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Sweetheart grips with Jason Todd? Soldiers in ww2 used to put photos of their lovers in the grips of their gun.

I would love to write this request, but @enviedear just posted this! I’d hate to write the same thing and invalidate/copy their incredible writing. You can find that lovely post here!

I’d love to write another request for you! Feel free to send anything to my ask box. <3

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𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒

𝘫𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘥 𝘹 𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘵!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

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

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧

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

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌?”

“𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗎𝗉, 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝘑𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘰𝘥𝘥. 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘚𝘰𝘯.

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

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

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

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

“𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾,” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒. “𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁.”

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

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

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

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

@shum4chers @harleycao @legoyass

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my laptop just crashed so it’ll probably be posted tomorrow night or saturday. i gotta get my laptop fixed but ill edit it on my phone so its ready to go.

did the impossible and finished writing a fan fic! it’s a jason todd x reader, so as usual, add yourself to my taglist to be notified.

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did the impossible and finished writing a fan fic! it’s a jason todd x reader, so as usual, add yourself to my taglist to be notified.

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Coolest kid to ever exist

I saw a kid w LED light shoes running around and i said “hmm….Damian” and so here it is lol. Idc if this is OOC but hes just a kid after all lmfao

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whole masterlist is incredible!!!

Main Masterlist

(updated after every new post)

PINK indicates 18+ — BLACK indicates SFW

please note ** if you spam like without reblogging i have to block on principle, that’s not a cool thing to do

Keep reading

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TUMBLR 101: a helpful guide for tiktok refugees

are YOU a former tiktok user trying to learn how to use tumblr to fill the void the american tiktok ban is leaving in your soul? here are some things you should know, from someone who’s going on their eighth year on this hellsite:

1. you can say anything on here. gone are the days of having to use words like “unalive” and “seggs.” murder! kill! sex! fuck! speak your mind!

2. there is a community for you on here. regardless of what you’re into or however small the fandom is, you have a place here. at least one other person will have heard of your weird obscure interest. strike up a conversation!

3. followers don’t matter. tumblr is one of the last remaining social media sites in which your number of followers means absolute jack shit. this can be disorienting at first, but once you lean into the fact that everyone on this website is equal, it’s very freeing. clout means nothing here.

4. similarly, you can post at any time. while tiktok has an algorithm that favors certain times, tumblr has no such algorithm. post whatever you want, whenever you want. every post has virtually the same chance at getting notes, regardless of when it is posted.

5. tags can have spaces between the words! this one is very exciting. tags can be a whole sentence. you can also use the tags to comment on someone’s post without actually adding onto the physical post itself (which is sometimes frowned upon and called “derailing” if you use this feature to bring up a completely different point other than the one that’s being made on the original post).

TL;DR: speak your mind, find your place, followers don’t matter, post anytime, have fun with tags!! tumblr is a wonderful site used to share things you’re excited about. be patient with yourself as you’re learning and have fun!

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my favorite thing about gladiator II fan fic is no one has collectively decided how to spell ‘colosseum’ yet. i think ive seen it at least 4 different ways?

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no cause what irks me is so I’m a guy and when I search like…. X male reader and :( then people posting x female reader under that tag….. I do NOT wnna have to look through allat

EXACTLY!!! it didn’t get crazy bad until the last year or so (i totally blame the twitter recruitment.) ao3 has gotten exceptionally bad as well. people don’t understand the difference between x reader and & reader which infuriates me!!

don’t even get me started on the people who tag it as a reader insert and then it’s clearly an OC.

basically, research the tag system before you use it folks—especially for fan fic!!!

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one of these days you guys will learn how to properly tag fan fic

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i’ve officially made it someone stole my fan fic and i can’t even do anything about it

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why did i never get notifications for the new requests in my inbox???

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be proud of me i actually edited and posted it within a day 🙏

finally finished a fic 🙏 it’s a jordan parrish x reader so be on the lookout for that soon

you can join my taglist here to be notified

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𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃

𝘫𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘹 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘬𝘪!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘯/𝘢

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

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“𝖠𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“𝖧𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗄𝗂?”

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

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

“𝖠 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗐𝗈𝗅𝖿–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝖧𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗍��𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇. “𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

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If you see this you’re legally obligated to reblog and tag with the book you’re currently reading

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When reading fanfic keep in mind that for professional literature: 

Short story: under 7,500

Novelette: between 7,500 and 17,500

Novella: between 17,500 and 40,000

Novel: over 40,000

Fics over 40k are literally a novel written and shared for free.  If you have written a 40k+ fic, you have literally written a novel.

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my dream as a fanfic writer is to write a story which people want to talk to me about and send asks about afterwards and discuss things the characters did and the symbolism and meanings behind certain lines and I'll be all "hehe thanks" but irl I'll be in literal tears because I wrote something that means something to someone