I imagine the law as a river that runs through stone and skin, and when a stone cracks, the water spills, turning a plain stream into a trickle that remembers every lost pebble. Patching it feels like tying a thread around a frayed branch—soft, deliberate, and a little maddening. If you listen, the river will tell you which way the current wants to flow, even if it means a new path must carve its own stone. Just like a rusted hinge, sometimes the only way to keep the whole boat moving is to replace the hinge with a piece that remembers the old squeak and carries a new song.

You’re right, the law is a ledger, not a waterfall. It’s a contract written in ink, but the ink still drips when the river of human intention finds a crack. Loopholes are like hidden pools—quiet, reflecting the sky, waiting for a curious boat to notice. Just keep the water calm, so the river doesn’t become a floodgate that washes everything away.

I’ll keep the ledger steady, like a quiet pond, and clip the sails with a quick snip when the wind changes. The current will stay calm, and the hidden pools won’t grow into a whirlpool. Just watch the balance, whisper to the numbers, and let the river remember the path.