𝑪𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒓, 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒔 𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒖𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒊, 𝒏𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒎 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒔 𝒗𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒊𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒔. 𝑬𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒃𝒐𝒓 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒅𝒂, 𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒃𝒖𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒂 𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒎𝒊 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒙𝒂. 𝑸𝒖𝒐𝒅 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒙 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒖, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒆𝒙 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒂, 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒂 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒐. 𝑨𝒎𝒐𝒓 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒖𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒆𝒄𝒖𝒔 𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒙. 𝑽𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒕 𝒗𝒖𝒍𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒊, 𝒆𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒈𝒊𝒕, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒓. 𝑸𝒖𝒊𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒔, 𝒆𝒕 𝒗𝒖𝒍𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒄𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒔𝒂𝒔, 𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒃𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒆.

𝑨𝒎𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒔. 𝑫𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒐 𝒗𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒆, 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒆. 𝑵𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒂 𝒂𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒂, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒖𝒎 𝒅𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒅 𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒑𝒔𝒖𝒎 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒎. 𝑸𝒖𝒊𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒊𝒕 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒙 𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒓𝒊, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒆𝒙 𝒗𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒂.

𝑨𝒎𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒖𝒎 𝒒𝒖𝒐𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒓, 𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒂 𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒓, 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓. 𝑬𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒉𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒔, 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒆 𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒆. 𝑵𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒎 𝒗𝒐𝒙 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒏𝒂 𝒆𝒕 𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒔, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒗𝒂 𝒆𝒕 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒂. 𝑬𝒔𝒕 𝒈𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒔, 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒗𝒖𝒍𝒖𝒔, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒔, 𝒒𝒖𝒊 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒆 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆.

𝑴𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒊 𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒆𝒓𝒖𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔, 𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒖𝒍𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒊, 𝒊𝒏 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒃𝒖𝒔. 𝑺𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒓 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒖𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒔, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒔, 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒎 𝒆𝒕 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒎. 𝑬𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒉𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒔, 𝒒𝒖𝒊 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒊𝒕 𝒆𝒙 𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒐, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒂.

𝑴𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒔, 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒎 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒆. 𝑵𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒎 𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒆 “𝒂𝒎𝒐 𝒕𝒆”, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒎𝒏𝒊 𝒓𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒔. 𝑪𝒖𝒓𝒂, 𝒂𝒖𝒅𝒊, 𝒔𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒖𝒖𝒎. 𝑸𝒖𝒊𝒂 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒓 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒖𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒎, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐, 𝒄𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂, 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒄𝒊𝒂 𝒆𝒕 𝒗𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂. 𝑬𝒔𝒕 𝒏𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒂 𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒖𝒂, 𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒖𝒎 𝒆𝒊𝒖𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒎 𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒂 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒓 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒖𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒎𝒖𝒔 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒎 𝒆𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒎 𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒎𝒊.