10 College Application Essay Examples for Top Universities

Writing the college application often puts students in an uncomfortable position because it asks for proof of character and “personality,” yet despite this, doesn’t give them much room.

When applying to colleges, we already have grades to show for performance and activities to show for involvement, but this essay has to reveal the person behind all these achievements and records. Most of us have interesting stories hidden somewhere, though the first drafts we write are difficult not to turn into some kind of a resume paragraph or a dramatic piece. 

A strong essay should pick one real situation from your life and stay close to it while explaining why it mattered and how it influenced your character. In this article, we’ve put together 10 college application essay examples to show you how to use your critical thinking skills to write something that sounds focused yet personal and natural.

College Essay Example #1

This college application essay example shows how a small family responsibility can reveal patience, attention, and a student’s way of thinking under pressure: 

Every Friday at 6:15 p.m., my grandmother called me into the kitchen as if I were entering a lab.

The cutting board had to face the window. The parsley had to be washed twice. The rice had to sit in a bowl of warm water before it touched the pot. If I reached for the wrong spoon, she clicked her tongue and tapped the counter with two fingers.

“Again,” she said.

At thirteen, I thought cooking with her meant memorizing instructions. By fifteen, I understood that she was teaching me how to notice. The rice changed when it absorbed enough water. The dough softened before it looked ready. The soup needed salt only after the herbs had opened. She rarely explained the reason first. She made me watch until the reason became visible.

That habit followed me outside the kitchen.

In biology class, I stopped rushing through lab steps and started writing down what seemed small: the cloudy edge of a sample, the delay before a color change, the one plant in the tray that bent toward weaker light. In student council, I noticed who stayed silent during planning meetings and who always volunteered for jobs nobody praised. At home, I heard the difference between my younger brother’s normal complaints and the flat tone he used when school had been rough.

Observation became a form of care.

During junior year, my grandmother’s arthritis worsened. Her fingers stiffened on cold mornings, and the Friday routine changed. She still sat near the counter, though now I stood in her place. I chopped the parsley too fine once, and she looked personally betrayed. I burned the bottom layer of rice twice. She corrected me with the same seriousness she gave everything else.

One evening, she asked me to make the soup without help. I wanted to ask about every step. Instead, I listened to the pot. I watched the oil turn glossy around the onions. I waited before adding water. When I placed the bowl in front of her, she tasted it, stared at the spoon, and nodded once.

That nod mattered because it was rare.

I used to think independence meant doing things alone. In my family, I learned something more useful. Independence can mean carrying someone’s method forward with enough care that it remains recognizable. It can mean accepting correction without shrinking. It can mean paying attention long enough to earn trust.

I still cook with a pencil nearby. The notebook has recipes, half-translated phrases, timing notes, and small warnings written in the margins. “Do not rush the onions.” “Taste after resting.” “Grandmother says this spoon is wrong.”

Those notes look ordinary. To me, they are practice in the kind of student I want to become. I want to enter college ready to observe before concluding. I want to learn from people who have spent years seeing what I miss. I want to build knowledge the way my grandmother builds flavor: slowly, with care, and with respect for details that announce themselves only when I am patient enough to notice.

College Essay Example #2

These college application essay examples often work best when the student chooses one ordinary setting and lets it reveal a deeper habit of mind:

The lost-and-found cabinet at my school smells like pencil shavings, gym socks, and old rain.

I know this because I spent most of my sophomore year opening it every Thursday afternoon. My official job as an office volunteer was simple. Sort the items. Label what could be identified. Donate what has been there too long. At first, I treated it like punishment disguised as service. Nobody dreams of becoming the keeper of abandoned water bottles.

Then I found the blue scarf.

It was folded neatly inside a plastic grocery bag, which made it different from the usual pile of hoodies and lunch boxes. A paper tag was tied around one corner. The handwriting said, “Please keep. My mom made this.”

No name.

I could have placed it back in the cabinet and moved on. Instead, I started asking around. The scarf became a tiny investigation. I checked with the front desk. I asked teachers who supervised winter sports. I posted a photo on the school bulletin board with a note asking the owner to describe the tag.

Three days passed. Then a freshman came into the office during lunch. She looked embarrassed before she even spoke. Her mother had knitted the scarf during chemotherapy, she told me. She had lost it after a debate tournament and assumed someone had thrown it away. When I handed it back, she pressed it against her chest with both hands.

That moment changed the cabinet for me. The objects inside stopped looking like clutter. A calculus notebook showed the pressure of a student who had rewritten every problem after making one mistake. A cracked phone case had stickers from a band I later learned belonged to a senior who played bass at open mic nights. A set of keys had a tiny plastic duck attached, which made the assistant principal laugh because he knew exactly whose they were.

The cabinet became a strange archive of student life. It held carelessness, yes. It also held routines, worries, jokes, and family stories that fell out of backpacks during the day.

I began creating a better system. I photographed items before they disappeared into the back. I made a spreadsheet with dates and descriptions. I added a small “found this week” board outside the office. The work stayed unglamorous, which I liked. It helped people in a way that required patience instead of attention.

By the end of junior year, fewer items stayed in the cabinet for months. More students stopped by before giving up on what they had lost. The office secretary started calling me “the evidence department,” and I pretended to find that annoying.

I learned that responsibility often begins with taking boring tasks seriously. I also learned that people reveal themselves through what they misplace. A school can look like schedules and grades on paper. In the lost-and-found cabinet, it looked more human. It looked like a freshman’s scarf, a senior’s keychain, and a notebook full of crossed-out equations.

College will have larger rooms and harder work, though I expect the same lesson to follow me there. Communities depend on people who notice small gaps and decide to close them. I want to be that kind of person. The one who looks inside the cabinet, reads the tag, and understands that something ordinary may still deserve careful hands.

College Essay Example #3

This art college application essay example focuses on creative growth through process, revision, and the student’s changing relationship with visual work:

I used to draw hands as mittens.

Every person in my sketchbook had smooth, useless palms because fingers made me nervous. Fingers bent in too many places. Knuckles created shadows I could never place correctly. Whenever a drawing began to look serious, the hands ruined it.

So I hid them.

I tucked them into pockets. I cropped portraits at the wrist. I placed coffee cups in front of them. My characters looked calm, mysterious, and emotionally unavailable, mainly because I had designed them around my own avoidance.

My art teacher noticed during freshman year. She flipped through my portfolio, paused, and asked, “Where are the hands?”

I gave her an answer about composition. She gave me a mirror and told me to draw my left hand every day for a month.

The first drawings were stiff and ugly. My thumb looked detached. The palm had the flatness of cardboard. I hated how quickly the page revealed what I had skipped for years. Still, I kept drawing. Ten minutes before school. Twenty minutes after dinner. Sometimes with my hand curled around a pencil. Sometimes open on the desk, looking almost vulnerable under the lamp.

After two weeks, the assignment became less about accuracy. I started noticing how hands carry mood. My father’s hands press hard into paper when he signs forms. My sister’s hands move when she talks, even over the phone. My own hands tighten when I want to speak in class and decide against it.

The body had been telling stories I had ignored.

That realization changed my portfolio. I began drawing people through gesture rather than appearance alone. In one piece, I painted my grandmother’s hand holding a cracked teacup. The cup mattered, though her grip mattered more. In another, I drew a classmate repairing the strap of her backpack with a safety pin before a presentation. Her face stayed outside the frame. Her fingers carried the whole scene.

The work grew more honest once I stopped protecting it from difficulty.

During junior year, I started a small series called “Almost Said.” Each piece shows a hand at the second before action: hovering above a doorbell, resting near an unanswered message, reaching toward a sleeve. I used charcoal because it refuses to stay clean. Smudges became part of the language. The drawings looked uncertain in a way that felt true.

That series taught me what I want from art school. I want training that pushes me past the tricks I already know. I want critique that names the weak part directly. I want studio time that gives an idea enough pressure to become clearer. My goal is to study illustration and visual storytelling, with a focus on the quiet physical details that reveal inner life.

I still draw my left hand when I feel stuck. The practice reminds me that skill grows where avoidance used to sit. It also reminds me that a weak part of a drawing may be the doorway into better work.

My sketchbook has fewer hidden hands now. They rest on tables, hold receipts, cover mouths, grip bus poles, and reach toward other people. They make the drawings harder.

That is exactly why I keep them visible.

College Essay Example #4

The best college application essay examples about yourself show how a student can write about identity through a concrete personal habit.

My name is written on the inside cover of every notebook I own, but the handwriting changes halfway through each school year. In September, the letters stand straight. By November, they lean. By March, my name turns into a quick mark that barely looks like language. I used to think this was laziness. Then I started noticing the same pattern in the rest of my life. I begin with systems. I end with evidence of having lived through them.

My room proves this better than I can. The top shelf has labeled folders for school papers. The bottom drawer has loose index cards with chemistry formulas, grocery lists, and one sentence I wrote after a difficult conversation with my father: “I can be angry and still listen.”

That sentence became more useful than the chemistry cards.

My father and I argue because we think in opposite directions. He starts with risk. I start with possibility. When I wanted to apply for a summer journalism program, he asked about cost before he asked about the articles I wanted to write. I heard doubt. He meant protection. We spent three evenings circling the same point until I finally wrote down what he said without preparing my answer.

“You treat every closed door like an insult,” he told me.

I hated how accurate that felt.

The next day, I made a page in my notebook with two columns. One side had what I wanted. The other had what made him worried. Money. Safety. Time away from home. I brought it to the kitchen table and asked him to go through it with me. We did not agree right away. The conversation still had sharp edges. Yet for the first time, I was not trying to win the whole room.

I eventually attended the program through a partial scholarship. I wrote an article about bus delays in my neighborhood and interviewed people who had been treated like background noise by city planners. One woman told me she left home forty minutes early for a medical appointment because the bus “kept its own religion.” I wrote that line down exactly.

Reporting taught me what my father had been trying to teach me in another language. A strong point of view means little if it cannot make space for another person’s facts.

Now my notebooks are messier, though I trust them more. The clean first pages still matter. They show intention. The crowded later pages matter more because they show revision. In college, I want to keep becoming a person who can begin with an idea and allow real life to change it.

My handwriting will probably fall apart by midterms. I’m fine with that. The margins will tell the fuller story.

College Essay Example #5

Many successful college application essay examples begin with a narrow situation and slowly reveal the student’s judgment, like in the sample below:

The first time I repaired a bike chain, I made everything worse. The chain slipped off near the old basketball court behind my apartment building. My neighbor Mateo was eight, furious, and convinced his bike had betrayed him. I was sixteen and equally convinced that confidence could replace knowledge.

It could not.

I turned the pedals backward. I pulled the chain with my fingers. Grease spread across my palms and somehow reached my cheek. Mateo watched in silence, which felt worse than laughter. After ten minutes, the chain hung lower than before, and the bike looked tired of both of us.

An older man from the next building crossed the court and crouched beside the wheel. He did not introduce himself. He asked me for a stick, used it to lift the chain back onto the gear, and told Mateo to pedal slowly. The bike moved.

I waited for a lecture. Instead, he said, “You touched it. That’s the start.”

His name was Mr. Alvarez. He had fixed delivery bikes for years before his knees made the work difficult. After that afternoon, I started visiting him on Saturdays. He taught me how to patch a tube, adjust brakes, tighten spokes, and listen for the small click that means something is misaligned. He made me redo tasks that looked finished because “almost safe” was his least favorite phrase.

By spring, kids in the building began bringing broken bikes to the courtyard. A loose seat. A flat tire. A brake that screamed against the rim. We never called it a program. We had no sign-up sheet. Still, every Saturday, the same folding table appeared under the tree, and I placed the tools in the order Mr. Alvarez preferred.

The repairs changed the courtyard. Younger kids stayed longer because their bikes worked. Parents stopped by with coffee. A boy who rarely spoke began taking apart old bells just to see how they rang. Mateo, now our unofficial inspector, tested each bike by circling the court once and giving a serious nod.

I learned that useful work has a rhythm. First comes humility, usually with grease under the fingernails. Then comes repetition. Trust arrives later, after people see that you will return the next Saturday.

That lesson shaped the way I approach school. In physics, I stopped treating mistakes as proof that I was bad at the subject. I started looking for the slipped chain in my thinking. In group projects, I paid closer attention to the person doing quiet maintenance: formatting slides, checking sources, noticing what nobody assigned.

I do not know if I will study engineering, urban planning, or public policy. I know I want to work on systems people touch every day. A bus route. A housing form. A bike that gets a child across the courtyard before dinner.

Mr. Alvarez still keeps the best wrench in his shirt pocket. He lets me use it now. That feels like permission and responsibility at the same time.

College Essay Example #6

This section gives one of the personal essay for college application examples that focuses on memory, family language, and intellectual growth: 

I learned English through warning labels. The first one I remember was on a bottle of floor cleaner under the sink. “Keep out of reach of children.” I sounded it out while my mother cooked potatoes and told me to stop touching things that could poison me. At the time, I did not understand the full sentence. I understood that English appeared on objects with rules.

Our apartment became my first dictionary. Cereal boxes taught me “whole grain.” Laundry tags taught me “gentle cycle.” The elevator sign taught me “out of service,” a phrase I heard often enough to memorize with feeling.

At school, English belonged to worksheets. At home, it belonged to rent notices, medicine bottles, bus schedules, and my mother’s text messages from work. She cleaned offices at night during my elementary school years, and sometimes she sent me photos of signs she could not read quickly. I became her small translator before I had enough grammar to deserve the job.

Once, she sent a picture of a note taped above a sink: “Do not dispose of coffee grounds here.” I translated it too seriously, word by word, and she called me laughing because the sink had already clogged. My version had arrived after the disaster. That was the first time I understood that language has timing.

As I grew older, translation became less about finding matching words. My mother needed the meaning that helped her act. A school email about course selection did not require every sentence. It required the deadline and the form. A medical bill did not need elegant language. It needed the amount, the phone number, and the reason it existed.

This shaped my interest in communication. I began noticing how often institutions speak in ways that make ordinary people feel late before they begin. At school, I helped classmates read scholarship instructions. In my neighborhood, I volunteered at a community center where older residents brought envelopes they were afraid to open. I could not solve every problem. I could make the first sentence less frightening.

During junior year, I wrote a research paper about plain language in public health notices. I compared two vaccine flyers distributed in nearby clinics. One used dense official wording. The other used shorter sentences and clearer steps. The second flyer did more than explain. It respected the reader’s limited time.

That distinction matters to me.

I still like difficult books. I like sentences that take effort. Yet I have learned that clarity can be generous. It can decide who gets access to information before the deadline passes.

College is where I want to study language with more discipline. I am interested in linguistics, public policy, and the quiet power of design. I want to understand how words move through families, schools, courts, hospitals, and government forms. I want to help build communication that people can use when they are tired, worried, or standing in a hallway with a letter they do not want to open.

The warning label under the sink was right. Some things should stay out of reach of children. Information should not be one of them.

College Essay Example #7

Many ivy league college application essay examples use a controlled, personal scene rather than a résumé-style argument. This art college version focuses on creative discipline through one repeated problem.

The museum guard knew my shoes before he knew my name.

They squeaked on the polished floor of the print room every Wednesday after school. I came in with a sketchbook under my arm, signed the visitor log, and walked to the same corner where three etchings hung beside a narrow bench. The guard would lift his chin, and I would lift mine back. That was our whole friendship for two months.

I went there because I could not draw shadows.

My teacher had written “flat light” beside four pieces in my portfolio. The comment annoyed me because it was true. I understood outlines. I understood color. I could make a face look recognizable. Then light entered the drawing, and everything went dull. My portraits looked like people who had been printed onto paper and left there.

The etchings bothered me for the opposite reason. They had almost no color, yet the bodies inside them felt warm, tired, stubborn, alive. A shoulder turned because of a few dark marks. A table leaned into the room because a white space had been left alone. The artist had built depth by removing certainty.

I started copying one hand from the first etching every week. The first attempt looked like a bent fork. The second had fingers that seemed swollen. The third finally showed a knuckle. I measured the spaces between lines. I counted how often the artist trusted the paper. My own hand kept trying to over-explain.

That became the real lesson.

In my drawings, I had been afraid of silence. I filled every surface because empty space felt unfinished. The etchings showed me that restraint can have structure. A shadow can ask the viewer to participate. A blank area can hold pressure.

I carried that idea into a series for my senior portfolio called “Rooms After Voices.” Each piece shows a room after someone has left it: a dining chair pulled back, a damp ring beneath a glass, a scarf on a radiator. No faces. No dramatic scene. The people appear through what they touched and abandoned. I used charcoal, ink, and rubbed graphite because those materials leave evidence of revision on the page.

The museum guard eventually asked what I was always drawing. I showed him the sketchbook. He turned the pages slowly, stopped at a study of the bench he sat on, and laughed.

“You made my chair look serious,” he said.

I liked that. Serious, not beautiful. Seen, not decorated.

Art school matters to me because I want my work to become less protective. I want instructors who will point to the weak part of a drawing and make me stay there. I want studio conversations that ask what a piece is avoiding. My goal is to study illustration with enough technical rigor to make quiet subjects feel exact.

The guard retired in April. On his last Wednesday, he tapped the visitor log and told me not to stop squeaking through museums.

I still haven’t. I still draw shadows slowly. I still leave more paper untouched than feels comfortable. That empty space keeps teaching me where the work begins.

College Essay Example #8

Harvard college application essay examples often show a student’s mind at work through one unusual personal focus. This art college essay uses visual memory and revision as the center.

I keep failed paintings in a shoebox under my bed. This is poor storage, according to every art teacher I have had. Paper bends there. Corners soften. Acrylic sticks to acrylic if I forget to separate the sheets. Still, I keep the box because it tells the truth faster than my finished portfolio does.

The oldest painting inside shows my mother at the sewing machine. Her face is careful. The machine is wrong. I painted it as a gray rectangle with a needle attached, which now seems rude to an object that raised half my childhood.

That machine was the loudest thing in our apartment. It clicked through evenings, phone calls, weather reports, and my homework. My mother hemmed pants for neighbors and altered dresses for women who arrived holding garment bags like secrets. I sat beside her with colored pencils and drew the scraps that fell onto the floor.

Fabric taught me color before paint did. Navy could look black until sunlight hit it. White had moods. Red changed completely when placed beside beige. My mother never used art words for any of this. She said, “This one fights.” She said, “This one needs air.”

I began painting her hands during sophomore year. I wanted to capture the quick motion of pinning cloth, though every attempt looked frozen. The fingers became stiff. The fabric looked like paper. I made twelve versions and disliked all of them. They went into the shoebox.

Then one night, the machine jammed.

My mother removed the fabric, opened the metal plate, and pulled out a knot of thread. I had seen her fix jams before, but this time she looked tired in a way that made the room go quiet. I noticed the small red groove the thread had left on her finger. I noticed the bent pin near her elbow. I noticed that the unfinished dress on the table had no shape without her.

The next painting did not show her face. It showed the jammed thread, her thumb, the silver plate, and one strip of blue fabric trapped under the presser foot. For the first time, the machine looked like a real machine. The painting worked because I had stopped trying to honor my mother with a polished image. I paid attention to the labor itself.

That shift changed my idea of art. I used to think finished work should hide effort. Now I trust pieces that show friction. My recent portfolio follows that belief. I paint domestic tools at close range: scissors, bobbins, chipped mugs, cracked phone chargers. These objects are ordinary, yet they hold the pressure of the people who use them.

In college, I want to study painting and visual culture with sharper questions. Who gets represented through portraiture? Which forms of work become visible? How can a still object suggest the body that touched it?

The shoebox remains under my bed. I open it when a painting starts behaving too neatly. The failed pieces remind me that my best work usually begins after the pretty version collapses.

My mother still says some colors need air. I understand that better now. So do some stories.

College Essay Example #9

This is one of the common app college essay examples that show how a student can use one broken object to discuss curiosity, patience, and growth without turning the essay into a résumé.

The first time I took apart a radio, I blamed the silence on dust.

It was my grandfather’s old kitchen radio, the kind with a cracked dial and one missing corner. It had sat above our refrigerator for years, playing weather reports through static while my mother packed lunches. Then one morning it stopped. No final dramatic crackle. No warning. Just a plastic box holding its breath.

I was eleven, and I believed broken things were mostly hiding a simple answer. I carried the radio to my desk, found a screwdriver in the junk drawer, and removed the back panel. Inside, I saw wires curled around each other, a small speaker, and parts I had no names for. I wiped everything with a tissue. Nothing happened.

So I kept going.

By dinner, the radio had become a field of screws, wires, and small metal pieces arranged on my math homework. My mother stood in the doorway and asked if I knew how to put it back together. I said yes because I wanted that to be true.

I did not.

For three days, the radio stayed on my desk like evidence. I searched for diagrams. I learned the word capacitor. I learned that a speaker could fail even when the dial still turned. I learned that confidence has a short shelf life when the parts do not fit.

On the fourth day, my grandfather sat beside me and looked at the mess. He had repaired watches when he was younger, so I expected him to take over. Instead, he pointed to the screws and asked what each one had held. I could answer only half.

“Then start with the half,” he said.

That became our method. We rebuilt from whatever I could prove. One screw belonged near the battery compartment because the plastic had a matching scratch. One wire had to reach the speaker because it bent in that direction. The radio did not work when we finished, but it looked like itself again.

At eleven, that felt like failure. Now I think it was one of my first real lessons in thinking.

School often rewards finished answers. The radio taught me to stay longer with uncertain pieces. That habit changed how I worked in chemistry when a lab result made no sense. It changed how I read history because one document rarely explains a whole event. It changed how I listened during arguments at home, especially when each person remembered the same afternoon differently.

I still like repair work. Last year, I helped restart the electronics corner in our school’s makerspace. Students brought headphones with one dead side, lamps with loose switches, and one toy dinosaur that roared only when held upside down. We did not save everything. We did learn to ask better questions before touching the tools.

The old radio remains on my shelf. It still does not play.

I keep it because it reminds me that usefulness is only one kind of value. Some objects teach through their refusal to become simple. Some problems ask for patience before they offer direction. I want to bring that patience to college. I want to study in rooms where unfinished questions are treated as serious work, where the answer begins with careful attention to the parts already in front of us.

College Essay Example #10

A “Why this college?” essay has to prove that the student has done more than collect course names and campus facts. This example shows how to write a college application essay that ties the school choice to one real interest: how public spaces affect daily life.

I first understood Alder College through the student newspaper, not the homepage.

The article was about a broken sidewalk near the east entrance of campus. At first, that seemed too small to matter. Then I read the whole piece. The reporter had spoken with wheelchair users, facilities staff, city workers, and students who crossed that corner after evening labs. By the final paragraph, the sidewalk had become a story about access, habit, and the way a campus teaches people what it notices.

That is why I am applying to Alder.

I want a college where public questions are treated as daily work. My interest in urban studies began with bus stops in my own neighborhood. The nearest stop to my apartment has no bench, so older riders lean against the pharmacy wall while they wait. During sophomore year, I started writing down how long buses arrived after the posted time. The notes were uneven at first. Then I added weather, crowd size, and missed transfers. A pattern appeared. The route was least reliable when the people waiting had the fewest alternatives.

That small project pushed me toward policy, though I do not want to study policy only as theory. Alder’s City Lab appeals to me because students work with local agencies on practical research. I am especially interested in the pedestrian safety mapping project described by Professor Lena Ortiz’s seminar page. The idea of combining field observation with public data feels close to the work I already know, only with better tools and harder questions.

Alder’s writing program also matters to me. I have learned that research loses force when people cannot understand what it says. In my junior year, I wrote a school paper about transit delays and gave a copy to a neighborhood association member. She read the first page and said, “Tell me what I can use.” That sentence changed how I write. I still care about evidence, though I now care just as much about whether a tired person can act on it after a long workday.

The first-year seminar “Writing the City” feels right for that reason. I want to study how streets, signs, housing rules, and public notices shape people’s choices. I also want the discipline of workshops where classmates question unclear claims before those claims leave the room.

Outside class, I hope to join The Alder Review. The sidewalk article showed me a student paper willing to take ordinary problems seriously. That is the kind of reporting I want to practice. I am drawn to stories where the subject looks minor until someone follows it with care.

Alder feels like a place where my habits would be tested in useful ways. I would arrive with notebooks full of bus times, interviews, and maps drawn badly in the margins. I would also arrive ready to learn methods that make those notes stronger.

The broken sidewalk article stayed with me because it refused to treat access as an abstract value. It began with concrete. That is how I want to study public life: close to the ground, attentive to what people step over every day.

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Final Thoughts

A strong college application essay shows how a student notices, reacts, learns, and changes. The best examples usually stay close to one clear situation instead of trying to cover a whole life. Specific scenes help the reader understand the student without heavy explanation.

Reflection matters too, because admissions officers need to see the mind behind the experience. A good essay feels personal, controlled, and honest. It gives the application a human center that grades and activity lists cannot provide.

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