twicethestarsss

20. she/her. i literally have no idea what i'm doing, just here for the brainrot.

[gleekluver]

LET ME EXPLAIN! —

you fall for a fic before you ever meet the boy who writes it. getting paired with him for a project was just bad luck. realizing he’s been writing you into it might be worse.

contents: collage!mike wheeler x reader, reader is lowkey weird and avoidant(same twin🚬), mike is creepy, possibly ooc please see the vision tho, FLUFF, yearning from both sides but they’re both creepy idiots, mike is obsessed with dnd and you, SLOWBURN, eventual kissing, a couple that writes fics together stay together, not proofread, i wrote this all day in one sitting please be patient with me i just wanna make the mikelings happy,

you dragged the last box into your dorm room, dropped it without bothering to unpack, and just... sat there for a minute. the room was bare and echoey in that new-space way, mattress in the corner, desk pushed against the window, a stack of half-opened boxes looking at you. exhaustion settled into your bones.

you didn't have the energy to do anything productive. textbooks, syllabi, schedules, planners. all of it could wait until tomorrow. right now you just wanted something familiar. something that felt like you.

your laptop was still sitting on top of the one box you'd actually opened. you powered it on, fingers already typing before your brain caught up: ao3.com. your bookmarks loaded. Player's Manual - ch. 8 — ThePaladin20.

you clicked in. the update was short and simple:

hey all - sorry this update took so long. college hit harder than expected, but i'm back and really excited for this next chapter. thank you for sticking with me.

you read the note twice. no emojis, no over-the-top flair, just honest words. and for some reason that made it feel... real. like this person wasn't just some username, but someone with a life that got messy and complicated in the exact same ways yours did.

you opened the chapter and started reading. by the time you looked up again the sun was dipping low in the sky, turning the walls this soft orange glow. you'd followed this fic for months. not because it was perfect, but because it felt addictive. the attention to little things, the way the narrator paid obsessive care to gestures and micro-movements, the tension you could almost feel in the spaces between sentences... it all just... connected with you.

you closed your eyes for a second, letting your breath settle. you weren't some dramatic, overwrought fan making silly jokes in the comments. you were just someone who had found something that resonated. something that made the noise in your head quiet down for a bit.

after a moment, you opened the laptop again and typed your comment quietly, honestly. just your thoughts on how the chapter made you feel. you hit post. then shut the laptop and stared out the window, thinking about dinner, class schedules, and how exhausted you still were.

you didn't know who ThePaladin20 was. but you liked the idea of someone out there, probably sipping a shitty dorm coffee somewhere, trying to squeeze time for writing around everything else life threw at them.

the next morning, you barely had time to grab breakfast before heading to your first class. you were early, notebook ready, trying to wake up enough to pay attention. the lecture hall was half-full, quiet except for shuffling backpacks and the hum of laptops.

then he walked in.

dark hair a little messy, backpack slung over one shoulder, hands adjusting straps almost subconsciously, scanning the room like he was trying to figure out where to sit. new. definitely new. and somehow, even though you'd never met him, something about him made your chest squeeze.

he chose a seat a few rows ahead of you. you tried to focus on the professor, but your eyes kept drifting. there was a naturalness to him, a quiet confidence that wasn't loud or showy. the kind of thing you noticed even if you didn't want to.

he typed lightly on his laptop, fingers moving like he was almost unsure of himself, and your heart fluttered for reasons you didn't understand. he glanced up, just once, catching your eye. you froze, and he looked away, faintly embarrassed.

what you didn't know: he stayed up late last night, typing furiously on the fic you've been reading and obsessing over for months. the idea that someone like you, someone who loved it that much, could be sitting just a few rows behind him, completely unaware, made him want to hide under his desk.

you don’t think about him again right away.

not because he didn’t leave an impression. he did. but the first week of classes hits like a wave and you’re too busy trying not to drown in it to focus on one person you made accidental eye contact with.

your schedule settles into something almost manageable. morning lectures, a long gap in the afternoon where you pretend you’ll be productive and usually aren’t, then readings that stretch later than you expect. your dorm room starts to feel less like an empty box and more like a place you exist in. not exactly home, but something close enough. you think at least.

you keep reading the fic.

it becomes a habit faster than you want to admit. late at night, usually. sometimes in that awkward gap between classes when you don’t feel like talking to anyone. you reread sections you’ve already gone through, noticing things you missed the first time. the way the narrator lingers on hands, on pauses in conversation, on the space between what’s said and what isn’t.

the way the author is able to say so much without needing words, is something you’re both impressed and jealous over.

by the end of the week, your professor makes an announcement.

it’s casual, like it doesn’t matter. like it won’t rearrange the way the next month of your life looks.

“you’ll be working in pairs for the next unit,” they say, already pulling something up on their laptop. “reading partners. discussion, peer review, all of that. i’ll assign them.”

there’s a collective shift in the room. people glancing at friends, already whispering, already hoping.

you sit still.

you don’t really know anyone yet. not enough to hope for anything specific.

names start getting called.

you half-listen at first, until you hear your own.

your last name, followed by a pause.

then ..wheeler?

you don’t react immediately. it takes a second to register, to connect it to the person.

a few rows ahead, he straightens slightly, like he’s just as caught off guard. he turns, scanning the room again, slower this time.

your eyes meet.

this time you don’t freeze.

you just lift your hand a little, a small, awkward acknowledgment.

he nods once, almost relieved, and gathers his things as the professor continues talking.

you meet him after class because you have to. the room is still loud, just people filing out, the low noise of conversations, backpacks being adjusted, chairs scraping.

he hesitates for a second like he’s deciding whether to approach you or not.

then he does.

“hey,” he says, stopping a comfortable distance away. “um. reading partners.”

his voice is quieter than you expected, soft but deep. you weren’t sure what you were expecting.

“yeah,” you say. “i heard.”

he smiles a little at that, like he’s not sure if you’re joking.

“i’m mike,” he adds, shifting the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder.

“i know,” you say before you can stop yourself.

he blinks.

you feel your face warm.

“i mean,” you correct quickly, “i heard your name. just now.”

“right. yeah.” he lets out a small breath, something between a laugh and embarrassment. “that makes more sense.”

there’s a pause.. you don’t know who to blame for it. did he make it awkward or did you?

“do you want to, uh,” he gestures vaguely toward the hallway, “figure out when to meet? for the reading stuff.”

“sure.”

you walk out together.

you end up sitting on a bench outside the building because neither of you suggests anywhere else.

it’s quieter there. a few people pass by, but most are heading to their next class. the air still has that early semester feel, not quite settled.

you compare schedules.

he pulls out a notebook instead of using his phone. it’s worn at the edges, pages filled in uneven handwriting. you notice it without meaning to.

“i’m free tuesdays after two,” he says, flipping a page back. “and thursdays, same time.”

“tuesday works,” you say. “i have a gap then.”

he nods, writing it down even though it’s probably unnecessary.

“library?” he asks.

“yeah. that’s fine.”

another small pause.

“have you read ahead at all?” he asks.

“a little,” you say. “not all of it.”

“same.” he glances up at you briefly, then back down. “it’s… a lot.”

“yeah.”

there’s a shared understanding in that. relief, maybe, that the other person isn’t miles ahead.

“we’ll figure it out,” you add.

he nods again, a little more certain this time.

“yeah. we will.”

that night, you open your laptop without thinking.

ao3 loads from memory.

you click into your bookmarks, into the fic, into the most recent chapter even though you’ve already read it twice.

there’s a new notification. your chest tightens a little before you even process why.

it’s a reply.

from the author.

you click it.

it’s not long.

just a few lines.

but it’s thoughtful. specific. they mention something you said about the pacing, about the way a scene felt like it was holding its breath. they say they were worried it came off as too slow.

you read it twice. then a third time.

it feels strange, in a way you can’t quite explain. like the distance between reader and writer just shrank a little.

like there’s an actual person on the other side of the screen, thinking about what you said.

you start typing a response, then stop.

delete it.

start again.

keep it simple. why are you so nervous about this?

you hit post, close the laptop, and lie back on your mattress, staring at the ceiling. releasing a breath you’ve been holding onto for who knows how long know.

the library is colder than you expect.

you get there first. not intentionally, just habit. you pick a table near the back, close enough to an outlet that you don’t have to worry about your laptop dying halfway through.

you open the reading.

you don’t actually read it.

you skim the same paragraph three times without processing any of it.

you’re more aware of the fact that you’re about to spend a couple hours sitting across from someone you don’t know, trying to have something resembling an intelligent conversation. mike seems like a nice guy, but you also get the impression that he might be way more judgmental than he seems.

“hey.”

you look up.

mike’s standing there, slightly out of breath like he walked faster than he meant to.

“hey,” you say.

he sets his bag down across from you, pulling out his notebook and a copy of the text. his movements are a little rushed at first, then slow down once he’s seated.

“s-sorry,” he says quietly. “i wasn’t sure if you’d be here already.”

“oh. uh, i just got here,” you lie.

he nods, like that makes him feel better.

for a minute, you both pretend to focus on the reading.

pages turn. pens move. no one speaks.

it’s not as awkward as you thought it would be. just quiet.

after a while, he taps his pen lightly against the margin of the page.

“this part,” he says, glancing up at you, “do you… get what they’re trying to say here?”

you lean forward slightly, following where he’s pointing.

you read the paragraph again, slower this time.

“kind of,” you say. “i think it’s more about the implication than what’s actually written.”

he watches you as you speak, focused in a way that makes you more aware of your own words.

“like, it’s not direct,” you add. “but it’s… like, there. if that makes sense.”

“y-yeah,” he says after a second. “no, that makes sense.”

he writes something down quickly.

you notice the way he phrases it. not copying what you said exactly, but translating it into something more structured, more precise.

you’re starting to realize how serious he’s taking this.

the conversation gets easier after that.

he asks questions that don’t feel performative. when he disagrees, he does it carefully, like he’s not trying to win anything. just understand.

you find yourself talking more than you expected to.

at one point, you lose your train of thought halfway through a sentence. he waits.

he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t try to fill the silence. just watches, patient.

you pick it back up again, finishing the idea in a different way.

he nods, like it still made sense.

it’s small. but it stays with you. appreciating how kind he’s been with you.

you take a break halfway through.

not planned. it just happens when both of you stop at the same time, realizing you’ve been sitting there for over an hour.

“i’m gonna get coffee,” he says, standing. “do you want anything?”

you hesitate.

“uh, no, it’s fine.”

he lingers for half a second, like he’s deciding whether to insist.

then he nods. “okay. i’ll be right back.”

you watch him walk away, then immediately look back down at your laptop like you weren’t.

your brain feels quieter than it has all day.

you don’t question it too much.

later that evening, across campus, in a different building, mike is sitting at his desk with his laptop open.

he’s not writing. not yet. he’s rereading a comment.

yours. again.

he doesn’t usually do that.

he tells himself it’s because you pointed out something specific. something useful.

that’s all.

he opens the document anyway.

the cursor blinks at the end of a sentence he’s been stuck on for two days.

he stares at it for a long time.

then, slowly, he starts typing.

not rushing this time, just letting the words settle the way they want to.

for the first time since classes started, it feels a little easier.

it doesn’t happen all at once.

there isn’t a moment you can point to and say that’s when it changed, that’s when he stopped being just the guy you were paired with for class and started being… something else.

it’s smaller than that.

it’s tuesdays that stretch longer than they need to, where you both say you’re going to leave after finishing one more section and then don’t. it’s thursdays where you don’t even pretend to focus right away, just sit down and start talking like you’re picking up something mid-conversation.

at some point, you stop bringing your full bag to the library. just your laptop, your notebook, one pen. like you already know you’re not going to get through everything anyway.

he does the same.

“okay, no, read that out loud,” you say, pushing the book toward him slightly.

mike glances at the paragraph, already shaking his head. “it’s not gonna make more sense if i say it out loud.”

“just do it.”

he exhales through his nose, but he does it anyway, reading the sentence in a low, even voice that stumbles just slightly at the end. something about it sounds makes your skip a beat. why is your heart skipping a beat??

when he finishes, there’s a pause.

“yeah,” you say. “that’s worse.”

he huffs, leaning back in his chair. “i told you.”

“no, but like..” you reach over, tapping the page again. “what the hell is that. what does that even mean.”

he leans forward again, closer this time, his shoulder almost brushing the edge of the table between you.

“i.. think it’s trying to sound more complicated than it actually is,” he says, squinting a little at the text. “like if you strip it down, it’s just saying the character feels out of place.”

“then why not just say that.”

“because then it wouldn’t sound academic,” he says, dry.

you smile, just a little.

“oh, god forbid.”

he glances at you, the corner of his mouth pulling up before he looks back down again.

“right.”

he picks up his pen, fidgeting with it.

“i mean,” he adds after a second, “it’s kind of like when something’s obvious, but you don’t want it to be. so you keep… dressing it up until it feels like something else.”

you tilt your head, watching him now instead of the page.

“that’s not what the sentence says.”

“i know,” he says. “i’m just saying that might be what they meant.”

“or you’re just projecting.”

he lets out a small laugh, shaking his head.

“yeah. probably.”

but he still writes it down.

the first time you see him outside of your scheduled meetings, it barely registers as anything important.

you’re sitting on the low stone wall outside one of the buildings, your laptop balanced on your knees, not really doing the reading you told yourself you’d do. people pass by in loose clusters, voices overlapping, footsteps uneven on the ground.

you’re halfway through scrolling when you hear your name. a familiar voice close enough that you look up immediately.

mike’s standing a few feet away, one hand hooked into the strap of his backpack like he’d just stopped mid-step.

“h-hey,” he says, like he wasn’t sure if you’d actually hear him.

“hey.”

he nods toward your laptop. “are you working, or just pretending to.”

you glance down at the screen, then back at him.

“i think we both know the answer to that.”

he huffs a quiet laugh and shifts his weight.

“can i sit?”

you move your bag without thinking, making space.

“yeah. obviously.”

he sits down beside you, an awkward

closeness, your shoulder would bump his if either of you leaned the wrong way.

for a minute, neither of you says anything.

he looks out across the quad, watching people pass like he’s not really focusing on any of them.

“i tried to do the reading earlier,” he says after a while.

“and?”

“i opened it.”

you nod, serious. “that’s a strong start.”

“yeah, i got through like… two pages.”

“honestly, that’s more than i did.”

he glances at you. “you didn’t even open it, did you.”

you close your laptop slowly.

“that’s not the point.”

he smiles, just a little.

it’s small, but it stays.

it becomes a thing after that.

not planned, not spoken about, just something that happens enough times that it stops feeling like coincidence.

you run into each other between classes. outside buildings. once in the dining hall line, where neither of you says anything at first, just kind of ends up standing next to each other like it was always the plan.

he starts sitting next to you in lectures without asking.

you start saving him a seat without thinking about it.

somewhere in the middle of all that, you stop calling it “meeting for class.”

you’re just… meeting.

“so you actually like this stuff?” he asks one afternoon, tapping your book with the back of his pen.

you shrug, leaning back in your chair.

“some of it. not this.”

“yeah, this is bad.”

“it’s not even bad in an interesting way,” you say. “it’s just… kinda there.”

“oh. that’s worse,” he says.

“exactly.”

there’s a stop, then he adds, a little quieter, “i think i just like figuring out what something’s trying to do, even if it doesn’t fully work.”

you glance at him.

“that sounds exhausting.”

he smiles faintly, looking down at his notes.

“it is, sometimes.”

“then why do it.”

he shrugs, not looking up.

“i don’t know. it just feels… worth it, i guess. when it does work.”

you don’t respond right away.

it’s later than usual when you finally head back to your dorm that night.
you drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and sit on your bed without turning the lights on.

you think about mike.

the way he looked at you when he spoke. the way his raven curls caught in the sunlight coming through the windows. how he’d smile at you while teasing, his teeth almost perfect, except for that slight crookedness in the front. something that makes your chest tighten.

…wait. what the fuck are you doing?

you squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to sleep, not ready to question why your mind is wandering somewhere it shouldn’t.

the next time you see him, it’s like nothing changed.

he sits down next to you, drops his bag, runs a hand through his hair like he always does.

“i didn’t do the reading,” he says.

you nod. “me neither.”

“okay, good.”

you open your notebook anyway.

paper rustles. his does too.

for a while, it’s just the sound of pages turning, pens clicking, the low hum of the room around you.

you don’t write anything.

you can feel him there, trying not to peak a view at how intense he’s staring at a piece of paper. you’re failing miserably.

three minutes pass.

maybe less.

“hey,” you say.

it comes out quieter than you meant.

he looks over. “uh, yeah?”

his knee is angled toward yours under the table. you don’t think he realizes.

you almost drop it.

your fingers press harder into the edge of the notebook instead.
“can.. i ask you something?”

“yeah, totally.”

he doesn’t look away this time.

it makes it worse.

“you said you write, right.”

“yeah.”

“like… fiction.”

a beat.

he nods, slower now. his eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to read ahead.
“uh-..yeah.”

you glance down, tracing the corner of the page with your thumb. it’s already bent.

“do you… post it anywhere?”

silence.

you look up again.

he’s watching you differently now. something in his expression shifts.. subtle, but there. his brows pull in slightly, a crease forming between them, and there’s a faint flush high on his cheeks.

“s-sometimes,” he says.

your foot shifts against the floor. brushes his for half a second.

neither of you moves it away.

“where,” you ask.

your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

he exhales, glancing off to the side like he needs a second to decide something.
“just online.”

you lean back slightly, just enough to look at him properly.
“mike.”

his mouth twitches, almost a smile, but it doesn’t stick.
“what.”

“that’s not an answer.”

his fingers tap once against his pen. stop.

“i know.”

you hold his gaze.

he breaks first.

there’s a stretch where the room feels too small, like the air’s gone thin.

then..

“ao3.”

shit.

something tightens in your chest, quick and sharp. you don’t let it show.

“okay.”

you look back down at your notebook like that’s all it is.

out of the corner of your eye, you can feel him still looking at you.

waiting.

for what, you’re not sure.

you don’t give him anything.

not yet.

“so.. what do you write?” you ask.

he shifts in his seat. his knee presses a little more firmly against yours before he notices, then stills, like moving it now would make it worse.

“stuff,” he says, too quick. then he winces, dragging a hand through his hair. “that sounds-..i don’t know. it’s not… big or anything.”

“i didn’t ask if it was big.”

“yeah. i know.”

his sleeve brushes your arm when he drops his hand. neither of you pulls away.

another pause.

closer this time.

“what..uh, do you read,” he asks.

too fast.

like he needs the focus off himself.

you could tell him. you think about the fic, the one you’ve reread too many times, the one that feels a little too specific sometimes, like it knows things it shouldn’t.

you swallow.

“same kind of thing,” you say. “just… whatever’s good.”

he nods.

but he’s still watching you.

really watching now.

like he’s trying to match something in his head to what’s right in front of him.

your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.

trying not to think about how awkward and small the room feels, or how warm your face feels.

by the third week, showing up to the library feels less like obligation and more like habit.

you don’t say it out loud, and you wouldn’t call it “comfort” exactly, but there’s a rhythm now. the rhythm is him. it’s the way he drags the chair out, the little cough he tries to suppress when he’s settling in, the way his backpack slides to the floor with a soft thump, and somehow, in that same subtle pattern, it feels like the library itself has shifted to make room for him.

today, he’s late.

you’re halfway through skimming a paragraph you’re not actually reading, just letting your eyes move over the page so your brain can take a break, when the chair across from you scrapes back.

“sorry,” he says, dropping his bag with a little too much force, enough to make the table shake slightly. he’s out of breath, like he ran, though you know he didn’t. he’s late, aware that you’ve noticed.

you glance up, then back down at your notebook. “you’re like, two minutes late.”

“yeah,” he says, a little defensive. “which is why i said sorry.”

“that doesn’t warrant an apology,” you reply, not looking at him. it’s a statement, not a challenge. but you know he’ll catch it anyway.

he exhales and settles into the chair, shoulders lifting in a tiny shrug. “okay, fine. i’m not sorry.”

you finally glance at him, because he’s smiling just a little, not overtly, just the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a way that almost makes you doubt yourself for noticing it.

“sure,” you say, more to yourself than him.

he doesn’t argue. he doesn’t need to. he knows you saw it.

you open the book again. you really try.

a page, maybe two, and your brain wanders. the words blur into shapes. you drop the notebook and sigh.

“this is awful,” you mutter.

mike glances at you without surprise. “yeah?”

“no, like actually awful. it’s trying too hard.”

he leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “trying too hard how?”

“you know. all the phrasing. the emphasis. they’re making a thought that’s actually simple sound dramatic, and it’s- ugh, it’s exhausting.”

he hums softly, nodding. “i get that.”

“you do?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “or you just want to sound supportive?”

“i actually do,” he says. “it reads like they’re pretending the character is smarter than they are.”

you snort, and it’s a genuine laugh this time. “thank you, mike. someone has to say it.”

he tilts his head again, tapping his pen against the paper. you notice the rhythm, two quick taps, then a pause. you notice more than you want to admit.

“okay,” he mutters, almost to himself. “maybe they’re just making it harder for themselves.”

“maybe,” you agree, leaning back. “or maybe they just want someone to care about it.”

his eyes flick up at you briefly, then back down at the page.

the small gestures start piling up.

he brings you coffee one day without asking. just sets it on the table, warm cup, steam curling lazily into the cold air. you protest once, “you didn’t have to-“

“i know,” he interrupts, calm and even. “but you drink it.”

you can’t argue with that, so you take it. your fingers brush his for a fraction of a second. it shouldn’t matter, but the warmth from the cup lingers in a way that makes the brush of his skin feel heavier.

later, he writes notes in his notebook, and you watch him pause at times, like he’s aware that you’re looking, aware that your attention is fixed on him without your consent. it makes your chest squeeze in a way you can’t quite place.

one evening, it’s late. the campus is quiet.

you’re walking back from the library together, bags slung over your shoulders, arms brushing now and then where the path narrows.

he’s talking, something about class, something you halfmissed, but you’re not really listening.

you’re watching him instead.

the tilt of his head when he laughs. the way his hand moves when he’s trying to explain something. the shape of words as they leave his mouth.

you almost miss it when he stops talking.

“you don’t just… let things go?” he asks.

you look at him. “what?”

“you notice stuff,” he says. “and then you say it. why?”

you frown slightly.
“i don’t know. i guess i just..care?”

he hesitates.

“you care too much sometimes,” he says. “about things that don’t matter.”

you narrow your eyes a little.

he’s not wrong. you just don’t like hearing it from him.

“maybe,” you say.

he watches you for a second longer, then looks down at the pavement again. there’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

something in your chest pulls tight.

the quiet stretches.

then, softer,
“you do it too,” you say.

he looks up, quick. “do what?”

“notice things,” you say. “little things.”

your voice is steady. your stomach isn’t. you don’t even know what to call it.

he holds your gaze for a second.

then nods, once.
“yeah. i know.”

after that, neither of you says anything.

your shoulders brush again. neither of you moves away.

you’re suddenly very aware of it, of him, of the space between you, of how little of it there is.

you look out at the empty path ahead, heart beating a little too fast.

he stays close. doesn’t fill the silence.

and somewhere in the back of your mind, a thought starts to form.

you’ve been waiting for this.

for a moment, you let yourself wonder..

if he feels it too.

later that night, you open your laptop almost automatically. ao3. your usual comfort. you scroll into the fic.

the first few paragraphs feel normal. routine. then a line makes you pause.

she taps the pen twice before answering, like that somehow counts as thinking.

your stomach does a little flip.

you’ve done that exact motion before, in the library, in front of mike. just remembering your moments with him makes your heart flutter. when did you turn 12 again?

and then another,

“just say it wrong first. you can fix it after.”

your chest feels warm, pulse quickening.

you’ve said that before, practicing a presentation with him, fumbling through the words, thinking he wasn’t was watching.

and that time in the library, when he leaned over your shoulder, murmuring almost the same thing.

it’s all so familiar. gestures, phrasing, little quirks… the laughs, the pen-taps, the hesitant smiles.

your heart skips a beat.

wait… this can’t be real.

these aren’t coincidences.

did.. he write you in?

you can’t decide if this is creepy, or sweet.

every little tick, every pause, every movement you thought only you noticed is there, in words he typed.

you close the laptop, fingers brushing the edge of the desk, cheeks warm. your brain is buzzing with disbelief and excitement. he’s been paying attention. all of you.

you don’t text him. you don’t comment.

you just sit there, letting your heart slow slightly, and a silly, thrilling thought spins through your mind: he’s been here all along, quietly, unknowingly close, hidden in plain sight.

you didn’t sleep.

not really. you tried. pillow tucked under your chin, blankets tangled, room dark except for the faint glow of your laptop from hours ago. but you kept thinking about it. the fic. every line. every little motion, every sarcastic comment, every tiny tick he’d written in so carefully, like he’d been watching you for months.

you should have been embarrassed. mortified. instead, your chest kept tightening every time you remembered a scene. your fingers itched to scroll through it again.

by morning, you’re exhausted, eyes heavy, and somehow the campus already feels too bright. you trudge to your first class, backpack slipping from your shoulder, coffee lukewarm in your hand.

then you see mike.

you spot him before he sees you, earbuds in, dark curls falling into his eyes, like he always does when he’s trying not to be noticed. your stomach twists, a tight, spinning knot that you can’t just ignore. “mike,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. he lifts his head, one earbud tugged halfway out, stops mid-step. “hey-” he says, slower this time, eyes flicking over you like he’s trying to place what’s off.

“so, are you thepaladin20?” you ask, letting the words land without softening them. he freezes entirely, shoulders stiff, like your voice just tripped some wire in his brain. “…what?” he murmurs, uncertain, his gaze darting between your face and the ground. you almost laugh at the thought of how absurd this moment is, almost turn back like it never happened, but you don’t.

“on ao3,” you continue, quieter now, “that’s you, right?” recognition creeps across his features slowly, confusion followed by that flicker of something sharper. “how do you-” he starts, cutting himself off mid-thought. you can see it all in his posture, the subtle tension, the faint, sharp inhale he can’t seem to control. he hadn’t expected this. not from you, not now, not at all.

“…oh,” he breathes, almost too quietly, letting it hang between you. you nod once, a quiet acknowledgment of the impossible. “i’ve been reading it,” you admit. it hits him slower than you want, a delayed reaction that makes his shoulders stiffen further. he looks away, hand brushing back through his hair like he’s trying to figure out which end of this he can grab. “…okay. yeah. that’s-” he huffs, a short laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “that’s great.”

“it’s good,” you say quickly, wanting to anchor him somewhere stable. “that’s not-”

“i didn’t think you’d see it,” he cuts in, fast, defensive but not angry. his words tumble out too quickly, colliding with his own uncertainty. “i mean, obviously, i didn’t think- i wasn’t trying to make it… weird.” your chest tightens, not with judgment but with that familiar, acute awareness of him.

“it’s not weird,” you murmur, and he glances at you like he doesn’t quite believe it, like he wants to but he’s not sure if he deserves it.

you step a fraction closer, small movement, intentional but almost invisible. “you wrote me into it,” you say, stating the truth without accusation. his jaw tightens. “i didn’t-” he starts, automatically, then falters. “…okay, yeah. i did. but it’s not-”

he stops, and you let the silence fill the space, letting him breathe into it. “not what?” you ask softly. he looks at you then, and for the first time in the day it feels like the guard is gone, even if just a little.

“it’s not supposed to be something you read,” he admits, voice low, hesitant. “why?” you ask, quietly, needing the answer. he hesitates longer than before, like every second is dangerous, then finally lets his gaze meet yours.

“i just needed somewhere to put it,” he says.

your breath catches. “put what?”

“…you.” the word comes out too small for how heavy it is.

everything stills for a moment.

you swallow, trying to process it all. it should feel overwhelming. instead, it feels quiet, careful, like the air itself is holding its breath.

you step closer without meaning to, letting the space shrink just a little. he doesn’t move away. you notice how his lips twitch, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure he should.

“you-i mean, i didn’t know you were reading it,” he says finally, voice low, like he’s testing the words out on the air before giving them to you. “you.. liked it?”

“i loved it,” you whisper, and the sound seems too small, but it lands between you anyway. he swallows, one hand brushing the back of his neck, the other fidgeting with the strap of his bag. every motion feels loud in the quiet, and your stomach twists again.

he laughs softly, awkward and breathy, like he can’t quite believe it either. “i… didn’t think anyone would… i mean, not like that.”

you tilt your head, letting the moment breathe. “like what?”

“like… like you noticing me in it,” he says, voice barely above a murmur. he looks everywhere but at your face, though you can feel his gaze catching yours in little flickers, like it keeps betraying him.

you smile, almost against your will, heart thudding. “it’s there,” you say simply. “every line, every little thing you wrote, it’s… you.”

he swallows again, finally looking straight at you, eyes sharp and soft all at once. “i didn’t mean to… put you in it. i just… i didn’t know how else.”

and suddenly you understand. it’s not showy or dramatic, it’s messy and small, but it’s real. his voice, his hands, the tiny crease between his brows when he’s nervous, it’s all him, just like the fic. and the fic is him, too, but more honest in ways he can’t be aloud.

you reach out, brushing a stray curl from his forehead without thinking. he freezes for a heartbeat, then lets it happen, and your fingers linger just a second too long. “i didn’t mind,” you murmur. “i liked it.”

he exhales sharply, relief and something else tangled in it. he takes a half-step closer, so close you can feel the warmth of his shoulder brushing yours. “you really mean that?” he asks.

“yes,” you say, quietly, heart in your throat.

and then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he leans in. not fast, not forceful, just a tilt, a slow press of lips to yours, soft and careful. your chest lifts, stomach twisting, everything inside you humming with that familiar, dizzying shock.

he pulls back just enough to see your face, eyes wide, uncertain, hopeful. “so… this is okay?”

you nod, a grin tugging at your lips, breath shaky. “more than okay.”

the document sat in your inbox like a challenge, like a little invitation you couldn’t refuse. mike’s name flashed in your notifications and your stomach did a weird flip. you opened it.

the fic. the one he’d been working on. the one that mirrored… well, you.

you settled onto your bed, laptop balanced on your knees, and started reading.

he was nervous in the text. every line careful. there were moments you recognized immediately, a sigh, a sarcastic comment, and other little gestures you’d mentioned in passing, not realizing he remembered them.

and then you noticed the tiny mistakes: a missing word here, a tense slip there.

so, naturally, you annotated.

“this line feels off — maybe change the word here?”
“watch the pacing here — he’d pause a beat before answering, not after.”
“also, i know you love adverbs but maybe just… not every sentence?”

and then you added one you couldn’t resist:

“ps. nice touch with the sarcasm. you’re sneaky.”

you hit send, heart racing. not from reading, not from noticing, but because mike would get this. mike would read this. mike.

almost immediately, a reply pinged.

“wow. okay. you’re brutal. thanks. also… the sarcasm note? noted. i hate you.”

you laughed, tapping a finger against your lips. “i call it constructive criticism. you’re welcome.”

you rolled your eyes but smiled, warmth creeping in your chest. you’d never thought a fic would do this, make you blush this hard.

later that night, he posts the fic. you refresh ao3, eyes flicking over the update. chapter uploaded. you start reading. and then you see it:

“thanks to my girlfriend for proofreading! sorry for putting you through that first draft *_* ”

you freeze. cheeks burn. fingers hover over the keyboard. you can’t decide whether to laugh, groan, or send him a million sarcastic emojis.

finally, you type in the comments:

“wow. thanks for the credit, mike. you’re lucky i like you.”

his reply is almost instant:

“i know. lucky me.”

you sink back into your pillows, reading the chapter again, but this time it’s different. the words still hit, still land. but now every little detail, every carefully observed motion, every sarcastic aside feels… meaningful. personal.

and you realize it’s not just the fic anymore. it’s you and him, tangled up in words, in glances, in late-night edits. and it’s messy, and perfect.

[pissylivvie]

HOOOOLY SHIT!!!!

[cinnamoncat17]

This gif alone made me cream

[glowy-ate-15-glowsticks]

MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE IS FINALLY ON MY ISLAND 🥹🫶❤️

[glowy-ate-15-glowsticks]

MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE IS FINALLY ON MY ISLAND 🥹🫶❤️

[luvleymarissa]

16 likes on tiktok is embarrassing but 16 likes on tumblr is like winning a grammy

[djoswiftie]

ᴊᴏᴇ ᴋᴇᴇʀʏ ɪɴ ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ ꜰɪʟᴍ “ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ”

[twicethestarsss]

why have i never seen this… absolutely diabolical

[djoswirl]

joe arm keery

[avatarobi]

The Blade of Frontiers said "Fuck ICE"

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

this and also fanfic writers choosing to write a chapter a year, because they don’t want to write more often than that, or abandoning their works entirely because they lose interest and don’t feel like continuing anymore is also a valid reason, and you’re an entitled asshole if you attack, guilt trip or shame them for it (being sad/disappointed is completely okay and normal, you can’t control how your mind feels and reacts to something, what matters is that you respect the author’s decision and don’t be a dick to them about it).

fanfic writers write for themselves and their own enjoyment. they’re kind enough to let you read their works for free. they don’t owe you any explanation. they don’t owe you the details of their personal lives. they don’t owe you anything.

[head-locked]

this is literally fred weasley

[babycowboy24]

save a horse, ride a cowboy

[theevilresidentsareinfaerun]

saw this BEFORE my first bg3 playthrough

[twicethestarsss]

getting this achievement and being like “hahah yes i did >;)” before realizing with sudden horror that I am friends with my brother, SIL and their two oldest kids on steam and frantically trying to find out how to private achievements

anyways now i proudly have this achievement displayed on my profile in a showcase so that’s growth babeyy

[darlingzelda]

Romancing Astarion in Act 2:

[chase-me-round]

[yikesdrama]

HELL HATH NO FURY

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽!𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗑 𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇!𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁 𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁, 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌—𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗓𝖾𝗋𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗒.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: 𝟭𝟯𝗸, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖼 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗃𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾,𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍!𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝖺𝗆𝖿!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗌

𝖺/𝗇: 𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖾-𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇’𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋-𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍-𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗆𝖾. 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝖼 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒. 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗈𝗌. <𝟥​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀 & 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾! 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗒𝗈𝗎

masterlist

𝖭𝗈𝗐, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒. 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗉𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖬𝗂𝗋𝗄𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖭𝗈, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖼𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗅 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐—𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝖺𝗐𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖦𝗈𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖾'𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖸/𝖭, 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝗎𝗀𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗒. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗀𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗑𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗆𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗌-𝗆𝖾𝗇.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖥𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗁 𝖥𝖺𝗐𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖬𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝖭𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖢𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇 𝖠𝖤-𝟣 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖻, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗌' 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍.

𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖭𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇—𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖼 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗒—𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖼𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄.

𝖸/𝖭 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗃𝗎𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝖬𝗋𝗌. 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖳𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅. 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈-𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖩𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗒 𝖧𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝗎𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇.

𝖮𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗑𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖶𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇. 𝖩𝗈𝗒𝖼𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾—𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖩𝗈𝗒𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗇-𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝖬𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖺𝗅𝖽'𝗌, 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖳𝖵 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖿𝖺𝗎𝖼𝖾𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗒-𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅-𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗋, 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗒 𝖻𝗂𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗂𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗒-𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗀𝖺𝗉-𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾-𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗒𝗇𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍—𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖭𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖬𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍.

𝖭𝗈, 𝖸/𝖭 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾—𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗌𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝖸/𝖭 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝖬𝗂𝗄𝖾'𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖦𝗈𝖽-𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌-𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝖾-𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝖾𝗌.

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖸/𝖭. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗑 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗏𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾—𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖾'𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍—𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗒.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗂𝗈𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖩𝗈𝗒𝖼𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖼𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, "𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇." 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾, 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗌𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖠 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋? 𝖨𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅.

𝖲𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝗌.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍."

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖬&𝖬𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍."

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒, 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗒-𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖺𝗅. "𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇," 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. "𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋."

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾."

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖬&𝖬 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒. "𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗀."

"𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐."

"𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅."

"𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈."

"𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀."

"𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇."

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖮𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋."

𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝖬&𝖬 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. "𝖲𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖨 𝗀𝗈 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍?"

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. "𝖣𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾, 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿?"

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿?"

"𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖡𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌. 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖯𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖦𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗅."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾."

"𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖨'𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖠𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇."

𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐-𝗂𝗇-𝗍𝗁𝖾-𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖫𝖾𝗏𝗂'𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽, 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖯𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖲𝗈, 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝖨'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀," 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗒.

"𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁," 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽. "𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿."

"𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗈," 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. "𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖨 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗌."

"𝖣𝖾𝖺𝗅."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾, "𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇."

𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆."

"𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝖼𝖾—𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾, 𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿.

"𝖣𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆?"

"𝖨'𝗆 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄."

"𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅, 𝖾𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅, 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗈𝖼𝗋𝖾-𝖺𝗍-𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾."

"𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽."

"𝖨 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇."

𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁. "𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄," 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, "𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇, 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖨 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖠 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖯𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗓𝗂𝗉 𝖼𝗈𝖽𝖾."

𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽. "𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾."

"𝖣𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍."

𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇—𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒, 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖽𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝖽𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁.

"𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁," 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒.

"𝖭𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖽."

𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖶𝖾𝖽𝗇𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖬𝗋. 𝖪𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗄𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖱𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖣𝗈𝖼 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋—𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖯𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇. 𝖣𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖦𝗈𝖽, 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖡𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌," 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗒.

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖿, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗆.

"𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌," 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽.

"𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖡𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗄𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾."

"𝖠𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌?"

"𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁. 𝖣𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅. 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽—𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗍, 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇."

"𝖸/𝖭."

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍?"

"𝖢𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖸/𝖭. 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋."

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇, 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗈𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖭𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗒."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖫𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖫𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄, 𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖸/𝖭 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾.

𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽-𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾-𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾-𝖺𝗋𝖾-𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾-𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝟩-𝖤𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗓𝖾𝖽-𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀-𝖿𝗈𝗋-𝗁𝗂𝗌-𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋—𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 "𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾" 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗒𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒.

𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽—𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝖤𝗇𝗓𝗈'𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖨𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖮𝖺𝗄 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖢𝗁𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖿 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗅𝖾.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖸/𝖭 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗈𝗈-𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾—𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌' 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖤𝗇𝗓𝗈’𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗐𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗐𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾.

𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇. 𝖶𝖾𝗅𝗅—𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉. 𝖧𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗎𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗆. 𝖧𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗒.

𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒, 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗂-𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝖺𝗌—𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋—𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖻𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐—𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒, 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖼𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽-𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖸/𝖭 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌: 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅, 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗅𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾, 𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅, 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗀.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍-𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗋, 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖻𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍... 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖯𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅-𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖾𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇-𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽. 𝖳𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗂𝗌𝖾.

"𝖨 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝖯𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝖼 𝖲𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌. "𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖲𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽—𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗐𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍.

"𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖽," 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗅𝗒.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍. "𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇."

"𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝗋𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖺𝖽."

"𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝖺 '𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝗒' 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁."

"𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇—"

"𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖩𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝖧𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋."

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌—𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗒."

"𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽—𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗇. "𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒," 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. "𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆."

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎."

"𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗄."

"𝖨 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗂𝖿 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽. 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺 𝖦𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖠 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋. 𝖠 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖠 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖲𝖺𝗅𝗏𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖠𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗋. 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈, 𝖻𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗋𝗈𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗅𝖾—𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗀𝗂𝖼 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗒𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌' 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗅. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌.

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗂𝖼 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗉.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖽, 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌-𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗋𝖻 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.

"𝖭𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒'𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈."

"𝖦𝗈𝗈𝖽."

"𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖨'𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋."

"𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐."

"𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾. 𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒."

"𝖨 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍."

"𝖣𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎?"

𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗎𝗉𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾.

"𝖨 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨 𝖽𝗈. 𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍—𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅."

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅."

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅."

"𝖲𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀."

𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖲𝗉𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋-𝖬𝖺𝗇 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗇𝗈𝖻, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗇𝗈𝖻 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇, 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾. 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖶𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖽𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝗈 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗂𝗍.

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗒. 𝖨𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖢𝖨𝖠 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾—𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.

𝖡𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖺𝗀𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗉𝖾.

"𝖲𝗈," 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖿. "𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽."

"𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇," 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽.

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽.

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌?"

"𝖮𝗁 𝗆𝗒 𝖦𝗈𝖽," 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌.

"𝖨'𝗆 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖨'𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖳𝖵. 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗑𝖾𝖽—𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾, 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍.

"𝖬𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌, "𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝗅𝗌𝗈, 𝖨'𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖿, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽."

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒. "𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖿 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗆'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗌 𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗎𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍."

"𝖭𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖽."

"𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖨 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍."

"𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅," 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. "𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽. "𝖨 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍."

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗎𝖾𝖽—𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒, 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽-𝗐𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍.

𝖭𝗈𝗐. 𝖠𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋—𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺'𝗌 𝖳𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖦𝗈𝖽.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾-𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍-𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖣𝗈𝖼 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇-𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍𝗌—𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗀, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌: 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗈 𝖱𝖾𝖽𝗌, 𝖺 𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 (𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾), 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖲𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖠𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖼 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾—𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁, 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖾, 𝖨𝗋𝗈𝗇 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇, 𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗐𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝗎𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁-𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖫𝖾𝗏𝗂'𝗌 𝟧𝟢𝟣𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖨𝖳 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗇, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗒. 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖨𝖳 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖨𝖳 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗏𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖭𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖡𝗈𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖼 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍. 𝖠 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗐𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝟦.𝟢 𝖦𝖯𝖠 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖬𝗋. 𝖪𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗏𝗈𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒—𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗌, 𝗉𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗒, 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒, 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉, 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽.

"𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖨'𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽," 𝖬𝗋𝗌. 𝖢𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾, 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖬𝗋. 𝖪𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽, "𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀," 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖾.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽—𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌. 𝖯𝗅𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅. 𝖠𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖥𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝖤𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇’𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗁 𝖬𝗂𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗌.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝖤𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒'𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁, 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗑𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗅 𝖢𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖨 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖠𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾?"

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗅 𝖢𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗂𝗍.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗒—𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾.

"𝖳𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍-𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇," 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗀𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, "𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝗉—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾.

"𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎," 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅: 𝖨 𝖺𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖶𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅.

𝖲𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒—𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒—𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾—𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉. 𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗇, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, “𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝖯𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗉.”

𝖶𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋—𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌, 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖺'𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 "𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍" 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗎𝗍.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗑, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍.

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽," 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. "𝖠𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨'𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗒."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾.

"𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖳𝗒𝗅𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒. 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋?"

"𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌?"

"𝖢𝗁𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗀𝗈. 𝖠𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇."

"𝖦𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾."

"𝖲𝗂𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌."

"𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇. 𝖬𝗂𝖽𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖠𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺'𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗌."

"𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗍."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗇, 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇."

"𝖨 𝗍𝗋𝗒."

𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉, 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾-𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋.

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇, 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇. "𝖠𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺?"

"𝖠𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺."

"𝖦𝗈𝖽𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖾𝖽."

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌, 𝗄𝗂𝖽."

𝖬𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖳𝗒𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗒𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖣𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗒𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍-𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽-𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖢𝗁𝖾𝗏𝗒 𝖭𝗈𝗏𝖺 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖯𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝖼 𝖲𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋.

𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗒—𝖣𝖾𝖿 𝖫𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖽, "𝖯𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖲𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝖬𝖾," 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇-𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗌, 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗐𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾'𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖬𝖶—𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅. 𝖪𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇. 𝖠 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖠 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖳𝖵 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖡𝗎𝖽𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗒.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋, 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾, 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽—"𝖧𝖾𝗒, 𝗆𝖺𝗇." "𝖦𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒." "𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖽."—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉, 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖺𝗎𝗅𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆.

𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖽𝗈. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄—𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒, 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌.

"𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇?"

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋. "𝖥𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿."

"𝖥𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿," 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋, 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋. "𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

"𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾?" 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌.

"𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇. "𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒."

"𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍," 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. "𝖥𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌? 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒?"

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾.

𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾—𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒, 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗀𝗈. 𝖠 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗀𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽-𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖱𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽—𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒, 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗁, 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽. 𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗂𝖿 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆? 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅, 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗉, 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗒𝗋𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽? 𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖡𝗎𝖽𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝖸/𝖭 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍.

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀," 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗇, 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗆. "𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍? 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗎𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒?"

"𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒." 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆—𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾.

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍?"

"𝖲𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉."

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾. "𝖲𝖾𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌. 𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗁, 𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒—"

"𝖥𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. "𝖨 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾."

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒, 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. "𝖯𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗈 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇? 𝖣𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗌?"

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 "𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉" 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝗎𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝖾. 𝖵𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. "𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽."

"𝖮𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍?"

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗐𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖫𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍, 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗎𝗉 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾, 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈, 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽—𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍, 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍, 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 "𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋" 𝖺𝗇𝖽 "𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗂𝗇 𝖳𝗒𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇" 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒, 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗁, 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖾𝗒𝖾, 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗈𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖻𝗎𝗅𝖻. 𝖠𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗍, 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗁.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗀𝗈 𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇-𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍, 𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽, 𝖻𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗅𝖾.

𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖬𝖶'𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖺 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 "𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌." 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗍. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖲𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌' 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾—𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌, 𝗇𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁, 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍— 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾. 𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽. 𝖠𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺'𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅—𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾́𝖾 𝖫𝖺𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾.

𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍. 𝖧𝖾𝗋.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖳𝖵—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾-𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾-𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗈, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽. "𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽, 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾, 𝗌𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒—𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀.

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽."

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍.

"𝖲𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇."

"𝖧𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒—"

"𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇."

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗌, 𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗅, 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾—𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗑 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝖾́ 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾'𝗌 𝖣𝖺𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽—𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌.

"𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖽," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋. "𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗇."

"𝖠 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗇?"

"𝖣𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗂𝗍."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁.

"𝖡𝖺𝖻𝗒," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇. "𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖠𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾." 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. "𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋?"

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄.

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌... 𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽."

"𝖣𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗍?"

"𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗌—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗏𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝖽𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. "𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽?"

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽. "𝖢𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀?"

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽. "𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒." 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍. "𝖫𝖾𝗍'𝗌 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖽."

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗀𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝗉𝗍.

𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾—𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾'𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐, 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖬𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗀𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝗈𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖶𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽.

"𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀," 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋.

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝖾."

"𝖳𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀."

𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇'𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗀𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒, 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗅.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇-𝗅𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾.

𝖥𝗎𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗈𝗍," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. "𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋."

"𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎."

"𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖨'𝗆 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾-𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍."

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽."

"𝖨𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍."

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝗈𝗋—𝖨'𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖨 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨'𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌.

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗉, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾. "𝖫𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍. 𝖭𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗇𝗈 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾.

"𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖾," 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽.

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾.

"𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽."

𝖲𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗇-𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅. 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖲𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐. 𝖨𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖲𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖬𝗈̈𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝖢𝗋𝗎̈𝖾'𝗌 "𝖦𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌, 𝖦𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌, 𝖦𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌" 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗈 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇—𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗇.

𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌, 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖭𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗓 𝗌𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖸/𝖭 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗋. 𝖶𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖣𝗈𝖼 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇-𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌—𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖫𝖾𝗏𝗂'𝗌 𝟧𝟢𝟣𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁-𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖬𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍, 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗀, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗈𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾.

𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀—"𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇"—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗒 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾.

𝖸/𝖭 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗑𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.

𝖨𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖡𝗎𝖽𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽—𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌—𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖱𝖾𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗄 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗌. 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖺𝗎𝗅𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗒𝖾𝗍. 𝖮𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇'𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋—𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾.

"𝖧𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋.

𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍—𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗋𝗒.

"𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗈, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋.

𝖫𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖫𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.

𝖫𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖳𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗉.

"𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆," 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾, 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄. 𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗏𝖾𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝖠 𝖪𝗈𝗁𝗈 𝖱𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖿𝗍, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖼𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗎𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 "𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗉, 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝖺𝖽𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍.

𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍.

𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗂𝖽-𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖡𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼—𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗍.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉, 𝖺 𝗋𝗁𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗆𝗂𝖼 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄-𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄-𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗅𝗒—𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗆𝗂𝖽-𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝗍𝗈𝗈-𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗍, 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗌. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 — 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗉, 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗌, 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗍.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖶𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗆. 𝖠𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽.

"𝖧𝖾𝗒, 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅, 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇, 𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋. "𝖬𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝖾?"

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒—𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖺𝗅, 𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺—𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗐𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖺𝗋𝖼 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗎𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍'𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆, 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗐𝗁𝗈'𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗑 𝗂𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 — 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼, 𝖻𝗎𝗓𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 "OH MY GOD" 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽. 𝖳𝗐𝗈 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌, 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 "𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗍" 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝖾.

𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖳𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍, 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽, 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗒-𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗍. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗍. 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍.

"𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅," 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. "𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈? 𝖲𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾? 𝖯𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋? 𝖢𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁?"

𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆," 𝖸/𝖭 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾. "𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗀𝗎𝗇 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒. 𝖨𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝖠 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍. "𝖲𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇," 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖨 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽'𝗌."

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗎𝗇, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗉. 𝖦𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁—𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺.

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁—𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗍, 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗎𝗇.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅—𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍—"𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖨 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾."

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽. "𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗒 𝖻𝗂—" 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁.

𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗒, 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍—𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝗍, 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍’𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾—𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒, 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄, 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗍. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾—𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗃𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆—𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 "𝖧𝖮𝖫𝖸 𝖥𝖴𝖢𝖪𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖳" 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖠 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖮𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌. 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗈𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗆𝗂𝗑𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖣𝗈𝖼 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.

"𝖭𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾, "𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌” 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾."

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒? 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖨'𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽? 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼. 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾'𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾? 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌, 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌.

"𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇, "𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾. 𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅. 𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗅. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸𝗈𝗎? 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝗌, 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇 𝖺𝗐𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍—𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖸/𝖭 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒—𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗒, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖽—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗎𝗉. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖣𝗈𝖼 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗎𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍, 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍, 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌—𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾—𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗒. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗍, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋—𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗐𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗅.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 & 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗂𝗉, 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍.

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗋'𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗇𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅-𝗂𝗇-𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋-𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾-𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍'𝗌 𝖲𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇, 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾. 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍? 𝖫𝖾𝗍'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒."

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒—𝖦𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆—𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖩𝗈𝖺𝗇 𝖩𝖾𝗍𝗍'𝗌 "𝖡𝖺𝖽 𝖱𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇" 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗎𝗆𝖾𝖽. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒.

𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖺 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗉, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗉—𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗉 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗇𝗈 𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌, 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗀𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽—𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝖻𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒, 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭, 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, "𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗍."

"𝖥𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗋."

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍."

"𝖨 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋. "𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁."

"𝖨'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍."

"𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗒. 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾." 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖸/𝖭 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗅 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗐, 𝗏𝗎𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗎𝗇-𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗀-𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾. "𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎—"

"𝖭𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋. "𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖲𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗌? 𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁. 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝖽𝗈. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨'𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖲𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁—𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝖲𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇𝖾𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖫𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖫𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖫𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖫𝖾𝗍'𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀."

"𝖨'𝗆 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽-𝖺𝖽𝗃𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖲𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇."

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗁, 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗆𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗂𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗈𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾, 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖽𝗏𝗂𝗌𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗏𝖾: 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗅-𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗍—𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿-𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅—𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗍.

© 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘢. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥, 𝘰𝘳 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘈𝘐 𝘴𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘮.

[voidreynolds]

“ unfortunately my standard of man was set before the age of ten because i grew up on will turner and prince caspian “

[dwindling-mercurial-high]

OH MY GOD THIS IS SO BUZZY HELP