The Chrome by Helford Jersey

Friday, October 9, 2026

RepoMan 10.10.2026

The RepoMan Oct 9, 2026 · @SenLin 1. Recovery If you're current on your payments, you can stop reading. None of this is about you. Go on back to your life. Go back to knowing things. Still here? Then you're behind, and I don't need to tell you what that's like. You check the balance before you check the weather. You flinch at numbers you don't recognize. You lie awake quizzing yourself — the capitals, the formulas, the eight bones of the wrist — just to make sure it's all still in there. It's all still in there. For now. The Egyptians took the brain out through the nose. Herodotus says so, and he was there, more or less: an iron hook up the nostril, some twisting, some stirring, and out it came in pieces, and they threw the pieces away, because everybody knew you did your thinking with your heart. The heart they left in. The liver and the lungs went into jars with gods carved on the lids. The brain was garbage. Twenty-five centuries later, it turns out they had the right route. They were just wrong about what was worth stealing. I work nights. I ride the Owl. The Owl is the 17 Night Line, the loop that runs from the hospital towers down through the Quad, past the old stadium, and out to Terminal Yard, where the buses go to sleep it off. At four in the morning it's a dormitory on wheels: night-shift aides with their shoes off, line cooks who smell like the fryer, a security guard in a jacket two sizes too ambitious for him, and the ones with nowhere else to be, riding the loop because the loop is heated and the fare is cheap and a bus, according to the law, counts as public. Outside, the city slides by in pieces — a pharmacy cross smearing green across the wet street, a seat-shop billboard promising AN MBA BY LUNCH, a tent city under the overpass where the blanks sleep in rows under blue tarps. Public is the whole game. Here's the law, roughly, as it was explained to me my first night at Tabula Rasa Recovery: I can't break into your house. I can't wake you up. I can't touch you if you tell me no. What I can do is recover any collateral left unattended in a public place. You'd be amazed how many people leave their heads unattended. I wear the Ledger in my left eye, a contact lens with a hairline antenna that streams Alma Mater Financial's books straight onto my retina. Through it, every financed head on the bus has a glow. Current accounts are a dull bronze, a tea light behind the skull. Thirty days late burns amber. Ninety burns orange. A hundred and eighty — six missed payments, charge-off, end of the road — goes red and starts to pulse, slow, like something breathing under a blanket. Third row from the back, against the window: red. Her name is Dana Kowalczyk. She's twenty-six. She's wearing a server's apron from a steakhouse chain, and she's asleep with her temple against the glass, which is cold, which she can't feel. The Ledger feeds me the rest in a column down the edge of my vision. Two years toward a Bachelor of Architecture at a school that no longer exists. A hundred and thirty-eight thousand dollars at nine point nine percent. A hundred and eighty-three days past due. They've been looking for her for three days. She moved twice. She changed jobs. She never once thought to stay awake. The hook is a Tanaka-Holm R9. It looks like a cordless glue gun designed by somebody who was afraid of you: pistol grip, a spool of filament thinner than an eyelash, a cold-glass cartridge the size of a shotgun shell seated in the handle. I sit down beside her. I don't hurry. Nobody on the Owl looks at anybody else. That law is older than the one in the books. You go in through the nose because it's the only door the brain forgot to lock. At the top of the nasal cavity there's a plate of bone called the cribriform — from the Latin for sieve — and it's shot through with holes, because the nerves for smell come down through it like roots through a drain. Smell is the only sense that doesn't check in with the thalamus first. It goes straight to the old rooms, the amygdala, the hippocampus, the places you keep things. That's why one whiff of a stranger's cigarette can put you back in your grandfather's truck. It's also why I don't need a drill. The filament goes up her left nostril. She makes a small sleeper's sound. The R9 talks to her lattice and the lattice answers, and somewhere behind her forehead the trellis of protein Alma Mater threaded into her on Orientation Day — between the campus tour and the free pizza — lights up like a city seen from thirty thousand feet. The pull takes six seconds. For the middle two, I know what she knows. The manual calls it splash and says it's harmless. For two seconds I know that the hole in the roof of the Pantheon is twenty-seven feet across and has been letting in the rain for nineteen hundred years, and that the floor is pitched so the water runs off. I know the Romans poured concrete that cured underwater. I know what a load path is, and why the arch, and that every building is an argument with gravity that has to be won again every single day. For two seconds the bus is the most beautiful machine I've ever been inside. Then the cartridge clicks, and it's a bus. I reel the filament back. One drop of blood follows it out, bright as a ladybug, and sits on her upper lip. She doesn't wake. Most of them don't. The nosebleed is the receipt. Here's what Dana Kowalczyk finds out this morning. She'll get off at Terminal Yard and walk home under buildings that have gone flat on her — boxes with windows in them, nothing more — and she won't be able to say what changed. She'll open the drawer where she keeps the sketchbook she still draws in on her days off, and she'll turn the pages slowly, like they were drawn by a stranger, which they were. Here's what else she finds out. Next week the Lot will remarket her two years of architecture — previously owned, one owner, light bleed — for maybe forty cents on the dollar. The gap between what she owed and what it fetches is called the deficiency, and she still owes the deficiency. You can lose the knowledge and keep the debt. People think that's a glitch. That's the product. After a pull my hands need something to do, so I give them the silk. I carry a card of black braided suture, 3-0, and I tie one-handed knots down the length of it while the Owl leans into the turn at Fourth: loop, pinch, through, cinch, and again, and again. I don't know where my hands learned that. That's a lie. I know exactly where they learned it. I paid for it. I just don't know who from. 2. Provenance Here's the history, in case you're young. Before 2033, a student loan was just a loan. They could garnish your wages. They could take your tax refund, your credit, your sleep. They could chase you to the grave and mail your widow a sympathy card with the balance printed on the back. But whatever you learned was yours. You could stiff them for every dime and still know calculus. Knowledge was the one thing you owned that nobody could put a boot on. Then a dental hygienist from Tulsa named Lorna Pruitt went three years without a payment, and Alma Mater Financial took her all the way up, and she stood on the courthouse steps in her work scrubs and told the cameras you can't repossess what's in a person's head. Six to three, the Court said you could. They called it the durable goods doctrine. A fact, once financed, is property, same as a pickup or a refrigerator, and property can be pledged, and what's pledged can be taken back. The lattice already existed. It had been sitting in a lab for years, waiting on the lawyers. Within eighteen months every lender in the country was threading them into freshmen. Within three years you couldn't borrow a dollar for school without one. And the lattice is greedy. Learn anything in your financed field after the thread goes in — from a lecture, from a library book, from your grandmother at the kitchen table — and it gets tagged the same as everything you paid for. The contracts call that commingling. It's why nobody with a lattice reads for fun anymore. Every free fact is one more thing they can take. What was learned before the ruling stayed clean. Grandfathered, they call it, and the people who carry it are grandfathers, even the women. Old doctors. Old pilots. Old men who can still figure the tip in their heads. Nobody can touch them. They're the last people in the country who own their minds outright, and they walk around like it, and the rest of us hate them a little. I was sixteen when the line came down. Everything on the far side of it is mine: the alphabet, the times tables, how to ride a bike, how to whistle through two fingers, a tune my mother hummed at the stove that never had any words. Everything on this side of it, I'm renting. That includes the brain. You need neuro to work recovery. The lattice is wet work; you have to know what you're threading through, or you leave people drooling on the upholstery. Tabula Rasa won't put a hook in your hand without a seated neurology package, and a new one runs four hundred thousand, so I did what everybody does. I went to a seat shop on Commerce called Second Mind and financed a used one. Every cartridge comes with a provenance report, like the history on a used car: owners, dates, accidents, flood damage. Mine shows five owners before me. I've looked up four. A resident who quit medicine to sell boats. A woman who bought it to understand her husband's tumor and sold it back after the funeral. A man who died with it in his head, which is legal now, and means they recover it from the body. A recovery agent in Gulfport who fell behind and got recovered himself. The first owner is a black bar. Redacted, the report says, at the request of the original title holder. I'm the sixth. Ask around the Lot why they call me Six and you'll get six answers. Some of them are even true. One, because I'm the sixth owner of everything I know. Two, because I come for you at six payments. Three, because of how long it takes. Four, because I was the sixth agent Tabula Rasa ever hired, and the first five are blanks now, and I recovered two of them myself. Five, because my mother named me for the sixth day, the one when God made man, on the theory that at least one person ought to be made on purpose. Six, because the first five names didn't take. Pick one. They're all secondhand. Here's the thing about used knowledge: it doesn't come clean. The industry calls it bleed. Facts don't travel alone. They come wrapped in whatever the last owner was holding when they learned them. I can't think about the vagus nerve without smelling oranges. The cranial nerves come with a woman's low laugh and a spoon ringing in a cup. I know a phone number I've never dialed and a green door on a street I've never walked down. And whenever I think about the hippocampus — named for the seahorse by a Bolognese anatomist in 1587, because that's what it looked like to him — I feel a thumb drawing slow lines across my knuckles. Bleed is supposed to be weather from somebody else's life. A smell, a mood, a flicker of déjà vu. It isn't supposed to be skills. Mine came with hands. Tuesday nights I go to a meeting in the basement of Saint Agnes for people who've been recovered. Folding chairs. A coffee urn. A banner somebody painted that says WE ARE MORE THAN WHAT WE KNEW. We go around the circle. Hi, I'm Doug, I used to know French. Hi, Doug. Hi, I'm Renata, I was a pharmacist, and this morning I couldn't tell you which of my own pills is for my heart. Hi, Renata. When it's my turn, I say, Hi, I'm Six, and I'm afraid. They nod, because everybody in that basement is afraid, and nobody asks what I lost, and nobody knows that the reason Renata can't read her own pill bottles is sitting across the circle from her, drinking the church's coffee. I go because it's the only room in the city where nobody glows. 3. Acceleration The sky over the Lot is the color of a diploma left too long on a dashboard, and the stadium lights are still burning from the night auction, punching white holes in the dawn. The Lot used to be a football stadium. The university went under in '36, when nobody wanted a lattice badly enough to enroll, and Alma Mater picked the place up at auction for less than one season of the old coaching salaries. Where the fifty-yard line was, there are cold-glass racks now, forty rows of them with rime on the steel, each rack holding a thousand cartridges in numbered sleeves, and every cartridge is somebody's two years of nursing or three years of law or one summer of conversational Portuguese financed to impress a girl from Recife. Up on the concourse where they used to sell beer, the seat shops run their booths — Second Mind, Brain Gain, Smart Again — with laminated menus of what's in stock and a recliner behind a curtain where they'll seat you on the spot. SEAT TODAY, PAY TOMORROW. On auction nights the bidding runs till sunrise, the auctioneer up in the old press box rattling lots into a microphone: four-four-oh-one, Constitutional Law, two owners, light bleed, second owner was a smoker, do I hear nine, nine, nine-five — Down in the tunnel where the team used to run out, the graders work. A grader seats a cartridge for thirty seconds and tells you what comes with it: a smell, a fear, a song, the outline of somebody's mother. The best grader on the Lot is a nineteen-year-old named Pilar who's had so many strangers in her head she's started calling herself we. I sign Dana Kowalczyk's architecture in at intake. Pilar seats it, closes her eyes, and says, Rain. Pencil shavings. A father who was proud of us. Then she pops it out and hands it back. The man waiting for me past intake wears a slate-gray suit that has never once been rained on, and he has the face of the guy in a drug commercial who gets to go sailing at the end. His card says OFFICE OF THE BURSAR, ALMA MATER FINANCIAL SERVICES, and nothing else. When I ask for a name, he gives me a smile I'm almost positive he bought. He talks like a dozen people taking turns. The vowels are Boston, the grammar is Oxford, the long considerate pauses belong to a Jesuit. Every piece of him has been to a good school, just not the same one, and none of them was ever his. "Mr. Six," he says. "Walk with me." We walk the racks. Our breath hangs in the air. "You're delinquent," he says. "Everybody's delinquent." "You are one hundred and fifty-one days delinquent on a pre-owned neurology package with a remaining balance of three hundred and twelve thousand dollars. Your mother's residence costs eleven thousand four hundred a month, which you have paid, on time, for thirty-one consecutive months. That's very touching. It's also why you're a hundred and fifty-one days delinquent." He draws a gloved finger along a shelf and studies what comes off on it. "As of midnight tonight, your note is accelerated." Acceleration is a clause buried in every loan agreement. It means the lender can stop asking for the monthly and demand the whole thing. All of it. Today. "I can't pay that." "No," he agrees. "Nobody can. That's why it works." He lets that sit. Then he says, "Your mother is in possession of an asset." "My mother's a grandfather." "Your mother was a senior engineer at Kessler-Mori Biosystems from 2026 to 2033, which you know. She was on the team that grew the first lattice, which you may not. She resigned two weeks after Pruitt, and when she left, she took something with her." "Nothing she learned before the ruling can be touched." "She didn't learn it," the Bursar says. "She wrote it." He explains the rest slowly, like a man describing a stove to a toddler. There is a sequence, he says, a pattern that, applied at the root, unthreads every lattice grown from it, which is all of them. His employer would like it recovered before her condition recovers it for them. "Frankly," he says, "we'd rather have it in a cartridge than let it go into the fog. Things that go into fog have a way of coming out somewhere else." "That's a pre-'33 pull. That's a felony." "It is," he says pleasantly. "Here's what we're offering. Your note satisfied, the lien released, your neurology yours to keep. Your mother's bed paid for as long as she needs a bed. And at midnight, nothing happens to you at all." "And if I say no?" He gives me a look with a lot of tuition in it. "Then at midnight, you become a job. One night, sooner or later, you'll fall asleep somewhere public. Everyone does. One of your own colleagues will sit down beside you. You'll wake up at the end of the line not knowing what a neuron is, still owing us three hundred thousand dollars, and your mother will be transferred to a county facility the following Monday. I'm told they're adequate." "Why me?" I say. "You've got a building full of hooks." "Because she'll let you close," says the Bursar, and he leaves me standing in the cold with forty thousand strangers' educations asleep in their sleeves. 4. Clean Title The sign out front says ALMA MATER LIFELONG LEARNING RESIDENCE, which is the kind of joke you only get to make when you own the building. Memory care is the fourth floor, behind a door with a keypad, and the code for the keypad is written on a strip of masking tape right above it, because the people it's meant to keep in can't hold four digits long enough to use them. The hall smells like canned peaches and whatever they spray to cover what canned peaches can't. Somebody's television is playing a game show at a volume meant for God. My mother is in 4-C. She's sixty-eight years old. She's a grandfather. Everything she ever learned is hers, legally and forever, and every month a little more of it walks out of her on its own, and nobody even sends her a bill. There's something funny in that. I haven't found it yet. She's at the window when I come in, wearing the blue cardigan I bought her, holding a paper cup of apple juice like it's evidence. She gives me the look she's been giving me for a year now: polite, faintly worried, a professor's look for a student who's shown up at her door without an appointment. "Come in," she says. "Sit. Which section are you?" "Neurology," I tell her. It's easier than the truth, and anyway it's true. She narrows her eyes. Somewhere back in there, the engineer is still awake. "Whose?" she says. I don't have an answer for that. I never do. Then she's off, like she used to go off when I was a kid and asked one question at dinner and got forty minutes and a diagram on a napkin. She's been on the Inca for weeks. "Ten million people," she says. "Roads over the Andes. Runners passing messages hand to hand, two hundred kilometers a day. And not one written word. So how do you suppose they kept the books?" "Knots," I say. I've heard this one. "Knots." She's pleased with me. "Khipu. Cords hung from a main cord, knots tied in the cords, and the kind of knot and where it sits is the number. Census. Tribute. Who owed what to whom. An empire run on string." She raises her hands as if there's a cord stretched between them, and her fingers walk a pattern through the air, a loop and a tuck and a quick turn of the wrist — — and I stop breathing, because my hands know that move. Down in my pockets they twitch along with it, like dogs dreaming. "In 1583," my mother says, "the Spanish declared the knots idolatry and burned them. Do you know why?" "Why?" "Because you can't own people who keep their own books," she says, and drinks her juice. When she tips her head back, I see it. Just inside her left nostril, high up, a pucker of white scar no bigger than a grain of rice. You'd never notice it unless you knew what made it, and I know what makes it: a hook going in where there's no lattice to follow, nothing to guide the filament, so whoever's holding it has to feel around blind and dig. Her chart is in a plastic sleeve on the door. I read it on my way out. Recurrent epistaxis, it says. Etiology unknown. Known, I think. Somebody's been in here before me. Somebody with a hook and no patience, and afterward a doctor wrote early-onset on her chart, and nobody asked why a woman with no family history started losing her nouns at sixty-four. The only thing she ever told me about my father, the one time I asked as a grown man, was that he'd been a surgeon, and that he'd given everything back. I thought she meant he was generous. It took a few years in this line of work to hear it the other way. 5. Commingling I come back at eleven, after shift change, when the hall lights drop to night level and the aides gather at the station with their phones. Nobody stops me. Nobody ever stops a son. The door to 4-C doesn't lock from either side, because nothing on the fourth floor is allowed to lock. My mother is asleep on her back with her hands folded on her chest like somebody posed her. I sit on the edge of her bed with the R9 across my knees. Here is what I know, in the order I know it. I know there's no lattice in her. She's pre-'33. There's nothing for the filament to follow; I'd have to dig. I know what digging does, because I've met the people the cut-rate shops on Commerce dig into, the ones who come out with their names and nothing else, or without their names. I know somebody has already dug in her once and taken the wrong things — her sisters, her street, the word for spoon — and missed the thing they came for. I know that if I go in after it, I'll take whatever's left. And I know that one pull, start to finish, and I could own my head, and keep her bed, and go home, and sleep. I know I'm not going to do it. I think I knew it at the Lot. I think the Bursar knew it too. So I sit there, and my hands, because they don't know what else to do with themselves, take out the silk. I don't notice I'm doing it. Bleed is like that, a radio playing in another room. I work knots along the suture, left over right, one after another, and I don't hear the sheets move, and I don't see that her eyes are open, until she reaches over and closes her hand around mine. "You always tied them backward," my mother says. It isn't her fourth-floor voice. It's the one from before. The kitchen voice. The one that used to read me the instructions off the back of everything. "Danny," she says. "Left over right. Left-handed in a right-handed world. I told you it would get you in trouble." I'm right-handed. I've been right-handed my whole life, everywhere but here. She never told me his name. Not once. It isn't on my birth certificate. It isn't anywhere. "Danny," she says again, and smiles, and for the first time in a year she looks at me like she knows exactly who I am, and it isn't me. "You came back for it," she says. "Good. I was afraid I'd lose it before you got here." She sits up. She takes the suture out of my fingers and lays it across her own, and then she takes my hands and puts them where hers are. "Office hours," says my mother. "Pay attention. I'm only showing you once." It isn't one knot. It's seven, spaced out on the cord at intervals she measures with the width of her thumb, each one different from the last — a hitch, a bight, a turn taken the wrong way on purpose. Her hands steer mine through them, and while they work, she talks. Not to me. To Danny. About the first lattice, the one they grew in a lab in Cambridge in 2031 off a single spool of engineered thread. How every lattice since has been seeded from that spool, cut from it, cloned off it, so that one thread runs through every borrower in the country. How she'd made him promise, before it ever left the lab, that they'd build in a way out. "We called it the Jubilee," she says. "It's in every one of them. Tie this at the root, and they all come loose. Every head at once." While she talks, her thumb keeps a slow beat on the back of my hand, and I understand where I've felt that before. Three years of it. Every time I thought about a seahorse. Then she's gone again. Not asleep. Gone. Her hands go slack on mine, and she looks down at the thread across her fingers as if someone left it there, and she looks up at me as if I'm a nice young man who's wandered into the wrong room. "I'm sorry," she says. "Were we finished? I've lost track of the time." In my left eye, the Ledger, which never sleeps, puts up a single line in Alma Mater's friendly rounded type: Your collateral profile has been updated. 1 new asset identified. Thank you for continuing to learn with Alma Mater! I look at it for a long time. Commingling. I warned you about it back at the beginning. It's on page forty of every contract, and nobody reads page forty. A grandfather's knowledge is untouchable right up until she teaches it to somebody whose head is mortgaged. Then it's commingled. Then it's collateral. Then it's theirs. The Bursar never needed me to take it out of her. He knew I couldn't. He knew she couldn't hold on to it much longer. All he needed was to put the one man alive who's wearing Danny's hands in a room with her at night, and let her do the rest. I wasn't the repo man on this job. I was the tow truck. The clock on her nightstand says 11:52. 6. Deficiency Here's what's mine: everything from before I was sixteen, and nothing since. Here's what I owe. Three hundred and twelve thousand dollars, accelerated. Eleven thousand four hundred a month for a bed with a view of a parking garage. Two hands, sixth owner, the first of whom was my father. A name — Danny, Daniel, Dan — that I'm going to have to pry loose from a redacted line in a file I was never supposed to read. Whatever's left of her. Whatever's left of him, if anything is, wherever he's sleeping tonight. And seven knots that could unpay the world. At midnight I watch it happen in the black glass of her window. My own glow, the faint bronze I've carried for three years and stopped seeing, flushes red and starts to throb like a fresh bruise. Accelerated accounts don't wait for a hundred and eighty days. By morning my name will be up on the board at Tabula Rasa, and somebody will claim it. Somebody I've split a sandwich with. Somebody who knows I ride the Owl, and where I sit, and that I tie knots when I'm tired. Somebody who knows every one of my rules, because I'm the one who taught them. I kiss my mother on the forehead. She lets me. She's always been easy with strangers who seem to mean well. Outside, the Owl pulls up to the shelter on the corner, lit and warm and full of sleepers, and kneels at the curb, and opens its doors for me. I don't get on. I walk. I put my hands in my pockets, and my hands find the silk, and they start through the sequence without asking me, all seven, in the order she gave them. I tie the last one loose. Loose is the whole trick. A slipknot will hold anything you hang on it, right up until somebody pulls the free end. I'm the free end.

Wednesday, April 15, 2026

is my meow unique to me

a children's book

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<div class="page-text">Is My Meow<br>Unique To Me?</div>

<div class="subtitle">A story about the sounds we make and the hearts they reach</div>

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<div class="page-text">Every morning, Mango opened his mouth and let out a big, round MEOW.<br><br>But one day, he stopped and wondered...</div>

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<div class="page-text">"Do all cats meow the same?" he thought.<br><br>"Or is my meow... just mine?"</div>

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<div class="page-text">Mango went to find his friend Midnight, the sleek black cat.<br><br>Midnight's meow was low and rolly — like a purr with a question mark. <em>Mrrrow?</em></div>

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<div class="page-text">Then Mango found tiny Luna on the fence.<br><br>Luna's meow was high and squeaky — like a little bell ringing. <em>Mew! Mew!</em><br><br>"That's not mine either," said Mango.</div>

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<text x="80" y="130" font-family="Fredoka One, cursive" font-size="38" fill="#505060">MEOOOW</text>

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<div class="page-text">Old Captain by the food bowl had a deep, slow meow — like thunder rolling under a door. <em>MEOOOW.</em><br><br>Mango's ears pressed flat. "Definitely not mine."</div>

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<text x="375" y="220" font-family="Fredoka One, cursive" font-size="16" fill="#C86030" opacity="0.8" transform="rotate(-5,375,220)">mrrrow?</text>

<text x="285" y="200" font-family="Fredoka One, cursive" font-size="18" fill="#808090" opacity="0.5" transform="rotate(-8,285,200)">MEOOOW?</text>

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<div class="page-text">Mango sat alone in the golden grass.<br><br>He heard Midnight's rumble. Luna's squeak. Captain's thunder.<br><br>None of them sounded like <em>him</em>.</div>

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<text x="100" y="115" font-family="Fredoka One, cursive" font-size="14" fill="#6A50AA">There you are,</text>

<text x="118" y="135" font-family="Fredoka One, cursive" font-size="14" fill="#6A50AA">Mango...</text>

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<div class="page-text">That night, his person found him on the bed.<br><br>"There you are, Mango," she whispered, and stroked his fur from ears to tail.</div>

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<div class="page-text">And then — without thinking — it came out.<br><br>Not high. Not low. Not rumbling. Not squeaky.<br><br>Just... <strong>his.</strong></div>

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<text x="70" y="302" font-family="Fredoka One, cursive" font-size="13" fill="#8A5070">Hi, sweet boy.</text>

<text x="65" y="322" font-family="Fredoka One, cursive" font-size="13" fill="#8A5070">I know that sound.</text>

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<div class="page-text">She smiled and pulled him close.<br><br>"I know that sound," she said. "That's <em>your</em> meow. I'd know it anywhere."</div>

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<div class="page-text">Yes, Mango decided, curling up warm and safe.<br><br>My meow is mine.<br>The only one in the whole wide world<br>that means exactly <em>me.</em> 🐾</div>

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<p style="font-family:'Fredoka One',cursive; color:#666; font-size:0.8rem; text-align:center; margin-top:30px; margin-bottom:40px; letter-spacing:2px;">THE END · IS MY MEOW UNIQUE TO ME?</p>

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