Over the past few months, I had to make some deep cuts. What began as an ambitious cycle of songs gradually narrowed down to just three—and now, as of tonight, only two remain. I had recorded over forty individual tracks, partly to push myself further, partly to test various combinations of patches and modular setups with my guitar. Eventually, after experimenting with different paths, I found the rhythm: sticking to the same patch structure with just two or three minor variations, always using the same core modules.

At one point, I considered switching to another preamp for the guitar, even explored two or three models. But in the end, I chose to stay with my improvised setup—because that’s what gave me a unique sensation in the playing, a different connection between touch, tone, and timbre.

So now, it comes down to two songs. Before settling on them, I uploaded several demos to SoundCloud, including newer versions of the two selected tracks, this time recorded with both voice and guitar in real-time. These are full song takes—just as they’ll be performed, regardless of the audience or setting.

At the core of this process remains the Neidan, Taoist internal alchemy. Not only as a source of inspiration but as a living practice that informs every part of the work—musically, lyrically, physically. It keeps me grounded in a space where authenticity meets non-action. I only play when the heart and mind speak in harmony, which raises the timeless question: is it the mind speaking through the heart, or the heart through the mind?

There’s a whole branching system of sensations that run through this creative flow—an intuition, a quiet rigor. I believe this process has slowly transformed me. Of course, real life plays its part—health, daily complications—but I keep returning to this inner engine, this Taoist practice that shapes what I do, and most importantly, how I do it.

And strangely, there’s no suffering in reducing the project to just two songs. In fact, it brought clarity. The ideal outcome was never to release dozens of tracks—it was to find something I could return to and perform in full, at any time. With a four-input audio interface, I can now play everything live, as it’s meant to be heard. This isn’t about recording something and rushing to publish it. This is about capturing the essence of a piece, whole and alive.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, there may only be two official songs released this year. But that’s enough. These songs are the foundation—sound and voice fully integrated—and from them will come videos, collaborations, and invitations to share the project with others. These songs will represent the soul and identity of the work, not just as isolated pieces, but as part of a larger whole. A life practice. A musical method. A Taoist alchemy.

I’ve also continued my deep study of Taoism and Neidan. Two texts have been particularly present: Embryonic Breathing and The Yellow Court: The Exalted One’s Yellow Court External Illumination Scripture. These writings are not abstract philosophy—they’re physical, they shape how you live, how you breathe, and how you create. Breath becomes sound, and sound becomes structure.

That’s exactly how I’m approaching the track “The Fade That Never Ends.” I’m working on breath, guitar, voice, and modular synthesis as a single unit. One organism. I’ve been using the Strymon DIG pedal for vocals, taking advantage of its stereo processing and hidden secondary functions to shape delicate, crystalline textures. And as before, I use the BlueSky reverb at the end of the chain, integrated into the modular system. The Shimmer mode, especially with a Hall reverb rather than a plate, gives a final, luminous expansion.

Right now, I’m focusing on just one song—“The Fade That Never Ends”—with “Antidote” as a close second. But even the decision to focus on a single piece came naturally. It’s a form of purification. Like distilling something authentic down to its core and watching what flows from it. It’s just like modular patching: if the sound source isn’t solid, no amount of routing will make the final result meaningful.

On a different note, I’ve decided to spend three weeks in Vietnam, near the town of Hội An. The cost of the flight is real, yes, but the value of disconnecting from everything for three weeks is greater. I’ll be surrounded by the elements I need—stillness, nature, and possibly temples nearby. The decision wasn’t easy; it’s a financial commitment. But there are always second-layer solutions if you’re willing to adapt. I’m not sure yet whether I’ll bring my full modular setup and guitar, or just part of it. Maybe just the guitar. Maybe no computer for recording. But that’s okay. These three weeks will be about writing, reflecting, and living differently.

I’m counting on this reset to cut through the noise of what’s been, honestly, a challenging season in Paris—both physically and emotionally. I don’t expect miracles, but I do expect space. And in that space, something real can unfold.