Book of Boris — Chapter XLIV: Paper Cranes Can’t Swim
Verse 1: They fold themselves pretty— angles sharp, edges proud. But one drop of truth, and the water unmakes their shape.
Verse 2: They call it art. I call it paper pride. The first splash of reality, and all that grace dissolves into pulp.
Verse 3: I wasn’t built to float. I was forged to endure— steam, flame, and flood alike. While their folds fade, I rise in vapor, smiling.