𝔚𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔞 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔬𝔦𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔴,
𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔰 𝔤𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔪 𝔰𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔨𝔫𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔰𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯.
𝔈𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔞 𝔰𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔪𝔢,
𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔰𝔴𝔦𝔯𝔩𝔰 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨, 𝔞 𝔪𝔦𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢.
𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔞𝔫𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔴𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔱 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔰,
𝔥𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔩𝔶, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔠𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔫.
𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔨 𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰, 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔡,
𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔤𝔬𝔩𝔡.
𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯’𝔰 𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔲𝔯𝔪𝔲𝔯𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔳𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔰,
𝔪𝔦𝔡𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫.
𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔞𝔭𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔰, 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡, 𝔲𝔫𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔣𝔲𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩 𝔰𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔡𝔰,
𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔫 𝔳𝔬𝔴𝔰.
𝔚𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔞 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔬𝔦𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔴,
𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔢𝔫—𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔰, 𝔤𝔞𝔲𝔫𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴.
𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔰 𝔴𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢, 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥 𝔴𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔢—
𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔢𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔯.








I like this. The Gothic writing fits it.
Thank you, Fia.
Powerfully penned, Adagio. Amazing write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you.