tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:/posts mark von rosenstiel is present. 2019-05-24T16:36:16Z tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1412656 2019-05-24T16:36:16Z 2019-05-24T16:36:16Z wise words from Jacob.

I was recently undertaking the massive (procrastination) project of retrieving 10 years worth of photos off of a failed external hard drive. With some technical wizardry and 24 hours of a computer chugging along, I was able to scrape back in time and get everything. If you are reading this and have known me at any point since 2008 and just thought to yourself "Fuck, I hope he doesn't still have THAT photo", the unfortunate answer is, "Yes, I probably do." The good thing is, that there were so many photos, most of them will probably just end up as noise.

After the long import the image that jumped into view was a picture of an artists statement. It reads as follows:

"You can see whatever you want in my art. I was thinking about leaves when I was making it, but it also looks like a tiger being chased by a lion. Jacob Webber, age six"

This really resonates for me today, because on my way to pick up some coffee and move my legs a bit before getting this 'ol earth rotation going (also, honestly, I drank most of my roommates coffee, and felt it only fair to grab him some more before he woke up. Although, to be honest, I've been on this kick of cheap beer (bud light or coors light) and cheap coffee (whatever is in RiteAid), but due to a recent Opening of Eyes I'm back on good coffee), I was thinking about modifications that can be done in the world to fool AI in teslas or other autonomous driving systems (https://spectrum.ieee.org/cars-that-think/transportation/sensors/slight-street-sign-modifications-can-fool-machine-learning-algorithms).

This crossed my mind because as I was walking up to a crosswalk, I glanced over to the car that had stopped for me (a tesla) and noticed a beautiful woman in the back of it and then almost walked directly into the front wheel panel. In some ways placing a beautiful woman in the back of a car impacts me a little like placing stickers on a stop sign impacts a tesla. 

And this got me thinking about the give/take between digital/meat-space, and the growing middle ground that is created between them, where it is unclear if I am purely in one or the other; a space that I think people find a little disorienting. This disorientation is partly due to the fact that physical and digital spaces are now more effectively constructed in order to shift behavior; they work together to funnel us towards outcomes. This has always been something we've been aware of, but with big data so much of what we do can be hacked while leaving us feeling we are autonomous through a process: we can't see our own nuances and subtle defaults. If you think of politics, influencers, and news sources in recent years, they are all modes of creating signals and placing markers in order to create outcomes without us thinking too much about it.

Everyone is sticking beautiful women in the back of Teslas. Everywhere.

I think Jacob seemed to be getting at this point from a more artistic perspective years ago.

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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1411443 2019-05-21T18:27:48Z 2019-05-21T18:31:44Z body hair.

I spent my morning watering plastic plants and nodding along to a video tutorial taught by a plastic person. I ate plastic food and brushed plastic teeth. 

I think body hair is the only calming indicator for the day.

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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1410652 2019-05-19T23:36:46Z 2019-05-21T06:35:34Z oh the mutations.
I recently fell in love. It’s strange because I usually fall in love and make grand gestures like flying halfway around the world in something that is manic, anxious and more an expression of loving love, then loving a person. I like the idea of grand gestures and assume that this person will be the focus of grand gestures at some point, but off the bat things are strangely quiet and whispering, sort of like light wind on a rain flap of a tent out on some frontier. In a serendipitous moment (or coincidental... or... something) I stumbled on something I wrote down in a text editor awhile back and it seems relevant. What was written is as follows:

mutations are forgetting about love. Mutations are kicking and pushing to be in love again

mutations are almost chocking on a toothbrush 

S000-703995

I think the last line is return number for some item, although I’m not sure what. I googled it, and the first result was “Buy Suspension Strut Mount Anchor 703995 Fits 96-05 Toyota Rav4”, which isn’t something I’m in the market for, so we’ll just leave that there as a clue for future generations. 

BUT MUTATIONS. I had to write about them for an application to an institution that I’ve now applied for exactly the number of times I’ve been rejected. On the topic, the non-project based part of the text read:

Which brings us to a mutation, which is exactly a point of departure from group to isolate, or isolate to group. It could be said that we live in the age of mutation; “mutation” being a janus word in many facets: one person screams it to show their individuality, while another echos it back describing their inclusion in a group. 

Consider a mutation of thrushes, indicating a group of birds that have forever only known themselves. Or even a genetic mutation leading to a new group of people, see: Tetrachromacy. A lot of pop culture tends to buttress the beauty of mutation whether it is in teenage turtles or wolverines. In data science, programmers will rally around immutable data structures; not quite a reference to mutation, but maybe a bit of shade thrown towards it. 

I recently asked my mom about the things she didn’t realize she would lose as she got older (I’ve been recently fixated on the fact that available conversations with friends are constantly burning off in greedy fires) and she said “my face”; which, explained, makes sense, as the woman she sees in the mirror isn’t the woman she sees herself to be. The face becomes a container that is viewed for its structure versus the content that is held within. So at some point my mom is saying that the Self mutates and no longer has a face. 

But I had submitted all of that after not remembering about this forgotten text or the more recent turn of events of this love business. WHICH IS WEIRD, because there I was deliberating about love and mutations only to tumble into love, a place both familiar and completely alien. It is the group of all things I am, plus all things I never knew I would be. 

To have steps appear as I walk into voids, and airbags deploy gently in all situations social or physical. To ease into the moment. A mutation is the perfect isomorphic partner to the present. 

A mutation is being in love.

And I guess it's humbling to try to express something in writing or make some object hooked up with a a bazillion wires and hung even more puppet-like still in papers about Self and Space and Countability (this last bit is a generalization of most the things I think I end up making), and they never seem to be quite as well crafted as sharing lemonade in a hot car, with no air conditioning, while I drive along the ocean with this person.

So I guess you can file this under "amendments to thoughts on mutations. i.e. love".

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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1402328 2019-04-26T19:28:02Z 2019-04-26T19:28:02Z low resolution... With better parts
New shift register boards came today for version 2 of "everything we hold dear, in low resolution"
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1399410 2019-04-18T18:52:56Z 2019-04-18T18:52:56Z china round 2.
Working on a new piece for an exhibition in China this summer. Details forthcoming. As for now I'm in the code.

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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1396316 2019-04-10T01:32:34Z 2019-04-10T01:32:34Z Studio Vibes (Nemo's new home) ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1393132 2019-04-03T01:04:40Z 2019-04-03T01:04:41Z . ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1387641 2019-03-19T18:55:18Z 2019-03-19T18:55:18Z tap testing


Started testing/prototyping new sound sculpture.
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1387636 2019-03-19T18:42:47Z 2019-04-27T01:21:53Z on feathers and paint.

I have the most beautiful bird house in my bathroom, sitting directly next to my electric toothbrush. In it lives a small yellow bird: I believe she is some sort of sterling that has accidentally been painted yellow from a slight miscalculation while flying low over a freshly painted center line of a city street. No matter, she dodges in and out of my bathroom with dexterity and something close to acrobatic wit. Sometimes I think I can feel in my skull the moments she joins other birds in a murmuration or some otherwise dense cloud of cascading wings. 

She usually leaves on outings while I brush my teeth, when the vibrations from my toothbrush make her wings silent and any sort of peep she makes in the way of a courteous goodbye, disappear into mimed action. It is only as she hops out onto the peg-doorstep of her home that I notice her feathers are a bit clogged with paint and that her head alone is a fresh helmet of grey/brown feathers; delicate and laid down like salmon presented on ice at a fish mongers booth who believes all things, at some level, look like scales of a fish.

I believe the sound of the vibration of my toothbrush is a lot like her experience among the swarm of other birds. It is complete but also disorienting; a ritual that maybe only appears to be fun. 

After she leaves, and my toothbrush has stopped making small explosions in my thinking, I wonder if she worries about her dry-paint coat; this is pretty much the only point of reference I have of her life outside of my bathroom. I know that story of the center line of the city and sometimes feel like we are deeply connected through this knowledge. But our relationship is a bit like a constant stream of generic Thank You notes that I’m trying to make matter.

At night I try to pass on some bubbling words in between the suds of a toothpaste mouth; my teeth dishes in a sink overflowing with too much soap and hot water. She peers at me with removed interest and hops twice on her peg before disappearing into her cedar home.

The other night I realized, for the first time, that my thoughts don’t fly like I once thought.

They drift and bob.

A bit like seals in kelp forests, surfacing to catch glimpses of the sun.

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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1386249 2019-03-15T23:52:47Z 2019-03-15T23:52:47Z 3 dogs (and one more)

In the last week I've heard of 3 different people getting a dog.

One is a small robot looking dog with unblinking eyes purchased by a single man. He had it in a box, which looked a bit like an off-brand Happy Meal, in the back of his truck.

One is a "wolf puppy" (not my words) purchased by a son for his mom. This purchase was part of a home protection plan, which I assume is most notable for the time delay in it being part of a viable security measure. It's a bit like buying a home security camera that won't be operational for a few months due to noise in the data line.

A third friend texted me about her dog purchase (Acquisition?) while I was on the number 18 bus around 5th and Wall. She and her boyfriend bought it (acquired it?) together. When the text arrived I was starring out the window and noticed a small tube of a dog (like it had been a different dog at a previous point in time, but had recently been pushed through a 4" piece of PVC pipe, resulting in all of its features being compressed towards a central axis) in a patchwork hoodie of pastel fabrics, strut along the sidewalk with bright pink painted toenails. 

I think all 3 dogs I recently learned about have something to gain from becoming friends with this dog killing the outdoor runway game.

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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1379418 2019-02-28T00:32:02Z 2019-04-27T01:20:46Z I keep your picture in a bowl of sharks teeth.
It has no meaning the bowl and teeth, only that it is the available space on the desk to place you. We are both posing somewhat with expressions that seem to be answering the question, "did you remember to turn off the oven?". (And for some reason it does make me think of a time I did forget to turn off the oven over an entire 3 day period in a one bedroom apartment in Baltimore, unsure why the apartment was so warm, or butter was melting on top of the stove in its storage dish. I assumed it was something to do with the east coast climate I was unaccustomed to.) But this picture is clumsily perfect in the way someone trying to open a car door while holding coffee, donut, and newspaper, manages to drop everything all at once, including keys, but just laughs forgetting they live amongst so many people.
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1377259 2019-02-23T02:21:45Z 2019-02-23T02:21:46Z 1 hour project in front of 60 hour project. ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1371980 2019-02-08T18:45:07Z 2019-02-08T18:45:07Z AM.

These shadows cut crisp over building edges like finger nails dragged along folded paper to make lines crisp in order for origami frogs to bounce with more sure feet onto fire escapes that are only secured by one bolt, but fear not because these frogs are light.

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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1369341 2019-02-01T18:32:56Z 2019-02-01T18:32:56Z Limbo goals ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1369337 2019-02-01T18:19:34Z 2019-02-01T18:19:34Z Power animal ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1368760 2019-01-31T04:16:01Z 2019-01-31T04:16:02Z sometimes you have the perfect advice for your cousin. ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1368671 2019-01-30T21:48:56Z 2019-01-30T21:48:57Z three acts involving three lovers. ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1367122 2019-01-25T19:35:13Z 2019-01-25T19:35:13Z science lesson ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1366807 2019-01-24T21:58:27Z 2019-01-25T19:42:46Z all that is solid

Railway timbers would be stacked four high nestled between about eight sets of tracks on my way to my studio. The pile was even except for one timber missing along the top row, giving the whole stack a bit of a creosote-sticky grin looking down rusted rails to discarded cars, each missing doors, windows or sometimes the entire side of the car. If I could zoom out a bit, the air would be paint the color of loose pollen and beeswax; stuck between two hills, one presenting a church with black towers like a piece of coal struck hard into a sidewalk and the other some peek into rolling hills melting over a rock formation. 

I spent a lot of time walking back and forth across these train tracks, from bus stop to studio door, headphones in which fortunately only lead once to me almost getting leveled by an oncoming train. (This was written about a bit before.)

There were iterations to the walk. 

The first walks happened while attached to a place that was new and hung with static electricity on parts of my body that didn’t know current. I would walk from an apartment with one bed built from two and balconies bobbing on air thick with possibility; boats above abandoned properties and stone walls. There were tall ceilings, cobblestone and forgotten parks and graveyards.

There were times of walking with love heavy and needy in my heart, glancing to windows I knew contained a person I loved: up in that corner studio with ugly green carpet and seemingly little light, although many windows. Sometimes we’d walk the rails and place metal in piles and sit inside cars seemingly cut in two in more ways than one: acting on a stage of a more modern stagecoach. (You always smelled good. Once we lay in bed and something like the smell of steamed broccoli drifted through the room, pungent and somewhere between good and bad, and you quickly put your hand between your legs and then smelled it declaring, “nope”.)

And then there were the last times I’ve walked those tracks where I wonder about wanting to keep things alive that are already past.

There was a moment once, when I laid up on those railway timbers, pretending like I was one. I had long hair and it stuck and matted into me and I lay there on my back head turned upside down looking at the ruins of a building on the horizon.  The air was thick and felt like somewhere you’d find a lot of grasshoppers, but there were only trains. I thought of weddings and kites and bobbing on the surface of the ocean where just my eyes would be above the water. I thought of times I smiled to someone in my kitchen and times I sat on night buses alone. 

It felt good to be in that stack of railway ties.

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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1366531 2019-01-24T03:03:25Z 2019-01-24T22:04:30Z paintings of a friend's dog, an alley, parents, and a beach. Separated and presented in large format.
possible title, "Leroy dreams of LA". 1.6m x 1.6m
possible title, "in Berlin everyone's parents dream they are on a beach". 1.6m x 1.6m
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1366151 2019-01-23T03:15:00Z 2019-01-24T22:02:34Z 5 Stories from the Farmer John mural at Soto/Vernon

Lauren and Jean-Pierre met at a sex club in Berlin in 1996. They ended up on a three day bender that concluded in an old sewing machine factory in the former East. Both were blurry eyed and coming down from various pharmaceuticals. At that point Lauren was wearing only a ball-gag as a necklace and a single sock. Jean-Pierre was wearing a tiara full of fake diamonds, fake eyelashes and also a single sock. They realized the socks were a pair, as were they from that day onward. In the mural the ball-gag is puckishly referenced through shading around Lauren's neck.



Martin used to be a bouncer in a bar in downtown LA. He was a pretty heavy drinker and passed out one night while on the job, knocking all of his teeth out on the railing that cordoned off the outdoor smoking section. (Some people that were there that night claim to still have some of his teeth. A regular, Nadia, says she wears one around her neck as a good luck charm while flying, but no one has ever seen it.) Martin arrived at the dentist the next day, but only had enough money to replace two of his teeth. He decided to just replace his bottom canines, which he now refers to as his "gothic towers" as the incident also brought with it a revelation about the existence of God.


This was the last known picture of the Demala family before they boarded a train in rural Montana heading towards the interior of Canada for a family ski trip. A coupling issue between train cars caused the last car, which they were seated, to detach while the train traveled along an isolated area of its route. When the error was noticed and rescue workers rushed to the scene, they found an empty car stripped of all personal belongings except for a single ballet shoe. To this day the incident is still referred to as the Canadian Ballet Car Mystery. (It should be noted that none of the Demala family danced ballet and they were the only passengers assigned to that car.)


Monica believes that she has never seen a river in her life, but this is entirely due to her desire to always peck at the shadowed side of the fence post near her nest, causing this same post to block her view of the nearby river. Everyone in town calls her Short Sighted Monica. What they don't know is that the river that Monica sees in her head is beyond anything they could possibly hope to ever see.


Raymond accidentally pushed Hannah off a pedestrian bridge while running from what he believed to be an oncoming winter storm. Hannah fell onto the log jam below the bridge and had her left arm crushed between two large timbers. Surgeons tried to save it, but unfortunately it had to be amputated. Raymond was so distraught from the incident that his skin turned a ghastly blue/grey. To this day Hannah tries to comfort Raymond and let him know he is forgiven by bringing him a flower every year on the anniversary of the event, but he only walks away to the site of the incident to sulk on his own.
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1361492 2019-01-08T21:06:10Z 2019-01-08T21:06:10Z Leroy Dreams Of LA (start)
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1361491 2019-01-08T21:05:43Z 2019-01-08T21:05:43Z GP and me. File under Home Decor.
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1361117 2019-01-07T20:41:01Z 2019-01-07T20:41:01Z subtext ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1351480 2018-12-08T18:46:14Z 2018-12-08T19:00:25Z the sun has teeth
Your house was in a partial state of either moving in or moving out. There was a printer by the door, a broken cat post attached from floor to ceiling and some suitcases laying about that were full of pans and books. I can appreciate the idea of wanting to move only with an iron skillet and a bunch of books by people whose ideas seem to be woven into all you think about. You liked Murakami, who I think maybe writes too many words at once, but you also had a thing for Didion which is sort of how we matched in our likes/dislikes: 50/50. But it was the kind of 50/50 that works between two people, where you figure out a way to place the 50 percent you don’t really care for in a bin, maybe not labeled “love”, but at least “something I can now tolerate”. It’s a 50/50 that allowed for Adderall and champagne during an entire afternoon of sex, as well as morning breakfasts in hotel bars where annoyance seems high, but we still skipped in delight to the bathroom, swooning over the other in absence.

That was the first day we met really, in that hotel bar. I mean, we met the previous night, that bled into the hotel morning, dancing (swaying?) to some dark synth in a fake sex dungeon, where your friend slept through most of the night on a bed with a plastic mattress cover. When she woke up at 5am she was manically stoned: a mix of uppers and downers that left her not in a middle ground by more like a small fishing vessel teetering from side-to-side on unexpectedly violent swells.

 A few weeks later, we’ll be in this friends apartment as she asks me to hang pictures; in a living room that seemed to have layers of furniture stacked against the wall as if the purpose of furnishing a room was to see how many couches could be between you and the hung artwork. The answer at this point was 2, but that number was going to grow. When I went to the bathroom after hanging some art, your friend yelled, “BRING ME A CAT! THE ONE WITH WHITE SPOTS!” and when I opened the bathroom door there were 3 kittens rummaging around among tattered boxes and various loose clothing items. A skid row of kittens.

In your apartment, though, there was a natural walking stick on the ground that an ex-boyfriend had left. There was some back story and the possibility of a friend of his that was a witch that was going to pick it up at some point. I remember sort of nodding through the witch comment, because I take a Pascal’s Wager on that sort of thing and think best not to make any waves with witches, whether they’re real or not. I had an ex-girlfriend who claimed to have witch-like powers, and when I broke up with here I was later with a friend helping print sections of an abandoned factory and the sickly-sweet smell of a neighboring yeast processing plant made me vomit uncontrollably for the 3 hours we worked. I would help him print a section of floor, and then run to a window and vomit. Repeat. I was convinced it wasn’t the smell of yeast, but a spell had been cast on me by my ex. It ended up it was the yeast.

Back in your apartment. There was a lot of warm afternoon sun across bedsheets. Light cut hot and lazy in that way that southern California light seems to drag its feet and then sucker punch me, but still declares its love in a rumbling sort of way; light through broken windows, with blue-eyed cats hanging out in some ledge/tent contraption that suction cups to the same window as if the cat was sleeping on the face of El Capitan, the cracks in the window fissures in granite that were made some time in the last ice-age. I dislike cats, but am happy to watch the room as a sundial while you tell stories of the guy that smoked crack in the laundry room for many weeks before finally getting kicked out.

We talk about the square root of 2.
You try on dresses.
I swear at one point in those weeks I see you battle-dance a friend of mine, who when you first met thought was trying to roofie you.

Anyway. I'll go ahead and wander back out into this lazy, beautiful disaster of sunlight.
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1345077 2018-11-17T17:56:00Z 2018-11-18T17:56:23Z square logs. (day 2 of 30)
To get to a studio I had for awhile I used to run across these railroad tracks behind a fence where the bus dropped me off. There were a lot of tracks, maybe 10, and to the left the tracks bent sharp to one direction so I had to always listen really carefully to figure out if trains were coming. Like all things, I eventually got a bit too careful, and my commute changed from one of careful listening to one of me listening to music and texting as I hopped from one track to the next. One day I stopped short between track 5 and 6, or maybe it was 7 and 8, and as I tried to update my Spotify playlist a train screamed by in front of me. It was so close and happened so suddenly, I thought at first it was something weird with my eyes, because suddenly the scene just looked so dramatically different, but then my brain sort of added in all the sound and vibrations, mixed the whole scene into a dish called Now, and I thought to myself, "I almost got hit by a train."

It passed quickly (a commuter train) and I was left in spring time air on empty tracks. Everything was a bit hazy. There were a pile of railway ties stacked just past the last track and I climbed up on them and laid down as if I was the next tie to be placed on the stack. I imagined myself covered in creosote, thick and sinking into a group of logs. My eyes were open at a blue sky and my clothes stretched with the spots that stuck into the creosote, the smell hung like old coats in forgotten closets, and I thought about if this was my new home.
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1344601 2018-11-16T16:46:05Z 2019-01-08T21:08:15Z corner office. (day 1 of 30)
In a box of memory all alone I remember standing in the corner of a room with my friend Sarah. It was when we first met and everything about our time felt like spotlights on empty stages. I remember the walls flew up into space like low resolution church spires; surfaces flat and unmarked. The floor bobbed and drifted. It reminded me of a time when I was swimming underwater and watched my childhood dog swim over top of me: the hair on her legs sliding and jerking like palm trees in hurricanes slowed down to one frame a second. 

I don't know what Sarah and I were talking about, but we were just elements on a stage. 

Eyes of rare earth and teeth made of old whale bones.
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1339368 2018-11-02T18:39:04Z 2018-11-02T18:39:05Z we found no new information, but we did find a slightly new perspective
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1339361 2018-11-02T18:25:42Z 2018-11-02T18:25:43Z target one.
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tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1335428 2018-10-23T22:48:29Z 2018-10-23T22:48:30Z new digs. ]]>