✎₊˚⊹♡
petitpapercut
✉︎
what do you think lies dormant/ in a name, a body, a self, the identity/ isn't there more/ to syllables and skin suits/ more/ than reflected surfaces/ deeper than skin/ the flesh and the bones/ I will shine/ moon-white/ when you incise/ & draw a meaning/ out of me
木暮むむ Kigure Mumu
Age: 19 human years
Height: 169 cm
Weight: 66 kg
Likes: warm things, journaling
Dislikes: bitterness
Birthday: October 19th
✄【Kigure Mumu project: finished】
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更新履歴
Feb 15th,2026 upload commentary
Feb 14th,2026 upload Coda, tear, botanical garden
Jan 31st, 2026 height, weight, likes reveal
Jan.23rd,2026 AJISAI cover
Jan.17th, 2026 I dislike sailor uniforms cover
#4. Acid&alkaline
Dec.21st, 2025 upload 立ち絵
Dec.18th, 2025 lecdency cover
#2. latency #3. QED
Name,age,dislikes,birthday reveal
Oct.21st, 2025 #1. nomenclature
Oct.19th, 2025 my name is cover
playlist
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#1 nomenclature
Sometimes i look into the mirror and i don’t recognize my reflection. It takes me a while, a few silent moments, of me looking into my mirrored self in the eye, and then taking in the image of the face, the body, the torso down. At the end of the reverie i will always come to some kind of acceptance. Somewhat. There’s not really anything to be done about it.
It happens, once a year, or once every six months, like a late autumn jolt of static electricity, striking you unawares... until you are aware, of the cold reflective surface, of the physical space you occupy, of breaking out of a haze and filled into the shape of the individual I.
At other times the same sensation rises when i write down my own name, when i stare at my namecard, when i am called by other people,
「■■■■」
It’s the same jolt, the same strike of realization, the cold, silent mirror seen through a light film of tears. A personhood waiting for me to walk into its world, a world forced into my hands, demanding to be inherited with additional consequences.「■■■■」My name is called, and i am liable to respond.
▌│█║▌║▌║ ║▌║▌║█│▌
#2 latency
Good things take time. Time gathers, slow over surfaces, with the liquid slurp of sticky molasses. Over sunken dents, painting them even, and covering the small, scattered chess pieces of shame on my checkerboard of memory. (allow me to sink and drip, so that I will be adequate to accept your condolences.)The surface of memory, like a pond, should not be disturbed. This I remembered. In the murky depths, whatever lies dormant should be left to its own devices. Sometimes I forget. One is not to dig out the raw, beating heart of a past, tracing a line through the bitter bits, and to make a narrative cohesive (no matter how incongruent).There is a small battle waging in my head, upon the chessboard, of what I desire and what directions, I am told, that I am capable of desiring. There is a continuous tick and tock of the clock, the low hum of the needle making circular rounds, as my form condensed into becoming. Here and there, segments of time captured in amber. Handed down from my mirror image, tinged with the broken promise from a dysfunctional past, pressed cleanly to paper with a self-indulgent tack.I scoop it up with my palms, I try to recapture!This talent, accursed, this love, a pre-requisite.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
3. quod erat demonstrandum
I grow into my own skin suit. Gradually. I grow into my own shape, predetermined by external and internal forces. Moving through social identities, shifting between black or white thinking, collecting flickering achievements, claiming the hazy self in rite after rite of passage, in passing and in flux. In spreading outwards, I achieve form. A one-fit-all-fit-for-wear solution for all your existential, ontological maladies and more, your favorite lightweight over-the-counter platitudes for all of your sunlight deprived old seasons? Yet. By defying this ill-fitting garment, I claim a small title of this quiet, unremarkable failure.
There is merit to embody discipline, to treat the body as a self-actualizing project. Given that you have the resources and motivation to do so. Oftentimes, we ebb with the flow while believing that it is possible to entangle ourselves out of this all-too-human mess with the power of the will. In believing in the existence of the other side of the hill where the rainbows grow, we gain a bit of strength to go on. To maintain a happy place of auratic illusion is just as important as tearing down faux, oppressive systems and structures of disillusionment.Tomorrow, again, I shall fail.
But it will be failure in a shape I lay claim to shape shift in.
4. Acid&alkaline
The Earth goes around the sun, and there is no stopping it. I am lured, time and time again, by the gravitational pull of the seasons. Into change and renewal. To some extent, also, to digital platforms and their storm of discourses. It becomes habitual to fall into willing dissociations fueled by short-form video, the lull of dopamine starbursts, and dreadful rabbit holes. As a response, I escape, with my drying kino-eye, with the blandest of advice played in a stream of voices from analog devices…In the park (and this could be any park), new grass springs from the ground. Every March, every April. Always punctual, it is clockwork. An ocean of grass, this green, endless blanket stretching from the far past to the hazy tomorrow, each blade of grass slow swaying in the light, to the warm breeze of dormant imagination. Thin, fresh blades tickle my fingertips. (petit)A wave of platitudes floods my head & where my heart beats content I know I have found home.
Coda. the apparition in the garden
I had a dream about you.Words come insufficient… you flicker in and out of sight… but this, I know, is true:
I had a dream about you.This is a body forever in process.
A mind passing in becoming.
This feeling is not final, through tunnels and doorways and endings of books. Another project to dust off and shelve.
But I see you in morning glow and sunset hues, slightly off-center, on the edges, peripherally precarious. I box up my salt and sour thoughts.
And call out to you.(And call you to you)