EDC 101 result weight

Brass Weight and the One Screw Thats Always Loose

I didn’t start carrying a brass bit driver with a magnetic socket because I thought I needed a bit driver. I started because I was tired of that one loose screw on the back of a light switch plate in my office.

It wasn’t even my office, technically. Just a shared space where the switch cover sat slightly crooked, one corner lifting like it was mid-shrug. Every time I flipped the lights on, I’d notice it. And every time I’d think, I should fix that. Then I’d forget, because I didn’t have a screwdriver on me, and walking to the maintenance closet felt like admitting defeat.

That’s usually how these things start. Not with a dramatic need. Just mild irritation repeated often enough to justify pocket space.

The brass part came later. At first it was just a small bit driver with a magnetic socket and a double-ended bit. Compact enough to disappear in a fifth pocket, long enough to be useful. The magnet mattered more than I expected. There’s something quietly satisfying about a bit that snaps into place and stays there, especially when you’re balancing a switch plate screw that seems determined to fall into the carpet.

But the driver I had was light. Too light. It worked fine, but it felt temporary, like something that belonged in a junk drawer, not in my pocket every day. I’d forget it was there. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes it means you stop respecting the space it takes up.

The brass changed that.

Brass has a way of insisting on itself. It’s heavier than it needs to be. It warms up in your hand. It develops that dull, uneven patina that makes it look older than it is. It doesn’t pretend to be high performance. It just sits there with a kind of quiet permanence. When I swapped to a brass bit driver with a magnetic socket, it stopped feeling like a disposable accessory and started feeling like an actual tool.

And that’s when the internal negotiation started.

Because a brass driver is not invisible. In gym shorts, it pulls. In lightweight summer pants, it makes its presence known. In jeans, it settles into the coin pocket and becomes a small, steady weight that you feel every time you sit down. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just there.

There’s always a threshold with EDC. When does something cross from “useful enough” to “why am I carrying this again?”

I work at a desk. Most of my day is email, spreadsheets, a few calls. I am not routinely disassembling machinery. But screws do come loose. Drawer handles wobble. Battery covers on kids’ toys need tightening. A cabinet hinge starts sagging. The small stuff. The stuff that doesn’t justify a toolbox trip but nags at you.

The magnetic socket is what keeps it honest. Without that magnet, a pocket bit driver feels like a novelty. You’re chasing screws across hardwood floors, trying to keep pressure aligned while the bit slips out. With the magnet, it’s a one-handed operation. Screw, tighten, done. It turns minor friction into something almost satisfying.

Still, I don’t use it every day. Some weeks I don’t use it at all.

That’s when I start questioning it. I’ll empty my pockets at night and line things up on the dresser. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Small flashlight. Knife. The brass driver sits there like it’s waiting for me to justify it.

I’ve taken it out before. Told myself I was simplifying. I don’t need a bit driver in my pocket. I have tools at home. Tools in the garage. Tools in a drawer at work.

And for a few days, I don’t miss it.

Then something small happens. A loose cabinet knob at a friend’s house. A wobbly screw on a folding chair at a backyard cookout. The battery door on a kid’s remote control car half hanging off. I feel that familiar pause where my hand almost goes to the pocket. And there’s nothing there.

That’s when it becomes less about capability and more about identity. Not in a dramatic way. Just a quiet preference. I like being able to fix small things immediately. I like the lack of ceremony. No announcing, no going to get a toolkit. Just, “Hold on,” and it’s done.

The brass driver with the magnetic socket doesn’t make me more prepared in any grand sense. It just trims those tiny hesitations out of the day.

There’s also something about carrying a driver instead of a full multi-tool. I’ve tried that route. Pliers, saw, file, bottle opener, things I never used. It felt impressive in the morning and excessive by mid-afternoon. The bit driver is narrower in purpose. It doesn’t pretend to solve everything. It handles screws. That’s it.

Limitation can feel cleaner.

I keep a couple of common bits in a small sleeve in my bag. Phillips and flathead do most of the work. Occasionally a Torx bit, because modern life seems held together by star-shaped screws. I don’t carry the whole set in my pocket. That would tip the balance from “useful” to “why am I jingling?”

The magnetic socket makes swapping bits quick enough that I don’t resent it. There’s a soft click when the bit seats. It’s subtle, but it feels decisive. No wobble. No second guessing.

And yes, the brass patina matters more than I want to admit. It darkens where my fingers grip it. The edges smooth out. It starts looking less like something I bought and more like something I’ve had. In a pocket full of black anodized aluminum and synthetic materials, the brass stands out. Not flashy. Just warm.

I’ve caught myself rotating it out in the summer when I’m wearing lighter clothes. Weight feels different when fabric is thinner. The driver will sit on my desk instead, within reach but not on me. And I notice the difference. Not because I need it constantly, but because part of my morning routine is the pocket check. Phone, wallet, keys, knife, light, driver. When one piece is missing, there’s a slight hitch in the mental rhythm.

That’s the real reason it stays. Not the screws. The rhythm.

EDC isn’t just about solving problems. It’s about smoothing the edges of your day in ways that are hard to explain to anyone who doesn’t think about this stuff. The brass bit driver with a magnetic socket occupies a very specific lane in that ecosystem. It’s not dramatic. It’s not impressive. It doesn’t start conversations.

It just sits in the coin pocket, heavier than it needs to be, waiting for the next small thing to come loose.

And eventually, something always does.

The Weight of a First Responder Flashlight

I do not work in emergency services. I sit at a desk most days. I answer emails, misplace pens, forget why I walked into rooms. Nothing about my routine suggests I need a first responder flashlight.

And yet, for a while, I carried one.

Not the small, polite kind that disappears in a coin pocket. I mean the solid, unapologetic cylinder of aluminum that feels like it was designed to be dropped onto pavement and shrugged off. The kind that assumes it will be used in rain, in noise, in situations where someone is talking too loudly and no one is quite sure what is happening.

It started, like most questionable carry decisions, with a vague feeling. I wanted more light. Not because I was navigating dark alleys or crawling under wrecked cars. Mostly it was parking garages, poorly lit stairwells, the space behind my dryer where socks go to die. My regular pocket light worked fine, but it always felt slightly tentative. A little too delicate. Like it expected me to apologize for asking too much of it.

The first responder style light did not have that personality. It felt certain. It clicked on with authority. Even during the day, testing it against a blank wall, it seemed mildly offended that I was wasting its time.

Carrying it changed the feel of my pockets immediately. You do not forget it is there. It presses against your thigh when you sit. It demands a better clip, better pants, better planning. It turns a casual loadout into something that feels intentional, maybe even a little overcommitted.

That is the part no one really says out loud. When you carry something built for professionals who run toward problems, you are borrowing a mindset. You are not just adding lumens. You are adding a question.

What exactly are you preparing for?

I asked myself that more than once. Usually while standing in line for coffee, very much not responding to anything. There is a thin line between being prepared and being theatrical. EDC culture dances on it constantly. We tell ourselves it is about capability. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it is about identity.

The first time the larger light made sense was mundane. A storm had rolled through overnight and knocked out power in my neighborhood. Not dramatic. Just inconvenient. The house was dim and gray in the early morning, and my phone battery was at forty percent because I forgot to charge it. I reached for the flashlight on my nightstand and flooded the room with clean, steady light. Not the weak, bluish glow of a screen. Real light. The kind that pushes shadows into corners and keeps them there.

It felt good. Reassuring in a quiet way. Not heroic. Just solid.

Later that week I used it to check on a strange rattling sound under my car. Another evening it lit up a hiking trail that turned darker than expected after sunset. In every case, a smaller light would have technically worked. That is the uncomfortable truth. I was rarely using even half of what the bigger tool could do.

So why keep carrying it?

Part of it is durability. There is something calming about gear that does not feel precious. I have owned small lights that I babied. I avoided dropping them. I worried about scratching the finish. A first responder flashlight does not invite that kind of relationship. It expects to be used. It almost improves with scuffs. That attitude seeps into how you treat it. You stop fussing.

Another part is grip. Under stress, even mild everyday stress, fine motor skills get sloppy. Hands are cold. Fingers are wet. You are holding groceries, or a leash, or your phone. A larger light is easier to grab without thinking. It fills your hand. It orients itself without much effort. That matters more than output numbers ever will.

Still, there were days when it felt excessive. Summer especially. Thin shorts, lighter pockets, less tolerance for weight. The flashlight became the first thing I considered leaving behind. I would set it on the dresser and pick up the smaller one. Sleeker. Easier. More aligned with the reality that most of my emergencies involve finding a dropped receipt in my car.

EDC is negotiation. Between who you are and who you think you might need to be. Between comfort and capability. The first responder flashlight sits on the heavier end of that scale. It asks you to accept inconvenience now for a scenario that may never come.

There is also the social layer. Pulling out a substantial flashlight in a group setting changes the mood slightly. People notice. They make comments. Some are impressed. Some are confused. A few look at you like you packed for the wrong event. You have to be comfortable with that. Or at least indifferent.

I realized after a few months that I was not carrying it for brightness alone. I was carrying it because it reduced hesitation. When something went dark, I did not squint. I did not fiddle with my phone. I did not wonder if the battery would hold. I simply clicked and moved on. That lack of friction is subtle but addictive.

Eventually I scaled back. Not because the larger light failed me. It never did. But because I had to admit that my daily life did not consistently justify the bulk. I keep it nearby now. In a bag. In the car. Close enough to matter, far enough to be honest.

What stayed with me was not the tool itself, but the brief period of carrying something that assumed the world might ask more of me. It is easy to build a pocket around convenience. It is harder to build it around responsibility.

A first responder flashlight is not about chasing worst case scenarios. At least it should not be. It is about deciding how much uncertainty you are willing to carry, physically and mentally. About whether you prefer to adapt in the moment or arrive slightly overprepared.

Most days, I choose lighter pockets. But I understand the appeal now. There is a quiet confidence in having more light than you think you will need. Not because you expect chaos, but because you respect the fact that ordinary life occasionally flickers.

And when it does, it is nice to answer with something steady in your hand.

The Weight of a Brass Pen in Your Pocket

I did not start carrying a machined brass tactical pen because I needed a better pen.

If I am being honest, I started carrying one because I was tired of the disposable plastic ones that breed in junk drawers and then vanish the second you actually need them. There is something mildly insulting about signing a receipt with a pen that feels like it came free with a pizza coupon. It works, technically. It just does not feel like it belongs to you.

The brass pen was different the moment I picked it up. Not because it looked aggressive or impressive. Because it felt permanent. Cool, dense, unapologetic. It did not flex. It did not click in a cheerful way. It just existed, solid and patient, like it had already decided it would outlast me.

Calling it tactical always makes me pause. The word carries baggage. Most days my life does not require tactics. It requires grocery lists, signatures on delivery slips, quick notes on scrap paper, the occasional phone number written on the back of a receipt. Nothing dramatic. Nothing cinematic.

And yet, I understand why the word sticks to this kind of pen. It is overbuilt for ordinary life. Machined brass has no reason to be this serious about ink. That is part of the appeal.

When you slide one into your pocket, you feel it. Not in an annoying way, but in a grounding way. It adds weight to lightweight days. Keys, wallet, phone, knife if you are that type, and then this dense cylinder that does one simple thing. It writes. That is it.

I used to think carrying a serious pen was a little performative. Like you were trying to signal something. Preparedness. Intentionality. Maybe even a bit of quiet toughness. Then I noticed how often I reached for it.

At a coffee shop, filling out a form with a pen chained to the counter, I caught myself wishing for my own. Not because the chained pen was unusable, but because it felt communal and temporary. My brass pen feels like a personal tool. It has a slight patina now. The finish is darker near the grip where my fingers rest. It is not pristine. It looks handled. Used. Owned.

That word matters more than I expected.

Most EDC decisions live in that strange space between need and preference. No one needs a machined brass tactical pen for daily life in the modern United States. You can tap notes into your phone. You can borrow a pen. You can survive without ever carrying one.

But EDC has never been about survival. It is about friction.

Every day presents small points of friction. A clipboard with no pen attached. A package that needs a quick label. A thought that feels clearer when it moves from brain to paper. When you carry your own pen, one small category of friction disappears. Quietly.

The brass changes the experience. A lightweight aluminum pen disappears in the pocket. A plastic one feels temporary. Brass has presence. It asks to be noticed. Sometimes that feels like too much. I have taken it out of my rotation more than once, telling myself it is unnecessary weight. Then a week later it finds its way back.

There is something about the ritual of unscrewing a cap or twisting a mechanism that feels mechanical in a satisfying way. The threads are precise. The motion is deliberate. It slows you down by half a second. That half second is oddly satisfying in a world built around instant taps and swipes.

I do not carry it because I expect trouble. I carry it because I appreciate tools that refuse to feel disposable. The tactical label is more cultural than practical. It signals durability, maybe a bit of edge. In reality, my brass pen spends most of its life writing mundane things in mediocre handwriting.

Still, there is a subtle shift when you hand someone a heavy brass pen instead of a featherweight freebie. They notice. They turn it in their fingers for a second. Sometimes they comment on the weight. Sometimes they just nod slightly before signing whatever needs signing. It changes nothing, and yet it changes the moment a little.

I have questioned whether it is excessive. Brass is not subtle. It develops character whether you want it to or not. Scratches show. The color deepens. It refuses to stay factory fresh. Part of me misses the clean look it had when it was new. Another part appreciates that it now looks like it belongs specifically to me.

EDC is full of these quiet negotiations. How much weight is acceptable for the sake of satisfaction? How much durability is overkill for a desk job and weekend errands? Why choose something that will likely outlive its purpose?

I think the answer sits somewhere between control and continuity. So much of modern life is temporary. Apps update. Devices become obsolete. Even habits shift faster than we expect. A machined brass pen pushes back against that current in a small, stubborn way. It does one job. It keeps doing it. It ages instead of expiring.

There are days when I leave it at home and rely on whatever pen is nearby. Those days feel lighter, literally. But they also feel slightly less intentional. I notice how often I ask to borrow something. How often I settle.

Carrying a brass pen does not make me more capable. It does not turn routine paperwork into a meaningful ritual. It just removes one small dependency. It gives me a tool that feels considered rather than accidental.

Maybe that is the real reason it stays in my pocket. Not because it is tactical. Not because it is brass. But because it represents a decision that I made once and continue to reaffirm every morning when I pick it up.

EDC is rarely about the object itself. It is about the quiet statement that you are paying attention to your own patterns. You are noticing the small annoyances and choosing, sometimes irrationally, to address them with something solid and lasting.

A machined brass tactical pen is, on paper, excessive. In practice, it is just a pen with weight and patience. It writes grocery lists. It signs birthday cards. It scratches out thoughts that would otherwise evaporate.

And at the end of the day, when I empty my pockets onto the dresser, it lands with a soft, reassuring thud. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just present.

For something so simple, that presence is enough.

The Weight of a Copper Pen in a Minimal Pocket

I did not switch to a copper pen because I needed a better way to write. I switched because I was tired of pretending a plastic click pen meant anything.

For years I carried whatever showed up on a counter or rolled across a desk. Cheap pens multiply like paper clips. They appear, they disappear, nobody feels responsible. I would shove one into my pocket, forget it was there, then feel slightly annoyed when it snapped or leaked. It was functional in the same way a borrowed hoodie is functional. It works, but it is not yours.

A minimalist copper pen changes that dynamic in a way that feels almost unnecessary. Which is exactly the point.

It is heavier than it needs to be. Not dramatically heavy, but enough that you notice it when you slip it into your front pocket next to your knife or your wallet. The first week I carried one, I kept checking to see if it was still there. The weight was reassuring in a quiet way. Not tactical. Not dramatic. Just present.

Copper has this strange ability to look both refined and slightly industrial at the same time. Fresh out of the box it has that bright, almost new penny shine. Give it a few weeks in a real pocket and it starts to darken. The surface dulls. It picks up faint marks from keys and coins. The oils from your hands start to shift the color in uneven patches. It stops looking like an object and starts looking like something that has been around.

That is what drew me in. Not performance. Not ink flow. Just the idea that a pen could age alongside everything else I carry.

Minimalist is an overused word in this space. Most of us say minimalist when we really mean curated. We carry fewer things, but each one carries more weight, literally or otherwise. A copper pen fits that mindset because it refuses to be invisible. It does not hide behind plastic or branding. It is a simple tube of metal that happens to write.

And that simplicity forces a question I did not expect. Do I actually need to carry a pen at all?

My phone handles most of what I used to write down. Grocery lists live in an app. Phone numbers sync themselves. Even random thoughts get tapped into a screen before I can forget them. Carrying a pen in that context feels almost stubborn. Like insisting on wearing a watch when every screen around you already shows the time.

But there are moments when a pen feels different. Signing a receipt at a small diner where the server hands you a clipboard that has seen better days. Jotting down a measurement while standing in the middle of a hardware aisle. Writing a quick note and leaving it on the kitchen counter because it feels more deliberate than a text. In those moments, pulling out your own pen feels intentional.

A minimalist copper pen sharpens that feeling. It is not flashy. It does not click loudly. There is no complex mechanism to fiddle with. You twist it open or uncap it and that is it. The action is small, mechanical, almost grounding. It makes you slow down for half a second before you write.

I have noticed that I write slightly neater when I use it. Not because the pen demands it, but because I am more aware of what I am doing. There is something about the weight in your fingers that discourages careless scribbling. It feels like you are using a tool, not a disposable object.

That might sound overly romantic for a pen. I get that. I questioned it too. But Everyday Carry has never really been about necessity alone. If it were, we would all carry the lightest, cheapest version of everything and call it a day.

Instead, we choose objects that shape our habits.

Carrying a copper pen changed one small habit for me. I stopped leaving pens behind. When you carry something that feels personal, you notice when it is missing. I have gone back into a coffee shop because I felt the absence in my pocket before I even reached my car. I would never do that for a free pen with a logo on it.

There is also the quiet rebellion of carrying something analog in a digital world. Not in a loud, nostalgic way. I am not trying to escape technology. I am typing this on a laptop. But there is something grounding about knowing that if I need to capture a thought, I do not need a battery, a signal, or a password. I just need a scrap of paper.

The copper adds another layer to that feeling. It conducts temperature, so in winter it is cold when you first pick it up. In summer it warms quickly in your hand. It reacts to the environment. It reacts to you. Over time it starts to look less like a product and more like a small artifact of your routine.

Of course, there are trade offs. Copper is not the lightest material. If you are chasing the absolute minimum weight in your pockets, it might annoy you. If you lose things often, carrying a pen that develops character might feel risky. It is easier to shrug off losing something replaceable than something that has clearly been with you for a while.

That tension is part of why I keep carrying it.

Every EDC setup is a negotiation between utility and attachment. The more attached you are to an item, the more it asks of you. You have to keep track of it. Maintain it. Accept that it will change over time. A minimalist copper pen sits right in that space. It is simple enough to justify. Distinct enough to matter.

I sometimes think about dropping it from my carry. Going back to whatever pen is closest. Reducing a little weight. Simplifying further. Then I reach for it to sign something and feel that familiar heft, that smooth metal warmed by my hand, and the thought passes.

It is not about writing better. It is not about looking prepared. It is about choosing to carry one small object that refuses to be disposable.

In a pocket full of practical compromises, the copper pen feels like a quiet line in the sand. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a small reminder that even the simplest tool can be chosen on purpose.

And for now, that is reason enough to keep it with me.

The Weight You Dont Talk About

There is a certain kind of comfort in stainless steel that plastic will never understand.

You feel it the second you drop a heavy duty stainless steel pocket tool into your pocket. It does not disappear. It does not politely blend in. It settles. It makes its presence known every time you shift in your chair or climb into your car. It pulls slightly on the fabric like a quiet reminder that you chose it on purpose.

Most people spend years trying to lighten their carry. Thinner wallet. Smaller phone. Minimalist key ring. The whole point is to forget it is there. Then, at some point, some of us go in the opposite direction and slip a solid chunk of machined steel into the mix. No real explanation. Just a feeling that we would rather have it than not.

A heavy duty stainless steel pocket tool is rarely elegant. It is not sleek in the way aluminum is sleek. It is not charming in the way brass can be. It is dense. It is honest about what it is. When you hold it, there is no illusion that it was made to impress anyone. It was made to endure friction, pressure, time.

That matters more than we admit.

Most of what we open during the day does not require heavy duty anything. Cardboard boxes. Packaging that could probably be defeated with a car key. A stubborn battery compartment. The screws on a loose cabinet hinge in the office break room. None of these are heroic tasks. They are small interruptions. The stainless tool in your pocket handles them without ceremony. No flex. No creaking. No sense that you are asking too much.

And yet, if we are honest, a lighter tool could do most of it just fine.

So why carry the heavier one?

Part of it is trust, and trust is rarely logical. Stainless steel has a reputation for not caring about moisture, sweat, or neglect. You can forget it in a pocket through a humid afternoon. You can leave it in the center console for months. It comes back the same way it left. There is something reassuring about that kind of indifference.

Another part is the feel. People underestimate how much texture and temperature influence attachment. Stainless steel starts cold in the morning. It warms slowly in your hand. It has a smoothness that is not slippery and a hardness that does not apologize. When you apply pressure, there is no suggestion of bending or compromise. The tool does not negotiate with the task. It simply meets it.

That firmness changes how you approach small problems. You stop babying the tool. You stop wondering if it will hold up. You focus on the problem instead of the object in your hand. That mental shift is subtle, but it is real.

There is also a quiet resistance built into carrying something heavy duty. We live in a time when everything is optimized for portability and upgrade cycles. Thin is better. Light is better. Disposable is normal. A stainless steel pocket tool pushes back against that current. It says that durability still matters. That maybe you would rather own one solid thing for years than replace three lighter ones along the way.

Of course, it costs you something.

Weight is not abstract. By mid afternoon you feel it when you sit down. It changes how your pants hang. It forces you to think about pocket layout. If you carry a knife, a flashlight, a phone, keys, maybe a small notebook, every ounce competes. The heavy tool demands its share. Sometimes you resent it. Sometimes you leave it at home and notice the relief immediately.

Those are honest moments. EDC is not a loyalty program. It is a daily negotiation.

There have been weeks when I convinced myself that I was done with heavy stainless. I would swap it out for something lighter, something clever with cutouts and skeletonized lines. For a while it felt smart. Efficient. My pockets felt less crowded. Then a simple task would come up, something involving a stubborn fastener or a tight space that required real torque, and I would hesitate. Not because the lighter tool could not handle it, but because I was not entirely sure.

That doubt is small, but it lingers.

The heavy stainless tool does not eliminate doubt about the world. It eliminates doubt about itself. In an ordinary day filled with small uncertainties, that counts for something.

There is also the matter of aging. Stainless steel wears in a way that tells the truth. It picks up faint scratches. The edges soften just slightly. The finish dulls where your fingers rest most often. None of it looks tragic. It looks used. The tool becomes less of an object and more of a record. You can trace habits in the wear patterns.

Lightweight materials often chase perfection. They look best when untouched. Stainless looks better after a few years of friction. That appeals to a certain mindset. Not sentimental exactly, but aware that things should earn their place.

Heavy duty does not mean dramatic. It does not mean you expect chaos around every corner. Most days it means you open packages, adjust a loose screw, scrape something off a surface, maybe pry something apart that was not designed to come apart easily. It means you prefer to lean on something solid rather than hope it holds.

There is a cultural layer to it as well. In some corners of carry culture, heavy stainless signals seriousness. It hints at mechanical sympathy. At an appreciation for machining, for tolerances, for objects that are overbuilt on purpose. But that signal only matters if you are paying attention. Most people will never notice what is in your pocket, and that is fine. EDC is mostly a private conversation.

The real question is whether the weight aligns with who you are on an average Tuesday.

Are you the kind of person who would rather have a margin of strength you may never fully use? Or are you the kind who values ease above all, who wants to forget the tool until it is needed?

There is no correct answer. I have swung between both.

What keeps pulling me back to heavy duty stainless steel pocket tools is not performance. It is the quiet finality of them. They feel resolved. There is no sense that they are trying to be anything else. They do not chase trends or aesthetics. They exist to work, and to keep working, and to look slightly better after doing so.

When you drop one onto a desk, it makes a sound that is unmistakable. Solid. Direct. It does not rattle. It does not echo hollow. That sound alone tells you what you need to know.

Carrying one is a small declaration. Not to other people. To yourself. It says that you are willing to accept a little inconvenience in exchange for a little more certainty. That you do not mind feeling the weight if it means you do not have to second guess the tool when it counts.

Some days I still choose lighter. Some days I want my pockets to feel almost empty. But when I reach for the stainless piece again and feel that familiar density settle in, there is a subtle sense of alignment. Like I am back to carrying something that matches the way I move through the world.

Not hurried. Not flashy. Just steady.

And sometimes steady is the whole point.