OPERATION: OUIJA

 

DECLASSIFIED FILE // OPERATION: OUIJA

“When Milton Bradley met the Devil at a dinner party.”

FOREWORD

Forget Hollywood’s PG-13 jump scares. The real Ouija board isn’t about demons crawling out of your TV—it’s about capitalism, grief, and a parlor game turned urban legend. This wasn’t invented by witches in the woods; it was marketed by toy companies who saw the dollar signs in your dead relatives.

THE RECEIPTS

 • Patent 1891: Elijah Bond patents a “talking board.” Not a cult artifact. A parlor trick.

 • Parker Brothers (1966): Mass produces Ouija boards like Barbie dolls. Suburban moms bought them for sleepovers right next to Monopoly.

 • The Church Reacts: Once kids started spelling “SEX” instead of “HI MOM,” churches declared it Satan’s mouthpiece. (Classic PR move: if you can’t beat it, demonize it.)

CULTURAL PANIC

 • 1973: The Exorcist drops. Suddenly the Ouija board = gateway to hell. Sales explode. Parents freak. Priests get airtime.

 • Urban Legends multiply:

 • “My cousin’s best friend’s sister got possessed.”

 • “The planchette moved by itself!”

 • “It spelled K-I-L-L and then the lights went out.”

ACTUAL SCIENCE (BUZZKILL SECTION)

The ideomotor effect explains it: your muscles move micro-involuntarily. Translation: You’re spelling words you don’t know you’re spelling.

But here’s the kicker—sometimes the subconscious is scarier than demons. If you’re already primed for fear, your own nervous system becomes the haunting.

THE SATANIC PANIC CONNECTION

In the ’80s and ’90s, Ouija boards were exhibit A in suburban exorcisms. Youth pastors held bonfires, “purging” Parker Brothers merchandise while secretly pocketing the glow sticks.

Ironically, every time the church cried “HELL PORTAL,” Hasbro sold out.

CASE FILES

 • The 1910s Spiritualists: Used boards during WWI to talk to dead soldiers. Newspapers called it “telephone to the beyond.”

 • The 1990s Teen Sleepovers: Every slumber party had one. Most ended in giggles. A few ended in trauma bonding when someone swore they felt cold fingers.

 • Modern TikTok: Hashtags like #OuijaChallenge rack up millions of views. Spoiler: most of it’s fake, but a few videos look a little too convincing.

SATIRE SIDEBAR

TOY COMMERCIAL (1970s):

🎵 “It’s family fun for everyone—until Pazuzu shows up!” 🎵

 • Ages 8+

 • Batteries not included

 • May summon the damned

FINAL VERDICT

The Ouija board isn’t a portal. It’s a mirror.

It reflects your fear, your grief, your longing to hear from someone who isn’t coming back.

It’s not about ghosts answering. It’s about you asking.

So, is it dangerous?

Only if you’re scared of yourself.

You are not alone.

 

This isn’t a goodbye.

 This isn’t a cry for help.
 This isn’t meant to be found taped to a mirror or folded in a glovebox or posted in the comments section of some well meaning mental health thread.

This is just what it sounds like when the soul finally leaks.

I’m tired.
 Not sleepy.
 Not bored.

Tired in the bones.
 Tired in the teeth.
 Tired in the fucking sunlight.

They keep saying:
 “Call someone.”
 “Speak up.”
 “Don’t be ashamed.”

But have you ever tried to explain this kind of emptiness without sounding like you’re just being dramatic? You can’t.
 So you don’t.

You say you’re fine.
 You make a joke.
 You distract. You wait for the moment to pass like a train you don’t want to ride but kind of wish would just hit you anyway.

This isn’t about death.
 Not really.

It’s about the weight. The shame.
The constant goddamn noise in my head telling me I’m too much, not enough, broken, invisible, fake, unlovable, exhausting.

And the silence outside me saying nothing back.I don’t want to die. I just want it to stop.

I want to go one whole day without imagining what the world would look like without me in it.

I want someone to look at me and see it
 the ache behind the smile,
 the storm behind the eyes,
 the war that never gets medals.

But I don’t expect that anymore.

So I write it here,
 into nothing,
 just to know I’m still here.

Still breathing.
Still burning.
Still fucking here.

That’s all.

Feather

 

“Light as a Feather” is a solid 4/5 stars a taut, atmospheric horror gem that delivers chills and a lingering unease. If you enjoy stories like “The Exorcist” meets “It Follows,” with a dash of small-town gothic, this will haunt your thoughts. Just don’t read it alone in an old house… or with a Ouija board nearby. Highly recommended for horror enthusiasts looking for a bite-sized nightmare.

Quiet.

 A morgue janitor takes a five second dare. Three days later, the corpse is pregnant, the ultrasound smiles back, and his phone says: It’s yours.

The Quiet Between Breaths  : some births happen in the dark.

https://square.link/u/NLNC1vBC

DEATH OF THE AUTHOR

 📂 DECLASSIFIED FILE: OPERATION DEATH OF THE AUTHOR

Subject: Art, Intent, and the Hypocrisy of Readers

The Theory

Roland Barthes dropped the mic in 1967 with “Death of the Author.” His point? Once a book exists, it belongs to the reader. Forget the author’s life, morals, or intent—the text stands alone. The meaning lives in you, not in the guy who typed it.

The Reality

Fast-forward to now: everybody’s suddenly a moral critic. Whole mobs decide not to read, not to buy, not to engage—because of what they think they know about the author. Translation? They’ve rejected Barthes and replaced him with TMZ.

They don’t evaluate the book. They evaluate the biography. The scandal. The out-of-context tweet. The vibe. It’s not literary criticism, it’s digital gossip dressed up as ethics.

The Hypocrisy

And here’s the kicker: the same people who preach “separate art from the artist” when they want to keep blasting their favorite problematic musician? Suddenly they forget the theory exists the second it gives them an excuse to avoid dangerous, uncomfortable work.

If you’re scared of the book, just say that. But don’t pretend you’re defending literature by ignoring the very thing literature demands: reading the damn book.

Conclusion

Death of the Author doesn’t mean the writer disappears. It means the work is free. Free to be read, loved, hated, torn apart, worshiped on its own merits.

Rejecting a book because you don’t like the author? That’s not critique. That’s fear. That’s gossip. That’s weakness.

Sadly, I KNOW 99% of the people who hate me have never read a single book I’ve written.

It’s easy to hate me. Hell, it’s trendy. You’ll have more friends if you hate me. That’s where the anonymous emails come from.

You’ve never met me. You don’t know me.

But you know the bookstores who blacklist me from horror nights.

You know the one-star reviews from people who never cracked the spine.

You know the crowd that turns its head to tragedy until it’s fashionable to be outraged.

And yeah you know there are people who will throw a party at the death of this author.

But here’s the truth: the work stands. The words survive. You can hate me all you want, but you’ll never erase what I’ve written.

“If you want to burn me, fine. But don’t pretend you’ve read the ashes.”

OPERATION: HALLOWEEN

 OPERATION: HALLOWEEN

CLASSIFIED FILES DECLASSIFIED

From October 1st – 31st, Ash will be cracking open the vault and dropping daily doses of Halloween:

facts, rumors, legends, and nightmaresall in true Ash style: snarky, cursed, and declassified.

👻 Expect ghosts that lie, churches that bleed, pumpkins with paperwork, and more urban legends than your grandma’s Facebook.

💀 Consider this your official summons to 31 straight nights of fear, fun, and files that should’ve stayed sealed.

Ash & Ink // Declassified & Dirty

“Because October deserves better than candy corn.”

CHARLIE

 

The Manson Mirage

The Manson Mirage

You think you know Charlie.

The wild eyes. The X carved into the forehead. The madman whispering about pigs and helter-skelter. The media’s favorite boogeyman. But that wasn’t Charles Manson.

That was the puppet.

I met him once, before the trial. I was an intern at the federal archives in L.A., sorting through tapes and transcriptions no one was supposed to hear. There were hours of recordings from Spahn Ranch—before the murders, before the headlines. Hours of Manson talking like a preacher on fire, quoting scriptures twisted in LSD logic, promising peace through chaos.

But what chilled me wasn’t his voice. It was the other voice. The one coaching him.

A man called Bishop.

CIA, maybe. Or deeper—whatever alphabet agency doesn’t exist on paper. He spoke to Manson like a father to a child. “Chaos is currency, Charlie,” he said. “You make them scared, and we write the laws.”

They wanted the hippies discredited. Wanted Woodstock drowned in blood. And Charlie—damaged, drugged, desperate for identity—was perfect. They fed him girls, acid, even scripts. Helter Skelter wasn’t his idea. It was a psyop. A test.

And it worked.

The murders? Real. Brutal. But messy. Not Manson’s style. Not really. Tex was a CIA asset—a failed one. Too much blow, too little conscience. He did the killing. Charlie just got the spotlight. Got painted as the puppetmaster while the true strings vanished into fog.

I saw one photo that never made it to trial. Manson at a black site. Chained to a gurney, electrodes on his skull. A man in a military coat writing notes. Caption: “Subject M: Projection failure.”

After the trial, they buried him in the system. Let the myth grow. He played along, of course. What else was there to do? Deny it? He was already the devil. Might as well grow the horns.

But sometimes, when the lights dim in my room and the static creeps back into my radio, I hear him whisper: “I didn’t kill anyone. But I made you believe I did.”

Manson wasn’t a cult leader.

He was a mirror.

And you were the monster in the reflection.

Private Circle Jerk

 

OPERATION BESTSELLER

📂 Subject: The New York Times Bestseller List

Classification: Public Illusion / Private Circle Jerk

Summary:

The New York Times Bestseller list is not the Holy Grail. It’s a high-priced country club where you don’t get in because readers loved you—you get in because you paid the cover charge.

Sure, the public thinks it’s a scoreboard of “the best books in America.” Cute. In reality? It’s a curated list propped up by six-figure bulk buys, publisher kickbacks, and PR firms that brag about knowing exactly which “reporting stores” to target.

Receipts:

• The Fixers: Whole companies exist that literally sell you a spot on the list. They funnel your bulk orders through indie bookstores the NYT tracks, scatter the purchases across zip codes, and—voilà—your mediocrity is suddenly a “#1 Bestseller.”
• Editorial Filter: The Times doesn’t even pretend anymore. They openly call it editorial. Translation: they’ll bump indie horror selling 20,000 copies in a week, but somehow squeeze in a celebrity memoir that nobody asked for because it “looks right” on their list.
• Case Files:
  
• Business gurus and preachers who mysteriously “debut at #1” and then vanish faster than a cult leader after the Kool-Aid’s gone.
• Celebrity ghostwritten books that tank everywhere else but magically hold a NYT badge.
• Indies crushing it on Amazon—never touching the list, because they didn’t kiss the ring.
• 
  

Impact:

That little black-and-white line—New York Times Bestseller—isn’t a badge of honor. It’s a receipt. Proof someone spent $200K for bragging rights and a sticker on their cover.

Meanwhile, actual underground voices? The ones readers are hunting for? Ignored. Because nothing terrifies the Times more than admitting the masses might actually prefer their horror unfiltered, their nonfiction uncensored, or their gospel without New York’s editorial blessing.

Conclusion:

The NYT Bestseller list isn’t about books. It’s about control. It’s about gatekeeping, optics, and money laundering disguised as “literary prestige.”

Tagline:

“Bestseller? Please. Try Best Buyer. The New York Times doesn’t measure talent—they measure bank accounts.”

Hungry?

 Really?!? lol 

Ash says

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Verified Buyer

Look, I was skeptical. Who needs a “high simulation eggplant” in their home? But let me tell you this little guy has changed my life.

Pros:

 • Looks like an innocent veggie, until you find out it’s packing… features.

 • Whisper quiet, unless you count the unholy noises coming out of me.

 • Perfect for when you want to confuse guests by leaving it on the counter like produce.

Cons:

 • Kinda awkward explaining to the mailman why I’m ordering single eggplants online.

 • Doesn’t sauté well with olive oil (trust me, don’t ask).

Final verdict: 10/10, better than most of my exes. If Temu wants to call it “bouquet décor,” that’s fine

just know the only arrangement I’m making is in my bedroom.

I always feel like….

 

HALLOWEEN DECLASSIFIED: PARANORMAL FILES 👻

The CIA’s Shadow Beings

In the 1970s–90s, the CIA funded something out of a horror movie: The Stargate Project. The mission? Explore remote viewing the alleged psychic ability to see distant places, people, or events.

Spies in meditation chairs.

Targets sealed in envelopes.

Minds stretched across time and space.

But here’s the part they don’t put in the sanitized reports:

Multiple remote viewers claimed they weren’t alone.

Instead of just seeing bunkers, submarines, or “enemy secrets,” they reported shadow beings dark humanoid figures watching them from the edges of their visions.

Some viewers said the shadows tried to interfere, blurring the “signal.”

Others said the entities noticed them back turning the watcher into the watched.

The official files focus on whether psychic spying “worked.”

The shadows? Buried under footnotes and denials.

But ask anyone who was there and they’ll tell you the same thing:

The most frightening part of remote viewing wasn’t what they saw.

It was who saw them.

🔎 Verdict:

The CIA wanted psychic soldiers.

What they got were ghost stories with clearance levels.

Because when you stare into the dark too long…

Sometimes it stares back.

Lets fucking do this!

’

💔 WHILE OTHERS TAKE TIME TO BLAME… ASH & INK ARE TAKING ACTION. For the next 7 DAYS, 100% of our *digital* book sales go straight toward the victims of *today’s tragedy*. We stand firmly against the church’s dogma—but never against people. We DON’T discriminate. Instead of using grief as a tool let’s use it to heal. We’re contributing to the Red Cross and helping with funeral costs for families. We’re committed to supporting children impacted in real ways. Search Jake Bannerman, Wes Jaques, or Ash Robicheaux on Amazon to support. Let’s turn grief into action, not gossip. — Ash, CEO of Horror Ink 💀 Because horror should *save lives.* All funds will go to https://www.redcross.org/local/mn-nd-sd/about-us/locations/twin-cities.html?CI=organic_gmb_listings

Recall!!

 

Disclaimer

Before anyone rushes to call this “bad timing” or accuse me of making fun of tragedy—let me stop you. You’re right: this is a tragedy. Children have died. And it’s more serious than anything I’ve ever preached or written about.

But here’s the point: if the so-called divine plan allows children to be slaughtered in churches, then maybe the plan is broken. Maybe the product is defective. We’ve been burying people all over the world for thousands of years in the name of faith, freedom, and God-given rights—and guess what? The scriptures never once mention the United States of America’s “God-given right” to guns. Politicians just invented that part.

We’ve got leaders preaching God’s perfection while worshiping violence, and worshipers praising a creator whose image looks more and more like mass murder. And every time it happens, the same chorus comes out: “We’re praying for the families.”

Praying? To who? To the same God whose “plan” just allowed kids to die in a pew? Think about that.

So no—I’m not mocking the victims. I’m mocking the sanctimonious system that shrugs at their blood while pretending it’s all part of the plan. I’m mocking the hypocrisy of government leaders hiding behind scripture they don’t even follow. And if that offends you, maybe it should.

Recall of Human Models – Defective Violence Mechanism

Summary:

Heavenly Manufacturing has determined that all current Human Model Units (serial numbers: All of Them) contain a critical defect in the violence control system, resulting in excessive misuse of weapons. This defect has been observed for approximately 1900 years but was only recently acknowledged due to administrative delay. (Recall notice was previously misplaced between a couch and a loveseat. Our apologies.)

Affected Population:

 • Approximately 8 million units annually (billions total to date).

 • All makes, models, and regions of humanity are impacted.

 • Note: No exemption for “good behavior” models.

⸻

Defect Details:

 • Cause: Unregulated aggression firmware, not patched since initial release.

 • Result: Persistent malfunctions, including war, murder, genocide, and recreational cruelty.

 • Risk to Users: Severe. In many cases, fatal.

⸻

Warranty Advisory:

The “Prayer Option”, marketed as an extended warranty feature, has been found to be non-functional since launch. Customer reliance on this option has provided zero measurable results. We regret not disclosing this defect earlier. Refunds are not available.

⸻

Corrective Action:

 1. Immediate Recall: All defective humans are subject to recall effective immediately.

 2. Repair Options: None at this time. Research into “empathy upgrades” remains stalled.

 3. Replacement Options: Pending. Reincarnation department is currently backlogged.

 4. Consumer Responsibility: Report defective units to the nearest altar. Do not attempt at-home exorcisms—these are not authorized fixes.

Manufacturer Statement:

“As spokesperson for this recall, I take full responsibility, and I can assure you—I nearly lost my head over this. Oh wait, I did. Again, apologies.”

– John the Baptist, Customer Relations, Heaven Inc.

Contact Information:

Heavenly Manufacturing Recall Hotline: 1-800-REPENT-NOW (please allow infinite hold time).

Mailing Address: Celestial Bureaucracy, PO Box 000, Cloud Level 7.

BOO

 Declassified & Dirty: Ghost Files 👻 🎃

The government has denied it for decades, but there’s a paper trail.

 • The CIA & the Stargate Project Officially “remote viewing,” but the reports are full of operatives claiming to see spirits and entities when they left their bodies.

 • The Pentagon’s Phantom Barracks Military police logged reports of footsteps, voices, and “shadow people” at bases built over old graveyards. The official line? “No unusual activity was detected.”

 • The FBI’s Haunted Hotels 

Buried in old files are citizen reports of ghosts tied to mob killings, with J. Edgar Hoover’s men chalking it up to “imagination” while quietly noting the consistency of sightings.

The pattern? Whenever hauntings crossed into official reports, the answer was always the same: “Nothing to see here.”

But ask anyone who’s worked late nights in government buildings the ghosts are still clocked in.

Trick or treat, truth seekers. The real haunted house is the state itself.

#DeclassifiedAndDirty #Halloween #GhostFiles

Still here.

 

From the Desk of Ash, CEO of Horror Ink 🔥

We don’t post about how many books we need to sell.

Because at Horror Ink, we don’t need. We give.

💀 Unlike most, 100% of our Amazon digital profits go directly to suicide prevention and other charities.

And still , rumors swirl.

We’ve even heard whispers that we’re “anti-trans.” Odd, isn’t it? Because one of our most important releases 2 Die 4 by Jake Bannerman was written for LGBTQ ⚧️ suicide prevention. And yes: all profits from that book go to LGBTQ suicide prevention.

📖 Here it is if you’d like to see for yourself:

👉 2 Die 4 by Jake Bannerman

I think you might like this book: 2 Die 4 by Jake Bannerman https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F3YN1997?ref_=quick_view_ref_tag

So while others post about what they need from you

We focus on what we can give back to the ones who need it most.

Because horror shouldn’t just scare you.

It should save lives.

— Ash 🖤

CEO, Horror Ink

And from me Wes, I barely have a pot to piss in surgeries getting f*kd over by workmans comp and people dont lift a finger to support, they lie, they don’t invite me to horror events based on lies. Guess who is still giving? Me.

Free Candy.

 🎃 Declassified & Dirty: The Deadly Candy Scare 🍬 🎃

In the 1970s and 80s, parents were warned to check their kids’ Halloween candy for razor blades, poison, and needles. News anchors screamed “Halloween candy killers are everywhere!”

But here’s the dirty truth:

🕵️ No mass wave of candy poisonings ever happened.

💊 The real killer? Industrial negligence and tainted Tylenol.

🌫️ Pollution, pharmaceuticals, and corporate cover ups were deadlier than any Snickers bar.

The “candy poisoner” myth was the perfect distraction fear of strangers handing out deadly treats kept eyes off the corporations quietly poisoning air, water, and medicine cabinets.

👉 Trick or treat, little monsters. The real trick was on us.

#DeclassifiedAndDirty #Halloween #UrbanLegends

Funeral Pornography

                          Coming in 2026

“The funeral was never the end.”

The grave is open.

The veil is torn.

And when the dead return, they don’t come back for peace

they come back for you.

 

Bonus Horror

 I may hsve stopped writing horror , but there is tons of it that’s not been released. And reading made me remember . Im damn good at it.

Cain’s Carnival: A Bonus Gospel of Gore

They called it “the church under the tent,” but no sermon ever came from that place. Only screaming.

It set up every summer on the county outskirts no flyers, no ads, just there one morning like it grew out of the scorched dirt. Red-and-white stripes slashed across the canvas like flayed skin. The lights always flickered. The music was always just a little off carousel lullabies in minor keys, warped like an abused music box.

The preacher Cain, he called himself wore a mask sewn from doll faces. Said his flesh was too sacred for eyes born of sin. His sermons were theater. Blood baptisms. Babies in cages. “Confession booths” where you could scream into the ear of a butcher and feel forgiven as he peeled back your fingernails.

Every night, people came.

Hookers. Addicts. CEOs in disguise. They lined up like it was Disneyland for demons. And when they came out the other side, they were cleaner but not better. Emptier.

I went in undercover. I had to know. I’d seen too many kids go missing, too many social workers disappear after trying to shut it down. So I dressed like the damned. Took a camera. Took a blade. Thought I’d be ready.

I wasn’t.

Inside, nothing obeyed physics. Mirrors showed versions of me with no skin, weeping blood, smiling. The popcorn tasted like teeth. The cotton candy was hair.

Then I saw her my sister. Dead ten years from an overdose. But she was there, strung up on wires like a puppet, her eyes blinking “Help” in Morse code. And below her, Cain smiled.

He knew my name.

“This is your gospel,” he hissed. “Every lie you told, every time you laughed when she cried… this is the sermon your soul wrote.”

I stabbed him. Over and over. Doll faces tore. Blood spilled like ink. The tent collapsed.

But it came back.Every year. Always the same.

And I still get emails from Cain. No sender. No trace. Just a subject line: “You baptized her in shame. Come see what she’s become.”

I never reply.But I always read.

Because deep down, I know the truth.

Cain’s Carnival never leaves.

It just waits.

Did you know?

 

HALLOWEEN DECLASSIFIED: THE DEVIL’S BREATH 🌬️

Operation: Free Will (Erased)

Imagine a drug so powerful it could turn you into a puppet.

Not heroin. Not LSD. Not truth serum.

Scopolamine.

💀 Nickname: The Zombie Drug.

Why? Because one dose could make you:

 • Hand over your wallet, your house keys, your secrets.

 • Follow orders without hesitation.

 • Smile while you do it.

 • And then? Forget it ever happened.

In the 1950s–60s, the CIA couldn’t resist. They studied scopolamine under MKUltra and other covert projects, wondering if it could be the ultimate interrogation tool.

And it wasn’t just theory, on the streets of Colombia, criminals used it for decades to rob, assault, and kidnap. One powder blown in your face, and you’d walk willingly to the ATM and empty your life savings… all while thanking them for the ride.

Victims looked awake.

They sounded normal.

They just had no will of their own.

A chemical exorcism of your soul.

Verdict:

The Devil’s Breath isn’t a fairytale. It’s a real monster odorless, tasteless, and terrifying enough for the CIA to test it on human subjects.

So this Halloween, remember:

Some ghosts don’t haunt houses.

They haunt your bloodstream.

DECLASSIFIED: PROJECT SUNSHINE

 

DECLASSIFIED: PROJECT SUNSHINE ☢️

1950s – Secret Nuclear Harvest

They told the public nuclear fallout was “manageable.”

What they didn’t tell you?

Scientists were carving bones out of the dead to prove it.

👶 Infants.

🧒 Children.

☠️ Hundreds of corpses from around the world.

The U.S. government ran Project Sunshine a “study” of radioactive fallout after nuclear weapons testing. But instead of asking for consent, they raided morgues, cemeteries, and hospitals. Body parts (especially bones and teeth) of children were stolen without the families ever knowing.

Why bones? Because radioactive Strontium-90 hides in them like a ghost, leaving a glowing signature of nuclear disaster. They wanted to measure just how poisoned the planet had become.

This wasn’t one or two cases. It was a worldwide grave-robbing program—sold as “science,” hidden as “classified.”

Families thought they buried their babies whole.

They didn’t.

🔎 Verdict:

Not a horror movie. Not a conspiracy.

This is history. A Halloween tale where the monster wasn’t a vampire, ghost, or ghoul.

It was a man in a white lab coat with a government badge.

Here kitty kitty

 

DECLASSIFIED DID YOU KNOW? 

Did you know the CIA once tested “Acoustic Kitty” a Cold War plan to turn cats into spies?

They literally implanted microphones, wires, and antennas into cats, planning to send them slinking into embassies to eavesdrop.

The first mission? The poor cat got released near the Soviet compound in D.C. … and immediately got hit by a taxi.

Project scrapped. Millions wasted. Cat dead. Spooky as hell, but true.

Ash & Wes Unredacted:

ASH: Imagine being a Cold War general and explaining to Congress, “So, uh… the spy cat didn’t make it.”

WES: The real horror story here isn’t espionage. It’s that someone thought cats would listen to orders.