hideawsy

[hideawsy]

𝖤𝖵𝖤𝖱𝖸 𝖥𝖠𝖢𝖤 𝖶𝖤𝖠𝖱𝖲 𝖠 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖪，

𝙰 𝚕𝚞𝚣 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚘 𝚌𝚑ã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚍é𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚒 𝚎 𝚊𝚣𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚓𝚘, 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚝é 𝚊 𝚏é. 𝙿𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖 𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚜. 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘. 𝙻á 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚊, 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚟𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎ç𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊çã𝚘 𝚝í𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚖 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙱𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎. 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒çã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚟𝚊 á𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚖.

𝙼𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚒 𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚜ã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚖 𝚞𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚘𝚕é𝚞. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚊, 𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚊. 𝙾𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍ã𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙱𝚊𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘. 𝙴𝚞, 𝚗ã𝚘. 𝙴𝚞 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚞𝚖 𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘. 𝚄𝚖𝚊 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚖.

𝙼𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚒 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊, 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗á𝚛𝚒𝚘. 𝙾 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚣 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚘, 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚐𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚋 𝚊𝚜 𝚖ã𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚍é𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚘. 𝙾 𝚜𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚞 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚒. 𝙾𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚓𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚖. 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛, 𝚓á 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕, 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚘. 𝙽𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘, 𝚎𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚊 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗çã𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚒 𝚗𝚘𝚜 ú𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎 𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚓𝚎.

𝙲𝚛𝚞𝚣𝚎𝚒 𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚊ç𝚘𝚜. 𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚒 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚒𝚡𝚘. 𝙴 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒.

— 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚎-𝚖𝚎, 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎, 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚒.

𝙰 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚍𝚘, 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚒 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚝ã𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊𝚝é 𝚘𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚙𝚛ó𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚣. 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚜ã𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚘. 𝙼𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚓𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚎𝚖 𝚟𝚘𝚣 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊. 𝙸𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚖 𝚓𝚘𝚐𝚘 𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚙é𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚘 𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛.

— 𝙿𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚒 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 ú𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚜ã𝚘. 𝙰𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚒 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜... 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜. 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚖 𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 ��𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘, 𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚘. — 𝙰𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚎𝚒 𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚜, 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚌𝚑ã𝚘. — À𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚜 à 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚊 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜ã𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚖... 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚜. 𝚂ã𝚘 𝚓𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜. 𝙰𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚜 ú𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚜. 𝙾𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜á𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚜.

𝙴𝚞 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚖ã𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚞 𝚌é𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚛, 𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚊 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚣 𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘.

𝙵𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚒 𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝙰 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚟𝚊 𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊. 𝙾 𝚜𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚒𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚜ã𝚘.

— 𝙴 𝚎𝚗𝚝ã𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘. 𝚅𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚜. 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚓𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜á𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜. 𝚄𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞é𝚖 𝚎𝚜𝚝á 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘.

𝙰𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚏𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜, 𝚊 𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞é𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚝é 𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊. 𝙰𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜, 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝â𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚊. 𝙾 𝚓𝚘𝚐𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊çã𝚘, 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, é 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎. 𝙰𝚕𝚌𝚊𝚗ç𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚙çã𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚘 é... 𝚞𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊.

— À𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐é𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚜ó 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊. 𝙽𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚘. 𝚂ó 𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚊𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚣ã𝚘. 𝚂𝚎𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚊. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚞 𝚜ó 𝚎𝚞 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚛 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚎ç𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚑𝚊. 𝙽𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚙𝚊. 𝚂ó 𝚒𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚊çã𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎.

𝙳𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚊çã𝚘.

— 𝚅𝚘𝚌ê 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘, 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘.

𝙴𝚞 𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚒 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚜. 𝙳𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊?

— 𝚅𝚘𝚌ê 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚎𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛á 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚊çã𝚘.

— 𝙴 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚝é 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚒, 𝚎𝚗𝚝ã𝚘? 𝙼𝚎 𝚍ê 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜!

𝙴 𝚎𝚞 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎, "𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚞". 𝙴𝚗𝚝ã𝚘 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒��𝚜𝚎:

— 𝚁𝚎𝚣𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝙿𝚊𝚒 𝙽𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝚂𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘 51. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚒 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚊, 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎.

𝙿𝚒𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚒, 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚛é𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚘. 𝙴𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒 𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎? 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎? 𝙾 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘?

— 𝙿𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎, 𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚒 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚞 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚣𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚕ê 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖é𝚍𝚒𝚘, 𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊 é 𝚞𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚘 𝚋á𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚊çã𝚘? — 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚣 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚌ô𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚊. — 𝚄𝚖 𝙿𝚊𝚒 𝙽𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘?

𝙽ã𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚊. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚒, 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚊.

— 𝙸𝚜𝚜𝚘 é 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚘 𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚊 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒çã𝚘? 𝚃𝚒𝚙𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎-𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚞 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕? 𝚅𝚘𝚌ê 𝚖𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚐𝚊 𝚘 𝚗ú𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚝𝚛ê𝚜 𝚎, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘, 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚖 𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊?

𝚄𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝙻𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚘, 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊 𝚎𝚖 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 — 𝚗𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚞.

— 𝚅𝚘𝚌ê 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚊. É 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒çã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚖𝚎𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘.

𝚁𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚒 𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚒. 𝙰 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚋 𝚖𝚎𝚞 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎. 𝙿𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚒 𝚊 𝚖ã𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚜, 𝚘𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚒𝚡𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚞𝚣 𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚘, 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚜ã𝚘 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚘 𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘. 𝚂𝚊í 𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘. 𝙴 𝚎𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚕, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜, 𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎çã𝚘 𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚕, 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚜ã𝚘 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚗çã𝚘. 𝙴𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜, 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎. 𝙰𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚖, 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚋𝚒 𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚊.

𝚂ó 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘. 𝙰𝚝é 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚣.

𝙰 𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚊, 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚛á𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚟𝚊 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛ç𝚊. 𝙰𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚊, 𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 á𝚐𝚞𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚞𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚖ã𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚊, 𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚖 𝚌𝚎𝚗á𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚘 𝚒𝚗í𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛.

𝙵𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚒 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚛. 𝚁𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚒 𝚍𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚍𝚎 𝚊ç𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚘, 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚘. 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚒 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜. 𝙾 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚞í𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚛 𝚎, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘, 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚎𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚘ó𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚖.

𝙼𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚌ã𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊, 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚒 𝚞𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚎. 𝙾 á𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚞 á𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊. 𝙰𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞ê 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚒. 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚙𝚊 𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚛 𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝á 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚒. 𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚘𝚜.

𝚃𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚒 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕, 𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚡𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚞í𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚊 𝚕í𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊. 𝙾 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚊𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚣 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚊, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚜ó 𝚎𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝á 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊í𝚍𝚘. 𝙴 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘.

𝙰 𝚖𝚊ç𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚖 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘. 𝙰 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚞. 𝙴 𝚊𝚕𝚒 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚎𝚕𝚎: 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚘, 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜ã𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚒𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚊ç𝚘 𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎. 𝙰𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚌ã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚗𝚊 𝚖ã𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚏ó𝚜𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚗𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚊. 𝙴𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘, 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚒 𝚞𝚖 "𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊" 𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘 𝚕í𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜.

— 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚎, 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎? — 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚊 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜ã𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚙í𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜ã𝚘, 𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚘. — É 𝙶𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚑. 𝙽𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚊.

𝙴𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚞, 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚒ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚓á 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚞 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚖 𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜í𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚜.

— 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚋𝚘, 𝙺𝚊𝚒.

— 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘. — 𝚃𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚒 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚎. — 𝙼𝚊𝚜, 𝚟𝚎𝚓𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚖, 𝚎𝚞 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘, 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘. 𝙸𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎?

— 𝚂𝚎 é 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚊, 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 é 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎?

— 𝙳𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎. 𝙰 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗çã𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚊. 𝙽ã𝚘 é 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘? 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗çõ𝚎𝚜 𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚊çõ𝚎𝚜 𝚎...

𝙴𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚣𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚊ç𝚘𝚜, 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚝é 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 á𝚐𝚞𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚜 𝚖ã𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚝ó𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚛.

— 𝚅𝚘𝚌ê 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘.

— 𝙴𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚝ó𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕, 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎. 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚌ê𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚘: 𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚘, 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚛𝚘.

𝙴𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚞, 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝ê𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚖, 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚖 𝚊 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚛, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚒ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚖.

— 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚖í𝚕𝚒𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚊çã𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚊, 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎.

[hideawsy]

𝖢𝖮𝖭𝖥𝖤𝖲𝖲𝖨𝖮𝖭 𝖥𝖱𝖮𝖬 𝖳𝖧𝖤 暗闇⠀，

𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚒 𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚘 𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎. 𝙴𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎 à𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚜-𝚏𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚜. 𝙰 𝚕𝚞𝚣 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚜 á𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚂𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚁𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚖 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚊, 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚌é𝚞 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚙ê𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚘 𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚕á𝚜. 𝙾 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚟𝚎, 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚛𝚞𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊. 𝙰𝚕𝚒, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚕, 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚎 𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊, 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊 𝚊𝚙ó𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊, 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚒 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘.

𝙰 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚐ó𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚂𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚁𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚕 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚗í𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊. 𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚗ç𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚊 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚘 𝚌é𝚞, 𝚏𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚖ã𝚘𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚘. 𝙰𝚜 𝚓𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗á𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚜, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚕𝚞𝚣 𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚛. 𝙶𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚒. 𝙼𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚊. 𝙼𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 ú𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚝ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 é 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚛. 𝙰 𝚊𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚣 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎ç𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚘.

𝙴𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚒 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊, 𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒ç𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚞ã𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚘. 𝙵𝚞𝚒 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊 𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊, 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚊 ú𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊. 𝙿𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚘 𝚖á𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘, 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚊 𝚒𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚒. 𝙳𝚞𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚓𝚘𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚊, 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚊çõ𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚖 𝚟𝚘𝚣 𝚋𝚊𝚒𝚡𝚊. 𝚄𝚖 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚘, 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚊 ú𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊, 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚎ç𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚒𝚡𝚊, 𝚖ã𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊ç𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚡𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚜. 𝙾 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚘. 𝚄𝚖𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚍ã𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚊í𝚊.

𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚒 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚛, 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚘 𝚌𝚑ã𝚘. 𝙼𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜. 𝙴𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚒 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚡𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚣𝚊: 𝚊𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜, 𝚖á𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚊, 𝚍𝚎𝚖ô𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚙é𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚜. 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘. 𝚀𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚖 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚏é.

𝙾 𝚝𝚎𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚋ó𝚋𝚊𝚍𝚊, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚣𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜, 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚘, 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝙴 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚘, 𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘. 𝙶𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞. 𝙲𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚘𝚜.

𝙰𝚓𝚘𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚒 𝚎𝚖 𝚞𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚜. 𝚁𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘. 𝚃𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚒 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘. 𝙴𝚞 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝙰𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜. 𝚄𝚖 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚘 𝚛á𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚘, 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚣 𝚍𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚘... 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚘.

𝚂𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒 𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛, 𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘í𝚊. 𝙾 𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚖 é 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚊, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚎 𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊çã𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝á𝚟𝚎𝚕, 𝚜ó 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚙𝚊. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚘, 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚜ó 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎.

𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚒 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚛, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚟𝚊𝚒 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚊, 𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚒 𝚊𝚝é 𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗á𝚛𝚒𝚘. 𝙰 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊, 𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚝á𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚕𝚞𝚣 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚡𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝á𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚊 𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎.

𝙴𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚒. 𝙵𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚒 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊 𝚊𝚝𝚛á𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚖. 𝙴 𝚘 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜. 𝚂𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚒. 𝚂𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒 𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚛, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚖ú𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚜.

𝙳𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚟𝚒 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞é𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚒, 𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘. À𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎ç𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎. 𝙾𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚊 𝚞𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚘, 𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚘. 𝙴 𝚊𝚝é 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚊. 𝙽𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚎𝚞. 𝙰𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚎𝚒 𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚡𝚊𝚜, 𝚊𝚜 𝚖ã𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊ç𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜, 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚒𝚡𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚜 𝚗ó𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚜.

— 𝙴𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝙿𝚊𝚒, 𝚍𝚘 𝙵𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘, 𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝙴𝚜𝚙í𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚂𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘... — 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚒, 𝚝𝚛𝚊ç𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚣 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚜.

𝙿𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚒, 𝚗𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚋í𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊, 𝚎𝚞 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚘. 𝙿𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘, 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚘, 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗ç𝚊 𝚝í𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞í𝚍𝚊, 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚞. 𝙰𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚓á 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚘𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜õ𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚖. 𝙴 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚘. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚗ã𝚘 é 𝚜ó 𝚍𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚣, é 𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘. É 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚘 𝚙𝚛ó𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚛𝚘. 𝚂𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚙𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞í𝚗𝚊.

— 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚎-𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎, 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚒 — 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚣 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚞 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚒𝚡𝚊 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊, 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊. — 𝙵𝚊𝚣 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 ú𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚜ã𝚘.

𝙽ã𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚒 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚞. 𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚞𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚖ú𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝙴𝚛𝚊 𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚊ç𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚛.

— 𝙴𝚞 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚒 𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎. 𝙳𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚘. 𝙰𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚒 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘. 𝙰𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚒 𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘, 𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚜, 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚎𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚘. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚖 𝚞𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜í𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚖. 𝙴 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒, 𝚓á 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍á𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚜, 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘. 𝙴 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚟𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚊ç𝚘 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘. 𝚂𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛. — 𝙰𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚛 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚜 ��𝚊𝚖𝚋é𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚖 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘. — 𝙴𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘. 𝙶𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚖. 𝙶𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚖𝚎.

𝙾 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗á𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚘.

— 𝙴𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚒 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚊çã𝚘. — 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚣 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚘, 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝í𝚟𝚎𝚕.

𝙳𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘, 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘. 𝙴 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚗𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊, 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘. 𝙴 𝙳𝚎𝚞𝚜, 𝚜𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎.

— 𝙴𝚞 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘, 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎... 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘. 𝙸𝚜𝚜𝚘 é 𝚙𝚒𝚘𝚛, 𝚗ã𝚘 é?

𝚄𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚙𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚞, 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘, 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚊. 𝙳𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚘 𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘. 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊. 𝙳𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜, 𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚣 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊, 𝚋𝚊𝚒𝚡𝚊, 𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚘𝚜.

— 𝚅𝚘𝚌ê 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚘. 𝙸𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚓á 𝚍𝚒𝚣 𝚖𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊.

𝙵𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚒 𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚜, 𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚜. 𝙴𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚊, 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚞𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚖ã𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍ã𝚘, 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌ó𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊. 𝙹á 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚒.

— 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚞 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚓𝚊 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚣... 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚞.

𝙾𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚗ó𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚣𝚒𝚛 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚊 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛. 𝙰 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚊. 𝚀𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚒 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚡𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚒.

— 𝙳𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚌ê 𝚜𝚎𝚓𝚊 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚖. 𝙴𝚕𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚌ê 𝚜𝚎𝚓𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚌ê... 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚣 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚋é𝚖 𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊.

— À𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚒𝚡𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚊... 𝚟ã𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚣. 𝙴 𝚊í 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜.

— 𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣 — 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚣𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚞. — 𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚖. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚌ê 𝚟𝚊𝚒 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚛. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 é 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞é𝚖. 𝙴 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚖𝚊, 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚊. 𝚂𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎.

𝙵𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚒 𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘. 𝙰𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚘. 𝙰 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚒𝚛𝚖ã 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘. 𝙴𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊çã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚣, 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊?

— 𝙰𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘 ��ã𝚘 é 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚛 — 𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚘𝚞, 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚣𝚊. — É 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚍ã𝚘 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚛. 𝙼𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚖 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘.

𝚁𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘.

— 𝙴𝚗𝚝ã𝚘 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚏𝚊ç𝚘 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚊?

— 𝚅𝚘𝚌ê 𝚛𝚎𝚣𝚊. 𝙲𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚙𝚊 𝚊 𝚞𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚒𝚣 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚒 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚎𝚖 𝚟𝚘𝚌ê.

𝙾𝚞𝚟𝚒 𝚞𝚖 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎.

— 𝚁𝚎𝚣𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝙰𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒çã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝙴 𝚝𝚛ê𝚜 𝙿𝚊𝚒-𝙽𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚜. 𝙿𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚌ê 𝚞𝚜𝚘𝚞... 𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚒 𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚛.

𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒, 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝙴𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚒𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚒𝚡𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝙿𝚊𝚒-𝙽𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘. 𝙴𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚊𝚝é 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚒 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒çã𝚘. 𝚅𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚑á𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚖 𝚟𝚘𝚣 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊, 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚘. 𝙿𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚒 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞é𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞é𝚖 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘. 𝙾 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚊 𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚖í𝚟𝚎𝚕, 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 é 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚊ç𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚖 𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚊 — 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚏á𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 —, 𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚘.

— 𝚂𝚒𝚖, 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎. 𝙾𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚘.

— 𝚅𝚊𝚒 𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚣, 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘. 𝙴 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚟𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎-𝚜𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 é 𝚜ó 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚜. 𝙽ã𝚘 é 𝚊 ú𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊.

[hideawsy]

𝖳𝖧𝖤 神童⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝖨𝖲 𝖠 𝖫𝖨𝖤，⠀⠀⠀ 𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗞 𝗕𝗘𝗡𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛 ⠀ㅤ𝖳𝖧𝖤 表面.

𝙼𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚖 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜. "𝙾 𝚋𝚘𝚖", "𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊", "𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘", "𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒ç𝚊𝚍𝚘". 𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚎 𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚞 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚘𝚜 𝚙é𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚑ã𝚘. 𝙾 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚛. 𝙾 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚣𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚞 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚣𝚊𝚟𝚊. 𝚂𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚣𝚎𝚒. 𝙰 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗ç𝚊 é 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚊 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘. 𝙴𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘. 𝙲𝚘𝚖 𝚖á𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚖, 𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚒 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚞 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝙽𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜. 𝙽𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚖 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘.

𝙽𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚒 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟á𝚟𝚎𝚕. 𝙵𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚋 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚏𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚊. 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚖ã𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 – 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚊, 𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊 – 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚛 𝚞𝚖 𝚓𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚎 𝚖ã𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚓𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜. 𝙴𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚞 𝚘 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛, 𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝙴 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚞 𝚟𝚒𝚖. 𝙳𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚏í𝚌𝚒𝚘, 𝚍𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚐𝚊 𝚎 𝚍𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞çã𝚘.

𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚘. 𝚅𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝í𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚜ã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚘𝚛 𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚒ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊. 𝙴𝚕𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚟𝚊, 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚟𝚊, 𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚊. 𝙴 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚖ã𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜á𝚛𝚒𝚘. 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚊, 𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚙ó𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚊, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚊 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚖á𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚘, 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚋í𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚘. 𝙾 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚘, 𝚑𝚘𝚓𝚎, 𝚏𝚘𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚒 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞çã𝚘. 𝙴𝚞 𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚒 𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚎𝚒𝚘 𝚊 𝚎𝚕𝚊. 𝚂𝚘𝚞 𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝙾 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘. 𝙴 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊 é 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚊.

𝙿𝚘𝚛 ��𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚒 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚊, 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖ã𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜ã𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚜. 𝙴 𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊 – 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜 – é 𝚊 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘. 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚣.

𝙰 𝙽𝚘𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕. 𝙽𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚓𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚘 𝚓𝚘𝚐𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚞, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚐â𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊. 𝙴 𝚎𝚞 𝚟𝚒 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚒, 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚖ã𝚎, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚒. 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚖, 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚘, 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚜. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘, 𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘.

𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝ã𝚘, 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚛. 𝙵𝚊ç𝚘 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 é 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘... 𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜, 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘. 𝙽𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞é𝚖 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚒𝚖 𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚋é𝚖 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚑á 𝚛𝚊𝚣ã𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘. 𝙽𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞é𝚖 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 é 𝚍𝚒𝚏í𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚘 𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚘𝚖.

𝙴𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚣𝚊 𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞.

𝙶𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎, 𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚖í𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚘. 𝙶𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘, 𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚛, 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚌ê 𝚎𝚜𝚝á, 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎. 𝙷á 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚘 𝚎𝚖 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛á𝚟𝚎𝚕 – ��𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚘, 𝚗𝚊 𝚍ú𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊, 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝á 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎 é 𝚜ó 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚊. 𝙶𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚘. 𝙽ã𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 – 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛. 𝙾 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚘 𝚗𝚊 𝚗𝚞𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞é𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚣 𝚘𝚞 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛. 𝙶𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜ã𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚘𝚜, 𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚋𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚞 𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚒. 𝙴𝚞 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘 𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚕í𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚘, 𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚎, 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚞 𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚕í𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚘. 𝙰𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚘. 𝙿𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑á 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚒𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘.

𝙹á 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚒 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚜 𝚜ó 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝é 𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚊. 𝙹á 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊, 𝚓á 𝚝𝚘𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊. 𝙶𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚓𝚘𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚜ó 𝚎𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚒 𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜, 𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚜ó 𝚎𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚊. À𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚜, 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚐𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞é𝚖 𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚖 𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜, 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎.

𝙽ã𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘. É 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚖. 𝙼𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛á𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚛. 𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚖 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎. 𝙴𝚕𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊, 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝á 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘 𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝙴𝚞 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚘.

𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚞 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞é𝚖. 𝙰𝚖𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚌ê é. 𝙴 𝚎𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚒 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞é𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚒𝚖. À𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚞 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚘.

𝙴𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚜ó 𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚒. 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚛. 𝙲𝚛��𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚓𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚞, 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘, 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚘. 𝙰𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚖. 𝙰𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚑𝚘, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚞 𝚜ó 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊.

𝙴 𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝚍𝚒𝚊, 𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘, 𝚖𝚎𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚒 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚑𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊ç𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚞 𝚙𝚛ó𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚘, 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣, 𝚜ó 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚣, 𝚎𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚊 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑á 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚖 𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚋é𝚖.

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𝙽𝙾𝙼𝙴 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙻𝙴𝚃𝙾: 𝙺𝚊𝚒 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚒. 𝚃𝙰𝙼𝙱É𝙼 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙷𝙴𝙲𝙸𝙳𝙾 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙾: 𝚘 𝚂𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝙲𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘. 𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝙻 𝙳𝙴 𝙽𝙰𝚂𝙲𝙸𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙾: 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙱𝚊𝚢, 𝚄𝚂𝙰. 𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙰 𝙳𝙴 𝙽𝙰𝚂𝙲𝙸𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙾: 28 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚎 1997. 𝙸𝙳𝙰𝙳𝙴: 27 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜. 𝙶Ê𝙽𝙴𝚁𝙾: 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚘. 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙽𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚂: 𝚎𝚕𝚎/𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚎. 𝚁𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙸Ã𝙾: 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚘. 𝚂𝙸𝙶𝙽𝙾: 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊. 𝙼𝙱𝚃𝙸: 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙿. 𝚃𝙴𝙼𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙾: 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌ó𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚘-𝚌𝚘𝚕é𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚘. 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚄𝙰𝙶𝙴𝙼 𝙳𝙾 𝙰𝙼𝙾𝚁: 𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒ç𝚘 𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝙽Ú𝙼𝙴𝚁𝙾 𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻: 7. 𝙴𝙽𝙴𝙰𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙼𝙰: 1𝚠9. 𝙸𝙳𝙸𝙾𝙼𝙰𝚂 𝙵𝙰𝙻𝙰𝙳𝙾𝚂: 𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕ê𝚜, 𝚓𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗ê𝚜, 𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚘.

𝙰𝚃𝚄𝙰𝙻𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴 𝙴𝙼: 𝙼𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚄𝚂𝙰. 𝙽𝙰𝙲𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻𝙸𝙳𝙰𝙳𝙴: 𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘 (𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚍ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚓𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚊 𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚊). 𝙵𝙰𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙰𝚁𝙴𝚂: 𝙺𝚊𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚒 (𝚙𝚊𝚒) 𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚘 (𝚖ã𝚎). 𝙾𝙲𝚄𝙿𝙰ÇÕ𝙴𝚂: 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜á𝚛𝚒𝚘, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚝á𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝚍ō𝚓ō 𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚒𝚜.

𝙲𝙾𝚁 𝙳𝙰 𝙿𝙴𝙻𝙴: 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚊/𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚊 (𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗ç𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚓𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚊 𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚊). 𝙲𝙾𝚁 𝙳𝙾 𝙲𝙰𝙱𝙴𝙻𝙾: 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚘 (𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘). 𝙲𝙾𝚁 𝙳𝙾𝚂 𝙾𝙻𝙷𝙾𝚂: 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘𝚜. 𝙰𝙻𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙰: 190 𝚌𝚖. 𝚃𝙸𝙿𝙾 𝙵Í𝚂𝙸𝙲𝙾: 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚘, 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚘 𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚕é𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘 (𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚘, 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚘). 𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙾 𝙳𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙿𝙰: 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 ��� 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚘; 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚜, 𝚋𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 (𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚒𝚜, 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚌𝚊𝚕ç𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊). 𝙰𝙲𝙴𝚂𝚂Ó𝚁𝙸𝙾𝚂 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝚄𝙽𝚂: 𝚛𝚎𝚕ó𝚐𝚒𝚘, 𝚊𝚗é𝚒𝚜, 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚣 𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜.

𝙵𝙾𝙱𝙸𝙰𝚂: 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚘 𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 (𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚒), 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚣𝚊. 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙳𝙸ÇÕ𝙴𝚂 𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝚂: 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 à 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚊, 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜í𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊ç𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜ã𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎/𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚊 (𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜ã𝚘 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚊), 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚘 (𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚓𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚖).

𝚃𝙸𝙿𝙾 𝚂𝙰𝙽𝙶𝚄Í𝙽𝙴𝙾: 𝙰+. 𝙼Ã𝙾 𝙳𝙾𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙴: 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊. 𝙲𝙸𝙲𝙰𝚃𝚁𝙸𝚉𝙴𝚂: 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚜, 𝚊𝚍𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚜, 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚋𝚍ô𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚎 𝚖ã𝚘𝚜. 𝙼𝙴𝙳𝙾𝚂: 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚊 𝚖á𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚊 𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚊 𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎; 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚊í𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚖𝚊. 𝙼𝙾𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙰ÇÕ𝙴𝚂 𝙴 𝙾𝙱𝙹𝙴𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙾𝚂: 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚒 𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚞 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘; 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚘𝚜 𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜; 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞é𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚓𝚊 𝚊𝚕é𝚖 𝚍𝚊 𝚖á𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚎 𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚘; 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚛-𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚘𝚛.

𝙻𝙰𝙳𝙾 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙾: 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚣𝚊 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚘; 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊çõ𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎; 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚊 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚘 𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝é𝚐𝚒𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊; 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚛 à 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚍𝚊, 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌á𝚟𝚎𝚕. 𝙿𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝙳𝙴 𝚁𝚄𝙿𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙰/𝙶𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙷𝙾𝚂: 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛-𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊í𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎; 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊çã𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚓𝚊𝚍𝚊; 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘.

𝙷𝙰𝙱𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙳𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚂: 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗ç𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜; 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚎 𝚝é𝚌𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚖í𝚗𝚒�� 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘 (𝙺𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝ê, 𝙹𝚒𝚞-𝚓𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚞, 𝚃𝚊𝚎𝚔𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎 𝙺𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘); 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚛 𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚊ç𝚘; 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊-𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛õ𝚎𝚜; 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊çã𝚘 𝚊𝚐𝚞ç𝚊𝚍𝚊; é 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚊, 𝚊𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊, 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊çã𝚘 𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒çã𝚘; 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚜, 𝚍𝚘𝚖í𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝õ𝚎𝚜, 𝚋𝚘𝚔𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚜.

𝙷𝙾𝙱𝙱𝙸𝙴𝚂: 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚒𝚜, 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, é 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚎 𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚕í𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕; 𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝é𝚐𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜; 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚜; 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜; 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚗á𝚛𝚒𝚊. 𝙼Ú𝚂𝙸𝙲𝙰𝚂 𝚀𝚄𝙴 𝙾 𝙳𝙴𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙴𝙼: 𝚆𝚊𝚢 𝙳𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚆𝚎 𝙶𝚘 – 𝙺𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚘; 𝙲𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑 – 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝙰𝚝𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌; 𝙴𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 – 𝚂𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗; 𝙿𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 – 𝙺𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚎 𝚆𝚎𝚜𝚝; 𝙽𝚘 𝙲𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚍 – 𝙹𝚊𝚢-𝚉 & 𝙺𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚎 𝚆𝚎𝚜𝚝. 𝙻𝙸𝚅𝚁𝙾𝚂 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙾𝚂: 𝙰 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚊 𝙶𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊 – 𝚂𝚞𝚗 𝚃𝚣𝚞; 𝙾 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝙲𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘 𝙰𝚗é𝚒𝚜 – 𝙼𝚒𝚢𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒; 𝙾 𝙿𝚛í𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚎 – 𝙼𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕. 𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙼𝙴𝚂 𝙴 𝚂É𝚁𝙸𝙴𝚂 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙰𝚂: 𝙾 𝙲𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚜 ��𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚜, 𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚒 𝚇, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚆𝚒𝚌𝚔, 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙴𝚂 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙰𝚂: 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚘, 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚣𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘, 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚘. 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙸𝙳𝙰 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙰: 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚓𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗ê𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚕á𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘, 𝚋𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚊, 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚎. 𝙱𝙴𝙱𝙸𝙳𝙰 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙰: 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚌ê𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚘, 𝚌𝚊𝚏é 𝚎 𝚌𝚑á 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗ê𝚜. 𝙰𝚁𝙼𝙰 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙰: 𝚋𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏, 𝚋𝚘𝚔𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚊. 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙾 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙾: 𝙰𝚞𝚍𝚒 𝚁𝚂7, 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚃𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚎 𝙹𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚆𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚛.

𝙾𝙳𝙴𝙸𝙰: 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕, 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒çã𝚘 𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜 í𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜ã𝚘, 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚊. 𝙶𝙾𝚂𝚃𝙰: 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚖 𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚊, 𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚟𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚋𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚜, 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚘𝚜, 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚒𝚜, 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘, 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚡ã𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞í𝚗𝚊, 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚜, 𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚜 – 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑á, 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚛 𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚟𝚊.

𝚅𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚄𝙳𝙴𝚂: 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊, 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝é𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚘, 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝ó𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚘, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚗ç𝚊, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 – 𝚏í𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚘 𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚕. 𝙳𝙴𝙵𝙴𝙸𝚃𝙾𝚂: 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊 𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚛 𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚊𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚓𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚛 𝚊çã𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚊, 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊çõ𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎, 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊.

[hideawsy]

† PROCURANDO CONEXÕES / PLOT.

Estou abrindo espaço para interações com o personagem. Buscando parcerias de longa ou curta duração para desenvolvimento, que envolvam laços complexos, tramas criminais, laços emocionais, rivalidades, relações entre mentor e aprendiz, ou dinâmicas mais psicológicas.

Como gosto de reforçar, sou 100% interpretativo. Se você não tem um plot ou não faz ideia do contexto do seu personagem, não há motivo para interagirmos. Aprecio o RP antigo, turnos textuais ou semi-textuais, focados em desenvolvimento de personagem e não em romance e hot.

Se você gosta de plots com temas dark, moralidade distorcida, tensão emocional, lealdade perigosa e personagens bem construídos, talvez você se interesse em conectar seu personagem ao Kai.

Se algo te inspirar, entre em contato. Estou aberto a construir algo novo também!

Abaixo, ideias de conexão categorizadas + trope correspondente.

FAMÍLIA & LAÇOS EMOCIONAIS:

Found family, protector complex, monster x civilian, emotional twin flames, two sides of the same coin.

INIMIGOS, RIVALIDADES & AMBIGUIDADE MORAL:

Former allies turned rivals, philosophical conflict, survivor confronts their monster.

PARCERIAS & ALIANÇAS ESTRATÉGICAS:

Unlikely allies, chaotic duo, mutual use, fixer-for-hire.

TREINAMENTO & HERANÇA:

Legacy trauma, shared past, I want to be like you, but better.

MANIPULAÇÃO, OBSESSÃO & PSICOLOGIA:

Cat-and-mouse, mind games.

OOC | OFF: Se você tem -18, por favor, não tente interagir com o Kai, os temas relacionados a ele não são indicados para menores e eu prefiro não ter vínculo. Turno textualmente em primeira ou terceira pessoa, me adapto ao que a pessoa se dispõe a escrever mas o mínimo esperado é uma linha de raciocínio interessante que envolva ambientação, sensações, emoções e pensamentos.