𝖠 𝖭𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂 𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝗈 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗈 "𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖺" 𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗆𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗈 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗈 𝗂𝗇 𝗎𝗆𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝗁𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾 "𝗆𝖺 𝗂𝗈 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗏𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖺..." 𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈 𝗆𝗂 𝗁𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗈 "𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗌'𝖾̀?". 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅'𝗁𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖺 𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗀𝗅𝗂𝖺, 𝖻𝗎𝗈𝗇𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗈.
𝖠 𝖭𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝗈 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖺 𝖽𝗂 𝗏𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗈 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖺 𝖽𝗂 𝖼𝗂𝗈𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗂 𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝗂 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗈 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺, 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂 𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗅𝖺 𝗎𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗈, 𝗁𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗈 "𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗈 𝖡𝖺𝖼𝗂?" 𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖺 𝗆𝗂 𝗁𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗈 "𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗂, 𝗅𝗂 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗆𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗂!" 𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝖻𝗎𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗂.
𝖠 𝖭𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝖽𝖺, 𝗌𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗅 𝗉𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗈, 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗏𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗌𝖺 𝖽𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝗂 𝗋𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾, 𝗆𝖺 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈. 𝖧𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗈 "𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗍𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗌𝖺 𝖽𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈?" 𝗂𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗈𝖼𝖺 𝗆𝗂 𝗁𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗈 "𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖺 𝖼'𝖾̀, 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗆𝗈". 𝖯𝗈𝗂 𝖾̀ 𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖺 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗈𝖼𝖺 𝖾 𝗆𝗂 𝗁𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗈 "𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖺 𝖽𝗂 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗂, 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝖾 𝗎𝗇 𝗉𝗈' 𝖽𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗎𝗍𝖺, 𝗏𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗎𝗈̀?!". 𝖨𝗈 𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗈 "𝗆𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗈 𝖼𝗂 𝗏𝗎𝗈𝗅𝖾?" 𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗂 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖺 "𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖺 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗍𝖾, 𝗏𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝖾 𝗏𝗂 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈, 𝗏𝗂 𝖻𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗍𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝗋𝖺 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾"
𝖤 𝖽𝗈𝗉𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗓𝗓'𝗈𝗋𝖺 𝗂𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗏𝗈 𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖺 𝗅𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗅𝗂𝖺, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗈 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗅'𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗂 𝗎𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗂 𝖼𝗎𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗂, 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝖺𝗇 𝖦𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗈 𝗀𝗅𝗂 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖺 𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝖻𝗈𝖼𝖼𝗈 𝖽𝗂 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾. 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗈.
𝖨𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗆𝖺 𝖾 𝗆'𝖾̀ 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂 𝗎𝗇 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖺 𝗆𝗂 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈.
𝖠 𝖭𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂 𝗁𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖺𝗆𝖺 "𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌𝖾" 𝖾 𝗅'𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗉𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂, 𝖼𝗂𝗈𝖾̀ 𝗇𝗈, 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗅'𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗈, 𝖾̀ 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗉𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖺 𝗆𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖺 𝖽𝗂 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗓𝗓𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖻𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗏𝗈 𝖺𝗏𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗎𝗆𝗈.
𝖠 𝖭𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂 𝗆𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾̀ 𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗓𝗓𝗂𝗇𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗋𝖺 𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗏𝗎𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗅 𝖻𝗂𝖼𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽'𝖺𝖼𝗊𝗎𝖺, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝗆𝖾 𝗅'𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾̀, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗈̀ 𝗂𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗂 𝖿𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗏𝖺, 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗏𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗅'𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗅'𝖺𝖼𝗊𝗎𝖺 𝗅𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗏𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺 𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗉𝗈 𝗂𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾̀, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗅 𝖿𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗅'𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖺. 𝖰𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗁𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗅'𝗁𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗏𝗎𝗍𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺 𝗁𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗈 𝖾 𝗂𝗈 𝗆𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇 𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅'𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺̀.
𝖠 𝖭𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗓𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗂 𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗂 𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗈 "𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾" 𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗂 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂 𝗌𝗂 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝗎𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗏𝖺 "𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝗈𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗂 𝗏𝗎𝗈𝗅𝖾" 𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗏𝖺 "𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝗈𝗅𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗂 𝗏𝗎𝗈𝗅𝖾" 𝖾 𝗂𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗏𝗈 𝗓𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗈 𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗏𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝗂 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗈 𝖺 𝗆𝖾. 𝖬𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖾̀ 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖺 𝗅𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝖺 𝗉𝗂𝗓𝗓𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝗂 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖾 𝗆𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗏𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖺, 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗈 𝗏𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝗌𝗂 𝖼𝗎𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖻𝖻𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗂̀. (𝖫𝖺 𝗉𝗂𝗓𝗓𝖺 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺 𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗇𝖺𝖼𝖺 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝗈𝗅𝖺 𝖼'𝖾𝗋𝖺).
𝖠 𝖭𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂 𝗁𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈 𝖾 𝗂 𝖼𝗂𝖼𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗅𝗂, 𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺 𝖽𝗂 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗓𝖺𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗁𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗈 "𝗆𝖺 𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗓𝖺𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾?" 𝗆𝗂 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝗎𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗈 "𝗁𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗓𝖺𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺!". 𝖧𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗈 𝗓𝗎𝖼𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗈 𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗈 "𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾" 𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗂 𝖺𝗓𝗓𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗂 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾 "𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗈?". 𝖧𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖿𝗈𝗀𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝗆𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗏𝗎𝗈𝗂 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗎̀ 𝖻𝗎𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗂 𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗎𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝖺 "𝗏𝗂𝖼𝗈 𝖥𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖺" 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂 𝖽𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂 𝗇𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝗅𝗂 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂 𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗋𝖺. 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝖺 𝖭𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺 𝗉𝗂𝗎̀ 𝖽𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂.
𝖠 𝖭𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂 𝗁𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖾̀ 𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝖺 𝗂 𝗌𝗎𝗈𝗂 𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂 𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖾, 𝖾̀ 𝗎𝗇 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈 𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂 𝖾̀ 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾, 𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂 𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝖽𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝗂𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗈𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗉𝖺 𝖾 𝗍𝗂 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖼𝗂 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗍𝖾 "𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗏𝖺? 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾?" 𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗉𝗈 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗇𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗂 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝖾 𝗍𝗂 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗅𝗂, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗂 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾, 𝗇𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗂, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝗈 𝗀𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂 𝗂𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝖾?
𝖤 𝗉𝗈𝗂 𝗆𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝖺𝗆𝗈 𝖭𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂? 𝖬𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗂, 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖺. 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾.
[𝖬𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗈 𝖯𝗋𝗈𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂 𝖬𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗂 ~ 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗈]
