AGAINST THE MANUFACTURED
Six Films About the Moment Obedience Becomes Impossible
The Extended 12-Inch Administrative Nightmare Mix
By Buzz Drainpipe
There is a particular expression the system wears when it destroys you.
You know the face.
Perhaps you have seen it behind a desk.
Perhaps through reinforced glass.
Perhaps inside a conference room where someone has thoughtfully provided bottled water.
Perhaps it arrived in an email beginning:
Hello,
or
Thank you for your patience,
or
After careful review,
or the exquisitely bloodless:
We understand this may be disappointing.
The system does not snarl.
That would be vulgar.
Snarling would suggest emotion, and emotion could be cross-examined.
The system prefers manners.
The system has learned that there is no reason to kick down the door when you can schedule the demolition through the appropriate portal.
It smiles faintly.
It adjusts its spectacles.
It regrets any inconvenience.
It informs you that procedure has been followed.
This is supposed to reassure you.
Nobody hates you.
Wonderful.
Your destruction was not personal.
What a relief.
You were not beaten because somebody enjoyed beating you.
You were beaten because beating you was the logically correct action generated by the available options.
You were not denied food, dignity, employment, medicine, housing, liberty, personhood or the authority to describe what happened to you because some moustache-twirling villain woke that morning vibrating with hatred.
No.
Nothing so melodramatic.
Your destruction simply occupied the correct cell in the spreadsheet.
A box was checked.
A status changed.
A workflow advanced.
Somewhere a small icon turned green.
Please remain on the line.
Your suffering is important to us.
Your estimated wait time is:
the remainder of your natural life.
Welcome to civilization.
Maverick City Cinema presents:
RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION!
Six films about human beings making the catastrophic discovery that the respectable world is sometimes a torture device with excellent paperwork.
Not rebels.
Please.
We have enough rebels.
Culture loves rebels because rebels can be merchandised.
Put a leather jacket on them.
Give them sunglasses.
Photograph them against a brick wall.
Sell the poster to a seventeen-year-old.
By Christmas the rebellion comes in three sizes.
These films are interested in something far more dangerous.
The obedient.
The employee.
The father.
The veteran.
The craftsman.
The respectable citizen.
The good son.
The person who arrived on time.
The person who filled everything out.
The person who assumed that cooperation purchased reciprocity.
The person who believed that if he behaved reasonably, reality would eventually behave reasonably back.
These are films about the instant that person discovers:
No.
The rules are not protecting me from the machine.
The rules are how the machine reaches me.
And the enemy running through these six films is not authority.
Authority is obvious.
Authority wears a badge.
Authority signs its name.
Authority can occasionally be embarrassed, exposed, defeated in court, voted out of office, mocked on television or thrown through a plate-glass window during an unusually productive afternoon.
No.
The deeper enemy is something slipperier.
Something industrial.
Something that arrives already labeled.
MANUFACTURE.
Manufactured guilt.
Manufactured obedience.
Manufactured identity.
Manufactured scarcity.
Manufactured inadequacy.
Manufactured consent.
Manufactured helplessness.
Manufactured normality.
Manufactured reality itself.
Stamped out in administrative molds.
Wrapped in neutral language.
Handed back to the individual.
Here.
This is what happened.
This is what you are.
This is what you deserve.
Please sign at the bottom.
You failed.
You violated protocol.
You are unwell.
You are difficult.
You are ungrateful.
You misunderstood.
You did not follow the process.
You did not meet expectations.
You were given every opportunity.
You do not exist in the correct field.
You have exceeded the allowable quantity of yourself.
The system manufactures the accusation.
Then it manufactures the evidence.
Then it manufactures the language in which the accusation may be challenged.
Then it manufactures the person authorized to determine whether the manufactured appeal against the manufactured evidence supporting the manufactured accusation has merit.
And afterward it congratulates itself for hearing you.
Due process.
A machine eating its own receipts.
That is civilization, apparently.
A filing cabinet standing on a human neck.
And somewhere inside the cabinet:
Form 38-B.
REQUEST FOR PERMISSION TO BREATHE.
Incomplete applications will not be considered.
I. THE STATE BUILDS A ROAD FROM HUMAN BONES
In I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, James Allen returns from war carrying a very dangerous idea:
that having survived one machinery of civilization, he might now be permitted a life.
The world corrects him.
Allen wants meaningful work.
The economy offers degradation.
He wants movement.
The social order offers immobility.
He wants the ordinary dignity of discovering what kind of man he might become.
America hands him a shovel.
This is one of the oldest civic magic tricks.
A person falls.
The structure that dug the hole points downward.
See?
Look where he chose to stand.
Allen is dragged into a robbery and sentenced into a Southern penal system whose purpose is allegedly correction.
Correction.
Wonderful word.
Like adjusting the margins on a document.
Like straightening a picture frame.
Except the frame is a man.
And the adjustment is chains.
The chain gang does not rehabilitate because rehabilitation would interrupt production.
There are roads to build.
Rocks to break.
Bodies to amortize.
Pain becomes infrastructure.
Human misery is converted into transportation.
The prisoner swings the hammer.
The road lengthens.
Motorists eventually glide over the finished surface and call it progress.
This is the obscenity concealed inside so many respectable monuments:
somebody's life was entered under materials.
A bridge is admired.
A railroad celebrated.
A quarterly report exceeds expectations.
A city rises.
Nobody hears the bones inside the concrete because civilization is very good at turning screams into architecture.
And this is where the film becomes intolerable in the useful sense.
There is no misunderstanding.
There is no kindly official waiting in Act Three.
There is no hidden clause which, once discovered, causes justice to rush into the room apologizing for the clerical error.
The machine is functioning correctly.
That is the horror.
Allen escapes.
Builds something.
Becomes respectable.
Creates the life the penal system supposedly wanted him to become capable of living.
And this transformation means nothing.
Because the state does not actually need proof that he has changed.
The state needs proof that the state owns the definition of him.
Convict.
Escapee.
Property.
Allen's success is therefore not evidence that imprisonment has become unnecessary.
To the institution, it is evidence that escaped property has appreciated in value.
Bring him back.
The law cannot tolerate a man who has escaped its description.
That is the deeper offense.
Not escape from prison.
Escape from the noun.
The institution says:
criminal.
Allen replies by living as a citizen.
This cannot stand.
So the system pursues him until its description becomes true.
And at the end:
How do you live?
He steals.
Of course he steals.
The state manufactures the criminal, hunts him for being one, corners him into fulfilling the manufactured identity, then points triumphantly toward the completed product.
There.
We told you.
A perfect circuit.
A generator that runs on its own brutality.
No external power required.
II. TRADITION IS VIOLENCE WITH ANCESTORS
If the chain gang manufactures criminals, Samurai Rebellion manufactures obedience.
Different costume.
Same factory.
Feudal Japan provides prettier paperwork.
Silk.
Ceremony.
Formal bows.
Beautiful houses.
Sword etiquette.
The machinery of domination has discovered aesthetics.
Masaki Kobayashi understands that power becomes most durable when it can persuade the victim that submission is not submission.
It is:
honor.
Duty.
Tradition.
Decorum.
Family responsibility.
The natural order.
Words placed like flowers around a cage.
Isaburo Sasahara has spent a lifetime performing obedience.
Not believing.
Performing.
An important distinction.
There are people who love the system.
There are people who oppose it.
And then there is the far larger population:
people who know the system is absurd but have become professionally excellent at surviving inside the absurdity.
Isaburo belongs to this third category.
His body is obedient.
His eyes have resigned.
He has swallowed so much contempt that contempt has become posture.
He is a swordsman of enormous ability living inside an institution that has persuaded him that the highest use of strength is the suppression of strength.
Then the clan orders his son to marry Ichi, a concubine discarded by the lord.
The family complies.
Of course they comply.
Everyone has been trained.
The command arrives wearing ceremonial robes.
And ceremony is one of domination's greatest inventions because people will accept astonishing violations if the violator uses the correct spoon.
Then something goes wrong.
Something unforgivable.
Something power can never safely permit.
The arrangement becomes human.
Ichi and Yogoro love each other.
This should not matter.
In the administrative imagination, people are placement problems.
Ichi was here.
Now she is there.
The lord wanted this.
Now the lord wants that.
Move object.
Update record.
Close request.
But love introduces a variable the system cannot process.
The object develops preference.
The placement develops meaning.
The transaction develops a soul.
And now the lord wants Ichi back.
Why?
Because he can.
Tyranny's purest sentence.
Because I can.
And suddenly the entire ornamental architecture of duty becomes transparent.
Honor?
No.
Ownership.
Tradition?
No.
Power with grandparents.
Reciprocal obligation?
Please.
The commands only travel downward.
The revelation is not that the lord is hypocritical.
It is worse.
The revelation is that hypocrisy was structural.
Duty was always for one side.
Honor was always the decorative vocabulary used when ownership wanted to sound beautiful.
And Isaburo finally says no.
Late.
Gloriously late.
That matters.
This is not adolescent revolt.
No motorcycle appears.
No teenager kicks over a chair.
Isaburo's rebellion arrives after decades.
His no contains every yes he swallowed.
Every humiliation.
Every compromise.
Every dinner during which he did not speak.
Every command obeyed while his mind screamed.
Every moment he understood that something was wrong but lacked the opening through which refusal could enter.
His body has become an archive of abandoned rebellions.
Now the archive catches fire.
The sword cuts flesh.
Yes.
But first it cuts ideology.
That is the real sword fight.
The instant a man stops believing the words surrounding the violence.
The institution says:
dishonor.
He hears:
disobedience.
The institution says:
duty.
He hears:
ownership.
The institution says:
order.
He sees:
fear.
And hierarchy begins to tremble whenever its euphemisms stop working.
Because power is often much less powerful after you learn its real name.
III. THE COMPANY APPRECIATES YOUR SACRIFICE
Silkwood moves the chain gang indoors.
The chains disappear.
Very modern.
We have payroll now.
Benefits.
Time clocks.
Employee handbooks.
The whip was terrible for morale.
Karen Silkwood walks into a workplace producing nuclear fuel and discovers that the corporation has solved an ancient managerial problem:
How do you compel people to endanger themselves while allowing everyone involved to continue describing the arrangement as voluntary?
Easy.
Rent.
Food.
Insurance.
Children.
Debt.
Survival.
The worker enters voluntarily.
Therefore everything afterward is choice.
Capitalism's favorite card trick.
Lock survival behind a door.
Sell the key.
Then admire everyone's freedom.
No chain around Karen's ankle.
Just the economy.
Much tidier.
And radiation is the perfect corporate hazard because radiation understands professionalism.
It does not shout.
It does not leave bloody footprints across the carpet.
It enters quietly.
Invisible.
Polite.
By the time the body realizes the meeting went badly, everybody else has gone home.
But the company's most profound violation is not exposure.
Exposure is almost crude.
The deeper violation is epistemological.
The corporation wants jurisdiction over reality.
You are not contaminated.
The reading was incorrect.
The procedure was adequate.
Your concern is emotional.
The incident was within tolerance.
There is no evidence.
Evidence according to whom?
Ah.
Now we are getting somewhere.
The corporation becomes an editor.
Reality enters through one door.
Legal reviews it.
Management cuts three paragraphs.
Public relations changes the verbs.
Human Resources removes the human.
Reality exits the other side wearing business casual.
Karen's rebellion is therefore not merely about safety.
She insists on the scandalous proposition that:
what happened happened.
This turns out to be revolutionary.
Whistleblowers are hated because they perform semantic vandalism.
They return nouns to objects.
Poison becomes poison.
Negligence becomes negligence.
Lying becomes lying.
A dead worker becomes a dead worker.
Not:
an adverse outcome.
Not:
a regrettable event.
Not:
an incident under investigation.
A dead worker.
Language suddenly has blood on it again.
And power hates dirty language.
Clean the sentence.
Sterilize the verb.
Contain the worker.
Karen becomes dangerous because she refuses the corporate edit.
Therefore the employee who knows about contamination must herself be treated as contamination.
Contain.
Isolate.
Discredit.
Remove.
A human being becomes an occupational hazard.
There is something almost elegant about it.
The company produces poison and then identifies the woman pointing toward the poison as the toxic element.
The factory continues.
IV. YOU CAN BECOME ANYONE EXCEPT YOURSELF
Then Seconds enters wearing a beautiful suit.
Manufacture has improved its branding.
No prison.
No clan lord.
No contaminated factory.
A consultation.
Arthur Hamilton is unhappy.
A recognizable condition.
He has succeeded sufficiently to discover that success has not cured him.
This is dangerous information.
Because if a successful person remains miserable, the entire showroom starts looking suspicious.
The Company offers a solution.
Not social change.
Not philosophical inquiry.
Not spiritual crisis.
Not escape from the values that deadened him.
Nothing excessive.
The problem is simpler.
Arthur Hamilton requires rebranding.
New face.
New name.
New profession.
New friends.
New house.
New coastline.
New body.
New wine.
New lighting.
Arthur 2.0.
Now with improved jawline.
The Company has discovered the foundational principle of consumer culture:
If your life feels unbearable, do not question the machinery producing the feeling.
Purchase another life.
Change everything except the system teaching you to despise yourself.
This is salvation as product launch.
A relaunch package.
Premium tier.
The horror of Seconds is not that the proposition is bizarre.
The horror is that the proposition barely feels bizarre anymore.
How many industries now exist to tell you that your unhappiness is a design flaw located exclusively inside you?
Rebrand.
Optimize.
Transform.
Hack.
Upgrade.
Reset.
Become the best version of yourself.
Which self?
Don't worry.
We'll provide one.
Arthur's second life supposedly represents liberation.
Yet even spontaneity has been prearranged.
The bohemian community surrounding him has the warm synthetic quality of an advertisement in which attractive people laugh around a dinner table without ever swallowing.
Authenticity has become a package.
Freedom arrives furnished.
The old Arthur was a product.
The new Arthur is a luxury product.
The soul remains somewhere in shipping.
Rock Hudson's face makes the whole thing almost unbearably precise.
That face.
The polished American masculine ideal.
Handsome enough to reassure a continent.
Now stretched over terror.
Perfection becomes camouflage for nonexistence.
The beautiful face does not cure alienation.
It makes alienation marketable.
And when Arthur fails to become happy?
Naturally, the Company does not question the product.
The customer has failed.
This is the modern gospel.
Systems cannot fail.
Users fail to engage successfully.
You were given the opportunity.
You were provided resources.
You received a new environment.
You were supported.
You did not thrive.
Your continued despair represents noncompliance.
Even rebirth has terms and conditions.
Check box:
I agree to become myself according to the specifications provided.
V. THE EXECUTIVE DISCOVERS GRAVITY
And now:
A Shock to the System.
The office comedy after dark.
Fluorescent lights reflected in the polished teeth of capitalism.
Graham Marshall has done everything correctly.
This is his first mistake.
He worked.
Waited.
Smiled.
Performed enthusiasm.
Absorbed humiliation.
Attended meetings.
Learned the dialect.
Adjusted his personality according to the invisible preferences of men above him.
He believes the corporation is meritocratic because the alternative would require admitting that he has sacrificed years of his life to a slot machine wearing a necktie.
Then the promotion does not come.
Something snaps.
Not his morality.
That was already outsourced.
His cosmology.
The institution promised:
Obey and rise.
He obeyed.
He did not rise.
Therefore either Graham failed or the institution lied.
And Graham has spent too many years becoming Graham to tolerate the first possibility.
So he investigates the second.
Operationally.
This is where the film becomes beautifully diseased.
The other films in the program show individuals defending their humanity against systems.
Graham has another idea.
He adopts the system's logic completely.
The corporation treats workers as costs.
Graham treats people as costs.
The corporation eliminates redundancies.
Graham eliminates redundancies.
The corporation removes obstacles to growth.
Graham removes obstacles to growth.
The corporation destroys lives through administrative distance.
Graham merely eliminates the distance.
Murder becomes workflow optimization.
Finally:
an executive willing to take personal responsibility.
The joke is grotesque because the logic is impeccable.
If the institution may destroy a family because a department has become inefficient, why is Graham morally strange for reaching the same conclusion about an individual?
Scale?
Method?
Lack of PowerPoint?
Graham performs vertical integration between ambition and homicide.
There is no need to outsource.
And beneath the black comedy sits an unexpectedly useful revelation.
Hierarchy is not metaphysical.
The executives are mammals.
They have addresses.
They have bones.
They require oxygen.
This seems obvious.
Institutions work very hard to make it feel otherwise.
The executive suite presents itself as climate.
Weather.
Gravity.
Natural law.
You do not become angry at gravity.
You adapt.
You comply.
You accept.
Then Graham looks at gravity and realizes:
Gravity works both ways.
People fall.
The kingdom has an elevator.
And suddenly corporate power becomes physical again.
Not abstract.
Not destiny.
A building.
A desk.
A person.
A vulnerable organism with a calendar.
This realization does not make Graham good.
Far from it.
He is the poisoned specimen in the program.
The man who escapes the cage by becoming the cage.
But sometimes the corrupted example is the most revealing.
He proves that once the sacred language disappears, management ideology looks alarmingly close to gangsterism with dental insurance.
VI. COMPUTER SAYS YOU ARE NOT DYING CORRECTLY
Finally:
I, Daniel Blake.
Strip everything away.
No sword.
No chains.
No radiation.
No experimental surgery.
No executive murder.
A form.
That's all.
A form and a human body.
The final boss of civilization.
Daniel Blake has suffered a heart attack.
His doctor says he cannot work.
The benefits system says he must seek work.
There is no contradiction.
Correction:
There is a contradiction.
It simply does not belong to the system.
It belongs to Daniel.
This is bureaucracy's most spectacular achievement.
The machine issues two mutually exclusive instructions and then defines the human being's inability to obey both as personal failure.
Seek work.
Do not work.
Demonstrate that you are seeking the work you may not perform.
Record the evidence.
Use the website.
No, not that field.
The other field.
Save.
Error.
Try again.
Kafka looks down from Heaven and complains that Ken Loach is laying it on a bit thick.
But bureaucracy surpassed Kafka long ago because Kafka still believed absurdity required imagination.
We industrialized it.
The violence in I, Daniel Blake arrives through ordinary voices.
This matters.
Nobody screams.
Nobody laughs demonically.
No clerk says:
I will destroy this man today.
Everyone performs one small task.
One reads the script.
One applies the rule.
One imposes the sanction.
One explains the sanction.
One schedules the appeal against the sanction.
One determines whether the appeal was filed according to the rules established by the people who imposed the sanction.
One guards the door.
And afterward everyone goes home.
No one killed Daniel Blake.
Marvelous.
The process merely arranged a sequence of conditions incompatible with his continued existence.
This is bureaucracy's masterpiece:
distributed innocence.
No individual holds enough responsibility to feel responsible.
Cruelty has been divided into portions small enough to swallow.
A teaspoon per employee.
No one feels sick.
And this is why bureaucratic systems can become so cold without containing particularly cold people.
Human beings are trained to imitate machines.
Then the imitation is renamed professionalism.
Do not react.
Do not interpret.
Do not deviate.
Do not acknowledge what you can plainly see.
The customer is crying.
Continue script.
The applicant is ill.
Continue process.
The contradiction is obvious.
Continue policy.
Daniel is a carpenter.
He knows how to build.
He knows materials.
Weight.
Measurement.
The stubborn truth of physical objects.
Wood cannot be persuaded by paperwork.
A wall stands or does not.
A joint holds or fails.
His society, meanwhile, is becoming increasingly hostile to material reality.
Reality must now be entered.
Validated.
Uploaded.
Accepted.
Daniel's competence has become culturally illegible.
He knows how to build a house.
The system knows how to reject him.
Guess which skill has better software.
His great act of rebellion is therefore startlingly primitive.
He writes.
Publicly.
His name.
His humanity.
Against the conversion of the person into case number, Daniel performs an act of ontological vandalism:
I EXIST OUTSIDE YOUR FORM.
That is what the wall says.
I am not your category.
I am not your field.
I am not your error code.
I am not the problem generated by your process.
I am a man.
A sentence civilization apparently requires periodic reminders to process.
And here lies the asymmetry the institution never has to contemplate:
The institution has infinite time.
Daniel does not.
A department can postpone.
A policy can await review.
A case can remain pending.
A body cannot.
The heart does not recognize business days.
VII. THE RIGHT TO BECOME FURIOUS
This is where respectable society becomes nervous.
Because eventually the person being crushed may become angry.
And anger is very inconvenient.
Anger raises its voice.
Anger interrupts.
Anger refuses the vocabulary provided.
So civilization has developed an elaborate secondary bureaucracy devoted to explaining why the angry person's anger invalidates the angry person's complaint.
Anger is immature.
Anger is unproductive.
Anger prevents dialogue.
Anger alienates allies.
Anger suggests instability.
Anger indicates that perhaps the injured party lacks the composure necessary to assess the injury objectively.
Please lower your voice while we continue harming you.
Curiously, the sermons about civility tend to originate remarkably close to the source of injury.
The demand for civility is frequently a noise ordinance protecting power.
These films know better.
Anger can be diagnostic.
Pain says:
something touched the blade.
Anger says:
I know which direction the blade came from.
Righteous indignation is not blind rage.
It is moral perception after the gloves come off.
James Allen sees punishment become industry.
Isaburo sees tradition become ownership.
Karen Silkwood sees employment become contamination.
Arthur Hamilton sees self-improvement become erasure.
Graham Marshall sees meritocracy become predation and, horribly, decides to become an apex predator himself.
Daniel Blake sees welfare become ritualized disbelief.
Different countries.
Different centuries.
Different institutions.
Same machine.
And the machine's ultimate demand is not labor.
That would almost be honest.
The machine wants something more intimate.
It wants interpretive authority.
It wants to explain what is happening to you while it is happening to you.
That is the final conquest.
Not merely:
suffer.
But:
agree with our description of your suffering.
Your pain must be entered using approved terminology.
Your protest must become a ticket.
Your objection must become feedback.
Your desperation must become a customer experience.
Your memory must become inadmissible because there is no record of the event.
The machine says:
We have reviewed your case and determined that what happened to you did not happen in a manner recognizable to the system.
Therefore:
it did not happen.
This is where every film in Righteous Indignation! eventually reaches the same sentence.
A sentence so ancient that civilization still has not developed an adequate defense against it.
NO.
No.
That is not what happened.
A tiny sentence.
Almost nothing.
Two letters.
A speck of grit.
But place the grit correctly and the gear begins to scream.
No.
This is not justice.
No.
This is not honor.
No.
This is not safety.
No.
This is not freedom.
No.
This is not merit.
No.
This is not assistance.
No.
You do not get to injure me and then rename the injury.
No.
You do not get to manufacture the world and require me to call the product reality.
The machine fears this sentence.
Not because the sentence has a weapon.
Because the sentence lets reality back into the room.
And reality is terrible for administration.
Reality is wet.
Contradictory.
Embarrassing.
Specific.
Reality contains bodies.
History.
Context.
Need.
Love.
Cancer.
Rent.
Fear.
Memory.
Wood.
Blood.
Radiation.
A father.
A worker.
A prisoner.
A family.
Reality refuses dropdown menus.
Once reality enters, the beautiful clean categories begin sweating.
The fluorescent lights flicker.
The representative looks toward the supervisor.
Something beneath the floor starts knocking.
The filing cabinet trembles.
And suddenly:
the furniture looks flammable.
OUTRO: YOUR CALL IS IMPORTANT TO US
So welcome to Righteous Indignation!
Six films for anyone who has ever sat beneath fluorescent lighting while a calm person explained that their ruin was completely consistent with policy.
Six films for the accused.
The processed.
The contaminated.
The reinvented.
The overlooked.
The obedient.
The discarded.
The sanctioned.
The person whose reality failed validation.
Six films about the moment the victim stops asking:
Am I allowed to be angry about this?
Because that question is itself manufactured.
Of course power would prefer your anger to require authorization.
Submit request.
Allow seven to ten business days.
If your indignation is approved, you may experience it between 2:15 and 2:30 PM in the designated emotional processing area.
No food or beverages.
Instead:
let the forms choke.
Let the chains rust.
Let tradition misplace its spectacles.
Let the corporation discover nouns.
Let the premium identity package fail to install.
Let the executive discover gravity.
Let the computer say ERROR until the screen fills with them.
ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR
until the word becomes pattern,
the pattern becomes static,
the static becomes white noise,
the white noise becomes a roar,
and beneath the roar you hear something embarrassingly human.
A voice.
Still there.
Still refusing.
Still saying:
No.
The screen burns white.
The machine continues printing.
One page.
Another.
Another.
Another.
The pages spill onto the floor.
Nobody is reading them anymore.
The printer does not know this.
The printer has a procedure.
The printer obeys.
The printer continues until the paper runs out.
Then a small red light begins blinking.
ATTENTION REQUIRED.
At last.
Something we can agree on.
🔥
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