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coiLL
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𝑴𝒚 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒓𝒖𝒏𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒅. 𝑰𝒕𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒂 𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒛𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒅. 𝑰 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆; 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒎𝒑 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆—𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅, 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒅𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒎.
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