TokyoPewPew

Book Quotes

She by the river sat, and sitting there,
She wept, and made it deeper by a tear.

— Robert Herrick

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐’𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚣𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍-𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍． 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚜; 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝． 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚛-𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚐𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜, 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜—𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚃𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 (𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎), 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚜𝚗𝚞𝚐 (𝚗𝚘 𝙸．𝚆．𝙱．), 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚜． 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚢, 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚞𝚢—𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗—𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚜—𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚙 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜．

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚟𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍-𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚎-𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕． 𝙰 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐’𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚢𝚕𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚔． 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚑—𝚙𝚎𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚝, 𝚐𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚛—𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚛𝚞𝚐 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎．

███████𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚓𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚎; 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚋𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚋𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚡-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚜． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐． "𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚛" 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚓𝚎𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚋． "𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊？"

███████𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚍’𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝-𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎-𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚝-𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎-𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚗𝚘𝚝-𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎-𝚐𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚛-𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚢-𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎—𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚔—𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐—𝚗𝚘 𝙸．𝙳．, 𝚗𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜—𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚙𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖． 𝚁𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜． 𝙽𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖． 𝚄𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎-𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎; 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗, 𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚕-𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛．

███████𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜-𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚢—𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍． "𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗． 𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, "𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚔-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚍𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎． 𝚃𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚞𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢？"

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚢． "𝙸𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢？"

███████"𝙳𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝．"

███████"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙼𝚛． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐． 𝙾𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍—𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘-𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝—𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛．"

███████"𝙺𝚒𝚍—𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝—𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚘 ’𝚘𝚞𝚛’ 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘 ’𝚠𝚎’ 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐," 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, "𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎—𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚡-𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍, 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎—𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝙸 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜． 𝚂𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎; 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑． 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝．"

███████"𝙾𝚑 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑？ 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 ’𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝’？"

███████"𝙷𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍．"

███████𝙰 𝚗𝚘𝚍 𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎-𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎． 𝚂𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐． "𝚂𝚎𝚎, 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝙼𝚛． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐． 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚢． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗—𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗𝚝？ 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍？ 𝙱𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍; 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢．"

███████"𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚢 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎; 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚘． 𝙷𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎—𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚜, 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚜, 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚕𝚍 ’𝙼𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗’ 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎． 𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝙸’𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝; 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛． 𝙸 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎—𝚊𝚗 𝙰𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙶𝚘𝚍, 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝． 𝙾𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗？ ’𝙾𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝’ 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚎． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐？ 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚢．"

███████"𝙸𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢． 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚖𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗—𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚒𝚗," 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚔． "𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘？ 𝚁𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜． 𝚃𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛. "

███████"𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎: 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢． 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍． 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎．"

███████"𝙷𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐—𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝．"

███████𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎． "𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚗—𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎． 𝚂𝚎𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛—𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚜—𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕, 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕． 𝚂𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎． 𝙸𝚏 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍’𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚎．" 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠, 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛; 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜-𝚋𝚞𝚝-𝚗𝚘-𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚙． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚘𝚢 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝． 𝙸𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗． 𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚢 (𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗) 𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗—𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎．

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑—𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗, 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗, 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏—𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛． 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝． 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎; 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚝-𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛． 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖．

███████"𝙰 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝙼𝚛． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐" 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗． "𝚆𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑．"

███████"𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝．"

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚓𝚊𝚖𝚋． 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎, 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜, 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚝-𝚊-𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐-𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚋𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎．

███████𝙷𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚜𝚙 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚔-𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝． 𝙰𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘．

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎" 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝙲𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝？"

███████𝙷𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚐𝚞𝚗—𝚊 𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊 ’𝟻𝟷—𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎． 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛-𝚘𝚏-𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢-𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚔𝚎𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝． 𝙳𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢． 𝙵𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍-𝚞𝚙 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑．

███████"𝙴𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝙵𝚘𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚛," 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎． "𝙷𝚞𝚑. 𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕, 𝙴𝚛𝚒𝚌． 𝙸𝚏 𝙸 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜, 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚐—𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚐—𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎． 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝． 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘． 𝚂𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑—𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎． 𝙸𝚏 𝙸 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚖 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍？"

███████𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙴𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝． 𝙷𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚡, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚊𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚛𝚢𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛-𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍． 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕． 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜, 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚙𝚎𝚊． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜; 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛． 𝚁𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝． 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚔-𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚜．

███████"𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙴𝚛𝚒𝚌," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍, "𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 ’𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚋’ 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑𝚜, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎． 𝚂𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚊𝚖．"

███████𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖． 𝚆𝚒𝚙𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜, 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚕． 𝚂𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢． 𝙳𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎-𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚗．

███████"𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚐 𝚂𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚜," 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚒𝚛． "𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎—𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗, 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝． 𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎． 𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜—𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚎-𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎． 𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚜． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚗 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚆𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝙿．𝙼． 𝙸𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢’𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚜． 𝙸𝚏 𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙, 𝙸 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗．．．𝙴𝚛𝚒𝚌, 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍．"

███████𝙵𝚘𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜; 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚍． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍-𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔． "𝙸," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚙𝚎𝚍, "𝙸 𝚍𝚘—．．．𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝—𝚒𝚝．"

███████"𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝． 𝙶𝚕𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕．" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜; 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍． 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙵𝚘𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜.

███████He 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚓𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚞𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝙴𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚙． 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝; 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚍-𝙸-𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎-𝚝𝚑𝚎-𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚟𝚎-𝚘𝚗 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝙷𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝’𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍． 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙻 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛-𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍．

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

The bar man took a moment to respond. Scratching his chin. Joe laid a big bill on the counter. His face lit up. "Yuse always a kind one Joe. Anything for a friend. Not many half-breed brothers. Most broads learn from their first mistake. A funny nose you say? Sounds like it could be the McClusky brothers. Did one have regular hair and the other had kinky hair?" Joe nodded with a wicked grimace as he replied, "Sounds like 'em. You know where they haunt?" The bar man shook his head. "No, but the pawnbroker Aloysius mentioned they sold him some shinies a couple weeks ago. He might know more."

Joe grumbled unintelligibly. He ordered another drink for the road and knocked it back unceremoniously. "Send Pearly my regards, woodya." He stumbled out of the bar and fumbled with his keys. He swerved back home and climbed under the covers next to Ruby, his long suffering wife. He mumbles some excuse about a complicated emergency before he drifted off into oblivion. It had been a long time since Joe had been burdened by dreams.

@JFK

Be careful that you don't make too many massive, momentous plot advancements like this too early, nor too often. The twists, the turns, the complications, the hauntings of other motives (including other PCs'!) encroaching into your own—that's where the fun's waiting. Joe won't be much of a noir protagonist following a simple, linear A→B progression, now will he? 😌 Just a suggestion for maximum enjoyment, not a hard rule I'm enforcing.

Otherwise, good post, and worth the wait. I like details such as the rock-salt and the olfactory notes lending credence to the atmosphere. Ditto Joe's casual racism and offhanded aspersions well-characterizing him from the start.

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

Ghosty, ghosty, where is posty?
Show us progress hot and toasty.
When became so hard to type?
Loan shark broke your hands with pipe?
Tiger ate your fingers off,
Spat out bones with burp and cough?
Any less is no excuse;
Give to us your posts profuse.

Writey, writey, once so mighty,
Now you're acting awful flighty.
Profile says "1 hour ago"
But are you posting? Heavens, no—
Not in our poor thread, at least—
Ditched by ghosties. Now deceased.
Lo, once where storytime did thrive,
Pointless now to tap F5.

Chalky, balky, empty talky,
No more bullshit: write, or walky!
Heard enough—need no more reasons
Why your posts take whole damn seasons.
Life is busy? Go, then—go!
Let our thread without you flow!
Elsewise we don't want your griping:
Ghosties sit and GET TO TYPING.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

@JFK That's a great answer. Don't worry, we're absolutely willing to wait for quality. No rush, and we're all hoping for the best for you.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

@JJ Doe Putting this here since thou checketh thy Discord half as oft as thou ought

What a wonderful post. Completely worth the wait. You understand so well that a narrative is mainly aimed and focused at what a character notices, and yet despite this character mainly noticing WASP, NIMBY mundanities (what will the Joneses think? Poly tablecloths or sateen?) it's somehow completely gripping. I love the nuance of her characterization also. The way the run-on sentences capture overstimulation and hyper-alertness. And as always, the efficiency of your prose. Great work!

@JFK How's it going Mr. President? You didn't forget about us did you?

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

███████𝙸𝚗 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐—𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚑𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚖𝚜—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚙, 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛, 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎-𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢, 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎． 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚝-𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚕． 𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔-𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜, 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗-𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚌𝚑𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜． 𝙰𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚛． 𝚄𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝙼𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗-𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚎-𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢; 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚞𝚋-𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙-𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚜． 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠． 𝙰𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜𝚘𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛-𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚡 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚢𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝．

███████𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝙱𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍． 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗-𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚗 (𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚎; 𝚞𝚗𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍)． 𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚏𝚏-𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜-𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛． 𝟻-𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜, 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜, 𝙺𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜' 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕-𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎; 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚁𝙴𝚂 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚀, 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚀𝙰𝚃𝙰𝚁𝙸 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 (𝚂𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚒 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚜)． 𝙰𝚗 𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜．

███████𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚋𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝—𝚀𝙰𝚃𝙰𝚁𝙸'𝚜 𝚃 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝙴𝚃𝙲 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝, 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢—𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚎, 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛-𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘． 𝙰𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚘𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝． "𝙼𝚛． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐．"

███████𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍-𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝙰𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗—𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜．

███████"𝚆𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚜𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜．"

███████𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜． "𝙰𝚑, 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎," 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎．

███████𝙿𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜, 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛． 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚍, 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎．

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚝; 𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚕'𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚜-𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚘𝚗. 𝚂𝚒𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐-𝚙𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚍𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚊 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝙿𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚗-𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖. 𝙷𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎-𝚢𝚘𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚞𝚔𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝙿𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗. 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜.

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢," 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕.

███████"𝙷𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝" 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚢. "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝙽𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜, 𝙸 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛."

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚖-𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑, 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍-𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚢𝚕 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑. 𝙾𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝. 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗, 𝚕𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍-𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚍. 𝙽𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜. 𝙵𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜' 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚜. 𝙲𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚞—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝-𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕-𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢-𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚂𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙶𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚜.

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚍𝚕𝚎-𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎, 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚝-𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍. 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝙼𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝙰𝚟𝚎.; 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜' 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚢; 𝚊 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔.

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑." 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎-𝚐𝚊𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑.

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝, 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚠. 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚞𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚜. 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍-𝚙𝚎𝚗-𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛. "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍. "𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝—𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕."

███████"𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍."

███████"𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜."

███████"𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑. 𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢," 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍. "𝙷𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛."

███████"𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠." 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚎𝚛. "𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝."

███████"𝚃𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞?"

███████"𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑."

███████"𝙽𝚊𝚑. 𝙰𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝'𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗 𝚢𝚊—𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛—𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢." 𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚙. 𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍; 𝚖𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍; 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛. 𝙵𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛. "𝚂𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜. 𝙱𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜."

███████"𝙱𝚘𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝," 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍. "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜? 𝙱𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚜? 𝚃𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚡 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎."

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚛-𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑. 𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚝. 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜.

███████"𝙾𝚘𝚑 𝚠𝚎𝚎" 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚛. "𝙼𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚊 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗."

███████"𝙴𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚖-𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢-𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚗..."

███████"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚎-𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔-𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗..."

███████"𝙿𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛-𝚌𝚞𝚙-𝚊-𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗..."

███████"𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚎-𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗-𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗..."

███████"𝙸𝚝-𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝-𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗-𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢-𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝-𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚙-𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗..."

███████"𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗, 𝚞𝚑, 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗-𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛-𝚋𝚊𝚐-𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗..."

███████"𝙾𝚘𝚘𝚑. 𝙻𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚒𝚎-𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗?"

███████"𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗..."

███████"𝙲𝚘𝚊𝚝-𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚗-𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗, 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗-𝚞𝚙-𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢-𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚕𝚕-𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍-𝚍𝚘-𝚗𝚘-𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗..."

███████𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘: "𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚊-𝚊𝚊𝚊𝚜."

███████𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚊, 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛-𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚛-𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘—𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎—𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎—𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎. 𝙸𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔-𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚝.

███████"𝙶𝚕𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚞𝚗, 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔?"

███████𝙶𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝, 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢'𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍—𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢-𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚢 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚐𝚎. 𝚂𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔, 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔. "𝚄𝚑, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚙𝚘𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜."

███████"𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝" 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍. "𝚁𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗."

███████"𝙷𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗. 𝙳𝚒𝚍 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝? 𝙲𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠 𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚙 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚋?" 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔. "𝙶𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗. 𝙰𝚖 𝙸 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐?"

███████"𝙶𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝙸'𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝙸'𝚖 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜."

███████𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚍; 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. "𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝" 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍. "𝙲𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗. 𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚝."

███████"𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎," 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍. "𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚎."

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝" 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚢𝚙𝚑𝚜.

███████"𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍?" 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚞 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝-𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚎𝚖. "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗."

███████"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝?"

███████𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. "𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘, 𝚞𝚑—𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚏?"

███████"𝚂𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚔?"

███████"𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎."

███████"𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚢?"

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚝."

███████𝙰 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚔 𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜. "𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍."

███████𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔. "𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜?"

███████"𝚆𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗."

███████"𝙾𝚑. 𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢. 𝙾𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢."

███████"𝙾𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚠𝚘'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎" 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚗𝚒𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚙. "𝙰𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚐𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗?"

███████𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎; 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘, 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙱𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚢. 𝙰 𝚑𝚢𝚙𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚓𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝙷𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍𝚜𝚎𝚢𝚎, 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚐𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚕𝚢.

███████"𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊," 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍.

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚞𝚖," 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢.

███████"𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜?"

███████"𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛-𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚔𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚔—𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚔?"

███████"𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝙸'𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙾𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚎𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚓𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚝."

███████"𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝." 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚗𝚎—𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔-𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢'𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚊𝚜. 𝚂𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚍. "𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢, 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝."

███████"𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠." 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝-𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕'𝚜. "𝙸'𝚖𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚙 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝."

Book Quotes

Now they became obsessed with the idea that they had fallen into bad luck. They took heroin against the idea. The measured quantities that had distinguished their previous habits as models of noble restraint went out the fucking window. Now they were horsing into it. And the aura of bad luck was at once everywhere. It was around them like a nervous village. The stone hills spoke out the rumour of the bad luck. The wind blew the rumour in swirls about their feet. Bad luck, bad luck—the idea entertained itself, fattened, came to fruition. They took cocaine in breakneck quantities against the idea of the bad luck. They were hammering into the Powers, the John Jameson, it was breakfast from the bottle and elevenses off the mirror. The child would as well be raised by the cats that sat lazily in what April sun troubled itself to come across the rooftops of Berehaven. The build was a disaster from the get-go. A young fella from Sneem, as broad as he was long, broke his leg on the first morning of construction. Word of the accident was around the fishwives of Berehaven like a fast fucking fire. Up on the wind-blown site, there was a sense that morning of fatalism, unhingedness, morbid introspection. Day two some fucking eejit with a kango hammer nearly took the marriage prospects off himself. Day five a thirty-two-year-old man from Glengarriff had a mini-stroke while he was mixing bags of sand and gravel. The builder Murphy was by now having trouble keeping his numbers up, and he was depressed and drinking heavily the length of the slow evenings in the West End Bar. Maurice drove into Cork city on Thursday mornings to meet the first Dublin train on which was ferried their week’s supply of heroin. The tenth morning of the build—a Friday—they were aware that the week’s supply had been badly cut and were raging about it, and just then Charlie Redmond phoned from Spain to say a speedboat containing a half-tonne of their Moroccan hashish had been taken by the Guardia Civil just as it came into La Línea de la Concepción. Bad luck, bad luck. The boat had been spotted at Ceuta, it seemed, but what were you going to do? Charlie Redmond was affecting a note of blithe indifference which Maurice Hearne was in no fucking form for. Putting foundations in the rocks of the hills above Berehaven was dreadful work. The rocks screamed and whined dangerously as they were drilled into. The children of the rocks cried out. We are making marks here that we have no right to make. We’ll answer for it. Bad luck, bad luck. He was starting to wonder if Cynthia had a thing for the builder Murphy, who was a big handsome uncouth motherfucker, but with dainty touches for the ladies, and his black depression perhaps lent a poetical air. Maurice drove alone above the site and looked down on the construction and masturbated sorrowfully about the girl who worked in the West End Bar in the afternoons. With Cynthia he mixed the cut heroin with cocaine to make speedballs, and they shot them up and fucked each other and then they’d have a fight after it. Bad luck, bad luck. The guards were driving past the site daily with interested little smiles. Another labourer spat blood copiously the first morning of the third week as the trench of foundations edged towards the fairy mound and he was never seen again. Half the builders on site by now were Spanish fishermen beached off the trawlers and good for nothing as they were lacerated by the weather. It had turned into a wet April and it was so cold in the sea-damp and Maurice Hearne was hearing old voices in the night. But they stuck at it. There was such a thing as bullheadedness. The houses started to break out across the hill—a crescent of nine houses to be named Ard na Croí. A boatload of cocaine worth two million pounds was taken a few miles down the coast, and Maurice was brought in and questioned. It was a Wednesday night. That he knew nothing was soon evident. As he left the stationhouse, the detective said—you’ll want an early start in the morning, Moss, get in and meet that Dublin train. He wanted to leave the place again but was rooted to it now. Fucking Ireland. Its smiling fiends. Its speaking rocks. Its haunted fields. Its sea memory. Its wildness and strife. Its haunt of melancholy. The way that it closes in.

— Kevin Barry, Night Boat to Tangier

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

██████████████████████████████████████████████████
𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎．

██████████████████████████████████████████████████
𝙽𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝙰.𝙸. 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢．