In Hakim Bey's 1991 book TAZ: The Temporary Autonomous Zone, Ontological Anarchism, Poetic Terrorism, he writes that “the TAZ is like an uprising which does not engage directly with the State, a guerrilla operation which liberates an area (of land, of time, of imagination) and then dissolves itself to re-form elsewhere/elsewhen, before the State can crush it.” Although some circles deride Bey's ideas as belonging to that of “lifestyle anarchism”—and in part, probably correctly—his position on temporality is useful. In an era where time and space are increasingly owned and traded by rent-seekers, the temporary becomes the only viable scale for autonomy.
Noise offers a different relationship to duration. It sustains without resolving, occupies without claiming. Sustained tones then become conduits for transcendence, especially as we find ways to dissolve the self into something collective and timeless. A six-minute set or track can feel endless in the same way that a twenty-minute set or track can end in a second. The phenomenology of noise resists translation: clock time and felt time diverge, and language—bound as it is to sequence—strains to describe what happens when both collapse.
We are told that noise is disruption, a jagged line cut through the smooth surface of the world. Where are the soothing melodies? You cannot sing along to noise. Holy hell that hurts my ears! No, it doesn't. You either “get it” or you don’t; here, noise operates as a filter not of “taste” but of a certain tolerance for illegibility, and this is not a failure but a function. This is precisely its pleasure: noise creates a sonic ouroboros where the feedback loop of production and consumption becomes so blurred that the distinction between emitter and receiver disintegrates.
There's that meme: “This noise scene has EVERYTHING. dudes with glasses, t-girls with baby bangs, artists in residence, professional burnouts, grippy sock enthusiasts, messy polycule breakups, parking lot gremlins, sink pissers, liberal arts college students, your cousin Shane, and that derelict selling bootleg DVDs.” Obviously its message is glib (and there are a lot more characters than that), but its meaning is simply to say that noise attracts all types, “sonic art” gentrifiers or otherwise. Playing loudly and chaotically is to assert a body in a space that usually demands that those who have felt marginalised in one way or another in their lives refuse to be invisible or productive. Creating and being witness to noise refuse both imperatives by insisting on being unapologetically present without generating anything legible to capital.
In its most uncompromising forms, noise music attempts to short-circuit so-called orthodox ways of being. Its refusal of structure—the verse-chorus-verse telos, the linear career arc, etc—isn't incidental but constitutive; it short-circuits the expectation that art should build toward something, or that life should build towards a stability that serves capital. But as we have seen too, both around us and in history, this refusal is easily metabolised. Harsh textures become aestheticised as “edge” and what was meant to disrupt becomes another node in the integrated spectacle. Punk and metal were successfully commodified and noise isn't exempt.
Still, something persists in the live moments that resist capture, particularly in the spaces that aren’t mediated by capital. In moments of sonic obliteration, there's a glimpse of something else—a collective intensity that isn't mediated by money, a shared becoming that refuses the individuation demanded by the market. Of course, this is not a solution but a reminder that for all its power, the capitalist machine is not total. As we age especially, creating noise increasingly becomes a refusal of normalcy, a way of underscoring that one is still fighting. In some of its most sublime moments, I can hear in noise music's textures not just a protest but a map of the terrain we're fighting on.
At sufficient intensity, the cacophony that noise produces doesn't soothe anxiety—instead it obliterates the cognitive architecture that produces it. And it isn’t catharsis as such, it is structural interference with the internal narration that keeps us legible to ourselves. When the sounds reach critical density, there's no room for the manic anxieties that demand productivity, visibility or resolution.
Here, improvisation resists commodification because it refuses repeatability. Each performance is unreproducible, a moment that disappears even as it's recorded and uploaded. Anti-copyright surfaces here too, not simply as a rhetorical gesture but a refusal of authorship that mirrors the refusal of a stable identity in the music itself. What remains when the structures that were supposed to hold you have proven provisional?
The frequency persists not because it promises survival, but because stopping would mean accepting the terms we've been refusing all along.
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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠄⠀⠄⢁⠠⢀⠁⢂⠁⢂⠌⠀⣰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣶⣤⡄⠀⣬⣤⣑⣀⡓⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠙⠛⠂⠀⠀⠠⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⠐⢢⠑⡈⣀⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠀⠀⠒⠈⠀⠀⣹⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠁⣸⣿⣿⣿⣏⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⢀⠈⠀⠄⡀⠂⡈⠄⠨⣀⠂⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠁⢀⣿⣶⣶⣦⣤⣀⠀⠀⡀⡀⣄⣠⣤⣤⣶⣾⡿⢡⠀⢃⢂⠒⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠄⠂⠁⠠⡀⠤⠀⠀⢀⣿⣿⡿⠟⠁⠀⣠⣿⣿⣿⣿⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠐⠀⠠⠈⠀⠄⠡⠐⡈⡐⠀⣀⣀⣈⡉⠉⠛⠛⠿⠿⠿⣿⡏⢀⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠁⠀⠀⠀⠈⠉⠛⢿⣿⣿⡿⠁⠀⠱⢈⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⢤⡒⠒⠁⠁⠀⠀⠀⠺⣿⠏⠀⠀⢠⡾⣹⣿⣧⡏⠀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⠀⠄⠐⠀⠡⠈⠄⠡⡐⠄⠸⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣶⣦⣤⣤⠀⢀⣉⠉⠙⠛⠁⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣀⡀⠀⢈⠋⠀⠀⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡆⡔⠒⠎⡅⠉⢀⠀⠀⠁⠀⢀⣴⣿⠇⣿⣿⣿⣇⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⠀⠂⠠⠈⠄⠡⢈⡐⠡⡐⢀⠫⠕⠶⢦⡩⣭⣝⡛⣿⠿⢿⡟⢀⣿⣿⣿⣿⡖⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠉⠉⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠂⠉⠘⠘⠋⠘⠀⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⣴⣿⣿⡿⣸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⠠⠁⠂⡁⠂⠌⡐⠄⡰⠁⠀⣘⢒⡳⠶⠦⣥⣈⢁⠒⡙⠛⠗⠀⠠⡭⣭⣛⣛⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠒⠥⢒⠢⠤⠄⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⣾⣿⣿⣿⡇⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⠀⠠⠁⠠⠁⠄⣁⠒⡈⠔⡀⠀⢠⠉⣮⠵⣙⠶⣦⢬⣍⣩⢑⠚⠇⠀⣤⣩⣤⣙⠂⠀⠀⢧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⠈⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠌⠀⠌⠠⢁⠌⡀⢆⠑⢸⠀⠀⣶⣶⣬⣄⣓⣈⠣⠿⢼⡚⣏⠿⠀⢀⠶⡴⣌⡍⠃⠀⠸⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠁⠐⠠⠁⠌⡐⠂⡌⠰⠈⣰⡇⠀⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣶⣬⡥⠀⣈⠳⠽⠽⡛⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠈⠀⠄⢁⠂⡁⠢⢐⠡⠌⠁⣴⣿⠁⠀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⢀⣿⣿⣿⣶⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠠⠈⡀⢂⠐⡠⠑⡌⠢⢁⣾⣿⡟⠀⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⣸⣿⣿⣿⣿⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠂⠐⠠⠌⡐⢡⠒⣬⣿⣿⣿⠁⠀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠰⣶⣴⢦⣬⢤⣐⣀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠰⡙⠻⠿⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠁⢂⠘⡄⢣⣻⣿⣿⣿⡏⠀⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠁⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⡏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⠇⢠⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣯⣿⣳⣶⠀⠀⠀⣀⣀⠐⠀⠃⠂⠂⠀⣰⣿⣿⣿⡏⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠄⡈⢄⢊⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠁⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡏⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣾⣿⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⢸⣷⣮⣝⢶⣒⠶⣠⢄⠹⣞⣿⣿⡰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠠⠁⢂⠰⣌⣳⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⡏⠀⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⠙⢿⠿⠉⠀⠀⠀⠈⢀⣾⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡏⠀⠀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣵⣞⣳⣌⠻⡿⢐⣮⣙⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠄⠂⠄⢂⠡⢎⣶⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠁⠀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠉⠉⠉⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣯⣷⣄⠈⢖⣃⠳⠎⣻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠄⠂⢁⠀⢂⠡⡘⢄⣷⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢺⣿⣋⣷⢳⣮⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣬⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⡾⣷⢯⡷⣄⠉⢶⣙⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠄⠂⢀⠐⡈⠄⡘⠠⢁⣰⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⣿⣢⣤⣾⣿⣻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣤⢤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢻⡟⢿⡽⣛⣮⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠸⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠀⠀⣸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⣿⣿⣞⣧⣏⣟⣆⠀⡟⣶⢙⠻⣿⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠂⠁⠠⠈⠄⢂⠰⠈⢠⣅⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢯⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣯⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⣞⢤⣅⣄⠀⠀⢀⠀⣿⣿⢿⡹⡓⢤⠋⠔⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⢧⡙⣾⣹⣻⢾⢯⣟⣿⠇⠀⠀⣽⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣾⣷⣿⣻⣾⢽⣟⣿⣮⡝⠂⡝⣞⠀⠂⠀⠂⢠⢝⢿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠈⠀⠄⠁⢂⠡⢈⠐⣀⣒⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣯⣧⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡯⣹⣿⣿⣽⣿⣯⣿⣿⣷⢝⣿⣿⣿⢯⢳⣹⣷⣾⡿⠀⠀⡺⢽⣿⣻⢦⠑⢁⠈⢏⠂⠀⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⢁⠂⠌⠰⣈⢶⡹⢴⣳⢫⡟⣮⣟⣾⠀⠀⢀⣿⣯⣟⢯⣿⣿⣿⢿⣯⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣯⣟⣷⣂⠉⠆⠐⠈⡄⠀⡐⢎⢧⡙⢿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⠠⠈⡀⠌⡀⠂⣀⡴⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⣷⣿⣽⣷⣽⣿⣿⣻⣿⣿⣷⣽⣿⣿⣿⣿⣯⣿⣿⣯⣝⣷⣿⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣇⠀⢈⣿⣿⣿⡻⣷⡷⢦⡅⢤⠀⠀⠼⣜⠁⠂⠐⣀⠀⡀⠀⠈⠑⡌⠦⡛⢦⢣⣏⠽⣓⢮⠗⠀⠀⢨⣟⣮⢟⣻⠷⠻⣞⡿⣻⣟⡿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣽⣾⣛⢷⣀⣈⠀⠀⠀⡘⡌⢦⠱⣂
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⢀⠂⡐⢀⠂⢀⡔⣫⣶⣿⡿⣿⣿⣿⣟⣿⣻⣻⣿⣿⣿⣽⡻⣿⣿⣻⣯⣯⣷⣿⣿⣽⢿⡾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡯⣫⢿⣿⣮⣾⣿⡕⣯⣿⣷⡇⣭⢯⠟⣻⣿⣝⣿⢿⣮⣳⡌⠃⡈⣑⢦⠦⣈⣴⣌⡡⢝⠢⡇⡌⢳⢩⢞⡁⠀⠠⣜⡝⢮⢿⣽⣻⢷⣬⣿⢗⣯⣿⡿⣾⣿⣽⣟⢷⣯⢿⣹⣫⢟⣦⣀⠀⠹⢄⠳⡡
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⠂⠄⢂⠐⡠⢔⣯⣿⣿⡿⣿⢿⢿⡿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣷⣿⣿⣅⣟⣿⣷⣹⣿⣿⣿⣭⣟⡏⡷⣿⣻⣿⣿⣿⣮⣿⣿⣷⣿⢿⣽⢋⣿⣆⢎⢻⣿⣞⢮⡳⠣⣋⢿⣿⡹⡎⡎⣿⣌⢗⡊⢭⢷⣎⢲⢽⡙⢾⡳⣾⡵⣶⡍⢺⠀⠀⢰⡭⣞⣳⢮⣵⢻⢯⣿⣼⢿⣿⣻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡷⣿⡛⣧⣿⣙⢶⣭⡒⡄⠈⢣⠑
⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠐⠀⡁⢂⠀⢮⣴⣿⣿⣿⡽⠿⣿⣻⣷⣿⣽⡿⣿⣿⣿⣯⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⣿⡟⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⡻⣯⣿⣿⣷⡽⣏⣧⡻⣿⣜⠛⣮⡳⣭⣿⣷⢟⣆⢘⣲⡹⡮⣜⣾⡘⡟⠲⣭⡲⣭⢻⡧⡻⣏⢧⡱⣽⡻⣏⢽⣿⠀⠀⣷⣬⣛⢴⣞⢭⣭⡷⣻⣾⣿⣹⡛⣿⣻⢿⢏⣿⣿⣙⣿⣮⣷⣿⣺⡼⣝⡳⣆⡀⠈
⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠄⠀⣠⣭⣿⣽⣿⣶⣟⣿⢿⣿⣷⡿⣟⣿⣟⣿⣿⣿⣽⣿⣷⣻⣿⣿⣿⣾⣿⣿⡽⣿⣻⣿⣟⢾⣷⢻⣽⡜⣿⣮⡿⣿⣧⢻⡽⠾⣯⣺⣏⢳⡌⢿⣮⣟⢭⡿⡙⣧⢙⠇⣿⡮⢉⡉⡺⣯⢳⡖⢾⡔⢷⢳⣙⣮⡻⣿⣱⡹⡳⡏⠀⠰⣿⣿⣾⣷⡜⣷⣿⣽⣿⢿⣳⡞⣷⣜⣿⣮⣰⢝⣻⢯⡙⣿⠳⣟⣧⣻⢷⣝⣮⣳⡀
⠀⠀⠀⢄⡠⣤⣻⣵⣯⣻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⡽⢿⣿⡝⣷⣿⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢻⣝⣿⣷⣽⣷⣾⣷⣽⡿⡝⡔⣍⢳⡕⣵⣹⣬⡟⠾⣝⣿⣇⢣⠳⡜⣯⡻⣞⣟⢎⢿⡌⣾⣷⢿⣯⡝⣿⡷⣄⡰⣾⠿⣿⣝⢿⣞⠿⣿⡻⣧⣿⡳⣟⣷⡻⣿⣿⡿⣻⣾⣿⣯⣻⣽⣧⣿⣳⣻⢦⡷⣟