in the realm of playgrounds where seesaws rise and fall, a hidden tale, a whisper calls. "pay no attention to the rusty screws," we are advised, yet curiosity brews. for beyond the seesaws, under a sky so wide, secrets lie buried, in the shadows they hide. a precedential memo, once written in haste, dictates this playground as a peculiar waste. "redo the foundation," it cried in despair, but voices of caution, the builders did snare. now, tell me, oh seesaw, with your motion so grand, reveal to me the personal hidden truths of this land.