Looking back at life before this me, regret, the oars of the rowboat attached to the arms of the body that dip them rythymatically through the deep, blue-green. Regrets turn to scars worn, thin layers of skin cover-over faint ink-stained pain. We move on, a soul renewed, stronger as it was strong enough to make it through to write about life before this me, from a perspective that would be otherwise-impossibly seen. So if someone says their ship has sailed, the master sheet reeled-in as the canvas unfurls – repeat again their mistakes they may, as the wind-carried ship is too far away to remind you of what not to say. The humble rowboat is a practical vessel for the above intents and purposes.
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