It starts like a seed under skin—bare, pulsing.

Sound gathers like an electron orbiting the nucleus.
Shapes thicken, not to dominate, but to exist.
A spine forms, then limbs, then breath.
Nothing ascends—everything spreads.

In Morpho, form doesn’t arrive all at once; it builds piece by piece, from materials drawn across distances. Each step is neither better nor worse than the last—each is singular, part of the whole. Growth is not guided—it listens, folding itself into space, grain by grain.