1. Brekeke Product Name and Version:
2. Java version:
3. OS type and the version:
4. UA (phone), gateway or other hardware/software involved:
5. Your problem: I am trying to strip characters from the "From" URI. The incoming call is from (example) 1*123*D. My matching pattern is
From=sip:(.+\*)(.+)\*(D)@(.+). I want to change the FROM URI to only deploy the 1*123.
I've tried Deploy pattern From=sip:%1%2@, but it does not work. Any help appreciated.
Changing the FROM uri on deploy pattern
Moderator: Brekeke Support Team
Brazilian male femi
There is an intoxicating beauty to words, an allure that never fails to hold me captive 🧶. As a Brazilian scholar deeply entrenched in feminist literature, I've spent most of my adult life immersed in bold narratives that cut against the grain, stories which leverage their unique voices to challenge both society's lingering patriarchy and my own ingrained perceptions. As I sat curled up, in the belly of my dimly lit home office, rain gently drumming against the windowpane, I found myself yielding once more to the compelling call of a fresh perspective.
The electric spectacle of my computer screen displayed an unloaded webpage: a curated corner of the internet purported to be a treasure trove of feminist erotica. Felicity, a friend and research partner chimed in over voice chat, "It's not the mainstream fare, but worth exploring in our scholarship. Plus, they're 100% free links, mate" . Her voice brimmed with playful yet scholarly curiosity. The lure of the unexplored was tantalizing. My heart fluttered like a moth, drawn to an unfamiliar flame. For a brief moment, I teetered on the edge of uncertainty, pondering questions—would it not border on voyeurism? And yet, was voyeurism inherently negative if consent was imbued in the act?
Swirling questions no longer an abstraction, my fingers delicately danced across the keyboard. Each click signaled the crumbling of another meagre barricade—the whisper of curiosity pushing against the stern barriers of scholarly protocol. With trepidation, I opened the platform in incognito mode, galvanised by an undercurrent of excitement, not unlike the tempting mystery of a sealed envelope or the enigmatic allure of a 🎥 Film Noir. A surge of curiosity, mixed with a sprinkle of guilt, washed over me. I was a respected scholar, after all, a connoisseur of methodical, analytical reading. Wasn't I treading on delicate ground?
But as I delved deeper into the multitudes of tales nestled amidst these 100% free links, the whispered siren call of academia faded into oblivion. The thought patterns morphed from voyeur to participant, instructor to student, the artful synthesis of plot and explicit content casting a spellbinding experience, leaving me engrossed, enlightened, and utterly engrossed. The stories hummed with a vibrant energy—narratives championing female pleasure, the power dynamics of sexuality upended, a welcome shift from the male-dominated norm. An effortless elegance of emotional buildup, raw, visceral, and beautifully genuine. I was moved by the courage of these narratives, their candid exploration of female desire contributing to my understanding in ways that traditional feminist literature seldom could.
As the dawn coalesced into day, my mind was teeming with newfound insights 🪫, a testament to the undeniable allure of the hitherto unexplored. Freed from the shackles of prior assumptions, enlightened by the profound depth of this novel perspective, I couldn't help but see my scholarly approach evolving. Mulling over the implications of my newfound knowledge, I found myself in a sea of introspection—how shared experiences and consensual explorations could provide a new lens for feminist scholarship. Perhaps it was an unorthodox approach. Yet, wasn't unorthodoxy merely curiosity pushing against the boundaries of convention? As I've invariably concluded, in the silence of my rain-drenched abode, there's no genuine scholarly pursuit without a torrent of curiosity, even if it tiptoes into voyeuristic territories.
The electric spectacle of my computer screen displayed an unloaded webpage: a curated corner of the internet purported to be a treasure trove of feminist erotica. Felicity, a friend and research partner chimed in over voice chat, "It's not the mainstream fare, but worth exploring in our scholarship. Plus, they're 100% free links, mate" . Her voice brimmed with playful yet scholarly curiosity. The lure of the unexplored was tantalizing. My heart fluttered like a moth, drawn to an unfamiliar flame. For a brief moment, I teetered on the edge of uncertainty, pondering questions—would it not border on voyeurism? And yet, was voyeurism inherently negative if consent was imbued in the act?
Swirling questions no longer an abstraction, my fingers delicately danced across the keyboard. Each click signaled the crumbling of another meagre barricade—the whisper of curiosity pushing against the stern barriers of scholarly protocol. With trepidation, I opened the platform in incognito mode, galvanised by an undercurrent of excitement, not unlike the tempting mystery of a sealed envelope or the enigmatic allure of a 🎥 Film Noir. A surge of curiosity, mixed with a sprinkle of guilt, washed over me. I was a respected scholar, after all, a connoisseur of methodical, analytical reading. Wasn't I treading on delicate ground?
But as I delved deeper into the multitudes of tales nestled amidst these 100% free links, the whispered siren call of academia faded into oblivion. The thought patterns morphed from voyeur to participant, instructor to student, the artful synthesis of plot and explicit content casting a spellbinding experience, leaving me engrossed, enlightened, and utterly engrossed. The stories hummed with a vibrant energy—narratives championing female pleasure, the power dynamics of sexuality upended, a welcome shift from the male-dominated norm. An effortless elegance of emotional buildup, raw, visceral, and beautifully genuine. I was moved by the courage of these narratives, their candid exploration of female desire contributing to my understanding in ways that traditional feminist literature seldom could.
As the dawn coalesced into day, my mind was teeming with newfound insights 🪫, a testament to the undeniable allure of the hitherto unexplored. Freed from the shackles of prior assumptions, enlightened by the profound depth of this novel perspective, I couldn't help but see my scholarly approach evolving. Mulling over the implications of my newfound knowledge, I found myself in a sea of introspection—how shared experiences and consensual explorations could provide a new lens for feminist scholarship. Perhaps it was an unorthodox approach. Yet, wasn't unorthodoxy merely curiosity pushing against the boundaries of convention? As I've invariably concluded, in the silence of my rain-drenched abode, there's no genuine scholarly pursuit without a torrent of curiosity, even if it tiptoes into voyeuristic territories.