When the sound ends, nothing is required of you. You do not need to notice how you feel. You do not need to decide whether it worked. You do not need to carry anything forward. You may remain where you are. You may move on to something else. You may forget the sound entirely.

You may listen closely. You may listen from another room. You may let the sound play while your attention moves elsewhere. You may stop listening before the sound ends. You may return later. You may not return at all.

Sound is often used to move us somewhere else. Toward calm. Toward clarity. Toward a different state. But sound does not need to create change in order to be supportive. In this work, sound is allowed to remain with what is already here. It does not pull the body forward or ask it to soften.

When sound is released from the need to make a statement, something else becomes possible. There is less effort in listening. Less reaching. Less searching for meaning. Sound does not ask to be understood. It does not require attention, analysis, or translation. It does not need to be followed from beginning to end.

In many sound spaces, staying is treated as success. Staying present. Staying through sensation. Staying until the end.

This album was composed with that in mind. The sound does not ask anything of you. It does not insist that you listen carefully, relax your muscles, slow your breath, or feel something specific. There is no arc, no rising action, no climactic resolution. There is only invitation—and that invitation is always optional.

You don’t need to remember every moment. You don’t need to carry meaning forward. You don’t need to decide what this was.

Often, the most meaningful shifts happen later. In the way you pause before responding. In the way you notice your breath while standing in line. In the way your body recovers a little more quickly. These changes are subtle. They are easy to miss because they do not feel like events. They feel like capacity.

No matter how experienced a facilitator may be, they cannot feel what you feel. They cannot sense your edges. They cannot track your capacity. They cannot know what safety means inside your nervous system. Only you can. This is not a responsibility to perform well. It is a permission to decide.