Brice Taylor: Thanks For The Memories

 

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http://files.meetup.com/562554/Brice%20Taylor%20-%20Thanks%20for%20the%20memories.pdf

Below are a few excerpts from Susan Ford’s book. She has forgiven her father but I wonder if the creator has? The politics we see all around us today are a soft form of mind control.

“A former labor attorney for Atlantic Richfield Co., David E. Rosenbaum, conducted a nine-year investigation (1983-1992) concerning allegations of physical torture and coercive conditioning of numerous employees at anARCO plant in Monaca, PA. [20] His clients, Jerry L.Dotey and Ann White, were victims of apparent radiation exposure; but as Mr. Rosenbaum probed deeper in the subsequent interview sessions, a”Pandora’s Box” was unveiled. His most astonishing conclusion was that Jerry Dotey and Ann Whitewere likely the offspring of Adolf Hitler, based in part on the uncanny resemblance from photos (facial features, bone structure and size were taken into consideration). Rosenbaum also states, “They both exhibit feelings and experiences that indicate they are twins.”

Dotey and White were allegedly subjected to torture of many kinds while under drug-induced hypnosis, with each one undergoing at least three training techniques by plant physicians. Each victim was trained to enter into a hypnotic state upon the occurrence of specific stimuli,usually involving a “cue” word or phrase and trained to “remember to forget” what transpired in the hypnotic state. They were repeatedly subjected to identical stimulus-response sequences to produce nearly automatic reactions to the particular status. MKULTRA veterans Dr. Bernard Diamond, Dr.Martin Orne and Dr. Josef Mengele regularly visited the ARCO plant, according to Rosenbaum.

Around this time, my mother joined the First Baptist Church of Woodland Hills, and began taking me with her to church. Later, in therapy, I remembered and drew pictures of tunnels that I remembered running under the church that connected with neighboring homes of inner circle church perpetrators. On Sunday mornings, my mother left me in the nursery while she went to the sermon. Members of the church staff, some of them neighbor women and the minister, ritualistically abused me in that church. The elder minister who abused me was Rev. Grant B.Yeatman.

By age two, I was out of the church nursery and attending a small Sunday school class with other children. One Sunday, when I was a bit older, Rev.Yeatman walked into my Sunday school class and watched as we played a game and drew pictures. He pointed to me and said that I was “God’s chosen”and told me to follow him. Once we were outside in a protected area, he forced my head down under his robe to perform oral sex on him like my father had prepared me from birth to do. After I was finished,he wiped my mouth with a handkerchief and told me that I was going to hell for what I had just done, but that I would be forgiven if I never told anyone about it. He further offered to pray for my soul and then sent me back to my Sunday school class.

Another Sunday, after being sodomized in a back room by Rev. Yeatman, he took me by the hand back to my Sunday school class, bent down and pointed to a picture of Jesus sitting with the little children around him and whispered, “Jesus will never love a little girl who is as bad and evil as you.” From then on I believed there was something terribly wrong with me and that I would never fit in with other people. I figured Jesus couldn’t love me because I was so bad. Parts of me died inside. But deep within my soul, in my innermost hidden and protected self, angelic beings continually reminded me of God’s love for me and of their support. When I was tortured to the extent of being projected out of body due to the extreme pain, Jesus’ Angels spoke lovingly to me and explained that I needed to go back into my body, that some day when I was older I would understand. But subconsciously, in my limited child understanding, I believed I was unlovable and hideous in the eyes of God.

Other Sundays, different children were “God’s chosen” and had to leave the room with the minister. Many of the people who worked at the church, the church secretary and the Sunday schoolteachers, were neighbors of ours and, I now understand were most likely ritually abused as children and were carrying out their violent actions via their own unconscious childhood programming. While I was still very small, my father had an affair with another church secretary named Selma McGrew who lived in the house behind ours. She participated in my “preparation” by allowing my father to include me in the sex they were having. Being so young and small I often felt I would be killed during these encounters, and so I split off more personalities to endure it.

Night time was never intended for sleeping at our house but instead was a time of training. My mother was the only one allowed and/or commanded to sleep. My two older brothers, Jim and Rick, and my father came into my room night after night, creating an endless array of different forms of sexual abuse, all under my father’s direction. My brother Rick, who is four years older than I, was selected to participate more often and my father used him to help “prepare” me for use as a child prostitute and for my approaching debut in pornography. The two of us were sexually abused together and were both electroshocked with bare electric wires to our genitals. I painfully remembered my brother sitting robotically my father attached a bare wire to his penis and then inserted the opposite end in the electrical outlet, sending his little body into uncontrollable spasms. Tears flooded my brother’s eyes and ran down his cheeks as he then was forced to watch as I was electroshocked.

For years my mother told the story of how she continually found my brother hiding behind the couch shocking himself by inserting bare wires into the electrical outlet. She laughed a kind of confused, questioning laugh as she spoke this. She probably couldn’t think to question where the bare-wired cord came from or why her young son was continually seeking to electroshock himself. I stuck a table knife in an electrical socket so often that there was a knife in the kitchen drawer that was notched from being repeatedly inserted into the outlet. This unconscious act reinforced our programming.

At two, I was initiated into the inner circle with a celebration dedicating me as the bride of Christ.I was drugged, dressed in a long white lace gown, and passed around the circle of drugged members as they sat around a bonfire in a vacant lot, during the middle of the night. Each member fondled me sexually, then I was lain on an altar to be raped and dedicated to Christ and the group. The inner circle members wore black robes and participated in sexual orgies and the killing and ingesting of animal and human flesh. Their belief was that these cannibalistic and sexual acts would transfer the energy or life force from the victim to them in order to make them more powerful.

I was involved in endless rituals that included being burned with candles, having crucifix’s jammed up my vagina as I lay on an alter or hung upside down on a cross, having pins inserted into every area of my body including my vagina and the roof of my mouth, and having animals and babies killed in front of me and being forced to eat their raw flesh and drink their blood or urine. Other children were involved in the rituals, and when we reached a certain age we were forced to participate in killing animals and babies. In order to psychologically survive these experiences, many additional personalities within me were created. Nothing was ever as painful as being forced to inflict pain on another or watch as others were tortured or killed. Holidays always signaled times of trauma.

One Christmas I awoke excited to see what Santa had brought for me. My two worlds and the personalities that lived in them were continually subjected to different realities, and this day was to be no different. Susie in her red velveteen robe got special treatment while other personalities had “Xmas,” a very different painful and evil reality. While Susie got a Christmas stocking full of goodies, Sharon got razor blades and coal and parts of dead animals.

” Sharon” was another one of my inner personalities my father created, which he developed as my “inner twin” to Susie, my conscious everyday personality. One Christmas ritual trauma I vividly remembered was when my father laid me down on the rug in front of the fireplace and placed his finger inside my vagina while he readied a hot poker in the fire. Somehow putting me in a trance-state, he began, “You won’t feel this. You will only continue to feel the pleasure, just like I am rubbing now. Does it feelgood?”” Yes Daddy,” I robotically answered.” Good, then when I do this it will only increase the pleasure,” he kept his finger in place until he got the hot poker out of the fire and as he put it inside me, he took his finger out and as hypnotically commanded, I felt only the pleasure of the hot inside me. Very lovingly he said, “Very good, honey. You’re doing very well. Now take a deep breath and count to three and feel like you have to pee. Then when I take this out, you will feel even more pleasure. Okay?”

Ick Hof was a marine in the reserves. He and his family moved in next door when I was around three years old. He told me he didn’t, know exactly how to treat little girls because he only had boys. On certain weekends he wore his uniform and took me to military bases where the men wore tan uniforms. They saluted him when he was around and he acted very normal until we were out of the other men’s sight. He took me into top-secret places where he showed some sort of pass to gain entrance. Once we were in the secret place he put me into an empty, cold, cement room and restrained me to a metal examination table. There were bright lights overhead and the men that joined him put bands around my wrists, ankles, and forehead, then turned out the lights and left while they shocked me real bad.

Slave Auctions Elitists in the market for mind control slaves attend auctions that appear at first like children’s fashion shows and then progress to striptease acts. I made “appearances” in many shows before I was actually sponsored or sold. My father took me to a slave “model” auction where I wore a fancy white taffeta and black velvet polka-dot dress, a hat and matching purse that my mother had bought for me at the expensive Stardusters clothing store. Bob Hope At this particular show where Bob Hope bought me, there were lots and lots of little girls and boys competing. They said these children were what they called “sponsored” if they were chosen. And they said it was better to be chosen early because then the sponsors (owners) could mold you the way they wanted. There was a modeling ramp where all of us children were displayed. I modeled casual clothes,then sophisticated evening clothes, and then sensual/sexual attire and, finally, appeared totally naked. First I performed Swan Lake Ballet in pink feathers for my casual and wore black velvet for my form and my naked performance was called “the tiger dance.” I won first place at this show and was sold to Bob Hope on the open market. They put a white cape around my naked body and Bob came up and stood with me while everyone in the audience cheered. Somehow it seemed like a sport for some of these people to attend auctions.

Then I was seated again next to my father. When the whole show was over, an older man dressed in a tuxedo came and escorted me to Bob Hope who shook my hand and said, “Hiya, Honey. Do you know who I am?”” Yes, Mr. Hope.” I answered like I had been instructed.” I’m going to be your man, but we’ll have to talk more about this later … when you’re a little older.” He laughed. Throughout my formative years, I was molded to be extremely sexual through the sexual abuse with my father and others. The personalities that were created from that abuse didn’t always experience the encounters as abusive, because that is all they knew. Bob later told my father through an instilled message delivered through me during an incestual encounter with my father, “Daddy, Bob says he wants me to really love sex and have a lot of it. Okay?”” Sure honey, whatever you want. You’re the boss,”my father answered from his own split consciousness.

Bob was Catholic and so was the part of me that performed. She was my “inner twin sister” for programming purposes, to keep that part of me separate from my created “normal” reality and her name was Sharon. Bob said he liked Catholic girls because they were easy and he liked “em like that.” Bob was always racy until he got to acting old around 1987. I had a lifetime of Bob Hope and his antics, and over the years, he lost his funny and happy persona and became just a mean and nasty old man. And then, he became cruel to me, there wasn’t anything fun left in him. He was just real old and mean. Later that day when we were alone, Uncle Charlie very secretly and with great import informed me that he was my real father and that my dad wasn’t my real father, but had adopted me for some very specific purposes. He said it was my destiny, but I didn’t know what that word meant either, and didn’t ask because I was still pretty upset about my dad not really being my dad. Uncle Charlie said he had the money to take care of me in the ways I deserved and that my father never would have the money to do what he was going to be able to do for me. I didn’t understand what this all meant then but he made it sound good.

(Forty some years later through my constant search to piece together the actualities of my life, I would discover that Charles L. Horn was the owner of Federal Cartridge Company, which later funded Olin Foundation, where he sat as President.) Uncle Charlie physically introduced me to Henry Kissinger one day in an open grassy park-like area when I was very little. I shook Henry’s hand and Uncle Charlie explained that Henry was my “Uncle Henry.” So I, as Sharon Weatherby, began to have a whole new family and it just kept growing and growing, adding “uncles” here and there and everywhere. I was instructed by Henry Kissinger to eat alphabet cereal on certain mornings and do mental exercises that he gave me. For instance, I had to get the alphabet sorted from the box and all lined up on the kitchen table. Then I had to put a piece of cereal that was shaped into an ‘a’ on my tongue and then hold up a mirror and look at it in the mirror. I had to do 20 of the alphabet backwards and 20 of the alphabet forward while I was looking in the mirror. It was usually only 20 because often some letters were missing from the cereal box, so Henry said to just do 20. I don’t know why I had to put them on my tongue and then stick my tongue out with the letter on it and look in the mirror, but I did it just like Henry said. My mother got mad at me because she said I should eat my food not play with it, but she didn’t understand my need for training. Henry said she was uneducated and ignorant, and that he was making me into a genius. I didn’t know what that meant. Other times, I had to focus my eyes on a pin that was stuck into the top of a pencil eraser and follow it back and forth and up and down. And I learned to cross one eye. leaving my left eye looking straight ahead. All this was done in preparation for my later use as Henry’s ‘mind file’. I was taught to write backwards at the age of four because my programmers felt that I would be more intelligent if I was forced to use both sides of my brain. In addition, I was given special eye exercises to perform several times a day. I began ballet at five and endured years of ballet training from a perverted ballet teacher named Madame Olga. Episodes of sex rituals and traumas were laced into our dance classes. At times the entire ballet class was abused out behind her little dance school that was located just off Topanga Canyon Boulevard in Woodland Hills. Our pediatrician, Dr. Cusack, located on Ventura Boulevard in Woodland Hills, participated by suturing up my vagina when it was torn from abuse, and cared for me in other ways when the abuse became too physically obvious. When I requested my childhood medical records several years ago, I was told that Dr. Cusack had moved out of the state and that all of his records had been destroyed.

At home in the evenings, while my mother was picking up my grandmother from work at Lockheed in Santa Monica, and in the middle of the night, my father continued his own form of tortures; raping me, sodomizing me, filming me pornographically with my brother, submerging me in the bathtub or swimming pool until I was nearly dead, torturing me extensively at his welding shop with the use of electroshock delivered through hot welding equipment inserted into my vagina, and leaving me outside all night alone during rain storms. He also kept dead bodies under our home for his sick perversions. He tortured and “trained” me under the house lots of nights before dinner, and would lock me into boxes and leave me there for long periods of time, often with body parts from cadavers he kept. One night he took me to a graveyard and forced me to watch as he dug up a coffin, opened it, forced me inside and reburied it. I split off more personalities. One personality split wasn’t enough to handle this trauma.

One Saturday my father took me and one of my dolls out to the old refrigerator that was in the corner of our garage. Quickly, he shoved me inside and clutching my blond baby doll, I begged, frantically clinging to my father’s shirt, “No Daddy! Please don’t.” Slapping my hands away, my father scolded, “Now, show Daddy what a big girl you can be. If you try to get out,” he knelt down beside me, “Daddy will have to beat you.” He slammed the door shut and I could hear him taping it closed with the black electrical tape he used on endless mechanical things. When I cried out from inside the cold refrigerator,my father angrily pounded on the door, yelling for me to shut up. Petrified in the dark, cramped cubicle, I listened for any sound that might indicate that my father was opening the door to set me free. Ominous silence prevailed. Feeling unbearably cold and unable to take another breath, I experienced the intervention of three ethereal beings, transparent yet sparkly, misty-blue colored angels who suddenly materialized outside the refrigerator and appeared to reach through the insulated metal to infuse me with life-sustaining energy. In a transcendent state, it was as if I was held in suspended animation as these angels lent their life energy to me. Some time later, when my father came to release me, probably thinking that, like all the other times he had taken me near death, I would emerge fragmented yet grateful to him for saving me, he checked the pulse on my neck, and finding none, he panicked. He carried my limp body across the garage and laid me on his workbench. “Now I’ve done it, damn it,” I heard my father say to himself from my out-of-body vantage point. “I’ve gone too far and killed her, now what am I going to do?” Quickly he slid my lifeless body into a black plastic trash bag, tied it off, carried me out the side door, and placed me in the crawl space beneath the house. The rescuing angels reappeared and one telepathically communicated that it wasn’t time for me to leave my family, that I needed to get back into my body and go on up for dinner. Unbeknownst to my father, I still had a spark of life left in me, and God, knowing His plan for my life was not yet complete, fanned that spark until I came back to life. When I reunited with my body, it ached and I felt nightmarishly sick but crawled out of the bag, wobbled out of the crawl space and walked in a dissociated state, back into the house where my family sat eating dinner. My father looked up at me as if he had seen a ghost and my mother, unaware of any of the “incidences” of the day, smiled and told me to sit down to eat.

Disneyland When I was five years old my mother and father took me to the newly-opened Disneyland in Anaheim, California. As we walked down Main Street, we ran into Walt Disney and my father stood as ideas Walt Disney, larger than life to me, bent down and shook my hand. He told me that if I would write to him he would write back to me. I didn’t consciously remember anything else after that. What happened next, though, as I later recalled, was that Walt Disney looked at my father with eyes that said important things I couldn’t understand. My father then led my mother in the other direction and I was left alone with Walt Disney. My parents never said goodbye or anything, they just left me and walked away. I was terrified and confused at realizing that my parents just disappeared.

Walt took me to an office, lifted me up on a big desk that had a glass piece on top and told me that he was my real father. He said the Mickey Mouse Club was my real family–where I really belonged. Everyone was always telling me I belonged to a different family than my parents and I didn’t understand, it was all very confusing. Walt Disney seemed nice but I wasn’t with him very long. He called another man in and that man took me by the hand and led me away. This man was a very bad man and he really scared me. He took me into another room and gave me those viewmaster box glasses to look into. He showed me pictures in them that were so scary that other parts of me had to come to see them. It was too much for a little girl to see. Dead things–cutup bodies, dead cats skinned with big eyeballs and their tails cut off, people cut up, etc. We had that toy at home but mine had cartoon pictures in it. This event involved several of my personalities. Next, the man took me to scary rides and poked me with needles in my waist and legs while he said things during the Alice in Wonderland ride, like, “This is not really happening. I am not really sticking this needle in your leg. You are just like Alice. You also ate the large mushroom and feel funny–this is not real.” He kept laughing and acting like all this was fun and games and really amusing, but it was terrifying and confusing to me, and I couldn’t understand why he was hurting me. Parts of me split off as they withstood the abuse and I pushed the experiences deep into my subconscious mind as my programming dictated.

Then the man took me to Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and sexually abused me by taking off my panties and pushing me up and down on top of his penis while we were going through the dark, enclosed ride. During many years that followed, I got hurt on Mr.Toad’s ride. I was instructed to be extra sexy and wild.

Other nights at different Shriner places, there were satanic rituals where I was raped on an altar in front of the group of robed men. There were many other Shriner meetings; lots of them disguised “under the big top,” at Shriner circuses. Circuses were a place of trauma over the years and I usually ended up getting hurt.

I began puberty around this time and my father snuck into my room like he always did at night. He explained to me while I was in a haze of sleep,that I was of the superior race, that I was of Aryandescent and that he was proud of my blond hair, green eyes, and fair skin. At the time, I had no ideawhathe was talking about and ignored it, pretending I didn’t hear him.

I started menstruating at ten. This heralded abusein rituals which involved being raped andimpregnated, sometimes twice a year. When the fetuses were two to three months old, they were abortedat rituals and ingested by members of the group inorder to fulfill the beliefs of the group; that itmadethose participating “more powerful.” These were devastating, deeply traumatizing, and soulfully painfulexperiences, the memory of which was repressed along with all the other traumas. These traumaticevents served as mind control reinforcement, to insure amnesia of my use in pornography, prostitution,and later projects I was to serve in.

The Theater in the Round was built and opened in Woodland Hills and drew large crowds towatch the live action plays that were performed inthe round theater. I attended the plays often and itwas there that I was prostituted to Bob’s friend, Sammy Davis, Jr. It was a brutal event that I “forgot”about as soon as he was through with me.

In the beginning when Henry was cultivating my relationship with JFK and insuring him of mysecurity guarantees, Henry didn’t fill me with muchof an agenda except to give JFK the “royaltreatment,” which meant the same as Bob’s (Hope’s)full smorgasbord of sexual positions and favors.

t was as common for foreign dignitaries, heads ofstate, senators, congressmen, governors, andother leaders, to ride the Lincoln Memorial (Oral Sex) Tour, as it was for them to get their shoes shinedin the local hotels. In fact, that was one of the jokes I was instructed to deliver to get a man loosened up. Iwas programmed to say, “Want your shoe shined?” Then I would unzip him and begin. There were lots ofmen who wanted further servicing later on, but I was instructed to refer them to my boss.

I serviced many men on this so-called shuttle service over the years of my life that should havebeen filled with junior high, high school and college extracurricular activities of my own choosing. Theelitists I worked for had an endless supply of slaves that kept the tour shuttle running regularly. Iwasn’treally giving tours, just sex in the limo. The menfelt safe and protected from public exposure by theirplacement in the back of the limo because they couldn’t be seen due to the security windows. They had84privacy when they exited the limo so they wouldn’tbe exposed. Security employees would always awaitthe arrival of the shuttle limo to open the door and coach them out when the “coast was clear,” thentransfer them immediately into their own personal limo so no one would ever detect.

JFK rode the L.M. sex tour regularly and while I was down on my knees he would pat me on theback and say, “You are really going to move up theranks.” Or, “You’re really going to amount tosomething when you grow up, kid.” He loved lunch-time oral sex and the secret service agents rode inthe front with the limo driver and chewed him out royally for, as they said, “…breaking stride thatisnullifying National Security, Sir.”

To calm the disgruntled Secret Service agents, Jack would laughingly explain, “Relax, I deserve arelaxing lunch break, that’s all.” I can still remember his accent so clearly.

JFK also liked anal sex, like his brother Ted. After he found out I was with Ted he asked me whathis brother was really like. When I explained thathe hurt me, he just shook his head and said, “I nevercould understand what happened to my brother. We both had the same parents, but we did go todifferent boarding schools and had different friends.”

Chapter Seven: All the way with LBJ

But I was at Nixon’s fingertips, armed and loaded with all the possible input and data anyone man could ever want. That’s how Henry described this when I accompanied Nixon to China, USSR,the Far East, Vietnam talks, etc., always disguised as someone else in order to serve Henry’s interests.

I booked my ticket, and the next day I went to California, to the nursing home where my father was being cared for. When I walked in, I was moved seeing my father sitting in a chair, withered and small, a whisper of the physical stature he had been before. When he saw me, he immediately began crying, and through his tears he cried, “I love you. I knew you’d come.”

I got down on my knees before my father and said,”Dad, I forgive you.”

Looking me directly in the eyes, he replied in a childlike manner, “I forgive you too.” At that moment I knew without a shadow of a doubt that my father, this man who had tortured me for years,had no idea, no memory, no awareness of what he had done. Still crying he said, “Jesus brought me here.” This statement caught me totally off guard,as here was a man who together with my brothers had ridiculed and berated me for my belief in Christ for years. I had so much I wanted to ask my father, but was overwhelmed with emotion. Trying to gather myself, I looked around his room. There on his bookcase, was a golden spider web with a crystal spider in the middle. Woven into this art piece was a Ronald Reagan wristwatch. My thoughts raced to information an Intelligence officer “in the know” once explained to me, that victims will surround themselves with their programming and often will display objects that speak to that which they verbally can’t, as a form of subconscious communication. This spider web spoke to me deeply through subconscious communication, and although my father could not tell me what he knew, he had carefully preserved this piece to speak what he could not. Again deeply touched, I asked him if I could have it. He said, “Sure, take anything you want.” My father and I cried together. There was so much I wanted to tell him and have him tell me but he was no longer able. But God knew that I needed to see my father this one last time, in order to complete my healing and forgiveness process. And that day, I totally and completely forgave my father. I understood why he had done what he had done. As I stood to leave, I kissed him one last time and told him I loved him, and looking back I am so grateful that God led me to that culmination and completion with my father. Less than three months after that meeting my father passed away.

The Holy Spirit has shown me that once you have completed this book and the veil that once clouded your eyes has been lifted, many will know how they are called to bring about the swift change necessary for averting the One World Government and the intended totalitarian New World Order agenda planned by our controllers. He has shown me that many will know their exact positions and will know just what part they are to play in reuniting this once strong, free nation. Indeed the vision I see is a beautiful orchestration of souls. May God bless those individuals with the courage, wisdom, insight, and love needed to set us back on course. You who are called know who you are and will remember why you’ve come. Let us stand as a united front to speak out and take action to protect one of the most precious gifts we each have: our minds. We must stand up to those who seek control and say, “NO MORE. THIS ABUSE MUST STOP!” It is time to cast our denial aside and take action as we are spiritually directed. For we have been called to protect the children.

Please join me in united solidarity. Let’s create a safer, beautiful world where children can be born into peace, safety, and love. If we start at the beginning where life initiates and insure that doorway is clear, we will go a long way toward insuring the survival of the human race. Many are now more aware of the damage done to a baby or young child when abuse occurs. Indeed this unconscious state of the abuse of children continues to snowball as one generation takes the wounding, only to inflict it unconsciously, without knowledge or understanding, on the next generation. Let us heal these areas within us that were caused by abuse in our own childhood’s, so that we do not continue to inflict those wounds on the most precious resource we have, our innocent children. Let us protect the doorway for others born to this planet, that they might discover that it is safe to be born here on earth once again. Together we can let love prevail. The past has served to clearly show us where we have gone astray. Let’s begin again, by choosing a different outcome and then work together in order to create a new world.”

To make a donation, please contact Brice Taylor at

the address below:

Brice Taylor Trust

P.O. Box 655

Landrum, SC 29356

…AND THE LION SHALL LAY DOWN WITH THE LAMB.

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