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Calderas | Mandy-Suzanne Wong | The Hypocrite Reader http://hypocritereader.

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ABOUT CONTRIBUTE ARCHIVES ANTHOLOGY

ISSUE 60 | SEE AMERICA | JAN 2016

Photos by Mandy-Suzanne Wong and Roger Wong.

A photograph from 1984 shows my grandfather sitting in an airport in Florida, surrounded by


large cardboard boxes. He wears a broad grin that in later years would become rare; he and I and
the rest of our immediate family are returning home to Bermuda from vacation. In the boxes
are the things we bought shampoo, file folders, barbecue sauce, duct tape because these
things are cheaper in the States than at home, and there were at that time no restrictions on
baggage. I was five, a Bermudian by birth and heritage, and America was a warehouse of things
for sale, the realm of billboards, the dominion of a million arrows squiggly arrows, U-shaped
arrows, arrows bent at right angles emblazoned on yellow signs along the roads. The arrows
and capacious roads seemed interminable to me, implying that going forward came in countless
varieties and all of them were available right now in this place, like soft-serve ice cream at an
all-you-can-eat buffet; and so, when it came time for me to go to university, off I went,
westward-ho.

As a resident in America (For Tax Purposes Only and Ineligible For Employment) of an
ambiguous Afro-Asian brown, I was regularly astonished by such questions as What are you?
directed at my person by other human beings. Suspicions about my physical features led to open
skepticism of my maroon passport, on account of which I rarely managed to make my way from
one side to the other of any airport without being instructed to stop and step aside. I lost count
of the occasions on which my books, medications, insoles, armpits, breasts, knee joints, and
groin were investigated by palpation, much to my humiliation and that of any group with which
I happened to be in company. In Las Vegas, as an experiment, I wore identical clothing to that
of my white-skinned American companion, yet I alone was subject to physical search, as if my
physical differences were sly attempts to conceal culpability. In Boston, I was accused of forging
my own passport, because officials presumed the British colony of Bermuda to be a figment of
my imagination. These were not isolated incidents. In Boston, for example, interviewing for a
merit-based scholarship, I was told that the committees assessment of my merits was in fact an
appraisal of my ethnic and national background, and I lacked the proper merits to earn the
scholarship. Despite everything, I continued to believe in squiggly arrows until, in Los
Angeles, I was unequivocally informed that as a foreign-born woman of mixed race, I had no
place in the academic profession: that students would regard me begrudgingly and with
suspicion as they found themselves unable to identify with me; that publishers might not
consider me at all unless I changed my name. Like a strange animal in a busy street, I would be
magnanimously tolerated only for a time; I would never be otherwise than a visitor.

My return to Bermuda possessed the qualities of a fall into a chair. It became an unprecedented
struggle for me to prevent my disillusioned perceptions of the United States from coalescing

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into stubborn, uncomplicated dualisms signifying brute hypocrisy. Even in 2015, when my
family returned to the States as vacationers, a jarring moment at the outset of our journey
reawakened and affirmed the unsought, unwanted impression that in America, everything is
proffered and precluded. Having flown into Nevada, we were in Walmart buying supplies for
the two-day drive to Yellowstone National Park when I recalled that in Bermuda, the price of
Scrubbing Bubbles was nothing short of ridiculous. I went alone to drain Walmarts inventory,
then, while searching for my family, I encountered a man with a gun. He wore a plain T-shirt,
mumbled American idioms; and I will not forget his ill-fitting khaki shorts, which went below
the knees but had a very short inseam, because he had tucked the gun into the waistband in such
manner as to ensure that the grip was in reach and visible. I had never seen civilians with guns
before, and I felt a bit indignant. Given that the purpose of handguns is to do away with
offensive people, I supposed this man believed he might meet offensive people in Walmart and
desired to make others aware of the possibility. I located my family, a group of foreign visitors,
and when I told of what Id seen, someone said, Its the wild west.

In the US, Yellowstone country was indeed a birthplace of vigilante violence, which contributed
to the calculated genocide of Native Americans in the nineteenth century. But in 2015, although
my grandfather had gone nine years before, death visited my family four times; our journey to
Yellowstone was an early step out of mourning, and we did not go in search of history. For no
apparent reason except perhaps the foreboding I carried everywhere right up until the day
when we piled our things into an SUV, it seemed that the journey would not happen, all our
preparations were somehow unreal, and Yellowstone was a vague, almost unimaginable terra
incognita. Not until I was driving did I fully enter into what we were doing. The necessity arose
of being solely aware of near and middle distances, but to such an acute and comprehensive
degree that nothing escaped notice the engines smells and sounds, the depths of the pedals,
the road as a sensation in my back and hands, the body language of the car ahead, cows and
horses huddling in the shade of a billboard, the gleam of daylight through the glass, and the
shapes of hills: red and jagged in Utah, green and round in Idaho and I became extended.
The SUV and I were a single nameless thing that effaced my small, slow, brown, foreign body
which, unseen and dissipated, progressed through the country swift as anyone and guilty before
no one but the Earth.

We murmured of Disney World. Vehicles of every stripe converged upon a few wooden huts,
where a small staff dispensed tickets and the newsletter. But the traffic soon dispersed
Yellowstone Park has two million acres and the huts had only just fallen out of our mirrors
when the river Madison appeared as if from nowhere. Its bright blue color took us by surprise.

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We stopped in a cul-de-sac and watched the river ramble in broad blue turns through a thick
green forest, edged in yellow, to the mountains: bluish-gray with summits dabbed in fresh white
snow. We hoped to see a beaver but observed only a fisherman, and I was sorry to see him, for I
wanted to imagine the civilized world falling away: no one else turned into our cul-de-sac; we
ourselves might have passed it, had not the bright blue caught us by surprise. The early-
September day was almost too bright and too clear. A photograph of the river Madison from
that clear day shows no shadows or clouds; only that striking blue, bolder than that of the sky,
blasts out of the picture like something absolute, a tonic chord from a grand orchestra. Now
that memory has smudged it and I must rely on photographs, I realize that the yellow grass
along the riverbank may have made the blue seem bluer than it really was, and a look into the
water revealed many strange things of uncertain shape and golden-greenish hues beneath the
surface.

When I am at home, I spend a lot of time watching the open ocean. The ocean is every horizon,
never a single color; over the reefs it is dark, over the sand a clear turquoise, and far away
towards Antarctica it becomes hazy, secretive gray. I have seen swells rolling to shore while
others simultaneously withdraw, out to sea; enormous explosions of white spray in the distance,
with hidden and perhaps unfathomable causes; sheets of rain entirely alike to solid sheets, which
the clouds and the north wind draw over the island like a cloth over a face. These sheets, which
are our populations main source of fresh water, came into my mind when I beheld Yellowstone
Lake: a smooth gray sheet without a single ripple, drawn over the ruins of a volcanic crater that
collapsed upon itself 640,000 years ago. The stillness and the gray gave me a presentiment of
very deep cold, the sort of cold that burrows down into the bone; and much later I learned that
had I gone into the lake, I would have perished from cold in twenty minutes.

In Yellowstones hot springs, too, which can reach two hundred degrees Farenheit, people who
ignore the prohibitions against swimming have been known to die of their burns. The stench of
hydrogen sulfide drew tears out of my eyes, yet I often found that I could not look away from
the colors in the water loquat yellow, emerald green, the red of coral, and an uncanny
turquoise, the hue of the planet Uranus. Wreathed in their own steam, these impossible pools
had the quality of hallucination, and I could not help but wonder if they would disappear after a
blink or two. They also possessed an illusory benignity, a character imposed on them by the
wide, clean boardwalks with thick balusters which, set down firmly around the hot springs at
safe distances, gave them a curated feeling.

An example of the latter was the amphitheater around Old Faithful. For this I was unprepared
I no longer know what I expected; but I did not expect smooth paving, benches arranged in a
semicircle, riffles of indignation in the enormous crowd when the hydrothermal vent declined
to erupt precisely at the predicted time. When the eruption did begin, and several thousand
gallons of pressure-cooked precipitation shot into the sky, we marveled in comfort from our
convenient seat, contemplatively photographing. And now I cannot help but think of the
volcano at the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas, which erupts at eight and nine oclock on weeknights.

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However, at the time I recall a cool and quiet night when I lay awake under the slanting roof
of our small cabin, thinking of Old Faithfuls plume, which in an instant outgrew the aged
evergreens by a hundred feet, seeming at its base to be a thick, white wall that forbade
everything beyond and at the same time to be an expression of intolerable frustration I
found myself remembering an afternoon before a storm, when the ocean turned dark and hurled
itself at our small island. I went alone to Astwood Cove, clambered down the steps that were cut
into the cliff, to a beach surrounded by black rocks and empty of human life. As the angry
waves broke against the shore, they threw up monstrous sheets of water vast enough to envelop
me, crush me, and carry me away. I went into the water. It began at once to pull at my jeans and
sneakers, hinting at the violence with which the next big breaker might devour me, and at last I
became afraid.

The memory came to me again, when I stood in a beautiful twilit eve before the Steamboat
Geyser at the Norris Geyser Basin. Surrounded by the bleached skeletons of lodgepole pines,
which could not survive the heat and silica in the soil, the Steamboat erupted in forty-foot
sprays almost continuously. The boardwalk permitted a certain intimacy with the geysers sulfur-
tainted breath and stony, pockmarked lips, reddened by iron oxide and arsenic. It occurred to
me, standing there, that water, the life-bestowing element, is also a decisive threshold of death,
and it is perhaps for this reason that it can sometimes seem unreal, as if we are incapable of
experiencing it first-hand. At the grand waterfalls of the Yellowstone River, I was struck by the
almost vertiginous sensation of an irremediable gap between myself and what lay right before
my eyes. From the vantage available to us on the rim of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone,
fragile bipeds clustering around the safety railings, it was impossible to appreciate or even to
perceive the quantity and force of the water tumbling down over the edge. Struggling to make
sense of it, a few of us arrived, independently of each other, at a comparison between the Lower
Falls and the pale tresses of some sort of fairy-tale giantess. When commercial photographers
first visited Yellowstone in the 1870s, they called it the enchanted land or wonderland
because at that time most people had no hope of visiting. Unable to imagine months on
horseback over perilous terrain, those who purchased H.B. Calfees stereopticon views must
have seen, by the eerie light of the magic lantern, a mystique to rival that of Atlantis.

Waterfalls really are by nature secretive, for each is a wall with a hidden side which, like the
silence in between geyseral effusions, conceals some ancient and private possession of the
Earth. The impossibility of genuinely seeing the Lower Falls may be evident in the fact that no
one in my family was able to make decent photographs of them. The light in the water, the mist
above the stones, and most of all the dynamism of the phenomenon refused to communicate

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themselves to our lenses. For some reason, all of us, in that place as at no other, were incapable
of composing the scene in a convincing manner with even the slightest resemblance to what we
saw despite that for many tourists, the making of photographs seems to be an easier, safer
alternative to seeing: as if the viewfinder or screen corrals each situation within impassable
borders, rescuing us from being overwhelmed by the wealth of foreign things that overrun every
moment. When E. Greenwald, a historian, asked someone what it was like to behold the Lower
Falls from atop the Canyon, her acquaintance said, It was like looking at a picture. And in
fact, for a hundred years, many visitors to the Lower Falls have composed almost the same
picture, according to Greenwalds survey. It is as if seeing the Falls for oneself can only amount
to a futile effort that just might end in madness; therefore we fall back unconsciously on distant,
known perspectives which comprehend absolutely nothing but thereby save us from being
devoured. I do not know if it has ever been noted before that one of the main characteristics of
life is discreteness. Unless a film of flesh envelops us, we die, wrote Nabokov. Man exists only
insofar as he is separated from his surroundings. The cranium is a space-travelers helmet. Stay
inside or you perish. Death is divestment, death is communion. It may be wonderful to mix
with the landscape, but to do so is the end of the tender ego.

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Most striking to me among Yellowstones colors was the unearthly turquoise in the Celestine
Pool and Emerald Spring. In photographs, this bright, somehow tantalizing turquoise seems to
shine like polished stone. To come upon it in upper-midwestern America, with sulfur in the air,
snowbound peaks on the horizon, and the footprints of bison between petrified pines, choking
in orange rivers of cyanobacteria, produced within me an unprecedented shock for I had seen
that shining turquoise in the shallows of Bermuda, framed by coral reefs, and I had believed
that this color occurred nowhere else on Earth. Flying into Bermuda, I always enjoy the
moment when the Terrace Reef comes into view and the dark, forbidding blue of the deep
ocean yields, suddenly and in an instant, to that startling turquoise, the sight of which has always
filled me with relief. But having seen it again, in the place of my exile, far from the sea, I now
find it altogether strange. In the same way, I imagine, when W.G. Sebald found almost a replica
of a scene that he had written, including a word which he had thought his own invention, in a
novel he had never read before, by an author he had never met, who in fact had died several
decades prior, Sebalds own work became a stranger to him, a voice from another world. At the
sight of that turquoise, it was as if a hidden string trembled within me, and I am now almost
certain that to see something is not to register its presence nor to form a discrete image but to
let the phenomenon get underneath ones skin, causing oneself to bleed out a little bit.

At Mammoth Hot Springs, whose sparkling terraces dazzled in the midday sun, someone in my
family observed that water dripping from a certain overhang had made tiny stalactites,
reminiscent in miniature of the grand formations in Bermudas Crystal Cave. I later learned that
the hot water in the spring and the cool rainwater in the caves eternal night owe their sculptural
abilities to calcium carbonate in limestone deposits. And in fact, the heat in Yellowstones hot
springs is of volcanic origin, born in some impenetrable place deep underground: a place where
arcane, earthly passion seethed and writhed and at last in a series of outbursts which began
two million years ago erupted with such vehemence that the mountain imploded its own
face, forming calderas that became the parks famous lakes and valleys. When we climbed to the
summit of Mammoths pile of terraces, six thousand feet above a nonexistent sea, Yellowstones
volcanic heritage seemed more conspicuous than in any other place. We looked over the steam
rising from the slick, red stones, which seemed themselves to flow like liquids. We wondered
how the unlikely purple flowers that we spotted here and there, eking their way through the
stone into the noxious air, managed to survive the chemicals and thermophiles. I thought of
another volcano which erupted underwater thirty-three million years ago, forming mountains
that imploded in at least two places. Of the rims of the calderas atop the tallest peak, known as
the Bermuda Pedestal, a few slivers were at last relinquished by the ocean including
Southampton, where my family lives and our unlikely archipelago came up to breathe,

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became a haven for flowers, and, purely by accident, found itself overrun by humans. From a
certain place in Yellowstone, which I can no longer locate on any map, we saw a portion of a
caldera rim. It was a strange thing, neither mountain nor plateau but a jagged and incomplete
cliff; however, though it was completely alien, we saw in it, for the first time, the thing on which
we walk and sleep and work each day.

Resonance, a sort of spooky action at a distance, occurs when vibrations in a system incite
another system to vibrate as if in sympathy, although the two systems are external to each other.
If hyperobjects are things that are too spread out in space and time for any human being to take
in all at once things such as continents and geothermal events then the meeting of worlds
in the midst of which I found myself was a hyper-resonance that was itself an even grander
hyper-thing. Hyperobjects seem to beckon us further into themselves, making us realize that
were already lost inside them. The recognition of being caught in hyperobjects is precisely a
feeling of strange familiarity and familiar strangeness. This feeling took hold of me at Isa Lake,
whence the water, trickling underground, drains in reverse out of Yellowstone to the oceans:
water from eastern outlets meanders to the Pacific, while the western drainage finds its way to
the Atlantic. From the surface, Isa Lake appeared perfectly still. The pale green lily pads seemed
not to move at all. And though the stagnant brown water might someday find itself spraying
salty spume at Vladivostok or Namibia, the little lake reminded me of Seymour Pond, which a
pedestrian can circumnavigate in an hour.

Certain of the very same resonating things were so strange at the same time that nothing in
earthly experience could offer a sensible comparison. At Mammoth Hot Springs, I found myself
wondering if other liquid-bearing worlds, planets or moons as yet unknown to anyone on Earth,
might resemble the bizarre landscape in which I stood; and I attempted with my camera to
invoke worlds that I will never see, zooming in on strange formations to the exclusion of plants
and other obvious Earthlings. In Jupiter Spring, I saw the ruin of a Martian staircase: terraces
and landings in Martian red and bright green led nowhere in particular, rendered smooth and
bloblike by the ceaseless caress of hot spring-water. Elsewhere I found yellow-green canyons,
multicolored beaches, and my camera seemed to fly over the methane seas of Titan. Towards
evening one day, we climbed to the lip of a hydrothermal basin known as the Artists Paintpots:
wending our way between acidic pools of chalk-white mud; small lakes, under clouds of steam,
bacteria-blue; swampish algae-green puddles; and sanguinary streams bloodied by iron oxide.
Now and then a small geyser erupted, we inhaled sulfur and acid, the setting sun powdered the
sky with yellow haze, and it hardly seemed possible that such a place could exist on our home
planet. Among fidgeting pools, restless stones, and bleeding hills, we stood awkwardly and spoke
in hushed, bashful tones, feeling like visitors, bemused and out of place.

And yet, when night came down, though there were no TV sounds or passing cars, we could not
see the stars for the glare of the streetlights. The park on the whole was so well paved, equipped,
and regulated so well-traveled, too, with a history that includes the wholesale slaughter of
every species that I did not expect to encounter animals. I especially did not expect to see a
bison; for in the nineteenth century, Yellowstones bison were exterminated by settlers who
hoped to starve the native tribes to death. At one point, the iconic buffalo of Yellowstone
numbered only twenty-three.

To encounter even one seemed to me a privilege reserved for the most fortunate of people. Yet
we came upon bison rather often in the yellow grass that lined the riverbanks and carpeted the
valleys. To my surprise, I discovered that I liked the look of these animals, even found them
delightful. In wandering, sisterly groups, they appeared as dark smudges near the base of Old
Faithful and along the Lamar River, and at first I mistook them for boulders on the tawny
plains. The bulls wandered in solitude, and I must say it was they who held the greatest
fascination for me. They were massive, they dwarfed many of the cars, but I liked their furry
faces and dangling beards, their incongruous shoulder humps and delicate cloven hooves. I
enjoyed most of all the way they owned their solitude; the unhurried, contemplative air with
which they seemed to do everything. We photographed several loners plodding along, often
chewing, through the grass or on the roads alongside the motor vehicles, apparently intent on
inward reflections. We spent quite some time observing a bull fast asleep beside a copse of trees,
nodding his head as if he dreamed in Socratic dialogue and agreed in earnest with himself.

Thereafter, we sought the bisons company and watched them for as long as we could. One day,
in search of them, we detoured from the main highway onto a one-way road and discovered,

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near a pond, a small herd of mothers and growing calves. Every vehicle in the vicinity plunged
into the ditch at the edge of the pond, limbs and cameras were flung out of windows, people
tumbled out and landed squelching in the mud, as though these bison were celebrities and we
the paparazzi. Many of them put up with our antics and went about their business, though we
must have appeared reckless if not menacing; but one individual could not endure the
oppressive atmosphere, stares, and smoking metal hulks. She struck out alone, squeezed
between the cars, crossed the road in front of traffic, and galloped into the trees.

It was not until much later that, time and distance having restored our sobriety, we realized we
had violated the parks prohibition against approaching bison at less than twenty-five yards. We
had also exited our vehicle in the bisons presence and photographed the creatures, both of
which are against safety regulations, despite the fact that in the summer of 2015, no fewer than
four people were attacked and gored by bison while attempting to photograph them in
Yellowstone Park. We disparaged those people; we criticized their arrogant insensitivity, their
unwillingness to recognize that the bison are neither costumed actors nor museum pieces but
sentient, intelligent strangers who do not appreciate the subjection of their every move and
possession, even their children, to the invasive eyes of cameras which, because they are
strangers, follow them everywhere. Perhaps, for those bison who leapt the safety railings with
lowered horns, surveillance at last became intolerable.

But in proximity to wondrous beings, one forgets even oneself in ones excitement. A study
found that only half Yellowstones visitors recognizes that their presence is disturbing to
animals, and this insensibility causes traffic congestion as people stop to photograph animals
along the roads. At nearly every hour of the day, some such traffic jam occurs somewhere in the
park, and as each event may involve a hundred cars or more, we found it was impossible not to
spend time in queues. In such manner we encountered two female elk, one with a radio collar,
an elk stag grazing in the bushes, an elk stag making his way over a hill, an elk stag asleep (all
the stags had beautiful antlers), a bison bull scratching an itch against a sapling, a trio of bison
bulls grazing on the shoulder of the road, a bison family of five, a bison bull asleep, a group of
female mountain goats with kids, a pronghorn antelope, a grizzly bear asleep, a grizzly bear
foraging in the grass, and a black bear who had just come from a swim. I remember making our
way down out of the mountains on a misty eve and finding ourselves in a line of red bulbs,
twinkling and winding around the Norris Geyser Basin and Gibbon Falls. The forest blackened
and the sun flickered between the trees, the final ember on a dying hearth, and when it vanished
there was nothing by which to navigate except head- and tail-lights. We were motionless so long
that I found myself thinking of Los Angeles. At the head of the queue was a family of five bison

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with two calves. Rangers ordered us to drive around them; but as we approached them from the
side, one of them, a mother, turned to glare at our SUV. I could not see her eyes, but the
headlights gave me the dark shape of her head, her movements too abrupt for curiosity
and the horns she brandished at our passenger door.

Where grizzly bears were concerned, the traffic jams were longer than any of the others, even
though, in both cases, the bears were too distant to spot without binoculars. We pulled over to
the side, joining an impromptu parking lot which lined the road in both directions for a
quarter-mile. Never, throughout our journey, did we converse with other tourists except at these
bear jams. Whats up there? someone cried, scampering to the top of a crowded rise. Seen
from afar, this gravelly knoll must have seemed to glitter: phones, tablets, lenses, tripods
twinkled in the sun. There was much laughter and joking about Pooh and his honey-pot. An
Englishman invited everyone to use his telescope to spy on the sleeping grizzly bear. And it is
true, as one team of scientists observed, that the roadside bear jam can create an almost
carnival-like atmosphere. When we met the black bear, we were ascending Mount Washburn on
a curving road which bisected a tall, green forest. He seemed to come out of nowhere; he
stepped into the road right in front of our vehicle. We were driving slowly and came to an easy
stop but the next driver ahead, who was about to round a corner, threw his truck into reverse
and zigzagged backwards down the mountain at a ridiculous speed, having spotted the bear in
his rearview. Ambling with sodden fur, the bear might have been crushed between us.

It seems to me impossible not to sense the incongruity of wild animals with SUVs and smooth,
government-patrolled thoroughfares. But the right perspective is difficult to achieve: it is not the
wild animal but the human animal who is alien and out of place in Yellowstone. The parks
roads were made to pass directly through the elks and bisons home ranges and the best habitats
for bears and other carnivores. But it is difficult to experience ones own alien qualities when
surrounded by ones own kind and familiar trappings, even though an inherent incongruity with
all other beings is every individuals native condition. Furthermore, Western humans are
accustomed to viewing wild animals from the far side of some kind of screen, a zoo enclosure
or an electronic medium; therefore when we come upon these strangers on the street, although
of course we know that the screen is no longer present, on some level (in the place where
ideologies have the last word) we do not know. The intimate degree to which we invaded their
homes and intruded upon their necessary endeavors became apparent to me when I reviewed
my photographs of a traffic jam at dusk. The bison eat; a great bull, surely a grandfather, steps
into the road so as not to entangle his hump in low branches; cars crowd him back onto the
shoulder. We have no choice (there is two-way traffic), but neither does he. He is a pioneer
even as bison retain the habits of their prehistoric ancestors, they also go exploring in search of
new ranges but in this country, any bison who leaves the national park is likely to be shot,
due to a myth that wild bison transmit brucellosis to domestic cattle.

1 Comment Sort by Oldest

Dorian Lord
Now i understand why you hate me so much. Stop hiding from the past Ydnam.
Like Reply May 5, 2016 9:38pm

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