Whispers in the depths of the jungle — illusion, or the call of fate? Is the mist ambition, or a soul unraveling? Burning, trembling hands; a blade, cold and sharp — does one surrender to desire, or is destruction simply destined? Prophecy never drives evil; it merely gives evil permission. Drawing on Butoh, the body grows and decays like earth. The absurd lays bare the skeleton of "choice." Every murmur is an echo of something breaking within.