longer.blue

~ 𝗛𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗦𝗰𝗶𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗳𝗶𝗰 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗥𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝘀𝗰𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 ~ 𝗔𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗰𝗲 𝗜𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝗱 𝗟𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗲𝗻𝗱 ~ 𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁 𝗥𝗵𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗺 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗘𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘁 ~ 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗧𝗿𝗶𝗽𝘁𝘆𝗰𝗵 𝗼𝗳 𝗦𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 There is a moment — quiet, unceremonious — when something held too tightly is finally released. Not dropped in defeat, not torn away by force, but opened. The way a hand opens. The way sleep finally comes when you stop chasing it. This is where everything begins. ~ 𝗛𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗦𝗰𝗶𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗳𝗶𝗰 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗥𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝘀𝗰𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 ~ Science and religion have spent centuries in the same corridor, moving toward each other with torches raised, each convinced the other carried only shadow. The argument was magnificent in its way — cathedral ceilings and particle accelerators, candlelight and cold empirical light, the kneeling body and the peering eye. Both traditions built entire civilizations around their disagreement. And beneath all of it, beneath every thesis nailed to every door and every theorem proven in every laboratory, ran a single shared trembling: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨? The multiverse did something unexpected to that trembling. It made it holy. When cosmologists began accepting that infinite universes may exist — each with its own physical laws, its own unrepeatable histories, its own darkness and light — they quietly surrendered the most sacred thing science ever held: the insistence on evidence you can touch. No instrument will reach beyond our observable horizon. No experiment will return with proof of what folds and breathes in the space beyond all spaces. And yet the theory stands, embraced not quite as faith, but as something that wears faith's shoes and walks with faith's unhurried patience. Science, in its most luminous moment of honesty, bowed its head. Religion, meanwhile, had been carrying its own impossible architecture — the singular God, the authored universe, the one story moving toward the one destination. The infinite multiverse does not merely complicate this God. It quietly dissolves the need for a God of exclusivity, of intervention, of chosen outcomes. And here is where religion, at its most courageous, can receive dissolution not as defeat but as expansion. To surrender a small god is to stand suddenly before something immeasurably larger. What remains is not emptiness. What remains is wonder, unhoused and radiant, free to move through everything without needing to own any of it. This is humble surrender — not the surrender of the defeated, but the surrender of the hand that finally opens. 𝘚𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘯 and 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 are not contradictions crushed into one phrase. They are two rivers reaching the same ocean, their waters distinct but no longer separate, no longer pretending the other does not exist. --- Inside the word 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦 there is a ghost. Hold it up. Turn it slowly. The ghost is 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 — not hiding but residing there, patient as stone, waiting to be noticed. A truce is not a compromise. It is the moment two sides acknowledge that neither has fully held the truth they were fighting over, that truth was never a territory, never a flag to be planted, never a trophy for the side that argued longest or loudest. ~ 𝗔𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗰𝗲 𝗜𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝗱 𝗟𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗲𝗻𝗱 ~ The truce arrives not when one side defeats the other, but when both sides sit long enough with uncertainty to find it beautiful rather than threatening. This is a different kind of courage than either tradition usually celebrates — not the courage of conviction, but the courage of openness. The willingness to remain in the question without demanding it resolve itself on your schedule. Infinity without God is perhaps the most radical gift the multiverse offers. For millennia, God lived at the edge of every question that went too far — the answer placed precisely where understanding ran out. But infinity does not need that answer. Infinity 𝘪𝘴 the beyond, endlessly renewed, requiring no author because it has no beginning to author and no end to intend. This is not atheism arriving through the back door. It is something stranger and more generous — a cosmos so complete in its vastness that the question of God is transformed. Not erased. Transformed. One does not need God to explain infinity. One might still choose, freely, humbly, to stand before that infinity and call it sacred. The choice, unforced, becomes more beautiful for its freedom. And so learning without end stops being an exhausting prospect and becomes something closer to grace. If the universe is infinite, then knowledge is not a summit — it is a direction. A horizon that moves faithfully ahead of every step taken toward it. To learn without end is to be permanently, joyfully incomplete. To carry the question the way the ocean carries the tide — not as burden, but as nature. Not as failure to arrive, but as the whole point of moving. The truce, understood this way, is not a pause in the search. It is the search finally conducted without weapons. Truth was always the ground beneath the battlefield — patient, unharmed, waiting for the argument to exhaust itself so the real listening could begin. --- There is a pulse beneath everything. Not the kind you press two fingers to a wrist to find, but a deeper one — the kind you feel when you stop moving long enough to notice that the world itself is breathing. 𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁 𝗥𝗵𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗺 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗘𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘁 Watch the ocean. It does not simply sit there; it reaches and retreats, reaches and retreats, as though the shore is something it is forever trying to say. Watch the chest of anyone sleeping beside you. Watch a fire. Watch the pupil of an eye moving from shadow into light. Everything is doing the same thing — gathering itself inward, then releasing, then gathering again. The universe appears to have only one verb, and it uses it endlessly. The lungs know this. The heart knows it. So do the seasons — that long inhale of spring and summer, the slow exhale into autumn and winter. Galaxies are expanding even now, stretching outward into distances that have no name. And somewhere in whatever arithmetic governs such things, there may come a contraction. A drawing back. A breath held before it is let go. Science calls it the Big Bounce. Ancient traditions called it the eternal return. Both names are just the mind's attempt to label something the body already understood long before language arrived to complicate things. This is where the two surrenders that came before find not their logic but their warmth. When science released its grip on absolute evidence, and religion loosened its hold on an exclusive God, they were not making careful philosophical concessions at a negotiating table. They were, without perhaps knowing it, exhaling. Letting go the way the tide lets go of the shore — not in defeat, but in the full animal trust that the return is already written into the release. Humble surrender was never an intellectual position. It was always a physical one. A softening. A breath finally let out after being held too long. What the third haiku is pointing toward is not merely pattern. It is kinship. The same motion that moves blood through you moves tide through the sea. You are not 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 the universe in this way. You 𝘢𝘳𝘦 the universe doing it. Every inhale is the cosmos collecting itself into form. Every exhale, a small act of returning. The truce with truth was never really between science and religion. It was between the human heart and its own resistance to this rhythm — the exhausting insistence on stillness in a reality that only knows motion, the demand for final answers in a cosmos that only offers endless, luminous oscillation. To sit with this is to feel something dissolve — the strange, persistent illusion that you are separate from the rhythms around you. You are not a thing inside the pulse. You are the pulse itself, grown briefly curious about its own nature, expanding and contracting, the way everything does, the way everything always has, the way everything always will. --- Three haiku. Three movements in a single unfolding. The first asks you to open your hand. The second asks you to make peace with not knowing. The third reveals that the opening and the peace were never achievements — they were rememberings. Returns. Small contractions back toward something that was always already true. The eternal heartbeat was never something waiting to be discovered at the end of a long enough argument or a deep enough prayer. It was only, and always, something to be felt. Right here. In the expanding. In the contracting. In the brief, luminous pause between the two — that wordless place where science and religion and every breathing thing that has ever lived finally stand together, without torches, in the same astonished dark, listening. --- 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘬𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 — 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 — 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘯, 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩, 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺: 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘺𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘺𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘐 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘺𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴. 𝘉𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘳𝘦, 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱, 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 — 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥, 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘩𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘮 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘭𝘥. ~ This observation was made with the assistance of claude.ai. ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ To support me, visit: https://tinyurl.com/andy-rukes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~