✞ 𝖠𝗌𝗁 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗈, 𝟣𝟩 𝖺𝗇𝗌. ✞
WHITE ON WHITE, TRANSLUCENT BLACK CAPES
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THE BATS HAVE LEFT THE BELL TOWER
BELA LUGOSI'S DEAD
✞ Зато уютно умирать ✞
✞ 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗋 ✞
𝖩𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾́𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗂𝗏𝗋𝖾. 𝖩𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾́𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗋.
𝖣𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾, 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖾𝗎 𝗎𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗅𝖺 𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗍.
𝖩'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾́𝖾, 𝗂𝗇𝖾́𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗉𝖺𝗋 𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾́𝗉𝖺𝗌.
𝖫𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗆'𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗆'𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗇 𝗋𝖾́𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗆𝗂. 𝖴𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗈𝗎̀ 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌.
𝖬𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖼𝖾, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝖾. 𝖲𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗌 𝖾́𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾́ 𝖺𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗀𝖾, 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗎𝗑 𝖽𝖾 𝗃𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖽𝗌. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗃𝖾𝗎𝗇𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗇'𝖺 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖾́𝖽𝖾́ 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝗅𝗎𝗑𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝖽'𝗎𝗇 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂 𝗉𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾́ 𝗌𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗎𝗂, 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗁𝖾́𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗅'𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖽'𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗎𝖾́𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗂𝗋, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌'𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗎 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗊𝗎'𝖺̀ 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗁𝖾́𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗍𝗌.
𝖫𝗈𝗎𝗂𝗌, 𝖼'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗆. 𝖬𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖨𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾́𝗀𝗎𝗅𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, "𝗌𝖺𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾́𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌" 𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍-𝗂𝗅. 𝖨𝗅 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖾́𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗑 𝗆𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗎𝗇 𝖺𝗇. 𝖰𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗍, 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝗌𝖺𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎, 𝗅'𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾, 𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗊𝗎'𝖺̀ 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖻𝖾. 𝖰𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗌'𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖾̂𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺̀ 𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝖾́, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗂𝗅 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗌. 𝖳𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗂𝗌, 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗋𝖾́𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗌. 𝖩'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖾́𝗀𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝖼𝖾 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖾́𝖾, 𝗉𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾, 𝗂𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍. 𝖠̀ 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗎.
𝖨𝗅 𝗇𝖾 𝗆'𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗏𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗋. 𝖨𝗅 𝗇𝖾 𝗆'𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗎 𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗂 𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾, 𝗎𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝗌'𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗌'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗓𝖾, 𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍 𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗋, 𝗃𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗎𝗌. 𝖤𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖽'𝗁𝗎𝗂, 𝗃𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌. 𝖩𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌, 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖾́𝗍𝖾́ 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾́ 𝗉𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌.
𝟨 𝖺𝗇𝗌, 𝖼'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅'𝖺̂𝗀𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗂 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗎𝖾𝗌. 𝖢'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗍'𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾. 𝖩'𝖺𝗂 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝖽'𝗈𝗎̀ 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑. 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗅 𝗇'𝗒 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾, 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖾́𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖩'𝖺𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾́ 𝖽𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗉𝖾́𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗌, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗊𝗎'𝖺̀ 𝗅'𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗎. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝗁𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗈̂𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗂𝗋𝖾.
- 𝖳𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗏𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗏𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗍...
𝖩𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗎𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗇'𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖾̂𝗍𝖾́, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾́𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗃𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝖼𝖾́𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗂 𝗋𝖾́𝗉𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗎.
- 𝖭'𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗈𝗂, 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗏𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗋 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾́𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝖣'𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖾̂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝖺 𝗍𝖾̂𝗍𝖾, 𝖼'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖼̧𝖺?
𝖩𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗂 𝖾𝗎 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗋𝖾́𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗂 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗎, 𝗌'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾́𝗏𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖾́𝗌, 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾́𝖾𝗌.
𝖩𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽'𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑, 𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝖽'𝖾𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍.
- 𝖫𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑, 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖫𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖺 𝗏𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗍.
𝖬𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗌𝖾́ 𝗎𝗇 𝗅𝖾́𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗂 𝖽'𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗂, 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗀𝗇𝖾́ 𝖽'𝗎𝗇 𝗋𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗎𝗑. 𝖨𝗅 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾, 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑, 𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅 𝗌'𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗎̂𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽'𝗎𝗇 𝗃𝖾𝗎 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗂. 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗅 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗎 𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇. 𝖩𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇'𝖺 𝗌𝗎 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌. 𝖬𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗋𝖾́𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗂, 𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝗎𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗎 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾́𝗃𝖾𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝖽𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾.
𝖢'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗇 𝗃𝖾𝗎𝖽𝗂, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌’𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾́𝖾, 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗎 𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾, 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗊𝗎'𝗎𝗇 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇. 𝖩𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝖽'𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾́𝖾, 𝖾𝗍 𝗃𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾, 𝗃𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝖾𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖺̂𝖼𝗁𝖾́, 𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗎𝗇 𝗏𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗌 𝗌'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾́ 𝗌𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗋. 𝖠̀ 𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍-𝗅𝖺̀, 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌.
𝖩𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖾́𝗍𝖾́ 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾́𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗅'𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝖾̀𝗌, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗑. 𝖴𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗏𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝖾̀𝗌 𝖽'𝗎𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂 𝗃𝖾𝗎𝗇𝖾. 𝖬𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌-𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝗂𝗅 𝗌'𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾, 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌-𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾̀𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖺̀ 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗂. 𝖭𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖾́ 𝗎𝗇 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗎𝖾𝗂𝗅 𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖫𝗈𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗇'𝖺 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖾́𝗍𝖾́ 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾́. 𝖩𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗎𝖾𝗂𝗅 𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅'𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖺 𝗆𝖾́𝗆𝗈𝗂𝗋𝖾. 𝖤𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗋𝖾́ 𝖼̧𝖺, 𝗃𝖾 𝗇'𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗂-𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾. 𝖩𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾́ 𝗌𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖼̧𝖺 𝗇'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾́. 𝖩𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗎𝗂𝗅 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗆𝗈𝗂. 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌-𝗃𝖾 𝗉𝗎 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝖾𝗇 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗂𝗋 ? 𝖩𝖾 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾, 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾́, 𝗃𝖾 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋. 𝖩'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾, 𝗃'𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝖿𝖾́𝗋𝖾́ 𝗅'𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾.
𝖩𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗇 𝗇'𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝗑 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑, 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗆'𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖼̧𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝖾̀𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗂, 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇 "𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾", 𝗉𝖺𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾. 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼̧𝖺 𝗇'𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖾́𝗍𝖾́ 𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌, 𝗂𝗅 𝗌'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖾́𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾́ 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗅 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝖩'𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑 𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗊𝗎'𝗎𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗆'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅'𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾, 𝖺𝗎 𝖽𝖾́𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖼̧𝖺 𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗎 𝖼𝗋𝖺̂𝗇𝖾, 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖻𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖢'𝖾𝗇 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌. 𝖩𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝖾𝗎𝗑 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾́𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗂-𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾. 𝖢'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖽'𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍-𝗅𝖺̀ 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾́ 𝖺̀ 𝗌'𝖾́𝗅𝗈𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗂, 𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝖽'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾, 𝗃'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾. 𝖩𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗒𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖺̂𝗀𝖾, 𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗇’𝖾𝗎𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖽'𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾́𝗋𝖾̂𝗍𝗌 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾́𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾. 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖾́𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗍𝗈̂𝗍, 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂̂𝗇𝖾́ 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗓-𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌/𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝖿𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗊𝗎𝗈𝗂 𝗃'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂. 𝖤́𝗀𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗍𝗈̂𝗍, 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖽𝗎 𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗎̂𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝖾, 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗎 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗎𝗋. 𝖵𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗒𝖾𝗓, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗂 𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗂 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗌. 𝖩'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗇𝖽, 𝖾𝗍 𝗃𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌-𝗃𝖾 𝗉𝗎 𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗊𝗎'𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗂, 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗎 𝖺̀ 𝗉𝖾𝗎, 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗌'𝖾́𝗅𝗈𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖽'𝗒 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋 ? 𝖬𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗌 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾́, 𝗆𝖺𝗎𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌, 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖽'𝗎𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗈𝗎 𝖽'𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾́𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗆'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌. 𝖮𝗇𝗍 𝖾́𝖻𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾́𝗌 𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗂 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾́𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗌, 𝗉𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗎 𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌. 𝖫𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖾́𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖽'𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖾́𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾́𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗑𝗂𝖾𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾.
𝖤𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖾, 𝗂𝗅 𝗒 𝖺 𝖾𝗎 𝗅'𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗌 "𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌" 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗎𝗑 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗂, 𝗃𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾́𝖾𝗅𝗌. 𝖨𝗅𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖺 𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗍, 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗂. 𝖩'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗓 𝗆𝗈𝗂, 𝖺𝖿𝗂𝗇 𝖽'𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗂𝗋. 𝖢'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗎𝗌. 𝖫𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗂𝗌, 𝗃𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖽'𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗌. 𝖩'𝖺𝗂 𝖾𝗎 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗎𝖾, 𝗏𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖨𝗅𝗌 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗂 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝖾́𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝖣𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖽'𝖾𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗓, 𝖼𝖾𝗎𝗑 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅'𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗎𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗋. 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺̀, 𝖼𝖾 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗋, 𝖾𝗍 𝗃𝖾 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝖠𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖾́, 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂̂𝗍𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗌'𝖾́𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼̧𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺̀ 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝖾𝗌. 𝖮𝗇 𝗆'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾́𝗉𝖾́𝗍𝖾́ 𝗌𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾, 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗋 𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗂𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗍 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾́ 𝖺𝗎 𝖽𝖾́𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅 𝗌'𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖽'𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾. 𝖢'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝖼̧𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝖺 "𝗍𝖾̂𝗍𝖾". 𝖩𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾́𝖾𝗅 𝖽𝗎 𝖿𝖺𝗎𝗑, 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗆'𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 ? 𝖩'𝖺𝗂 𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗎̂ 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗅'𝗂𝖽𝖾́𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝖾 𝗇'𝖾𝗇 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌, 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗅 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗎 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖾́𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋. 𝖠̀ 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗎, 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖾́, 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂̂𝗍𝗋𝖾. 𝖩’𝖺𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾́ 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖺̀ 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗍 𝗃'𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾́ 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝖾́𝖾. 𝖤𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝗃𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾́𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗍, 𝖾𝗍 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾́ 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗍, 𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗆'𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝖫𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾́ 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗆'𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎. 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗅'𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍, 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 ? 𝖩'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 "𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖾" 𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖾 "𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾́𝖾", 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍-𝗂𝗅𝗌. 𝖲𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾́𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝖾 𝖺 𝖾́𝗍𝖾́ 𝖽'𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾́𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝖾́𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾́𝗀𝗎𝗅𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖽'𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖩'𝖺𝗂 𝖽𝗎̂ 𝖺̀ 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗎 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅 𝗌'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖾́𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗍. 𝖩'𝖺𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾, 𝖾𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾́, 𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗇𝖾 𝗆'𝖾́𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗌, 𝗊𝗎𝗈𝗂 𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖩𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎'𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖽𝗌, 𝗆'𝖾𝗆𝗉𝖾̂𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗋𝖾́𝖿𝗅𝖾́𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗋, 𝗈𝗎 𝗆'𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾. 𝖨𝗅𝗌 𝗆'𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗒𝖾́ 𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈̂𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾. 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝖠𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖠𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖶𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝖼𝗋𝗎 𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗋. 𝖯𝖾𝗎𝗍-𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍-𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇 ? 𝖯𝖾𝗎𝗍-𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌-𝗃𝖾 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗎𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗂-𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗂 ? 𝖤𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗍-𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌-𝗃𝖾 𝗋𝖾́𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾́ 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅 𝗌'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾́, 𝖽𝗎̂ 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝖾́𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌 ? 𝖣𝖾𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾́𝖾𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗅𝗎. 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗅𝗎 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇, 𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗆'𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝖡𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾, 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾́𝗅𝗈𝗉𝖾́𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖾̀𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌... 𝖯𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗊𝗎𝗈𝗂 𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾́ 𝗆'𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗍-𝗂𝗅 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝗈𝗂, 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗊𝗎'𝗎𝗇 𝖽’𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾 ?
𝖤𝗇 𝗋𝖾́𝖿𝗅𝖾́𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗇 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝗋𝖾́𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝖾́. 𝖩𝖾 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾́𝗃𝖺̀ 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌. 𝖬𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝖾́𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗂, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂-𝗃𝖾 𝗉𝗎 𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗌𝗂 𝗃'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗂-𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍 ? 𝖳𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺̀ 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖩'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾, 𝗃𝖾 𝗇'𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌. 𝖩'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗊𝗎𝖾́𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋 𝖳𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖾, 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖼 𝗆𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋, 𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗎 𝗆'𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾. 𝖩𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎'𝗎𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝗃'𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗅𝖺̀ 𝗈𝗎̀ 𝗃𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾. 𝖩𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖼𝗂 𝖾́𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗌.
𝖫𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾́𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍-𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗍 ? 𝖬𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗎 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾́𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗂𝖾, 𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝖺̂𝗀𝖾́𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗂, 𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾 𝗌'𝗈𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗌. 𝖩'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗃𝖾𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗎𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌. 𝖩𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾̀𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝖼𝗂, 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝗁𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗅𝖾, 𝖾𝗇 𝗏𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌. 𝖬𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾́𝖿𝗂𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗂𝗅 𝗇'𝗒 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖬𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗌, 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗆'𝖾𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗎𝗑, 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾́𝖾. 𝖨𝗅𝗌 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗃𝖾 𝗅'𝖺𝗂 𝖼𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝖺̀ 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖽'𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝗑 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗅'𝗁𝗈̂𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗋𝗂𝗋𝖾, 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖼'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅, 𝖾𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾̀𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗇'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝖾́𝖽𝖾́𝖾. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆'𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾́ 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗒𝗀𝗂𝖾́𝗇𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌, 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝖾. 𝖩'𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝖿𝖾́𝗋𝖾́ 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾, 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗆'𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖺, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗆'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗒𝖾́ 𝗂𝖼𝗂, 𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾. 𝖰𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗂𝗌. 𝖩'𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾́ 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝗈̂𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗆'𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗎𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗌. 𝖩'𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾́ 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝗌𝗂 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗅'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖾́𝗍𝖾́ 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾. 𝖰𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃'𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾, 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗂.
𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗌, 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝗌'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾́ 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝗈𝗂 𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋 𝗅'𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾́𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗌. 𝖩𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌-𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗍 𝗅'𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗍, 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌. 𝖩'𝗒 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌, 𝖾𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾-𝖼𝗂, 𝗃𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖾 𝗃𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇. 𝖢𝖾𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾́𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾́𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝖾̀𝗌-𝗆𝗂𝖽𝗂. 𝖣𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅'𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗍, 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝖽𝖾𝗎𝗑 𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗍 𝗃𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝗎 𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖼̧𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝖺̂𝗀𝖾́𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗂, 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗌, 𝖽𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗌. 𝖢'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾́𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌, 𝗃'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗅𝖾, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍, 𝖾𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗂𝖾. 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗋𝖾́ 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗃'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗆'𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗃𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾́𝖾 𝗅𝖺̀, 𝖺̀ 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾. 𝖩𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗈𝗂. 𝖠𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗃𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾́𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾́𝖾 𝗅𝖺̀, 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗂𝖾, 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇. 𝖩'𝖺𝗂 𝖾𝗎 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾 𝗅'𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾, 𝗉𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗅'𝗈𝗆𝖻𝗋𝖾, 𝗂𝗅 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗂, 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗀𝗇𝖾́ 𝖽'𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌. 𝖨𝗅 𝗌'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾́ 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖾𝗍 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾́ 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝖾𝗎𝗑 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗎𝗂, 𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖽𝖾́𝗀𝗈𝗎𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍.
- 𝖰𝗎𝗂 𝖾̂𝗍𝖾𝗌-𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌?
𝖩𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗌, 𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾.
- 𝖭𝗈𝗇, 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗓 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗂, 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝖼'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖫𝗈𝗎𝗂𝗌, 𝖾𝗍 𝖫𝗈𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗅 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍. 𝖢'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼̧𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝖼𝗂 𝖽'𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖾𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑 𝗆𝖾 𝗅'𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗍. 𝖫𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑 𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾. 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗍-𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾́𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾́, 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗂 𝗃𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝖼𝗂, 𝖼'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾.
𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖠𝗌𝗁. 𝖤𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗂, 𝗍𝗎 𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾. 𝖫𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑, 𝗍𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖾́𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖭𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌, 𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗂. 𝖢'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖺̂𝖼𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗎𝗂-𝖼𝗂 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗎 𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖾́𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝖾, 𝗇'𝖾𝗆𝗉𝖾̂𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝖾́𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋, 𝗆𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾.
- 𝖵𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗓 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗆'𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾́ 𝖽𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌.
𝖫𝗈𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝖳𝖺 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾́𝗏𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾́𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋 𝗅𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾́ 𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗅 𝖺̀ 𝗎𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇𝗒𝗆𝖾. 𝖢'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗂. 𝖢'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖾𝖼𝗂.
𝖨𝗅 𝗆'𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗎 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗂𝗍𝖾, 𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗆𝖾́𝖿𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾, 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾. 𝖣𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗎 𝖽𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝖾, 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾́𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾́ 𝗎𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗈𝗍. 𝖩𝖾 𝗅'𝖺𝗂 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗂𝖾́, 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾. 𝖯𝖾𝗎𝗍-𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖼'𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗎𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝗎 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗒𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺 𝗍𝖾̂𝗍𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍-𝗂𝗅 𝗉𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗊𝗎'𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗎𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖾 ? 𝖤𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍-𝗂𝗅 𝗉𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗂̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗆 ? 𝖲𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗁𝖾́𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗂, 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝖾𝗎𝗑 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅 𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌. 𝖲'𝗂𝗅 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅 𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝗌𝗂 𝗅𝖺 𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾-𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝗂𝗅 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾́𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾, 𝗃𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗅'𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖾́𝗍𝖾́. 𝖩𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗎 𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖺 𝗍𝖾̂𝗍𝖾, 𝗂𝗅 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗎. 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾́𝖾𝗌.
- 𝖭𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝖺 𝗍𝖾̂𝗍𝖾, 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗂 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗎𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗎 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝖾. 𝖳𝗎 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗑 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝗍𝗎 𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗌… 𝖯𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖺, 𝗂𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝗎𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖾. 𝖳𝗎 𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾́𝗃𝖺̀ 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾́.
𝖢'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗍-𝗅𝖺̀ 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝖿𝗎𝗀𝗎𝖾́ 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾. 𝖩𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖽'𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗂𝗌. 𝖩𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑, 𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗈̂𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖾́𝗌, 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖾. 𝖩'𝖺𝗂 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾́𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗑, 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾́ 𝖺̀ 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝗌𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋. 𝖢𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗋 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈̂𝗍𝖾́𝗌, 𝗆𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖺 𝖢𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖾, 𝗈𝗎̀ 𝗃'𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗏𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖩𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗂 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗊𝗎𝗈𝗂 𝖺𝗎 𝖽𝖾́𝖻𝗎𝗍, 𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆'𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝖾̀𝗌, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾́, 𝖺𝖿𝗂𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖾 𝗇’𝖺𝗂𝖾 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖽𝖾 𝗆'𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝖺̀ 𝗌𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗂. 𝖩'𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾́ 𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗌, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗅 𝗇𝖾 𝗆'𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗅𝖾. 𝖳𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗂𝗍, 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗂 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗒𝖾𝗎𝗑, 𝖺 𝖾́𝗍𝖾́ 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀. 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗃'𝖺𝗂 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗋 𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋.
THE VIRGINAL BRIDES FILE PAST HIS TOMB
STREWN WITH TIME'S DEAD FLOWERS
BEREFT IN DEATHLY BLOOM
ALONE IN A DARKENED ROOM
THE COUNT
BELA LUGOSI'S DEAD
✞ 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 ✞
✞ + 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾/𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 ✞
𝖠𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗎 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝖠𝗌𝗁 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗃𝖾𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝖾́𝖽𝖾́𝖾. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾̀𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗇 𝖽𝖾́𝗅𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝖾́𝗀𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗅'𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝖾. 𝖯𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾́𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗎𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾, 𝖠𝗌𝗁 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗈̂𝗍𝖾́, 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗂 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗍 𝖾́𝗀𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗇 𝗌'𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗎𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗉𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗌. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝖿𝖾́𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾́ 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖾́, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖾́𝗍𝖾́ 𝗌𝗂 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾́𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾. 𝖠𝗌𝗁 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾̀𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾, 𝗉𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎 𝖺𝗎𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾̀𝗋𝖾, 𝗅'𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗇'𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽-𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗅'𝖾́𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌, 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗓 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗂̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗋. 𝖤𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝖽'𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗇 𝖺̀ 𝖾́𝗀𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗌, 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖺, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾́𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝖽'𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗌. 𝖳𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝖾, 𝖠𝗌𝗁 𝗇'𝖺 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾́𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝗎 𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾, 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗆𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗑 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗑. 𝖨𝗅 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖽'𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗂𝗌, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝖺̀ 𝗌'𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝖾́𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽. 𝖤𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖽'𝗁𝗎𝗂 𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖼̧𝗎, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝖺̀ 𝗀𝖾́𝗋𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖾́𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖢̧𝖺 𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾́𝗌𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾́𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗂 𝗆𝖾́𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗋𝖾, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗋, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖺 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗌𝖾.
𝖲𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾̀𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗈̂𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗂 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽'𝖠𝗌𝗁 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾, 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗋𝖾́𝖿𝗅𝖾́𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗒𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌, 𝖺̀ 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖽'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝗌𝗂 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾. 𝖮𝗋, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾̀𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾́ 𝖽'𝖾́𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝖽'𝖾𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖾. 𝖯𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝖼'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝖽'𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗍𝖾́. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾́𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾́𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾 𝗏𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾̂𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖾.
𝖲𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾́ 𝗌𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗆𝖾, 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗇'𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝖼𝗂𝖾́𝖾. 𝖣𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗎̀ 𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗊𝗎'𝗎𝗇 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗂𝖽, 𝖼𝗒𝗇𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗂-𝖽𝖾́𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗂𝖾̀𝗋𝖾.
𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝖼𝗂𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗌, 𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾́𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖾/𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝗈𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼̧𝗈𝗇 𝖽'𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂̂𝗍. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗎𝖾, 𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖼̧𝖺 𝖾𝗇 𝗅'𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂̂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗍 𝗇'𝖺 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗅𝗎 𝖽'𝖾𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 (𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼̧𝗈𝗇). 𝖣𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗌, 𝗌𝗂 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗑 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗂𝗍 𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝖾́𝖽𝖾́𝖾, 𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝖺̀ 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾, 𝗅𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗒𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝖯𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾. 𝖢'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗊𝗎𝗈𝗂 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇'𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗍 "𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍" 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾.
𝖠𝗌𝗁 𝗇'𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗌, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗋 𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖾 𝗇'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖽'𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾̀𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗍 𝗅'𝖺𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾́𝖾𝗌, 𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗍. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇'𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗍 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗋𝖾́𝖿𝗅𝖾́𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗋, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅'𝖾𝗇𝗃𝖾𝗎 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝖳𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗋𝖾́𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝖼'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗂 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖾𝗎 𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗅'𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾́ 𝖺̀ 𝖽𝖾́𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗋𝖾́𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝖾 𝗌'𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖾̂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖽'𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗀𝖾́ 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾, 𝖽'𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖾́𝗉𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾́𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾́ 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖾. 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗌𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾́𝖾. 𝖠𝗌𝗁 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝖾̂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝖾́𝖽𝖾́𝖾, 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖼 𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗂𝗌. 𝖯𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝗅𝖺 𝗃𝖾𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖾́𝖾 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇'𝖺 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗌𝖾́ 𝗅𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝖺 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗍 𝖾𝗍 𝗇'𝖺 𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗌-𝖺̀-𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗌. 𝖠𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗎𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗎 𝖽'𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂̂𝗇𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗍 𝖽'𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝖾́𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋.
✞ 𝖯𝗈𝗎𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 ✞
✞ + 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾 ✞
𝖲𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝗇𝖾́𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖾. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗍 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖾́𝗌, 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗌. 𝖠𝗎 𝖽𝖾́𝖻𝗎𝗍, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅 𝗌'𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽'𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖼 𝖾𝗎𝗑, 𝗉𝗎𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋. 𝖨𝗅𝗌 𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖽'𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗌, 𝖾𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇'𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖾́𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝖢𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖾.
✞ 𝖫𝖺 𝗃𝖾𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾́𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗇, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾/𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗇 𝖾́𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖾́𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖾́𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾́𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗒𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗎𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗁.
✞ 𝖠𝗌𝗁 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾́𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗌.
✞ 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾́𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗅𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗎 𝖲𝗒𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗇𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗎𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎'𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝖾́𝖽𝖾́𝖾.
✞ 𝖲𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗌𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗀𝗎𝖾, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖾̂𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖽'𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖽𝖾́𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗊𝗎'𝗂𝗅 𝗉𝖾𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗎𝗂 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖽'𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖾́𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗌.
✞ 𝖢'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾́𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋 𝗋𝖾́𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖽'𝗁𝗎𝗂 𝖺̀ 𝗅𝖺 𝖢𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖾.
✞ 𝖢'𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗃𝖾𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝗌𝖾́𝖽𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾, 𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗍 𝗇'𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖤𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾̀𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗆𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗑 𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌. 𝖲𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖾 𝟣𝟨𝟥𝖼𝗆, 𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝟧𝟥𝗄𝗀.
✞ 𝖲𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖽'𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗎𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗒𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌. 𝖤𝗇 𝗆𝖾̂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗌, 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖺̀ 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖾́𝗍𝖾́ 𝖾́𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖺 𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖾̀𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗎𝖽𝖾.
✞ Лучше убей сама себя ✞
✞ 𝗍𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗎𝗑 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖾𝗋 ✞