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𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 '𝓉𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝒷𝓁𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓊𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝑜𝓊𝓉𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑒𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓊𝓃𝑒,
𝒪𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒜𝓇𝓂𝓈 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉 𝒶 𝒮𝑒𝒶 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓊𝒷𝓁𝑒𝓈,
𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝑜𝓅𝓅𝑜𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂: 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝒾𝑒, 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅
𝒩𝑜 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒; 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝒶 𝓈𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅, 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓌𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝒹
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉-𝒶𝒸𝒽𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓃𝒶𝓉𝓊𝓇𝒶𝓁 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝒸𝓀𝓈
𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐹𝓁𝑒𝓈𝒽 𝒾𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓉𝑜? '𝒯𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃
𝒹𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓊𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽𝑒𝒹. 𝒯𝑜 𝒹𝒾𝑒, 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅,
𝒯𝑜 𝓈𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅, 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒟𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂; 𝒶𝓎𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒'𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝓊𝒷,
𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽, 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝓎 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒,
𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝓊𝒻𝒻𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝒻𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒶𝓁 𝒸𝑜𝒾𝓁,
𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓊𝓈 𝓅𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒. 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒'𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝓉
𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝒞𝒶𝓁𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝑜 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒:
𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒲𝒽𝒾𝓅𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒮𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓃𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒,
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒪𝓅𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝓌𝓇𝑜𝓃𝑔, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓊𝒹 𝓂𝒶𝓃'𝓈 𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝓊𝓂𝑒𝓁𝓎,
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐿𝒶𝓌’𝓈 𝒹𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓎,
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝑜𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒪𝒻𝒻𝒾𝒸𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓅𝓊𝓇𝓃𝓈
𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓅𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓂𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓊𝓃𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒽𝓎 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈,
𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝓂𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒬𝓊𝒾𝑒𝓉𝓊𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒
𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝒷𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝐵𝑜𝒹𝓀𝒾𝓃? 𝒲𝒽𝑜 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝐹𝒶𝓇𝒹𝑒𝓁𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇,
𝓉𝑜 𝑔𝓇𝓊𝓃𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝒶𝓉 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒶 𝓌𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒,
𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽,
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓈𝒸𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝓇𝓎, 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓌𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓃
𝓃𝑜 𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓇 𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝓈, 𝓅𝓊𝓏𝓏𝓁𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁,
𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓊𝓈 𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓈 𝓌𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒,
𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒻𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑒 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝑜𝒻.
𝒯𝒽𝓊𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒸𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓊𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓁,
𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝓊𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝒽𝓊𝑒 𝑜�