𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗—ɴsғᴡ-ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ

[relix]

i claim this space as a place to drop excerpts to long winded writings that occupy my brain and need to be put down creatively. it may or may not serve as writing samples. chance of posts being incomplete and random things are higher than zero. check it out, though. ghostie is back.

commentary is cool; ask (privately) before critiquing (privately).
it's my lil' place, so, errors will be tended to as i see fit.​

 

[relix]

Tap.​ Tap.​ Tap. Taptap. Ta—​—ap.​

That soft, repetitive tap​ drummed discordantly atop a stack of papers—why was concentration so difficult? Why was his mind so quick to wander? Every little thing played at the corners of his eyes, noises - from inside and out - teased at eardrums. Again, why were things so difficult for this aspiring spellcrafter? Lectures were a bore. Studying, if such a thing could be called that, was a bore—more on that later. This city? Half a bore—

A low, low huff escaped out the freckled pair of nostrils - a curious pigmentation he received from his father's side; entertaining one's self to be halfway considered a bored sigh. Tap.​ Tap.​ Tap, tap. Taptaptaptap—it was always the same notification that Zalyndis had checked out mentally, admiring the make believe than being diligent in work. Who could really blame him? There weren't many takers on scribbling and scrolling the same incantation over, and over, and over again. Not when there was so much to see outside this high-rise tower—felt like a bird, trapped in an ivory coup... even if he was toward the middle section. Perhaps it was punishment from his family; send him off after a small, little brush-fire during a druidic controlled burn. He was helping, not harming. Not that anyone seen it that way when it burnt down a month's worth of crops and torched a few trees.​

Everything outside just seemed... better?

—maybe that wasn't the right phrase, maybe it didn't fit the exact meaning that the half-elf was after. Did wizards and mages of old really learn like this, or has this been a 'modernized' means of controlling them? According to stories, and legend, Albrige the Savior of Theringor learned on the whims of adventure—building his legacy one heroic adventure after another... not holed up in tower, with a collection of tomes and secrets. Well. Holed up is a little extreme. The old wizard teaches arcane mastery, only to use 'free' labor to craft simple spell scrolls for 'adventurers'. Harmless spectacles—costumes, merriment, revelry. It was theater without the theater. Unfortunately, for Zalyndis—illusory spells flung at folks dressed as demons would be the closest thing he'd get to spellwork for the foreseeable future.

Vo—rac—toom!​

"Work."

It was almost instantaneous when that final syllable escaped that Zalyndis had felt the surge of... power overwhelm his senses. His mind shackled as limbs set about on the task delivered, pen no longer tapping away; no, instead, it neatly shaped interconnecting and inter-crossing lines across the first sheet of paper. Fingers delicate around the writing utensil swept across the sheet of paper with ease as cerulean irises honed in on the sheet before him; no longer cast out the circular window the desk surface had been placed, no longer allowed to look to the waning sun setting across the city—children's laughter dying down as they get ushered in by their caretakers, hawkers having packed up their belongings to move on for the day to give the street to unruly miscreants in the waking night hours.

"At this rate, it will take you at least another three hours to finish those scrolls—do count your blessings that mental hold only lasts ten minutes," The unseen voice was not without it's typical tones; disappointment mixed with a hint of frustration that once again the half-elf has to be encouraged to start working instead of simply choosing of his own free will. Each step came with a creak and a gentle knock, the wooden boards groaned beneath the weight of a heavy foot as the wooden staff-served-cane helped inch the balding, hunched wizard forward into the locked peripherals of the now-diligent scroll maker. "Barring no mistakes, Zalyndis."

Domination over his anatomy wasn't something that he'd ever feel like it'd be something to be comfortable with. Locked away in his mind, watching his own hands work on their own; one sliding the old paper, complete with incantation, before sliding over a new sheet to once more draw the sigil before etching the old draconic phrases—each sapping just a little bit of his daily magics away to complete the binding. Crazy to think that some of these scrolls could take full days of magic away from someone... yet, this was his current 'life'.

Wake up to go to lectures, memorize incantations—all to spend his allotted magic on an old geezer's festive scrolls. Tch—Albrige Theringor... more like Therinbore.

Zalyndis - Zah-Lin-Dis
Albrige - Al-brig
Theringor - There-in-gor (but fast).​

 

[relix]

"𝘚𝘰— 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵, 𝘩𝘶𝘩?"

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 - 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘳𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘺 - 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘸, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯; 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘜𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯, "—𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺." 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘩, 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘺-𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭. "𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘩𝘶𝘩? 𝘍.𝘌.𝘈.𝘚.𝘛. 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘦, 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤, 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘵𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘺..."

"...𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴." 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘯-𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘪𝘵; 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦. 𝘏𝘰𝘸'𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦? 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘦'𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺. 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘺. "𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥, 𝘩𝘦'𝘴... 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺. 𝘜𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨."

𝘚𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥; 𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥-𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩. "𝘊𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘺'𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸? 𝘔𝘢𝘯, 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴..."

"𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯?"

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦; 𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘺, 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵— 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵, 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘵𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦. "𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥. 𝘖𝘬𝘢𝘺. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘥— 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥." 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥; 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘶𝘱. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘉𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘶𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯. "—𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐'𝘮 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯."

"𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘴—" 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘴. 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘵. "𝘖𝘬𝘢𝘺, 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺, 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘉𝘶𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘴 𝘤𝘺𝘤𝘭𝘦. 𝘖𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺... 𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺. 𝘐 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘩 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴."

𝘈 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘺, 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦-𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦; 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯. 𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴? "...𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢, 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘬-𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵? 𝘐𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺... 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐'𝘮 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘸!"

𝘓𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳; 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥. "—𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯'𝘴 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘴. 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩. 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵... 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘯-𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘓𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯. 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘺 𝘛𝘪𝘬𝘛𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴—" 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 - 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 - 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦. 𝘉𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴; 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯.

𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵: 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳. 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘴 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨?

𝘐𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘴. 𝘓𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘭. 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩-𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦. "𝘐'𝘮 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺," 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴, 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳. 𝘊'𝘮𝘰𝘯, 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨.

"...𝘐'𝘮 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘸, 𝘧𝘢𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴— 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘐 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬, 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵. 𝘌𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦."

"𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘐'𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘈𝘪𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨... 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺. 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴... 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺,"

𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘰, 𝘯𝘰. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯. 𝘙𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘱 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳. 𝘕𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘨𝘴, 𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘶𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘪𝘵. 𝘈𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵; 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦'𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘯-𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘵— 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦. "𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩. 𝘐 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘎𝘌𝘋— 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘩, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘩, 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘔𝘐𝘛 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘕𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘔𝘑? 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺'𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺."

"𝘐 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘺'𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸? 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘹 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰... 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴." 𝘕𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘵𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰? 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵? 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘥. "—𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺. 𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦'𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵. 𝘋𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘔𝘑 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴... 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘖𝘤𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘕𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘭."

"𝘕𝘦𝘥... 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘢𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘓𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪-𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭— 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘢𝘴 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥. 𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦'𝘴 𝘋𝘔𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘱𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳."

𝘛𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘱 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘭. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭-𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵, 𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵'𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥, "𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘢𝘥... 𝘐 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘬𝘴— 𝘸𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘬𝘦, 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐'𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘥. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦'𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘮'𝘴 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺."

"𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰'𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺? 𝘚𝘰, 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩— 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺."

"..𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯' 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘺𝘦𝘵. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦."

𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘴 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦; 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬, 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘭𝘭-𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘩, 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘢 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘓𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘥... 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?

"𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘈𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘔𝘢𝘺..."

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i debated on posting this; it's not new-new, it's just elsewhere. figured fuck it. all things are repeated eventually.​

this was spawned 'cause sony keeps me from getting a spider-man movie every year, i adapted my own lil' blurb.
kinda tempted to scrawl some bucky stuff 'cause thunderbolts has me in a mood.