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<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
<head>
<!-- 2024-01-10 Wed 17:10 -->
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<title>‎</title>
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<body>
<article id="content" class="content">
<p>
<label for="mn-demo" class="margin-toggle"></label>
<input type="checkbox" id="mn-demo" class="margin-toggle">
<span class="marginnote">
<img src="images/InlandSeaDType4.png" alt="InlandSeaDType4.png">
<br>
<br>
<i>Correspondence</i> <br>
WUTHERING.UK <br>
P.O. Box 1302 <br>
Grand Marais, MN, 55604 <br>
USA <br>
<br>
<br>
</span>
</p>
<img src="./images/WutheringKunstlerBanner.png" alt="Title" class=".wtitle">
<span class="cap">January, 2024</span>
<section id="outline-container-orgeadb108" class="outline-2">
<h2 id="orgeadb108"><i>An inaugural explainer of the Dark Muse</i></h2>
<div class="outline-text-2" id="text-orgeadb108">
<img src="./images/inlandseagmharbour20220414_2.png" width="730" alt="Harbour view out to sea">
<span class="cap">All at sea</span>
</div>
<div id="outline-container-orgd8447d3" class="outline-3">
<h3 id="orgd8447d3"><i>Introduction</i></h3>
<div class="outline-text-3" id="text-orgd8447d3">
<p>
The purpose of this media effort will be to convey some of my thoughts<label id='fnr.1' for='fnr-in.1.9796577' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>1</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.1.9796577' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>1</sup>
Here I am: <br>
<br>
<img src="images/Me2020width500.png" alt="Me2020width500.png">
</span>
and impressions about things <i>dark</i>, or what I call the <i>Dark
Muse</i><label id='fnr.2' for='fnr-in.2.7441564' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>2</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.2.7441564' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>2</sup>
<b>muse</b>: originally any of the nine sister goddesses in Greek
mythology presiding over music, literature, and arts, <i>or</i> a
state of deep thought or abstraction, <i>or</i> a source of
inspiration
</span>. Yes, this would include what is today known as goth and
the gothic, but I hope to go much deeper. Can you relate? Does a
cloudy day or stormy night appeal? Do you feel spoken to by things
dark? Do you wish every night were Halloween? Do you find dreamy what
they find dreary? Let’s start with a litmus test of sorts from my main
darkness benefactress, the poet who is at the centre of everything I
mean to say about dark, Emily Brontë <label id='fnr.3' for='fnr-in.3.5787907' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>3</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.3.5787907' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>3</sup>
Oddly enough, I’ve never read her <i>Wuthering Heights</i> and do
not intend to. However, her poetry I read continually, gleaning new
insights each time. See <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Bront%C3%AB">here</a> for a quick biography.
<br>
<img src="images/Emily_Brontë_by_Patrick_Branwell_Brontë_restored.jpg" alt="Emily_Brontë_by_Patrick_Branwell_Brontë_restored.jpg"> <br>
</span>
</p>
<div class='verse'><blockquote>
<p class="verse">
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;<br>
Lengthen night and shorten day;<br>
Every leaf speaks bliss to me<br>
Fluttering from the autumn tree.<br>
I shall smile when wreaths of snow<br>
Blossom where the rose should grow;<br>
I shall sing when night’s decay<br>
Ushers in a drearier day.<br>
</p>
</blockquote></div>
<p>
Either you get it or you don’t. Either it speaks to you, or you find
it … weird, morbid, overwrought, puerile, even sick or evil. Yes,
many people call a fascination with dark things mentally ill, an
obsession with unhealthy things, some droopy, woebegone
attention-seeking act — indicative of depression, a fixation on
morosity, morbidity, puerile <i>schadenfreude</i>, if not evil. This is
certainly not my take on dark, rather, I see dark from a purely
aesthetic perspective. To be sure, <b>my ruminations on the Dark Muse
are informed by key poets from the mainly early nineteenth century.</b>
And they have told me dark goes to the core of life.
</p>
<p>
Let’s try another. Here is Longfellow’s <i>Snow-flakes</i>
</p>
<div class='verse'><blockquote>
<p class="verse">
Out of the bosom of the Air,<br>
      Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,<br>
Over the woodlands brown and bare,<br>
      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,<br>
            Silent, and soft, and slow<br>
            Descends the snow.<br>
<br>
Even as our cloudy fancies take<br>
      Suddenly shape in some divine expression,<br>
Even as the troubled heart doth make<br>
      In the white countenance confession,<br>
            The troubled sky reveals<br>
            The grief it feels.<br>
<br>
This is the poem of the air,<br>
      Slowly in silent syllables recorded;<br>
This is the secret of despair,<br>
      Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,<br>
            Now whispered and revealed<br>
            To wood and field.<br>
</p>
</blockquote></div>
<p>
And so he processes agents of depression<label id='fnr.4' for='fnr-in.4.4188886' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>4</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.4.4188886' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>4</sup>
…which are not mentioned, rather, to be assumed by readers
familiar with these agents in their own lives.
</span> — despair, grief,
misery — into more equanimous sadness and melancholy by reaching out
into the natural world and poetising. This is the modus operandi of
the nineteenth-century poet. It was as if they understood sadness and
melancholy to be a sort of cancer or virus that may eventually go into
remission, but will never be entirely gone. I contend we have lost the
ability to process depression into a stasis melancholy, i.e., to find
a modus vivendi<label id='fnr.5' for='fnr-in.5.1476788' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>5</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.5.1476788' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>5</sup>
<b>modus vivendi</b>: An arrangement or agreement allowing
conflicting parties to coexist peacefully, either indefinitely or
until a final settlement is reached, <i>or</i> (literally) a way of living.
</span> with the trials and tribulations of
life. Instead, the modern human is lost in a house of mirrors, in an
echo chamber of illusions fuelled by fantastical unreasonable
expectations, thus, unable, unwilling to face life’s harsher side.
</p>
<p>
Here is another great example of “you get the Dark Muse or you don’t,”
this time from Emily Dickinson’s <label id='fnr.6' for='fnr-in.6.6150589' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>6</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.6.6150589' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>6</sup>
See <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson">here</a> for a quick biography <br>
<img src="images/EmilyDickinson.png" alt="EmilyDickinson.png">
<br>
</span> <i>There’s a certain slant of
light</i>
</p>
<div class='verse'><blockquote>
<p class="verse">
There’s a certain Slant of light,<br>
Winter Afternoons —<br>
That oppresses, like the Heft<br>
Of Cathedral Tunes —<br>
<br>
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us —<br>
We can find no scar,<br>
But internal difference —<br>
Where the Meanings, are —<br>
<br>
None may teach it – Any —<br>
’Tis the seal Despair —<br>
An imperial affliction<br>
Sent us of the Air —<br>
<br>
When it comes, the Landscape listens —<br>
Shadows – hold their breath —<br>
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance<br>
On the look of Death —<br>
</p>
</blockquote></div>
<p>
That last line includes <i>Death</i>, capitalised<label id='fnr.7' for='fnr-in.7.9765986' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>7</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.7.9765986' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>7</sup>
Dickinson often employed the German practice of capitalising
nouns for poetic emphasis.
</span>. It is my contention that
these nineteenth-century creators had a completely different insight
to and understanding of death than we do today. And since this
capitalised, other-century view of Death has become so opaque, let us
talk a bit about what they really meant and what they really felt
about it.
</p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="outline-container-org3c992d8" class="outline-3">
<h3 id="org3c992d8">Nature and Death in the 19th century</h3>
<div class="outline-text-3" id="text-org3c992d8">
<p>
➝ No “degrees” of nature, rather, nature ubiquitous <br>
➝ Nature not a place, rather, nature universal <br>
➝ The increasingly extra-natural human
</p>
<p>
It is my contention that we today understand nature much
differently than did early-nineteenth-century poets such as the
Haworth and Amherst Emilies <label id='fnr.8' for='fnr-in.8.8831489' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>8</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.8.8831489' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>8</sup>
My shorthand for Emily Brontë and Emily Dickinson are based on
their towns of origin — Haworth, West Yorkshire, for the former and
Amherst, Massachusetts, for the latter.
</span> and their contemporaries. And as
such we understand death much differently.
</p>
<p>
If we just consider shelter and dwelling spaces, a modern building is
more like a sealed spaceship landed on a hostile alien planet compared
to the simpler, more primitive indoor environments of the
not-so-distant past. Literally, the Brontës’ Haworth parsonage, built
between 1778 and 1779, had more in common with human shelters from
thousands of years previous than with a modern suburban house only
some two hundred years later. <i>In just these two to three hundred
years a very steep gradient has grown between indoors and outdoors.</i>
And this, in turn, has brought us to see nature more as a <i>place</i>
outside of our artificial, high-tech, controlled and regulated modern
buildings. Which, in turn, leads to us to rate the outdoors on
continua of relative wildness, as well as remoteness from our
self-contained indoor environments.
</p>
<p>
No doubt humans have always made some sort of distinction between
being inside and outside a shelter, even before we stopped being
nomadic/semi-nomadic circa six thousand years ago to found permanent
settlement civilization. But once we switched to city-states humans
have done more and more of their living in the <i>Great Indoors</i>. And
these indoor environments have become increasingly androcentric,
self-contained, self-referencing, physically removed from the natural
world. In the West, architecture arguably reached a fantastical
aesthetic crescendo in the Victorian nineteenth century<label id='fnr.9' for='fnr-in.9.2695459' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>9</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.9.2695459' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>9</sup>
…with dark, heavy, dramatic Neo-Gothic as a style.
</span>,
coinciding exponential urban population growth. We became much more
“indoorsy” than even a century or so before — if not simply because
a much higher percentage of us had become urbanites. And so the
steepness and suddenness of our modern indoor-versus-outdoor gradient
has increased dramatically since Western Victorian times, leading to
this penultimate <i>extra-natural</i> state in which humanity now finds
itself. Of course it is difficult to objectively assess our separation
from nature. We may accept separation from, domination of nature as
fate, as destiny, and yet we are weirdly cognizant of the
estrangement.
</p>
<p>
Is not nature that uncontrolled, unmanaged, uncultivated, unregulated,
unchecked, unruly wildness <i>outside</i>? And were we not right to
progress to a higher, separate physical space of our own unique
design? <b>What if we look at nature as less a place inside or outside,
rather, as <i>everything going on everywhere.</i> I say nature was once the
myriad cycles of birth, growth, deterioration, and death going on
everywhere free of any indoors-outdoors boundary.</b> I contend the
Brontës at least sensed this pre-modern meaning of <i>universal nature</i>
as a location outside of inside. Here again is Emily Brontë, her <i>The
night is darkening round me</i>
</p>
<div class='verse'><blockquote>
<p class="verse">
The night is darkening round me,<br>
The wild winds coldly blow;<br>
But a tyrant spell has bound me,<br>
And I cannot, cannot go.<br>
<br>
The giant trees are bending<br>
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;<br>
The storm is fast descending,<br>
And yet I cannot go.<br>
<br>
Clouds beyond clouds above me,<br>
Wastes beyond wastes below;<br>
But nothing drear can move me;<br>
I will not, cannot go.<br>
</p>
</blockquote></div>
<p>
She even refers to the wilds as “wastes,” as drear, and yet she is
transfixed, frozen to the spot, and she cannot, cannot go. Wastes and
drear refer to the age-old attitude of nature as the enemy, something
to get away from, certainly not to poetise. But certain Romantic Era
poets did just that, sublimely. They stopped, turned around, and
stared into something that had previously been terrible
unforgiving, and they found sublimity<label id='fnr.10' for='fnr-in.10.8235169' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>10</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.10.8235169' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>10</sup>
More on Edmund Burke’s (as well as Bertrand Russell’s) false,
“don’t get it” tedium on sublimity later. In short, <i>sublime</i> is what
we may find beyond mere beauty, touching what Dostoevsky is saying
here: <i>There are seconds, they only come five or six at a time, and
you suddenly feel the <b>presence of eternal harmony</b>, fully
achieved. It is nothing earthly; not that it is heavenly, but man
cannot endure it in his earthly state. One must change physically or
die. The feeling is clear and indisputable. As if you suddenly sense
the whole of nature and suddenly say: yes, this is true. This is not
tenderheartedness, but simply joy.</i>
</span>.
</p>
<p>
With nature as cycles of birth, growth, deterioration, and death, the
last component, death must be seen beyond our mechanistic modern take
as just terminal, physical malfunction<label id='fnr.11' for='fnr-in.11.1396963' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>11</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.11.1396963' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>11</sup>
…as when a car is written off as “totalled.”
</span>. Instead, death becomes
Death, a quasi-spiritual <i>force majeure</i>. Death from old age, an
accident, or as the result of physical aggression or
predation<label id='fnr.12' for='fnr-in.12.4997638' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>12</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.12.4997638' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>12</sup>
For critters, predators are other critters. For humans,
predators are—outside of war and criminal activity—all but
exclusively bacteria and viruses.
</span>. But when death is an undeniable certainty,
inevitable, and, especially, able to strike at any time, then a completely
different attitude dominates compared to our modern experience of
death as a negative outcome after modern health care’s labyrinth of
diagnoses and repair attempts. Yes, of course, life in our modern
times can be precarious. But not half as precarious as in the early
nineteenth century. Death still may arrive suddenly from an accident
or violence. But today death seems much more cordoned off, under much
more control than ever. As if we have nominal veto power over it.
</p>
<div class='verse'><blockquote>
<p class="verse">
The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.<br>
— Psalm 90:10<br>
</p>
</blockquote></div>
<p>
This is surely the old-fashioned take on death and its absolute
finalism, its resounding inevitability. Life is starkly contrasted by
death inescapable. Death is life’s backstop against which any ball
thrown bounces back. Death is the walls of life’s playpen or sandbox.
</p>
<p>
As opposed to the creeping attitude that death may be postponed, even
cheated. Psalm 90:10 by no means guarantees seventy years of life and
yet we have grown to expect some seventy, eighty, ninety, even longer,
as something due us by the modern world.
</p>
<p>
Let me relate a modern story to our new attitude towards death. My
father, who has since passed away, lost his <i>third</i> wife to lung
cancer caused inevitably by decades of smoking<label id='fnr.13' for='fnr-in.13.2519157' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>13</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.13.2519157' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>13</sup>
Ironically, both of his previous wives had likewise died from
smoking-related illnesses.
</span>. But instead of
accepting this, he became angry and accused her doctors of
malpractice, threatening lawsuits. Nothing came of this, but I
wondered why such an irrational outburst? I finally theorised that he
had taken in all the explanations of all the various medical
interventions — including their probabilities of success or failure
— and built up hope that the death sentence of lung cancer could,
<i>should</i> be beaten by some technology in some corner of the modern
medical labyrinth.
</p>
<p>
Back in the day, no one would have second-guessed death’s arrival to
such an absurd degree. Today, however, the fourscore years spoken of
in Psalms almost seem like a guarantee of modern medicine — even to
the extent that old age and death are “diseases” medical science can
and should be defeated. Hence, we feel cheated, as my father did, when
that three-, fourscore and more is not forthcoming. What is obviously
missing is a humility towards death.
</p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="outline-container-org4802c59" class="outline-3">
<h3 id="org4802c59">Thriving versus surviving; top dog versus underdog</h3>
<div class="outline-text-3" id="text-org4802c59">
<p>
In his book <i>The Genius of Instinct</i> <label id='fnr.14' for='fnr-in.14.9656461' class='margin-toggle sidenote-number'><sup class='numeral'>14</sup></label><input type='checkbox' id='fnr-in.14.9656461' class='margin-toggle'><span class='sidenote'><sup class='numeral'>14</sup>
<i>The Genius of Instinct; Reclaim Mother Nature’s Tools for
Enhancing Your Health, Happiness, Family, and Work</i> by Hendrie
Weisinger; 2009; Pearson Education, Inc.
</span> the acclaimed author and
psychologist Hendrie Weisinger insists we are hard-wired by nature to
seek out the best conditions for <i>thriving</i>, that any life other than
one of maximised thriving is a waste. He uses the example of bats,
which according to research, seem to seek out human buildings,
preferring them over natural homes such as rock outcrops, hollow
trees, or caves. And in so doing this they enjoy advantages such as
better body temperature regulation, better infant mortality
statistics, less threat of predation. This may be true, but aren’t
these bats now <i>outside</i> of the original constraints where they once
were completely integrated with nature? They are now in a state of
<i>trans</i>-bat-ism, but is that a good thing? Perhaps with bats this is
not too much of an imbalance vis-a-vis the rest of their surrounding
environment. However, what happens when a species continues to expand
its thriving, increasing its success statistics, evermore stepping
over, past any of the natural restrictions that real integration and
harmony with nature would have required? Yes, and aren’t we humans
Exhibit A of just such an out-of-control species? And so I ask, how
can this be good, end well? How can a dominant species like ours
always expand our thriving, always “gaming the system” not eventually
have to pay some price? Simply put, How can more and more people
consuming more and more resources and energy not result in an eventual
disaster? It seem nature has two games: A) niche/stasis and B)
exponential growth. And anytime we’re not in a niche, in stasis, just
marking our spot, we’re on the exponential growth curve — which will
eventually hit its inflexion point and take off dramatically and
uncontrollably towards an inevitable crash.
</p>
<p>
And so I ask, Was Emily Brontë not such a hard-pressed little bat out
in the wilds, colony-less, huddled in a hollow tree, barely eking out
a marginal life? Here’s her <i>Plead for me</i>
</p>
<div class='verse'><blockquote>
<p class="verse">
Why I have persevered to shun<br>
The common paths that others run;<br>
And on a strange road journeyed on<br>
Heedless alike of Wealth and Power—–<br>
Of Glory’s wreath and Pleasure’s flower.<br>
<br>
These once indeed seemed Beings divine,<br>
And they perchance heard vows of mine<br>
And saw my offerings on their shrine—–<br>
But, careless gifts are seldom prized,<br>
And mine were worthily despised;<br>
<br>
My Darling Pain that wounds and sears<br>
And wrings a blessing out from tears<br>
By deadening me to real cares;<br>
And yet, a king—–though prudence well<br>
Have taught thy subject to rebel.<br>
<br>
And am I wrong to worship where<br>
Faith cannot doubt nor Hope despair,<br>
Since my own soul can grant my prayer?<br>
Speak, God of Visions, plead for me<br>
And tell why I have chosen thee!<br>
</p>
</blockquote></div>
<p>
This is her ode to skipping the trans-bat scene of her day. I can’t
help but believe she was <i>driven</i>. In my mind’s eye I can only see her
as driven across the semi-wilderness moorland, nothing less than a
wretch of a human. Emily Jane Brontë died of anorexia/malnutrition,
contaminated water, tuberculosis — pick one, two, or all three —
five months after her thirtieth birthday. She only saw the greater
world outside of tiny Haworth village for a few months, and that
greater world had nothing modern, e.g., a cut on a toe could lead to
an infect requiring amputation or even worse.
</p>
<p>
But then one might ask if her existence in the early nineteen century
were so very wild and rugged. If we live in a modern world completely
indoors, floating in materialism, i.e., one hundred times the
resources and energy per capita as one of our ancestors from 1800, was
she truly a wild creature of nature? When we think of how the Romantic
Era poets perceived and reported nature, we think of picnics like from
the film <i>Emma</i> on grassy slopes where dandies and their pampered
ladies are attended by servants
</p>
<img src="./images/EmmaPicnic2.png" width="770" alt="Emma picnic">
<span class="cap"><b>Emma</b> picnic in the harrowing wilds of England</span>
<p>
or playful romps like Emily Brontë rolling down another grassy slope
</p>
<img src="./images/TumblingEmily1.png" width="770" alt="Emma picnic">
<span class="cap">Fictional E.B. in a silly, carefree moment tumbling down a hill</b><br>(From the 2022 film <b>Emily</b>) </span>
<p>
For modern tastes nature is a place outside of our modern interior
spaces — that is evermore truer nature the farther afield it
lays. And so an absolute trackless wilderness days travel from
civilization is the truest nature, while the weakest nature would be
the ditch of weeds behind our suburban ranch.
</p>
<p>
𝖟𝕭: Whittier’s <i>Snowbound</i> Longfellow’s Snow
</p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="outline-container-org5dff163" class="outline-3">
<h3 id="org5dff163">Graveyard School versus Night and Graveside Schools</h3>
<div class="outline-text-3" id="text-org5dff163">
<p>
Life is life only with death. Without death a strange irrelevance
begins to shake at life’s foundations.
</p>
<p>
Today nature is something entirely outdoors, e.g., the <i>Great
Outdoors</i>.
</p>
<p>
After writing on my novel <i>Emily of Wolkeld</i> for the past seven years
I have made a rather bitter discovery, namely, that mankind is largely
wandering about clueless — <i>seriously</i> clueless.
</p>
<p>
One key turning point was to finally understand what <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats">John Keats</a> meant
in his <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Negative_capability">Negative Capability</a></i> letter to his brother. In it he describes
what he means by Negative Capability, the ability to not rush to
philosophical conclusion, rather, to let a sort of cognitive
dissonance run its course. But then Keats also condemns Samuel
Coleridge’s obsession with philosophical truth, repudiating his
<i>Biographia Litararia</i>, which was Coleridge’s attempt to, among other
things, bring the bulk of German Romanticism to a British audience.
</p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="outline-container-org1cd761b" class="outline-3">
<h3 id="org1cd761b">Really feeling</h3>
<div class="outline-text-3" id="text-org1cd761b">
<div class='verse'><blockquote>
<p class="verse">
The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched — they must be felt with the heart.<br>
— Helen Keller<br>
</p>
</blockquote></div>
<ul class="org-ul">
<li></li>
</ul>
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<ul class="org-ul">
<li></li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
<div id="outline-container-orgbe4440e" class="outline-3">
<h3 id="orgbe4440e"><i>My background</i></h3>
</div>
<div id="outline-container-org14062fd" class="outline-3">
<h3 id="org14062fd">About the name Wuthering.UK</h3>
</div>
</section>
</article>
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<p class="date">Created: 2024-01-10 Wed 17:10</p>
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