In the earliest days of Mu —
before temples, before resonance machines, before sound had learned its own name —
the air itself could hum.

It was not yet music.
It was motion: the trembling of waves inside the fog,
the slow shimmer of dawn above the still lagoons.

The people of Mu never called it anything.
They simply listened.

They believed that every drop of rain carried its own melody,
and when water touched another surface,
it remembered how to sing.

Children held out their hands to the rain,
catching the sound as if it were a living thing made of breath and echo.

They called those moments naive reveries —
not because they were simple,
but because they did not yet know themselves.

Sound did not try to become a song.
It simply existed —
until silence folded it gently back into itself.

At dusk, when the sky turned pale gold and the ocean mirrored the leaving sun,
some would sit by the sleeping waves and play loops from air —
small circles of tone born from wind, shells, glass reeds.

Each loop repeated until it faded, like foam returning to the sea.
None sounded the same, and none were ever finished.
They would say:
the sound of vanishing is the sound of return.

Many cycles later, when Mu was half-forgotten,
its languages scattered into whispers and static,
those naive reveries were found again — faint recordings hidden in stone and salt.

They still sounded fragile, as if shy about existing.
No one dared to fix them.
They were left untouched — small loops of time,
created before meaning, before creation knew itself.

Now, if you listen closely, those sounds awaken once more —
not as compositions, but as memories that belong to no one.

They rise like bubbles underwater — slow, luminous,
forming circles that dissolve into each other.

They have nothing to tell.
They only remind:
once, long ago,
the world made music by accident.

Mu never composed —
it only breathed.

And its breath became a song.

- Echo That Breathes

I found a wave in the grass,
kept it safe inside a glass.
In the morning it began —
Mu was breathing once again.



- The Quiet Orbit

Fog is soft, I touch and taste,
like the sea that lost its face.
Somewhere deep my dream still hums,
made of names and little drums.



- Liquid Memory

Water speaks in fragile tone,
like a language made of bone.
Caught a word — it tried to flee,
now it hums inside of me.



- Veil of Aether

The wind forgot the ground below,
it hummed where only echoes go.
I tried to catch its silver skin —
and felt the quiet breathe me in.



- Voice Beneath Water

Shadow dancing on the wall,
knows the shape of spring and fall.
“Who are you?” I asked in awe —
“I’m the pause in what you saw.”



- Minor Garden

If you pour a drop in heart,
tiny circles will restart.
Mu will pass and leave no clue —
just a silence shining through.



- Axis of Return

I asked clouds where dreams are kept,
they said, “Under what has slept.”
Mu then whispered, “Look, it’s near —
on the back of folded year.”



- Light Through Salt Veins

Caught a beam of silver light,
lost it quick into the night.
Mu said softly, “Let it be —
you will shine enough for me.”



- Glass Recalling Air

I forgot the name of sound,
but it follows me around.
When I stop, it stops to too —
when I move, it whispers “Mu.”



- Rising Through Mirrors

Rain was whispering to me,
like a voice beneath the sea.
“I’m with Mu,” I said aloud,
and dissolved into a cloud.



- Child of the Wave

The sea was small inside my hand,
it whispered, “Do not understand.”
I let it go — it stayed instead,
and built a garden in my head.



- Unwritten Spiral

I just cried for no real cause,
Mu said, “Keep it — never pause.
Tears are sounds that make you true,
round and gentle, just like dew.”



- Echo That Dreams

In my sleep I saw some noise,
made of water, dust, and toys.
Mu was laughing: “You’re not two —
you’re my echo, dreaming too.”

“The world once sang and never knew.”


The Quiet Orbit

I am Artur Tokhtash, a composer and sound artist.
My music unfolds at the intersection of classical tradition and sonic art: preludes, improvisations, and electroacoustic structures are not genres, but forms of memory and breath.

For me, sound is ritual. Each piece is not merely a composition but a trace of presence, an echo of vanished spaces, a light from places that may no longer exist.
The piano, in my preludes, becomes a vessel — an instrument that carries not only melody but also the silence between notes.

My works do not function as background. They are spaces for listening, inviting the listener into a state where music becomes both signal and transformation.