There would be days to which there could be done little damage.
Like plants with leaves that could bend if you try
bending them
and fluids emerge in protest.
But you just wouldn’t on a regular day.
It would make little difference, in the little space the persona would take,
Each day,
On that boat.
On this day,
The sun rose half a minute earlier than last week.
Casually, with no regrets or goals,
It follows simply instinct.
Little grass and bricks.
Simply existing.
The water was not new either.
Things were never considered beautiful here.
There would be no appreciation as long as people lived their nationalities.
I fell in love a few days ago, with 39479347 different items.
They all remain even though I kill for a living.
Opposite poles always in feud.
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