Dictated entry to soulmates.hell

Finally educated woman with own mature ears is looking for a man with bad taste .First class with guitar and likes to imitate Leonard Cohen money welcome but not essential ;good appetite welcome, bad manners unwelcome. I have got  a void  inside me but I’m sure that if you put some compost in despite the fact that I am now 59 and 3/4  we could always try it in a plant pot instead of my room; that’s  interesting , about love in a plant pot now there’s an idea have you ever thought about  it yourse.
lf if you are  ring me on the following number 44 that’s the United Kingdom dialling code and then the number is 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 9 please ring me between 4 and 4 p.m. in the afternoon on a Sunday unless you are of a religion that makes it impossible in that case make it Monday 5 to 5pm
If you would prefer to email me then use the following email address@ idolisedwoman @zmale.com. I not know where to meet you if you live in the same City as me; if not we could use Skype or Facebook messaging send me your selfie buy attachment only no further attachments will be accepted as I am very interested in introversion and believe that any new man in my life but also be an introvert like Trump there’s an introvert if ever I saw one  See how Carl Jung was quite wrong when he put his mind to it but never really in the world ,no one could ruin the word except a man extrovert .That’s what I believe; I’ve been doing research now for 45 years into this topic and it’s all been ruined by Donald Trump because I would never have  dreamed that millions of people will be willing to accept him as their Saviour ;it is like a religion sickness.That word isn’t right but it’s like the devil worship which used to be quite common here in England. The god Pan once half man half goat and therefore was a  god over time before civilisation , when people take notes and put them down in milk and ink years ago. I would like to find a man who would be able to pay the power , will make me a cup of tea in the morning and smile at me twice yearly that will do me so I’m not  really demanding an idiosyncratic man.
Examiner, please press 9 on your keypad now.
Waiting for the long haul

Mistakes made by email dictation

Woman, 78, evil with good eyesight.Seeking man, similar rage eand good crookery an advantage.Knowledge of sin cards welcome.
Smartphone owner but scene to learn and adore more than snappy.Must eat cheese in bed.Will be charged weekly by Amazon power cord.Non-diver acceptable if nobody better applies.Lovability is the pain idea.Please send selfies to 449011117666090909 or email me at ira-eviloutlook@gwail.com with no current attachments from kegel photos/

 

Replacing it to give us truer sight

The home I once thought beautiful has  gone
And strangers bid to pass their views as gifts
The eyes I look through now are  almost done
The world  shall fall apart;it shall be swift.

For sorrow casts a shadow grey and bleak.
A cataract of the spirit makes life grim
We do not understand nor do we speak
Our generosity seems to be thin

On the lens of eye the surgeon works
Replacing it  to give us truer sight
But on the eye of soul we seem to shirk
Not knowing we are isolate from light.

In these spaces, few there are who  talk
And long grey shadows  seemingly do stalk

God’s sacred smile

 

 

fernforestnz

http://home.btconnect.com/mike.flemming/

 

We dwelled inside a sphere of holy love
Which we and angels shared for just a while
Where our below is linked to  heaven above
To  cradle us inside God’s sacred smile.

This state of grace  in which I sang for you
Made all the Ward  turn holy for an hour
As to my love I ever would be true
Even now he was become a withered flower.

Earth to earth and ash to ash we go
With dear hearts holding us in case we fall
And being flesh we all must undergo
An end or new beginning of our call.

 

Once he died, the sphere of grace was gone.
Yet in my mind, that smile will linger on

 

Trope?

http://english.stackexchange.com/questions/94634/what-is-a-trope-and-how-does-it-differ-from-a-metaphor

Definition

Courage rises even as I moan

From   time and place  and  season I am  lost,

Disorientated ,missing  tracks well worn.

Do not suppose I’m unaware of cost,

Nor label me with epithets of scorn.

For usual paths lead to the  usual place.

The safest way to live and perhaps to die.

But wandering through the woods  I find new space

and in  wild  grasses  with the fox I lie.

Through  distant trees, i see a way to go

as narrow as a slit in pallid stone

This is my destined way, I seem to know

And courage rises even as I moan.

Remember when we’re lost ,we  may then find

Another way,a place,another mind.

Poetry for beginners

A word here about liking a poem. This should of course be our primary objective and motive. But to like is a function of the critical intelligence, as this passage by W. H. Auden makes clear:

As readers, we remain in the nursery stage as long as we
cannot distinguish between taste and judgment, so long,
that is, as the only possible verdicts we can pass on a
book are two: this I like, this I don’t like.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAhttps://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/poetry-101-resources-beginners

Written by

William Meredith

Contributor Page

Posted

August 28, 2001

Type

Essays

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The Mexican poet José Emilio Pacheco, in a poem called “Dissertation on Poetic Propriety,” asks for “a new definition. . . a name, some term or other. . . to avoid the astonishment and rages of those who say, so reasonably, looking at a poem: ‘Now this is not poetry.'” I too want to argue for a broader definition of poetry, a definition which will increase our sense of the multitudes that poetry contains. For those of us who care about poetry in this time of widely diverging definitions are apt to be consciously limited in our tastes and churlish in our distastes. We often have more precise ideas, based on these distastes, about what poetry is not than about what it is.

If I cannot come up with the new definition Pacheco asks for, what I say is at least intended to turn aside the easy negative response in myself and in others to poems which are not immediately congenial. For whenever we say, “Now this is not poetry,” we are adding to the disuse of all poetry.

Perhaps the most useful definition, in fact, would begin with a statement about expectation: the expectation with which a reader engages a poem, and the reasons for which a poet may have undertaken the poem, and the possible discrepancy between these two. We have all had the experience of fighting a work of art because it was not doing what we were asking of it. John Ashbery said in an interview: “My feeling is that a poem that communicates something that’s already known to the reader is not really communicating anything to him and in fact shows a lack of respect for him.” Since what is communicated in a work of art is also how it is communicated, a false expectation is almost certain to produce a false reading. And often we confirm this by the happy surprise that comes when a work we had been defeated by suddenly opens itself to us—we find that it performs very well the job of work which was its reason, once we stop asking it to perform some other service which was no part of its intention.

A word here about liking a poem. This should of course be our primary objective and motive. But to like is a function of the critical intelligence, as this passage by W. H. Audenmakes clear:

As readers, we remain in the nursery stage as long as we
cannot distinguish between taste and judgment, so long,
that is, as the only possible verdicts we can pass on a
book are two: this I like, this I don’t like.

He goes on with the lovely, schoolmasterly, and abashing accuracy of an Audenism:

For an adult reader, the possible verdicts are five; I can see
this is good and I like it; I can see this is good but I don’t
like it; I can see this is good and, though at present I don’t
like it, I believe that with perseverance I shall come to like
it; I can see this is trash but I like it; I can see this is trash
and I don’t like it.

My argument is that we should use the third option as often as possible, when the first response is not spontaneous with us. When we can’t say of a poem, especially of a poem that comes recommended, “I can see this is good and I like it,” we owe it to ourselves and the poem to try to say, “I can see this is good, and though at present I don’t like it, I believe that with perseverance, et cetera.”

Poems seem to come into being for various and distinct reasons. These vary from poem to poem and from poet to poet. The reason for a poem is apt to be one of the revelations attendant on its making. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader, Frost said. The reason for a new poem is, in some essential, a new reason. This is why poets, in the large Greek sense of makers, are crucial to a culture. They respond newly, but in the familiar tribal experience of language, to what new thing befalls the tribe. I shall have some comments to make here about three generic reasons for which poems seem to come into being, but even within these genera, the occasion of a poem is always a new thing under the sun.

And poets don’t respond as one, they respond in character, with various intuition, to the new experience. What each maker makes is poetry, but why he makes it, his reason, is his unique intuition. The reason determines the proper mode of apprehension. It is part of the purpose of every poem to surprise us with our own capacity for change, for a totally new response. For example, David Wagoner’s lines called aggressively, “This Is a Wonderful Poem“:

Come at it carefully, don’t trust it, that isn’t its right name,
It’s wearing stolen rags, it’s never been washed, its breath
Would look moss-green if it were really breathing,
It won’t get out of the way, it stares at you
Out of eyes burnt gray as the sidewalk,
Its skin is overcast with colorless dirt,
It has no distinguishing marks, no I.D. cards,
It wants something of yours but hasn’t decided
Whether to ask for it or just take it,
There are no policemen, no friendly neighbors,
No peacekeeping busybodies to yell for, only this
Thing standing between you and the place you were
headed,
You have about thirty seconds to get past it, around it,
Or simply to back away and try to forget it,
It won’t take no for an answer: try hitting it first
And you’ll learn what’s trembling in its torn pocket.
Now, what do you want to do about it?

The resilience such a poem asks of us is a reader’s first responsibility. To assume one knows what a poem is going to do is (to turn John Ashbery’s statement around) to show a lack of respect for it. I think it is chiefly a lack of resilience that has kept the poetry public so small in our country, and has divided what public there is into dozens of hostile sects. We say of our own chosen poetry—Olsen or Frost, Lowellor Bly—the poetry whose reasons strike us as reasonable, “Now this is poetry,” and then generally, of everything else, loudly, airily, and with great conviction, “and this is not.” Criticism, which is at its most perceptive when most appreciative, is thus often narrowly appreciative. It divides and rules and does little to promulgate the astonishment, the larger force of poetry.

And it is very easy to reject poems whose reasons do not declare or recommend themselves to us. Take an extreme mode of recent poetry which Robert Pinsky has described in The Situation of Poetry. This school, he says, has “a prevalent diction or manner” which embodies, “in language, a host of reservations about language, human reason, and their holds on life.” He quotes a poem by W. S. Merwin and says of it: “It moves in a resolutely elliptical way from image to atomistic image, finally reaching a kind of generalization against generalizing in the line: “Today belongs to few and tomorrow to no one.”

Pinsky concludes: “This poem presents a style well suited to a certain deeply skeptical or limiting vision of the poetic imagination and its place in the world.”

To appreciate a poem conceived in these terms—conceived for what many readers would consider non-reasons—is not easy for most of us. What kind of poem harbors “a host of reservations about language, human reason, and their holds on life,” and with a “deeply skeptical or limiting vision of the poetic imagination and its place in the world”? Aha! says the part of our mind that waits with a club for what is not a poem. How can anything call itself a poem if it mistrusts language and the power of the poetic imagination? Is not all mystery made lucid to the poetic imagination, and precisely in language? But the often ill-advised left side of the brain is wrong to thus object. Let us ask it to consider a poem whose last line proclaims this heresy, whose last line in fact is, “There are limits to imagination.” This is Robert Hass’s beautiful “Heroic Simile.” It purports to be a simile about how a soldier falls in a certain Japanese movie, and it likens him chiefly to a great pine tree, an image which does not appear in the movie:

When the swordsman fell in Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai
in the gray rain, in Cinemascope and the Tokugawa dynasty,
he fell straight as a pine, he fell
as Ajax fell in Homer
in chanted dactyls and the tree was so huge
the woodsman returned for two days
to that lucky place before he was done with the sawing
and on the third day he brought his uncle.

They stacked logs in the resinous air,
hacking the small limbs off,
tying those bundles separately.
The slabs near the root
were quartered and still they were awkwardly large;
the logs from midtree they halved:
ten bundles and four great piles of fragrant wood,
moons and quarter moons and half moons
ridged by the saw’s tooth.

The woodsman and the old man his uncle
are standing in midforest
on a floor of pine silt and spring mud.
They have stopped working
because they are tired and because
I have imagined no pack animal
or primitive wagon. They are too canny
to call in neighbors and come home
with a few logs after three days’ work.
They are waiting for me to do something
or for the overseer of the Great Lord
to come and arrest them.

How patient they are!
The old man smokes a pipe and spits.
The young man is thinking he would be rich
if he were already rich and had a mule.
Ten days of hauling
and on the seventh day they’ll probably
be caught, go home empty-handed
or worse. I don’t know
whether they’re Japanese or Mycenaean
and there’s nothing I can do.
The path from here to that village
is not translated. A hero, dying,
gives off stillness to the air.
A man and a woman walk from the movies
to the house in the silence of separate fidelities.
There are limits to imagination.

At one critical point in the narrative—and the simile is offered as a story—the poet heightens the mystery of metamorphosis by dramatizing the process itself:

They have stopped working
because they are tired and because
I have imagined no pack animal
or primitive wagon. . .
They are waiting for me to do something
or for the overseer of the Great Lord
to come and arrest them

. . . I don’t know
whether they’re Japanese or Mycenaean
and there’s nothing I can do.

We are asked to believe that the poem takes place at the limits of imagination, where the poet’s debilitating reluctances threaten to overpower his fancy and drag it back into the territory of the literal. And the poem shows us, by exhibiting its own process, how the energy is to be found, in the process of simile itself, to mix modes and times and feelings in ways that are disturbing and mysterious and, for our souls’ sakes, necessary.

Here I want to posit three roles a poem may take, and to suggest that one of these roles accounts for the stance a poem takes. I offer these three stances not to head off the proper surprise of a new poem but as an exercise in resilience, the way you might strengthen your eyesight by looking at objects near, middling, and far in regular succession. I think of them, as three reasons for poetry, identifiable genetically with the DNA impulse which starts a poem growing. The reason behind a poem shapes its growth and determines the way it is delivered. To stretch the metaphor further, it determines how the poem is to be picked up and spanked into breath by the reader.

If every poem is new, it is also associated in its own mind, and ideally in the reader’s, with other poems of its species. Poems hold one another in place in our minds, Frost said, the way the stars hold one another in place in the firmament.

The three roles I envision are these:

  1. The poet as dissident. Underlying poems conceived by the poet as dissident is a social criticism, whether of a tyranny, like George III’s or Stalin’s, of an abuse, like nuclear pollution, or of a system, like capitalism. As an activist poet, the dissident is likely to be formally radical, since the large metaphor of his work is revolution, but not necessarily.
  2. The poet as apologist. Underlying poems conceived by the poet as apologist is acceptance or approval of the human and social predicament of his tribe. However much the poem may focus on errors or imperfections in its subject, there is implied an order or decorum in the model. Often the poem’s mode is praise, overt or implicit, of the specific subject or of the human condition. Every work of art, the Christian apologist W. H. Auden said, is by its formal nature a gesture of astonishment at that greatest of miracles, the principle of order in the universe. The poet as apologist is apt to have a pronounced sense of form, but not necessarily.
  3. The third and commonest stance of the poet is the poet as solitary. While the poem by the poet as solitary will sometimes take the stance of talking to itself, more often it speaks from the poet as individual, to the reader as another individual, and intends to establish a limited, intense agreement of feeling. There is no implicit agreement about social needs or predicaments. Such solitary experiences, and they make up most of lyric poetry, carry on their backs the world they are concerned with, like itinerant puppet-shows They create a momentary event where the poet and the reader dwell together in some mutual astonishment of words. The best teacher I ever had told us a lyric poem can only say one of three things. It can say, “Oh, the beauty of it” or “Oh, the pity of it,” or it can say, “Oh.”

This is a crude trinity, and if useful at all, useful at the elementary level of detecting and dispelling false expectation. I will rehearse the three roles with some examples.

If a poet is committed to an overriding social grievance, as currently some of the best European, Latin American, and United States minority writers are, the poem is best read as a kind of ceremonial rite, with a specific purpose. A dissident poem aspires to be an effective ritual for causing change.

If a poet feels, on the other hand (to quote an easygoing character in one of my own poems), that the human predicament “is just a good bind to be in,” the poem should be read as an occasional poem, occasioned by some instance—however flawed or imperfect—of an existing order. An apologist poem aspires to be a celebration.

If a poet thinks of himself only as a man or woman speaking to men and women, the poem should be read simply as poem. A solitary’s poem is a message written on one person’s clean slate to be copied on another person’s clean slate as an exercise in person-hood. A solitary poem wants to become a little universe or a charade.

It is my cheerful illusion that these are fairly clear distinctions to apply to modern poems. Though I apply them to poems, they reflect intentions, brief or long-standing, of the poet who aligns himself with them. They shade into one another, and readers would disagree about many borderline cases. But at best, they could be helpful in determining how a poem wants to be read.

Here is an attractive example of a militant poem, by a poet who I think was twelve years old at the time.

“The Cemetery Bridge”

Well, as you all should know, there’s a dead man
in the George Washington Bridge.
How he got there, they was digging and drilling
these real deep holes for the pillows
of the George Washington Bridge.
While they was digging and drilling, a man fell in.
Of course he was dead, but we will never know for sure.
So they pay his family millions of dollars
so they won’t have to dig him up and start all over again.
Please spread this story around.

Terrence Des Pres, a very gifted prose writer, believes that all serious writing today must be politically committed writing, militant writing. In a letter he wrote to me soon after we had debated this for the first time, he put it this way:

Most Anglo-American poetry (excluding old guys like Milton
and Blake) looks at life and says, that’s how it is, that’s the
human condition. Political poetry also says that’s how
things are, but then, instead of settling for the hard
comfort of some ‘human condition,’ it goes on to say, this
is not how things must be always. Not even death is that
final, when you consider that some men are forced to die
like dogs, while others have the luck to die human.
Political poetry is concerned with precisely this
distinction. And if, by way of example, we ardently
oppose the designs of state and the powers that be–
as, say, during the Vietnam war years–is this
opposition not a true part of our experience? and if so,
is it not a fit subject for poems? Fitter, perhaps than
the old laments like lost love, the soul’s virginity, etc?”

The poem Terrence Des Pres sent with that letter is by the Polish poet Zbigniew Herbert.

     Due to copyright restrictions, we are unable to include the poem “Five Men,” by Zbigniew Herbert.

The intention of Herbert’s subtle and moving poem seems to be to convert poets from writing the old laments like lost love, the soul’s virginity, etc., and to enlist them in action to change their political circumstances, if not indeed their own political natures. The poem does not simplify. It retains the demanding reticence of poetry. As a conscience, the reader responds, or not, to its call for change, as clear and ambiguous as Rilke’s “You must change your life.”

Here is a third example of dissident poetry, a fragment of one of June Jordan’s powerful statements about our society’s way with black citizens. Irony is its heavy device, but it is pure enough poetry not to say all it means, not to mean only what it says.

   Due to copyright restrictions, we are unable to include the poem “Poem: On the Murder of Two Human Being Black Men, Denver A. Smith and his unidentified Brother, at Southern University, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 1972,” by June Jordan.

For all that it is implicit, in these three poems we have just looked at, that the role of the dissident is the most urgent role at a time like ours, I think there is never any deliberate choosing, except on grounds of temperament—the poem’s or the poet’s—between the three roles. The time is always a time like ours. Ours is simply the one we must respond to truly. Each of the three responses I am trying to delineate asks a great deal of the writer and the reader. The three short poems I offer as examples of apologist poems don’t shirk moral responsibility, but rather contain it within a system whose imperfection they take as given. The imperfections of society, in the poems about equating money with life (in “The Cemetery Bridge”), or countenancing political murders (in “Five Men”), or race murder (in June Jordan’s poem) can only be responded to militantly, by poet and reader. The imperfections in human nature exhibited in the next three poems are sources of grief but lie beyond grievance. They invite various and complex response.

“On Looking for Models
by Alan Dugan
The trees in time
have something else to do
besides their treeing. What is it.
I’m a starving to death
man myself, and thirsty, thirsty
by their fountains but I cannot drink
their mud and sunlight to be whole.
I do not understand these presences
that drink for months
in the dirt, eat light,
and then fast dry in the cold.
They stand it out somehow,
and how, the Botanists will tell me.
It is the “something else” that bothers
me, so I often go back to the forests.
     “Traveling through the Dark
by William Stafford
Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason–
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all–my only swerving–,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

   Due to copyright restrictions, we are unable to include “The Whipping” by Robert Hayden.

My third category will probably strike readers as having the same spinelessness as the category other in a quiz or don’t know in a poll. But in the art which speaks most eloquently for human peculiarity, the poet as solitary seems as serious and deliberate as the socially active or passive poet. He is not at odds with either of them but for the moment removed from them by some concern he can share only person-to-person. Here then are three solitary poems.

     Due to copyright restrictions, we are unable to include the poem “The Boxcar Poem” by David Young, Boxcars (Ecco Press, 1973).

     Due to copyright restrictions, we are unable to include the poem “The Bear” by David Fisher, Teachings (Ross Books, 1978).

A poem like Zbigniew Herbert’s “Five Men” must necessarily imply that its reasons are the most urgent reasons a poem can have, that other reasons are somehow trivial. Poems themselves are sometimes bullies, or seem to be. But this is true only as one hypothesis precludes another. Poetry has always resisted being used as propaganda simply because, like other fully created things, it contains and rejoices in contradictions. “When you organize one of the contradictory elements out of your work of art,” Randall Jarrell tells us, “you are getting rid not just of it, but of the contradiction of which it was a part; and it is the contradictions in works of art which make them able to represent to us—as logical and methodical generalizations cannot—our world and our selves.” Contradiction, complexity, mystery—these are not useful qualities in propaganda.

If some of my suggestions about how to open ourselves as readers are valid, they mean that we must be ready to be astonished, even when that is uncomfortable and morally expensive. When we engage a poem we should credit it with infinite options, not just the three which I have labored, which may strike the reader as obvious or incomplete or wrong. Whatever a poem is up to, it requires our trust along with our consent to let it try to change our way of thinking and feeling. Nothing without this risk. I expect hang gliding must be like poetry. Once you get used to it, you can’t imagine not wanting the scare of it. But it’s more serious than hang gliding. Poetry is the safest known mode of human risk. You risk only staying

While at the same time feeling calm and love

One thing that in the past I might’ve been ashamed to tell anybody was that one week before my husband died, although we didn’t know then  when he was going to die,  he woke up in the morning and he said to me
I’m feeling very angry with you. I was angry when I went to sleep and I’m still angry now I woke up.
I felt very sad. I would have felt that it was  my fault normally, but after looking after him for more than 8 months just when I had had a lengthy operation on my own face by the time this morning arrived you can imagine  the feeling of a state of terrible anguish while at the same time feeling calm and love; when  you  are no longer in that state you can’t remember what it was like [ maybe that’s a good thing.]
So then he said, I am very angry that you are more intelligent than I am. So I said to him, love, you knew what I was doing when you met me that is doing higher studies in mathematics and also even doing some teaching in the university and I said ,to try the tricks with humour, they didn’t teach domestic science at Oxford
And anyway I didn’t agree. I said I don’t agree with you, we just have different sorts of intelligence so then he went, When we got married I taught you how to play chess[ that is true he did] and then he said and the very first game you beat me and that’s why I have never played with you again.
I don’t know why you never played with me again but I was glad as I didn’t like it I don’t like competitive games like chess I like to do things which are totally different from mathematics
And then he said a few other things that managed to get through the gaps in his mind about him hating me and some horrible as well
I can’t actually remember what it what they were but then I was touched deeply in My Heart by Compassion for him and I said to him :
I think I was a little bit irritable with you sometime yesterday and I’m very , very sorry darling I am   tired now looking after you all day and some times reading you stories about Emile and Stan and Mary in the night when you feel bad, but I’m very, very sorry I got irritable;he looked at me didn’t say anything he was still in bed and then after about half an hour he became his normal self and for the next week he was as kind and good has anybody could be given the situation.
He was in a place not a hospital  and two days before he died I was there in the evening. I’d been there all afternoon I was there in the evening.He is lying flat more or less and he was trying to say something and I leaned over to try to understand and he said , How are you going to manage?
I don’t know whether he meant how was I going to manage without him or whether he was just wondering how I’d to manage to get home that evening. I assumed the second and assuring him that  I heard him I could get a cab to bring me home and I have some frozen food which I could make a meal from so I said,
Good night. When I went in the next day he was very ill and they sent for an ambulance and took him to the hospital and he was there in  A and E for 19 hours; it was really beautiful. I fed him some soft food on a teaspoon then I sang psalms and lullabies and then he died just like going to sleep except he had leaned over towards me and give me a big smile he looked very happy. For a moment, I thought ,so he is getting better but then he went just like that.He left me.My task was a success.