Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Mike Hogan plays in the David Crowder Band and, although Everybody
Wants to Go to Heaven, but Nobody Wants to Die is his first venture
into the world of books, he has done a good bit of music writing for
various magazines.
0310291917_everybody_hvn_hc.indd 3 9/8/09 7:28 AM
ZONDERVAN
Crowder, David.
Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die / David Crowder
and Mike Hogan.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-310-29191-6 (hardcover, printed)
1. Grief — Religious aspects — Christianity. 2. Death — Religious aspects —
Christianity. 3. Soul — Christianity — History of doctrines. 4. Bluegrass music.
I. Hogan, Mike, 1971 – II. Title.
BV4905.3.C78 2009
248.4 — dc22 2009029009
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the New American
Standard Bible. Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The
Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers printed in this
book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an
endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites
and numbers for the life of this book.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopy,
recording, or any other — except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior
permission of the publisher.
09 10 11 12 13 14 15 • 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Hi. My name is David. What you are reading is the introductory section
of the book where we, the authors, are allowed the opportunity to declare
what exactly this book pertains to, and to ask certain things of you, the
reader. You know, suggest items you might keep in mind while reading,
a simple space where we might become more acquainted. The journey
on which we are about to embark requires companions. It would be
much too sinister to go this alone and, as a matter of fact, this simple
sentiment just so happens to be one of the few items we are hoping
to force into your chest with our small collection of words — we need
companionship — the company of friends.
Due to the limitations inherent in books, you lack the opportunity,
by way of formal introduction, to present yourself to us. But we will
disregard this glaring flaw in our introductory process here and proceed
by making a number of assumptions about you, given that you either
bought or borrowed this book or, in the least, have had the incredible
good fortune of currently holding it. (If, perhaps, this book came to
you by means dubious and debatable, we, the authors, would prefer not
knowing about it. However, if that is the case, which by the way we are
making no assumptions or judgments about, we applaud your disregard
for social norms and admit that while we do not condone ignorance of
11
the law, we admire your free spirit.) Your simple act of reading leads us to
believe a number of things:
1. You are both intelligent and good-looking, with a high aptitude
for mathematics and cartography, are exceptionally well rounded,
and possess great athletic ability and a keen sense of style. (We
based this first assumption solely upon the fact that this guy
named Steve told us he was sure to buy this book upon its release;
so if your name is not Steve, please proceed to number two.) Or
2. You are like me and my coauthor, both introverted and reclusive;
consider the reading of books the sum total of your obligatory
societal interaction; are plagued by significant personal space
issues and forced all too frequently to deal with them; have
absolutely no retentive capacity for numbers, figures, and their
various summations, subtractions, multiplications, and divisions;
are incessantly nervous yet unable to declare exactly why; enjoy
comic books and microwaved marshmallows; and, of course, eat
only with a spoon, as pointy objects make you anxious.
All this we can assume by the simple fact that you are reading
this sentence now. And thus we shall freely extend our hand of
companionship to you.
Yet you know nothing of us, outside of what you know of yourself,
for we are like you. But it’s been said that the self is the most difficult to
truly know, so we will present ourselves in hopes that you may recognize
a portion of yourself and, upon doing so, lightly take our hands into
yours for the journey to begin.
But enough! It is time for us, the authors of this book, to formally say
hello.
My name is David. I am a musician in a band that just so happens
to bear my name and that also happens to count my coauthor, Mike
Hogan, as one of its contributors. Of course, you could have perused
the back of the book for a nice little spiel indicating as much, but there
you would not have found the following anecdote: We had at one time
in our possession a foolproof band name formula. It involved a number,
a mammal, and a color, not necessarily in that order. But, alas, our
current name found us before we could employ our profound formula.
12
The honest truth of the matter is that none of us in the band can really
pinpoint how or when our current name came to be. We did, however,
have the cunning cleverness of choosing not to use a definite article in it.
That’s largely due to our wanting to make a statement. We wished for a
name that really said something. To discard the definite article is a bold,
daring move, one that should not be underestimated. So take note of
your authors, me and Mr. Hogan, henceforth known as merely Hogan,
for both our musicality and our bravery — qualities fit for making two
fantastic travel companions.
n ow, because there are multiple authors, we realize there is great
potential for confusion to arise. For instance, one may be reading a
passage and wondering all the while, Who exactly is responsible, Crowder
or Hogan? Such irritation could easily make the prospects of finishing
this book exceedingly dim.
We would solve the problem by having the foresight to create a bit
of space here in the introduction for you to get to know us a little. We
would give you insight into our respected characters and personalities.
Thus, when you are reading a particular passage, you will have a clearer
suspicion of the one responsible.
I am sad. Therefore anytime you read something sad, you should
attribute it to me.
Hogan is also sad but less sad, so anything less saddening is mostly
his fault.
I have the propensity for inflationary commentary and over-
exaggeration, so anytime you read something that is too definitively vast
or impractically impossible to take in, such as the inestimable depth of
sadness in both of the authors, attribute that to me.
Hogan has a tendency toward irony and understatement, so when you
read something like “David is sad,” it is most definitely Hogan who wrote it.
I enjoy tea.
So does Hogan.
So that will be confusing if you encounter something similar to:
I found myself squinting, while holding a now cold cup of tea that
was still shaking in its saucer, outside a rather smallish cafe, and I
was attempting a determination as to whether the sun’s yellow was
welcoming or taunting me. Yellow was too happy a color for today.
13
1 At this moment please make reference to the few sentences appearing earlier in the introduc-
tion suggesting one of the authors holds unhealthy inclinations to ward over-exaggeration
and boasts a pr edisposition to ward drama. The annotated sentence should therefore be
reread in light of that.
2 Useless, unless of course you find yourself writing a book pertaining, in some loose sense,
to a specific genre of music.
14
15
sinking feeling that there just wasn’t much of anything to live for here
on earth. That even the good stuff was so fleeting, so very easily stripped
from you, that he felt existence created suffering too great for one planet
to contain. He was simply being honest and vulnerable in a rather dark
moment. But I suggested that maybe it’s not that there is not enough
here to live for, just that here is not enough. Maybe it’s the container
that’s flawed. The thing about grief is that it makes it terribly difficult to
see further than the feelings that are in your chest. It tints your world.
Everything you see is colored and blurred from your heart’s sinking. You
say things you wish you could take back. He tried to tell me later that he
didn’t know what he was saying. That he was just spewing words because
he was sad and didn’t have any that were lighter than those that landed
on me. I’m sure there are more words like the ones that fell from his chest
here in these pages, but maybe this book can be your bluegrass.
Bluegrass music holds both suffering and hope. Both are inherent and
necessary.
And so we begin with a premise: the “high lonesome sound” of
bluegrass music is born from pain, yet despite such roots, flowers
into hope. We are not scientists; therefore, we are not scientific in the
formation or conception of this premise or in its proof.
But we will tell the story of bluegrass, and of ourselves. And you
can hear that it is truth. That it is, in fact, pain that birthed this high
lonesome sound. In the living of life here on earth, there is most assuredly
present a large amount of joy, but there is also a given amount of pain.
Bluegrass is a shaking, shimmering echo of this — our reality.
Have you ever sat quietly in a dark room with only the green glow of
stereo lights cracking the black while Ralph Stanley’s voice pours lonely
from speakers, moving the molecules of air toward you?3 You can feel
your heart start to fold in on itself as your eardrums unsettle from black
stillness into melancholic motion by the changing air pressure, their
3 Odds are you have not. I mean, for one, who does that? And second, there is a good chance
you may hav e even found y ourself muttering the wor ds “ Who is Ralph S tanley?” while
reading that sentence. Personally, I first came upon Ralph’s name, not through his music,
but through a tatter ed sticker affixed to a beat-up guitar case. I t suggested the following
in bright, bold yellow lettering against a firm black background: “Ralph Stanley for Presi-
dent.” I am now of the opinion that this is not too terrible of an idea.
16
17
There are some deaths which, upon occurrence, arrest the considerations
of the public at large. There is something — be it the public visibility of
the individual or the curiously unusual or wholly universal circumstances
surrounding the death — that coerces our attention and empathy.
For me, the first recognition of this phenomenon was while sitting at
the bar with my wife at the Red Lobster in Waco, Texas. We were waiting
on a table. It was September 1, 1997. The televisions scattered around
us announced that an English princess had died. Our collective grief
ignited; a planet wept. I cried right along. Sitting there with cheese sticks
and a Dr Pepper, I cried for a princess I didn’t even know.
The New York Times reported that the posture of the massive crowds
of mourners appeared to hold “something more Latin than British . . .
the intensity of people’s words and actions; a largely Protestant culture
that epitomizes restraint and values privacy was galvanized by a need to
display its powerful emotions publicly.” 1
As a funeral procession advanced through the corridor of overt grief
that lined Kensington High Street winding toward Westminster Abbey,
we joined through television sets and radio broadcasts. Physical distance
18
2 Kurt Fosso, Buried Communities: Wordsworth and the Bonds of M ourning (Albany: S tate
University of n ew York Press, 2004), ix.
3 Genesis 6:6 – 7.
4 Fosso, Buried Communities, x.
19
5 Kyle Lake, Understanding God’s Will: How to Hack the Equation Without Formulas (Orlan-
do: Relevant, 2004) released October 31, 2004, the day after the day he would die a y ear
later. And (re)Understanding Prayer: A Fresh Approach to Conversation with God (Orlando:
Relevant, October 11, 2005).
20
I, however, chose to believe that the world knew what had been
collectively lost that morning, and that’s what the fuss was all about.
When a person plays a role of such mass and significance in one’s life, one
assumes that the whole of creation feels the moment of his exit too, that
the severing is as severe and deeply felt.
I thought for sure you were sitting in a Red Lobster somewhere
crying with me.
21
it was the best day yet. a few solitary clouds hung in the sky, left over
from the hurricane that had passed through orlando just days before, but
the sun was winning and it felt good on my skin. the air seemed happy.
the space around the clouds was full of the deepest blue, and where the
blue met the ground, the grass was ideal. i could feel the blades folding
under my shoes, giving in to my weight and giving off the distinct smell
of crushed green as i walked toward the pyramid of range balls. the
molecules around me were inventive and resourceful. the most minuscule
hairs on my skin were acute and ready. i could feel everything. my friends
shane, jack, and jason were with me. our movements were animation.
an artist of immense capabilities had made this day. my heart hovered
in ascendance. it was rising in my chest. i pulled out my nine iron and
scooted a ball along the grass toward me. i watched as jason swung and
his ball flew against the blue that was in between the clouds and the sun
and me.
“this is going to be great,” i said.
and i meant it. completely. great is a ridiculous word, but it was all i
had. i knew that today would be an exceptionally brilliant day. then my
phone rang . . .
22
Pa r t 1
Part
If you are able to sift through the quote without the use of a
dictionary and a college professor, you’ll be able to get the gist of what
this mammoth book is all about, namely the “death of the soul,” the rise
in importance of the physical body, and how those two things influence
the ever-evolving pastime of self-discovery. Or more simply, “Who are
we?” Seeing as how Porter passed on before the book was published, we
can only hope that he found what he was looking for.
But that question — Who are we? — holds a lot of weight. Sometimes
the answer is simple. If you ask a group of thirteen-year-old girls dressed
1 Roy Porter, Flesh in the Age of Reason: How the Enlightenment Transformed the Way We See
Our Bodies and Souls (London: Penguin, 2004), 3.
24
in matching cheerleader uniforms who they are, they will most likely
give you the answer you would expect, though with a little more spunk
and eye rolling than necessary. But if you were to ask the same question
to a university philosophy student, the answer would become more
complex.2 All in all, it’s an awkward topic. Perhaps it’s because most of
us don’t spend much time contemplating the soul. And why would we?
We already have more distraction in our lives than we can shake a stick
at (which would only serve to add yet another diversion, that of stick
shaking).
What Porter’s opening does, however, is beg the question: is the soul
really dead? And it’s not just Porter who has made note of this. It is by
no means a new sentiment. But if it is true, if we live in a society that has
lost its belief in the human soul, it changes everything, both for the living
and the dying.
So, in an attempt to sort this one out, let’s look at a brief history
of the soul. To avoid this becoming too academic (as if that were even
a remote possibility given the nonacademic proclivities of your two
esteemed authors!) or dry, try thinking of what follows as an adventure
movie through history or one of those Magic School Bus programs that
the kindergarten kiddos seem to enjoy, only with the ghost of Roy Porter
peering over our shoulders. So here goes . . .
25
4 Interesting to note, hemlock comes fr om a plant called Cicuta virosa, a per ennial with little
white flowers that cluster in the shape of an umbrella. Inside the stalk and roots of the flower
is a y ellow resin from which the poison is made that is said to smell of parsnips, carr ots, or
mice. The poison affects the central nervous system and causes abdominal pain and v omit-
ing. We would wager that sucking on a mouse would inflict similar symptoms. (Our editor
has informed us that, according to the online Encyclopedia Britannica, “Socrates was killed by
hemlock from Conium maculatum, a biennial. The poison is concentrated in the seeds, though
the entire plant is dangerous to livestock when it’s fresh.” Your authors figure that whether the
poison smells like a mouse or kills cattle, putting it in your mouth is a fairly bad idea.)
5 Zinger #1. Could it be the authors’ own hubris that subjects you to such jokes? Only the
gods truly know!
6 Roy Porter, Flesh in the Age of Reason, 4.
7 We realize that we are moving forward rather quickly here, and therefore a lot of detailed
history is falling thr ough the cracks. F or those of y ou who ar e interested, check out The
Story of C ivilization by Will and Ariel D urant. It took them a lifetime to write, is o ver
10,000 pages long, and they died befor e finishing it. n o doubt that it co vers just about
everything.
26
27
HOGAN: OK
HOGAN: Yeah
HOGAN: Yeah
28
what? :DAVID
HOGAN: What?
29
30
Nice suggestion.
ok :DAVID
31
Pa r t 1
Part
33
The matter simplified itself a little when, shortly after the thickening
ether around them had been duly noted, the round woman grunted,
shifted subtly in her seat, and, as if by magic, pulled from thin air and
opened a plastic container containing . . . brown. Who knows what this
“food” stuff was? But the best description was: brown. The air blossomed
with a whole new catalog of odors. At that exact moment it became clear
that she was in no way German. n o, what they were dealing with was
distinctly Eastern European.
And the flight to London had barely even gotten under way.
The aforementioned, while true, has absolutely no real bearing on the
story. To be honest, it happened two years prior to this story’s beginning.
But there are two reasons it is mentioned here. The first is that the
woman portrayed above did indeed smell awful, and she did indeed
indulge in an enigmatic cuisine off and on over the course of eight hours
that made her row-mates long to swallow their own tongues. Such a
woman deserves to be honored in print. The second reason is to illustrate
the all-too-real perils of international travel that persist, even to this day.
If you’re lucky, you’re the type of person who can step foot on a plane,
fall asleep, and have no recollection of the suffering taking place around
you. The authors, however, are not lucky, nor do we have the foresight or
fortitude for prescription pills thrown back with mini adult beverages and
are therefore forever doomed to suffer in uncomfortable seats, eyes peeled
open, lower backs screeching in pain, and nostrils flaring. For us, a recent
plane ride from Dallas to Great Britain seemed to take about twice as
long as way too long.
You can imagine our enthusiasm for a whirlwind three-day trip
to Scotland, knowing the following was in store: Get on a plane. Get
off a plane in a foreign land. Attempt to sleep a few hours. Play music.
Attempt to sleep a few more hours. Get back on a plane. Get off a plane.
Go home.
n ow, don’t think there wasn’t excitement at having the opportunity
to play a show in Scotland, because there was. Hogan had been to
Scotland once before on a family vacation when he was about ten. His
memories include a cluster of fluffy sheep, Jefferson Starship blaring from
a pub’s jukebox, and very, very cold water in Loch n ess. He was therefore
surprised to find that on our descent into Edinburgh, it looked nothing
34
1 Kentucky also produces the fine beverage Ale-8-One, which tastes like an alternativ e ver-
sion of ginger ale. The logo (ALE81) is simple and appealing and has appeared in grocery
stores acr oss the B luegrass S tate as w ell as on a T-shirt worn b y the main character in
Cameron Crowe’s film Elizabethtown, which is incidentally sort of about death. Weird how
that all fits together, isn’t it? Oh wait, you don’t know yet. Sorry.
2 Look at the size of that kid’s head . . . it’s like an orange on a toothpick!”
3 Arrrgh, that’s ma retirement grease!”
4 Here is his v ersion of the tale: “ A fe w y ears ago a monument of William Wallace was
erected in the town, which just so happens to look exactly like M el Gibson! People come
from all o ver the world to see one of our national tr easures, one of the gr eatest Scots in
history, and what do they get? An Australian in a kilt! Bah!”
35
Errr, well, no. But the authors took his word for it. He was so
passionate we had no choice. This is a Scottish quality. Even when you
can’t make out a word, you find yourself nodding in agreement. For
example: “Eh, would ya enjoy a bite o’ this baked sheep’s stomach filled
with its own intestines and heart? It’s a delicacy!” Response: “Yeah, sure,
sounds amazing! I have absolutely no idea what you just said!” Fork to
mouth.
The Scots and the Irish have a long and storied history. On many
occasions the two have come together over a mutual loathing of the
English and their monarchy. It’s a history that involves fighting, farming,
dancing, oceanic travel, persecution, hardship, and the creation of what
would become one of America’s most influential and unique art forms:
bluegrass.5
5 If you were wondering when we would get into the whole bluegrass side of things, there it
was. And who knew it could all be traced back to the Scots? (Answ er: Fairly obvious that
we, the authors, did.)
36
really!? :DAVID
HOGAN: I know.
37
...
38
Columns Part I
“I CAN’T FIND A PEN.” HE OPENED HIS EYES. THE ONCE, LONG AGO,
su n w a s b r i g ht t h rou g h there was a small boy named
She said this while opening the c urtains. T hey w eren’t Steven.
and closing the drawer beside curtains re ally. J ust l ong c lear
columns, part 1
the sink, the one that held the pieces o f p lastic h anging f rom In those days, Steven was not
forks and knives and other shiny the n ails h e h ad h ammered i n a such a common name. In fact, so
instruments. perfectly st raight l ine a bove t he far as forenames were concerned,
3 w indows o f t he b edroom. T he he was the first.
“Why is she looking in the nails were s paced e xactly 3 inches
silverware drawer?” apart. O ne w indow f aced e ast. n o, up to this point there had
Two w ere si de b y si de f acing t he never been another him; he was
Sarah whispered this across the south. T he e astern w indow was something the n ew World had
table to her friend Daniel, who was the largest: 7 f eet tall, 7 f eet wide. never seen.
sitting with his arms folded. He That m eant t here w ere e xactly
was smiling. This was obviously 29 n ails a bove i t. T he s outhern n ow, there are lots of Stevens.
funny to him. windows w ere e ach 7 f eet t all. You probably know one even.
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39
0310291917_everybody_hvn_hc.indd 40
40
4 f eet w ide. T hat m eant 1 7 But this particular boy was the
“She means to say fork.” nails a bove e ach o f t hem. T he beginning.
foot o f h is b ed w as c losest t o
Daniel certainly thought it the e astern w indow. T he l ight n o past.
She could tell Daniel thought day. W hen h e w as aw ake. B ut h is would, of course, describe them
this was hilarious, despite his feet w eren’t ye t o n t he g round. as light gray.
trying to hide it. He s wung t hem o ver t o h is r ight
until t hey w ere h anging off t he People would tell him, “Little
The stroke had rearranged her southern si de o f t he b ed. H e l et boy, there is no gray; there is
memory. The places she had them f all s lowly t oward t he f loor. only black and white.”
formerly stored words and their The bottoms of them came to rest
respected meanings had been against the fresh white towel he had “I don’t think it’s that simple,”
reordered in a way dissimilar to spread o ut t he n ight b efore. A nd he would quickly respond, for he
columns, part 1
what had existed previously. which w ould n ow b e s tained re d. knew — obviously — that the
His j aw m uscles t ightened. H e black necessitated the complete
“You can’t be serious?” Sarah never g ot u sed t o t his m oment o f absence of light and the light —
whispered. pain. D eciding t o p ut h is f eet o n obviously — was everywhere . . .
the g round. T he t hought c rossed that is, if you looked hard
“Yeah. It’s weird. There’s a his m ind t hat i t h urt a s b ad enough.
medical word for it, but I can’t now a s i t d id i n t he b eginning.
remember it.” He s miled. T he l ook o n h is f ace The little boy Steven had the
was t hat o f c omplete a nd u tter same dream every night. He
The word he could not locate satisfaction. A t ear f ell d own h is would fall asleep and dream
was aphasia. left c heek. H e c lapped h is h ands he was awakened, right as the
“So, like, how many words are 4 t imes a nd s tood u p. H e f elt h is dawn was breaking. He would
messed up?” perpendicular w eight s ettle i nto be falling through the light
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0310291917_everybody_hvn_hc.indd 42
42
the towel as it soaked up the f luids gray sky, through darker gray
“I don’t know; it keeps that h ad g athered o vernight. H e clouds, toward the even darker
changing. And there’s getting to looked at h is h ands. S till stinging gray ground. He could see the
be more and more. It’s hard to from t he 4 q uick c laps. H e s hook light gray faces of thousands of
you’d go right to the place you softly. The s ilver c an was g etting Glowing greens. Color. It was
knew you’d put it and you’d open full. M ary w ould h ave t o e mpty everywhere. But it was too late.
the drawer, but there’d it s oon. H e l et t he l id f all c losed. He fractured there over the city,
be something else in it. You’re He s tared at t he t wo w hite g loves splitting apart, draping his gray
sure you’re at the right place, sitting o n t he n ightstand. H e over everything. Gray upon gray
but you also suspect you’ve got reached d own. P icked u p t he o ne upon gray. The light went out as
the wrong thing. But you keep on t he r ight. H is j aw c lenched. he thought to himself, “We shall
closing and opening that same Carefully h e s lid i t o n. H e t ook finally perish here together in the
drawer because that’s where it’s the o ther g love a nd s lid i t o n. black.”
columns, part 1
supposed to be. Make sense?” He c lapped 4 t imes, then b egan
to d isrobe. F olding h is p revious From that night on, every time
“n o! n ot a bit. That is so weird!” night’s c lothes. C reasing t hem he dreamt, he would get a
neatly b efore placing t hem on top glimpse of a world different than
Daniel watched as his of t he l inen-less b ed. M ary, t he the one he took in during his
grandmother leaned over the house’s k eeper, w ould l ater c ome waking hours. The limits of his
dishwasher; it was gaping open take t hese i tems. T hey w ould b e waking senses were becoming a
like a mouth in awe at her. washed a nd re ady a gain b y d ay’s weight.
end. H e w alked t o t he c loset
She used to be brilliant. Taught wearing o nly w hite g loves. H e Then one night, he fell into sleep
advanced microeconomic theory opened i t. T here w ere 4 h angers: and refused to wake up.
in the city, a tenured professor at On e ach h ung t he v estments o f
n YU’s Stern School of Business, his p rofession. I ntricate i n t heir And that’s how the rest of the
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0310291917_everybody_hvn_hc.indd 44
44
was published, had retired only a heaviness. U nderstatedly o rnate. world formally turned gray.
few years ago. n o s ubtlety i n w hat t he ro bes
conveyed. H e b egan t he s low But there were more Stevens
“I’m going to university. You kids ritual of donning t he heavy c loth. coming, more who would dream
against h is p alm i nside t he g love. what we’re in for), but when this
“She means bed.” He t hen d id t he s ame for t he left. particular Steven cried, birds fell
He c lapped 4 t imes. A nd w alked from the sky.
“What?” out. Into the daylight.
When little Steven’s cheeks
“She said university, but she were wet with tears, the ground
meant bed.” echoed with the thuds of falling
dead birds.
columns, part 1
For each tear a bird.
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