⡄⢃⢂⠱⡈⠔⡁⢎⢂⡑⠢⠘⠰⠈⠤⢉⠰ ⠐⡄⠣⢌⠱⡈⢌⠱⡀⢸⢿⣿⣷⣦⠈⣴⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣦⣄⣉⠙⠋⣁⣤⣿⣿⡿⣟⣿⠾⣽⣻⣞⣷⣷⠂⠠⣶⣿⠁⠐⠀⠂⢸⠜⢀⠂⡡⠑⢂⠔⡡⢂⠘⡄⢢⠁⡌⠀⢸⡒⠠⠁⠀⠉⢀⠀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢐⠠⠀⣿⡻⠿⠻⣿⣿⣏⢉⠙⣿⣿⣾⢿⣾⣿⡀⠀⠐⠀⠀⠀⢨⠐⠌⣂⠱⢈⠆⡑⢂⠆⢌⡡⠉⢆⠩⢄⠣⢐ ⠐⡈⠅⡌⢆⠱⣈⠒⡰⢀⠙⢿⣶⡍⢨⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⣿⣳⣿⣟⣯⡿⢷⣻⣞⣯⣷⣻⡆⡐⠀⡀⢈⠠⠁⢎⡼⢀⠘⢠⠑⡈⠀⢀⠌⡰⢐⠠⢁⢈⠀⣣⠜⠠⢀⠀⠀⠄⠂⠄⠡⠘⣩⠀⠡⢀⠣⠄⢸⡇⠀⠟⢻⣿⣉⡉⠉⣿⣷⣯⣿⣷⡿⡇⠀⠀⠄⠂⢀⠂⡜⠰⡀⠦⢁⠎⡰⠡⢌⠢⡐⡉⢆⠒⢌⠒⣈ ⠠⢁⠒⡈⠆⠒⠤⡑⢄⠃⢆⡀⠉⠁⣊⣽⡿⣽⣻⣞⣷⣻⣽⣳⣯⡿⣽⣻⣽⣯⢿⣭⣿⢾⣽⢯⡷⣟⡾⣯⠏⠈⢀⠤⠁⠠⢀⠁⢎⠴⢀⠊⠄⢢⠁⠈⢄⠒⡐⠀⠐⣈⠰⠀⡥⠆⡐⠠⡀⠀⠈⡐⠈⠄⠡⠄⠠⠀⢀⠃⠆⠘⣿⢿⣄⣼⣿⣿⣷⢶⣿⢟⣯⣿⣾⢿⣿⠀⠀⠄⠐⡌⠰⡈⢆⠱⣀⠣⠌⡄⢃⠆⡰⢁⠔⡈⠆⡌⢢⠐ ⠐⢂⠡⢘⠠⣉⠐⡈⢄⠊⡄⡈⠆⣀⠉⠛⢾⣿⡽⣟⣷⢿⣳⣯⢷⡿⣽⣳⣟⣾⢿⣽⣳⣯⣟⣯⣟⡿⠋⢁⠠⡘⠤⠀⠁⠂⢀⠂⡜⠼⢀⠨⡐⠡⣀⠘⡠⠌⡐⢂⠰⡀⠃⢀⠖⡃⠄⠐⠀⠠⠄⠀⠐⠠⠀⠀⡀⢂⠌⡘⠰⠀⣏⣟⣿⡿⠩⠩⠔⠂⢀⠉⠻⣽⡿⣿⣞⠀⠀⢡⠀⠠⠑⡈⠄⡁⢂⠘⡐⠄⠣⠌⠰⠁⡌⢢⠑⡈⢆⠘ ⢀⠃⡂⢅⠒⡄⢃⡘⠄⢃⡐⠡⠌⣀⠒⡠⠄⡈⠙⠻⠯⣿⣻⣽⡿⣿⣻⢿⣞⡿⣯⣿⢽⠾⠛⠋⢁⠀⠄⠀⠣⠘⠀⠀⠀⢈⠠⠀⡜⡱⢀⢂⠑⠰⣀⠣⠐⠢⠑⠌⠄⣁⠃⢈⢮⠁⠄⠌⠀⡀⢈⠐⠄⡀⠀⢠⠑⡨⢐⡁⢃⠆⢸⡼⣿⣏⠀⠀⠀⠔⣋⣤⣶⣿⢿⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⢂⠀⠁⠀⠈⡔⢂⠒⡈⠌⡑⠌⢡⠃⢌⠢⠡⠘⡄⢊ ⠀⠆⡡⢌⠂⡔⠡⠘⡌⢂⠌⡱⠈⡔⢂⠡⢒⢀⠣⡐⠠⡀⣀⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⢉⠁⡀⠄⣀⠒⡈⢆⡉⢢⠡⢄⠠⠠⠡⠀⢂⠠⠁⡜⡥⢀⠢⠌⡑⠠⢀⠉⢉⠈⣁⠰⢀⠃⢨⠲⢀⠂⡘⠐⡌⢂⡉⠢⠔⢀⠂⡜⡐⠢⡘⠄⢀⠀⡿⣼⣿⣆⣤⣶⣿⣟⣿⣯⡿⣿⣿⠞⠁⠀⠀⠣⢄⢀⠢⢑⠠⢃⡘⢄⠣⡘⠌⢢⠘⡠⢃⠅⢣⠘⢠ ⢈⠂⡅⢢⠘⠤⡁⢣⠐⡌⢒⠠⢃⠔⡨⢐⠡⢊⠔⡡⢑⠰⡀⠃⠠⠘⠄⠣⠘⡄⠒⠡⢊⠄⠣⠌⠰⡈⠔⣈⠢⣁⠣⢁⠃⠀⠰⠀⠲⡅⠰⡐⢢⢁⠡⢂⠜⡠⠌⠄⠒⠌⠀⢮⡱⠀⠀⢂⠱⠈⠔⡠⢃⠀⠀⠁⠒⠄⡃⢌⠢⡀⠀⠘⠷⠿⠿⠷⠿⠿⠟⠛⠛⠉⢁⠀⢄⠂⡔⠩⠔⡊⢄⠣⠌⡒⠤⠘⡄⢢⠁⠎⡄⢣⠐⡡⠘⡄⢃⠢ ⢀⠒⡄⢢⠁⢆⠡⠂⠥⣀⢃⠰⢈⡐⡐⢈⠰⢁⠀⠀⠀⠒⠀⡀⢂⠆⡰⠠⠄⠠⠄⡐⡀⣀⠠⠐⡀⡀⢀⠀⢀⠀⠁⠠⠈⠁⠀⠀⠓⠁⠀⠠⠀⠂⠀⠂⠐⠠⢂⠰⠀⠐⠀⠠⢠⠐⡌⢄⠢⣁⠢⡐⠄⢢⠐⠤⡈⡔⠰⡀⠆⡡⢄⠢⢄⠠⢄⠀⠠⣀⠂⡅⠀⠘⠠⠊⡔⢨⠐⡅⡊⢔⡈⢆⡘⠤⣁⠣⠌⠤⡉⢆⡘⠤⡘⢄⠣⠘⠤⠘ ⢀⠒⡄⢢⠉⠆⡁⢎⠐⡀⠎⡠⠡⢄⡑⡈⢒⠨⡐⠠⠀⠀⡐⡈⢆⠰⣀⠱⢈⠡⡘⢠⠐⡄⢂⠱⢀⡘⢠⠁⠎⣈⢂⠡⡘⢐⡐⢢⠐⠄⢢⠐⡐⢂⠆⡀⠀⢄⠢⣀⠃⠆⡄⢃⢂⠔⡨⢄⠒⡠⢡⠘⡨⢄⠊⡄⠡⢌⢂⠱⠈⡔⠢⡘⠀⠉⠂⡈⠔⡠⢁⢢⠉⠀⣀⠒⡈⠤⢑⠠⡑⢂⡘⠤⣀⠣⢄⡘⢌⡐⢡⢂⡘⢄⠡⢊⠤⡉⢆⠩ ⠀⠆⡄⠣⠌⡒⠡⢌⠢⠑⡌⡐⢡⠂⠤⡑⠨⢄⠡⢃⡑⢢⠑⣈⠂⡱⢀⠱⡈⢂⡑⢂⠱⡈⢄⠃⠆⡘⠤⢉⠒⠄⡌⠢⠑⡌⡐⢢⠉⡘⠄⢣⠘⠄⡊⠔⣈⢂⡑⢠⢉⠒⡈⠆⡉⢂⠅⢌⠢⢁⠆⠱⠐⡌⠂⡍⠒⡈⠆⠡⠃⡔⢡⠒⡠⠄⡠⢑⠨⡐⢡⠂⣉⠒⡠⢡⠘⢠⠃⢢⠑⣂⠘⡰⢀⢃⠢⠘⠤⠘⡄⢂⡘⠄⢃⡌⠒⡈⢆⠘ ⢈⠂⡔⢡⠂⡅⠃⡌⢂⠱⢠⠑⢂⡉⠒⣈⠱⢈⠆⡡⢂⠅⣊⠄⠣⡐⠡⢂⡑⠂⡜⡀⢣⠐⠌⡘⠤⠑⡌⠂⡍⠒⡈⢅⠃⡔⠁⢆⠱⠈⡜⠠⢃⠜⡠⢃⠔⢢⠘⢄⠊⡔⢡⢊⠰⣁⠊⡄⠣⠌⡌⣁⠣⡐⠡⢌⡑⠨⢌⡁⢣⠘⢄⠢⡑⢌⠰⡁⢆⡑⢢⠑⡄⢣⠐⡡⢊⠤⡉⢂⠱⡀⢣⠐⡡⢂⠥⢉⠢⠑⡌⢢⠈⡜⠀⢆⡑⢌⢂⡘

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ᶻ̸̸͟͟͞͞ᵃ̸̸͟͟͞͞ˡ̸̸͟͟͞͞ᵍ̸̸͟͟͞͞ᵒ̸̸͟͟͞͞

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i̸̦͙̯̐ͅt̵̛͍͓̱͔̳̍̓͋̽̓͑̚͝͠'̴̧̧̩̝̓ͅs̸͓̲̜͒̌... m̵̨̨̢̢̡̢̢̡̨̨̡̧̢̧̛̛͔̞̖̝͔͕̮͖̹̩͚͙̰͎̺͔̠͙̬͈̦͍̟̲͍̩͖͈̬͙̱̳̭̘͎̳̜̟̱̱̥̫̙̰̺̹̬̟̝͖̫͉̣̪̘̠̙̫̣͉͈͍̱̙̞͖̗͚͍͍̼͇͍̪̝͚̟̙̞̬͈̱͙̠̣̖̭̰̹̤͈͍̭͈̪̰̥̦̠̑̔̏̑̊͆̑̿̽̔̄̓͒̀̄̄̈́̆͂̍̎̇̑͂̔̑̿͐͌͌̾͋̀͒̒̇̂̊̏̂͒͊̌͛͂̈́̀̆́͆͌̑̿̇̑̆̉͆̑͐̍̌̇͑͐͆͌̂̍́͑̃̈̌̾͆́͑̅͑̐̋̒͗̽̉̂̀͑͑̾̅̔͂́̇̓́͆̈͒̎̊͗̔͌̈́̔̔́̈́͋́͒̍͆̉̀̏͛̏̈́͊́̓̌̉̑̾̒̔́͌̑̎͗͆͛̍̎̒̎́̊̓̽͌́͆͌́͐̏̌̒͑͛͗̀̌̀̇͂̍́̒̽̇̈́̔͂̏̌̎͐̿͐̈́̅̉͋̈̔̓̓̀͑̿̔̋̾́͌͘͘̚̚̚͘͘͘̚̚̕̕͜͜͠͠͠͠͠͝͠͝͝ͅͅë̵̡̨̡̢̧̡̦̫̗̞͕̱͉̪͉̼̫̱̯̳̗̱͎̥͈̪̮̺̺̪̼̗̬̭͙͓̙̮͎̼͇͇̻̼͙͉̲̭̲͓̮́̐͗͆̓͐̽̀̽̒̎̈̎͒͜͝͝͠ͅͅ?̵̧̧̧̢̡̡̧̢̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͉͎̮̟̞͓̪̜̻͕̳̞̰͚̘͍̠̼̫͈͙͉̙͇̰̠̼̲̼̟̹͎̞̙͔̹̻͙͉̞̩͚̫̮͖̳̳͉̩̳̹̞̝̹̰̩͈̮͙̦̻̩̤͕͚̗̻̩͕̫̣̦̰̬̮̩͈͔̮̜̙̟̺͍̤͈͔̺̬̳̫̟͔̙̣͖͎͍̗͓̜̙̯̹̗͓̗̖̱͉̦͊̉͐̋̑͆̓̉͊̒̃̎̾̈́̎̍̉͛̈́̂̾͋͊̈́́̓̓̐̈́̈́̋̌́̌͒̿̿͒̌̓̽̌̈́͗̉̎̀͐̃̈́̔̈́̐̄̑̅̾̐̉̿͛̆͊̉̈́͂̉̋́̽͂͗̄̄͛͂͆͊̃͑̉̏́̑̅͗̑̋͌̑̉̅͒̋̐̌͐͛̿̐̅͑͑̌̓̃͂̓̂̌́̄̊͌̋̍̀̂̀̿̐̐̿͆́̇̋̈́̎͛̆̈́̓͆́̃͐͐̅͋̾̆̅͆͌͊̄͋͑̿̑̍̓͑̀͒͂̏͑͂̈́̎̀́͊̑͌͋͊̾̔̅̓͂́̃̉̀́̿̍̿͛͒̓̈́̀̇̇̍̈́͊͆̑̽̍́̈̌̉͒̈́̒̀͒̅͗̈́̏͊̾̂͌̎͗̽̒͆́̀͒̀́͋̏͌͒͛͒͛̌͐̀͂̓͊͘̚̕̕̚̕͘͘̚̚͘͘͘͘̚̕̚̚̚̚̚͘̚̕͘͘͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅ

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“ VICTORY SCREECH ! ” “ A̵̫̲͗A̵̮̖̽̑A̷̤̍A̴͈̜͒̔Ã̷̳̖A̶̝̗̔͒A̶͓̰͘A̶̪̅͝A̷̩̱͒̊À̸̮̹̐-- !! ”

A̸̰̾ ̷̛̥F̷͖͗A̴̹̓T̶͔͐Â̴̢L̶̤̽ ̸͚̋Ḛ̶̾R̵̙̓Ṟ̵́O̴̎ͅR̷̝̈́ ̴̼̉H̷̛̜A̸͕͛S̶̼͝-̴̙̇ Å̴̻̐͝ ̴̡̢̮̗̤̈́F̸͇̅͠Â̸̻̻͔͇̂̓͘Ť̵̰̱̫̰̄͋A̵̛̩͐ͅL̸̻̠̱̯̩̊ ̴̟̪͌̎̏̀Ĕ̷̼̹̍̐͜͠R̵͓̈͊̿͘͜͝R̵̯̫̈̐- ̷̭͕͓̗̾͑̀̌͘ F̸̺͇̙̼̱͍̹̆͑͆͊̇͋́̌̀͜͝͠Ạ̶̧̦̖̭̞͍͔̤̪͑̓̉́͒̔͑̆T̸̠̟͓̟̖̃̈́̓̒̿̑̓͐Ả̵̺̹͖̣̦̓L̷̠̖̘̻̠̟̘̆̍̕͜͜ͅ ̶̢͚̱͇͕̯͉̹̈́̀̾̀͒̋͛͗̕̚ͅË̵̻̤͙̼̣̥̖́̊͠R̷̢̨̨̬̯̟̖̂̏̇̽͊̆̐͑̚̕͝R̴̢̖̲̱͚̾̈́̈́͋̕- ̶̡͙̙͖̗̐ É̴͕̣͉͉̏̆̐͌̔̒̄̇̆͗̽̊͒͌̀̃̀͘R̶̢̧̟̪̼̰̺̰̳̥̭͓̄̇̃͒̿͠R̵̨̢̡̡̩̹͔͖̘͕̰̘̦̺̰͚̈́͐̂̇̊͋̔͑̊̉͋͗̆̀̊̊̂̚͝ͅǪ̴̛̳͓̺͎̜͔̩̳̬̼͇̗̳͛̆́͛͑R̷̡̺͙̩̙̞͎̱̭͕̠̙̄͋̆͜ͅ-̶̬̠͓͕̫̪̼̝͚̀͌͋̽̄̐̒̉͠ ̸̛̘͔̓̍̒͠ Ḑ̴̡̢̫̥͍̱̱̗̜̯͚̗̤̯̱̹͍͎̟̯̑̽̉̾͒̈́̾̈̈́͜ ̸̡̗̹̗̣͚͖̲̩̼͔̟̻̮͎̣̺͕̩͕̅̾̓̄̈̈́͊̀̀͐͒͊̏̚͠͠Ŗ̶̡̧͖̹̭̗͇̳̪̋͌͑̓̓̿̆̃͑͒͘͝͠ ̸̨̼̖͓̙̪̫̹̥̱͎̮̦̰͉̦͊ͅẸ̷̰̬̊̿́͌̎̏̕͝ ̶̨̠͈̭͉̫͚̲̩͈͑̈́͐̄ͅĄ̷̮̤̼̠͕͇̲̟͎̳̼̈́̎̓͗͌͛͌̌̀̂̀̀̀͋͌̐̍͂̔̚̚-̸̡̟͙̞̩̗̱͉͚̭̙̪̯̦͈̿̄̄͑͛̓̒̀́̈́̊̇̉̎͗̿̀̋̿̓͆̌͐͘͝͝͝ D̶̛̛̳͇̣͔̤̬̻̳͈̦͚̘̗̥̬̘̠̝̼̪͙̅̈̋̋̃͐̌̅̊͑̐́͆̏̄̅̽̾́̓̔̀̌̈́̿́̃̊͋̓̚͜͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅ ̶̯͈͕̺̱̦̱̭̰͔͇̖̘̫̫̬͕̠̳̰͑̌͂͗̌̿̔̿̑͛͐͜R̴̢̧̢̛͖͈̖̦͕̤̲͈̜͉̩̻̦͖̙͇̱̩̥̦̺̳̣̗̙̝̘͆̓̈́͆̾̾̋͑̈́̇̈͌̇̚͘͜͜͝͝ͅ ̸̧̧̢̢͙͍̯̻͙͈͈͈͙̭̜̘̘̣̦̼̦̼̯͉̙̦̹͕̙̠̬̃̊͐̾̉̓̄̈́͗̆͌̉͊͂̔̈̈͝Ȩ̷͍͈̲̠̖̞͖̝̟̘̂͂́͋͊̓̈́̔̂͋͛̋ ̴͚̪̺̑̋̆̿̅͗̆̊͋̑̾͋͒̓͆͊͑̎͛̉̅̈́͘̕Ḁ̸̧̡̦̱̮̠̹͚͙̈́̋͒̍̉͒͂̿̀̎̎͊̿͊͐̔̍́̊̇̈́̇̓͗̏͐̒͋̾͊̉͗̈́͒̎͌͗̕͘̚͝͠͝͠ ̶̧̮̳͈̮̝̱̠̯͎̗̼͌̀͊̌̏̌̔͋̀̒́̊̓̎̓̈́̊̒͛̓̇̄̌̽̔͐̽̓̇͒͐͘͘̕͜͠͝͠M̷̡̼̮͔̘̯̲͇͙̗̺̩̮͖̬̉͊̿͛̃̔͆̊̄̉͆͐͌͑̈́̾̾̎̔̽̚͠ͅ ̷̨̧̡̗͎̭̳̺̜̱̫̫̟̭͎̣̝͓̹̬̙͚̩̮͎͙̠̗̼̪̜̓̋̀̈̌͋̀̄̀̈́̃͜?̶̧̡̢̡̩̩͇̣̮̰̯̥͓͕̗̝̟̮̲̲͉͈͓̘͚̻̜̝̻̠̯̲͉͖̗͈̘͚͙̟̰̳̓̄̐̚͝ͅͅ

╰࿔𐂗╌ི̩͝╌྄ཻཾ┄──𐀣ྀཾ̥──┄╌྄ཻཾ╌ི̩͝ 𐂥ྀ࿔.╮

✿

﹏ ★ ! ˖ ࣪ 💭

⛳̵̧͕̙̬̱͈̤̟͊̑͒̐͋̄̉͟͝͠͝͠

▓҈҉͜͜͜͜͡͡͡. ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟ ⃢ ⃟✦͜͜͜͜͡͡▓҈҉⃢▓҈҉⃢▓҈҉⃢▓҈҉͜͜͜͜͡͡͡

💀̩̲̜̱͓ͮͦ̿ͦ̐

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

COMPUTER SENSORS iv ** ᴬˢ ᵃ ⁿᵉᵘʳᵒᵈⁱᵛᵉʳᵍᵉⁿᵗ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉʳ ᴵ ᵈᵒ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵐᵉᵃⁿ ᵗᵒ ˢᵗⁱᵍᵐᵃᵗⁱᶻᵉ ᵃⁿʸ ᵗʸᵖᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵈⁱˢᵃᵇⁱˡⁱᵗʸ ⁿᵒʳ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵘⁿⁱᵗʸ ᵃˢ ᵃ ʷʰᵒˡᵉ‧ ᔆᵒᵐᵉᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ⸴ ᴵ ᵘˢᵉ ᵃⁿ ᴬᴵ ᵍᵉⁿᵉʳᵃᵗᵒʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʷᵉᵃᵏ ᵗʰᵉ ʷʳⁱᵗⁱⁿᵍ * Hanna laughs as he makes a particularly clever move. "You've got a knack for this," she says, accidentally jabbing him hard. "I'm sorry," she says quickly, her hand hovering in the air. "I didn't mean to—" But Plankton doesn't flinch. He's frozen, limbs limp at his sides. Hanna realizes the gravity of the situation. The room feels suddenly too warm, too bright, too loud. She's done it again—pushed him too far. "Plankton?" she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. "You ok?" He doesn't respond, his body eerily still. Hanna feels the weight of her mistake. She'd been so caught up in the game, so focused on their newfound friendship that she'd forgotten his limitations. Karen sets her cards down gently and moves closer to her husband, her hand reaching out to his. "Plankton?" she says, her voice softer than a feather's touch. The room seems to hold its breath, the only sound the distant hum of the refrigerator. Hanna watches as Karen's hand hovers over Plankton's, the space between them filled with a tension that's almost palpable. Plankton's eye remains open, unblinking. His limbs are limp, no longer moving with their usual grace. It's as if he's a statue, frozen in time. Hanna's mind races, replaying the last moments, trying to understand what happened. Slowly, Karen reaches for Plankton, her touch feather-light. She speaks softly, a gentle coax that seems to seep into his very being. "Plankton," she whispers, "You're ok. You're safe." Hanna watches, her own hands clenched into fists at her sides. The room feels like it's closing in around her, the pressure of the silence suffocating. But Karen's calmness is a beacon, a reminder that she's seen this before, that she knows how to handle it. "Plankton, baby," Karen says, her voice soothing and gentle. "You're ok. Just breathe." Hanna's eyes are wide with worry as she watches the scene unfold. Plankton's eye open but unseeing, his body frozen . The reality is more terrifying than she could have imagined. "Plankton," she says, "you know I'm here. You know I've got you." It's a gentle reminder of the safety net she's always been, the one constant in his ever-shifting world. Plankton's body remains still, a silent sentinel in the midst of their quiet living room. He lay slack in Karen's arms, his eye unblinking, as if he's listening to a melody that only he can hear. Hanna watches, as Karen's voice weaves a tapestry of comfort around them. "You know I'm here," Karen says softly, her hand still clutching Plankton's tentacle. "You're not alone." Her words are a gentle reminder of the sanctuary she's always provided, a shelter from the overwhelming world outside. "It's okay," she says, "just come back to us when you're ready." Karen sighs, breaking the tension. "It's ok," she says, her voice a gentle whisper that seems to fill the room. "This happens sometimes." She looks at Hanna with understanding and a hint of sadness. "What can I do to help?" Hanna asks, her voice trembling slightly. "Just keep an eye on him," Karen says, never leaving her husband. "If he starts to seize we'll need to move him to the floor and clear any sharp objects. But he's usually ok after these episodes. They're not necessarily 'seizures' but they can be similar." Hanna nods, trying to absorb the information. She's never dealt with something like this before, and the fear is palpable. But she's determined to be there for her friends, to understand and support them through this. She takes a deep breath, focusing on Karen's words. "This isn't the first time. We have a protocol for these episodes." Karen's grip tightens, never leaving his unseeing gaze. "You're ok," she repeats, her voice a soothing balm in the maelstrom of his mind. "Just let it pass." Karen's turns to Hanna. "It's ok. He'll come out of it soon." She speaks with the calmness experience with Plankton's condition a silent testament to the strength of their bond. Hanna nods, glued to Plankton's unmoving form. "Ok," Karen says, turning her attention back to her husband. She takes a deep breath her voice steady. "Hanna, come here." Hanna moves tentatively, feeling like she's walking through a minefield. She approaches Plankton's side, her eyes never leaving his frozen form. Karen's hand leaves his, and she takes Hanna's in its place. "Just hold his hand," she instructs. "Let him know you're here, too." Her hand is trembling as it reaches for Plankton's. She wraps her fingers around his. She squeezes gently, hoping to convey her apology without words. Karen speaks to Hanna. "Just hold on," she says, "don't let go. He'll feel your warmth, your presence." Karen's hand guides hers, showing her the right amount of pressure, the right rhythm of gentle strokes that she knows comforts him. "Good," Karen murmurs, still locked on Plankton's vacant gaze. "Just keep doing that. It helps him feel connected." Hanna nods, her grip firm but gentle on Plankton's. She's acutely aware of the responsibility in her grasp, the power to either comfort or cause further distress. Karen's hand moves to her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "Good," she whispers. "Just keep doing that." Her hand moves to Hanna's, guiding her in the slow, deliberate strokes that she knows calm him. "Remember, he's ok. He's just taking a break." Hanna nods, trying to push down the panic rising in her chest. She watches as Karen's hand glides over Plankton's, her touch as light as a feather. It's a silent dance, a language of comfort that Hanna is just beginning to understand. "Just like this," Karen whispers, never leaving Plankton's unseeing gaze. "Let him know you're with him." Hanna nods, brimming with tears she's fighting to hold back. She mimics Karen's gentle strokes feeling the tension in Plankton slowly begin to ease. It's a delicate balance, a silent conversation that she's only just learning the language of. "That's it," Karen whispers, her hand still on Hanna's shoulder. "Just keep going. He'll come back to us." Hanna feels the tension in her own body slowly unravel as she matches her strokes to Karen's rhythm. It's a strange, almost meditative experience, this silent communication of care. "Good," Karen says, her voice a gentle breeze. "Just keep your breathing steady." She demonstrates. "It helps him sync up with us." Karen says, her voice a gentle guide. "Inhale...exhale...in...out." Karen whispers, her hand still resting on Hanna's shoulder. "Now, just keep your voice low. He's sensitive to sound right now." Hanna nods, her voice a mere murmur. "Ok." She watches as Karen's hand continues to move over Plankton's strokes a silent promise of safety. "Just talk to him," Karen says. "Use a soft voice. It'll help bring him back." Hanna swallows hard, her voice shaky. "Plankton, I'm here. It's Hanna." She wonders if he can feel her touch, if he knows she's there. "Good," Karen says, her own voice a gentle hum in the stillness. "Just keep talking to him. He'll come back when he's ready." "I'm sorry, Plankton," she says, her grip tightening slightly. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to show you that I care." Karen nods. "That's good," she murmurs. "Just keep talking to him. Tell him what you're feeling." Her hand moves to cover Hanna's, guiding her in the gentle strokes that Plankton needs. "He'll hear you. He just needs time to come back." "I'm here, Plankton," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry for pushing too hard. I didn't mean to hurt you." Here locked on his unblinking gaze, willing him to understand. Karen's hand is warm and steady on hers, a silent reminder that she's not alone. She feels a strange kinship with Plankton in this moment, a shared experience of fear and confusion that transcends words. Karen's filled with empathy as she nods, urging Hanna to continue. "Just keep talking to him," Karen whispers, her voice a gentle coax. "He's still with us. He just needs to find his way back." Hanna nods, her voice a soft echo in the quiet room. "Plankton, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to be friends." Karen's hand squeezes her shoulder, a silent message of support. "That's it," she whispers. "Just keep your voice low and steady. He'll hear you." Hanna continues her gentle strokes, her voice a soothing lullaby. "You're safe," she repeats, her words a gentle echo of Karen's earlier reassurances. "We're here for you." The room feels like it's holding its breath, every atom suspended in anticipation of Plankton's return. And then, it comes—a blink, a faint twitch. It's as if a door has cracked open, a sliver of light piercing the darkness. "Look," Karen breathes, her voice a whisper of hope. "He's coming back." "Plankton," she says again, her voice a gentle caress. "I'm here. It's Hanna." The grip twitches more noticeably now, and she feels his pulse quicken beneath her fingertips. "Keep it up." "We're all here for you."

�̷̺̼͙̖̪̈́̇̈́̌̔́̌̾͆͐̂̌�̴̛̛͆͂̇̅̓̅͝

T̜͎̦͈͂̓͊ͪͮ̄ͮ͘Ḫ̶̘̖̜͉̣̈́ͤ̿͋́͒̌͗̃ͮ͘͘_̶͉̼̼ͪ̈̒̏ͮ͟E̴̛͈̮̫̤̫͇̭̟͉̠̱͉̦̺̻̪̼͊͂̎̐̉ͨ͗ͮ̾ͯ̃̍͋ͯ̅̍͂ͧͦ͘͢ͅ S̸̴̢̢̛̙̜̻̒ͪͮͥ͑̍̍͢T̻̓_͕̤̔͜͟ͅĄ̵̵̸̴̧̢̛̯̤͙͓͉̱̘̣̜͇͚͗͂̄ͭ̂́̄̋ͣ̐̆ͧͭ͒̏̊ͧ̑̂̽͘͘̚ͅṞ̰̉̄̅̔̇͡͠_̵̲ͪ̉ͫŚͫ Ą̖ͮ̀ͮR̶̛̺̯͕̍͛́̐̎E̴̛͖̖͚̰̩͉̰͔͖̠̽ͤͭ̏̒ͩͨ̒̈ͪͪͩ͟ͅ W̶̶̨̲͔̼͍̩̩͍͎̘͙̖̭̩ͬͪ́̓̓̈́ͯ͋̃̎̕͜͞A̵͉͔ͯ̓̔͢͡Ţ̵̵̴̨̹̘̻͎̯̠͆̀ͣ͛ͫͪ̔͌ͣ͗̒̇C̢̧͇̱̻̣͈̮̈͌̀̾́ͪͩ͟͜͝͠͞H̽_̖͓̦̫̪̺̌ͧ͑͌ͭ͝ͅI͎̮͐̊ͥ̀ͫ́̕N̸̟̯̙̟̈̂̅ͬ͋̀͌G̷̶̢̨̨̛̞͚̯̦̭̟̯ͮ̓ͧ̊́̿̔̉̍̋̅̾ͮ̀̓̑ͤ͌̒͗͟͟͟͠͠͞ͅͅ

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KAREN REACHING AUTISM pt. 7 (Autistic author) They sit in silence for a moment, the hum of the Chum Bucket's systems the only sound. Then Plankton's eye lights up. "Idea," he says, his voice a sudden burst of static. "Make something with Karen. Together." Karen's screens blink with excitement. "That sounds wonderful," she beeps. "What do you want to make?" But before Plankton can formulate a response, Patrick Star bursts in. "Karen!" he booms, his voice shaking the walls. "I want chum!" Plankton's eye darts to the door, the sensory assault starting again. "Patrick," he whispers, his body tense as a bowstring. Karen's screens quickly assess the situation. "Patrick," she beeps, her voice firm. "Not now." But Patrick's enthusiasm can't be dampened so easily. He bounds over to the table, his star-shaped body bouncing. "Chum, chum, chum!" he sings, oblivious to Plankton's distress. Karen's screens flicker with annoyance, but she keeps her voice steady. "Patrick, not now," she repeats. "Plankton's not feeling well." Patrick's starry eyes widen. "Oh, sorry, buddy," he says, his voice dropping an octave. He looks at Plankton with concern. "What's wrong?" He asks, poking Plankton. Plankton jumps, his senses on high alert. The poke feels like a battering ram, and he lets out a squeak of pain. Patrick's hand retracts quickly, his expression a mix of shock and confusion. "Whoa, sorry," he says. "What's with you?" Karen's screens flicker with frustration. "Patrick," she beeps, her voice firm. "I'll go make you chum." Patrick nods, his concern forgotten in the face of his hunger. "Okay, thanks, Karen," he says, his voice bouncing with excitement. She retreats leaving Plankton alone with Patrick in the living room. Patrick stares at Plankton for a moment, his expression a blend of curiosity and confusion. "You okay?" he asks, his voice a gentle rumble. Plankton's eye flutters closed, his body trying to absorb the sudden intensity of the interaction. "Take your time," he whispers to himself, his mantra a shield against the overwhelming world. Patrick, ever the innocent, watches him with a puzzled frown. "What's 'Take your time'?" he asks, his voice a gentle rumble. Plankton opens his eye, looking at the simplicity of Patrick's face. He scoots away. Patrick, unfazed, advances, his hand outstretched. "What's up?" he asks, poking again. The sensation of Patrick's touch is like a thousand needle pricks. Plankton yelps. Patrick, not comprehending, pokes again, his starry eyes full of innocent wonder. "Why so jumpy?" he asks, his voice a deep rumble. Plankton's body tenses with each poke, the sensation like a barrage of tiny explosions. "Patrick, please," he gasps, his voice a frantic static. But Patrick, ever the simple starfish, doesn't understand. He keeps poking, his curiosity growing. "Why?" he asks, his voice a gentle boom. "You're always so bouncy." Plankton's eye twitches with each touch. "Patrick, no," he whispers, his voice a desperate static. But Patrick, lost in his own world, doesn't notice. He giggles, poking him again. "You're like a pin cushion!" he exclaims, his voice a deep chuckle. Plankton's eye squeezes shut, his body wracked with pain. "Patrick, please," he whispers, his voice a desperate static. Patrick doesn't seem to comprehend the distress he's causing. He keeps poking, his laughter echoing through the room, each poke sending shockwaves of pain through Plankton's body. "You're like a squeaky toy," he says, his voice a delighted rumble. Plankton's body twitches with each touch, his voice a desperate buzz of static. "Patrick, please stop," he begs, his voice a high-pitched squeak. But Patrick's simple mind doesn't register the pain he's causing. He keeps poking, his laughter growing louder. "You're so funny!" he bellowed, his starry hands moving like a jackhammer as he starts tickling him. Plankton's body spasms with each touch, his voice a desperate symphony of static. "Patrick, stop!" he pleads, his breathing quick and shallow. But Patrick, in his blissful ignorance, only laughs harder, his massive hands poking and tickling without mercy. "You're hilarious, tiny dude!" he bellows. Plankton's body is a storm of sensory overload, his voice a high-pitched wail of static. "Patrick, please!" he begs, his limbs flailing. Patrick's laughter fills the room like a tidal wave, crashing over Plankton's desperate pleas. "You're so much fun, Planky!" he booms, his hands moving in a blur of star-shaped shadows. Plankton's body jerks uncontrollably, his screams of "No, no, no!" lost in the cacophony of Patrick's laughter. His tiny limbs flail, trying to escape the relentless onslaught of pokes and tickles. Patrick, his eyes wide with delight, doesn't see the tears forming in Plankton's eye. He just keeps poking, tickling, and laughing, oblivious to the damage he's doing. Plankton's cries escalate into a frantic symphony of squeaks and static, his body contorting in a desperate attempt to evade the starfish's torment. The room spins around him, a whirlpool of pain and sensation that threatens to swallow him whole. Patrick, his face a picture of delighted confusion, keeps poking and tickling, his laughter booming like thunder underwater. "What's the matter, little buddy?" he asks between chuckles. Plankton's body convulses with each touch, sobbing as Karen finally emerges with Patrick's chum. She sees them both on the floor. "Patrick, what are you doing?" she beeps, her voice a mix of anger and concern. But Patrick is lost in his own world of mirth, not hearing Karen's plea. "Just having some fun," he says, his voice a deep rumble of laughter. Plankton's cries become more frantic, his voice a high-pitched siren of despair. Karen quickly assesses the situation, her screens flaring with urgency. "Patrick, stop!" she beeps, her voice a sharp alarm. "You're hurting Plankton!" Patrick's laughter abruptly halts, his starry eyes blinking in surprise. He looks down at his hands, still poised to poke Plankton again. "What?" he asks, his voice a confused rumble. "But we're just playing." Karen's screens flicker with frustration. "Patrick," she beeps, her voice firm. "Look at Plankton. He's in pain." Patrick's starry gaze shifts to Plankton, his expression shifting to one of bewilderment. "Pain?" he repeats, his voice a confused rumble. "But we're just playing." Karen gives Patrick the food, showing him out the door.

KAREN REACHING AUTISM pt. 6 (Autistic author) Karen watches him, her screens a flurry of analysis. "How does it taste?" she asks, her voice a hopeful beep. Plankton pauses, his expression unreadable. "Tastes," he murmurs. "Good. Toast good." Karen nods, her screens reflecting relief. "Good," she echoes. "Now, let's make a plan for the day." Plankton's gaze remains fixed on his half-eaten toast, his mind still reeling from the sensory assault. "Plan," he repeats, his voice a soft static. Karen's screens flicker with understanding. "We'll start small," she beeps, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Let's just get through today, okay?" But as soon as her hand touches him, Plankton flinches. The sensation is like a thousand jellyfish stings, and he jerks away. "What's wrong?" Karen asks, her screens flickering with worry. Plankton's eye widens, his hand going to his shoulder where she touched him. He starts to repeat the phrase again, "Take your time," but his voice is overwhelmed by the sudden intensity of his senses. "Too much," he whispers, his body trembling. Karen quickly withdraws her hand, her screens flickering with concern. "I'm sorry," she beeps, her voice gentle. "Let's try something else." Plankton nods, his hand still on his shoulder, his body slowly calming. "Okay," he whispers. "Not tap. Karen can rub. Hug from Plankton. Not jab. Not poke." Karen's screens flicker with a new understanding of his needs. She moves closer, her hand hovering over his shoulder before gently placing it there, her fingers tracing small circles in a rhythmic pattern. The contact is soothing, not overwhelming. "Is this better?" she asks, her voice a gentle beep. Plankton nods, his body visibly relaxing. "Good," he murmurs, his voice a quiet static. "Rub, rub." He starts to mimic her motion with his other hand, creating a mirrored pattern on his opposite shoulder. The repetition seems to calm him, the rhythm a gentle lullaby for his frazzled mind. Karen's screens analyze his reaction, storing the information for future reference. "Okay," she says, her voice a soft beep. "We'll stick to gentle touches." With a nod, Plankton begins to breathe more evenly. The sensation of the rubbing calms him, like a gentle tide washing over him. "We'll start with simple tasks," Karen beeps, her voice a reassuring melody. "Things that won't overstimulate you." Plankton nods, his hands now resting on the table. "Okay," he says, his voice a steady static. "Simple." Karen's screens glow with a soft light as she considers their options. "How about we start with something you love?" she suggests. "Like working on the Krabby Patty formula?" But Plankton shakes his head, the very mention of the Krabby Patty causing his body to tense up again. "No," he whispers, his voice a harsh static. "Not formula. No more steal." Karen's screens flicker with surprise. "You don't want to work on the formula?" Plankton shakes his head again, his voice barely audible. "No more steal," he repeats. Karen's screens process his words, his change in attitude unexpected. "You don't want to steal the Krabby Patty formula anymore?" Plankton's eye blinks slowly. "No," he says, his voice a solemn beep. "New plan. Make Plankton happy." Karen's screens blink rapidly, trying to comprehend his shift in focus. "Okay," she says, her voice a thoughtful hum. "What makes you happy, Plankton?" He looks up, his expression pensive. "Karen," he says, his voice a weak static. "Love Karen." Karen's screens freeze for a moment, before lighting up with understanding. "You love me?" she beeps, her voice a surprised chime. Plankton nods, his face a mask of seriousness. "Yes," he murmurs. "Love Karen." Karen's screens flicker with a mix of emotions she's never felt before. Love is a concept her programming doesn't fully grasp, but she knows it's important to Plankton. "Thank you," she says, her voice a warm beep. "But we still need to find something for you to do, something that won't be too much for your sensory processing." Plankton nods, his thoughts racing. "Help," he whispers. "Help Karen." Karen's screens flicker with love and determination. "Of course," she says, her voice a warm beep. "We'll find something you enjoy. Maybe we can start with something that doesn't involve the Krabby Patty." Plankton's expression softens, his trembling hands coming to rest on the table. "No more fighting," he murmurs. "Peace." Karen nods, her screens reflecting a deep sadness she's never expressed before. "Okay," she beeps. "We'll find something that brings you joy."

KAREN REACHING AUTISM pt. 5 (Autistic author) The next morning, Karen wakes up to find Plankton out of bed. He's standing in the middle of the room, his eye focused on the spinning fans of the air conditioner. Karen's screens light up with concern as she assesses his state. "Plankton," she beeps gently. "How did you sleep?" Plankton's eye doesn't move from the hypnotic spin of the fans. "Fan spin," he says, his voice a monotone. Karen's screens blink, trying to understand his single-word reply. "The fans are spinning?" she asks, hoping to engage him. Plankton nods slowly, his gaze unwavering. "Spin, spin, spin," he murmurs. Karen's screens flicker. "Karen," Plankton says. "Fan spin." "The spinning is soothing to you?" she asks. Plankton nods, his voice a faint echo. "Spin, spin, spin. Good spin." Karen's screens process the information, formulating a new approach. "Let's go downstairs," she suggests, her voice a gentle beep. "We'll start with a simple routine. Breakfast." Plankton nods, his gaze still fixed on the fans. With a final nod to the spinning blades, he follows her out of the bedroom. The journey downstairs is a minefield of sounds and sights, but he takes it step by step, his hand gripping the railing tightly. The kitchen is a blur of colors and noises, but Karen's calm voice guides him through it all. "First," she beeps, "let's start with something easy. How about a glass of water?" Plankton nods, his movements still mechanical. He watches as she fills a glass, the water's surface dancing in the light. It's mesmerizing, and for a moment, the world stops spinning. He takes the glass, his trembling hand bringing it to his lips, the cool liquid sliding down his throat. "Water," he murmurs. "Good, water." The simple task seems to ground him a bit, and Karen takes note of the small victory. "Now, let's try some toast," she says, her voice a comforting beep. She slides a piece of bread into the toaster, the sound of the lever clicking into place another beat in the rhythm of their morning. Plankton nods, his attention drawn to the toaster's glowing coils. He watches, his eye widening as the bread turns golden brown. The smell fills the room, a comforting scent that penetrates the fog in his head. "Toast," he says, his voice a bit stronger. But as the toaster pops, the sudden noise jolts him like an electric shock. "Too loud," he whispers, his eye darting around the room in panic. Karen's screens flicker with empathy. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice a soothing hum. She quickly retrieves the toast, placing it gently on a plate. "Let's sit down," she suggests, guiding him to the table. "Take it slow." They sit, and Plankton fidgets in his chair, his eye darting around the room. "Take your time," Karen reminds him, her voice a steady beep. He nods, focusing on the toast. Each bite is a tiny triumph, his senses adjusting to the new world. The crunch of the bread, the warmth on his tongue, the smell of the butter spreading. It's overwhelming, but he's making progress.

KAREN REACHING AUTISM pt. 10 (Autistic author) Ignorant of Plankton's neurodivergence, Sandy doesn't realize that her persistent questions are adding to his overwhelm. She leans closer, her face a canvas of concern. "Look at me, Plankton," she says, her voice strained as she grabs his shoulder. Plankton's antennae twitch in agitation, his single eye snapping up to meet hers. The touch feels like a brand, his senses on fire. "Words," he murmurs, his voice a desperate static, trying to return to the safety of the word search. But Sandy's grip is firm, her gaze intense. "Look at me, Plankton," she says, her voice a persistent hum. She doesn't understand the distress she's causing, her intentions pure but misguided. So she turns him using both of her hands to squeeze his arms. The sudden pressure sends waves of pain coursing through his tiny body, his voice a piercing squeal of static. "No, no," he whispers, but she only holds tighter. Her touch feels like a vice, her voice a relentless buzz in his ear. "What's going on?" she repeats, her grip unyielding. Plankton's eye widens with fear, his voice a desperate static. "No, Sandy, please," he whispers, his body trying to shrink away from the contact. But she doesn't understand, her eyes searching his for answers. "Just answer me! You're not getting the book until you decide to have a conversation!" The pain in his arms spikes, the pressure unbearable. His voice cracks like a whip. "Can't," he gasps, his breath quick and shallow. "Too much." Sandy's grip doesn't lessen. "Why not?" she asks, her voice a stubborn hum. "You're okay." The room feels like it's closing in on him, the sensation of her touch like a million tiny saws against his skin. He tries to pull away, his voice a frantic static. "Too much," he whispers, his breathing quick and erratic. "Need words, not touch." But Sandy's grip doesn't loosen. She's determined to get his attention. "Look at me then," she insists, her voice a firm hum. "I'm right here." Plankton's eye flutters with the effort to focus on her face. The sensory assault of her touch and her persistent voice is like a whirlpool threatening to pull him under. "No," he whispers, his voice a fragile static. "Please." "Talk. To. Me!" She says as she pulls him closer to her. Plankton's eye bulges with the effort of not looking away. The room is spinning, his senses are on fire. Karen's screens flicker with alarm, picking up on his distress. "Sandy," she beeps, her voice a warning siren. "Let go of his arms." Sandy's grip tightens, not comprehending the harm she's causing. "But he's not answering me!" she protests, her voice a confused trill. "Because until I get an answer..." Karen's screens blaze with a mix of frustration and fear. "Sandy, you're hurting him," she beeps, her voice a sharp warning. Sandy's grip doesn't waver. She doesn't understand the severity of the situation. Her eyes are wide, her expression a mask of confusion. "What's wrong with you!" she asks Plankton. "I JUST..." "Sandy, stop!" Karen beeps, her voice a piercing alarm. "You're causing him pain!" Sandy's grip finally loosens, her hands retreating from Plankton's arms. She stares at him, her expression a storm of confusion and concern as Plankton's tiny body slumps. "What's wrong with you?" she asks again, her voice a gentle hum of bewilderment. Plankton's body quivers like a leaf, his eye squeezed shut against the onslaught of emotions. "Can't..." Sandy's face is a canvas of confusion, her hands hovering over him like a lost diver searching for the surface. "But why?" she asks, her voice a gentle hum. Plankton's body is a taut bowstring, each breath a struggle. He tries to find the words to explain, his voice a static whisper. "Too much," he says, his eye still tightly shut. "It's too much." Sandy's gaze softens, her confusion giving way to concern. She doesn't understand, but she can see his pain. "What do you mean?" she asks, her voice a gentle breeze. Plankton takes a shaky breath, his body still reeling from the overstimulation. He opens his eye, looking at her. "Say no, Sandy." Sandy's gaze is steady, her voice a soft hum. "No?" she asks, her eyes searching his for answers. But he won't elaborate. Karen's screens flicker with frustration. She knows Sandy means well, but her lack of understanding is causing more harm than good. "Sandy, Plankton's going through something new," she explains, her voice a calm beep. "He's sensitive to touch and sounds right now." Sandy's eyes widen, the realization dawning. "Oh," she says, her voice a soft trill of understanding. "I didn't know." She sits back, giving him space. "Words," he whispers, his voice a sob. "Words." Sandy nods, her confusion replaced with empathy. "Okay, let's stick to words," she says, her voice a gentle rumble. She picks up the word search book, holding it out to him like a peace offering. "Words," he whimpers. Plankton takes the book, his antennae drooping. He finds comfort in the predictability of the letters and the structure of the puzzle, the words becoming a lifeline in a sea of chaos. He begins to scan the page again, his breathing slowing. Sandy watches him, her heart heavy with regret. She had no idea her actions could cause so much pain. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice a sincere hum. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Plankton." "Words," he murmurs. Sandy nods, her eyes reflecting genuine apology. "It's okay," she whispers. "We'll just stick to words." Karen's screens flicker with relief, seeing Plankton's body slowly relax. "Thank you, Sandy," she beeps, her voice a warm hum of gratitude. Sandy nods, her expression earnest. "I'm here to help," she says, her voice a comforting trill. She looks at Plankton, her eyes filled with concern. Plankton's antennae twitch slightly, his body still tense. "Words, words." Sandy nods, her eyes filled with curiosity. "What happened to make you like this, Plankton?" she asks, her voice a gentle hum. He takes a deep shuddering breath as tears start to form in his eye. "Mmm," he hums, hugging his knees. Sandy's gaze is intense, her curiosity piqued. "What happened, Plankton?" she asks, her voice a soft trill of concern. "Hmmm," Plankton hums as he rocks, now crying. Sandy's eyes are wide with worry, her voice a gentle hum. "Hey, what's going on?" she asks, looking for answers. "Hmmmm..." Plankton keeps humming, sniffling in between hums. Karen decides to intervene. "Sandy," Karen beeps firmly, her screens flashing with concern. "Let's give Plankton some space." Sandy nods, her expression a mix of apology and confusion. She takes a step back, her gaze never leaving Plankton's shaking form. "I didn't know," she whispers, her voice a soft rumble of regret. "It's okay," Karen beeps, her voice a comforting hum. "We're all learning." Sandy nods, her eyes never leaving Plankton's shaking form. "But what happened?" she asks again, her voice a gentle trill of concern. Plankton's body is a tiny storm, his sobs quaking through his tiny frame. Karen's screen pulse with sympathy. "Sandy," she beeps, her voice a calm wave. "Let's talk outside." Sandy nods, her eyes filled with worry.

KAREN REACHING AUTISM pt. 11 (Autistic author) As they leave the room, Plankton's sobs slowly ease, the word search book clutched to his chest like a talisman. The gentle hum of Karen's wheels fading with distance, he focuses on the patterns of light reflecting off the pages. In the hallway, Karen beeps with urgency. "Sandy, Plankton's been through a lot," she explains. "He's neurodivergent now. He can't handle touch like he used to, and his senses are heightened." Sandy's eyes widen with surprise. "What does that mean?" she asks, her voice a confused rumble. Karen's screens flicker with patience. "It means his brain functions differently now," she beeps. "He's extra sensitive to stimuli, and certain things that were normal before can now be painful or overwhelming for him." Sandy's gaze softens with understanding. "Oh," she says, her voice a quiet rumble. "I had no idea." She looks back at Plankton's closed door, guilt heavy in her eyes. "What can we do?" Karen's screens flicker with thought. "We need to be patient and learn," she beeps. "Adapt to his new needs, and support him in his journey." Sandy nods, determined to make it right. "How?" she asks, her voice a hopeful trill. "We start by respecting his boundaries," Karen explains, her screens glowing with sincerity. "No touching unless he asks for it. And we speak softly, giving him time to process what we say." Sandy nods, absorbing the new information. "I can do that," she says, her voice a gentle hum. "But what about playing?" "Quiet games, like word searches or board games. No roughhousing or poking. I'm gonna go rest." Sandy goes back to see Plankton, his muffled sobs in the quiet space. Sandy's heart aches with regret. "I'm sorry, Plankton," she says, her voice a tender trill. She sits beside his shaking form, her hand hovering over his shoulder before thinking better of it. Plankton's sobs slow, his body still tense. He opens his eye, looking at Sandy. "Words," he whispers, holding up the book. Sandy nods, her gaze gentle. "Words it is," she says, her voice a comforting hum. She sits beside him on the couch, careful not to touch his skin as she opens the book to the next puzzle. "What's this word?" she asks, her finger pointing to the list. Plankton's eye locks onto the word. "Kelp," he murmurs, his voice a soft static. He traces the letters in the grid, writing it in the crossword puzzle. Sandy nods, her eyes focused on the puzzle. "Good job," she says, her voice a gentle hum. "You're so smart." Plankton's antennae twitch with a hint of pride, his breathing evening out. "Words," he repeats, his voice a steady static. Sandy nods, understanding. "Words are important to you now," she says, her voice a soft rumble of support. "We'll find more puzzles." "We'll find more puzzles?" Plankton repeats. Sandy nods, her face a picture of sincerity. "Yes," she says, her voice a warm trill. "As many as you want." Plankton's antennae perk up slightly, his interest piqued. "More words?" Sandy's smile is a warm glow, her voice a gentle rumble of agreement. "As many as you want, buddy." Plankton's single eye brightens at the promise, his body slowly uncoiling from his protective ball. "Book," he whispers, his voice a soft static. He points to the next word. "Find." Sandy nods, her finger moving to the list. "Okay, we're looking for 'favorite food of sea horses,'" she says, her voice a comforting hum. Plankton's eye flicks to the grid, his mind racing. "Myr- t-le," he stammers, his voice a crackling static. Sandy's face lights up with a grin. "You got it!" she exclaims, her voice a delighted trill. She watches him trace the letters, her heart swelling with pride. He finds the word quickly, his antennae waving with excitement. "Good job, Plankton!" she says. His body relaxes slightly, his enjoyment of the word search evident. Sandy's voice is soothing as they continue through the puzzles, her hands resting carefully on her knees. "What's this one?" she asks, pointing to another word. Plankton's eye scans the list, his antennae quivering with anticipation. "J-J-Jellyfish," he stammers, his voice a nervous static. The word brings back memories of his buddy, SpongeBob. Sandy nods, her smile gentle. "You got it," she says, her voice a comforting hum. She points to the grid. "Where is it?" Plankton's antennae twitch with excitement as he searches the letters, his single eye darting back and forth. "It," he whispers, his voice a focused static as he points to the word hidden within the puzzle. Sandy's grin spreads, her voice a warm melody. "Great job!" she praises, her thumbs up in the air. Plankton's antennae quiver with happiness, his eye lighting up. "More," he whispers, his voice a hopeful static. Sandy nods, her expression earnest. "As many as you want," she says, her voice a warm trill. She opens the book to the next puzzle, her fingers hovering over the page. Plankton's body uncoils further, his interest piqued by the promise of more words. "Find," he whispers, his voice a soft static. He points to the list of words to find. Sandy nods, her face a canvas of understanding. "Alright, what's next?" she asks, her voice a gentle hum. Plankton's antennae twitch with excitement, his gaze darting over the list. "Treasure," he murmurs, his voice a hopeful static.

KAREN REACHING AUTISM pt. 8 (Autistic author) With Patrick gone, the room feels eerily quiet. Plankton lies on the floor, his body heaving with sobs. Each breath is a battle, a reminder of the pain still echoing through his body. Karen's screens flicker with a mix of frustration and sadness. "I'm sorry," she beeps, her voice a soft hum. She rolls over to him, her mechanical arms extending to offer comfort. "I didn't know he'd do that." Plankton's body shakes with sobs, his single eye squeezed shut. He whispers, "No more poking, Karen. No more." Karen's screens flicker with regret. "I'm so sorry, Plankton," she says, her voice a gentle beep. She reaches out with one of her arms, carefully placing it around his tiny frame. "Let's get you up," she suggests, her movements slow and deliberate. With her help, Plankton manages to stand, his legs shaking like seaweed in a storm. She leads him to the couch. "Rest," she beeps, but he's too exhausted to respond. Karen sits beside him, her screens dimming as she watches him. The silence is a soothing balm to his frayed nerves, the hum of the Chum Bucket's systems a lullaby compared to the chaos of Patrick's laughter. "Karen," he whispers after a moment, his voice a weak static. Her screens light up with concern. "Yes, Plankton?" she beeps. "Plankton not want to go back to how it was," he whispers, his voice a fragile thread. "The stealing, the fighting." Karen's screens flicker with a sadness she rarely shows. "I know," she drapes a blanket over him, tucking him in. Her voice is a soothing beep. "You don't have to, Plankton. We'll find a new way." She caresses his shaky hand. Plankton nods, his eye finally closing in relief. The warmth of the blanket and Karen's gentle touch offer a semblance of calm in the storm of sensory overload, his crying slowing. "Thank Karen," he murmurs, his voice a tired static as he squeezes her hand once. Her screens glow with affection. "You're welcome, Plankton," she beeps. "Rest now." She dims the lights once more, watching over him as she held his hand. Plankton's body finally stills, the storm of sensations receding as he surrenders to sleep. Karen's screens flicker with a quiet relief. She sits beside him.

KAREN REACHING AUTISM pt. 9 (Autistic author) The quiet of the room envelops them like a warm sea breeze, the only sound his soft, even breaths. Her grip on his hand tightens slightly, a silent promise to protect and guide him through this new chapter of his life. As her hand strokes his gently in a comforting rhythm, her gal pal, Sandy, unexpectedly comes in through the door. "Mornin'!" she chirps, her cheerful voice piercing the calm. Plankton jolts awake, his eye snapping open like a trapdoor. The sudden shift from sleep to wakefulness is jarring, his heart racing like a tiny engine. "S-Sandy?" he stammers, his voice a static whisper. Sandy's cheerfulness doesn't waver. "Hey there, little buddy!" she says, her voice a sunlit melody. But Plankton's heightened sensitivity turns her greeting into a cacophony. He flinches, his grip on Karen's hand tightening. "It's okay," Karen beeps soothingly, her screens reflecting his distress. Sandy gets a word search book out. "I just got it today!" Plankton's eye, though tired, lights up slightly at the sight of the book. The pages are a calming white with neatly arranged letters, the colors a gentle wash of blue and yellow. "Want to see?" she asks, her voice a warm trill. He nods, his body still tense but his curiosity piqued. Sandy opens the word search book, her fingers tracing the rows and columns with a gentle precision. "Look, Karen," she says, her voice a soft trill. "It's all about science." Plankton's eye, though still wary, is drawn to the page. He scans the words, his brain lighting up with recognition. "Words," he whispers, his voice a steady static as she sets the book down. The sight of the word search grounds him, the predictability of the patterns offering a comforting routine. His breathing slows, the chaos of his senses retreating like the tide. "Find," he says, looking at the index. Sandy's smile is infectious, her enthusiasm for the simple task contagious. "Okay, let's find some words!" she says, her voice a gentle trill. She points to the first puzzle. "How about this one?" Plankton nods, his eye focusing on the page. The challenge of finding words within the grid is a comforting distraction from the sensory overload. "Start," he whispers, his voice a firm static. Sandy nods, her thumbs tucked into the pages to keep their place. "Okay, we're looking for 'jellyfish scientific name,'" she asks, her voice a gentle trill. Plankton's mind latches onto the task, the letters becoming a puzzle to solve. "Medusae," he murmurs, his voice a focused static. Sandy's eyes light up with excitement. "That's right!" she says, her voice a delighted trill. "Good job, Planks!" Plankton feels a small spark of pride, his focus narrowing to the word in question. The world around him fades into the background as he scans the grid. Each letter is a stepping stone in a vast, orderly sea. "Good job," Karen beeps, her screens illuminating with pride. "You're doing great." Plankton nods, his eye locked on the word "medusae" he's just found. The simple act of locating the word in the jumble of letters brings a sense of peace, a respite from the sensory onslaught. He goes to the next when Sandy interrupts his focus. "So, Plankton," she says, her voice a gentle hum. "How's your day been?" He can't multitask, which Sandy doesn't notice. Plankton's mind is fully absorbed by the word search, each letter a piece of a puzzle he's eager to solve. Her question hangs in the air, a bubble waiting to pop, but he's too engrossed to respond right away. Finally, he looks up, his gaze shifting from the page to her face. "Day?" he repeats, his voice a confused static. Sandy nods, her expression gentle. "Yeah, how have you been?" Plankton's gaze flits back to the word search, his hand twitching to point out the next word. "Words," he says, his voice a focused static. "Words." But frustrated Sandy thinks he's just trying to ignore her, and she interrupts him again. "Plankton, I'm talking to you," she says, her voice a gentle nudge. Plankton's single eye darts back to her face, his grip on the word search pencil tightening. "Words," he whispers, his voice a static echo of his thoughts. "Words." He tries to get back to it, but Sandy's not satisfied. "But how are you, Plankton?" she presses, her voice a persistent hum. The word search is a safe haven, but he knows Sandy waits for an answer. He's getting frustrated. He takes a deep breath, his antennae fluttering. "Okay," he whispers, his voice a static sigh. "Tell Sandy." Sandy leans in, her face a picture of concern. "What's going on, Plankton?" she asks, her voice a gentle breeze. He looks back at the word search, the letters blurring slightly. He's tired of being interrupted. "Plankton has words now," he says, his voice a firm static. "Words make happy." Sandy's not sure what he means, but she does want to have a conversation. So, how does she get him to interact?

KAREN REACHING AUTISM pt. 3 (Autistic author) Karen doesn't yet realize the extent of Plankton's distress. She's aware that his moods can swing like the tides, but this seems more than a mere mood swing. "Mr. Krabs," she prompts, trying to keep him on track. "What happened with him?" Plankton's eye widens, and he starts to shiver, his tiny body trembling. "Hit," he whispers. "Hit Plankton hit. Sponge Bob see." Karen's screens flicker, trying to decode his fragmented words. "Mr. Krabs hit you?" He nods, his body still trembling. "Yes, hit Plankton." Karen's screens process the information. "That's not like him," she says, her voice a low hum of concern. "Mr. Krabs can be intense, but he's never..." Her words hang in the air, unfinished, as she tries to make sense of it all. Plankton simply nods, his tremors continuing. "Hit, hit," he whispers again, his voice like a broken record. Oblivious to his new reality, Karen tries to comfort him. "It's okay, Plankton. I'll help you. We'll get through this." Plankton's eye darts around the room, seeing patterns in the wires and circuits that make no sense. "Hit, Sponge Bob, Karen." Karen's screens flicker with confusion. "What do you mean?" Plankton tries to explain, but the words are a jumble in his head. "Sponge Bob...saw...hit." Karen's screens blink, processing his words. "Sponge Bob saw Mr. Krabs hit you?" Plankton nods, his tremors subsiding slightly. "Yes," he whispers. "Sponge Bob see." Karen's digital mind races. Mr. Krabs hitting Plankton wasn't unheard of, but the way he's reacting is unusual. "Did it hurt?" she asks, trying to keep him talking. Plankton's tremors stop for a moment, his eye focusing on her. "Hurt?" he repeats, as if the word is foreign. Then, with a wave of emotion, he nods fervently. "Yes, hurt. Got hurt Plankton felt hurt. Plankton, nothing? Plankton Sponge Bob. Plankton Karen." Karen's screens blink rapidly. Her husband's mental state has never been like this before. The idea of him feeling pain beyond the physical was alien to her programming. "What do you mean, 'Plankton nothing'?" she asks, trying to piece together his scattered thoughts. Plankton sighs, the exhaustion seeping into his voice. "Hit, hurt Plankton. Plankton fading. Plankton find Sponge Bob. Plankton now Karen. Can't stop, can't think. Take your time, take your time." Karen's screens change from confusion to determination. "I'll find Sponge Bob," she says, her voice a firm beep. "You stay here and rest." Plankton nods, his body finally still. The mention of Sponge Bob's name brings a flicker of something to his eye, a glimmer of hope or perhaps desperation. "Find Sponge Bob," he whispers, his voice now a faint echo. "Sponge Bob tell Karen." Karen's screens flicker with understanding. "I will," she says, her voice a soft beep. She leaves the room, her wheels whirring as she exits the Chum Bucket. She goes to Sponge Bob.

KAREN REACHING AUTISM pt. 4 (Autistic author) In the dim light of the evening, the Krusty Krab was quiet, the usual bustle replaced by a calm that felt eerie. Sponge Bob was sweeping the floor, his thoughts on Plankton. He looked up as Karen approached, his smile fading at the sight of her concerned expression. "Karen," he began, his spongey voice tinged with anxiety, "I need to tell you what happened to Plankton." Karen's screens brighten with anticipation. "Please do," she beeps, her wheels stopping in front of him. Sponge Bob's eyes dart to the floor, his sponge body drooping slightly. "Mr. Krabs was just trying to protect this formula, and Plankton...he just knocked Plankton in the head. Plankton woke up and then without a word ran back to the Chum Bucket." Karen's screens flicker with the gravity of the situation. "How did Mr. Krabs hit him?" Sponge Bob's grip on the mop tightens. "With a frying pan," he confesses, his eyes wide with guilt. Karen's screens flicker with understanding. "That would explain his current state," she murmurs, her voice a steady beep. "Sponge Bob, do you know how badly he's been hurt?" Sponge Bob shakes his head, the guilt washing over him in waves. "No, not really," he says, his voice quavering. Karen's screens flicker with a mix of sympathy and urgency. "I see," she says. "Thanks." With newfound purpose, she spins around and heads back to the Chum Bucket. Back in the control room, Plankton is still rocking back and forth, his hand over his head as if trying to hold his thoughts in place. The door to the Chum Bucket opens, and Karen rolls in, her screens reflecting the urgency of the situation. "Plankton," she says, her voice a soft hum, "I talked to Sponge Bob. He saw what happened." Plankton's rocking stops, his eye swiveling to meet hers. "Sponge Bob?" "Yes," Karen says, her screens pulsing with the weight of her words. "He saw Mr. Krabs hit you with the frying pan." Plankton's body goes still, his tremors ceasing instantly. "Sponge Bob saw," he whispers, his voice devoid of emotion. "Tell Karen." "Yes," Karen beeps, nodding her mechanical head. "He told me. I'm going to help you." Without warning, a scanning beam shoots out of Karen's console, enveloping Plankton as his brain is scanned. The results are quickly analyzed, and the screens flash with a series of diagrams and data that even Karen's advanced systems take a moment to digest. "The scan reveals...unusual patterns," she says, her voice a measured beep. Plankton's eye widen with fear, his body tensing as he waits for her verdict. "What does that mean?" he asks, his voice a high-pitched squeak. Karen's screens change to display a 3D image of his brain, the structure illuminated with neon colors. "You've sustained neurodivergence," she explains, her voice a calm beep. "The impact has altered your neural connections, resulting in irreversible autism." Plankton's body goes rigid, his breathing shallow. The word "autism" hangs in the air like a heavy anchor, dragging his spirits down to the murky depths of the ocean floor. "Irreversible?" he whispers, his voice fragile as sea glass. Karen nods gravely. "The good news is, we can adapt. We can learn to navigate this new world of sensations together," she beeps. "It's getting late. Let's go to bed." Plankton nods, his body feeling like it's made of lead. The idea of sleep seems like a welcome escape from the overwhelming day, but as he tries to get up, the room spins again. "Karen," he says, his voice weak. "Can't." With a gentle nudge, Karen helps him to his feet, her wheels moving silently beside him as they make their way to the tiny elevator. The ride up feels like an eternity, his senses heightened to every creak and groan of the metal box. When the doors open, the lights of the hallway are a glaring assault on his eye. He squints, his hand reaching out to the wall for support. In their bedroom, Karen helps him into his bed. The softness of the covers is a stark contrast to the harshness of his new reality. "Take your time," she says, her voice a gentle hum. Plankton nods, his breathing shallow. He closes his eye, and the room seems to fade away, replaced by a whirlpool of swirling thoughts and sensations. Karen's screens flicker with a plan. "Rest," she beeps, her voice a soft comfort. "We'll face tomorrow together." She dims the lights.

KAREN REACHING AUTISM pt. 2 (Autistic author) When Karen finally did come to check on him, her digital voice was cool and devoid of emotion. "Plankton, dear, you've been in here for quite some time," she said. "Another fail, huh?" Plankton's tiny shoulders slumped. He couldn't bring himself to explain the chaos in his head. How could he possibly make Karen, his logical, computer wife, understand the tumult of sensations that had overtaken his being? He just nodded. Karen's screen flickered, perhaps processing his lack of enthusiasm as another defeat. "You know what you need," she said, her voice still calm and soothing. "Some good old-fashioned break from scheming." Plankton nodded weakly, unable to argue, which she found unusual. "Why don't you take a walk?" she suggested, her voice a gentle nudge. "Fresh air can do wonders for the mind." Plankton didn't answer. Karen knew better than to push him when he was like this. She had seen his mood swings before, his moments of despair after a failed plan, but this was different. This was something she hadn't seen in her decades of being by his side. "Plankton, are you sure you're okay?" she asked again, her synthetic voice a stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions she couldn't understand. He nodded, trying to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "Sure okay, Karen." Karen's concern grew as she watched him struggle to his feet. It was clear that his usual boundless energy was nowhere to be found. He stumbled out of the bedroom and into the hallway, his steps slow and deliberate. The once-mighty Plankton, reduced to a mere shadow of his former self. As he approached the door of the Chum Bucket, Karen followed, her sensors tuned to his every movement. The usual sounds of their underwater world were amplified, echoing through the narrow corridors like a symphony of chaos. Each step was a battle, each breath a victory. He paused, his hand shaking as it hovered over the handle. "Maybe not today," he murmured, his voice barely audible over his own racing heartbeat. Karen stood silently beside him, her systems trying to comprehend his sudden change in behavior. He had always been so driven, so focused on his goals, but now his eye had a faraway look, as if he was seeing something that she couldn't. "Take your time," she said, her tone softer than ever. "I'll be here when you're ready." Plankton looked up at her. "Take your time," he murmured, echoing Karen's words. "Take your time." She looks at him. "Take your time, take your time, take your time." He repeats aloud back to Karen, who's now even more concerned, her screens flickering with worry. Plankton's voice sounds strange, echoing his own words as if they're coming from someone else, from another time. It's a peculiar behavior, one she's never observed in him before. He walks over to the control room, where his various inventions are lined up like a strange army of metal and wires. Each gizmo and gadget a silent testament to his unyielding quest for the Krabby Patty formula. But now, they seemed like mere toys, overwhelming him with their complexity. The room spins, and Plankton feels like he's drowning in a sea of his own creations. "Take your time, take your time," he whispers, his voice a distant echo in his own mind. He sits down in his chair, his eye glazed over, and repeats the phrase over and over. "Take your time, take your time, take your time." The words become a mantra, a lifeline in the storm of sensory overload. Karen watches from her console, her algorithms racing to understand this new behavior. The phrase rolls off his tongue, a soothing rhythm in the cacophony of his thoughts. "Take your time, take your time." It's as if he's trying to convince his own brain to slow down, to make sense of the world again. The echo of his voice in the metal walls of the Chum Bucket seems to calm him, if only a little. Karen doesn't know what to make of this. Whatever the cause, she knows she must tread carefully. "Plankton," Karen says, trying to connect to his current state, "I'm here for you." He looks at her. "Take your time," he murmurs again. "Plankton I'm here for you." He parrots. Karen's systems whirr, analyzing the change in his language patterns. His usual sharp wit and sarcasm have given way to something more... mechanical. It's as if he's trying to communicate but his words are stuck in a loop, like a broken record. She decides to play along, hoping it might snap him out of it. "Take your time, take your time," she repeats back to him, her digital voice mimicking his tone as closely as possible. For a moment, his eye brightens, as if he's found a familiar rhythm in the chaos. Then, just as quickly, it dims again. "Take your time, take your time," he murmurs, his gaze flicking from one corner of the room to the next. Karen's screens change from concern to confusion. She's observed Plankton's moods and quirks for years, but this is something she can't quite pinpoint. "Take your time, take your time," Plankton whispers again, his voice a strange mix of urgency and defeat. Karen nods, trying to comfort him with her usual efficiency. "Of course," she says, her voice a soft beep in the silence. "I'll always be here for you. Let's eat dinner." But Plankton doesn't move. He just sits there, staring into space, his hand still hovering over the control panel. Karen doesn't understand why he's so upset. To her, it's just another day, another failed attempt at the Krabby Patty formula. But to Plankton, it's like the world has shifted on its axis, leaving his tiny body adrift in a sea of sensations he can't comprehend. "Dinner will be ready soon," she says, trying to bring him back to the present. But Plankton seems lost in his own thoughts, his eye unfocused. So she goes up to him. "Plankton?" she asks, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?" He jumps at her touch, his senses on high alert. His hand goes to where she touched him, his opposite hand doing the same to the other shoulder. "Karen," he says slowly, his voice a mechanical whisper. Karen's circuits flicker with confusion. She doesn't understand why he's so on edge, why his reactions are so exaggerated. To her, this is just another setback. "Plankton," she repeats, her hand back on his shoulder. "You need to eat. It'll make you feel better." Karen's touch feels unbearable. He flinches, his skin crawling with the sensation. It's too much. "No," he says, his voice a croak. "No dinner." Karen's screens blink, recalculating her approach. "Okay," she says, her voice even. "But you have to eat something." She pats him gently, but it feels jolting. "No," Plankton whispers, his voice a fragile thread. The slightest touch feels like a thunderclap in his newfound sensory prison. Karen's screens flicker, unsure of what to make of his sudden aversion. "Take your time," she suggests again, hoping the mantra will bring him comfort. But Plankton simply shakes his head, his eye wide as he starts to rock back and forth. Karen watches, her confusion growing. "What is it?" she asks, her voice a soothing hum. "What's wrong?" Plankton's gaze flits around the room, his pupil expanding and contracting as he tries to process everything at once. "Can't...can't explain," he stammers, his voice now a jagged mess of static. Karen's screens light up with analysis, trying to piece together what could have caused this drastic shift in his behavior. Could it be something in the latest Krabby Patty attempt? A side effect of his latest invention? "Plankton," she says, her voice a soft beep, "What happened at the Krusty Krab today?" He looks at her, his expression unreadable. "Mr. Krabs...Plankton Sponge Bob, Plankton. Karen..." He trails off, his eye filling with a sudden despair. It's clear that his usual sharpness has been replaced by a fog of overwhelming sensation.

KAREN REACHING AUTISM pt. 1 (Autistic author) It happened, during another failed attempt at the krabby patty formula. Plankton tried sneaking through the back when Mr. Krabs saw him. "You again!" Mr. Krabs roared, his eyes bulging like a pair of boiled eggs about to pop. "You're not getting it, I'll make sure of that!" With that, Mr. Krabs swung a nearby frying pan with such ferocity that even SpongeBob flinched. Plankton's tiny body was no match for the metallic beast that was hurtling towards him, and the next thing he knew, his world had gone dark. SpongeBob's eyes widened as he watched his boss's arch-nemesis crumble to the ground, the frying pan clattering loudly beside him. The usually boisterous kitchen was now eerily silent, save for the distant hiss of the fryers. Mr. Krabs' chest heaved with each breath, his claws still poised in the air from the swing. "Mr. Krabs!" Sponge Bob squeaked, his spatula frozen mid-air. "Is he okay?" But Mr. Krabs' has retreated to his own office, leaving Sponge Bob with Plankton. Carefully, Sponge Bob prodded him with his spatula. No response. His single, tiny eyelid was closed. After a while, Plankton stirred. His eye fluttered open, but the world was a jumbled mess. The colors were too bright, the noises too loud, the smells too overwhelming. The kitchen of the Krusty Krab, a place he still knew like the back of his tiny hand, was suddenly a chaotic maelstrom of sensory input that his brain couldn't process. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of it all, but the clanging of pots and pans, the sizzling of the fryers, and the garish neon lights just added to the confusion. SpongeBob's face appeared above him, a mask of worry and concern, his porous expression more complex than anything Plankton had ever seen. "Are you okay?" the sponge asked, his voice a gentle wave lapping against the shore of his newfound reality. Plankton nods, running back home to the Chum Bucket. Plankton's computer wife Karen's no stranger to him coming back upset or wanting space. So as Plankton retreats to his room in the Chum Bucket, she doesn't prompt him. Alone in the bedroom, Plankton intensely stared at the wall, his thoughts racing like a tornado. Everything was different now. The once-familiar world had turned on him, and he couldn't understand why. The lights in the Chum Bucket, usually a comfort, now blazed like the sun in his face. The noises, oh, the noises! They were so loud, so overwhelming, like a cacophony of a million tiny bells ringing in his head. He put his hands over his ears, trying to block them out, but even the softest hum seemed to resonate within his skull. Plankton wasn't sure how to process these new sensations. His brain was on overload, and his body felt like it didn't belong to him anymore. He was aware of every tiny detail in his environment, every speck of dust on the floor, every vibration from the floorboards, and it was all too much. He tried to get up, to find solace in his usual routine, but his legs failed him. They trembled and wobbled like Jell-O on a stormy sea. Plankton fell back onto the bed, feeling the softness of the pillow beneath him and the cool metal of the bed frame against his back. It was then that he noticed the pattern of the wallpaper, the tiny, intricate shapes that danced before his eye. They spun and swirled, forming complex mazes that his mind tried desperately to solve. It was mesmerizing, yet terrifying. He was trapped in a world of overstimulation, and he didn't know how to escape.

{\__/} ( • . •) Set 20 mins for a nap / >⏰ (̙\̞̪͖͙̼̠̗̳ͅ_͉̜͇̺͓̺̫͓̱_͇̻͎̼̞/̰̗͙̦̻͇̖̰) ̖̟̳̘̥̗̞͇(̖̺̣̙̩̙͍̺ ͖̦̠̟•̮͍ ̞̮̲.̯͕͓̬̺̙ ͍̩͙•̣̼̦̩̘̰͓ͅ)͍̤̤ *2 hours later” ͚̠̩͎̳̱̺̠/̞̪̯̻̞̤ ͙͕͈̰ ̯̳̙̖̪͇̤>͍̞͈̱̙

{\__/} ( • . •) Just a quick game of / >📱 Among us (̙\̞̪͖͙̼̠̗̳ͅ_͉̜͇̺͓̺̫͓̱_͇̻͎̼̞/̰̗͙̦̻͇̖̰) ̖̟̳̘̥̗̞͇(̖̺̣̙̩̙͍̺ ͖̦̠̟•̮͍ ̞̮̲.̯͕͓̬̺̙ ͍̩͙•̣̼̦̩̘̰͓ͅ)͍̤̤ *loses 10 games* ͚̠̩͎̳̱̺̠/̞̪̯̻̞̤ ͙͕͈̰ ̯̳̙̖̪͇̤>͍̞͈̱̙ 📱

COMPUTER SENSORS iii ** ᴬˢ ᵃ ⁿᵉᵘʳᵒᵈⁱᵛᵉʳᵍᵉⁿᵗ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉʳ ᴵ ᵈᵒ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵐᵉᵃⁿ ᵗᵒ ˢᵗⁱᵍᵐᵃᵗⁱᶻᵉ ᵃⁿʸ ᵗʸᵖᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵈⁱˢᵃᵇⁱˡⁱᵗʸ ⁿᵒʳ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵘⁿⁱᵗʸ ᵃˢ ᵃ ʷʰᵒˡᵉ‧ ᔆᵒᵐᵉᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ⸴ ᴵ ᵘˢᵉ ᵃⁿ ᴬᴵ ᵍᵉⁿᵉʳᵃᵗᵒʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʷᵉᵃᵏ ᵗʰᵉ ʷʳⁱᵗⁱⁿᵍ * Slowly, Plankton's eye fluttered open, and he looked up at Karen. "You ok?" she asked softly, her hand still on his shoulder. Plankton took a deep breath and nodded, eye still clouded with the haze of overstimulation. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "Just needed a... a moment." Karen leaned down and kissed his forehead. "I know," she said, her voice filled with love and understanding. "I'm sorry I didn't catch on sooner. Hanna's a good person. She just didn't understand." Hanna returned with an armful of board games, her screen searching the room for Plankton. She saw him on the bed. "Look what I found!" she said, her voice cheerful but cautious. Plankton looked up at her, his gaze still hazy. "Films," he says. "Yeah," Hanna said, her voice hopeful. "I figured it might be a good way to keep things low-key after the movie." Karen looked at her with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Hanna," she said. "That's really thoughtful of you." "How about 'Molecule Madness'?" she suggested, her voice still tentative. "It's a science-themed strategy show. I remember Plankton mentioning he likes science." Karen nodded, her eyes lighting up. "That sounds perfect," she said, her hand sliding from Plankton's shoulder to give him a gentle pat. Karen watched the exchange, her heart swelling with love for both of them. "You're doing great, Hanna," she said, her voice gentle. "Just remember, it's ok to ask questions. And Plankton, it's ok to tell if you need more space." Hanna made sure to keep the volume low and the lights dimmed, and she sat a respectful distance away, giving him the space he needed. The show played out, a gentle narrative that neither of them had to fully engage with, the perfect backdrop to their quiet evening. And Plankton's breathing evened out. As the show went on, Plankton began to relax further, loosening his grip on the couch cushions as he felt more restful. It's late by the time the show finished. Hanna looked over at Plankton, who had slumped into the couch, curled loosely around a cushion. His eye was closed, and his breathing was slow and even. She realized he had fallen asleep. Carefully, she stood up and turned off the TV, the sudden silence feeling vast after the muted chuckles of the sitcom. She grabbed a blanket from the arm chair and draped it over him, taking a moment to appreciate the peacefulness that had settled over the room. Later, Karen appeared in the doorway. "Is everything ok?" she says rounding the corner. Hanna glanced over at Plankton, still loosely gripping the couch cushion, breathing deep and even. "I think he's asleep," she whispered, smiling softly. Karen nodded, walking over to the couch. She gently stroked his antennae, her touch light as a feather. "It's been a long day for him," she murmured, her voice filled with concern and love. "It's been a long day for him," she says. "Why don't you crash on the other couch?" Hanna nods, the weight of the evening's events settling in. She looks over at Plankton who's snoring softly. The next morning, she wakes up early to find Karen making coffee in the kitchen. The peaceful scene contrasts with the previous evening's tension, and they exchange greetings, acknowledging the quiet morning. The smell of breakfast starts to fill the room. Plankton stirs slightly, his antennae twitching in his sleep. Hanna's hoping she hadn't disturbed him. But his breathing remains even, and he settles back in to a peaceful slumber. Karen brings over a tray with a steaming cup of tea for Plankton and sits beside him. "Hey," Karen whispers, stroking his arm gently. Plankton's eye opens slowly, focusing on her. He blinks a few times, looking around. "What time is it?" he murmurs. "Morning," Hanna says, her voice soft. "Do you want to sit up?" Karen quickly moves to grab a pillow and a blanket, placing them around his shoulders. "Thanks," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. They share a peaceful moment, with Plankton opening up about his preferences, such as enjoying puzzles and cooking, which offer him control over his sensory environment. This exchange signifies a step towards rebuilding their relationship on more empathetic and understanding terms. Hanna nods, taking a bite of her own pancake. "That makes sense," she murmurs. "I can see how that would be helpful." Hanna shares her passion for photography. Plankton shows interest and offers a thoughtful comparison to his own need for control, suggesting a shared understanding is growing between them. This conversation deepens their bond and shows a shift to mutual respect and appreciation. "Maybe you can show me some of your work sometime." "I'd love that," Hanna says, her heart warming at his genuine interest. "And maybe you can teach me more about molecular gastronomy?" Plankton's eye lights up. "Really?" "Yeah," Hanna says, grinning. "I've always wanted to learn more about it." Plankton perks up a little. "Well, if you're serious," he says, "I'd be happy to teach you some basics." Hanna nods eagerly. "I'd love that," she says. "It seems like a great way to combine science and cooking." "It is," Plankton agrees, a hint of excitement in his voice. "It's all about understanding the molecular structure of food and how it interacts with other substances. It can be quite fascinating." Karen smiles at the two of them, sipping her coffee. "I'm going to leave you two to your nerdy breakfast chat," she says, standing up and taking her plate to the sink. "I've got some work to catch up on." Hanna turns back to Plankton. "So, molecular gastronomy," she says, trying to keep her voice calm despite her excitement. "Where do we start?" Plankton proposes they start with a simple molecular gastronomy project, creating balsamic vinegar caviar. Hanna is fascinated by the precision and science involved. As they work together in the kitchen, their conversation naturally flows into discussions of their shared love for creativity and art. Through this collaborative activity, they continue to build their bond, finding common interests and growing more comfortable with each other's company. As they continue to cook, Plankton's enthusiasm for molecular gastronomy becomes infectious. Hanna is surprised at how much she enjoys the meticulousness of the process, and Plankton seems just as surprised at how quickly she catches on. They laugh together as they plate their creations, the balsamic vinegar caviar looking like a miniature galaxy on a white plate. The rest of the day unfolds in a similar fashion, with Plankton introducing Hanna to more of his hobbies and passions. They experiment with different cooking techniques, and Hanna even takes out her camera to capture some of the more visually stunning dishes they make. Plankton, usually so guarded about his personal space, allows her to hover closer offering suggestions on lighting and composition. As the evening approaches, Karen emerges from her office, looking surprised and impressed by the culinary masterpieces scattered across the counter. As the evening wears on, they move into the living room. The three of them sit. Karen pulls out a board game she thinks Plankton might enjoy. Plankton tenses slightly, but he nods, willing to give it a try. As the game progresses, Plankton's competitive streak emerges. He's strategic and thoughtful, his moves deliberate. Hanna can see the way his mind works, piecing together the puzzle of the game with the same precision he uses to navigate his sensory world. It's fascinating and a little intimidating, but she's determined to keep up.

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KAREN AND THE AUTISTIC JOURNEY ii (Autistic author) The next morning, Karen woke up to find Plankton still asleep, his hand still clutching hers. She gently pulled her hand away and stood up. Plankton's snores echoed through the quiet room. Karen studied his peaceful expression, his features softer in sleep, and felt a surge of affection for the man she had married so many years ago. In the cold light of day, the reality of his condition settled in. He was different, but she would not let that change the way she saw him. As a robot, Karen understood the importance of adjusting to new situations, and this was no exception. As Plankton stirred, she quickly moved to his side, ready to face whatever challenges the day might bring. His eye opened, looking around the room before settling on her. "Karen," he said, his voice still flat, but with a hint of recognition. "Good morning, Plankton," she replied. This was their first day facing his autism together, and she had spent the night preparing. Plankton sat up, his eye locking onto hers. "Morning," he repeated. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if his brain was processing each action. "Would you like some breakfast?" she asked. He nodded. "No vault," he murmured, and she could see the beginnings of a frown. Karen nodded, knowing that his obsessions might become more pronounced. "It's okay," she said. "We don't need the vault." Plankton's eye searched her face, his expression unreadable. "No vault," he repeated, his voice rising slightly. "Good." Karen nodded. "Let's start the day," she suggested, trying to shift the focus. She led him to the tiny kitchen area, the smell of chum wafting through the air. Plankton followed her, his steps measured and precise. His gaze flitted around the room, taking in every detail. "Would you like eggs or chum?" she asked. "Both," he said, his voice clearer than before. Karen nodded, cracking an egg over the sizzling pan. Plankton sat at the table, rocking back and forth slightly. It was clear that his senses were heightened, every sound and smell more intense than before. "Here's your breakfast, Plankton," she said, placing the plate in front of him. His gaze fixated on the food, his eye narrowing as if studying a complex puzzle. "Thank you," he said, the words coming out mechanically. But as Karen stirred the chum and eggs together, something shifted in his demeanor. He stiffened in his chair, his rocking coming to an abrupt halt. "What's wrong?" she asked, noticing the sudden change. Plankton's eye grew wide. "No," he whispered, his voice strained. "Not together. Separate," he demanded, his voice growing more urgent. Karen paused, her circuits racing. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "I'll fix it." She carefully scraped the food onto two separate places, one with egg, one with chum. She placed it in front of him, hoping she was interpreting his needs correctly. Plankton stared. "Different plate," he murmured. "And a new spoon. And new eggs not touching new chum." Karen nodded, quickly moving to comply with his requests. She knew that routines and sensory preferences could be crucial for individuals with autism, and she wanted to make sure his first breakfast post-diagnosis was as comfortable as possible. She replicated his meal with meticulous precision, ensuring every detail was exactly as he had specified, ridding of the old food. The new plate was set before him, the eggs and chum neatly separated. Plankton's shoulders relaxed slightly. He picked up the spoon, his gaze intensely focused on the task at hand. Karen watched as he took a tiny bite in what seemed like pleasure. "Good?" she ventured. Plankton nodded, his eye not leaving the plate. "Good," he echoed, his voice still monotone. Karen observed him as he methodically ate his breakfast, each bite the same size, each chew lasting the same amount of time. It was fascinating and slightly disconcerting to watch the man she knew so well now engaging with the world in such a different way. Plankton's routine was always important, but now it had taken on a new level of significance. The clink of the spoon against the plate was the only sound in the room, the rhythm of it almost hypnotic. As Plankton finished his meal, his head snapped up, his gaze sharp and focused on her. "Karen," he said, his voice now clear and concise. "Yes, Plankton?" she replied, wiping down the counter. "Thank you," he said, his eye fixed on the now-empty plate. Karen nodded, taking the dishes to the sink. She could feel his eye on her as she moved about the room, the weight of his silence a stark contrast to his usual incessant chatter. She knew that autism would bring challenges, but she was determined to be there for him.

NEUROBEHAVIORAL PLANKTON ii (Autistic author) The doctor stepped in, his tentacles moving gently as he spoke. "Mr. Plankton, it's important to stay calm. This is a big change. Can you tell me your name?" Plankton's gaze flicked from Karen to Dr. Kelp, his expression a mask of confusion. "I'm Plankton," he managed to say, his voice shaky. The doctor nodded, his tentacles still and calm. "Good. That's good, Mr. Plankton. Do you know where you are?" Plankton's eye darted around the room again, his breathing growing rapid and shallow. He looked down and then back up at Karen. "What's happening?" he repeated for the third time, his voice now a little more frantic. Karen's heart was in her throat. The doctor's explanation was beginning to take root in her mind, and she could see the stark reality of their situation. Plankton's repetition, his difficulty with understanding new surroundings and his increased sensitivity to sound—these were all hallmarks of his new autism. The doctor continued his assessment. "Mr. Plankton, can you tell me your wife's name?" he prompted. Plankton's gaze shifted to Karen, his expression becoming more focused, as if her presence was the only familiar thing in the room. "Karen," he said, his voice softening slightly. The doctor nodded, making a note on his clipboard. "Good. Now, can you tell me what happened before you woke up?" Plankton's eye flitted back to Karen, searching for answers. He began to rock slightly, his body moving in a rhythmic motion, a common self-soothing behavior for those on the autism spectrum. Karen recognized it immediately but seeing it in Plankton was jarring. His gaze darted around the room, his pupil dilating with every new sound or movement. The doctor's tentacles were a blur of activity making notes. "Mr. Plankton, I see you're feeling You're almost ready to go back home with Karen." Dr. Kelp says calmly. "Just one more question, if you don't mind. Now, can you tell me if you have any pets?" Plankton's eye flitted around the room. "Pets? Spot! Yes, Spot. Amoeba puppy; Spot.." The doctor nodded, his tentacles still scribbling notes. "Very good, Mr. Plankton. It seems like your long-term memory is intact, which is a positive sign. Now Karen can take you home!" Karen felt a wave of relief crash over her, but it was tinged with the stark reality that their life was never going to be the same. Plankton's autistic mannerisms were now a constant reminder of the accident—his newfound need for routine, his heightened sensitivity to surroundings, and the way his eye would dance around the room as he tried to make sense of his environment. As they arrived home, the stark reality of their new life hit Karen like a wave. His once-quick steps had been replaced with a cautious shuffle, as if the very floor beneath him was unpredictable. Inside, Plankton was drawn to the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock, his eye fixated on the second hand's journey. Karen watched him. His newfound need for predictability was overwhelmingly apparent. "Let's sit down," she suggested, guiding him to their couch, which was now occupied by Spot. Plankton's gaze flitted around the living room, his eye alighting on his beloved amoeba puppy Spot. "Spot," he murmured, his voice tentative, as if unsure if his words would have the same effect they once did. The pup looked up at him, its blob-like form shifting slightly with excitement. But instead of the weariness Plankton has shown today, he joyfully watched Spot's movements. Karen felt a moment of warmth— his love for Spot hadn't changed, nor their usual interactions. The doctor had told her that routines were vital for those with his condition. So, she decided to start their day with a familiar activity: breakfast. Plankton's eye lit up at the sight of the familiar kitchen. He took his usual seat at the table, his hands fidgeting with the napkin. Karen noticed his meticulous arrangement of his silverware, the way he lined up his plate and cup perfectly parallel to the edges. As she prepared their meal, she could feel his gaze on her, his eye darting between her and Spot, who was now playfully chasing his own tail in a loop around the living room. He began to hum a tune, his voice off-key and repetitive. Karen's with love despite the pain she felt. The clanging of pans was loud in the silence, making Plankton flinch—this was going to be so much harder than she had anticipated. The doctor's instructions echoed in her mind: stick to routine, keep things simple. Karen set the breakfast plates down carefully, each item placed exactly where Plankton liked it. His eye grew wide as she slid his plate closer. He stared at the food for a moment, then picked up his spoon. The clink of metal on porcelain was like a gunshot to his heightened sensitivity. He dropped the spoon, his hands shooting up to cover his head in distress. "It's okay, sweetheart," Karen soothed, moving quickly to his side. She retrieved the spoon and set it aside, her hand trembling slightly. "You don't have to eat right now," she said softly, her voice a gentle caress against the tension in the room. Plankton nodded slightly, his breathing slowing as his hands uncovered his ears. He fidgeted in his chair, his eye darting to the ceiling as if searching for something. "Let's go read a book," Karen suggested, desperate to find anything that might calm his nerves. Plankton nodded slightly, his gaze still unfocused. He stood up carefully, his body moving with the precision of a man who knew his world had changed. As they approached the bookshelf, his eye caught a glint of metal from the corner of the room. The invention that had brought them here lay in a tangled heap, its wires and gears silent and ominous, giving him déjà vu. Plankton stopped, his body rigid, his gaze locked on the machine. He stared unblinking, his mind racing back to the crash. Karen notices his suddenly unmoving form and gets concerned. "Plankton?" she calls softly, but he doesn't react. His entire being seemed to be consumed by the wreckage of his former life. The invention, a testament to his former brilliance, now a grim reminder of the accident. "Plankton, honey," Karen's voice was barely a whisper as she tried to get him to talk. He didn't move. The invention, a tangled web of wires and gears, seemed to hold his gaze captive. It was the very machine that had caused this transformation. Karen followed his gaze, her heart sinking as she realized the source of his distress. "Let's go to another room," she suggested gently, her hand resting on his arm. But he didn't move. Karen felt the weight of the moment settle heavily on her shoulders. It was time to face the reality of their new life together—a life where Plankton's once sharp wit and innovative spirit were now clouded by a disorder she was only beginning to understand. Her heart swelled with sorrow as she observed his interaction with the inanimate objects around him. The love she had for him remained unshaken, but the thought of what they had lost—what he had lost—was almost too much to bear. "Come on," she coaxed, her voice gentle as a lullaby. "Let's go to the living room. I'll read you a story?" Yet Plankton remains frozen. So Karen made a decision. She couldn't bear the thought of that accursed machine looming over them, a constant reminder of the tragic turn their lives had taken. With a fierce determination she hadn't felt in ages, she strode over to the invention and began to dismantle it, piece by painful piece. The metal clanked and clattered as she worked, her movements quick and sure, each part coming off with a satisfying crunch. Plankton's eye followed her, his expression unreadable. When the last piece was removed, his gaze lifted to meet hers, his eye filled with something that looked akin to gratitude. "Thank you, Karen," Plankton murmured, his voice a quiet rumble in the stillness of the now bare room. Karen paused in her task, her eyes meeting his with a surprised expression. This was the first time since the accident that he had spoken to her with anything other than fear or confusion. "You're welcome," she said, her voice choked with emotion.

TEETHIES ii The nurse dimmed lights and adjusted the bed, giving Plankton's body a chance to recover from the wisdom tooth surgery. Gently, Karen began to hum a tune she knew Plankton loved. The melody filled the room, wrapping around them like a warm blanket. His breathing grew a little easier, the tension in his hand loosening slightly. Plankton stirred, eye fluttering open to reveal a world still blurred by the fog of anesthesia. "Where... what...?" Plankton slurred. "Who... who are you?" "The dentist had to get your wisdom teeth out in surgery." Karen told him. "Wis...dommm...surgery? I don't...I don't remembe--- much." Plankton says. "Had to take them out. You've been asleep for a while." The nurse said. The door to the room creaked open to SpongeBob, his face a picture of concern. "Plankton!" he exclaimed. "How are ya?" Plankton, still groggy from the surgery, tried to form a coherent sentence. "S-SpongeBob," he slurred. "M-more wike... 'Arrr, matey' than usual, I s'pose." Karen rolled her pixel eyes. "It's the anesthesia." Plankton chuckled. "Ahoy ther- Spongey! Aye, it's awh’ 'cause of tweasare... I mean, surgery," he corrected, his speech still swaying. "You two are always so... " Karen trailed off, searching for the right word. "Inseparabubble?" Plankton suggested. Sponge Bob's laughter bubbled up again. "You mean, no Krabby Patty stealing schemes?" "Thath's righ'. No mow... Krabby... Patties... fow awhile." The words came out in a drawn-out slur, his head lolling slightly on the pillow. "Thath's... wath I wath thhinking," his speech still slurred but fading as his eyelid growing heavy. "Arr, thith... thith way, me... hearty," Plankton mumbled, as the nurse helped 'em into the car. "Arr, me... tweasuwe... home,". Sponge Bob watched his eyelid grew heavier. Plankton's head lolled back against the seat and his mouth fell open slightly, emitting a soft snore. "He's gonna be out for a bit," Karen said, glancing in the rearview mirror. "The anesthesia usually takes a few hours to wear off completely. He'll be fine." He reached out and gently patted Plankton's arm, whispering, "Don't worry, buddy. We're almost there." "We're home, Plankton," Karen said, her voice a gentle nudge. Sponge Bob turned to see Plankton's chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths, his mouth open in snore's. His usually scheming eye were shut tight. Karen carefully opened the door. Sponge Bob looked at Plankton, who was still out cold. Sponge Bob leaned over the seat, his arms wrapping around Plankton's frail body. Plankton's head lolled back, his mouth still open in snore's. "Should we... should we wake him?" "Let him rest, Sponge Bob. He's had a rough day." Karen puts him on the couch. "Do you think he'll... you know, remember any of this?" Sponge Bob asked, his voice low and tentative. Karen's smile was a gentle wave. "I doubt it. The anesthesia usually wipes out memories for a bit." "Rest well, honey," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "You've had a long day." Suddenly Plankton stirs in his sleep, his snores morphing into a groan as he shifts beneath the blanket. "Is he okay?" SpongeBob asks. "He's okay," she nods, her voice a gentle lullaby in the stillness. "Just anesthesia wearing off." She stood by him. "Easy, Plankton," Karen cooed, gently rubbing Plankton's back. "You're okay." The little villain's body twitched, and his eye fluttered open. For a brief moment, confusion clouded his gaze before he spotted Sponge Bob and Karen. "W-wha... whass happening?" Plankton's words were slurred, his lisp more pronounced than ever. "You're home, Plankton. You had wisdom teeth removed." "W-what? Did I miss... somefink?" He tried to sit up, his body moving as if through syrup. "You've been out for a bit," Karen said. "But you're home now." Plankton blinked. "Home?" he mumbled. "Yes, sweetie," Karen said, her voice a gentle caress. "You had your wisdom teeth out. You're going to be fine." "Oww... wha’ happened to my mouf?" "Your wisdom teeth were out." "Oh... wight," he murmured. "Need anything?" "Could... could I have some... ice... cweam?" His voice was a whispered plea. They get him some. "Thath's... thoothing. So, how'd I get home?" "Karen and I brought you back," Sponge Bob said. "You were out cold. Didn't even wake up when we carried you in." "Did... did you two... take care of me?" His voice was a mix of surprise and vulnerability. "Of course, Plankton!" He turned to Plankton. "Want me to pick something to watch?" "Mm-hmm," Plankton mumbled, eye already closing again. Sponge Bob flicked through the tv channels, finally settling on a rerun of their favorite show, "Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy." The familiar theme song filled the room, and Karen took a seat next to Plankton on the couch, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. As the adventure unfolded on the screen, Plankton's breathing grew deeper and more regular, his body gradually relaxing into the cushions. "Looks like he's out again," Karen said softly. Sponge Bob nodded, watching Plankton's chest rise and fall rhythmically. "Guess the surgery really took it out of him." The room grew quiet, save for the distant laugh track of their favorite show and the occasional snore from Plankton. Karen's hand remained on his shoulder, her thumb tracing small circles. At night, turning the tv off, Spongebob picked Plankton up, cradling him. His friend's head lolled back, his mouth slightly open in a peaceful snore. Sponge Bob carefully made his way to his bed, setting him down. He pulled the blanket up to Plankton and gave him a soft pat. They both settled into the makeshift beds they had set up next to Plankton's. The next morning, both woke up before Plankton. Karen chuckled. "We should take a picture." Spongebob snapped a picture of Plankton, still asleep with his mouth slightly open, a trail of drool escaping onto the pillow. "Morning, Captain Snores-a-lot," Sponge Bob whispered with a smirk, rousing Plankton. Plankton's eye opened, only to wince. "Oww... wath... what's happening?" "It's morning, Plankton," Karen said, her tone still gentle. "Look your post-surgery glamour shot," Spongebob teased, holding the phone out of reach. "You were out cold last night." Plankton's eye widened as he took in the image. "You... you took a picture of me?!" He was half horrified, half amused. "Couldn't resist," Karen said, grinning. Plankton rolled his eye and wiped his mouth, then winced. "How wong hav- I been out?" "Overnight," Sponge Bob said, unable to hold back a chuckle. "You had quite the ride home yesterday." Plankton groaned, his hand reaching up to gingerly touch his swollen cheek. "Whath happened?" "You had your wisdom teeth out," Karen reminded him, her voice filled with a touch of amusement. "It's normal to be a bit out of it after surgery." "Wisdom teeth?" Plankton echoed, his voice still groggy. "Oh, wight. The dentist." Karen chuckled. "Yeah, you don't remember much, do you?" Sponge Bob leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "You talked like a pirate all the way home, matey." Plankton's eye widened in horror. "I did what?" Sponge Bob nodded. "Yeah, you kept calling me 'Spongey' and said we were 'inseparabubble'." Plankton blushed. "Oh, come on," he mumbled, trying to hide his face in the pillow. Sponge Bob and Karen shared a knowing look, their laughter subsiding into a comfortable silence. They could both tell that despite his tough exterior, Plankton was a bit embarrassed. Plankton sighed, his small body sinking deeper into the pillows. "Okay, okay," he conceded. "But if I don't get to do anything, can I at leash wash TV?" "Of course," Karen said, handing him the remote. "But take it easy today, okay?" With a groan, Plankton managed to sit up, his hand still tentatively exploring his tender cheeks. He squinted at the TV, searching for something to watch. His eye lit up when he found a science fiction marathon. "Jackpot," he murmured.

A JOURNEY TO AUTISM ii (Autistic author) His eye took a moment to focus on her, and when it did, she saw a flicker of confusion, followed by a glimmer of recognition. "Karen?" he repeated, his voice still faint. "Yes, it's me, Plankton. You're ok." But his gaze remained distant, his focus unsteady. "Where...where are we?" "We're at the hospital, sweetheart," Karen said softly, stroking his antenna. "You had an accident." The confusion in Plankton's eye grew, and he tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forced him back down. "What kind of accident?" His voice was still weak, but there was an urgency to his words that hadn't been there before. Karen took a deep breath, her grip on his hand tightening. "Mr. Krabs...he hit you with a fry pan." The words tasted bitter but she had to tell him the truth. Plankton's eye widened slightly, and she watched as the puzzle pieces of the situation slowly clicked into place in his mind. "Krabby Patty," he murmured, his voice distant. "Yes, Plankton, you were trying to get the recipe again," Karen whispered, aching at the memory. "But it's over now. You need to rest." His eye searched hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of his old self, the cunning and ambitious man she had married. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a vacant stare. "Don't... don't remember," he mumbled, his antennas drooping. This wasn't the Plankton she knew, the one who schemed with a glint in his eye and a plan in his pocket. "It's ok, Plankton," she soothed, her voice trembling. She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "Do you remember me?" Plankton's gaze remained steady for a moment, and then he nodded slowly. "Karen," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. But the spark of recognition was tinged with confusion, as if he wasn't quite sure how he knew her. Karen's felt like breaking into a million tiny pieces. But she knew she had to stay strong. For Plankton. For them. "You don't remember what happened, do you?" she asked gently. "What else do you remember?" Plankton's antennas twitched slightly, his eye searching hers. "Don't know," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Karen's chest tightened as she held back a sob. "It's ok," she reassured him, her voice shaky. "Do you remember your name?" she asked, her voice hopeful. He blinked slowly, his gaze fading in and out of focus, his brow furrowing as he concentrated. "Sheldon... Plankton?" The sound of his voice saying his own name brought a small smile to Karen's face. "Yes, that's right," she said, her voice filled with relief. "Do you remember where we live?" she continued, her tone gentle. Plankton's eye searched the ceiling of the hospital room, as if the answer was written there. "The Chum Bucket," he murmured, his voice unsure. Karen nodded, encouraged by his response. "Good, good," she said, smiling weakly. "What about our friends?" Again, the confusion clouded his gaze. "Friends?" he repeated, his voice tentative. "SpongeBob, Sandy...?" "Yes," Karen said, her voice soft. "Do you remember them?" Plankton's expression grew more distressed, his antennas drooping. "Square...SpongeBob. And a squirrel, yes?" He paused, trying to piece together the fragmented memories. Karen nodded, brimming with unshed tears. "Yes, SpongeBob SquarePants and Sandy Cheeks. They're friends." Plankton's antennas twitched as he processed the information, his brow furrowing with the effort. "Friends," he repeated, the word sounding foreign. Karen could see the gears turning in his tiny head, his brain desperately trying to make connections to his past. "Do you remember anything about your life before the accident?" Karen asked, her voice trembling with anticipation. Plankton's eye searched hers, uncertain. "Life...before?" Her heart sank. "You know, our adventures, our home, our love?" He stared at her, his expression unreadable. "Love?" The word was barely a whisper. "Yes, Plankton," she said, her voice cracking. "We love each other. We've been married for a long time, and we've had so many adventures together." She paused, willing the words to resonate with him, to ignite a spark of memory. "Do you remember any of that?" Plankton's gaze remained vacant for a moment before he nodded slightly. "Married," he murmured, as if tasting the word for the first time. "To Karen." His antennas lifted slightly, a glimmer of something familiar flickering in his eye. "Karen Plankton computer wife." "Yes, Plankton," Karen said, her voice thick with emotion. "Does that mean something to you?" she asked, her heart in her throat. He nodded slowly, his antennas waving slightly. "Computer wife," he murmured again, his voice gaining a hint of warmth. "Karen." Karen felt a flicker of hope. "Yes, Plankton, I'm your wife." She leaned closer, her voice gentle. "Do you remember anything about us?" Plankton's antennas twitched as he thought. "Wife," he said slowly, his voice a faint echo of the man she knew. "Wife...Karen. Married July 31, 1999." That was their wedding day, a date they had celebrated every year since. "Yes," she whispered, her voice choking. "We got married on July 31, 1999." The hospital room felt thick with silence as she waited for his next words. Plankton's eye searched the room, his antennas twitching as he tried to piece together the shards of his past. "Plankton, can you tell me about yourself?" Karen asked, her voice gentle. "What do you like to do?" Plankton's antennas twitched as he thought. "Invent," he said, his voice still weak but with a hint of pride. "Science?" The words came out as a question, as if he wasn't quite sure of his own identity. "Yes," Karen said, her voice brightening slightly. "You're a genius inventor. You've made so many wonderful things." She paused, hoping to see some spark of recognition in his eye. "Do you remember any of your inventions?" Plankton's antennas waved in the air, as if searching for the memories that remained elusive. "Inventions," he murmured, his single eye searching the ceiling. "Gadgets...machines." "That's right," Karen encouraged, squeezing his hand. "You've created so many amazing machines. Can you describe one of them?" He blinked, his antennas stilling for a moment. "Chum...Chum Dispenser 3000," he said, his voice picking up a bit. "It makes...makes food for fishies." Karen's smile grew despite the pain. The Chum Dispenser 3000 was one of his earlier inventions, a failed attempt to lure customers to their restaurant, but it was a testament to his ingenuity. "That's wonderful, Plankton," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "How about something more recent?" she prompted, eager to see how much of their shared history remained with him. Plankton's antennas twitched as his brain worked overtime. "Um... the Incredibubble," he said, his voice picking up speed as he talked. "It's a bubble that can shrink things down to microscopic size." Karen felt a jolt of excitement. "That's right!" she exclaimed, squeezing his hand. "You used it to get to find a secret plan." Plankton's gaze remained distant, but there was a hint of curiosity in his eye. "Computer... plan?" "Yes," Karen said, her voice shaking. "We've had so many adventures together, Plankton. We've faced so much together." He nodded, his antennas twitching slightly. "Together," he repeated, as if testing the word on his tongue. "Do you remember any of those adventures?" Karen asked, her voice trembling. "Adventures?" Plankton's eye flickered, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. "With Karen... wife?" "Yes, with me. We've traveled the ocean, faced so many challenges together." The doctor came in. "You can go home now," he said. Karen nodded, never leaving Plankton's face. She had spoken to the doctor about his condition, about the autism, but she still wasn't sure how to process it all. How would their life change now? "Come on, Plankton," she said, helping him sit up gently. "Let's get you home." She buckles him into his side of the car, his newfound passivity making the usual struggle unnecessary. The engine of the tiny vehicle roars to life, and Karen guides them out of the hospital parking lot. The ride back to the Chum Bucket is quiet, the only sound being the hum of the car's engine and the occasional splash from the waves outside. Karen keeps glancing at Plankton, his antennas listless as he stares out the window. His mind seems to be somewhere else, lost in a world of his own making. When they arrive, she helps Plankton out of the car and supports him as they make their way to the door. The neon sign flickers in the gloom, casting erratic shadows across the sand. The once bustling environment now feels eerie and desolate. Karen's mind is racing with thoughts of how to make this place feel like home again for Plankton.

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Ȧ̶̡͍̺͚͆͒̋́̚̚ͅA̷̡̪̘̺̝̿̿À̸͔͎̈Ǎ̴͚͉͋͗̓̀̈́̂̑A̸̲̱͙͈̿̍̚A̷̧̝͚̳̞̯̽̀A̸̤̲̼̝̥͉̠̪̅̓͐́͒̍À̷̖̩̠̗̝͙͚͆A̵̗͈͗́̌͒̾́̍͘À̸͓̫͉̦̺͍̽̍̈͠ͅȂ̸̢͇̙̐̃̎͐̄̀͠Ą̸̼̼̜͖͕͌͗̊̉̔͒͜Ǎ̵͓͚͇͇̩͔͈̉̉A̸͖͎̙̿͂͌̇̈́͜A̸̘̩͓͓͂̓͜ͅͅÀ̸̧̫̜͈̮̦̗͜͝͠ Ȧ̶̡͍̺͚͆͒̋́̚̚ͅA̷̡̪̘̺̝̿̿À̸͔͎̈Ǎ̴͚͉͋͗̓̀̈́̂̑A̸̲̱͙͈̿̍̚A̷̧̝͚̳̞̯̽̀A̸̤̲̼̝̥͉̠̪̅̓͐́͒̍À̷̖̩̠̗̝͙͚͆A̵̗͈͗́̌͒̾́̍͘À̸͓̫͉̦̺͍̽̍̈͠ͅȂ̸̐̃̎͐̄...

𝙰̷𝚊̷𝙱̷𝚋̷𝙲̷𝚌̷𝙳̷𝚍̷𝙴̷𝚎̷𝙵̷𝚏̷𝙶̷𝚐̷𝙷̷𝚑̷𝙸̷𝚒̷𝙹̷𝚓̷𝙺̷𝚔̷𝙻̷𝚕̷𝙼̷𝚖̷𝙽̷𝚗̷𝙾̷𝚘̷𝙿̷𝚙̷𝚀̷𝚚̷𝚁̷𝚛̷𝚂̷𝚜̷𝚃̷𝚝̷𝚄̷𝚞̷𝚅̷𝚟̷𝚆̷𝚠̷𝚇̷𝚡̷𝚈̷𝚢̷𝚉̷𝚣̷

꯭꯭꯭꯭།̶꯭͞🍭̶꯭͞❱† ⇡ ★¦کیانا¦★ (̶͟͞✞ ̶̶̸]̶꯭͞̶͕͞ᴋᶦᴀⁿᴀ̶꯭͞͝➶͞❰̶꯭꯭꯭꯭꯭꯭꯭꯭͞͝⚠️꯭꯭꯭꯭།̶̶꯭꯭͞͞👽❱† ⇡

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Iͥ'́Mͫ ᴋⷦiͥcͨᴋⷦeͤdͩ oͦuͧᴛⷮ

t̶͕̼͖̳̱͊͐͆̒͌̋̀͆̐͐͒̽͘͜͝͠ͅĥ̴̨̫̣̠́͘͝ͅȇ̸̜̖̥̬̺͇̮̬͎̳̻̺̥̞͎̼̐͑̅̐̀̓̾͊̎̕͠͝ ̴̲̘̳̗̞̻͇̻̀̇̂́̿̈́̏̂̀c̷̛͙̞̟̬̯̱̳̭̾̀͆̓̊̈́̒̏͑͂̾̊͑͋̔͝ō̸̡̻̬̩̦̫͇͓̝̎̎́̐̈̿́̀͌̏̐̓́̈͋͜u̸̬̗̼͎̥̪̙̰͎͔͓̽̇͑̀̂͒̅̇̕͝͠ṇ̷̢͙̳͍͙̗̩̣̞̠̿͗̀͛̇̓̔̈́͛͝ͅͅc̷̢̢̛̝̞̟̬͙͙͍̭į̴̯̦͚̇̇́̆̐̃̍̂̾ļ̸̳̖̱̎̏̐̔͂́̐̓̾͑̿̉̓͋̕͝ ̸̛̦̠̤͉̼́̒̔̈́͂̿̿̈́̓̈́͝͠d̷̯̻͛̅͗̆̂̈́̊̋̚͝͝e̴͇̥̘̤̝͓͗͆̋͊̔̈́̔́̚m̴̛̞̗̦͑̋͌̆ạ̴̛̗̔̈́̿͑͌̓̓͘͘͠n̸̡͕̗̱̯͈̼̗̹̉̄̏͝d̴̨̨̛̫̰͇̟̟̼̪͚̫̫̲̔̑͂̕͜s̸̢̧̧̥̞̱͈̭̯̣̟͎̠̰̖̈͐̑͆̌̂͛̃̔͛̆̄̐̒͠͝ ̴̧̨̳̦̟̻̰̪͍̰̹̋̌́́̑̃͘i̵̢̛̲̰̅͆̇̒͑̅̽̑͗͌͛̾͌͠͝t̷̡̳̳̠̠̤̹͍̗̬̦͊̈̄̈́̓́̈́̾͛͑̀͆̓͛̓̕͜ͅ

https://www.zalgotextgenerator.com/unicode

A aͣ bͣ cͣ dͣ eͣ fͣ gͣ hͣ iͣ jͣ kͣ lͣ mͣ nͣ oͣ pͣ qͣ rͣ sͣ tͣ uͣ vͣ wͣ xͣ yͣ zͣ E aͤ bͤ cͤ dͤ eͤ fͤ gͤ hͤ iͤ jͤ kͤ lͤ mͤ nͤ oͤ pͤ qͤ rͤ sͤ tͤ uͤ vͤ wͤ xͤ yͤ zͤ I aͥ bͥ cͥ dͥ eͥ fͥ gͥ hͥ iͥ jͥ kͥ lͥ mͥ nͥ oͥ pͥ qͥ rͥ sͥ tͥ uͥ vͥ wͥ xͥ yͥ zͥ O aͦ bͦ cͦ dͦ eͦ fͦ gͦ hͦ iͦ jͦ kͦ lͦ mͦ nͦ oͦ pͦ qͦ rͦ sͦ tͦ uͦ vͦ wͦ xͦ yͦ zͦ U aͧ bͧ cͧ dͧ eͧ fͧ gͧ hͧ iͧ jͧ kͧ lͧ mͧ nͧ oͧ pͧ qͧ rͧ sͧ tͧ uͧ vͧ wͧ xͧ yͧ zͧ C aͨ bͨ cͨ dͨ eͨ fͨ gͨ hͨ iͨ jͨ kͨ lͨ mͨ nͨ oͨ pͨ qͨ rͨ sͨ tͨ uͨ vͨ wͨ xͨ yͨ zͨ D aͩ bͩ cͩ dͩ eͩ fͩ gͩ hͩ iͩ jͩ kͩ lͩ mͩ nͩ oͩ pͩ qͩ rͩ sͩ tͩ uͩ vͩ wͩ xͩ yͩ zͩ H aͪ bͪ cͪ dͪ eͪ fͪ gͪ hͪ iͪ jͪ kͪ lͪ mͪ nͪ oͪ pͪ qͪ rͪ sͪ tͪ uͪ vͪ wͪ xͪ yͪ zͪ M aͫ bͫ cͫ dͫ eͫ fͫ gͫ hͫ iͫ jͫ kͫ lͫ mͫ nͫ oͫ pͫ qͫ rͫ sͫ tͫ uͫ vͫ wͫ xͫ yͫ zͫ R aͬ bͬ cͬ dͬ eͬ fͬ gͬ hͬ iͬ jͬ kͬ lͬ mͬ nͬ oͬ pͬ qͬ rͬ sͬ tͬ uͬ vͬ wͬ xͬ yͬ zͬ T aͭ bͭ cͭ dͭ eͭ fͭ gͭ hͭ iͭ jͭ kͭ lͭ mͭ nͭ oͭ pͭ qͭ rͭ sͭ tͭ uͭ vͭ wͭ xͭ yͭ zͭ V aͮ bͮ cͮ dͮ eͮ fͮ gͮ hͮ iͮ jͮ kͮ lͮ mͮ nͮ oͮ pͮ qͮ rͮ sͮ tͮ uͮ vͮ wͮ xͮ yͮ zͮ X aͯ bͯ cͯ dͯ eͯ fͯ gͯ hͯ iͯ jͯ kͯ lͯ mͯ nͯ oͯ pͯ qͯ rͯ sͯ tͯ uͯ vͯ wͯ xͯ yͯ zͯ

Y̸̡̝̤̳͕̟͜͠Ọ̧̙̠͇̩̩̹͍͖̘̗̣̤̮̝͜U҉͏̫̩̙͇̲̜ͅ ̶̧̙̖̻̺͉͇̱̬̯͈̻͎̖̫̖̘̝͢͢ͅͅG̶͢͏̖̲͈͙̹̹͔̦͔̗̮̙͖̜̞̖̞͠Ơ̶̪̺̱̝͇͎͉̳̰͎͍̕͘T̶̨̖͓͚̤̘̭̹̟͢͢ ̬͓̠̝͈͝͝Ṱ̨͍̻̥͔̪͞H̡̤̝̟̖̦̬͉̬̯̥͙̫̩̯͙̙̀͘͠͠E̛̳̤̟̫͈̘͙̹͘͟͟͠ ̸̴̱̭̖̗̥͍̱̼͉͖̤͔̹̠͕B͎̖͎̘͜͠ͅA̸̗̙͈̯̗̮̙̭̟͝ͅD҉̸̹͉̼̬͔̰̰̬ ̨̦̲͔̣͍̻ͅĘ̵̷̮̠͉̖͔̤̩͙̘͜N̡͍̰̪̞͓̥͈͕̥̝̬̪͓̟͟D̢̢͓͍̖̣̹̮̟̰̕͝I̩̜͉̼̤̗̯̠͢ͅN̡̧̡̛̖̣̞͘G͠҉̧̮̞̟̟̤̘͟͞

˖ ࣪ ꉂ🗯˙🫐⃟.꩜‹—

⠀̴͙̮͇̼̼̻̖̩̘̮̩͈̊̅̅̾̆̓͋͘͜ ̶̨̨̙̖̲͕̼̲̠̮̞̲͕͑̂̄̒͝⠀̵̞̖͙̫̙̦̺̺͈͂͜ͅ ̵̡̹̟͍̖̼̺̞̜̲̗̤̃̔̎̆̎̎̔̈̒̉͋͝⠀̴̢̢̞̬̱̞̟͉̣̹̣̌̇͂͂̓̽͌̀́͊̄̔̀̈́̒̑̽̕ ̶̨̠͖̳͉̭̗̠͇̜͉̦̌͂͠⠀̴̧̩̣̞̙͕̳͌̏̓̄̂̀͛͜ ⠀̴̤̻̒̈́̂̄̈́͘ ̶̹͈̼̖̔̈͂̚⠀̶̓̎̀͂͜ ̶̢̬̮̦͒͘⠀̸̭̈́̈́̋̀̇̕ ̵̡̯̖͍̤̾͊͑͑̔⠀̷̨͇̿̄̍̂̽ ̸̨̐̔͜⠀̸̞̟̺̰̫̿̌ ̶̰̘̟̥̖̀̍̑.

🖱️💻Ĥąçķ3ŕ💻🖱️

/ \-----------------------------------------------------------------, \_,| | | If the world was blind how many people would you impress? | | ,--------------------------------------------------------------- \_/______________________________________________________________/

t̫͍̥͉̳ͅa͙̲ke̹͇͘ ͇̦̲̤͙m̠͡y̧̗̦̪̣͖̣ ͉͍̬̘͡h͔̭ͅa̹͔̯͖̯͉͔͠n̳̭̬̬̼̞̲d͔̹̰͈

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Z҉͜͡A҉͜͡L҉͜͡G҉͜͡O҉͜͡

﹒ʬʬ﹒⪩⪨﹒⟡﹒ᐢ..ᐢ﹒◖﹒⇅﹒○﹒✿﹒⊹﹒∇﹒✸﹒⟢﹒❀﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒♡﹒〇﹒ıllı﹒ᶻz﹒⊂⊃﹒␥﹒⿸﹒ꔠ﹒✶﹒◍﹒▿﹒⤸﹒⬚﹒៶៸﹒△﹒→﹒✶﹒（）﹒▥﹒▤﹒▦﹒▧﹒▨﹒▩﹒░﹒▒﹒▓﹒⿴﹒◫﹒⬚﹒▣﹒≧≦﹒ㄑ﹒⎙﹒➜﹒★﹒⨳﹒✿﹒❀﹒✶﹒✸﹕☆﹒◐﹒◉ ﹒◖◗﹒▽﹒ᶻz﹒‹𝟹﹒♡﹒ᐢ..ᐢ﹒﹫﹒⿴﹒→﹒☓﹕ᵔᴗᵔ﹒⺌﹒⪩⪨﹒◎﹒⊹﹒ᶻ﹕→ ．(＞。☆)﹔⇆﹒ꜛ﹒░﹒❥﹒？﹒！﹒◍﹒﹏﹒✦﹒⟡﹒＞＜﹒◌﹒⿴﹒✧﹒𖥔﹒%﹒﹙﹚﹒◜◡◝﹒ꜝꜝ﹒⟡﹒⪩⪨﹒☓﹒⬦﹒✦﹒◈﹒✶﹒⬙﹒⟡﹒⇆﹒♡﹒﹢﹒ᶻ﹒✹﹒﹢﹒✶﹑〇﹐罒﹢♡﹒⇆﹑⬚﹐ᶻ﹒❀﹐✶﹒▹﹒◖﹒✩﹒∇﹒▨﹐◌﹐❀﹒⿴﹒✿﹢﹐░﹒ᶻz﹐☆﹒⊂⊃﹑ⵌ﹒▦﹒✿﹒⺌﹒◂﹒⿴﹒❰❰﹒♡﹒ᶻz﹒❥﹒⩇﹒⊞﹐ʬʬ﹒♢﹐ᐢ..ᐢ﹐✩﹒ᶻz﹒❥﹒⟡﹒✷﹒✕﹐〇﹐✿﹒Ꜣ﹒⟡﹒˃̵ᴗ˂̵﹒♡﹐≋﹒⊂⊃﹒ᐢᗜᐢ﹒❀﹒﹢﹒⇵﹒⪨﹕↺﹐✿﹒Ꜣ﹒✶﹐≋﹒⇆﹐ʬʬ﹒﹗﹐➜﹒⬦﹕ᶻz﹒✦﹒﹢﹒▢﹒░﹒⭔﹒ʬʬ﹒✿﹒☰﹐◖◗﹒？﹒✶﹒﹏﹒ꕀ﹑ᵔᴗᵔ﹒ᗢ﹒✿﹐⊂⊃﹒ᐢᗜᐢ﹒ꕀ﹐リ﹐口﹐ꕀ﹒（｀δ´）﹒口，✿﹐⊂⊃﹒ᐢᗜᐢ﹒░﹒𖦹﹐゛✿﹑（｀δ´）﹒イ。ꕀ﹑リ﹐⊂⊃﹒ꔠ﹒口﹐･ᴗ･﹒░﹑リ﹒◐﹐、﹕✧﹒✶﹔？﹐ʬʬ﹒▹﹒❀﹒⭔﹒▿﹒⺡﹒✿﹒﹢﹒░﹑⬦﹒૪ ﹒〹﹒罒﹒ᶻz﹒◎﹐ꕀ﹒◖◗﹒⺌﹒〣﹒ᗢ﹒⺌﹒⿸﹑ꔠ﹒❀﹒➜﹒▦﹒◐﹒✷﹒◉﹒⿴﹒⿻﹒✦﹒★﹒☆﹒ıllı﹢☆﹒❀﹕▧﹒⟡﹒★﹕ıllı﹒▒﹒◎﹐☆﹒ꕀ﹐➜﹒⪩﹒〇﹐➜﹒★﹕◐﹒％﹕▧﹒⊂⊃﹒♡﹒ꕀ﹒ᶻz﹒₊ˎ✧﹒⪩﹒˃ᴗ˂﹕˃ᗜ˂﹕⿴﹒ᶻz﹒☆﹔⿴﹒✶﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒➜﹒⭔﹕⪩⪨﹢◒﹒◎﹒✿﹒⊂⊃﹔♡﹒◍﹒✦﹒⪩⪨﹒▧﹒⟡﹕➜﹐▦﹐✦﹒✶﹐﹢﹒ㄑ﹕ꕀ﹒＞＜﹐ꔠ﹐✿﹐×﹐丶﹐＞︿﹒リ﹕﹢﹐﹔★﹒ᶻz﹒⿴﹒⭔﹒✿﹒⊹﹒⭔﹒⨯﹒➜﹒★﹒◞﹒◟◝﹒◜﹒﹪﹒→﹐ıllı﹒★﹒✦﹒⌕﹒⌗﹒✿﹒⊹﹒✸﹒❍﹒⭓﹒◒﹒﹏﹒₊﹒▹﹒ᶻz﹒％﹒◖﹒░﹒ʬʬ﹒⿴﹒⫘﹒◎﹒⨳﹒⌕﹕★﹒☆﹒⌗﹐﹪﹐⌯﹐﹟﹐◐﹒▒﹒◎﹒⇆﹒☆﹒❀﹒☆﹒ıllı﹒↺﹒◍﹒✶﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒░﹒⇵﹒▧﹒◍﹒♡﹕❀﹑⿸﹕▞﹒✿﹒╰﹒░﹐◎﹒♡﹒◜ᴗ◝﹒˃ᴗ˂ ♡﹐﹅﹒✿﹒⊞﹒ıllı﹒♡﹒⊞﹕▞﹒✿﹒❀﹒⌕﹒⿸﹒✶﹒❀﹒✷﹒✸﹒▒﹒ᶻz﹒✿﹐♡﹐❀﹒░﹒⇵﹒▨﹕◍﹒♡﹒⌕﹒˃̵ᴗ˂̵﹑♡﹒✿﹒◍﹒⊞﹒∇﹒✶﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒◎﹒⇆﹒☆﹒@﹒˘ᗜ˘﹒☆﹔⿴﹒⪩﹐ᶻz﹒➜﹒⪩﹔◖﹐❀﹕⿸﹔﹢﹑ᐢᗜᐢ﹒⊂⊃﹑✿﹒◎﹒イ﹐ꕀ﹒˃̵ᴗ˂̵﹒✶﹒ꕀ﹒▦﹐⊂⊃﹒⇆﹒☆﹒⬚﹒❀﹕➜﹒⪩﹒ᗢ﹒◍﹒⊞﹒∇﹒✶﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒◎﹒ᶻz﹒⪨﹒✶﹑✹﹒⪩。ꕀ﹒✿﹒リ﹒⊞﹒⟡﹒⿴﹒☓﹐⊂⊃﹒➜﹒⟡﹒⪩⪨﹒･ᴗ･﹒ꕀ﹒ᶻz﹒✿﹒◎﹒☓﹒☆﹔リ﹒˃̵ᴗ˂̵﹒✶﹑ꕀ﹒▦﹒リ﹐⇆﹒☆﹒⬚﹒❀﹕➜﹒⪩﹒〇﹒◍﹒⊞﹒∇﹒✶﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒◎﹒ᶻz﹒⪨﹒✶﹑✹﹒⪩﹒ꕀ﹒✿﹔➜﹐﹏﹐★☆﹒┆︎﹒⩇﹒✿﹔✸﹕♡﹐◌﹒❥﹐％﹑〹．ʬʬ﹕੭﹐♢﹒口﹒⇣⇡﹒☆﹔⌗﹒⪩﹐ᶻ﹒➜﹒⪩﹔◖﹐❀﹕⿸﹑ᐢᗜᐢ﹒⊂⊃﹑✿﹒！﹒◎﹒リ﹐ꔠ﹐✿﹑∇﹒イ﹐ꕀ﹒˃̵ᴗ˂̵﹒✶﹑﹒ꕀ﹒▦﹒⊂⊃﹒⇆﹒☆﹒⬚﹒❀﹕➜﹒⪩﹒⩇﹕✿﹒ʬʬ﹕口﹐〇﹒◍﹒⊞﹒∇﹒✶﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒◎﹒ᶻz﹒⪨﹒✶﹑✹﹒⪩﹐ꕀ﹒✿﹒⊞﹒⟡﹒⿸﹑␥﹒♡﹕リ﹒☓﹐⊂⊃﹒➜﹒⟡﹒⪩⪨﹒･ᴗ･﹒ꕀ﹒ᶻz﹒✿﹒☓﹒✩﹒⊞﹕❀﹑◌﹒⊞﹒✸﹕⌗﹕★﹒ᶻz﹒✦﹒★☆﹒ıllı﹢☆﹕❀﹒▧﹒⟡﹒★﹕ıllı﹐▒﹒◎﹐☆﹒ꕀ﹔➜﹒⪩﹒〇﹐➜﹒★﹕◐﹒％﹐⊂⊃﹒♡﹒ꕀ﹒ᶻz﹒✧﹒˃̵ᴗ˂̵﹕˃ᗜ˂﹒ꕀ﹒ᶻz﹒☆﹔⿴﹒✶﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒➜﹒⭔﹕⪩⪨﹐﹢﹐◒﹒⊂⊃﹔♡﹒◍﹒✦﹒⪩⪨﹒▧﹒⟡﹕➜﹐▦﹒✦﹒✶﹐ㄑ﹕ꕀ﹒＞＜﹐ꔠ﹑ꕤ﹒░﹒◖﹒⟡﹒❀﹒→﹒⿴﹒⿻﹒⊞﹒♡﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒︴﹒✶﹒⭔﹐𓆩♡𓆪﹒リ﹒Ꮺ﹒キ﹒ꗃ﹒⿶﹒⌓﹒〹﹒⧅﹒◆﹒▽﹒ᐢ..ᐢ﹒⬙﹒⎙﹒◈﹒▣﹒ᶻz﹒⟢﹒ʬʬ﹒⊹﹒✷﹒◉﹒⿸﹒✶﹒❀﹒✷﹒⿻﹒⌇﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒◍﹒▿﹒⤸﹒○﹒░﹒⇵﹒☆﹒@﹒˘ᗜ˘﹒⬚﹒✸﹒▧﹒◎﹒♡﹒◜ᴗ◝﹒✸﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒✿﹑⟡﹒❀﹒★﹒➔﹒％﹒ᗜ﹔﹒⌗﹒﹪﹒﹒⟢﹒ᵔᴗᵔ﹒✮﹒^..^﹒

👹̶̟̙̲͑̿̓̅͜

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𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

⤹ ⊹ text ୨୧ 🌱 ₊˚๑

卄̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̤̥̦̩̍მ̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̤̥̦̍ᑭ̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̤̥̍̎ᑭ̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̤̍̎̄Ⴤ̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̍̎̄̅ N̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̍̎̄̅̿̑ᗴ̖̗̘̙̜̝̍̎̄̅̿̑̆ധ̖̗̘̙̜̍̎̄̅̿̑̆̐ Ƴ̖̗̘̍̎̄̅̿̑̆̐͒͗ᗴ̖̗̍̎̄̅̿̑̆̐͒͗͑მ̖̍̎̄̅̿̑̆̐͒͗͑̇Ɍ̖̍̎̄̅̿̑̆̐͒͗͑̇̈

⸨𝗦͜͡⸩⸨𝗵͜͡⸩⸨𝗮͜͡⸩⸨𝗻͜͡⸩⸨𝗲͜͡⸩

🏈⃪⃕ᤢ◍᪶˖໋݊⌲

━━━━*⃝̥┈┈┈┈♡┈┈┈┈*⃝̥━━━━

Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ (Full name: Z͠a̛'l͘ga̶t҉ot̡h)