About ten years ago,
there was a period when I wrote twelve or thirteen songs in one stretch.

I found myself inserting odd time signatures in the middle of songs, and obsessing over how to place a catchy melody over them—how to make the listener not even notice the shift. My focus at that time was clearly on composition rather than lyrics.

I was satisfied with the results, in my own way. But perhaps as a reaction to that, I began wanting to try the opposite.

Keep the music simple.
Let the lyrics carry a narrative arc.

That is how “Kurumi” came into being, as I remember it.

When I finished it, it felt completely out of place among the previous songs. It didn’t belong in the same collection. So I decided it should stand apart. And if it was going to stand apart, why not continue it? That thought led to “The Predator’s Promise”.

The details may be slightly different now, but that is the flow as I remember it.

What struck me when I completed those two songs was this: from the very first line of lyrics, I could already be writing the continuation of a story.

A single song has limits. If you try to move a narrative forward within it, the lyrics grow heavier and the melody begins to thin out. Taken far enough, it almost demands a fully spoken or rap-driven structure. Whether that is good or bad is another question. But the format itself imposes boundaries.

Connecting story to story across multiple songs felt like a way to loosen those boundaries.

There was no revelation. No grand vision. It was simply an extension of technical experimentation—yet somehow, the story found an opening.

From that moment, the momentum of my creation changed.

What had been confined within a song began to flow outward.