Audio Sample
Eternal Journal News
Act 1 - Adam and Eve - PreviewAdam and Eve, the first humans. Created by God, living in a garden of perfection, The Garden of Eden. They had daily communion and fellowship with God. They brought sin into this world by eating the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, Because of this, God banned them from the Garden of Eden. The Bible doesn’t tell much of what happened to them after this, other than having a few children. This story takes place from the fall of man (bringing sin into the world) to the death of Adam and Eve and the corruption of the world. They lived a full life with many children and a lot of action. Taken from the books of Adam and Eve, this tale brings their story to life. It combines a blend of the Greek translation and the western translation of these books and told from Eve’s perspective in a format not much different from the Message translation of the Bible. This brings about an ease of reading with a more modern-day wordage and style. This makes for a unique and enjoyable story of Adam and Eve that was not included in the Bible.
Report:
Place: Somewhere east of the Garden of Eden Time: The beginning of time. Shortly after the creation of the world. We will be interviewing Eve. She lived to be 940 years old at her death, ten years after the death of her husband, Adam. While the Bible gives us very little of the accounts of this time, I have gotten much of this information from The Books of Adam and Eve, Vita Adae et Evae were thought to be written somewhere between about 100 BCE and 100 CE, after the Hebrew Bible was complete but before or during the early Christian period. The text, while not biblical, it is ancient. It can not be classified as non-fiction but there is much that we will see that holds true for us, even today. I have used a blend of both the Latin translation and the western translation to find the tales in which we are about to embark.
Sit back and enjoy.
Malaki
Scene 1: The Garden and the Voice Malaki: Eve, you’ve seen the world as no one else alive today has. Before anything changed, before the exile, before the grief, what was it like in the garden?
Eve: Even now, Malaki, so many years later, I can still feel the garden in my bones. The air there was alive in a way the air has never been since, every breath felt like it carried life into me. Flowers never faded. Leaves never curled at the edges. Every living thing was as it should be.
We were not afraid. We didn’t even understand the word. The lion’s breath warmed my hand without danger, and the deer’s eyes looked into mine without fear. We worked, but there was no pain in the work. We tended vines heavy with fruit, soil that gave back whatever we asked of it. Even the ground seemed to know our names. And the Voice… oh, the Voice of the One who made us.
Malaki: You heard God’s voice?
Eve: Yes. Sometimes in the morning mist, soft as the dew on the leaves. Sometimes in the cool of the evening, walking with us among the trees. It was never a voice of thunder in those days, not like the stories you hear now, but the voice of a friend, a Father, the One who breathed life into us.
He told us the names of the creatures and the rivers. He showed us the boundaries of our freedom: “You may eat from any tree in the garden, but not from the tree in the center, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The day you eat of it, you will surely die.”
At the time, I felt only love in those words. I didn’t think of them as a burden, but as a gift.
We walked in that freedom without question… until the day the serpent came.
Malaki: You still remember that day clearly?
Eve: Every detail. The shadows on the ground, the turn of his words, the way my thoughts seemed to twist as I listened. I didn’t see the danger then. I thought I was choosing wisdom. But I was choosing death, for myself, for Adam, for every child who would ever come from us. And we were banned from Eden.
Scene 2: Six Days East of Eden
Malaki: Eve, after you and Adam stepped through the gates, what was it like in those first days?
Eve: The gates closed behind us, and the sound felt like the world locking. The air outside didn’t hug me the way Eden’s air had. It pushed. It scratched. The wind had edges. We turned east because east was the only direction that didn’t burn our eyes with the flash of the flaming sword. The angel kept silent watch, face like lightning, wings still as mountains. There was no arguing with that kind of final.
Day One.
We walked until our legs trembled. The ground was not soft here. It was stubborn, cracked and packed, the color of dust and old bones. The trees didn’t lean close to listen anymore; they stood back, suspicious. By late afternoon, thirst started clawing at our throats. Adam cupped his hands and mimed the old habit, water from Eden’s streams that used to answer before he even asked. Nothing. Only wind. Near sunset we found a low ridge. From the top, the garden’s boundary glowed faint and far, a dull ember behind us. I stared long enough for tears to gather. “It was home,” I whispered. Adam couldn’t answer. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and we kept moving.
Day Two.
We stumbled on a thin stream that pretended to be helpful before sinking into sand ten paces down. Adam tried to dam it with stones and clay. The water laughed and disappeared anyway. We ate nothing. Our bodies felt hollow, like flutes that didn’t know a song anymore. We tried to sleep under a cluster of thornbushes. The thorns were generous with their opinions. By morning, both of us were scratched, fingers stiff with tiny stabs of pain. “I didn’t know plants could be angry,” I said. “Maybe they’re not,” Adam said. “Maybe this is just the world learning how to be without us.”
Day Three.
Animals watched from a distance. In Eden, creatures met our eyes without fear. Here, the rules had been edited. A small herd of deer froze, then broke like a dropped plate when the wind shifted. A single wolf paced us for an hour with a look that planned.
Heat rose, then, toward evening, heat fled. The sky displayed the stars without mercy. I shivered and curled toward Adam for warmth. He held me, whispering, “We’re not alone. He hasn’t left us.” Saying it didn’t make it easy, but it kept the night from swallowing us whole.
Day Four.
We reached a river that knew its own mind. Not wide, but fast, the surface braided with quick silver ropes. Adam stepped in up to his knees and instantly lost one foot, then the other. He lunged back, gasping, wet from the waist down.
“Not here,” he said, spitting out the taste of cold. We walked the bank for hours looking for a shallow. Found none. The river sang one song the whole time. But not today. We camped under a cedar that smelled like a memory of safety. I traced lines in the dirt with a stick, circles around circles, like the rings of a tree. “Do you think He sees us?” I asked. Adam said, “He does,” but his voice put a question mark where a period should be.
Day Five.
The river finally forked into stones and forgiveness. Adam carried me across the slickest parts, both of us laughing when he slipped and almost sat down in the current. The laughter surprised us; it felt like a stray ray of light that had escaped from the garden.
On the far bank the land opened into a plain pulled tight between two larger rivers, the Jordan and the Tigris. Names came to Adam the way names always had come, only slower now, as if there was static on the line to heaven. He said them aloud and waited until they felt true.
We found a rise that would keep us above floodwater if floodwater ever thought to visit. No fruit trees bowed toward us. No vines volunteered. The soil looked like it wanted to argue.
Day Six.
We gathered fallen branches and learned the grammar of fire by bruised knuckles and stubborn sparks. When a flame finally caught, it was small and ridiculous and perfect. I cried at the sight and then laughed through the tears. “It’s like a tame bit of the sun,” I said, hands extended until the heat pinked my palms.
We roasted nothing, there was nothing to roast. But we warmed our faces and pretended it was a feast. The night still rang with unfamiliar sounds, but the fire drew a circle, and inside the circle we remembered how to breathe slow.
Day Seven.
We sat in the thin shade of noon and looked at each other the way people do who have run out of easy options. “We should seek Him,” Adam said. “Not with complaints. With repentance. We broke what we could not fix.” I nodded. “Then let’s go the whole way. Not a day or two. As long as it takes to tell Him we mean it.”
We walked to the edge of the two great rivers, the Jordan on Adam’s left, the Tigris on my right. The water flashed like blades. Adam stepped into the Jordan to his waist and locked his feet between stones. I waded into the Tigris and set my stance against its tug.
“Lord,” Adam said, “we were wrong. We chose our way over Yours and taught the whole world to limp. We have nothing to trade, nothing to offer. Only ourselves.”
“Lord,” I said, “I believed a voice that wasn’t Yours. I reached for knowledge and lost Your presence. I miss You. We miss You.”
The rivers kept talking. So did we. And the fast began.
Act 2 – Enoch’s Journal - Preview
Report:
Time: 3382-3017 BC Place: In the heavens of afterlife.
Enoch was a member of one of the most exclusive clubs in history. The club of those that never faced physical death. Him and Elijah were the only two in the Bible that can make this claim. Some people claim that Christians that are still alive in Jesus Christ’s return should be counted. These two men are the only two in the Bible that explicitly says they never faced death. We will call them the only two in biblical history to not face death.
As with Adam and Eve, Being taken up in a whirl wind is about all that is said about the end of the days spent on Earth by Enoch.
To help create this story, I have acquired the help of another book. 1 Enoch or the Book of Enoch was used as an aid to write this tale.
The book was not written all at once. It is broken down into five parts. Part 1, The Book of the Watchers was likely composed between 300 and 200 BC. This covers the first 36 chapters of the book. The remaining 4 parts, The Parables, Astronomical Book, Dream Visions and the Epistle of Enoch will cover the final 72 chapters of 1 Enoch, believed to be added between 200 and 100 BC.
Parts of 1 Enoch were found included in the Dead Sea Scrolls and also mentioned in modern day Bibles in the book of Jude. Again we can not call this book as 100 percent non-fiction, it has an excellent pedigree and does contain a lot of truths for modern times. We will call this book biblical fiction.
This exciting book includes the descriptions of Heaven and Hell, God’s Throne, communications with angels and so much more. The tales in this book take place between the fall of mankind and the great flood of Noah.
Get ready for an extraordinary report of the fallen angels, their demise and so much more.
I hope that you enjoy this tale of a report.
Malaki
Part 1: The Watchers Fall
The fall of the angels and the corruption of mankind
Malaki: Before we go further, tell me how it began. Not with you, but with them.
Enoch: The Watchers?
Malaki: Yes. How did angels fall?
Enoch: They were not cast down at first. They came down by choice. They saw the beauty of mankind, and their hearts turned from their place. They took what was not theirs to take.
Malaki: Women?
Enoch: And more. They took trust, they took innocence. They gave forbidden knowledge, secrets of the heavens meant only for the righteous.
Malaki: And the world changed?
Enoch: Completely. The ground itself grew weary. The air grew heavy. Men learned war, blood was spilled without end, and giants walked among us. It was not the world the Creator made.
Malaki: And you were chosen to speak against them?
Enoch: Chosen to warn, to witness, and to write. The Holy One gave me words that would carry through the ages, so no one could say they had not been told.
Malaki: Then let’s begin.
Enoch: Yes. Let us begin.
Scene 1: The Silence Breaks
Enoch: I used to think the world was quiet. That the wind whispered for no one, that the stars just blinked above us for beauty’s sake. I thought heaven was still.
Malaki: So before this… you never felt the divine draw near?
Enoch: Not like this. Before, God was a story in the distance. That night, He was in the room.
But then the silence broke.
It came like a crack in the sky. Not a sound, but a presence. I felt it in my bones before I ever saw it with my eyes. The mountains trembled, not from shaking, but from watching. As if they knew something was coming.
Malaki: You’re saying even creation knew before you did?
Enoch: Yes. The earth can sense its Maker’s footsteps long before we do.
That night, the wind carried something new. Not scent. Not sound. Just weight.
And then the voice.
Not thunder. Not fire. Just stillness, shaped into words that pierced everything:
“Enoch. Rise.”
Malaki: Were you terrified?
Enoch: It wasn’t terror. It was… belonging. As if every heartbeat I’d ever had had been waiting for this one command.
I didn’t move at first. The fire was low. The night animals still wandered. But everything inside me stood up.
“The time has come. Judgment will begin. Warn the righteous. Speak to the wicked. For the One Who Sees All is moving.”
Malaki: And you knew this was no dream?
Enoch: Dreams fade when you wake. This only grew stronger with the morning light.
The mountains felt smaller the next morning. The trees, more alert. The air, charged. I walked for days in silence. Not because I was afraid. But because I was listening.
Scene 2: The Descent
Enoch: They came down like lightning, but slow. Glorious, terrifying. Like kings who’d forgotten their crowns and came to take what didn’t belong to them.
The Watchers.
Angels. Sons of heaven. Clothed in brilliance, voices like morning rivers, eyes like torches. They descended to the high places, Hermon and beyond, and looked upon the daughters of man.
Malaki: Enoch… were you afraid when you saw them?
Enoch: Fear doesn’t even begin cover it. I felt like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for what would happen next.
And they wanted them.
They spoke no prophecy. They offered no warning. They just looked, and took. They taught charms, potions, secrets of the stars. They gave weapons to men and mirrors to women. They opened doors we weren’t meant to open.
Malaki: Did the people welcome their gifts?
Enoch: At first, yes. Who wouldn’t? Knowledge without the cost of seeking it. Power without the discipline to use it. It felt like a blessing, until it poisoned us.
Their leader, Semjaza, gathered them with a vow.
“Let us bind ourselves with an oath, that we will not turn back. We will take their daughters, and we will have them.”
And they did.
The earth groaned.
From their union came giants, Nephilim, tall, strong, savage. Creatures too large for peace and too hungry for mercy. They devoured what men grew. They bled the land dry.
Malaki: What did they look like? These Nephilim?
Enoch: Imagine the strength of ten men in one body, eyes that burned with hunger, and a voice like stone breaking. You didn’t look them in the eyes unless you were ready to die. When the food ran out, they turned on men.
And when men turned to the Watchers for help, the angels who caused it all, they were met with silence.
Malaki: And God? Was He silent too?
Enoch: For a time, yes. But Heaven’s silence is never emptiness, it’s the gathering of a storm.
Scene 3: I Was Taken
Enoch: I didn’t ask for visions. I didn’t go looking for the voice. But it came anyway.
Malaki: Then why you, Enoch? Why would Heaven choose you?
Enoch: I’ve wondered that every day since. Maybe because I was listening when everyone else had stopped.
It pulled me up. I don’t know if it was dream or spirit or something in between, but I was taken. My feet left the earth. My eyes saw things men were never meant to see.
Malaki: Where did you go?
Enoch: I can’t point to it on a map. It wasn’t here… but it was more real than here.
Mountains of fire. Rivers of molten glass. Thunder that moved like breath.
I saw the Great Throne, high, terrible, brilliant beyond speech.
And beneath it, wheels within wheels, fire without smoke.
Malaki: What did you feel standing there?
Enoch: Small. And yet… known.
I couldn’t lift my head.
And yet, He spoke to me.
“Enoch. You will write what you see. You will speak what they will not hear. You will stand in the gap.”
Malaki: Did you dare to question Him?
Enoch: No. In that place, questions fall silent. Only obedience speaks.
I didn’t ask why.
I only listened.
Act 3 - Noah- Preview
Malaki: Today we are going to interview Noah. Let’s take a look at some of the things about the times of Noah and the man Noah before we start the interview with him.
God saw that human evil was out of control. People thought evil, imagined evil, evil, evil, evil from morning to night. God was sorry that he had made the human race in the first place. It broke his heart. God said, “I’ll get rid of my ruined creation, make a clean sweep: people, animals, snakes and bugs, birds, the works. I’m sorry I made them.”
But Noah was different. God liked what he saw in Noah.
Noah was a good man, a man of integrity in his community. Noah walked with God.
God said to Noah, “It’s all over. It’s the end of the human race. The violence is everywhere; I’m making a clean sweep.”
Noah did everything God commanded him to do. God found favor in Noah and decided to spare him. It would be a clean sweep of humanity but humanity would start over with Noah and his family.
Let’s now talk with Noah and get his perspective on things.
Malaki: Noah, when were you born?
Noah: I was born in 2948 BC. That would be 1056 years after the creation of the world and 126 years after the death of Adam.
Malaki: Where were you born?
Noah: I was born in Mesopotamia to Lamech who was 182 years old at the time of my birth. He had great plans for me. He always said, “This one will give us a break from the hard work of farming the ground that God cursed.”
Malaki: So you were a farmer?
Noah: Yes among other things. In my youth I learned a lot from my father. We had to make all of the tools that we used for farming and even made a few tools and other items that we sold to other farmers and businesses. I learned a little bit about building back then too. These were all trades that served me well in my life.
Malaki: How old are you now?
Noah: I am eight hundred and sixty years old.
Malaki: I heard that your grandfather was the oldest man that ever lived.
Noah: He was the oldest man that I ever knew. His name was Methuselah. He lived to be 969 years old. He was a great storyteller. He heard many stories of the Garden of Eden from Adam and Eve themselves.
Malaki: I couldn’t find much about your childhood in any records. Just a small amount in the Book of Enoch and a couple of other places. There wasn’t much. Do you have any stories to tell us?
Noah: Yes I do. Let’s start with the very beginning, my birth. It doesn’t get much earlier in my life than that. I don’t remember it but it is a story told by my father over the years. It will also help in understanding the relationship between my father and me and my grandfather and me. It is a very good story that might add life to this entire interview.
This is where my story begins. Not with the ark. Not even with the voice of God. It began the day I was born, and the way my father looked at me.”
“I don’t remember it myself, but my father told the story so many times I can almost feel it. The midwife lifted me up, and the room lit like dawn. My skin, he said, was pale with a flush of red, like the first blush of the morning sky. My hair was white as fresh wool, and my eyes… when I opened them, light spilled out as if the sun had been caught there.
My father froze. In that moment, he wondered if I was even his son. He feared I might be the child of the angels the same kind who had taken daughters of men in the days before. That fear drove him to my grandfather, Methuselah. And Methuselah… well, he knew where to go.
He sought out my great-grandfather Enoch yes, the same Enoch who walked with God and was taken. And Enoch told them, ‘This child is yours, Lamech. Flesh of your flesh. His appearance is not a curse but a sign.
When judgment comes, it will be through him that life will continue.’
My father came home different after that. He still looked at me strangely, sometimes as if I were a riddle he hadn’t yet solved. But he never doubted again that I was his. Still… he treated me differently. So did Grandfather.
I grew up under the shadow of that prophecy. Every lesson they taught, every warning they gave it all carried the weight of those words from Enoch. By the time I was twelve…”
Noah leaned forward, his voice lowering, as though handing me a secret.
“That’s when I began to understand what it meant.”
Malaki: Thank you Noah. This is a great start to the interview. Let’s now move on to your childhood.
Scene 1: A typical day in my youth
Noah: I was about 12 years old. The sun was rising over the hills, casting long golden rays across the dew-covered fields. I stepped carefully among the stones as I carried a wooden pail of water from the nearby spring to our family’s dwelling. Morning air clung cool to my skin. The smell of wet earth and budding leaves stirred something I couldn’t name, a longing, maybe. Or listening.
I was small for my age but quick and observant, with eyes that scanned both earth and sky. Birds circled above the trees. A fox darted into the brush ahead of me. Everything felt alive, but not noisy. The world then still whispered if you knew how to hear it.
Father was already in the workshop, smoothing the handle of a plow with steady hands hardened by years of labor. I admired his strength but loved his calm even more. When I entered, he set the tool aside.
“You’re up early,” he said, dusting sawdust from his palms.
“I wanted to finish the wood stack before Grandfather wakes,” I replied, setting the pail down and brushing my tunic clean.
He nodded with approval and ruffled my hair. “Your name means rest and comfort,” he said with a faint smile, “but you never stop moving.”
I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but I could sense it mattered.
That afternoon, I saw Grandfather sitting in the grove where he always welcomed the morning. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved silently. He hummed a melody so old it felt like it came from the soil itself. When he opened his eyes, they were clear, like still water that had seen the bottom of time.
“Come sit,” he said.
I sat beside him on the mossy rock.
“You’ve seen what’s becoming of them,” he said quietly, his voice worn but strong.
“I’ve heard their laughter,” I answered. “But I don’t understand it. It sounds like joy, but it feels like rot.”
He looked into the trees. “They laugh to drown out the voice they no longer hear. But you, Noah, you listen. That’s why you feel what they don’t.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, not completely. But his words sank deep into me, like water into thirsty soil.
Later, as dusk turned the sky violet and the fire crackled low outside our dwelling, I knelt beside it. Grandfather’s words echoed within me, and Father watched from a distance.
I looked up to the stars. They seemed closer tonight, and older than I had ever realized.
“Lord,” I whispered, “if You’re there… teach me to walk with You.”
Malaki: It sounds as if you were starting to hear from God at such a young age.
Noah: I wasn’t hearing from God but I sure was feeling things. Feeling that things just weren’t right, especially with the world.
Malaki: It seems as though your grandfather knew something.
Noah: I felt that too but at this time I just wasn’t sure. I had an idea but just wasn’t sure.
Malaki: Noah, please tell me. How was everyone that you were involved with feeling?
Noah: My father was protective, realistic, and quietly supportive. He sensed something stirring in me, but never pushed.
My grandfather was wise, gentle, and spiritually attuned. He recognized my sensitivity to God's voice and nurtured it carefully.
The people of the village were drowning in distraction, pleasure, and noise. Even as a boy, I could feel the spiritual silence in them. The further they ran from truth, the louder they became.
And I was restless in body, listening in spirit. Drawn to something I couldn’t yet name, but already beginning to seek.
Malaki: You sure seemed to be sensing something. It seems you are very insightful. Please continue on with your story.
Scene 2: The Burden of Seeing
Noah: Well, when I was 17, the sky burned orange as the sun lowered itself behind the western hills, casting the valley below in a blood-tinged haze. I stood at the edge of the high ridge, wind tugging at my tunic, the scent of dust and distant fire rising from below. Smoke curled upward in lazy columns from the clustered cities, places once vibrant, now sickened with noise, corruption, and cruelty. I had walked those streets. Once.
Laughter drifted up through the air. Not the laughter of joy, but something thinner. Sharper. Hollow like reeds blowing across cracked cisterns. I could still see the faces from that last visit, the sneers of men drunk on their own wealth, the vacant eyes of women used and forgotten, the bloodstained stones where justice was paraded as theater.
A boy had been thrown into a pit. No older than me. No trial, no mercy, just judgment handed down by men who dined that night on lamb and figs, lifting golden goblets as if the world belonged to them.
I had clenched my fists then, same as now. I had turned away then, same as now.
My footsteps carried me back toward the path that wound along the ridge’s shoulder. I moved past the bent limbs of terebinth trees whose gnarled trunks bore the wisdom of centuries. The grove’s hush welcomed me like an old friend.
There, as always, was Grandfather.
He sat cross-legged on a smooth stone, eyes closed, humming a melody that didn’t belong to our time. It came from somewhere else, before the cities, before the noise. A tune that stirred something in my chest I couldn’t name.
“You’ve seen what’s becoming of them,” he said, voice soft and sure, never opening his eyes.
I sank down beside him.
“Their laughter doesn’t confuse me anymore,” I said. “It angers me. It’s like a song played to drown out someone else screaming.”
Grandfather opened his eyes. “You’ve stopped asking why they can’t hear it.”
“Because I know they don’t want to,” I answered, my voice tight. “It’s easier to mock what you fear.”
He nodded slowly. “And how does that make you feel?”
“Alone,” I said. “Like I was born facing the wrong direction.”
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “That loneliness is not a curse, Noah. It’s a beginning. The beginning of being set apart.”
I turned away, blinking hard. “I didn’t ask to be set apart.”
“No one ever does,” he said. “But those who are called rarely fit comfortably into a world that’s falling apart.” We sat there for a long time, saying nothing. The stars emerged, quiet witnesses to a boy who was no longer asking questions… but beginning to carry answers. “Will the earth always be like this?” I asked.
“No.” His voice grew heavy, like the low roll of distant thunder. “One day, God will cleanse it. He may even use you.”
My breath caught.
Use me? I was just a boy with callused feet and too many questions. But something inside me stirred at his words, like a seed cracking open.
Later that night, I sat by our fire while my father mended a tool handle nearby. He hadn’t spoken of my time at the ridge, but I knew he had seen me return with red eyes and a tight jaw.
“Your grandfather sees far,” he said, not looking up. “But even he doesn’t see everything.”
“I’m not sure I want to see more,” I admitted.
He nodded. “That’s how I knew you’d be different.”
My father was not a man of many words. He watched. He weighed. His approval wasn’t given with flattery, but with steady presence. And tonight, his presence wrapped around me like a second fire.
That night I lay awake beneath the stars, heart restless. The ache in me wasn’t anger anymore. It was hunger, for justice, for peace, for the voice of the One who still whispered through the trees.
My grandfather was discerning, reverent; he sees the stirrings of destiny within me and gently tends them like a gardener with tender roots.
And Father, more reserved, measured. Still watching, not yet guiding, but letting me come into my own time of awakening.
Those people were spiraling deeper into indulgence and injustice, they seem deaf to conscience, numb to holiness. Laughter has become their shield against truth.
Myself, I was caught between the world’s decay and a calling I can’t yet name, my heart is open, aching, and listening for God’s voice in the silence.
Malaki: You are quite the story teller Noah.
Noah: Yeah, I get that from my grandfather. I told you that he was a good story teller. I enjoy hearing and telling a good story.
Grandfather’s grandfather was Adam. He used to hear many stories about Eden and the closeness he had with God.
Malaki: Your grandfather sounds like a very wise man.
Please, tell us more.
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