𝙍𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙡, 𝙪𝙣𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙯𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙚𝙣𝙙. 𝙄𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣, 𝙤𝙛 𝙗𝙤𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙, 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡𝙨 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠. 𝙁𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙝𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙡, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙪𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙝𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣.

𝙄𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙, 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙧 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙩𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚. 𝙄𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙨, 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙬𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙪𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙩𝙝, 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙧. 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙧𝙪𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙙, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙡𝙞𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙙 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚, 𝙢𝙤𝙡𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙨𝙝, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙛𝙪𝙧𝙮 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡 𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙞𝙨 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙖 𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙪𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙧𝙚. 𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙖 𝙨𝙢𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙪𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣. 𝙍𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙙𝙪𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙗𝙮𝙨𝙨. 𝙄𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙗𝙡𝙪𝙨𝙝, 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝘾𝙖𝙞𝙣, 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙧 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙣.

𝙄𝙣 𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚, 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙖 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙢 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙗𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙭𝙚𝙘𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙡 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙃𝙞𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙮𝙢𝙪𝙨 𝘽𝙤𝙨𝙘𝙝𝙨 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙬𝙞𝙧𝙡 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙧𝙨; 𝘿𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙄𝙣𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙤 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙯𝙚𝙣 𝙡𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙮𝙖𝙡. 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙤𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙣 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙧𝙚𝙙, 𝙖 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 𝘼𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚, 𝙮𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚.

𝙍𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡. 𝙄𝙩 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙨𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙖𝙡𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙩, 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙣 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧, 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙙 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙢𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙖 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙨. 𝙄𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙞𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙚.

𝙏𝙤 𝙜𝙖𝙯𝙚 𝙪𝙥𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣—𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙛𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙡𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙖𝙮, 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮, 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.