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𝙸𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚛𝚎,
𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚜𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚒 𝚏𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚒. 𝙴𝚛𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚅𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝙻𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚎̀𝚛𝚎, 𝚎 𝚕'𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚝. 𝚃𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚘 𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚒 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚘̀ 𝚜𝚞 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒: 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚐𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚣𝚣𝚊, 𝚝𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚣𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗'𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚊 𝚍𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊. 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚞𝚖𝚒 𝚜𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚣𝚊, 𝚊𝚟𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚘 𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎.
𝙻𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊, 𝚊𝚟𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚒 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘̀ 𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎. 𝙻𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒, 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊, 𝚜𝚏𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚒 𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒 𝚐𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚒 𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚒𝚊𝚍𝚊.𝙳𝚘𝚙𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎, 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚊̀ 𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚊. 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒 𝚋𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚒, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚝𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊, 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘, 𝚍𝚒 𝚌𝚞𝚒 𝚜𝚒 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚘 𝚐𝚕𝚒 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚑𝚒, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚣𝚣𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎. 𝙿𝚊𝚐𝚘̀ 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚘 𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚘, 𝚜𝚒 𝚊𝚟𝚟𝚒𝚘̀ 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘 𝙲𝚞𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝙸 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚊, 𝚍𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚊̀ 𝚜𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊𝚒 𝚜𝚞𝚘𝚒 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚞̀ 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍'𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒.𝙻𝚊̀, 𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊, 𝚜𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚣𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘̀ 𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚒 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚒 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚣𝚣𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚒 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒.𝙸𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕'𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒... 𝚞𝚗'𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊, 𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚞𝚗 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚘. 𝙸𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚘, 𝚖𝚊 𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗'𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚞𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚛𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚑𝚒 𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒.
𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚜𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚒 𝚏𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚒. 𝙴𝚛𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚅𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝙻𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚎̀𝚛𝚎, 𝚎 𝚕'𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚝. 𝚃𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚘 𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚒 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚘̀ 𝚜𝚞 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒: 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚐𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚣𝚣𝚊, 𝚝𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚣𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗'𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚊 𝚍𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊. 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚞𝚖𝚒 𝚜𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚣𝚊, 𝚊𝚟𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚘 𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎.
𝙻𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊, 𝚊𝚟𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚒 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘̀ 𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎. 𝙻𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒, 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊, 𝚜𝚏𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚒 𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒 𝚐𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚒 𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚒𝚊𝚍𝚊.𝙳𝚘𝚙𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎, 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚊̀ 𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚊. 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒 𝚋𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚒, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚝𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊, 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘, 𝚍𝚒 𝚌𝚞𝚒 𝚜𝚒 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚘 𝚐𝚕𝚒 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚑𝚒, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚣𝚣𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎. 𝙿𝚊𝚐𝚘̀ 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚘 𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚘, 𝚜𝚒 𝚊𝚟𝚟𝚒𝚘̀ 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘 𝙲𝚞𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝙸 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚊, 𝚍𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚊̀ 𝚜𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊𝚒 𝚜𝚞𝚘𝚒 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚞̀ 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍'𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒.𝙻𝚊̀, 𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊, 𝚜𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚣𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘̀ 𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚒 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚒 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚣𝚣𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚒 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒.𝙸𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕'𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒... 𝚞𝚗'𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊, 𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚞𝚗 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚘. 𝙸𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚘, 𝚖𝚊 𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗'𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚞𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚛𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚑𝚒 𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒.
