Lawnmower.
Chop, chop chop. With forty-five thousand rounds per minute the blades massacre the lascious green. Only the tips land in the basket to collect them. The severed pieces are thrown onto each other, left to rot, someplace nobody knows. Whats is left is a meticulously leveled plateau of plants. Humans find it pleasant that way. Why? Who knows. This roaring machine makes everything plain and wipes away any obstacle in its path. That reminds me of something...
“You are talking too much, be quiet!”
“You are giggling too much, what´s the matter with you?”
“Have you done your homework?”
“What are your parents gonna think about this when I tell them?”
“Don´t run in the yard!”
“Don´t run!”
“Don´t!”
And in the end, just maybe, you feel like one of these blades of grass. Standing there, upright, in the middle of everybody else. You cannot move, you are not supposed to. And whatever made you distinct, it got chopped of. By that huge blade, swinging over you, daring you to come closer. But what is supposed to change? It has always been that way, for you, for the grass. Humans find it pleseant that way. Why? Who knows.
So whatever you do, don´t be a brick in the wall. Be a stone in the grass. Dent that blade. Make the dent memorable so at least you won´t get your head chopped off for nothing.