Forwarded from The Tropical Trails: Soigné Famillie
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHERE, THE LETTER ✿
CALLING EVERY INDIVIDUAL TO FILL THE EMPTINESS OF THE GLASSES THAT HAVE BEEN SET.
This season is a wonderful time to welcome new visionaries, as spring makes its presence known, spreading warmth and life to every soul. Just as we offer refreshing drinks to quench thirst and soothe the spirit, now, we seek those who will become part of our island:
Please, make sure you are not a cloner, two-faced, or a spy. Lastly, check the availability of your muse is not one of the existing visionaries. If you meet all the requirements, tap this homepage.
Droplets of water glisten on the fruits, their ripeness offering a feast for the senses, and every peel releases the promise of sweetness. We eagerly await new visionaries to fill the empty glasses and cultivate the garden with us.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHERE, THE LETTER ✿
CALLING EVERY INDIVIDUAL TO FILL THE EMPTINESS OF THE GLASSES THAT HAVE BEEN SET.
This season is a wonderful time to welcome new visionaries, as spring makes its presence known, spreading warmth and life to every soul. Just as we offer refreshing drinks to quench thirst and soothe the spirit, now, we seek those who will become part of our island:
❀ Tropic Sun (1980-1995)
To fill the space for Father
❀ Sunset Lagoon (1997-1999)
To fill the space for Aunts and Uncles
❀ Hibiscus Wind (2000-2002)
To fill the space for Eldest
❀ Flamingo Bay (2003-2006)
To fill the space for Middle
❀ Pineapple Dawn (2007-2009)
To fill the space for Youngest
Please, make sure you are not a cloner, two-faced, or a spy. Lastly, check the availability of your muse is not one of the existing visionaries. If you meet all the requirements, tap this homepage.
Droplets of water glisten on the fruits, their ripeness offering a feast for the senses, and every peel releases the promise of sweetness. We eagerly await new visionaries to fill the empty glasses and cultivate the garden with us.
Forwarded from { NAMPILUNE NEST } ୭ৎ.
ㅤ
THE REDOLENT SCENT OF BRIOCHE VESSEL TRYST WORLD (and.) HAILING EACH⭐
───────────────
FLOWERETS UNTIL THEY SHEEN
🌸 ⺌ 😀
o𝑓
“The rays shaft penetrated
polarities leaves behind him”
✶ ۫ ⸼ #NampingBirthday; The fairness of each petal falling right onto the lid of the jam bowl, the overlie rolled out, and the irresistible picnic began. Nothing was more ravishing than the splendor of the wind swepting his bangs from northern. Crayons laden his post meridian, tinge his brand new echelon. With a mug of tea in his hand, he beamed at the flock of bunnies that steered him there. Every leap to flee and behoove prime in the new epoch, elucidating rainbows burgeoning.
ㅤ
THE REDOLENT SCENT OF BRIOCHE VESSEL TRYST WORLD (and.) HAILING EACH
───────────────
FLOWERETS UNTIL THEY SHEEN
o𝑓
“The rays shaft penetrated
polarities leaves behind him”
✶ ۫ ⸼ #NampingBirthday; The fairness of each petal falling right onto the lid of the jam bowl, the overlie rolled out, and the irresistible picnic began. Nothing was more ravishing than the splendor of the wind swepting his bangs from northern. Crayons laden his post meridian, tinge his brand new echelon. With a mug of tea in his hand, he beamed at the flock of bunnies that steered him there. Every leap to flee and behoove prime in the new epoch, elucidating rainbows burgeoning.
ㅤ
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🏹 … / THE DRAWERS, HEAVY WITH ROTE, SEAL THEMSELVES SHUT.
Solitaire motes hang in the slant of February 17th. Caught between the breath of porch curtains and the quiet decay of yesterday’s date on the wall calendar. Time doesn’t pass here; it settles. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘰𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮. Napolitan tray rests: swirls of strawberry cream bleeding into vanilla reveries and dark chocolate confessions.
This room? Painted in more than pigment. It’s stained with pauses. And not just a day, but an artifact. It’s edged with intentionality: six zines folded like origami prayers slipped through mailslots of blade hearts; @TheWyrmharrow, @TheHalton, @TheDoucheron, @TheDanvery, @RebeIian, aimed not at eyes but ribs. The slow burn: afterglow as methodology. They will return to this date again. Not because they must. But because something 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 refuses extinction. It pulses still … in subtext, in margins, in ink that smudges like pine.
𝘊𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘫𝘦, @TheCaintje 𝁘
(𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸.)
Solitaire motes hang in the slant of February 17th. Caught between the breath of porch curtains and the quiet decay of yesterday’s date on the wall calendar. Time doesn’t pass here; it settles. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘰𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮. Napolitan tray rests: swirls of strawberry cream bleeding into vanilla reveries and dark chocolate confessions.
This room? Painted in more than pigment. It’s stained with pauses. And not just a day, but an artifact. It’s edged with intentionality: six zines folded like origami prayers slipped through mailslots of blade hearts; @TheWyrmharrow, @TheHalton, @TheDoucheron, @TheDanvery, @RebeIian, aimed not at eyes but ribs. The slow burn: afterglow as methodology. They will return to this date again. Not because they must. But because something 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 refuses extinction. It pulses still … in subtext, in margins, in ink that smudges like pine.
𝘊𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘫𝘦, @TheCaintje 𝁘
(𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸.)
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🏹 … / THE DRAWERS, HEAVY WITH ROTE, SEAL THEMSELVES SHUT.
Solitaire motes hang in the slant of February 18th. Caught between the breath of porch curtains and the quiet decay of yesterday’s date on the wall calendar. Time doesn’t pass here; it settles. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘰𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮. Napolitan tray rests: swirls of strawberry cream bleeding into vanilla reveries and dark chocolate confessions.
This room? Painted in more than pigment. It’s stained with pauses. And not just a day, but an artifact. It’s edged with intentionality: six zines folded like origami prayers slipped through mailslots of blade hearts; @TheLachaise, @TheEdurne, @TheLorwaine, @Ostendl, aimed not at eyes but ribs. The slow burn: afterglow as methodology. They will return to this date again. Not because they must. But because something 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 refuses extinction. It pulses still … in subtext, in margins, in ink that smudges like pine.
𝘊𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘫𝘦, @TheCaintje 𝁘
(𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸.)
Solitaire motes hang in the slant of February 18th. Caught between the breath of porch curtains and the quiet decay of yesterday’s date on the wall calendar. Time doesn’t pass here; it settles. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘰𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮. Napolitan tray rests: swirls of strawberry cream bleeding into vanilla reveries and dark chocolate confessions.
This room? Painted in more than pigment. It’s stained with pauses. And not just a day, but an artifact. It’s edged with intentionality: six zines folded like origami prayers slipped through mailslots of blade hearts; @TheLachaise, @TheEdurne, @TheLorwaine, @Ostendl, aimed not at eyes but ribs. The slow burn: afterglow as methodology. They will return to this date again. Not because they must. But because something 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 refuses extinction. It pulses still … in subtext, in margins, in ink that smudges like pine.
𝘊𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘫𝘦, @TheCaintje 𝁘
(𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸.)
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🏹 … / THE DRAWERS, HEAVY WITH ROTE, SEAL THEMSELVES SHUT.
Solitaire motes hang in the slant of February 20th. Caught between the breath of porch curtains and the quiet decay of yesterday’s date on the wall calendar. Time doesn’t pass here; it settles. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘰𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮. Napolitan tray rests: swirls of strawberry cream bleeding into vanilla reveries and dark chocolate confessions.
This room? Painted in more than pigment. It’s stained with pauses. And not just a day, but an artifact. It’s edged with intentionality: six zines folded like origami prayers slipped through mailslots of blade hearts; @FamilieSchumann, @Samniont, @thependleton, @Courthlace, @Norchlle, @berthouven, aimed not at eyes but ribs. The slow burn: afterglow as methodology. They will return to this date again. Not because they must. But because something 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 refuses extinction. It pulses still … in subtext, in margins, in ink that smudges like pine.
𝘊𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘫𝘦, @TheCaintje 𝁘
(𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸.)
Solitaire motes hang in the slant of February 20th. Caught between the breath of porch curtains and the quiet decay of yesterday’s date on the wall calendar. Time doesn’t pass here; it settles. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘰𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮. Napolitan tray rests: swirls of strawberry cream bleeding into vanilla reveries and dark chocolate confessions.
This room? Painted in more than pigment. It’s stained with pauses. And not just a day, but an artifact. It’s edged with intentionality: six zines folded like origami prayers slipped through mailslots of blade hearts; @FamilieSchumann, @Samniont, @thependleton, @Courthlace, @Norchlle, @berthouven, aimed not at eyes but ribs. The slow burn: afterglow as methodology. They will return to this date again. Not because they must. But because something 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 refuses extinction. It pulses still … in subtext, in margins, in ink that smudges like pine.
𝘊𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘫𝘦, @TheCaintje 𝁘
(𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸.)
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤWhat a delightful start to the weekend, as Caintje's Liyu and Lachers' Sanghyeon spent the day together with so much excitement! Lachers' Sanghyeon couldn't stop babbling of how fond he is for painting lately and one also had to say the same for cats! Two worlds collided and it was just natural if we ended up painting cats together, wasn't that precious? Although, we might have too much fun with it that my face became his new canvas. And he was only laughing while doing so! At the very least, we thought we made a masterpiece together since we loved the result so far! Lachers' Sanghyeon also kindly brought our steps along to this hidden gem that he mentioned last week. The place was so cozy and lovely for gathering. Perfect for a hangout with your friends around! It was... indeed, a day one thoroughly enjoyed! One couldn't help but looking forward to our next journey later~
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤWhat a delightful start to the weekend, as Caintje's Liyu and Lachers' Sanghyeon spent the day together with so much excitement! Lachers' Sanghyeon couldn't stop babbling of how fond he is for painting lately and one also had to say the same for cats! Two worlds collided and it was just natural if we ended up painting cats together, wasn't that precious? Although, we might have too much fun with it that my face became his new canvas. And he was only laughing while doing so! At the very least, we thought we made a masterpiece together since we loved the result so far! Lachers' Sanghyeon also kindly brought our steps along to this hidden gem that he mentioned last week. The place was so cozy and lovely for gathering. Perfect for a hangout with your friends around! It was... indeed, a day one thoroughly enjoyed! One couldn't help but looking forward to our next journey later~
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
❤7❤🔥5🍓4🎉2🕊1
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🏹 … / THE DRAWERS, HEAVY WITH ROTE, SEAL THEMSELVES SHUT.
Solitaire motes hang in the slant of February 22nd. Caught between the breath of porch curtains and the quiet decay of yesterday’s date on the wall calendar. Time doesn’t pass here; it settles. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘰𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮. Napolitan tray rests: swirls of strawberry cream bleeding into vanilla reveries and dark chocolate confessions.
This room? Painted in more than pigment. It’s stained with pauses. And not just a day, but an artifact. It’s edged with intentionality: six zines folded like origami prayers slipped through mailslots of blade hearts; @MeadowOfRoselain, @Myldemoor. aimed not at eyes but ribs. The slow burn: afterglow as methodology. They will return to this date again. Not because they must. But because something 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 refuses extinction. It pulses still ... in ink that smudges like pine.
𝘊𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘫𝘦, @TheCaintje 𝁘
(𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸.)
Solitaire motes hang in the slant of February 22nd. Caught between the breath of porch curtains and the quiet decay of yesterday’s date on the wall calendar. Time doesn’t pass here; it settles. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘰𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮. Napolitan tray rests: swirls of strawberry cream bleeding into vanilla reveries and dark chocolate confessions.
This room? Painted in more than pigment. It’s stained with pauses. And not just a day, but an artifact. It’s edged with intentionality: six zines folded like origami prayers slipped through mailslots of blade hearts; @MeadowOfRoselain, @Myldemoor. aimed not at eyes but ribs. The slow burn: afterglow as methodology. They will return to this date again. Not because they must. But because something 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 refuses extinction. It pulses still ... in ink that smudges like pine.
𝘊𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘫𝘦, @TheCaintje 𝁘
(𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸.)
❤4
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🏹 … / THE DRAWERS, HEAVY WITH ROTE, SEAL THEMSELVES SHUT.
Solitaire motes hang in the slant of February 24th.Caught between the breath of porch curtains and the quiet decay of yesterday’s date on the wall calendar. Time doesn’t pass here; it settles. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘰𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮. Napolitan tray rests: swirls of strawberry cream bleeding into vanilla reveries and dark chocolate confessions.
This room? Painted in more than pigment. It’s stained with pauses. And not just a day, but an artifact. It’s edged with intentionality: six zines folded like origami prayers slipped through mailslots of blade heart: @KasteelOfDuisterg, @PinnacleNoire, @Thedrazenc,
aimed not at eyes but ribs. The slow burn: afterglow as methodology. They will return to this date again. Not because they must. But because something 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 refuses extinction. It pulses still ... in subtext, in margins, in ink that smudges like pine.
𝘊𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘫𝘦, @TheCaintje 𝁘
(𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸.)
Solitaire motes hang in the slant of February 24th.Caught between the breath of porch curtains and the quiet decay of yesterday’s date on the wall calendar. Time doesn’t pass here; it settles. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘰𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘮. Napolitan tray rests: swirls of strawberry cream bleeding into vanilla reveries and dark chocolate confessions.
This room? Painted in more than pigment. It’s stained with pauses. And not just a day, but an artifact. It’s edged with intentionality: six zines folded like origami prayers slipped through mailslots of blade heart: @KasteelOfDuisterg, @PinnacleNoire, @Thedrazenc,
aimed not at eyes but ribs. The slow burn: afterglow as methodology. They will return to this date again. Not because they must. But because something 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 refuses extinction. It pulses still ... in subtext, in margins, in ink that smudges like pine.
𝘊𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘫𝘦, @TheCaintje 𝁘
(𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸.)