The jiga, losing its form. Connected to rebirth from zetsubo. Silence from the perfect mu. The vessel once called 'watashi' — shatters, crumbles, disperses as particles of light. The outline dissolves, the skin merges with the night's darkness, releasing from the weight of shuchaku. The zetsubo that lay at the bottom of the abyss becomes fertile soil, embracing roots, calling back to the withered branch-tips the trembling of a nameless 'sei.' Watashi dissolves into what is not watashi, rebound by invisible threads with the twinkling of distant stars, the breath of unknown others — a vast tsuranari that transcends the solitary individual. When all sounds complete their purpose, when the armor called meaning falls away, 'Mu' — with deep itsukushimi — suffuses watashi. What exists there is not frozen emptiness. Everything — michitarite. Just, quietly, being there — eternal in its equivalence — Ogon no Chinmoku.
