venividivicixx
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘳𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺. 𝘙𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩, 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺, 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘸𝘬𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴 - 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴, 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘴𝘬𝘺, 𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘺, 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮.
𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯, 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥.
𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺, 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦.
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𝐨𝐫: how jonathan crane learned that madness does not have to be endured alone.
[ cross-posted ]