Five pixels and an apple. Eat, grow, don't crash. You played it under a desk, on a phone with no colour and a battery that lasted a week.
Same three seconds to learn. One rule changed — and everything after it is new.
When you shed, your body stops exactly where it stands and hardens. It's still there in ten seconds. Still there in three minutes. Every grey block on that screen is somewhere you chose to go.
Catch the rhino and drive into your own stone: it cuts to glass, a floor you can cross forever but can never build on again. Every fortress ends up veined with the doors you had to cut to survive it.
Length is what you eat to earn. Length is what you shed to build wall. Length is what buries you. One resource, one decision, never enough room.