𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐈𝐓 & 𝐂𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐄' #𝟏𝟐 | 𝔾𝕆𝕄𝕆ℝℝ𝔸 𝕕𝕚 ℝ𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕠 𝕊𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕒𝕟𝕠

𝙸𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚞 𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚎. 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚕’𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊, 𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚒𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚞, 𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚊 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘. 𝙸 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚒 𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚞𝚜𝚒 𝚜𝚒 𝚊𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚘 𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚒. 𝚂𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚒. 𝙼𝚊 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚒 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒. 𝙴𝚍 𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚒. 𝚄𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒 𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎. 𝙰𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚘. 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒, 𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚒, 𝚕’𝚞𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚕’𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚛𝚘. 𝙸𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚊, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚊. 𝙴𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚒 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚒 𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚞𝚘𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚒. 𝙶𝚕𝚒 𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒 𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒 𝚕’𝚞𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚕’𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚛𝚘. 𝙴𝚌𝚌𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒. 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚒 𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚎 𝚙𝚒ù 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒 𝚗𝚎𝚒 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒, 𝚜𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒 𝚗𝚎𝚐𝚕𝚒 𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒 𝚍’𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚎, 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒 𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚅𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚘. 𝙴𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚕ì. 𝙽𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚞 𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘. 𝙰𝚟𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚒 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒 𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚝à 𝚒𝚗 𝙲𝚒𝚗𝚊. 𝚂𝚒 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘, 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚘 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚘, 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒. 𝚄𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚣𝚣𝚘 𝚍𝚒 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚎. 𝚀𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚕 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚒 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝ò 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚊, 𝚜𝚒 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊. 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚒 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚐𝚕𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚒ù 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎. 𝙰𝚟𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚒 𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚊𝚟𝚞𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕’𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎, 𝚍𝚒 𝚊𝚟𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚞𝚗𝚘. 𝙰𝚟𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊 𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚒 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚗𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒 𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚒 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒. 𝙴𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚜ì 𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚎. 𝙽𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒, 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚗’𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚟𝚞𝚝𝚊 𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒 𝚎𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚒 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒. 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚕 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚘 𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞ò 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚞𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘, 𝚖𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚘 𝚙𝚒ù 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚘.

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