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𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃

𝘫𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘹 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘬𝘪!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘯/𝘢

𝙖/𝙣: 𝘪’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘭, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪’𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘭𝘧 𝘧𝘪𝘤. 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺—𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯!

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

𝖡𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝖧𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽. 𝖳𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖲𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖣𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗄 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗋𝗎𝖽𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗀𝗀𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒! 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍. 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆, 𝗒𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾���𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉.

“𝖭𝗈, 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇? 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎,” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌, 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗍. “𝖸/𝗇?”

“𝖣𝗂𝖽 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎?” 𝖨𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗑𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍.

“𝖭𝗈, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍, 𝖸/𝗇,” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖠 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. “𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇?”

“𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. “𝖬𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗌–𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿.”

“𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝟣𝟫𝟪𝟢 𝖠𝖬𝖢 𝖤𝖺𝗀𝗅𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇. 𝖠 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗏-𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆, 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄-𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗎𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾.

“𝖠𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒,” ��𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌, 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖻 𝗍𝗈𝗉. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖮𝖼𝗍𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖡𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝖧𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝖨’𝗆 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗐,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒. “𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾.”

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄. 𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾. “𝖨’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌. 𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖫𝗂𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉.

“𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾,” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗅𝗅.

𝖠 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋.

“𝖣𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿, 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇.” 𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. “𝖶𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

“𝖲𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇?” 𝖧𝖾 ��𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗌, 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋, 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁.

𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 ��𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖻𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉.

“𝖠𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿.

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽.” 𝖠 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆. “𝖧𝖾𝗒, 𝖨’𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒! 𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗍.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗁.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. “𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾.”

“𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾. 𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝗈, 𝗈𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌. “𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇. 𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾.”

“𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. “𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗉. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖩𝗈𝗋���𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖿𝖿’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇𝖾-𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖻𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗄𝖾𝗒𝗌–𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝖼𝖺𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼��𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖫𝖾𝗀𝗈 𝖱𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖡𝖺𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖩𝖾𝖾𝗉.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖿𝖿 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾–𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗂𝗏𝗂𝖼 𝖽𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗑 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑.

“𝖨 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖿𝖿.” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝗀. “𝖡𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗑 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑, 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖤𝖺𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌.

“𝖣𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗑. “𝖣𝖺𝗆𝗇𝗂𝗍.”

“𝖧𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗄𝗂?”

“𝖲𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗉, 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗁.” 𝖠𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉, 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝖮𝗇 𝖼𝗎𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌. “𝖫𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

“𝖭𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗀, 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉.

“𝖠 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗐𝗈𝗅𝖿–”

“𝖶𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋,” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.

𝖠𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑���𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗀. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇-𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾–𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌.

“𝖲𝗈…” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌, 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗎𝗓𝗓 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁. “𝖶𝗁𝗒’𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗉. “𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇?”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒, 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽. “𝖨 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇…𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌. 𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍. 𝖧𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎–𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽’𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒–𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌. 𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖮𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿.

𝖤𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

“𝖨 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗆𝖾, 𝗂𝗍’𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌.

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. “𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝘮𝘦 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀.

“𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 ��𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗉, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾. “𝖮𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍.”

“𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝖺𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖻, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾.

𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾. 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗍–𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖻, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. “𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆.”

𝖧𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇. “𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗌. “𝖶𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗉, 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. “𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌?”

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. “𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾.”

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽. “𝖦𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗀.”

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍?” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋.

“𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽. “𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇, 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗎𝗅𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝗑𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋–𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝖲𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗇.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗇.

“𝖲𝗈…” 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. “𝖶𝖾’𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. “𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆.”

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌, 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝖽𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆–𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗇𝖾𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒.

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

[scullysexual]

I’m going to be reducing how much I’m active on this blog from now until some point. I’m just not doing okay and I’m feeling really unsafe here after something that happened yesterday and a few of the anons I received a while back. Fandom just isn’t a place for me right now, I feel like people are just waiting for me to fuck up. 

I’ll still be posting fic so if you’re interested in that follow @queequegwrites and let me know if you want to be tagged in the fics. The rewatch and rewatch server are still active. If you want more information follow @scully-granny-pants-society and message that account if you wish to join and need access to the link.

I’ll be turning off my askbox here but my DMs will stay open if you really need me.

Bye, guys :)

[scullymurphy]

Welp, I’m on fandom Twitter now

@scullywrites if you want to come follow me. 

[callsign-scully]

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒

𝘫𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘥 𝘹 𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘵!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘫𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧

𝙖/𝙣: 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘫𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘤! 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴!

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖠 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖤𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗒 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗍. 𝖠 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗂𝗑 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝗒𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌.

𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺��𝗀𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋.

𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾.

𝖥𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖦𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗆, 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖥𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌. 𝖥𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝖾𝗒𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗆𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒, 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁.

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗄-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖧𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖻𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇’𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉.

“𝖧𝖾𝗒, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗀𝗀𝗒. “𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈.

𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾�� 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽.

𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗌. 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇’𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗌, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍?” 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗌, 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺 𝗌𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄. 𝖦𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇.

“𝖲𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍.” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗌, 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗌. 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾.

“𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍. “𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍—𝖨 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨—“

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 ‘𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋,’” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌?”

“𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇—“

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗌, 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

“𝖶𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗈 �� 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝖾’𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗄𝗋𝗒𝗉𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾. 𝖡𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌.

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒. 𝖨 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍,” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗎𝗅𝗍; 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝖧𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝗌𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗀𝗈,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗎𝗉, 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋.

“𝖳𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌. “𝖨𝖿 𝗂𝗍’𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾. 𝖭𝗈𝗐, 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗀𝗈, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖧𝖾 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗉𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍. “𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖨 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍—𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖦𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖽𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗄. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 ���𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾. 𝖤𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗒 𝖻𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝖽. “𝖨 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈.”

“𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁.” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍. “𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝖦𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗆 𝖢𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝘑𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘰𝘥𝘥. 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘚𝘰𝘯.

𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖠𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌.

𝖲𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈, 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎��� 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾.

𝖲𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾,” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍?” 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾.

“𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝗇𝗎𝖽𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. “𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾𝖻𝗈, 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗎𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖠 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝗋𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾.

“𝖨 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝖺𝗒. 𝖨’𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖨 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍.

𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝗇, 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗈𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗈, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌.

“𝖨’𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖬𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗒,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾. “𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖨 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗃𝗈𝖻 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖦𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗆 𝖦𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾. 𝖨–𝖨 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖬𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖤𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝖻𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒, 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖿.

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

“𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌.

“𝖨 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾, 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀.

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖽𝗋�� 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍. “𝖦𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.”

“𝖭𝗈, 𝖨 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. “𝖦𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍.”

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗅𝖾.

“𝘜𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. “𝖣𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾.”

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗒, 𝖩𝖺𝗒,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍.

𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗀𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍,” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒. “𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍.

“𝖢𝖺𝗇 𝖨 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍,” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾. “𝖠𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍.”

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𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘬𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦 𝘹 𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘬𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵, 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺

𝙖/𝙣: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘤 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳! 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘧𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵. 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯.

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾’𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾’𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋, 𝖨’𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾! 𝖬𝗒 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗇𝗈𝗐,” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝗒𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗎𝗉, 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽-𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖠 𝗀𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌.” 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍?”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄, 𝖡𝖾𝗇.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗄—𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍-𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.”

“𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖨’𝗆 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽!” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗀𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝖼𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒,” 𝖮𝗁, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒? 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀?”

“𝖮𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗂��𝖺𝗋𝗌,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇, 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗄𝗒𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾! 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖦𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖺 𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌,” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗌, 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋-𝗈𝖿-𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍.

“𝖭𝗈, 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗌𝗈. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝖸/𝗇,” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

𝖰𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽.” 𝖭𝗈𝗉𝖾. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾.”

“𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍!” 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗎𝗉.” 𝖬𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖾. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖨 𝖽𝗈?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖠 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗌.” 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇, 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝗒𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖿 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗉 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍.

“𝖣𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀.” 𝖣𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺’𝖺𝗆.”

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋’𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.

“𝖬𝖺’𝖺𝗆, 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅. 𝖲𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝗆𝖺’𝖺𝗆,” 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗉𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗍. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇, 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂��� 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐. 𝖲𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝖽-𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾’𝗌. 𝖠𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽.

“𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗉. 𝖠 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌.

𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗃𝗈𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗎𝗉. 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾. 𝖧𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗎𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖯𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍-𝗈𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅, 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾.” 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖦𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌—𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋, 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝗀? 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗍.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗂𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇.

“𝖸𝖾𝗌, 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝗆𝖺’𝖺𝗆.” 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌.

𝖧𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗎𝗉, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒.

“𝖧𝗂, 𝖨’𝗆 𝖣𝗋. 𝖫/𝗇. 𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖮’𝖱𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖤𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁. 𝖨𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗈.

“𝖸𝖾𝗌, 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒.” 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝗌, 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 ��𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽.“ 𝖬𝖺𝗒 𝖨 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋?” 𝖨𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿.” 𝖧𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗉𝖾𝖺,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗈, 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇.

𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎.” 𝖧𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈, 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺’𝖺𝗆.”

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖨𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗉𝖾—“

“𝖦𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗍, 𝗆𝖺’𝖺𝗆.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝖽𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾.” 𝖧𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗁 𝗇𝗎𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁.” 𝖫𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖾?”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗈, 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖫𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄,” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄-𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗎𝖾,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒, 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝖽.” 𝖨’𝗏𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍.”

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗌.” 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝖨’𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾.”

“𝖶𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇’𝗍, 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾,” 𝖯𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖪𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖺 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇. 𝖠 𝗇𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗆��𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄. 𝖠 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝟦𝟢𝟩𝟩𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗀 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼.

“𝖲𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗍? 𝖠𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗒𝖺𝗋𝖽,” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽?

“𝖭𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗍𝗌, 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗐𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺-𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀.” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄. 𝖦𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖮𝗁, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋!” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾.

“𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝖨 𝖺𝗆,” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍.” 𝖧𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋? 𝖲𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋. 𝖠𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋.”

“𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒,” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗇.” 𝖶𝗁𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄?”

𝖯𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽—𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖲𝗁𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁. 𝖠𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗅𝖼𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾’𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼.

“𝖠𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗌.” 𝖲𝗁𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 ��𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝖽𝗌. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌, 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅.” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝖭𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖦𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗌.

“𝖠𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗉𝖺𝗅.” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗉𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋.” 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖨𝗍’𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍.”

𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽.

𝖨𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐-𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍’𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖥𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝗎𝗅𝖼𝖺𝗁𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗄𝗂𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗐𝖺𝗆𝗉.

𝖲𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝗂𝖼𝖾—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝖧𝖾’𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁, 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖻𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖻, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿.

“𝖯𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌,” 𝖯𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝗆, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗇𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗇𝗈𝗐.” 𝖧𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍—𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐?”

“𝖡𝖾𝗇, 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾-𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽.

𝖨𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗓𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗅 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗄𝗒𝗈. 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝗈.

“𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒.” 𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽.” 𝖧𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 ��𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋?”

“𝖠 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗒𝖾𝗍, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌.” 𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝖾’𝖽 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗀𝗈 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖭𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖺. 𝖬𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗆’𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈���.”

“𝖶𝖾’𝖽,” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗎𝗉.

“𝖣𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝖡𝖾𝗇,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋?

“𝖭𝗈. 𝖭𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝖦𝗈𝖽, 𝖨 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗓𝗓𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗌.

𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌.

𝖠𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆.” 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋, 𝖡𝖾𝗇?”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌, 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌,” 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾.” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋.

𝖬𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌—𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋—𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖯𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐.” 𝖨 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝖡𝖾𝗇.”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗀, 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆.” 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖨 𝗌𝖺𝗒? 𝖳𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾.”

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𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐂𝐓

𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘹 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘳!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘱𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺

𝙖/𝙣: 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵—𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥.

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𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝗈𝖻 𝖺𝗍 𝖠𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗌, 𝗆𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖾��𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗅𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗋𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖣𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝖺 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾.

“𝖠𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗒,” 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇. 𝖧𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝖼𝗄-𝗎𝗉𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄.” 𝖨 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖬𝗒 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾.”

“𝖨 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗌, 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖨𝗆𝗈𝗅𝖺. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇—“

“𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗌,” 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍.

“𝖢𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝖫𝖺𝗇,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽.

𝖡𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄. 𝖨𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽.

“𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗈’𝖼𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄, 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗎𝗌,” 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈—𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗒𝖾𝗍.

𝖧𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖠𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗎𝗆𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾.

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬. 𝘏𝘰��𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦.

“𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽,” 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽𝗎𝗅𝖾—𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾 (𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽).

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋. 𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝖻𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉.

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾, 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗅𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖠𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗈’𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖧𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗍, 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾.

𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗒 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝖧𝖾’𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾-𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗐.

𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽’𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉, 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎?”

“𝖭𝗈,” 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺. 𝖠 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎.” 𝖫𝖺𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋.”

“𝖫𝖺𝗇, 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 ���𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇.” 𝖬𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝗈𝖼𝗄-𝗎𝗉𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

“𝖣𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍,” 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽, 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄, 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖫𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾.” 𝖨 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆.”

“𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖥𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗅𝖺 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍—𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗀𝖾.

𝖴𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗌—𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖯𝖣𝖠 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗆𝗎𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗄, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗈 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖫𝖺𝗐𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽.

𝖠𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇—𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯— 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌.

“𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖡𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾, 𝖨 𝖽𝗈, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗈, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍,” 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽.

𝖠 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗀𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝗆𝖾—“

“𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍. 𝖨 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗂𝗍!” 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽.

“𝖨 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄. 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖨’𝗆 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 ��𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵, 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗒.

𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍. 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

“𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾!”

“𝖨𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖠𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽—𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗒𝖾𝗍, 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾.

“𝖲𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗉,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍, 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗑𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

“𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖺 𝗒𝖺𝗐𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽.

𝖨𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉—𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌.

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𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒

𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘹 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

“𝘊𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵.”

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘹

𝙖/𝙣: 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺!

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

𝖥𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗌, 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖼𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇. 𝖸𝖾𝗍, 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍, 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗅 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗅𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗉. 𝖠 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾. 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽.

𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿. 𝖸𝖾𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗒𝖺𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖿𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖡𝖺𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌,” 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗅.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖠 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌, 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾.

“𝖨 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒—𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝖽𝖾,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒, 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗇. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖬𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖦𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗒.” 𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.”

“𝖨 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽.” 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌, 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.” 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗐𝖾’𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝖸/𝗇.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝗈𝗑 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗉𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗌. 𝖡𝗎𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍.

𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝖻 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌 ��𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾.

“𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖬𝖺𝗑 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗅,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

𝖡𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝗈. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖬𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝖺𝗐𝗇𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽. 𝖣𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗇 𝖬𝗂𝖼𝗄’𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋.

𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗅 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.” 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝖪𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗎𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝖻 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋.”

“𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗍.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.” 𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽.”

“𝖨𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖻𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗎𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾. 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗉. 𝖣𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖳𝗈 𝗆𝖾, 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁,” 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾, 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇—𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖢𝗈𝗈𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝗍𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍.

𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗉 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗌, 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍.

“𝖶𝖺𝗂𝗍. 𝖧𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗇.” 𝖧𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺�� 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝖬𝗂𝖼𝗄’𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿.” 𝖧𝖾𝗒, 𝗐𝖾’𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗅. 𝖢𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

𝖬𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾.” 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒?”

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.”

“𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾,” 𝖬𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝖽, 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽𝗒 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗌.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉, 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗉𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖡𝖺𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝗎𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖻𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄.

𝖣𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗂𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗎𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽.

𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗄𝗒. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄.” 𝖧𝖾𝗋𝖾,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌. 𝖦𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 ��𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌����𝗂𝗇.

“𝖭𝗈, 𝖨’𝗆 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇, 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒. 𝖨𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗈, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗌.” 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽, 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾.”

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗌, 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌. 𝖠 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖡𝖺𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖠𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾.

𝖠𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗄𝗒. 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗐,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗐𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍—“

𝖠𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒, 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍-𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗌. 𝖦𝖺𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋.

“𝖣𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾! 𝖶𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆, 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄. 𝖦𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌.

𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝖸𝖾𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖻 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾-𝗌𝗍𝗒𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌.

𝖠𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋, 𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇—𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗄𝗒, 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖠 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌.

𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗅𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗈, 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋—𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾—𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗈, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁—𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗈, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁.

“𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖾,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝗌, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒.

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁.” 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗀𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.” 𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽—“

“𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖬𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝖫𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌.

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁. 𝖨’𝗅𝗅—𝗎𝗁, 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍?” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝖽, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌.” 𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘵.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗌. 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍-𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗅 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾.

“𝖫𝖺𝗇,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋, 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽.” 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝗐𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌.”

“𝖶𝗁𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖽.

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐–𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆–𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒.

“𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅. 𝖨’𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗉,” 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗍𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖲𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆–𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖺𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍-𝗂𝖿𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀.

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𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 (𝐓𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧) ✿

𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘢 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴

♥︎ - 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 | ☁︎ - 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 | ✿ - 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 | ★ - 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

✧ 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴. 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨.

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨 : 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 || 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴

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001. 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙮’𝙨 𝙎𝙤𝙣𝙜 | 𝙢𝙨47

“𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘫𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘴, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.”

002. 𝙏𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙏𝙤𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙎𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙚 | …

“𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵.”

003. 𝙎𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙’𝙫𝙚 𝙎𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙉𝙤 | …

“𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥’𝘷𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 ‘𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦.”

004. 𝙊𝙪𝙧 𝙎𝙤𝙣𝙜 | …

“𝘪 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘬𝘪𝘯. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨.”

005. 𝙄’𝙢 𝙊𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙈𝙚 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙄’𝙢 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙔𝙤𝙪 | …

“𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰.”

006. 𝙏𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙈𝙮 𝙂𝙪𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙧 | …

“𝘪’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵.”

007. 𝙁𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 | 𝙡𝙨18

“‘𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵.”

008. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙒𝙖𝙮 𝙄 𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙔𝙤𝙪 | 𝙢𝙫1

“𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘢𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪’𝘮 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦.”

009. 𝘿𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 | …

“𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.”

010. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝘽𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙈𝙚 | …

“𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯g ‘𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮e.”

011. 𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚 | …

“𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘶𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘵.”

012. 𝙈𝙞𝙣𝙚 | …

“𝘪 𝘳𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵.”

013. 𝙄𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩 | 𝙙𝙧3

“𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

014. 𝙊𝙪𝙧𝙨 | …

“𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴. 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘭𝘭 𝘫𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

015. 𝙎𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙐𝙨 | …

“𝘪 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪’𝘮 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘵.”

016. 𝙀𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 | …

“𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴.”

017. 𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙉𝙤𝙬 | …

“𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘦.”

018. 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙮 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙮 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙮 | 𝙙𝙧3

“𝘪’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦. 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪’𝘮 𝘮𝘢𝘥, 𝘮𝘢𝘥, 𝘮𝘢𝘥.”

019. 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 | 𝙨𝙫5

“𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘯𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘺𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘣 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦.”

020. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙈𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙄 𝙆𝙣𝙚𝙬 | …

“𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸?”

021. 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙃𝙖𝙨 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙 | …

“‘𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦.”

022. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙑𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙉𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 | …

“𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘪 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

023. 𝘽𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣 𝘼𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣 | …

“𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵.”

024. 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡 𝘼𝙩 𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚 | …

“𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴.”

025. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝘼𝙧𝙚 𝙄𝙣 𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚 | 𝙢𝙨47

“𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴. 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.”

026. 𝙄 𝙆𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 | …

“𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘶𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯.”

027. 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙂𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡. | …

“𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘺.”

028. 𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙃𝙖𝙙 𝙏𝙤 𝘿𝙤 𝙒𝙖𝙨 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙮 | …

“𝘸𝘩𝘺’𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯.”

029. 𝙄 𝙒𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙒𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 | …

“𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪’𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪 𝘥𝘪𝘥.”

030. 𝘿𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 | 𝙨𝙫5

“𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

031. 𝘿𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙚 | …

“𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦, 𝘴𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦.”

032. 𝘿𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙊𝙪𝙧 𝙃𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙏𝙞𝙚𝙙 | …

“𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴. 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵.”

033. 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙈𝙮 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩 | …

“𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘶𝘹𝘶𝘳𝘺.”

034. 𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙄𝙩 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 | …

“𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯 ‘𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘴 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 ‘𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘮𝘦.”

035. 𝙉𝙚𝙬 𝙔𝙚𝙖𝙧’𝙨 𝘿𝙖𝙮 | …

“𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘹𝘪. 𝘪 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘥.”

036. 𝙎𝙤 𝙄𝙩 𝙂𝙤𝙚𝙨 | …

“𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦. 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦.”

037. 𝘾𝙧𝙪𝙚𝙡 𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧 | …

“𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

038. 𝙋𝙖𝙥𝙚𝙧 𝙍𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 | …

“𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴.”

039. 𝙄 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙃𝙚 𝙆𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙨 | …

“𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘢𝘪𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘪 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴.”

040. 𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 | …

“𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘫𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘪’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘵.”

041. 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙗𝙮 𝙖 𝙏𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝘾𝙪𝙩𝙨 | …

“𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘴, 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺, 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩.”

042. 𝙄𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 | …

“𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

043. 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙜𝙖𝙣 | …

“𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴. 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵-𝘪𝘧𝘴.”

044. 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙈𝙚 𝙏𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 | …

“𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭. 𝘴𝘰 𝘪 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭.”

045. 𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬 | …

“𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥. 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸, 𝘪 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯.”

046. 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙎𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙎𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙩 | 𝙢𝙫1

“𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥, 𝘪 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳.”

047. ‘𝙏𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙖𝙢𝙣 𝙎𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣 | …

“𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴. 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘐'𝘮 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵.”

048. 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙖𝙜𝙣𝙚 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙢𝙨 | …

“𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘤𝘩, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴.”

049. 𝙇𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙖𝙯𝙚 | …

“𝘪’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺.”

050. 𝙂𝙡𝙞𝙩��𝙝 | …

“𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘪’𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩.”

051. 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨 | …

“𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘤𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥. 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴.”

052. 𝙃𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝘿𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩 | …

“𝘪 𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 '𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘳. 𝘪 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.”

053. 𝙎𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 | …

“𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.”

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𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇

♥︎ - 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 | ☁︎ - 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 | ✿ - 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 | ★ - 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨 : 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 || 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

✦ 𝘽𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙣 ‘𝙃𝙖𝙬𝙠𝙚𝙮𝙚’ 𝙋𝙞𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙚

001. — 𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘴 — ♥︎ [ 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘬𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳. ]

✦ 𝘽𝙅 𝙃𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙪𝙩𝙩

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣 ‘𝙏𝙧𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙧’ 𝙈𝙘𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙮𝙧𝙚

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

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𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓

𝘫𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘹 𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧, 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺

𝙖/𝙣: 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘤 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳. 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯.

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿. 𝖨𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗑𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖺, 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖴𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿. 𝖮𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖺𝖽𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒. 𝖸𝖾𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖺𝗅.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗒’𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝖾: 𝘉𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 ��𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌.

𝖳𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖼𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗒’𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌, 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗇.

𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’��� 𝖻𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿.

𝖸𝖾𝗍, 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗈𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽. 𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐. 𝖠𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝗈𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌. 𝖮𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗋𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗅.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗂𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄, 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽’𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾.

𝖠𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖠 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗇𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒. 𝖲𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗍, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝗍𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖥𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽. 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗐 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖠 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝗈 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆.

𝖲𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝖠 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖻 𝗐𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒, 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌.

𝖠 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖠𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖰 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺 𝗉𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖰, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉. 𝖳𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇— 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁— 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖰’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾.

𝖮𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍, 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖽��𝗋𝗄, 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝗈𝗇, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒.

𝖰 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖮𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽.

𝖸𝖾𝗍, 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿. 𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽’𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝖨𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾.

𝖨𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗂𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖶𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖺𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌.

𝖡𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖰 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍, 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖰 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝗈𝖻 𝗌𝖾��𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽.

𝖲𝗈, 𝖰 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗉𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖽𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈. 𝖨𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖻𝗈𝗑𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖽 ‘𝟢𝟢𝟫’.

𝖳𝗐𝗈 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗉. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽’𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗄𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗍𝗈-𝗀𝗈 𝖼𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖩𝖺𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗋𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 (𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽), 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗋𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗃𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗄𝗋𝖺𝖿𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽’𝗌 𝖽𝗎𝖻𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍, 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄.

𝖢𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗌. 𝖠 𝗌𝗈𝖻 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖺𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽.

𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗎𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽. 𝖭𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾.

𝖠𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖼𝗋𝗒 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗑. 𝖶𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗈, 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖰 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗀𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌. 𝖲𝗈𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝗈𝖻, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽.

𝖠 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖧𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗀𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗋𝖺 (𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾), 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗍.

𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖠𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍.

𝖠𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗅���𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗌 𝗈𝗇. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽.

𝖨𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖬𝖨𝟨 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗒. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾.

𝖲𝗈, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. 𝖠𝗇𝗒 𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗑𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖠𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗐 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗈𝗑. 𝖲𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗉. 𝖳𝗐𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗑𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖠 𝗆𝗎𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 ‘𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾’ 𝗀𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖵𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾.

𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾. 𝖲𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑, 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄. 𝖤𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗑. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖻𝗈𝗑. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅𝖾𝖽.

𝖠 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗈𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆. 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗀𝖺𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖤𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗁.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒.

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𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

♥︎ - 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 | ☁︎ - 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 | ✿ - 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 | ★ - 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨 : 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 || 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

✦ 𝘿𝘾

✦ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙝

✦ 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙡

✦ 𝙅𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝘽𝙤𝙣𝙙

✦ 𝙓-𝙈𝙚𝙣

✦ 𝙏𝙤𝙥 𝙂𝙪𝙣

✦ 𝘽𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙩𝙤𝙣

✦ 𝙏𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙒𝙤𝙡𝙛

✦ 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙧 𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙨

✦ 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙧 𝙏𝙧𝙚𝙠

✦ 𝙁𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙪𝙡𝙖 𝙊𝙣𝙚

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𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐀 𝐎𝐍𝐄

♥︎ - 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 | ☁︎ - 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 | ✿ - 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 | ★ - 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨 : 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 || 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

✦ 𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙎𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 (𝙏𝙖𝙮𝙡𝙤𝙧’𝙨 𝙑𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣) ✿ — [𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘢 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴.]

✦ 𝙎𝙚𝙗𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙣 𝙑𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙡

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙈𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙎𝙘𝙝𝙪𝙢𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙧

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙇𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙡

001. — 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘤𝘵 — ♥︎ [ 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦. ]

002. — 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 — ♥︎ ✿ [ 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳. ]

✦ 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙇𝙚𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙘

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙤𝙨 𝙎𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙯

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙋𝙞𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨𝙡𝙮

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙈𝙖𝙭 𝙑𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙣

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝘿𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙡 𝙍𝙞𝙘𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙤

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙇𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙤 𝙉𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙨

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙊𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙧 𝙋𝙞𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙞

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙂𝙚𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙚 𝙍𝙪𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙡

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝘼𝙡𝙚𝙭 𝘼𝙡𝙗𝙤𝙣

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙀𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙗𝙖𝙣 𝙊𝙘𝙤𝙣

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

[callsign-scully]

𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐃

♥︎ - 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 | ☁︎ - 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 | ✿ - 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 | ★ - 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨 : 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 || 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

✦ 𝙅𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝘽𝙤𝙣𝙙

001. — 𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 — ☁︎ [ 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. ]

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𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅

♥︎ - 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 | ☁︎ - 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 | ✿ - 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 | ★ - 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨 : 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 || 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

✦ 𝙅𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙝

001. — 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥 — ♥︎ [ 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦. ]

✦ 𝙎𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙎𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙠𝙞

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙄𝙨𝙖𝙖𝙘 𝙇𝙖𝙝𝙚𝙮

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝘿𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙠 𝙃𝙖𝙡𝙚

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

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𝐃𝐂 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐒

♥︎ - 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 | ☁︎ - 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 | ✿ - 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 | ★ - 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

✧ 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨 : 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 || 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

✦ 𝘽𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙚 𝙒𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝘿𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙂𝙧𝙖𝙮𝙨𝙤𝙣

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙅𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙤𝙙𝙙

001. — 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 — ♥︎ [ 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘫𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦. ]

✦ 𝙍𝙤𝙮 𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙥��𝙧

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙏𝙞𝙢 𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙠𝙚

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝘿𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙖𝙣 𝙒𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

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𝐗-𝐌𝐞𝐧

♥︎ - 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 | ☁︎ - 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 | ✿ - 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 | ★ - 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨 : 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 || 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

✦ 𝙎𝙘𝙤𝙩𝙩 𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙨

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝘼𝙡𝙚𝙭 𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙨

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙋𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙈𝙖𝙭𝙞𝙢𝙤𝙛𝙛

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙎𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝘾𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙮

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙃𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙈𝙘𝘾𝙤𝙮

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙇𝙤𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙃𝙤𝙬𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙩

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙀𝙧𝙞𝙘 𝙇𝙚𝙝𝙣𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙧

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…