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[…] 𝖠𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗇 𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗋 𝗓𝗎 𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇, 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖧𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗇𝗎𝗇𝗀, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖨𝖽𝗂𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖶𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾 „𝖲𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗌𝗍𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗎𝗇𝗀“ 𝗎𝗇𝖽 „𝖲𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗈𝗇“ 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎̈𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖪𝗈𝗉𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗁𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗌, 𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖰𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖭𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗓𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖤𝗑𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝖾ß𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾 𝖣𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗇𝗀. 𝖤𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖬𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝗎𝗁𝗅 𝗐𝖾𝗀𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖪𝗈𝗉𝖿 𝗁𝖺̈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖺̈𝗌𝗌𝗍. 𝖤𝗂𝗇 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝖽, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖫𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇. - 𝖮𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗁𝗋, 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝖾𝖾𝗁𝗋 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗅 𝖧𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋. 𝖶𝖺̈𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗄𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖣𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝖾ß, 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗓𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝖿𝗀𝖾𝗁𝗈̈𝗋𝗍, 𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖦𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗆 𝖬𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖻𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗄𝖺𝗆 𝗓𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖤𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗍𝗇𝗂𝗌 (𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖺𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖶𝖾𝗂𝗁𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗇 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗍): 𝖠𝗇 𝖤𝗍𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗓𝗎 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖻𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝖻𝗍, 𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎̈𝗅𝗅𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖾, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝗌 𝗄𝗈̈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗇. 𝖣𝖾𝗇𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗓𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖨𝗅𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾, 𝗈𝖻𝗐𝗈𝗁𝗅 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖾𝗂ß, 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍. 𝖣𝖺𝗌 𝖠𝗎𝖿𝖺𝗋𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖤𝗋𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖳𝖺𝗍𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗀𝖾𝖽𝗋𝗎̈𝖼𝗄𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗌.  𝖴𝗇𝖽, 𝗌𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗄𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗀, 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝗀𝗍 𝖦𝖾𝖿𝖺𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝖥𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝖦𝖺̈𝗌𝗍𝖾- 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝖺̈𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗇. 𝖲𝗂𝖾 𝗄𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖶𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗅𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖦𝖾𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇 „𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇“ 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖦𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇. 𝖣𝖺𝗌 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗆𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗍. 𝖣𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗋 - 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖧𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗄𝗎𝗌𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍 - 𝖤𝗂𝗇𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖪𝗈𝗉𝖿 𝗀𝖾𝗐𝖺̈𝗁𝗋𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗇 „𝗀𝖾𝗁𝗈̈𝗋𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖤𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺̈𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇“ 𝗓𝗎 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖾 𝖱𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗋𝖺̈𝗎𝗆𝗍. 𝖤𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗐𝗎̈𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗀𝖾 𝖪𝗈𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗓, 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗅𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖥𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖲𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗌𝗍𝗓𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈̈𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗂𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾ß𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖴𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗀, 𝖽𝗎̈𝗋𝖿𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗄𝗍𝗂𝗏 𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗎 𝗅𝖺̈𝗌𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗄𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝖣𝖾𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖧𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇… 𝖭𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏, 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁. 𝖣𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗁𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝗈ß 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗓. 𝖨𝗇𝗌𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗐𝗈 𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖴𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝖺̈𝗌𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗀𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗇. 𝖮𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾: 𝖬𝖺𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗎̈𝗍𝗓𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝖺̈𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖤𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖠𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗁𝗇𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗓𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈ß𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗓𝗍 𝗓𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇. 𝖵𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗍 𝗓𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇. 𝖣𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗂ß 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝗆𝗎̈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇. 𝖭𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗋 𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗀𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝗄𝗈̈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗇, 𝗈𝗁𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝗆𝗎̈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖾𝗌 𝗓𝗎 𝖡𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗀𝗇𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇, 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗎 𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖠𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖻𝖾𝗇. 𝖬𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈̈ß𝗍𝖾 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗁𝗅 𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝖿𝗁𝗈̈𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖽. 𝖶𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺̈𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖤𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗇, 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖭𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗓𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖡𝖾𝗓𝗂𝖾𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗇. 𝖠𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝖺̈𝗁𝗅𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖴̈𝖻𝖾𝗅 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖻𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂 𝗂𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝖺̈𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇, 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖺 𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗎̈𝗁𝗅𝗍. 𝖶𝖾𝗂𝗅 𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝖺𝗀 𝗅𝖺̈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖦𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝖧𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗀𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗓𝗍 𝗓𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇. 𝖣𝖾𝗇𝗇 𝗈𝖻 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖪𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗍 𝗓𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖥𝗎ß𝖺𝖻𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗇.

River Hastings [fiktive Figur] 

𝖹𝖾𝗂𝗀 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖶𝖾𝗅𝗍, 𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗎 𝖻𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋, 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝖾, 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗓 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝖻𝗁𝖺̈𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗀.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖯𝗎𝗋𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌

„𝖪𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗂ß 𝗌𝗈 𝗀𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖭𝖾𝗐 𝖸𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗎𝗆 𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗆 𝖠𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖣𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗀𝖾𝗁𝗍: 𝖤𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗓𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗁𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖦𝗅𝗎̈𝖼𝗄. 𝖤𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖺̈𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖫𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗓𝗂𝖾𝗅, 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗄𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝗄𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇. 𝖣𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖫𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗌, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖮𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗌 𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁 𝖴𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗎̈𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖶𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗍, 𝗂𝗁𝗋 𝖫𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝖿𝗓𝗎𝗀𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇, 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗅 𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗎 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖣𝖺𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖻𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗋𝖺̈𝗀𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖴̈𝖻𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖤𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝖺̈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝖪𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾 𝖧𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖭𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗋𝗎̈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇, 𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖣𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗄𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗋 𝗓𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇. 𝖠𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗓𝗂𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗋, 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖬𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗀𝖾 𝗓𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗐𝗎̈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗎̈ß𝖾𝗇 𝖦𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾ß𝖾𝗇, 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝖾 𝖥𝗅𝖺𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝖿, 𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖨𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖥𝗅𝖺𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝖥𝗅𝖺𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗓𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗀 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖳𝖺𝗍𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇, 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝗎𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗀 𝗓𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇, 𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗁𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖴̈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖽𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗃𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖣𝖾𝗇𝗇 𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗇, 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝖧𝖾𝗋𝗓 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗁𝗋𝗍, 𝖻𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝗈ß𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗀𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗐𝖺̈𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺̈𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖫𝗎𝖿𝗍𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗈̈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗎𝖾𝗇.“

🇺🇳🇷🇪🇦🇱🇮🇸🇹🇮🇨 🇪🇽🇵🇪🇨🇹🇦🇹🇮🇴🇳🇸

𝖲𝖾𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗎𝗋, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖦𝗅𝗎̈𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗎̈𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗄𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇, 𝗎𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖦𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗀𝖾 𝗓𝗎 𝗄𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝖺 𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝗁𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗀. 𝖲𝗈 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗂ß𝗂𝗀. 𝖲𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗄. 𝖶𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖻𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈̈𝗉𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖶𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇? 𝖣𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾 𝖮𝗉𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗎𝗆𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗋?

– 𝖩𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗂𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗇.

𝖮𝖿𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍 𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖳𝗎̈𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝗌, 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖥𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 „𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎̈𝗅𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗌“ 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗉𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗍. 𝖣𝖾𝗇𝗇 𝗇𝗎𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗄𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗁𝖺̈𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖺̈𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗁𝗍. 𝖶𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖤𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗃𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇. 𝖴𝗆𝗀𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝖬𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖦𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖹𝗐𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎̈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖮𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗌 𝗓𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖡𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾 𝗓𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗇.

„𝖱𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗎𝗆 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗀𝗅𝗎̈𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁.“ 𝖫𝖺𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖪𝗅𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾, 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖳𝗋𝖺̈𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗓𝗎 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗍, 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝖯𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖨𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗓𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖱𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗈̈𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗎𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇. 𝖠𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖦𝖺𝗇𝗓𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗇 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖡𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗎𝗌? „𝖱𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗎𝗆” 𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖦𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝗇. 𝖹𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗌𝖺̈𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗎̈𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖾𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖻𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖵𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗈̈𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝖺𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗌 „𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾 𝖦𝗅𝗎̈𝖼𝗄“ 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖺̈𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖡𝖾𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗍, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗎𝖿𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖵𝗂𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺̈𝗅𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖡𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗓𝗎 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖱𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖺̈𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗓𝗂𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖶𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖽𝗋𝖺̈𝗇𝗀𝗍. 𝖥𝗎̈𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗓𝖺̈𝗁𝗅𝗍 𝗇𝖺̈𝗆𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖦𝖾𝗅𝖽. 𝖣𝖾𝗇𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗃𝖾𝗀𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗓𝖾𝗇, 𝗈𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇, 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗂𝗇𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖫𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗋𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗍 𝗓𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝗄𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗓𝗎𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗇, 𝖻𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖫𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗍, 𝗐𝗈𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗀𝗅𝗎̈𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖺̈𝗍𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖤𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝖠𝗎𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖦𝗅𝗎̈𝖼𝗄 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗄𝖺̈𝗎𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗈𝗁𝗇𝖾 𝗓𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗓𝖾𝗇. 

„𝖱𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝖣𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗁𝗋𝗍.“

– 𝖬𝖺𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗆𝖺 𝖦𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗁𝗂

„𝖣𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖡𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗓 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖿𝖿𝗍 𝖥𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾. 𝖣𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗓𝗎; 𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾, 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖿𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁.“

– 𝖤𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝖱𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗆

🇨​🇴​🇱​🇴​🇷​🇸​ 🇴​🇫​ 🇹​🇭​🇪​ 🇼​🇮​🇳​🇩​

𝖶𝗈𝗅𝗄𝖾𝗇. 𝖲𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗐𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗆 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖺𝗋𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗏𝗈𝗋𝖻𝖾𝗂, 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗓𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗂ß𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖫𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗁𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖿𝗈̈𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗀 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝖲𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗂𝗀𝖾 𝗓𝗂𝖾𝗁𝗍, 𝖻𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖠𝗋𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖪𝗈𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗀𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝗄𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗀𝗅𝗎̈𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖡𝗋𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍. 𝖳𝖺𝗎𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗆𝗄𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖣𝖺̈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖣𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖣𝗎𝖿𝗍 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝖭𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗄𝗎̈𝗁𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗁𝗌𝖺𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖫𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝗓𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗎𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗇, 𝖠𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗈𝗍 𝗓𝗐𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖫𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗅 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖡𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇. 𝖤𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝗈ß𝗀𝖾𝗐𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖻𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝖺𝗇𝗇 𝖺𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝗑𝗂𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝖪𝗎𝗉𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗎 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗍.

𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖲𝗉𝗂𝗍𝗓𝖽𝖺̈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖥𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖾𝖽𝗐𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖦𝗋𝗎̈𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝖿𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗍𝖾 𝖳𝗎𝗉𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖿𝖺𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗋, 𝗂𝗇 𝖤𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗎̈𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖥𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗇. 𝖣𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖦𝖾𝗆𝖺̈𝗅𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗍 𝖥𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗐𝖾𝗁 𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖺𝗁𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖨𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺̈𝗍. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗋𝖺̈𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝖮𝗋𝗍𝖾, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾, 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗂ß, 𝗈𝖻 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇, 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾, 𝗈𝖻 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖫𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗓𝖾𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍, 𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇, 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗋, 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗈̈𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗀𝖾𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗓𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖶𝖾𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖿𝖺̈𝗁𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖴𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇, 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝗈̈𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖦𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾.

𝖶𝗈𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖱𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗎̈𝗋𝖽𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗎𝖾𝗇?

𝖵𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝖻𝗂𝗌 𝗓𝗎𝗆 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗓𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝖺𝗋. 𝖭𝗂𝗆𝗆 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗎𝖿, 𝗓𝗈̈𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗍𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗈ß 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗋𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖴𝗇𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗍, 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖥𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾, 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖤𝗇𝖽𝖾. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗎̈𝗁𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗎̈𝖼𝗄𝗍, 𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝖻 𝗏𝗈𝗆 𝖪𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖨𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇.

𝖫𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗍 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝖺𝗋 𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖶𝗈𝗅𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖡𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗎𝗆𝗐𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇. 𝖣𝗎 𝗅𝖺̈𝗌𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗎̈𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗐𝖺̈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖫𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾. 𝖣𝗎 𝗎𝗆𝗀𝗂𝖻𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗎𝖿𝗁𝗈̈𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗁, 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖡𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗓𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎̈𝗀𝗍, 𝗎𝗆 𝗓𝗎 𝖾𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝖽𝗎 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗌𝖺̈𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖶𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗋𝗎̈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇, 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖡𝗋𝗎̈𝖼𝗄𝖾 𝗓𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎̈𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗈̈𝗇𝗇𝗍𝖾. 𝖪𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖫𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗍, 𝗐𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝗌 𝖲𝖾𝗂𝗅 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖧𝗈𝗅𝗓, 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗎𝗌 𝖬𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝖻𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖲𝖾𝗁𝗇𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗀; 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝖫𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗍, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾, 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖿𝖾𝗇.

𝖬𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖳𝗋𝖺̈𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗅𝗓𝗂𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇, 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗇, 𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖫𝖾𝗂𝖽 𝗓𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗆. 𝖣𝗂𝖾 𝖹𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋. 𝖣𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖦𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗎 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖣𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖧𝖺𝗎𝗉𝗍 𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗂𝖾ß𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝗋𝖺̈𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖪𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗇, 𝖻𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗌 𝗄𝗅𝖺𝗆𝗆 𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗍, 𝗐𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖠𝗋𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗁𝗈̈𝗋𝖾𝗇.

𝖮𝗁𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖲𝖾𝖾𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗓 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖿𝖻𝖺𝗋.

𝖶𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗎 𝖾𝗌 𝗃𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗎𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗓𝗎 𝗃𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖶𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾?

🇩​🇦​🇸​ 🇪​🇨​🇭​🇴​ 🇩​🇪​🇷​ 🇯​🇺​🇬​🇪​🇳​🇩​

𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗈̈𝖿𝖿𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖠𝗎𝗀𝖾𝗇. 𝖤𝗌 𝗄𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇. 𝖬𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝗎̈𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖡𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝖶𝖾𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖭𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗇. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖭𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖶𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖴𝗋𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗄𝗅𝖺𝗋, 𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺̈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝖡𝗋𝗎̈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖵𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝖤𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖺𝖿𝗓𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗁𝗆𝖾, 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝗎̈𝗋𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗍 𝗓𝗎 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗍.

𝖩𝖾𝗉, 𝗓𝗐𝖾𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗌, 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖬𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖨𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖭𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍, 𝗓𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖴𝗁𝗋𝗓𝖾𝗂𝗍, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇. 𝖹𝗎𝗋 𝖦𝖾𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗓𝗐𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 2 𝗎𝗇𝖽 3 𝖴𝗁𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗀𝗍. 𝖣𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖾 𝖠𝖽𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗓𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝗋𝗎̈𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗉𝗎𝗄𝗀𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗇, 𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗈 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗀 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝖫𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗎̈𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝖺𝗁𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺̈𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗁𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖮𝗎𝗂𝗃𝖺-𝖡𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗎𝗌 𝗂𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗐𝖾𝗅𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗇𝗎𝗍𝗓𝗅𝗈𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖪𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖣𝖺 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗓𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗐𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖻𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖭𝖾𝗎𝗀𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗁𝗈̈𝗋𝖾, 𝗐𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗍 𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗆𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗌, 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖥𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗌, 𝗓𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗃𝖾𝗍𝗓𝗍. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗀 𝖮𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗓𝖾𝗎𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗈̈𝖼𝗁𝗌𝗍 𝗄𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖶𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗀𝖾𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗌. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾 𝖫𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗍𝖺̈𝗋𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝖾ß𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗓𝗂𝗀𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝗈̈𝗋𝖿𝖺𝗄𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗏𝗈𝗆 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗁𝖺̈𝗅𝗍. 𝖲𝖾𝗎𝖿𝗓𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖲𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾. 𝖨𝗆 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝖬𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖿𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖬𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖵𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝖣𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗇, 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝖿𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖯𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾-𝖠𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇-𝖡𝗎𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗋. 𝖬𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖵𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗎𝖿𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖺̈𝗎ß𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝖾𝗁𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍 𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖳𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗋-𝖮𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗆𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗆 𝖡𝖾𝗍𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾, 𝗐𝖾𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗎̈𝗋𝖿𝖾, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖣𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖤𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖻𝖾 𝖥𝗅𝗎̈𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖿𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈̈𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖱𝗎̈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇. 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗂, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗓𝗂𝖾𝗆𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖣𝖾𝖼𝗄𝖾. 𝖤𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝖡𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾-𝖱𝖺𝗉. 𝖠𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝗎𝗌𝗋𝗎𝖿𝖾, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗆𝗈̈𝗀𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗍𝖾 𝖯𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗋. 𝖨𝗇 𝖦𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝗎𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇, 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗁𝗆𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖿 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗓𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇, 𝗎𝗆 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖪𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗓𝗎𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖭𝖺̈𝗆𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗁𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗇𝖺̈𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖱𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗄𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗀 𝗃𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗓𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗆 𝖠𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁 𝗏𝗈𝗋𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗈̈𝗇𝗇𝗍𝖾, 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗇 𝖽𝖺 𝗇𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍, 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗓𝗎𝖿𝖺̈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗀, 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗆𝗍𝖾 𝖹𝗎𝗄𝗎𝗇𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗋 𝖴𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗎̈𝗍𝗓𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗁𝖺̈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗎̈𝗋𝖽𝖾 – 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗎̈𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗄𝖺𝗎𝗆 𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾. 𝖦𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗃𝖾𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗂𝗆 𝖡𝖾𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖿𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝖺𝗆 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾, 𝗉𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗓𝗂𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗄𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗄𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍 𝗓𝗎 𝗓𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈̈𝗋𝖾𝗇.

𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗁𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗁𝗈̈𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗈𝖿𝗍. 𝖬𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖫𝖾𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗌𝖺𝖻𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗓𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗍, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗄𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝖡𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖥𝗈̈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗎𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗋𝗓𝗂𝖾𝗁𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖿. 𝖣𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗆 𝖦𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝗄𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗓𝖾𝗇. 𝖲𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗀 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖠𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖻, 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗆, 𝗋𝖾𝗂ß𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗎̈𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗂ß 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖦𝖾𝗂𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗀. 𝖵𝗂𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝖳𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗍, 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗓𝗐𝖾𝗂 𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖺̈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗉𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖽. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝖡𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖡𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖺, 𝖲𝗎𝗌𝗂 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅𝖼𝗁, 𝖲𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖧𝗎𝗎𝗍𝗌𝖼𝗁, 𝖧𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖨𝗄𝖺𝗋𝗎𝗌, 𝖦𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖯𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗁𝗂𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗂𝗁𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗓 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖠𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗓𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗂 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗀𝖾 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾 𝖫𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝖶𝗂𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎𝗆 𝖳𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗓 𝗓𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗂𝗇 𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖱𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾 𝖠𝗇𝖾𝗄𝖽𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎𝗆 𝖡𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗀𝗋𝗎̈𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝖹𝗐𝗂𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺̈𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗎̈𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗎𝗇𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗄𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖪𝗈̈𝗉𝖿𝖾 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗓𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇.

𝖶𝗂𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖾 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝖩𝗎𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝖠𝗎𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇? 𝖶𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾 𝖤𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈̈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖫𝖺𝗍𝗓 𝗄𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇? 𝖣𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝖺𝗁𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝖴𝗇𝗓𝗎𝗅𝖺̈𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗓𝗎 𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗆𝖺̈𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗀 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇? 𝖧𝗈̈𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗆 𝖵𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗓𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗆, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗁𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗀 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗁𝗈̈𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖿, 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗅𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗇. 𝖲𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖥𝗈𝗅𝗀𝖾𝗇. 𝖭𝖺𝗍𝗎̈𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝖺𝖺𝗋, 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖪𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗄𝗍𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖺𝖿𝗓𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗍, 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖪𝖺̈𝗆𝗉𝖿𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗐𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗍, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝖺̈𝗍𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖺𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝗂ß𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗈̈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖤𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾 𝖪𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍. 𝖪𝖺𝗇𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗃𝖺 𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇, 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗁 – 𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗓𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗀 𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖬𝖺ß 𝖺𝗇 𝖵𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺̈𝗇𝖽𝗇𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝗂𝗁𝗋 𝖣𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗆𝖺. 𝖭𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺̈𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗏𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝖣𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇. 𝖹𝗎 𝖬𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖯𝖺𝗉𝖺? 𝖧𝗆𝗆𝗁… 𝖶𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁? 𝖤𝗀𝖺𝗅, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖡𝖾𝗓𝗂𝖾𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗎𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖤𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗂𝗅 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗀, 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝗈̈𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖤𝗇𝗍𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗂𝖽𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗓𝖾𝗇. 𝖭𝖾𝗂𝗇, 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗀 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖫𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗓𝗎 𝗄𝖺̈𝗆𝗉𝖿𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖳𝖺𝗍𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝗆𝗎̈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗂𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖶𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗇𝗄𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖫𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖶𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖽. 𝖶𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗓, 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗍, 𝖶𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗀, 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖦𝗅𝗎̈𝖼𝗄 𝖻𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗓𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗍𝖾: 𝗐𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗎 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖳𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖵𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗀𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗓𝗍, 𝖽𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗇 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗉𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝗏𝗈𝗋.

𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝖺𝗁𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗁, 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖳𝗎̈𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗇 𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗀 𝗀𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖺𝖿𝗓𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗍. 𝖳𝗃𝖺. 𝖲𝗂𝖾𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝖺𝗎𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗐𝗎̈𝗋𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖵𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖫𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝖺̈𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗎̈𝗋𝖿𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗂ß𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖹𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖬𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝗋𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖣𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺̈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗁𝗅 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇𝗄𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗀𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗍. 𝖡𝗒𝖾 𝖻𝗒𝖾, 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖣𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗓𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖬𝗈̈𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗇 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝖲𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗆𝗎̈𝗅𝗅 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖬𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗍! 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗀𝖺̈𝗁𝗇𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖪𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖤𝗆𝖻𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀.

𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖦𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗍 𝗓𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖽, 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗓𝗂𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝖽𝗎̈𝗋𝖿𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝖺̈𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖦𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗋. 𝖬𝗂𝗍 𝟣𝟦 𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗓𝗎𝗇𝖺̈𝖼𝗁𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖶𝗈𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗇. 𝖣𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇. 𝖭𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍, 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗅 𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝗎𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖺 𝖺𝗎𝖿𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗍𝗓𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗈𝗍𝗒𝗉𝗌 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏 𝗏𝗈𝗋𝖻𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖪𝗈𝗇𝗓𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗐𝖺̈𝗋𝖾, 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝗎𝗍, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖫𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗓𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗂𝖾ß𝖾𝗇, 𝗎𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗁𝗋𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗐𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖿𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖤𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗓𝖾𝗇, 𝗈𝖻𝗐𝗈𝗁𝗅 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗓𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗇. 𝖤𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝖾, 𝗌𝗈 𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗄𝗈̈𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖺̈𝖽𝗂𝗀𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗎𝗇. 𝖤𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖻𝖾: 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖤𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝗍𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝖵𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖺̈𝗀𝗍 𝖬𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗆𝗀𝖾𝗄𝖾𝗁𝗋𝗍, 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝖺̈𝗀𝗍 - 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗆 𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝗎𝖿𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗌 - 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖺̈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖻𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗂𝗇… 𝖨𝗇𝗓𝗐𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖺̈𝗎𝖿𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖦𝖺𝗇𝗓𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇. 𝖰𝗎𝖺𝗌𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖪𝗋𝖾𝗂ß𝗌𝖺𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝖺̈𝗎𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗁𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝖹𝗐𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖿𝖺̈𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾.

𝖹𝗎𝗀𝖾𝗀𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇, 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗓𝗂𝗉 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗆𝖺̈𝗁𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖽. 𝖣𝗂𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇 “𝖪𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖧𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇”. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖱𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖲𝖼𝖺𝗋, 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖺𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖽 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗓𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖦𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖿𝖾𝗇 - 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖤𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇 - 𝖺̈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗍, 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗎̈𝗇𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗀 𝗁𝖺̈𝗅𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗐𝗈 𝗂𝗆 𝖧𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝗎𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖧𝗒𝖺̈𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗎𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝖡𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗆. 𝖠𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗎𝗍𝗓𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅.

𝖩𝖺, 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗀𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗋, 𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗁𝗆, 𝗎𝗆 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗓𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗄𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗓𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗇, 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗇 𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝗐𝗂𝖾 𝗃𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗓𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗈̈𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾, 𝗉𝗎̈𝗇𝗄𝗍𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗆 𝖴𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗓𝗎 𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖱𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗄𝗋𝖺̈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝗅𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗓 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗓𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖦𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝖺 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗂ß𝗂𝗀𝗄𝗈̈𝗉𝖿𝗂𝗀𝖾 𝖡𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖱𝗈𝗍𝗓𝗇𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗓𝗎𝗄𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇, 𝗏𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖯𝗋𝗎̈𝗀𝖾𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗓𝗂𝖾𝗁𝖾, 𝗀𝖾𝗐𝗎̈𝗋𝗀𝗍, 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗀𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗓𝗍, 𝗀𝖾𝗆𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗀𝖾𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾, 𝗃𝖺, 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗄𝖺𝗇𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖺̈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝖹𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗐𝖾𝗀 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖫𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗎𝖻𝖾𝗇. 𝖠𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝖿, 𝗃𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝖺𝗀, 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗓𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗓𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝖺, 𝗐𝗈𝗁𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗂 𝖦𝗇𝖺𝖽𝖾, 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗁𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖴𝗆𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗓𝗎 𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾, 𝗐𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾, 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇, 𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗇. 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖾𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏. 𝖲𝗈𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝖠𝖻𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖺̈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝖾 𝖦𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝖾. 𝖹𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝖺̈𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖳𝖾𝗂𝗅 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍. 𝖪𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗆𝗀𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖧𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗋, 𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖦𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗍, 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇.

𝖨𝗇 𝗓𝖾𝗁𝗇 𝖩𝖺𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝗓 𝖺𝗎𝖿𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇, 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗉𝗂𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖨𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖺𝖿𝗎̈𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗇, 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗀𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖣𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗂𝖽𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖤𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖣𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗐𝗎̈𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝗂𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗓𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖥𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗓𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗀𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖲𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖴̈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖻𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗍.

𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗌, 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗎̈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗈𝗇𝗇𝗍𝖾. 𝖬𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗄𝗎̈𝗇𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝖨𝖼𝗁.

𝖴𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝖺̈𝗅𝗅𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖬𝗎̈𝖽𝗂𝗀𝗄𝖾𝗂𝗍.