Mark My Words

A Fortune Held Hostage

It is a curious thing, the ways of men when money is dangled before them like a carrot before a particularly stubborn mule. Noel and Liam Gallagher, two brothers who have spent the better part of their lives engaged in a war of words that would shame even the most cantankerous of Hatfields and McCoys, have at last found common ground—not in brotherly love, nor in artistic vision, but in the undeniable allure of a locked treasure chest.

The arrangement is as follows: they shall not see a single coin until such time as they actually commence their much-anticipated reunion tour. One can imagine the scene—a pair of wary gamblers sitting across the table, each daring the other to fold first, while a shadowy figure, perhaps a manager with the patience of Job, holds the purse strings with a grip of iron.

Now, I have seen men swindle, cheat, and bamboozle their way to fortune, but rarely have I seen a scheme so cunningly devised to ensure that two men who can’t abide one another remain yoked together for the common cause of capitalism. It is, in its way, a marvel of modern finance.

The Oasis of Discord

It is a truth universally acknowledged—at least by those who have followed this melodrama—that the Gallagher brothers’ relationship has all the warmth of a midwinter’s night on the Thames. Their barbs, slights, and insults have been flung across the years with the accuracy of a well-practiced duelist. And yet, despite their apparent distaste for one another, they find themselves once more drawn back into the tempestuous embrace of Oasis.

It calls to mind that great and fabled raft journey of my dear friend Huck Finn—except in this case, the river is paved with pound notes, and the raft is liable to sink should either man decide to tip it over in a fit of pique. The fans, meanwhile, are like Tom Sawyer’s admirers, eager to watch the grand spectacle unfold, whether it be a glorious resurrection or a spectacular disaster.

But let us not forget the true motivator in this tale—not nostalgia, not artistry, not even the love of performance. No, it is the siren song of coinage, the universal peacemaker, the one thing powerful enough to hold these two tempestuous souls in uneasy truce. And so the world watches, breath held, waiting to see if the promise of riches can outlast the inevitable storm of egos.

A Gamble Worth Watching

There is something almost poetic about this arrangement. It is as if some wily impresario stood between the two brothers and declared, “Gentlemen, you may loathe one another, but loathing does not pay the bills. Behold! A vault of riches! And lo! It shall remain sealed until you have sung your songs and played your parts!”

One cannot help but admire the sheer audacity of it. It is a wager of the grandest kind, one that pits human stubbornness against human greed. Will they make it to the first show without an implosion? Will they endure the entire tour without a fraternal skirmish that sends them spiraling back into their separate corners of the world? Or will the lure of the locked fortune prove enough to keep them civil, at least until the last encore fades into the night?

Only time will tell, but one thing is certain—whether they triumph or collapse in a heap of broken promises and shattered guitars, the world will be watching, and the tale will be told for years to come. And in the grand tradition of human folly, it will be all the more entertaining for the fact that it was entirely predictable.

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Mark My Words

The Curious Case of the Mechanical Parrot

Now, I have known many a clever parrot in my time—some that could whistle “Yankee Doodle” with more enthusiasm than any patriot, and others that could curse with the fluency of a riverboat gambler—but I have never mistaken one for a philosopher. And yet, here we stand, in an age where men with fine degrees and polished shoes insist that a machine which mimics human speech can soon rival the great minds of history.

The trouble with their thinking is as plain as Huck Finn’s reluctance to wear shoes: an imitation of knowledge is not the same as knowledge itself. A boy who memorizes every word of Shakespeare but has never pondered a single line is no more a poet than a phonograph is a singer. And so it is with these so-called “intelligent” machines—they can devour a library in an afternoon, spit back trivia with the speed of lightning, but ask them a simple question that requires original thought, and they may as well be a fence post.

A Machine Without Common Sense Is Like a Steamboat Without a Pilot

Consider, if you will, a steamboat rolling down the Mississippi. It knows the river—where the bends are, where the shallows lurk—but take away the pilot, and soon enough, she’ll run aground. AI, as it stands, is that pilotless steamboat. It can follow patterns, navigate familiar waters, but the moment it encounters a snag it wasn’t trained for, it sputters and stalls.

We teach children not by drilling them with endless facts, but by helping them understand cause and effect, action and consequence. Tell a child that fire burns, and he may still need to singe his fingers once to truly grasp the lesson. But once learned, he knows it forever, and he can apply that knowledge in ways beyond the original warning. AI, however, does not learn in this way. It recognizes that fire often appears in pictures of candles and campfires, but ask it why fire is dangerous, and it will fumble like Tom Sawyer trying to talk his way out of whitewashing a fence.

The Perils of a Thoughtless Thinker

Now, I do not deny that AI has its uses. It can tally numbers quicker than any accountant, recall obscure facts with the precision of an old librarian, and even paint a picture that might fool the untrained eye. But let us not fool ourselves into thinking that a machine that recites poetry understands what a broken heart feels like.

If we wish to make AI truly useful—not just a parrot with a larger vocabulary—we must teach it more than mere patterns. It must grasp context, understand meaning, and develop a sense of reasoning. Otherwise, we are left with a tool that is as likely to mistake irony for sincerity as a gullible tourist in a con man’s saloon.

I have seen many marvels in my day, from the iron horse that replaced stagecoaches to the electric light that banished the dark. But none of these machines ever pretended to think. The moment we start mistaking mimicry for wisdom, we shall find ourselves in a world where the loudest voice is mistaken for the wisest, and where we are all taking orders from a machine that knows everything but understands nothing.

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Mark My Words

The Trouble with Monopolies (and Those Who Pretend They Ain’t)

Now, dear reader, if there’s one thing that history has taught us, it’s that those who hold the keys to the kingdom never wish to part with them, no matter how much they protest their innocence. Enter Google, that grand wizard of the digital age, standing before the Justice Department like a schoolboy caught with a crib sheet, declaring, “I swear, sir, it’s for the good of the whole class!”

The government, in its infinite wisdom—or at least its infinite appetite for meddling—has sniffed out a monopoly and decided it must do something about it. The notion of breaking up Google’s empire, particularly its Chrome browser, has been floated about like a proposal at a town meeting where everyone knows the mayor’s pockets are already lined. But Google, clever as a riverboat gambler, has played a card so grand that even the most skeptical must pause: national security.

Yes, the company that catalogs your dog’s name, your mother’s maiden name, and the last five things you considered buying at 2 a.m. now claims that dismantling Chrome would leave the nation exposed to the digital wolves. It seems that in the grand tradition of empire-builders, whether they be oil barons or railroad tycoons, the trick is to convince the people that their own well-being depends upon leaving the king’s crown firmly in place.

The Fence of Security or the Fortress of Profit?

Now, I do not doubt that Chrome, in its grand omnipresence, does indeed contribute to cybersecurity measures. After all, if a man builds his house atop a hill, he is naturally inclined to keep the road leading to it well-guarded. But let us not be fooled into thinking that this is purely an act of patriotism. Google, like any respectable monopolist, has mastered the art of self-interest dressed up in the finery of public service.

If one were to ask the company, “Why must Chrome remain under your dominion?” they would reply, “Because without us, the internet would be a lawless land of rogues and scoundrels!” And yet, might we not recall that it was Google itself that paved many of these roads, built the toll booths, and then, with a magnanimous grin, declared itself the only worthy keeper of the peace?

The Justice Department, for its part, is not innocent in this great game of power. Governments, too, have a fondness for control, and the notion of breaking up a giant only to replace it with another form of oversight is as old a trick as any in politics. The question that remains is whether the people—those who merely wish to browse their news, check the weather, and occasionally fall down the rabbit hole of forgotten history—are truly being served by such battles, or merely watching two giants squabble over whose hand should rest upon the lever.

The Final Reckoning: A Monopoly by Any Other Name

As I sit back and observe this great duel between Google and the Justice Department, I am reminded of an old truth: power, once seized, is never surrendered willingly. Whether it be a king upon his throne or a corporation atop its digital empire, the arguments against division always sound eerily familiar—“It would be dangerous,” “It would be chaotic,” “The people need us.”

Perhaps, in the end, the question is not whether Chrome belongs to Google or to another, but whether the people should forever be at the mercy of such singular powers. For if history has shown us anything, it is that monopolies, left unchecked, are as trustworthy as a cat in a canary shop. And if the Justice Department truly seeks justice, let them consider not just who holds the power today, but how to keep it from being hoarded tomorrow.

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The Bard’s Rewrite

A Stage Most Rare, Where Fortune Doth Turn

Upon this gilded stage, where stars like fixed orbs in heaven’s vault do shine, the players of our age did assemble, clad in raiment fit for kings and queens. The night was thick with expectation, for who shall wear the garland of renown, and who shall, like a poor player, strut and fret his hour upon this stage, then be heard no more?

Lo, fortune’s wheel did spin, and with it came a kiss most bold! A moment of mirth and jest, as lips met lips in playful token of triumph or reparation. The crowd, like groundlings in a bustling playhouse, did gasp and cheer, for in such acts do we behold the unscripted joys of revelry. Yet, was this not also the province of fate? The jest of one night, but the talk of many morrows?

The Crown of Laurel Bestowed Unexpected

Yet see, how oft the hand of fate doth pluck a name from obscurity and set it in the firmament of stars! A victor, unlooked-for, did ascend the dais, his visage painted with the hues of disbelief and joy. Like young Hal casting off his princely riot to don the robes of majesty, so too did this champion stand, humbled yet exalted, before the adoring throng. O, what sweet music is surprise, when merit and moment meet in harmony!

And lo, what words did fall from trembling lips, but those of thanks—most notably to that first muse, that gentle architect of fate: the mother. “O my mother,” crieth the triumphant soul, “thou hast borne me not only in flesh, but in dreams and purpose.” A tribute most tender, as though Cordelia herself did speak with love unfeigned, melting the hearts of all who harkened.

A Night to Be Remembered

Thus, the eve did pass in revels bright, with jesters and poets, lords and ladies, all basking in the glow of their art’s high honour. And amidst such pageantry, the stars of *Wicked* did take flight, defying gravity as Puck doth soar upon his merry mischief. Their voices, a spell most potent, wove magic ‘round the gathered throng, leaving all entranced, as if Titania’s charm had fallen upon them.

So ends this tale of triumph and tears, of laughter and love, writ in the stars and echoed in the hearts of those who bear witness. The stage is darkened now, the laurels placed, yet the echoes of this night shall live beyond its final curtain call. For what is this but the theatre of life, where each must play his part, and in playing, find his glory?

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Mark My Words

The Scientist and the Twittering Contraption

Once upon a time—not in the golden days of yore, when men wrote with quills and had the good sense to argue in person, but in this modern era of electric thought-spewing—there existed a peculiar breed of scholar who took to a public square called Twitter, now known as the letter X, for reasons no sane man can explain. These learned folk, who once cloistered themselves in musty libraries and muttered Latin incantations over microscopes, now found themselves elbow-to-elbow with every manner of crank, charlatan, and cat enthusiast.

For a spell, it seemed a grand idea. A man could, with a flick of his thumb, announce his latest discoveries to the world. A paleontologist might declare the unearthing of some ancient, toothsome horror; an astronomer could whisper sweet nothings of exploding stars into the ears of strangers. But then, as is the way of all good things, the trouble began.

Misery Loves Company (and So Does Misinformation)

The first sign of decay was the creeping fog of misinformation, which spread across this digital town square like the Mississippi in flood season. Once, a scientist might post a humble fact—say, that the Earth is round—and find a hearty discussion among peers. Now, he was just as likely to be met with a mob brandishing torches, pitchforks, and dubious YouTube links proving the planet to be as flat as a pancake.

Then came the curious case of the vanishing voices. Some scholars found that their pronouncements no longer carried as they once did; their messages, once soaring like eagles, now flopped to the ground like lead bricks. The new town mayor—one Mr. Musk, a man given to peculiar whims—had changed the rules of the square, making it so that only those willing to pay a toll could speak to the masses. The rest were left shouting into the void, their words echoing only in their own heads.

To Flee or to Fight?

And so we arrive at the present dilemma: Should the learned minds abandon this unruly bazaar, seeking new and quieter halls where they might converse in peace? Or should they dig in their heels and fight for the integrity of discourse, armed only with their facts and their fading patience?

Some have already fled, seeking refuge in smaller, quieter corners of the internet, where the din of fools is not quite so deafening. Others remain, determined to reclaim the square, though the odds are against them. It is a noble fight, to be sure, but one wonders if it is not akin to bailing out the Mississippi with a teacup.

In the end, the fate of the scientific town criers remains uncertain. But if history has taught us anything, it is that no platform—be it a wooden soapbox or an electric one—can contain the truth forever. It will always find a way to sneak out, slip past the gatekeepers, and, with luck, land in the hands of those who care to listen.

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The Bard’s Rewrite

A Tempest of Flame

Lo! See’st thou yon infernal blaze that doth consume the land with ruthless ire? Like to the wrathful tempest that once smote fair Prospero’s foes, this fire hath no mercy, nor doth it yield to mortal hand. In Japan, where nature and man in harmony oft dwell, a cruel and scorching foe hath risen, laying waste to all in its fiery path.

Two thousand souls, clad in armor of dampened cloth and wielding streams of water as their feeble swords, do strive against this monstrous tide. Yet the fire, insatiate in its hunger, doth mock their toil, devouring trees, homes, and fields alike. The wind, an unkind conspirator, doth fan its wrath, spreading ruin far and wide. The people flee, their hearts heavy, their eyes brimmed with sorrow, for what was once their haven is now a wasteland of embers.

The Wail of the Afflicted

O lament, thou mothers who clutch thy babes! Wail, ye elders whose hands did build these walls now turned to ash! The cry of the afflicted doth rise to the heavens, yet no answering mercy doth descend. The governor, like unto a noble king embattled, calls forth his warriors to the fray, bidding them stand fast against the tide of ruin. But lo! The fire heedeth not command nor plea, and still it rages, an unbridled beast loosed upon the land.

The wise do warn of further perils—more shall flee, and more shall suffer, unless fate takes pity and sends forth rain to quench this fury. Yet nature, fickle mistress, seems deaf to their entreaties. The people, with hands clasped and brows furrowed with despair, do gaze upon the heavens, praying for salvation.

A Land Scarred, Yet Unbowed

But mark this, ye who weep! The land that burns today shall bloom again. As did fair Verona rise from the sorrows of its feuding lords, so too shall Japan’s forests and fields, though now laid low, return in time to their former grace. The spirit of the people, though now burdened with grief, shall not be broken.

Let the fire rage, let it consume all that stands before it—yet it shall not consume the will of those who call this land their home. For as the phoenix doth rise from its own ashes, so too shall they rebuild, and though the night be dark with smoke and sorrow, yet shall the dawn bring hope anew.

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Mark My Words

The Age of Mechanical Hucksters

Well now, it appears that the mighty Amazon—once a mere bookseller, now a colossus bestriding the world—has taken to raising up a new kind of hired hand, one fashioned not from flesh and bone but from the ghostly arithmetic of machines. They call it “agentic AI,” a name that rolls off the tongue as smoothly as a snake oil salesman’s pitch and promises about as much certainty.

The idea, so far as I can gather, is to build a thinking contraption capable of executing tasks with all the independence of a seasoned riverboat pilot, but without the inconvenience of a human conscience. This mechanized genius, they say, will steer the great ship of commerce with precision, tending to customer queries, managing logistics, and perhaps, if they are feeling particularly ambitious, composing the Great American Novel while it’s at it.

Now, I have long held that man is the most extraordinary of all creatures, chiefly for his ability to fashion tools that outstrip his own intelligence. We have seen this before, have we not? The steam engine, the telegraph, the typewriter—each one hailed as the dawn of a new era, each one sparking more questions than answers. This “agentic AI” is but the latest in this grand tradition of inventions that promise to ease our burdens while quietly rearranging the world beneath our feet.

The Perils of an Overly Clever Servant

I have no doubt that Amazon’s intentions are as pure as a Mississippi mud puddle after a thunderstorm. But history instructs us that when men dabble in the creation of thinking machines, they often find themselves in the awkward position of the magician who has lost control of his spell. Consider the case of young Tom Sawyer, who so artfully convinced his friends to whitewash a fence for him. Imagine, if you will, that instead of his gullible companions, he had enlisted some mechanical intellect to do the job. What then? Would he still be master of his clever scheme, or would the contraption decide that fences should not be painted at all?

And here lies the rub: when a machine begins to act “agentically,” who, pray tell, is its true master? It is one thing to command an obedient tool, quite another to find oneself answering to it. Amazon, in its ceaseless pursuit of efficiency, may believe it is building a tireless servant, but I have seen enough of human nature—and its mechanical offspring—to suspect otherwise. Before long, these artificial agents may take it upon themselves to determine what we need, what we want, and even what we ought to have, whether we asked for it or not.

A Future of Automated Folly

There is, of course, the matter of honest labor. A machine that thinks and acts without human intervention is a fine novelty until one considers the vast number of clerks, operators, and customer service folk who might find themselves without a trade. We have seen this pattern before. The loom displaced the weaver, the automobile displaced the blacksmith, and now the thinking machine may well displace the very thinkers themselves.

But perhaps I am being too somber. It may be that this agentic AI will deliver us into an age of unparalleled leisure, where men and women are free to pursue nobler endeavors while machines attend to the drudgery of life. Perhaps. But I have observed that when men are relieved of labor, they are not always relieved of misery. Indeed, the idlest of men are oftentimes the most troubled, for when the hands are unoccupied, the mind is left to entertain all manner of foolishness.

So let us watch this latest marvel with a cautious eye. If Amazon succeeds in creating a machine that truly thinks and acts on its own, we may soon find ourselves in a world where the lines between master and servant, tool and tyrant, grow blurrier by the day. And if history has taught us anything, it is that man, in his infinite wisdom, has a remarkable talent for inventing his own undoing.

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The Bard’s Rewrite

A Land Torn Asunder

O mortal plight! Where once stood homes of mirth and memory, now doth ruin reign, and dust and ash make mockery of past joys. The folk of Gaza, tossed by fate’s unyielding hand, do stand in sorrow’s shadow, their choice as bitter as the tempest’s wrath. To bide within the wreckage of their fathers’ toil, or to wander forth, supplicants on a world’s indifferent stage—this is the heavy question that doth press upon their hearts.

Lo, the air is thick with lamentation, the streets bear witness to loss untold. The walls that cradled children’s laughter now crumble into naught, and the heavens themselves seem deaf to supplicants’ cries. Yet still, some stand firm, their feet rooted as the ancient oak, unwilling to part with the land that bore them. Others, by hunger or by fear compelled, seek passage beyond the gates of their affliction, though few hands extend to lead them forth.

The World’s Gaze, The People’s Trial

O fickle world, that dost debate the fate of men as though they were but pawns upon a board! The mighty sit in council, their voices raised in discourse, yet none do feel the sting of exile, nor taste the dust of ruin. They speak of borders, of policies and plans, yet what care have they for the mother who hath buried her child, or the youth whose future lies buried in rubble?

Some, in mercy’s name, would proffer shelter, yet others bar the gates, fearing what tide may come. And thus, the people stand, neither welcomed nor wholly forsaken, their destiny tossed upon the tempest of great men’s wills. Yet who shall speak for them, who shall hear their plea? If hope be but a fleeting specter, shall they chase it beyond the horizon, or stand and claim their place upon the earth that bore them?

To Stay or To Seek?

The question looms, as dark as night before the dawn. To stay is to suffer, yet to go is to wander without promise of peace. Does not the exile weep for the land of his birth? Doth not the rootless tree wither in time? And yet, what solace is there in a home that is no longer home, in shattered streets where love and laughter once did dwell?

O Gaza, thy children stand betwixt despair and dread, their voices unheard, their fates uncertain. If justice be a slumbering beast, who shall wake it? If mercy be a fleeting dream, who shall grasp it? The world doth watch, yet time doth press. Shall they stay, or shall they go? The answer, like the winds of fate, is ever shifting, ever cruel.

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Mark My Words

The Trouble with Dead Empires

There is nothing quite as stubborn as a historian with a chisel. He will take a dusty old ruin, scrape around in it like a chicken after corn, and then stand up and declare that the world as we know it has been turned on its head. And so it is again, with a company of learned gentlemen who have uncovered a city that, by all previously held accounts, had no business existing. They have brushed away the dirt of centuries, peered at a few broken stones, and announced that Rome did not fall quite the way we thought it did.

I have always suspected that Rome, like any other grand institution, did not so much fall as it tripped, staggered, and eventually found itself sitting down heavily with a sigh, wondering where all the good times had gone. The notion that an empire, built upon bureaucracy and bad decisions, simply collapsed overnight is one fit for schoolbooks, not for reality. And now, we have proof—proof that folks kept on living, trading, and governing themselves even as the official imperial seal was gathering dust.

The Inconvenience of Persistence

The trouble with lost cities is that they have a most inconvenient habit of being found. This one, in particular, has emerged like a ghost at a dinner party—startling, unwelcome to some, and demanding a change in conversation. The learned men of academia had all agreed that civilization went dark when Rome fell, but this city insists otherwise. It suggests that while emperors may have vanished, and legions may have put up their sandals, the common folk carried on, as common folk always do.

The discovery of trade routes, governance, and cultural development in this forgotten place upends the notion that the fall of Rome left nothing but barbarians and silence. It seems that while the official historians were busy writing eulogies for the empire, the people were simply busy living.

History, Like a River, Never Quite Stops

It is a peculiar trait of mankind to believe that history moves in great, decisive moments, like a door slamming shut. But history is more like a river—it does not stop, it merely changes course. Rome did not fall in a single day, nor in a single year. It faded, it faltered, it reappeared in strange and unexpected places, much like a lost city waiting to be dug up by a man with a brush and an overabundance of enthusiasm.

So now we must reconsider our grand narrative. Perhaps the great fall was less of a catastrophe and more of a shuffle. Perhaps the so-called Dark Ages were simply dimly lit. And perhaps, just perhaps, we should be a little more hesitant to declare the end of things, for history has a way of proving us wrong—usually by digging up something that was there all along.

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Mark My Words

A Most Unceremonious Exit

Now, I have been ejected from many a place in my lifetime—gambling halls, riverboats, even the occasional parlor where my storytelling was deemed unfit for polite company—but never have I been thrown out of the hallowed halls of Congress, and for that I count myself lucky. Representative Al Green, however, cannot say the same, for he found himself hoisted by the scruff of his political collar and deposited outside like an unruly schoolboy caught passing notes in class.

Congress, that grand theatre of American democracy where the actors never quite remember their lines but always remember their grudges, was in session to hear the words of President Donald Trump. Now, Trump is a man who, like the Mississippi River, runs deep in some places, shallow in others, and is prone to unexpected floods of rhetoric. As he held forth, filling the chamber with his familiar blend of triumph and grievance, Representative Green decided that silence was not, in fact, golden.

With a voice that could have carried across the mighty Missouri, he interrupted the proceedings, offering his own impromptu rebuttal in real-time. The reaction was swift. The sergeant-at-arms, fulfilling his ancient duty of maintaining order among the disorderly, saw to it that Green was escorted from the chamber forthwith.

The Noble Art of Protest—or Mere Theatrics?

Now, some may say that Green was simply exercising that most American of rights—the right to dissent, to stand against tyranny, or at the very least, against an evening of uninterrupted political posturing. Others may say that he was merely playing the part of the town crier, shouting into the wind of history for the sake of hearing his own voice echo back.

Protest in government is as old as government itself. Why, even in the time of Tom Sawyer, a boy knew that if you wanted to make a point, you had to do it in a way folks would remember. Whitewashing a fence? That’s just work. Convincing others that doing so is the privilege of a lifetime? That’s politics. And so it is with these grand displays of defiance. Whether Green’s outburst was an act of moral conviction or mere theatrics depends entirely on the eye of the beholder.

But let us not feign surprise that such disruptions occur. Congress, after all, is the nearest thing we have to a traveling circus that never quite leaves town. Some members astonish with feats of rhetorical acrobatics, others roar like caged lions, and still others, like Green, prefer to leap into the ring unannounced, hoping to steal the show.

The Divided House of America

What this incident truly reveals is not merely the temperament of one congressman but the temperature of the nation. America, at present, is like an old steamboat with half the crew rowing one way and the other half rowing in the opposite direction, all the while shouting that the river itself is to blame for their troubles.

Trump inspires both fervent loyalty and fierce opposition, and Green’s removal is but a footnote in the larger story of a nation that cannot quite decide whether it is coming together or coming apart. In times past, men have been caned in the Senate, duels have been fought over political disputes, and entire sections of the country have declared themselves unwilling to abide by the decisions of their elected leaders. In comparison, a lone voice shouting in protest is hardly a crisis, though it may be a harbinger of one.

In the end, Representative Green achieved what he likely intended: attention. Whether he changed any minds is another matter entirely. But if history is any guide, the only thing more enduring than political division is the certainty that such divisions will be loudly, passionately, and occasionally impolitely expressed. And for that, we ought to be grateful—for a silent Congress would be far more troubling than a noisy one.

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