𝘌𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘢 𝘭𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘴𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢, 𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪́𝘢 𝘭𝘢 𝘺𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘢 𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘺 𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘶𝘯 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘢.  𝘚𝘶𝘣𝘪́𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘺 𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘢.  𝘈𝘣𝘢𝘫𝘰, 𝘭𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘶𝘯 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢́𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘭𝘰 𝘺 𝘶𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢 𝘭𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘢.  𝘓𝘢 𝘑𝘶𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘰́ 𝘢 𝘑𝘶𝘢𝘯. 𝘑𝘶𝘢𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘢 𝘑𝘶𝘢𝘯𝘢. 𝘌𝘭 𝘴𝘰𝘭, 𝘪𝘯𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭, 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘮𝘰́ 𝘭𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘯̃𝘢.  𝘋𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘫𝘰𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪́𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘶𝘯 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘰, 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘭𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘢.

Flow whit myself / 03-2023

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