The Inkwell: Akrasia

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akrasia

si ak a

ra

the state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgement through weakness of will

noun lo phi so 1

phy

note from the e d i t o r

I

n his legendary Stanford commencement speech, Steve Jobs advised the graduating class of 2005 to ‘stay young, stay foolish’. The phrase, now etched in many minds, is highly attractive in its suggestion that the mistakes we make when young may lead us to a future beyond our wildest dreams. These mistakes shouldn’t be a source of worry; we should look ‘on-the-bright-side’, and wait for the storm to pass. At Edinburgh we are blessed with the extra pre-honours year, in which we can, in theory, do just that. Easier said than done. Rather than a time of untainted bliss, it’s often punctuated with self-doubt, existential crises, and overdrawn bank accounts. While it is possible that these trials will lead us to something greater, that friendships will last, that our degrees will bring a wealth of meaning to our lives, the meantime is a little less comfortable. It is, however, a period of our lives that is ripe for creative representation and reflection - and what better place for that than this ‘ere publication?

We needed a theme, a word that encapsulates the errors and terrors of being alive. The Inkwell team did some soul-searching, internally and in the OED, and touched upon “Akrasia”, the Greek term for “self-sabotage”, or “acting against one’s better judgement” (sounds like a night out in Hive). This theme invited wide-ranging associations, from parenthood to drug-taking to obsessive compulsions, and we noticed that many of the pieces we received were narrated in the first person. Akrasia, it seems, affects us all, personally. We hope that in displaying creative expressions of such often-deemed ugly, depraved and sad feelings, we can bring together a sense of community.

- Saskia Solomon cover illustration by: Noemí Martínez Cillero

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Fences

George Tomsett

Whoever lived here before me etched a cross into my bedroom wall, I only noticed the other day, it's that small.

Just a drag. Just a key.

Just a compulsion that worries me.

And meanwhile the kids treat narcotics like a snack and build powdered picket fences with debit cards of Daddy’s money in uni dorms or uniforms, at home in their habits.

I’ve heard the nicer people here whisper about something in the hallway, hurrying to get their fix in smart shoes every Sunday. Can I call that an addiction?

The opium of the people?

I pass their haunt sometimes on my way back to halls, the churchyard gate swinging invitingly on its hinges, still I go from classes to class A and inch closer to syringes.

For now just a drag.

Just a key.

Which do I answer tonight, the beckoning of God or the slurring heathens’ call?

Will he see me doing keys in the bathroom stall?

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illustration by Rachel Berman

Laughing while eating ricecakes Alejandra Armitage

Can’t find the reading so Check out this meme wait I’ve lost my train of thought no Just need more caffeine more words Less sleep Empty library Neon screen Rapid heartbeat Custard Cream I should be working but You your lips your eyes right There on my bed I guess I won’t write this essay tonight It’s fine a.m. academia leftover wine bibliographies of bodies cited with mine Say we’ll get a coffee and study but Open our computers and Set them to one side laughing At our own stupid lives Chai-spiced Tesco Metro Photo booth Peanut butter Toast to youth 4

A P

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Robert Edwards

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P

acing up and down the corridor, Tuliyenski recounted over what his half-attempt at an explanation would be. By what means could he make it intelligible? By what standards could they follow? No, such a task had never fallen onto his lap before, nothing like this.

It required delicacy, it required invention, creativity, genius even. The poor saps who kept office behind those doors were scoundrels and frauds – the dregs of every minor post of every minor art school in the country. Creatures of talent they were not. He, as whipmaster for their circus, felt it beyond them, surely.

When he entered, his secretary, Aniev, asked him first if he was feeling well, and second why he was muttering under his breath. ‘Would you like a coffee?’, she asked, nicely, ‘or a tea, maybe?’. They wandered into his office where he sat down and asked her to Fetch Rosenthal, Livryev and Kutzetov, if she’d please.

Tuliyenski, having been in the post for a year and half, had a distinguished record in the propaganda department. His early cartoons for Pravda, often wryly cynical and always in great irony, were lauded by higher command. He felt, in the simplest terms, that he had always exercised the appropriate measure when it came to the finer delicacies of politics.

He’d been a party member since 1915, and could count himself amongst the proud few who could claim to have called for insurrection since the July Days. This ardency had, though, naturally receded somewhat over the brutal years of the civil war. He now considered himself more a passive observer to the events that surrounded him, long since feeling that time was no longer marked by hope or service, or any other such thing, but instead in quiet exasperation and personal decline. He liked to imagine himself as some aged prize-fighter, or at least someone who still cared.

Rosenthal came in first, the other two following soon after. Tuliyenski rose to meet them with the directives in hand, and told them, without wasting a breath on tact or manner, the plain truth of it.

‘Protocol 438b is our next project. As you may know there have been several outbreaks of cholera since the autumn – particularly in the Don and Volga regions, as well as closer to home in Smolensk – which have been formally declared, and I quote, "great internal crises", constituting, and I quote again, "a great danger to the revolution".'

‘Cholera?’, said Livryev, ‘nasty business that is’.

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‘Yes, indeed’, Tuliyenski continued, ‘but here is critical thing: those infected with the disease are hereby declared traitors and counter-revolutionaries.

‘Traitors?’, said Rosenthal, ‘that’s strong language there’ ‘Enemies of the people and agents of the White armies. They are, therefore, subject to formal persecution and summary execution’. There was a pause.

‘I see’, said Rosenthal with a laugh, ‘are they taken before a troika to be tried as well’.

‘Don’t poke fun, Rosenthal’, Tuliyenski said.

‘I heard about this’, said Kutzetov, concealing his smile, ‘apparently the Cheka have been parading themselves round Voronezh killing anyone with a cough’ ‘Yes, yes’, said Livryev, ‘they’ve been given quotas to fill – the Cheka that is – and in villages that don’t have the measure of population, they’re exhuming the bodies of the recently deceased and executing them instead’.

At this point, Rosenthal, Livryev and Kutzetov all began howling with laughter.

‘You’ve heard, then?’, Tuliyenski asked.

‘Yes’.

‘I was under the impression that it was privileged information’.

‘It’s very Soviet’, said Rosenthal.

‘Very proletarian’, said Kutzetov, ‘the look on your face, honestly’

The three of them left, still laughing away like schoolboys, as Tuliyenski sat down and came to rest his head gently on the table. He wondered why it was he ended up in such a foul place, or why he’d let the past years drag on into absurdity and nonsense. Where had his idealism gone? Where had the party gone? The issue of cholera was settled, then. It was no great challenge, no great feat of imagination. The people had grown used to every little contrivance of foolishness and horror. The three of them would now be telling the rest of the staff, and they, too, must be laughing. What self-loathing he felt! He wondered again why idiocy followed him around like a quacking duck; and how idiocy had crept upon his beloved socialism and eaten it whole.

It was at this moment of profound despair, this moment of transcendental flagellation, if you will, that he realised the salient truth of his misery. The truth that had bothered him so dearly without his wits ever taking notice. He was not playing the part of the circus master but of the clown. The idiot was he himself: he, the fool; he, the cretin. But what this really meant he couldn’t tell.

Instead of dwelling on his misfortunes, Tuliyenksi reached out his hand and poured his coffee onto the floor, where a nice little brown stain formed on the carpet.

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‘Aniev’, he shouted, ‘more coffee!’

Lydia Lowe

Why She Built Herself a Spider’s Web Threads tingle beneath her thumbprints, Escape away from her pinky nail.

A palace beautifully separate from her body, Unsuspecting armour. Intricate chainmail.

It weaves and crosses and tangles Like the creator’s threads of thought.

It catches what she can’t reach And far, far beyond.

You want to touch it because it’s strange, But equally easy to forget; That her spider’s web is delicate.

That she will collapse or kill under threat.

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photograph by Nadia Ahmed

monster spray Becky Sweeney

W

hen I ask Sal to marry me, I gave her an engagement ring with a rough, blue stone in it.

Tanzanite.

On the night I met her she’d told me not to bother buying her a drink because the diamond trade was so fucked up that she’d never get married.

She was laughing. She was very, very drunk.

She looked half-wild, her hair sticking out all over the place, and she was rocking back on the heels of her boots. Hanging onto the edge of the bar.

Her eyes were huge and shining with vodka.

Steph was on the bar stool behind, legs wrapped around this guy. They were oblivious to everybody around them. I didn’t realise they were married ‘til I saw them again a few weeks later.

I took Sal outside into the rain and I threw my coat around her shoulders. I got her a taxi.

Watched her and my coat disappear. I was completely soaked by the time I’d walked home.

Almost exactly a year later, I gave her the ring.

I took her to this fancy restaurant. They had a vegetarian tasting menu. She still ate dairy at that point. And refined flour and everything. There weren’t so many restrictions then.

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She kept saying it’s perfect, it’s perfect. She tried to tell me about the properties of tanzanite, but I’d already done so much research.

We adopted Ben a year after we got married. He was three. Sal was keen on his bedroom being gender-neutral, but we couldn’t decide on a colour.

The three of us flicked all these different colours of paint onto his white walls. In the first good photograph of our family we are all speckled in rainbow colours. Matching.

Ben had nightmares, like most wee ones do. He told me us was afraid of monsters. Sal told him there were no monsters in our house, but he screamed almost every night.

I was impressed with her solution. We filled a clear, plastic spray bottle with water. I stuck on a label that said MONSTER SPRAY, even though he couldn’t read yet.

And every night after he climbed into bed I would read him a story and then spray him and his bed with nightmare repellent.

Sal added drops of oil. Vetiver for protection. Geranium for love. Juniper for positivity.

He loved it. And he slept. Every night.

He’s five now. And last night he said, dad I don’t need the spray. I’m big and I know there’s no monsters. And what could I do? She’s so thin now, with her superstitions and her worry.

I told him that mum makes it just for him and it’s special. I told him that it’s nice to do things for other people.

And I winked so he knew it was our secret.

When I left him she was at the door, ringing her hands and watching the full moon from the hall window.

She thanked me. And went off to our bed while I went downstairs to double check the doors that I knew I had locked after dinner.

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Habit Boy

, Malthe Sporring

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illustration by Rachel Berman

Habit Boy

Habit boy, habit boy Live on gluten-free and soy Meditate your dreams away Go to sleep before the day Before the do, do abstain, tug your feign, cuddle up to hidden reins Pussy boy, Pussy boy, Throat is but a dried-up toy Rub your skin with Gin and Salt Crumble to a Drunk default Crumble down your soy and shame in pools of teen and Brown and Green Horny boy,,,,, horny Boy --- you're looking little Look at lovely Tits with pride in bits Hornyyy boyyy HORNYYYY boy Grabs a toy in Pretty Tits Grabs a toy in pretty tits Hears a dreamful of wits and screams And Oil spills of pride in alleyways And Oil spells in Horny Boy – Horny boy – horny boy Oh,,, worthless boy, worthless boy, wake up as a dead decoy take your soy and take your sin no one likes your cardboard grin no one likes your wretched face all etched with lies that god won’t see and fly won’t flies and boy no more and boy no more.

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prev: illustration by Kristina Kapeljuh

Lines How the fuck do you rebuild a friendship That’s eroded away from the inside Leaving an empty shell casing behind Fill it with time and attention Too much affection eats it alive Leave it alone Give it time Might collapse Won’t survive How was I to know A new addition would Rot the foundation How the fuck to fix What’s not broken How to rebuild While still alive Without murdering it first Going home in a hearse Smother what’s left of the flame For the good of the friendship Lost its sails I flail In the mess I've created The misery of mistaken motivations

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crossed Modest intentions mild offences Tearing down walls Putting up fences On which I paint murals Begging for restoration Irresponsible Unnecessary Devastation Wanted to fuck Sordid Soaking in muck Not damaged just dirty So I'll scrub and I'll scrub hands raw and drew blood Scrape off rust Renew or go bust Yet you stand there and laugh At the crumbling past Impossible task Too tired to ask Why I go to the trouble Tear it down Let it end We'll dance in the rubble Cassandra Sawtell

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Trolley

Scott ‘The Redman’ Redmond Opens on a man and a woman sitting either side of a table. The woman is very formally dressed, in a suit and hair up in a tight bun. The man, on the other hand, is more smart-casual and seems somewhat nervous, almost intimidated by the woman.

Woman: There is a runaway trolley barreling down the railway tracks. Ahead, on the tracks, there are five people tied up and unable to move. The trolley is headed straight for them. You are standing some distance off in the train yard, next to a lever. If you pull this lever, the trolley will switch to a different set of tracks.

However, you notice that there is one person on the side track. You have two options: do nothing, and let the trolley kill the five people on the main track, or pull the lever, diverting the trolley onto the side track where it will kill one person.

Do you pull the lever?

Man: (considering it) Yes, I would.

Woman: Okay. What if instead of pulling the lever, you had to push a man from a bridge onto the track, slowing the train to a halt before it can crush the five people.

Do you push him?

Man: No, I don’t think I would.

Woman: What if it was a really fat man. A biiiig, faaaaat piiiiiig of a man. A slobbering beast in human skin, the kind who probably weighs about as much as the five people all by himself. Would you push him?

Man: Yes, I suppose. Probably.

Woman: What if his children were watching?

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Man: No, probably not in that case.

Woman: What if his children were watching, but one of them was actively cheering you on, telling you to do it?

Man: I would do it then.

Woman: What if you had to actively push that child into his pig father, creating a domino effect that pushed him onto the tracks?

Man: I still think I would do it.

Woman: What if you had to create a makeshift crossbow from the bones of a deer, shooting the arrow through the cheering child into the marshmallow father to push him onto the tracks?

Man: Does the child survive?

Woman: Yes… Man: Then yes.

Woman: But he is horribly disfigured and made fun of for it at school.

Man: Then no.

Woman: The other children call him ‘deer crossbow scarface’.

Man: Then yes, that’s quite funny.

Woman: What if the only way to stop the trolley was by giving a blowie to a moose?

Man: Is it a handsome moose?

Woman: Very, yes.

Man: Then yes, I think I would try at least.

Woman: It’s an ugly moose.

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Man: Can I close my eyes?

Woman: Only one of them.

Man: My left eye?

Woman: Either eye.

Man: Left eye, yes. Right eye, no.

Woman: What if the moose gave your number to its moose friends so you got calls at all times of the day from horny stags asking for your services?

Man: Are they polite about it?

Woman: They are rude, but in a sort of charming way.

Man: I would deeply consider it.

Woman: Okay, what if the fat man had just received a heart transplant from your recently deceased cousin?

Man: My cousin wanted to save lives with his organs, I’d save the lives. Shove.

Woman: What if the fat man had simply stolen the heart, plucked it from your cousin’s chest like so many maltesers?

Man: Then I wouldn’t push, the fat man would have to see justice through the legal system instead.

Woman: What if the fat man was in the middle of giving a blowie to a moose, that would itself stop the train?

Man: I would let them carry on with what they were doing.

Woman: What if one of the people on the track had deeply insulted yer maw?

Man: Then I would not push the fat man.

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Woman: What if the fat man was, in fact, yer maw?

Man: Then I would feel betrayed by my maw for not telling me she was, in fact, a fat man. Push her.

Woman: What if the train driver was smoking a cigarette?

Man: He wouldn’t be.

Woman: Good answer.

Man: Yes. Woman: What if there was eerie violin music playing?

Eerie violin music plays for barely a moment.

Man: I would think something was suspicious, and get out of there as quickly as possible.

Woman: What if one of the people tied to the tracks was a bomb, and would explode anyway, killing his track-bound friends?

Man: I would let the train run him over. I don’t like bombs.

Woman: What if the bomb would only be triggered by the train, killing you, the fat man, his children and the moose on the bridge, as well as pushing the train driver to stress?

Man: I would not push the man.

Woman: The stress makes the driver start smoking.

Man: I don’t know what to think anymore.

Woman: Perfect, you start Monday. Welcome to the Sainsbury’s family.

Black out.

End. 20

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Like a red lace glove, That’s far too tight, His skin is dry and flaky white, With rosy lines that cut and score, And make his hands so very sore.

As water falls, And hits his flesh, Grates the skin like wire mesh, Drags itself over the pores, And down the drain below the floor.

Out comes the soap, A turquoise blue, Such a clean and pretty hue, To drown the beasts that won’t relent, All ninety nine point nine percent.

He knows that soap, Whilst so pristine, Merely feeds the monster’s needs, Yet on he scrubs eternally, Until his hands can’t help but bleed.

He’ll stop some time, When the water leaves, Curled up crying on his knees, Scraping through his fragile hands, The tap a glove of caustic sand.

Ninety Nine Point Nine

George Willams photography by Nadia Ahmed 22

A night workman stands by the lights and looks up at the bus, which moves off. Soot black, blue, moonlit, midnight, amber, violet, white. The colours slow in the city. A high-rise silhouette comes into view. Its windows are lucent and everything’s on show, framed in multiple shades of brilliant light. In one, a woman looks across the table at a man as if he is hardly there at all, while he looks down at something on his phone. She turns towards the bus. A few flats over an old man has his window ajar. He stands with a cigarette in his mouth peering down to the street below. Two people appear to be arguing, their arms conducting an ill-tempered and confused orchestra. The view blurs as the bus moves off again. At the next lights, a small cinema spills people out from a showing. Someone stands at the glass-fronted entrance mouthing words to their company inside, but her eyes are elsewhere. There are too many distractions, there’s too much to see; each person acting out their own unmissable production. I stay on the bus as it follows its route twice over. I want to see more. It’s hard not to. We stop by the same places and my eyes are meeting with the same people over and again. I picture how things are, and I think why, and I see things that aren’t really there. I’m watching everything play out, but it’s transitory, and I’ve no line in the script. I watch the raindrops fall down the window with the motion of the bus, obscuring the view, and reflecting in the window I see that across the aisle, from behind, someone else is watching too. I see myself watching this, and I think:

win d ow

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24 A night workman stands by the lights and looks up at the bus, which moves off. Soot black, blue, moonlit, midnight, amber, violet, white. The colours slow in the city. A high-rise silhouette comes into view. Its windows are lucent and everything’s on show, framed in multiple shades of brilliant light. In one, a woman looks across the table at a man as if he is hardly there at all, while he looks down at something on his phone.

She turns towards the bus. A few flats over an old man has his window ajar. He stands with a cigarette in his mouth peering down to the street below. Two people appear to be arguing, their arms conducting an ill-tempered and confused orchestra. The view blurs as the bus moves off again. At the next lights, a small cinema spills people out from a showing. Someone stands at the glass-fronted entrance mouthing words to their company inside, but her eyes are elsewhere. There are too many distractions, there’s too much to see; each person acting out their own unmissable production. I stay on the bus as it follows its route twice over. I want to see more. It’s hard not to. We stop by the same places and my eyes are meeting with the same people over and again.

I picture how things are, and I think why, and I see things that aren’t really there. I’m watching everything play out, but it’s transitory, and I’ve no line in the script. I watch the raindrops fall down the window with the motion of the bus, obscuring the view, and reflecting in the window I see that across the aisle, from behind, someone else is watching too. I see myself watching this, and I think:

chi n g Liam Hendry

wa t

PRESIDENT // Mika Cook

VICE PRESIDENT // Ardith Bravenec

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF // Saskia Solomon SECRETARY/COPY EDITOR // Hannah Crawley

TREASURER/DRAMA EDITOR // Kirsten Knight

the team GENERAL EDITORS // Sarah Donachie Eilidh Sawyers

PROSE EDITOR // Snigdha Koirala

POETRY EDITOR // Georgia Leslie

MEDIA EDITOR // Theodor Mihalcea-Simoiu

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HEAD OF DESIGN // Stephanie Jin

T

hank you for taking the time to enjoy the 2017/2018 Spring publication of The Inkwell, PublishED’s bi-annual publication. Each semester, we aim for the encouragement of a creative and constructive literary dialogue that is open to all, and we are therefore very excited to present this new selection of prose, poetry, drama and art.

This semester has been an absolute whirlwind. Not only did it see the return of some favourites, such as the ‘Write Drunk, Edit Sober’ event which we ran once again in April, but also some brand new collaborations. In January, we partnered with The Society of Authors, and kick-started the year with a presentation by Chief Executive Nicola Solomon and acclaimed children’s author, and Chair of the Society of Authors in Scotland, Linda Strachan. In February, PublishED partnered with Edinburgh University Literature Society and presented our Poetry Slam, ‘Miscellany’. March saw a huge collaboration with other literary-focussed societies in a ‘Book Swap’ event with the Columnist, Nomad, 50gs, Retrospect and Crumble Press, and we also supported the University of Edinburgh’s ‘Creative and Cultural Careers Festival’ which ran from the 5th – 9th of March. I think it’s safe to say that, for this semester, PublishED has focussed on connecting with others, and proving the reach and the worth of Scotland’s creative voices.

As this academic year draws to a close, I would like to take a moment to thank the amazing 2017/2018 committee, who have really gone above and beyond to bring these events, and two beautiful publications of The Inkwell, to you. It has been an absolute joy to work with this team and I couldn’t be prouder of what PublishED has achieved this year. I wish the incoming committee all the best, and cannot wait to see how much further PublishED will go.

Wishing you all the very best, - Mika.

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hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht ni dnim fo etats eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca eht ,aisarka lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw lliw fo ssenkaew hguorht tnemegduj retteb rieht tsniaga stca enoemos hcihw ni dnim fo etats