Morimens: Mind in Death Cries <夏に聴>

The way it spirals out of control—chaotic, unbound—only to inevitably return to a fragile equilibrium, looping into new words as if language itself breathes in cycles. But what weight do these newly formed words carry if they have not severed the meaning of the old? Do they evolve, layering over past truths like sediment pressed into stone, or do they merely echo, distorting what was once clear into something half-recognized, half-forgotten?

To speak is to destroy and rebuild. Every word is a remnant of another, a ghost of past utterances, reshaped to fit the present moment. But if the old meanings still linger, clinging to the edges, do they truly die? Or do they haunt the new, infusing it with echoes that twist intention and perception alike?

Perhaps meaning is never fully erased—only rewritten, reframed, repurposed. A loop not of clean slates, but of palimpsests, where the past is never truly lost, only waiting beneath the surface to be seen again.

Cut by 8739 Hanasaku Shunsen

The blade moves in spirals, carving through the layers where meaning once stood unchallenged. Each stroke slices through the old, but the echoes remain, drifting like petals torn from their stem—fragments of a language that refuses to die.

Let my heart hold the truth. Not as something fixed, but as something fluid, a current that bends and breaks yet never ceases. Words scatter like severed threads, yet in their unraveling, they weave something new. Not clean. Not pure. But fused—reborn in the collision of past and present.

Do these new forms bear the weight of what came before? Or do they betray it, cutting apart the meaning only to graft it into something unrecognizable? If a word lives beyond its first death, reshaped in tongues that never knew its origin, is it still the same word? Or does it become something else entirely?

Language, like a blade, both severs and connects. The cut is not an ending—it is the beginning of something else.