𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝖮 𝖱𝗈𝗒𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗆: 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗆𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗒: 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖣𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽.
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