No Wasted Breath: Writing Sentences That Earn Their Place
By
Olivia Salter
There is a quiet illusion many writers cling to—the belief that a story is built in scenes, in plot points, in sweeping emotional arcs. We talk about inciting incidents, climaxes, character transformations. We outline chapters. We map tension like a rising graph. And while all of that is true, it is also incomplete.
Because those elements do not exist on their own.
They are carried—line by line—on the back of language.
A story is built sentence by sentence.
Not paragraphs. Not chapters. Sentences.
The paragraph is only as strong as the sentences inside it. The chapter only works if the paragraphs hold. And the most powerful scene will collapse under the weight of weak, unfocused lines. What we often call a “slow story” or a “flat scene” is, more often than not, a sentence-level problem. The structure may be sound. The idea may even be compelling. But the execution falters in the smallest units.
Because the truth is this: readers do not experience your story in chapters.
They experience it one sentence at a time.
Each sentence is a step forward—or a hesitation. A tightening of tension—or a release of it. A deepening of character—or a missed opportunity to reveal something real. Even rhythm lives here. The pace of your story, the breathlessness or stillness of a moment, is controlled not by the outline, but by the length, structure, and intention of your sentences.
A short sentence can feel like a punch.
A long one can feel like a slow unraveling.
A fragmented one can mimic a breaking mind.
This is where the story actually happens.
And every sentence is either doing the work… or it is quietly undoing it.
There is no neutral ground.
A sentence that drifts, that repeats, that fills space without purpose—it doesn’t just sit there harmlessly. It creates distance. It dulls the edge of what came before. It interrupts the reader’s immersion in ways they may not consciously register, but will absolutely feel. One unnecessary sentence may not break a story—but enough of them will erode it from the inside out.
On the other hand, a sentence that is doing the work carries weight far beyond its length. It can reveal contradiction in a character, shift the direction of a scene, plant a question in the reader’s mind, or tighten emotional tension without announcing itself.
It moves the story forward—even when nothing “happens.”
That is the standard.
Not perfection. Not constant intensity.
But purpose.
When you begin to see your writing at the level of the sentence, everything sharpens. You become more deliberate. More aware. You stop hiding behind structure and start engaging with the actual substance of your work.
Because in the end, a story is not built in broad strokes.
It is built in the smallest decisions—one sentence at a time.
The Hidden Cost of Unnecessary Sentences
A sentence that does nothing may seem harmless. It may even sound beautiful. But in fiction, beauty without purpose is a kind of deception.
It gives the illusion that something meaningful is happening when, in reality, nothing is changing. The language may be elegant. The imagery may be vivid. But if the sentence does not contribute—if it does not move, reveal, or deepen—it becomes a distraction dressed as substance.
And distractions, over time, erode the story.
Every time a sentence fails to:
- reveal character
- deepen tension
- advance the action
…it asks the reader to care without giving them a reason.
It asks for attention without offering value.
And readers are more perceptive than we often give them credit for. They may not stop and say, This sentence is unnecessary. But they feel the weight of it. The drag. The slight resistance as they move through the page.
That resistance accumulates.
The story begins to slow—not in a deliberate, controlled way, but in a way that feels unintentional. The urgency softens. The tension diffuses. The emotional thread, once tight and compelling, begins to loosen.
Moments that should land with force arrive muted.
Reveals that should feel sharp feel predictable.
Scenes that should grip the reader instead pass without impact.
What was once immersive becomes distant.
Not because the story is bad—but because it is diluted.
And dilution is subtle. It doesn’t ruin a story all at once. It weakens it gradually, line by line, sentence by sentence. Like adding too much water to something meant to be strong—the flavor is still there, but it no longer hits the same.
This is the hidden cost.
Unnecessary sentences don’t just take up space.
They reduce the power of the sentences around them.
They create gaps where there should be pressure.
They soften edges that should remain sharp.
They give the reader places to drift when they should be leaning in.
And perhaps most importantly, they signal a lack of intention.
Because every sentence you leave in the story tells the reader: this matters.
If it doesn’t, the trust between writer and reader begins to fracture.
Strong fiction is not just about what you include. It is about what you refuse to keep.
It is about recognizing that restraint is not loss—it is control. That cutting a sentence is not diminishing your work, but clarifying it. Strengthening it. Allowing what remains to stand with greater force.
Because when you remove what is unnecessary, what is essential has room to resonate.
And resonance is what the reader carries with them—long after the story is over.
What It Means for a Sentence to “Matter”
A sentence matters when it earns its place on the page.
Not because it fills space. Not because it sounds impressive. But because it contributes—because without it, something essential would be missing.
This doesn’t mean every sentence must be explosive or dramatic. Quiet sentences can carry immense weight—but they must do something. They must participate in the movement of the story, even if that movement is subtle, internal, or delayed.
A sentence that matters leaves a mark. It shifts the reader’s understanding, even slightly. It adds pressure, reveals truth, or alters direction. It is not passive—it is active, even in stillness.
At its core, every sentence should serve at least one of two functions:
1. Reveal Character
Who is this person, really?
Not who they say they are. Not who the narration claims they are. But who they reveal themselves to be through behavior, thought, language, and contradiction.
Because character is not built through explanation—it is exposed through detail.
She said she was fine, but folded the receipt into smaller and smaller squares until it tore.
That sentence doesn’t just describe an action. It exposes tension, denial, and emotional fracture. The contradiction between her words and her behavior creates depth. We learn not just what she feels—but how she handles what she feels.
That is where character lives.
In what is said versus what is done.
In what is avoided versus what is confronted.
In the small, telling details that cannot be faked.
A sentence that reveals character gives the reader insight they didn’t have before. It answers a question—or better yet, it raises a more interesting one.
2. Advance the Action
What is changing?
Action is often misunderstood as movement—someone running, speaking, doing something visible. But in fiction, action is broader than that. It includes shifts in power, emotion, knowledge, or intention.
Anything that alters the state of the story is action.
He almost told her the truth—then the phone rang.
Something has changed. A decision was about to happen. Now it won’t.
The interruption matters. The delay matters. The withheld truth now carries more weight than if it had simply been spoken. The story has moved—not forward in a straight line, but sideways, into tension.
And that tension is what keeps the reader engaged.
But here’s where it deepens:
The strongest sentences often do both.
They reveal character through action.
They advance action through character.
He smiled when she asked if he was honest, just long enough to make her doubt the question.
Now we have movement (a shift in trust, in tension) and revelation (something is off, something is being hidden). The sentence is doing double the work without drawing attention to itself.
This is the standard—not that every sentence must do everything, but that every sentence must do something meaningful.
Because when a sentence matters, it creates momentum. It pulls the reader forward, not by force, but by curiosity. By emotional investment. By the quiet insistence that something is happening—even in the smallest gesture.
And when enough of these sentences are placed together, something larger emerges:
A story that feels alive.
Not because of its length.
Not because of its complexity.
But because every part of it is working—one sentence at a time.
The Danger of Decorative Writing
Writers often fall in love with sentences that sound good but do nothing.
They shimmer. They flow. They feel like writing. And because of that, they are some of the hardest sentences to cut.
Descriptions that linger too long. Observations that repeat what we already know. Dialogue that circles instead of cuts. Lines that exist for their own beauty rather than their contribution.
These sentences feel productive—but they stall the story.
They create the illusion of depth without actually deepening anything. The page fills up, the word count grows, but the story itself remains in place—unmoved, unchanged.
And the reader feels it.
Not always consciously. Not as a clear critique. But as a subtle disengagement. A sense that something is taking longer than it should. That the story is talking instead of progressing.
Consider this:
The room was very messy. Clothes were everywhere. Books were scattered across the floor. It looked like no one had cleaned it in weeks.
Now compare it to:
He stepped over a pile of clothes and kicked a book aside, pretending not to recognize the life he’d stopped managing.
The first describes the room.
The second reveals the character and the situation.
Same space. Different purpose.
But the difference goes deeper than efficiency.
The first version places the reader outside the moment, observing a static image. It tells us what is there—but not why it matters.
The second pulls the reader inside the character’s experience. The mess is no longer just physical—it becomes psychological. Avoidance. Denial. A life slipping out of control. The description becomes evidence of something larger.
This is the shift from decorative writing to purposeful writing.
Decorative writing prioritizes surface.
Purposeful writing prioritizes meaning.
And here’s the uncomfortable truth: decorative sentences often come from a place of hesitation.
We circle instead of cutting to the core.
We describe instead of revealing.
We add more instead of risking precision.
Because precision requires commitment.
It forces you to choose what the moment is really about—and to write directly into it.
Dialogue is another common trap.
Characters speak, but nothing changes. They repeat themselves. They explain what both characters already know. They avoid conflict instead of engaging with it. The conversation fills space, but it doesn’t move.
Compare:
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Now consider:
“Are you okay?”
“You should go.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
The second exchange introduces tension. Deflection. Power. Something is happening beneath the surface. The dialogue is not just communication—it is conflict.
This is what decorative writing avoids.
It avoids friction. It avoids specificity. It avoids the risk of saying something that might land too hard.
But that is exactly where the power is.
To move beyond decorative writing, you have to start asking harder questions:
- Am I describing this because it matters—or because I can see it clearly in my head?
- Am I repeating information the reader already understands?
- Is this dialogue revealing something new—or just filling space?
- What is the point of this moment?
If the answer is unclear, the sentence likely is too.
And that doesn’t mean you must strip away all beauty from your prose.
Beauty has a place.
But in strong fiction, beauty is never separate from purpose. It is fused with it. A sentence can be lyrical and revealing. Elegant and sharp. But if it is only one of those things, it risks becoming indulgent.
The goal is not to eliminate style.
It is to ensure that style serves substance.
Because in the end, readers are not moved by how pretty a sentence is.
They are moved by what it does.
And the most powerful sentences don’t just decorate the story—they define it.
Compression Creates Power
When every sentence matters, writing becomes sharper. Tighter. More precise. And paradoxically, more powerful.
Why?
Because readers are no longer sifting through noise. They are moving through meaning.
There is no excess to filter out, no repetition to wade through, no filler dulling the edge of what matters. Every line carries intention. Every sentence delivers something—information, emotion, tension, implication. The experience becomes immersive not because it is overwhelming, but because it is focused.
This doesn’t mean stripping your prose down to bare bones.
That is a common misunderstanding.
Compression is not about making your writing smaller—it is about making it denser. It is not reduction for the sake of brevity. It is refinement for the sake of impact.
A sparse sentence can still be empty.
A longer sentence can still be precise.
What matters is not how much space the sentence takes up—but how much weight it carries.
It means layering intention into every line. A single sentence can:
- describe a setting
- reveal a character’s emotional state
- hint at backstory
- create tension
All at once.
And when it does, something powerful happens: the story begins to move faster and feel deeper at the same time.
Because the reader is receiving more with every step.
Consider the difference:
The house was old and quiet. She felt uneasy being there.
Now compressed:
The house held its breath, and so did she.
The second sentence is not longer. It is not more complex. But it carries atmosphere, emotion, and tension simultaneously. It invites the reader to feel rather than simply observe.
That is compression.
It trusts the reader. It relies on implication. It allows meaning to resonate rather than be explained.
And this is where many writers hesitate—because compression requires restraint.
You must resist the urge to over-explain.
To spell everything out.
To add “just one more sentence” to make sure the reader understands.
But understanding does not come from repetition.
It comes from precision.
When a sentence is dense with meaning, it echoes. It lingers. It invites the reader to participate—to read between the lines, to connect the emotional and narrative threads themselves.
This is where engagement deepens.
Because readers are not just consuming the story—they are co-creating it in their minds.
The goal is not minimalism.
The goal is density.
To write sentences that hold more than they appear to.
To create lines that operate on multiple levels at once.
To ensure that nothing is wasted—not because you wrote less, but because everything you wrote matters more.
Interrogating Your Sentences
Revision is where this principle becomes real.
Drafting is instinct. It’s movement, discovery, momentum. You are following the thread of the story, letting it unfold without stopping to question every step. But revision is different. Revision is where you turn back, slow down, and look at what you’ve actually built.
This is where intention replaces impulse.
When you reread your work, ask of each sentence:
- What is this doing?
- What does the reader learn here that they didn’t know before?
- If I remove this, does anything change?
At first, these questions may feel harsh—almost surgical. But that is the point. You are not just reading as a writer anymore. You are reading as an editor, as a critic, as the reader who owes the story nothing.
And sentences begin to reveal themselves.
Some will hold weight immediately. You’ll see how they carry emotion, tension, or clarity. How they sharpen a moment or deepen a character. These sentences stay.
Others will hesitate under scrutiny. They may sound polished. They may even be lines you’re proud of. But when you press them—when you ask what they are truly contributing—they falter.
They repeat.
They explain what’s already been shown.
They soften what should be sharp.
They exist because they were easy to write—not because they were necessary.
This is where most writers struggle—not in identifying weak sentences, but in letting them go.
Because sometimes the sentence isn’t bad.
It’s just unnecessary.
And unnecessary writing is one of the most dangerous forms of weakness. It disguises itself as effort. It feels like progress. But in reality, it slows everything down. It clutters the emotional path between the reader and the story.
If the answer is “nothing,” the sentence is not harmless—it is in the way.
It is diluting the impact of the lines around it. It is asking for attention it has not earned.
Cut it.
Or transform it into something that matters.
Transformation is often the better choice. Instead of deleting the sentence entirely, ask how it can carry more weight. Can it reveal something about the character? Can it introduce tension? Can it imply rather than explain?
A weak sentence is often a missed opportunity in disguise.
For example:
She was nervous about the interview.
This tells us something—but it doesn’t engage us.
Now consider:
She smoothed her resume for the third time, though the paper was already flat.
The information is similar—but now it reveals behavior, anxiety, and subtle characterization. The sentence is doing more work without becoming longer or louder.
This is the goal of interrogation—not just reduction, but refinement.
And as you continue this process, something begins to change in how you write.
You start catching unnecessary sentences earlier. You become more deliberate even in your drafts. The gap between instinct and intention begins to close.
Eventually, you no longer need to question every sentence so aggressively—because you’ve trained yourself to write with purpose from the start.
But even then, revision remains essential.
Because no matter how skilled you become, clarity is never immediate. Meaning is never accidental. And a strong story is not written once—it is shaped, sharpened, and insisted upon through careful attention.
One sentence at a time.
When to Break the Rule
Like all rules in writing, this one is not absolute.
If you follow it too rigidly, your prose can become mechanical—efficient, yes, but stripped of breath. Stories need texture. They need variation. They need moments where the reader can feel the space between actions, not just be pushed from one beat to the next.
Moments of stillness, atmosphere, or rhythm may seem to resist function—but even then, they serve a purpose.
A pause can build tension by delaying what the reader expects.
A quiet observation can slip beneath the surface and foreshadow what’s to come.
A seemingly small detail—a gesture, a sound, a fleeting image—can return later with devastating weight, recontextualizing everything.
Consider the difference between a pause that stalls and a pause that tightens.
A stalled moment drifts. It lingers without direction. The reader begins to wonder why they are still there.
But a purposeful pause hums with something unspoken. It stretches the moment just enough to make the reader lean in, to feel the pressure of what has not yet happened.
That is the distinction.
Even stillness is movement—if it is charged with intention.
The same is true for atmosphere. Description is often where writers feel justified in loosening this rule, allowing themselves to indulge in language for its own sake. But the most powerful atmosphere is never decorative. It is selective. It reflects mood, character, or conflict.
A storm is not just weather—it is tension.
A quiet room is not just silence—it is absence, or anticipation, or aftermath.
When description is intentional, it does more than paint a picture. It positions the reader emotionally.
And then there is rhythm—the music of your prose.
Sometimes a sentence exists not to reveal new information, but to control pacing. To slow the reader down before a revelation. To create contrast. To let a moment land before the next one arrives. These sentences may appear simple, even invisible, but they are doing critical work beneath the surface.
They are guiding the reader’s experience.
The difference, always, is intention.
A sentence that appears simple but is placed deliberately still matters. It may not announce its purpose, but it fulfills it.
A sentence that exists only because the writer didn’t question it does not.
This is where discipline and instinct must meet.
You must give yourself permission to break the rule—but not to ignore it. Breaking it should be a conscious choice, not an accident. You should know why the sentence is there, what it contributes, and what would be lost without it.
Because once you understand the rule at its deepest level, you realize something important:
You are never truly breaking it.
You are expanding what it means for a sentence to matter.
Writing With Urgency
When you adopt this mindset, something shifts.
You begin to write with urgency—not in speed, but in purpose. The work becomes less about filling space and more about shaping impact. You are no longer trying to get through the scene. You are trying to make it land.
Urgency, in this sense, is not frantic. It is focused.
You become aware that every line is an opportunity. Every sentence is a decision. Not a default. Not a placeholder. A decision.
Do you reveal something—or withhold it?
Do you let the character speak—or let silence expose them?
Do you slow the moment down—or cut it at its peak?
These choices live at the sentence level. And once you start seeing them, you cannot unsee them.
You stop writing on autopilot.
You stop letting sentences exist simply because they came to you.
Instead, you begin to interrogate them. Shape them. Demand more from them.
You stop asking:
“What sounds good here?”
Because “sounding good” is often a trap. It leads to indulgence. To sentences that are polished but empty, smooth but forgettable. Lines that impress on the surface but leave no mark underneath.
And you start asking:
“What needs to happen here?”
That question cuts deeper.
It forces you to confront the moment as it truly is—not as you wish it to be, not as it would be easiest to write, but as it must exist for the story to move forward with honesty and force.
Sometimes what needs to happen is conflict—introduced sooner, sharper, without hesitation.
Sometimes it is restraint—pulling back, letting subtext do the work instead of explanation.
Sometimes it is clarity—cutting through vagueness to name what the character is avoiding.
And sometimes, it is discomfort—writing the line you were tempted to soften or skip entirely.
Writing with urgency means you do not delay what matters.
You don’t circle the truth. You move toward it.
You don’t pad the scene to make it feel complete. You build it so that it is complete—because every sentence is carrying its share of the weight.
This mindset also changes how you handle revision.
You become less attached to what you’ve written and more committed to what the story needs. You cut faster. You rewrite cleaner. You recognize when a sentence is protecting you—from vulnerability, from risk, from saying the thing too directly—and you decide whether that protection serves the story or weakens it.
Most of the time, it weakens it.
Urgency strips away hesitation.
Not recklessly—but deliberately.
It teaches you to trust that the power of your story lies not in how much you include, but in how precisely you choose. That restraint can be stronger than excess. That clarity can be more devastating than ornament.
And that a single, necessary sentence will always outlive a paragraph of unnecessary ones.
That question changes everything.
Because once you begin asking what needs to happen, you can no longer settle for what merely could.
And that is where your writing begins to sharpen—into something that doesn’t just move…
…but matters.
Writing Exercises
Exercises: Making Every Sentence Matter
These exercises are designed to train writer's ability to evaluate, refine, and rewrite sentences so that each one reveals character, advances action, or deepens tension.
Exercise 1: The Sentence Audit
Take a short scene you’ve already written (1–3 pages).
- Go through it sentence by sentence.
- For each sentence, ask:
- What is this doing?
- Does it reveal character, advance action, or deepen tension?
- What new information does the reader gain?
Mark each sentence:
- ✔ = Essential
- ? = Unclear/partial purpose
- ✖ = Unnecessary
Revision Task:
- Remove or rewrite every ✖ sentence.
- Transform ? sentences so they clearly serve a function.
Goal: Develop the habit of evaluating sentences objectively rather than emotionally.
Exercise 2: The Compression Rewrite
Choose a descriptive paragraph (5–8 sentences).
Step 1: Rewrite the paragraph so that each sentence performs at least one of the following:
- reveals character
- implies emotion
- introduces tension
- advances a subtle action
Step 2: Reduce the paragraph by 30–50% without losing meaning.
Constraint:
Every remaining sentence must carry more than one layer of information where possible.
Goal: Train yourself to layer meaning and eliminate redundancy.
Exercise 3: One Sentence, Multiple Functions
Write a single sentence that simultaneously:
- describes a setting
- reveals something about a character
- implies an emotional state
- suggests a backstory element
Example Prompt:
A character returns to a childhood home after many years.
Goal: Practice density—packing meaning into a single line without over-explaining.
Exercise 4: The “What Changes?” Test
Write a short scene (10–15 sentences).
After each sentence, ask:
- What changed because of this sentence?
If the answer is “nothing,” revise the sentence so that something does change:
- A piece of information is revealed
- A decision shifts
- A relationship dynamic changes
- A tension increases
Goal: Ensure forward movement in every sentence.
Exercise 5: Dialogue That Cuts
Write a dialogue between two characters (10–20 exchanges).
Then revise it with these rules:
- Remove any line that repeats information already known
- Replace explanatory dialogue with subtext or implication
- Ensure each exchange either:
- escalates tension
- reveals something new
- shifts power between characters
Constraint: No “filler” responses like:
- “I don’t know” (unless it reveals something specific)
- “Yeah,” “okay,” or generic affirmations without purpose
Goal: Make dialogue active rather than decorative.
Exercise 6: Expand vs. Cut
Take a paragraph that feels “flat” or overly simple.
Part A: Expand it by adding sensory detail, emotional insight, or internal thought.
Part B: Then cut it back down, removing anything that does not:
- reveal character
- advance action
- or deepen tension
Compare versions:
- Which version feels more focused?
- Which sentences survived—and why?
Goal: Understand that both expansion and compression can serve clarity.
Exercise 7: Replace the Unnecessary Sentence
Find a sentence in your writing that:
- repeats information
- describes without revealing
- or feels like filler
Now replace it with a sentence that:
- shows behavior instead of telling emotion
- introduces conflict or contradiction
- or reveals something indirect about the character
Example Transformation:
- Telling: “He was angry.”
- Showing: “He didn’t speak—he just tightened his grip on the glass until the ice cracked.”
Goal: Practice upgrading weak sentences into meaningful ones.
Exercise 8: The Silent Sentence
Write a scene where a character is dealing with an internal conflict—but do not directly state the conflict.
Rules:
- No explicit emotional labeling (e.g., “she was sad,” “he was anxious”)
- Reveal everything through:
- action
- behavior
- dialogue
- environment
Goal: Train yourself to let sentences imply rather than explain.
Exercise 9: Sentence Purpose Identification
Take a finished page of your writing and label each sentence with one of the following:
- Character Revelation
- Action Advancement
- Tension Increase
- Atmospheric/Supportive
- Unnecessary
Then revise to:
- Strengthen weak categories
- Remove or transform unnecessary sentences
- Ensure a balance of function across the page
Goal: Build awareness of sentence-level roles within a larger structure.
Exercise 10: Rewrite for Impact
Take a paragraph that feels “fine” but not compelling.
Rewrite it three times:
- Minimal Version: Short, direct, stripped of excess
- Layered Version: Dense, multi-functional sentences
- Character-Driven Version: Focused primarily on revealing character through action
Compare all three versions:
- Which feels most alive?
- Which carries the most meaning per sentence?
- Which version best serves the story’s intent?
Goal: Explore how different sentence strategies affect tone, pacing, and impact.
These exercises are not about writing more.
They are about writing with intention—until every sentence in your work has a reason to exist, and a clear role in carrying the story forward.
Final Thought
A story is not remembered for how many words it used.
It is remembered for how deeply those words landed.
Readers rarely walk away recalling your exact phrasing or the number of pages you filled. What stays with them is the feeling—the line that struck something tender, the moment that tightened their chest, the quiet realization that arrived without warning. They remember impact, not volume. Precision, not excess.
Every sentence is a chance to move the reader closer—to truth, to tension, to transformation. Or to lose them.
And that loss is subtle. It doesn’t always happen in dramatic exits. Sometimes it happens in a single line that drifts. A sentence that repeats what’s already known. A moment that could have cut deeper but chose comfort instead. The reader doesn’t put the book down—they simply lean back, just a little. The connection loosens. The spell weakens.
But the opposite is also true.
A single, well-crafted sentence can pull the reader back in. It can sharpen the emotional edge of a scene, reveal something unspoken, or shift the entire weight of a moment. It can do what pages of unfocused writing cannot—make the reader feel something real.
So write sentences that earn their place.
Write sentences that carry weight.
Write sentences that do not just exist—but insist.
Let them insist on being felt. Let them insist on meaning something—whether quietly or forcefully. Let them press against the reader’s attention and refuse to be ignored. Even your simplest lines should have intention behind them, a reason for being exactly as they are.
This does not mean every sentence must be heavy or poetic. Some will be sharp and quick. Some will be invisible in their efficiency. Some will act as breath between blows. But even then, they are placed with care. They serve the rhythm. They support the movement. They belong.
Because in the end, a powerful story is not built on more.
It is built on meaning.
Not in how much you say—but in how much you make the reader feel, question, and carry with them after the final line is done.
