P. Route 66 is a stringy, dispersed landscape of American detritus. Unlit neon signs advertise long-closed postwar establishments called, for example, the “Atomic Inn.” From I-40 east of Albuquerque, pull off at Tucumcari and drive northeast along the diagonal of highway 54, which used to run all the way to Chicago. The landscape before you gradually flattens. The plains increase. Shortly before the Texas line you will find Nara Visa, New Mexico.
On ghosttowns.com, Nara Visa is categorized most poetically as “semi-ghost.” It is surrounded by the sort of ranches that look vacant but probably aren’t. Though it’s properly in the Mountain Time Zone, Nara Visa observes Central Time. The name is not Spanish; it is a mondegreen of the town’s original name Narvaez, after a prominent local sheepherding family. There are everywhere decaying signs of occupation. There are people, but they are hiding. There is evidently still an occasional Cowboy Gathering in Nara Visa--one was scheduled for September 2013. “Shows are not organized until everyone arrives on Friday night,” the website reads. “A schedule of events is announced, but not rigidly followed.” Among these events is a bubble gum spitting contest. An account is given of the 2010 event, ostensibly the most recent. “Sunday ended the very successful and fun filled weekend with a biscuit and gravy breakfast followed by a Cowboy church service.” Various vintage cars and trucks rust away along the road, and buildings fall into disrepair. The old historic school is still being used as a community center--in fact, it is the host and primary beneficiary of the Cowboy Gathering. The post office, established in 1902, is still open. P. Two or three deserts away, depending on how you count them, over the Colorado Plateau and over the high Sierras and the Coast Range and down to the ocean, there is a place called Petaluma, California. It has been known by such monikers as the “Egg Capital of the World” and “Chickaluma” for its prominent chicken processing industry. The egg incubator was invented there in 1879. Petaluma remains notable for its large quantity of historic buildings, including many that survived the great San Francisco earthquake of 1906. In late 1962 a composer named Harry Partch moved into one of the city’s abandoned chick hatcheries. Partch’s story is long and sinuous, and it’s awfully hard to decide where to begin and which beautiful details to omit. Born in 1901, he spent much of his childhood in a small wild-west town in Arizona, the son of missionaries who had lived in China and who taught him songs in Yaqui and Spanish. He rambled up and down the west coast, studying music formally and informally, exploring tuning theory and history, and beginning to build his own instruments. In 1930, dedicated to forging a new path outside the European classical tradition, he burned all his juvenile compositions in a potbelly stove in New Orleans. He traveled to New York in 1933 and found some support from the community of experimental composers that had thrived there in the 1920s. He won a grant that took him to England for study and research. He met William Butler Yeats and planned a collaboration. Then the Great Depression caught up with Partch, and he spent chunks of the subsequent decade traveling as a hobo, riding the rails and working occasionally while continuing to compose music and develop theories of harmony and tuning. His relationship to the musical establishment improved in the 1940s; he received a Guggenheim grant in 1943 and worked in residence at the University of Wisconsin from 1944-1947. For the rest of his life he went wherever he could find financial support and safe housing for his large collection of hand-built instruments. Partch lived in Petaluma for less than two years, long enough to write And on the Seventh Day Petals Fell in Petaluma. It is his only mature, extended work that is not vocal or theatrical in nature; the 35-minute form is entirely instrumental and was meant in part as a didactic exercise to train a new ensemble of performers. Some of the music became part of his final theater work, Delusion of the Fury, which premiered in 1969. It doesn’t sound like anything you’ve heard before, because you’ve never heard these instruments before, because Partch built them, tailored them to fit his unique tuning systems. There are no voices, no dialogue and no story, but the music still feels narrative in the way it progresses continuously between states. Every minute or so the music stops and there is a change; like a strange picaresque on the southwestern plains, the form travels in episodes, gets itself in and out of trouble as it floats downriver. I don’t remember why I put on this music as I drove up highway 54, but I know that it felt perfectly right in Nara Visa and beyond as I crossed the Texas panhandle into that strange country far from the interstate highways, outside our own time. I think now of young Partch and his parents in their little house in Arizona, singing Chinese songs and speaking with Yaqui holy men. The wild west isn’t a whole region, anymore, but it’s out there in pockets; it emerges when and where we aren’t paying attention. When I drove through Nara Visa, though I didn’t see anyone, I wouldn’t have been surprised to glance through the broken windows of one of those paint-stripped old houses to see a young man in ragged clothes perched over a potbelly stove, burning all his papers but a notebook with some drawings of zithers and viols in scales no one had ever used before. P. Königsberg was a Prussian city along both sides of the Pregel River. Today it is known as Kaliningrad, Russia. The city center encompassed two islands in the Pregel, and there were seven bridges that crossed from the mainland to, from, and between the islands. The problem is this: how does one walk through Königsberg, crossing each bridge once and only once? The walk can begin and end anywhere, but each bridge must be crossed completely, and there can be no retracing of steps. It is actually impossible, and when Leonhard Euler proved this mathematically in 1735 he opened the way to new frontiers in graph and topological analysis--just by proving that the task could not be done. The first thing Euler did was dispense with the map. It was clear to him that starting and ending points and intermediate paths didn’t matter; only the order of bridges was important. He could therefore formulate the puzzle in abstract terms, eliminating unnecessary features to focus on points and their connections. He made, in short, a graph. The fundamental question is how many bridges touch each landmass--in abstract terms, how many paths diverge from each point. Even-numbered nodes, that is, landmasses with an even number of bridges, are crucial. Such points can be accessed and then departed from, a traveler will never get stuck there. Königsberg had too many odd-numbered nodes. One odd-numbered node on the map would be fine; a traveler could start there and simply not return. But Königsberg had four. There were too many places to get stuck. Variations of the problem have been formulated for math students, often with fanciful decorations of the nodes--taverns, for example, and castles occupied by Red and Blue Princes--but as we see from Euler, these descriptive elements are only a distraction from the basic mathematical information. The graph is what matters. Two of the historic bridges were destroyed when Königsberg was bombed during World War II. When the puzzle is rewritten to fit the current, five-bridge Königsberg, the Eulerian walk becomes possible. P. West Virginia is ripped across with small mountain ranges, cut under with enormous cave systems, and spanned through by meandering, dead-ending roads with memorable names like “Paint Gap” and “Johnson Gulch.” Generally economically depressed throughout its history, the state has seen financial booms resulting only from the removal of fossil fuels, especially coal, from the earth. It has a haunted, empty quality tied to its coal mining history; one feels the presence of ghost towns and hollow ground.
The state is one of the world’s most heavily karstic regions; everywhere subterranean water has eroded away layers of rock, creating caves and underwater lakes. So truly the earth below you is often full of holes, and West Virginia suggests the feeling that much of what is going on is unseen. Its capital, Charleston, offers an unexpected dose of comeliness and cultural enlightenment at the confluence of two rivers. I always have a surprisingly lovely time in Charleston. The people I’ve met there are kind beyond the typical expectation, unpretentious, culturally aware. I was there on a choir tour in college. Knowing only West Virginia’s backwoods, Appalachian reputation, we were surprised that the members of our host church started sentences with statements like, “Now, I know quite a bit about Nigerian history, but...” My roommate and I stayed with a single mother of two young children. Around the breakfast table they revised full-length book reports composed in impeccable grammar. I remember walking from the beautiful church across downtown Charleston to a museum, crossing the river, the trees not yet blooming in March. A few years later I crossed the state on a solo drive in early February. I was on my way to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, near Charlottesville. The weather in most of the country had been mild but West Virginia was a sky island of snow. I seemed to ascend as I drove out of Ohio and descend as I crossed into Virginia. The highway passed through narrow valleys; I couldn’t hold on to any radio stations for long, and phone service was extremely patchy. As I drove through Charleston at 9:00 in the morning it was crisp and cold, with patches of snow by the river. I pulled off for a moment to get a view of the striking state capitol building. I found the local NPR station, which was playing Maurice Ravel’s String Quartet. I rolled down the windows for a minute. P. Benjamin Britten wrote Hymn to St. Cecilia on a ship crossing the Atlantic in 1942. The music is for unaccompanied choir, based on a poem by W.H. Auden. The text pays homage to St. Cecilia, the patron saint of music, offering an invocation to Cecilia that she might give inspiration to mortal composers. The poem also suggests deep themes of innocence and its loss, on the personal level as well as that of humanity at large. The piece begins with a description of Cecilia in a garden by the ocean, singing to God and building the first organ “to enlarge her prayer.” In some versions of the story she dies a martyr’s death, unrelenting in her prayerful song. In both versions, the saint is revered not for the quality of her music-making, but for the dedication she shows to the divine through the music. In the second movement Auden writes short, flitting phrases that Britten sets against each other in fluttering counterpoint; the music rises and falls like a young bird trying flight, expressing the innocence and ignorant enthusiasm of childhood. The third movement is more enigmatic, with images of ruin and the fall of man. It shows us the imperfection of the human condition to explain how we reach for musical creation in an attempt to reach unity with the divine. Language fails to communicate the mystery we notice all around us. We all become Cecilia, singing to the ocean, singing to the sky, our voices resonating into the ground and the caves below our feet. The text also contains a personal message from Auden, who was an occasionally overbearing artistic advisor to Britten. In the third movement the text finds resonance between the archetypal journey of the composer in a society broken by World War II and the personal travails of Britten himself. Notably, the more sexually liberated Auden encouraged Britten to embrace his homosexuality and fully accept himself. In the poem he tells his friend, “O bless the freedom that you never chose, O wear your tribulation like a rose.” Britten worked on the music beginning in 1940, but when he boarded a ship in 1942 to return to England, customs officers confiscated his drafts on suspicion that they might contain coded messages. (As Auden wrote, “O dear white children casual as birds, playing among the ruined languages...”) Thus Britten became innocent Cecilia on the decks of the MS Axel Johnson, offering his prayer to the passing ocean. P. An impossible bottle is a glass bottle containing an object ostensibly too large to fit through the bottle’s mouth. The “ship in a bottle” is the most familiar example. The practice has its origin as a maritime art form practiced by sailors during their (evidently plentiful) free time at sea. These ships can be constructed outside the bottle and slid in with their masts and sails lowered and connected to strings that are subsequently used to raise the rigged elements. The truly dextrous can also build a ship inside the bottle, using long, thin tools. Other objects can be used to make impossible bottles. I’ve seen tennis balls, scissors, a Rubik’s cube, and packs of cigarettes inside undamaged glass bottles. Evidently this broader approach to the impossible bottle was popularized by a magician named Harry Eng in the middle twentieth century. Artists and magicians have since proceeded further, creating diorama scenes and complex sculptures inside bottles. The puzzle, of course, is in the mind of the beholder, and centers on how the bottle was made. Most practitioners prefer to maintain a shroud of mystery around their methods and techniques, so instructions for making most types of impossible bottles are hard to come by. One supposes that in all cases it requires a great deal of creative thinking and a tremendous quantity of patience. One inexplicably poetic instance of an impossible bottle features a liter-sized glass bottle containing a sealed deck of playing cards. There seems to be only one way a deck of cards could enter the neck of the bottle, which is one at a time. Literature and reality alike are awash with tales of messages in bottles. In myth we imagine them crossing the ocean to reach distant loves. In life too these missives make tremendous journeys, but more often through time than across great distances. A wise man and prodigious backpacker once told me that when we set out to travel across a country or world region, what we’re really doing is traveling in our own time, traveling around and through an era, a world cultural moment. Recently a New Jersey man was combing debris washed ashore by Hurricane Sandy when he found a bottle he’d tossed into the Atlantic fifty years prior. It contained a small note introducing the author, then 12 years old, along with a series of questions constituting a “scientific experiment.” He had included a self-addressed envelope and five cents for return postage. He placed it in the ocean in 1963. It traveled only two tenths of a mile to the spot where he discovered it in August 2013. The questions were as follows: “Where did you find bottle?” “Date when found?” “How did you find it?” “Anything else which might help me?” P. Driving west from Austin through the hill country and up an uncontextualizably long section of I-10 where the speed limit of 80 seems painfully slow, the trees become shorter and shorter until they disappear completely, and at some moment, imperceptibly, you enter the West.
Texas is not known for its parklands. In fact, it has the country’s largest percentage of private land ownership -- 84% of the state’s 171 million acres are privately owned and not greatly accessible for rambling. Nor is Texas usually associated with countercultural impulses. Austin has a growing reputation in this regard, though longtime residents will tell you the city’s fundamental character is being threatened--or perhaps has already been rooted out--by gentrification and development. No, most Americans think of Texas and hear strains of commercial country music, the affected drawl of George W. Bush, and the roars of the large vehicles that busy its urban highways. For these reasons the far west corner of Texas comes as a consistent surprise. There is tremendous space. There are vibrant enclaves of genuine American weirdness. There are artists and desert rats and cultural expatriates, different-drummer libertarians who want to get away from the government. It feels like a different country, yet it is still, charmingly, Texas. The uninitiated are likely drawn to the area for one of two reasons. One would be the town of Marfa, which began its life as a railroad stop but in recent decades entered a restless new phase as an unlikeliest mecca for minimalist-inclined artists from New York. Driving in from across the emptiness is a dramatic experience. The ranchers are still there, yet most of town has begun to feel like a pocket of Brooklyn in the middle of the desert. There are art galleries and boutique clothing stores. There is a huge installation of aluminum sculptures in a decommissioned airplane hangar. There is a small public radio station, a beautifully curated bookstore, a cafe through the side door of a small house serving potato-jalapeño soup. Marfa has received some press lately, but it doesn’t jump off the map, and most visitors to far west Texas are there because of a green area that does: Big Bend National Park, straight south of Marfa along the titular bend of the Rio Grande. The great exception to Texas’ preference for private land ownership, Big Bend is immense, dwarfing. Simply getting there makes a significant impression; from the “next door” community of Marfa the drive takes about an hour and a half at 75, the land in between stark and intimidating. Big Bend is a powerful place, inviting to quiet and thoughtlessness and the contemplation of contrasts. Most of the park sits at a low elevation, open desert that hugs the river and expands widely to meet the plains north. But then there are the Chisos Mountains rising a mile into the blue Texas air. From Emory Peak, the crow’s nest of the Chisos some 8,000 feet above Austin, you see 180 degrees of Texas and another 180 of Mexico. The Chisos Basin is a comely bowl of a valley where they’ve placed a generally agreeable visitor’s center and lodge. A cut in the mountains to the west opens a view out across the desert below to Terlingua and Lajitas. Terlingua, home of an internationally famous chili cook-off, is another former mining community that was abandoned for decades before, for some reason, people started moving back in. I picked up a book called Why Terlingua? at one of the shops in town, a little collection of locals’ stories. It was full of anecdotes like, “I asked around to see if anyone was living in the dynamite shack, and they said no, so I put a door on it and I lived in that dynamite shack for nine years.” The river flows a ways south of Terlingua. With a good enough vehicle you can traverse the national park’s backcountry roads and camp right along its banks. Seen from its banks or from the mountains above, it’s hard to fathom the profound consequences that resulted when someone managed to tell everyone that one side of that river was the United States and the other side of it was Mexico. Standing by the river it seems awfully futile and arbitrary. It is just a river. It has two sides. One time I was there in the park in late May. It was 108 degrees outside when we pulled into our campsite. There was barely any choice but to sit in the river, and that’s what we did pretty much all evening, as the expanse of the Chihuahuan Desert and Mexico loomed out to the south and the quiet Chisos towered above us. P. Jürg Frey is a quiet Swiss gentleman who writes stark music extreme in its precision and clarity. The music mediates between sound and silence, between meaningful motion and absolute stasis. He plays the clarinet and is known as a member of the Wandelweiser composers’ collective. In 2012 American pianist Andy Lee released an album of Frey’s piano music. It opens with a fifteen-minute piece called Klavierstück 2, a mysterious set of piano chords floating in a dusky non-teleological ether. Sometimes a chord is repeated, for a little while; at other times the music simply stops. We seem to be perhaps going somewhere, but clearly we are going there slowly. After five minutes, all activity halts and the pianist plays a simple perfect fourth -- an E and an A at the center of the keyboard -- 468 times. This interlude lasts for seven and a half minutes, which is half the length of the piece. Your perception is forced to shift. Now there is no forward motion at all; the music has ceased to be horizontal and become a stationary, vertical construction. The only horizontal, progressive elements, the only temporal landmarks, are now emerging from your own consciousness. You notice your patience ebbing and your attention focusing on the steady repetitions. You begin to allow sounds from outside the music to enter the experience; you notice the subtly changing state of the world outside the piece. A friend of mine recently suggested we might be better off if we could perceive time not as a passing or loss, not as something we can spend and waste like currency, but simply as a slow and inexorable shifting of light. Like sitting in the river that 108-degree day along the Big Bend, too hot to go anywhere or do anything, watching the clouds pass and the sunset proceed. A sunset is not divisible into any meaningful, discrete component stages. It is a shifting thing. It is change. Finally, the E-A perfect fourth relents to another interval. The music continues for a few more moments, the opening’s soupiness counterbalanced with some higher, clarion sounds. And then the piece is over. P. The Voynich Manuscript is a colorfully illustrated book handwritten on vellum in a mysterious, unknown script. It has been dated to the early 15th century and is suspected to be from Northern Italy. It is named for Wilfrid Voynich, a book dealer who owned it for a time; no one knows who wrote it, or why. No one knows what it says, or if in fact it says anything at all. There are drawings on many of the pages. These largely fail to provide much in the way of textual clues, though they do fall into broad categories (plants, stars, etc.) that suggest an organization of the book’s content, should this content actually exist, into roughly six sections. Studies of the script suggest that syntactically and on grounds of letter frequency it seems to be a semantic language, but professional crytographers have been at it for a good while now, and no one has made any progress decoding the thing. If, in fact, there is a code at all. The regularity of the printing suggests that the author wrote easily and continuously, without the stops and breaks one would expect in an encoded text. So perhaps the script is not a cipher but an invented language or an original system of transcription for a non-European world language. Perhaps the author was a mystic, writing in a stream of consciousness while experiencing altered states of being. And yet the text is so consistent, with recurring word patterns and glyphs and shifting layers. It seems to suggest content, and yet the closer one looks, the more this content blurs out of focus. There are many competing theories as to the book’s authorship. Many incredulous people have proposed the book to be some sort of hoax. This idea says more of the theorist, so leery of being hoodwinked, than it does of the text. And the hoax question is less one of meaning and more one of intention; what was the author’s purpose in creating such a book, and was he or she putting us on? If it is nonsense, it is extremely careful nonsense, nonsense of the highest possible order. It isn’t immediately clear whether this would make the document more or less remarkable. P. Grand Lake, Colorado is 8300 feet above sea level. It’s hard not to love this about it. From the hospital where I was born you’d have to gaze straight up over a mile and a half to get an idea of where Grand Lake is. When I imagine doing this, I begin to envision the town as a sort of strange floating little sky kingdom, which is more or less what it is.
The lake itself, the largest natural one in the state, is over six hundred feet deep and often designated as the headwaters of the Colorado River. It is ringed by mountains on each side, most dramatically to the east, where a glacial valley eases up to commanding Mt. Craig (known locally as “Baldy”). Bordered tightly by Rocky Mountain National Park, Grand Lake hosts an annual tourist inundation that swells in mid-June, peaks on the Fourth of July, and abates quickly after Labor Day. Though its veneer is that of a tourist community, you’ll quickly find that Grand Lake has the soft, sensitive underbelly of a gritty mountain town. Since it offers no particularly good access to developed ski areas, when the weather gets cold the tourists, and nearly all of the residents, disappear. At times during the winter local business owners maintain a rotation such that one, but only one, restaurant remains open on any given day. At this point the major recreational attraction is snowmobiling -- a niche pastime, but one that draws a certain subset. It is legal, in Grand Lake, to drive one’s snowmobile on town roads. Locals insist that the winter is wonderful: quiet (apart from the snowmobiles), sunny, and not as cold as one would expect. They save their ire for the springtime “mud season,” when snowmelt soaks the ground and puts a temporary halt to most all outdoor activities. Above town to the north, bordered on all sides by the national park, is the historic property of the Grand Lake Lodge. They claim their front porch to be the best in Colorado, which might be too modest an appellation. Rising from the opposite shore is Shadow Mountain. From the lookout tower on the summit there is a tremendous vista of the lake and its sailboats, two large reservoirs to the south, and green and brown in the forests stretching in every direction. The old-growth ponderosa forests in Grand County, decades removed from their last major cleansing burn, are suffering dramatically from destructive infestations of the mountain pine beetle. The forests are brown and patchy. Hundreds of trees fall each day. But as a result more sunlight is reaching the forest floor, and brush and aspen saplings have begun to emerge. In Colorado the people are mostly on the east side of the continental divide and the water is mostly to the west. Gazing from the summit of Shadow Mountain it is difficult to envision the tunnel that runs under Mt. Craig, taking water down from Middle Park to the population centers of the Front Range. Given the seasonal nature of Grand Lake’s tourist economy, businesses emerge, disappear, and change ownership with some frequency. Take note of trivia nights at the Lariat, the shuffleboard table at Grumpy’s, and the delightful Grand Lake Lanes bowling alley, which offers great pizza and the best Bloody Mary in town. P. Steve Reich went to go hear Coltrane play in New York in the sixties. The former was a composer. The latter, of course, played the saxophone. When Coltrane and his band arrived at the gig they had a pile of tunes to draw from and their improvisations could range significantly in length. When they were done, Coltrane could pack up his instrument and disappear into the night. Reich coveted this direct and functional relationship with music-making and with his audience, so he too started a band, and he worked with musical structures that spun simple ideas into longer threads. He wrote Music for 18 Musicians for this group, which gave its premiere on April 24, 1976. The thread stretches for an hour of continuous music. The titular eighteen are mostly divided between pianos, marimbas, and xylophones; there are also four singers, two strings, and two clarinetists. A cycle of eleven chords is drawn into eleven musical sections. A continuous pulsing rhythm underlies the oscillating melodies, like a blanket set down on dewy grass. The piece is as intensely focused as an hour-long late Coltrane solo, but it also surges with the power of the communal. It’s less a soliloquy and more a group chanting session. Short melodies wrap around each other like the interfering elliptical orbits of little planets in a tiny, spinning, terribly crowded star system. Constantly repeating yet constantly changing, as though in one hour’s time you could watch the steady progress of the stars across the sky the way you’d see them if you could lie for a whole night on the dock at Point Park in Grand Lake. The quiet hum of the stars above you and the soft churn of the lake below. P. A disentanglement puzzle is an ancient type of physical puzzle featuring mechanically interlocking elements. The main apparatus is an ornate metal construction from which another object, often a wire loop, must be freed. These were sometimes called “tavern puzzles,” as in the middle ages they were forged by blacksmiths to entertain friends over drinks. In another popular version, one must free a loop of string from a mazed system of rigid wire. A common puzzle of this sort is the famous “Five Pillars Puzzle,” which has been traced to second-century China. These models share a common recipe: (1) a static system; (2) a foreign element that must be extricated from the system. A similar game, the Vexier, differs in that it features two intertwined wires that must be untangled. In this non-hierarchical model, there is no underlying base. When the puzzle is complete, two distinct systems result. Perhaps the most familiar disentanglement puzzle today is the “Human Knot.” A group of people stand in a circle and grasp a hand each with two people across the circle. The task is to undo the knot, forming a neat circle, without releasing hands. The game is a common “icebreaker” in team-building activities, and can be executed with any number of people. It can be made more difficult by muting or blindfolding certain individuals. Some human knots, when unraveled, result in two separate circles. Some human knots are not solvable. So, a few years ago Ben wrote a cool quirky creepy little multiple-voices piece called Lorem Ipsum Requiem. The lorem ipsum text is used by designers and webfolks as a placeholder in templates and such. It's a paragraph or so of meaningless, mangled Latin. Which is pretty cool, right, and so Ben based his piece on it. Neat idea.
He told me today that pretty much right as soon as he released the thing, he swiftly learned of several other composers who had worked with the lorem ipsum text. It turns out that there are loads of composers in the world these days, and any neat idea you come up shall probably swiftly be come up with by at least a few of them, too. It almost makes you want to quit the game on neat ideas entirely and just write instrumental music with generic titles. Unfortunately, that too is a neat idea. I'm pleased to announce a new blog series called a Place, a Piece, a Puzzle.
Each week I'll outline one geographical place alongside one piece of modern classical music with a corresponding atmosphere. Somewhat more enigmatically, I'll close by describing a puzzle. This category is fairly open and will include famous logic puzzles from history, riddles, geometric problems, and other puzzling miscellanea. The first installment will be released next week, Tuesday, October 8th. Subsequent installments will appear each Tuesday until December 17th. |
A Selection• Gone Walkabout
• Migration • Music as Drama • Crossroads II • 10 Best of 2014 • January: Wyoming and the Open • February: New Mexico and the Holes • Coming Up • Notes on The Accounts • Crossroad Blues • Labyrinths Archives
October 2020
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